[ He's never had to work this hard to court or woo anyone.
And, sure, it's been about eighty years since Bucky last had to do those things (he's not really going to count his recent failed dating attempt, thankyou kindly), but he remembers it being so easy. Once upon a time, he had natural charm, and being around people came easy. Now he know he's stiff and awkward and too intense and the only person who seems to make him feel like his old self again is Sam. Bucky's been trying to hint at his obvious affection. As if he hasn't done enough between helping with the boat, or bringing Sam a real Captain America suit, or all the other stuff between now and then. It used to be a lot easier in the Forties. People, Bucky thinks, expect a lot of different things now when they want to date.
Hell, most people seem to skip the courting process all together and while Bucky can see the convenience, what's the point if you don't even get to know the person?
But Bucky's realized that he has to be direct. That's what people want these days. Less subtle hints and acts of affection and more straight-forwardness. So he'll be straight forward, and either he'll fall flat on his face and have to go back to living on his own for the rest of time, or it'll work in his favour.
And he's pretty sure it'll work in his favour.
Bucky shows up with a bouquet of flowers in hand. Nothing too showy, but nothing small, either. Just a generous amount of in-season blooms that he holds in his hand as he makes his way in through the back door, taking off his sunglasses. ]
[ Delacroix's been looking good on Bucky, if Sam's honest. And it didn't go beyond his notice. Bucky's always been handsome,if you're into hobo chic, but here... he's relaxed in ways he wasn't before. Not always, not fully, but it's a world of difference compared to before. Sam likes to see it on him. The easier smiles, the way his eyes crinkle when he grins. The way he chats to Mama Mabel behind the counter of the local bakery, and the way people around here have generally adopted him.
Didn't take long after the mess with the Flagsmashers for them to decide that Bucky was spending too much time here to really need that apartment in NYC, and that if he moved here, they should get out of Sarah's hair. So... here they are. Got a nice little fixer upper, spent a few weeks working on it, making it a home. 10 minutes from Sarah's, with a nice back porch and a cute pier of its own. Enough space to land a quinjet outside if need be, and for them to have set up a training area.
They've started looking into getting a small place in NYC or DC, too, just something small where they can crash when work keeps them there longer. Turns out, Bucky's not exactly poor, given that the government quietly provided him with a generous backpay as the longest POW in history.
But Delacroix, in the meantime, has become home, and Sam loves their life together. Loves evenings spent cooking, days spent tending to the abandoned Reggio Cemetary, like all local fishermen do, afternoons spent taking Sarah and the boys to the big parish cemetary to visit the Wilson family graves. Trips to New Orleans to get some culture into this poor man. Nights sipping drinks on their own dock.
It's a good life. Sam wishes he didn't feel like it could be better. Bucky's been... charming, to say the least, and always willing to lend a hand. On his best behaviour, and whenever they visit Sarah, Sam can take a guess as to why, sees how Bucky is with her and the kids, and feels his heart ache and sink.
Isn't gonna say anything, 'cause lord knows his sister deserves some happiness, and so does Bucky, so he'll... he'll just... figure it out. Keep himself quiet. He wants for nothing in life, he's decided.
Except when Bucky comes home, calls out like that and has flowers in his arms, something inside Sam's chest flutters pleasantly, and he yearns in ways he has not in years. Honey. Doll. Sweetheart. Sam would give so much to be... but he swallows it. Can't quite help the way he looks, though, mouth lifting into a soft smile that makes his dark brown eyes bright. ]
Honey, huh? Those are nice, Buck. But you know we ain't going over to Sarah's tonight, right?
[ Because clearly, that must be why Bucky brought flowers. Right? ]
[ The words come a little too easily. It itches at the back of Sam's mind, the awareness that he's not usually this agreeable, this docile to be led. He doesn't feel dizzy, though, just a little lighter. His thoughts wander, briefly to the strangely sweet smelling flower someone on the streets tucked into his breast pocket, to musings on the source of his strange willingness to just 'yes and' all current developments.
It occurs to him he should actually ask where they're going, but something in hims is so bone deep mellow that he ends up not caring, tugging along in full capacity of his wits, but with something inside of his stomach rolling at the very thought of saying no to anything T'Challa asks.
Sam frowns. Is vaguely aware of being led through doors, and concludes 'building' somewhere in his mind. Is even more aware of the fact that under usual circumstances, he'd have at least stated his case, that he was on his way somewhere with purpose, that this sidetrek may well blow his operation. But the thought comes and it goes, and Sam just follows along. Too quiet, perhaps. Because T'Challa told him to choose his words wisely. Curious, that. ]
I should probably make you aware that there's a very real chance I've been drugged or otherwise compromised.
[ — curious (as cats are) that he is not subject to the Captain's rapier wit. And that in leading, to observe how one is followed. He would like to say it's because of trust, but when T'Challa glances back towards Sam, his eyes narrow in careful scrutiny. It's fortunate they are near a safe(r) district, and that the eyes that all watch them are friendly to Wakanda. For now. ]
[ They stop only when Sam warns him, at the side of a lobby with a plush but hideous carpet, waiting for the elevator. ]
It has become clear. Be at ease, Captain, we are going to a safe place.
[ continued from HERE. ][ Sam shrugs a little. The gesture almost seems dismissive, but the way he briefly glances down, frowns, lips pressing together - that isn't. ]
Yeah. Don't change the fact that Avengers failed you.
[ Failed Natasha, too. His expression twists for a moment - the sympathy and understand and patience he gives her overshadowed by grief and bitter anger. Because he too returned to a world that suddenly lacked Natasha, and had to swallow down his thoughts when there was no large funeral service for her, just a small headstone in Ohio that Sam didn't even know about until much later. ]
You deserve to have the ways in which you were failed acknowledged and addressed. Someone should apologize to you for how you were let down. Someone should see you and know that's the least you deserve. I'm the one that's here - so I'm the one who takes responsibility. [ Sam swallows. ] I'd give you more than words if I could.
[ Hell, he'd throw himself off a cliff on an alien planet to give her back her sister, quite honestly, because Natasha didn't deserve that - to die so far from home, not even her body brought back. ]
[ continued from HERE. ][ Natasha would be a sight for sore eyes even without this magnetic pull between them they've been dancing around that she's so very creatively decided to tackle now. Really now, asking him how to tell a guy she wants to sit on his face. He'd even been genuine in his response, somehow fighting the urge to throw his phone all the way across the room lest he just respond with 'Don't tell him, I volunteer'.
All things considered, that turned out nicely in his favor after all.
He throws her an easy grin as he follows inside, taking off the goggles first, then the heavy wingpack and leaving them by her coatrack. ]
I feel like I should be smooth and give you a line 'bout how I was just in a hurry to be at your beck and call... but honestly, it's cold as shit without the flight suit. Upside: The wine's got a good temperature.
[If there was one thing Natasha loved, it was a side door. To be clear: kicking open a side door, because while her opening line had been rather indirect, there was no way to mistake the follow up. As much as she enjoyed the magnetic tension, someone would always have to make the first move.
She leaned in and kissed his cheek as she accepted the bag.]
Well, I'd offer to warm you up, but that feels a little cheesy. I've got a fire going in the living room. I'll be there in a minute.
[She lifted the bag to indicate her intention and disappeared into the kitchen. True to her word, she joined him in the living room after a few minutes with two glasses of the red. She handed him his wine and then tipped her own glass in acknowledgement as her mouth curled in a smirk.]
Most of the time the universe speaks to us very quietly in pockets of silence, in coincidences, in nature, in forgotten memories, in the shape of clouds, in moments of solitude, in small tugs at our hearts. — Yumi Sakugawa
I would like someone to find me, most of all.
[ There's no one at the pier, at this hour, the only company being the shy wind and the stars. James uncaps the beer bottle and leans against the railing, swirling it around, watching the shadows dapple on the water. There's another close by, if Sam wants to leave the comfort of the four walls behind them and the laughter of children, but between that and what's out here he's got a finger on the pulse. He knows the choice. ]
[ Sure enough. Footsteps, and the squeeze of lightness. The Winter does not forgive nor does he go away, but there are times when there's a ravine between them, and that cold bastard is too far away to touch. ]
[ James says, without looking, ]
That one's yours.
[ He shifts, absently, even as he notices how Sam fits into the space next to him. ]
So. [ A beat, and a heh. ] You got your speech all practiced for tomorrow?
[To say things haven't gone to plan over the past week would be an understatement. Between their trip to New York to collect his (miniscule) belongings, and his dislike of crowds in the lead up to the holiday season, it should have only been a brief trip. A quick in and out. Half a day tops so he could finally make his move to Delacroix official.
And yet, as seems to be the case when it comes to the two of them, those hours had stretched out. The knowledge of Captain America stepping off a plane at LaGuardia airport had spread like wildfire. And by the time the two of them had made it to Bucky's apartment, the paparazzi were already lying in wait. Even having the Winter Soldier staring them down hadn't been enough of a warning to get them to back off. Hadn't kept them from snapping pictures and yelling questions out with a varying degree of insensitivity. And even once they'd made it to the apartment, it hadn't kept rogue reporters or even Bucky's (former) neighbors from knocking the entire time they'd been there.
So. That'd been fun to deal with.
Naturally though, that had been the easy part. Ignoring those knocks while he'd gathered together the few clothes that were still sitting in the closet. While the two of them began packing up the barely used contents of his kitchen. It's only when the knocks had become a call, and the call had turned in to an invite, that they'd finally accepted the fact that their stay would be extended. That even carrying the shield isn't enough to protect them from being dragged in to the public eye once more.
Rogers: The musical.
The few days they'd been given to prepare had been both too long and not enough. For Bucky, at least, he'd spent the entire time fighting the urge to run. Had wanted nothing more than to put space between them and New York. It'd only been the knowledge of just how bad it would look for Sam if he opted not to go that kept him from following that instinct. (Well, that, and the unspoken promise of sex each night the two of them shared the previously unused bed in his apartment.) Sure, the offer had only been extended to him under the proviso of Sam attending the premiere. But he knows it wouldn't look good for the man if his own partner refused to attend.
So attend, he had. The two of them having to dress up for the event was an additional step that Bucky wasn't too happy to have to undertake. Though seeing Sam dressed to the nines was a definite motivator in him agreeing to head out to buy a suit anyway. And being able to get an upfront view of Sam getting the limelight he deserved as they'd made their way in to the theatre that night had been worth it. Worth the discomfort of it all. Even worth fending off the occasional questions that'd been directed towards him when Sam's attention had already been taken up by another camera.
Whether it was worth sitting through the entire performance or not though... Yeah, he's undecided on that.
Yet somehow they had. They'd managed to keep their commentary contained. Had hidden their laughter behind tight lips and coughs. And even once the curtain had closed and the applause had died down, they somehow kept it together long enough to accept the invitation to the afterparty.
Which Bucky has quickly come to regret.
He knows, of course, that as new as his relationship with Sam is, neither of them are the type to play around. That even as they continue to feel out how this thing between them works, they aren't going to risk hurting one another by looking elsewhere. Their relationship isn't public yet, of course. Not hidden, but not shouted from the rooftops. But seeing Natasha's actress curl her hand around Sam's arm, seeing her understudy staring adoringly at the man- It takes everything in him to keep Bucky from storming across the room and claiming what's his. Which is a task made that much more difficult as the woman claiming to be the set designer starts to laugh airily at something Sam says.
It's the first thing that registers, always. When his synapses start sluggishly firing again, pain is always the first thing that takes conscious shape and lets him know that he's thawing. That the Red Falcon is being deployed. And then, along with the pain, there is the thrill of knowing he's wanted and needed and about to be unleashed into the skies like a bird of prey and wings of...
Pain.
He stumbles forwards, unable to keep himself upright. The wings are connected to his screaming muscles in sheer agony, and it means that right after thawing, when he hardly has control over his limbs, it's not unusual for his wings to try and unfurl from the metal slats on his back. It's why his arms are crossed over his torso, and he's tightly bound by a harness made of metal bands. Too many scientists and handlers sliced to ribbons by sheer accident. Too many wounds he dealt himself with razor sharp metal edges flailing in sheer agony without conscious control.
Talk about a flight risk.
He doesn't see the hands that grab at him, haul him out of his cryo tank and begin dragging him physically, uncaring for the fact that his body isn't yet obeying him. Any scrapes and bruises will heal long before he's delivered for the mission, after all. He doesn't see them - he can't hear them either. They put a cowl over his head that covers his eyes and ears. He thinks he screams, sometimes, when their treatment gets rough - but he doesn't hear it. The sensory deprivation holds fully.
Some part of him, some synapses in his conscious mind that haven't been fried in their attempts to dehumanize him, provide context for that. He's not meant to feel human. he's meant to feel like the tool they treat him as. They're trying to make him imprint on the first person he sees, be it as asset to handler or pet to master. They don't care what level it gets to. They think they've fried the Red Falcon's mind enough that he considers himself as subhuman as they do.
Sometimes, it's too easy to go along with that. To shut off the parts of himself that feel more than pain. The parts of himself that do more than become a weapon aimed by someone else.
He hits a metal slab, is forced down onto it. Hands prodding, examining. They're making sure there's no damage caused by cryo. The Red Falcon thinks he screams again when fingers dig into the metal slats on his back, feeling for the wings to see if there's damage. They won't deliver him for the job if he's not fit to do it, and he flinches from every touch, knows he snarls, knows the metal harness is all that keeps him from slicing everyone around him apart. His mind skitters ahead, to the comfort he knows to come. To blue eyes and touches that make him shiver for different reasons.
There's only one person who can and will requisition the Red Falcon as an asset for missions. They don't dare send him on other missions, the Red Falcon knows that. They can't risk damaging or losing him, when he's the Winter Soldier's favourite possession. He's asset, tool and reward rolled into one, something they can utilise in keeping the Soldier compliant.
There's no one who can wield the Red Falcon the way the Winter Soldier can. Hydra doesn't care how the Winter Soldier chooses to use the Red Falcon - they only care about results. And they get results, the two of them.
He's dragged to another adjoining room, eventually. Pushed down onto his knees, still bound and naked. A weapon presented to the Winter Soldier for inspection. It's a hand off - the Solder is now in charge of the Red Falcon, in readying himself for the mission, in handling him. The Red Falcon still can't hear or see him - but he knows the next touch will be his regardless, knows the next touch he won't flinch from. Knows when the cowl is lifted off, he will be met with blue eyes, blank in he way his own are blank, pained in the way his own are. A gaze so sweet it makes compliance deceptively easy.
Hydra's got it all wrong. He didn't imprint on the Winter Soldier. Their bond isn't that benign. No - he belongs to the Winter Soldier on a level much deeper than that.
And so the Red Falcon waits for his Winter Soldier to set him free, to give him purpose and direction, to give him warmth after the ice.
With the enhancements they’ve grafted into the former airman, their latest reclamation, few of the HYDRA personnel are willing to wrangle him and those razor-sharp wings when he’s not restrained. There’s been too much blood shed on the cold metal floors of this facility. They can sedate him, bind those wings, bring him to his knees with jolts of electricity— but all things told, it’s simply easier to have the Soldier handle it. He’s quick and efficient and strong, and can brute-force manhandle the other asset into line when necessary. He heals fast enough that the cuts and nicks from those wings don’t bother him; or if they do, he’s quiet enough about it.
So. They always wake up the Winter Soldier first, but then his partner is usually close behind. The memories of their missions are occasionally scrubbed — leaving them blank slates, unable to give any details if they’re ever captured by enemies — but the memories of each other remain surprisingly solid, a steady bedrock beneath these haunted days and nights.
The Soldier’s metal hand (crisp and cool) digs into the cowl, tugs it loose with a delicacy which one might not have expected from the iron fist of HYDRA, and then he’s looking down at the other man. His expression is carefully blank — to anyone else, it would look neutral — but, oh, there. The Falcon knows his subtle tics well enough by now that he can see that slight dip to the Soldier’s chin, the smallest nod of acknowledgment and personal greeting.
Hello.
The cowl still crumpled in his hand, he runs his metal index finger along the line of the other man’s jaw. Not tender, precisely — too many people are still watching, a couple guards hovering outside the door in case the handoff goes ugly — but it’s as much as he can get away with.
“Sokol?” he says by way of prompt (“Falcon?”), the same way his own handlers wake him every time, drag him up from the ice every single time, waiting for the call-and-response.
[ The air feels charged with whatever mood's driving them onwards. And when Sam allows himself to think, to reflect, to be healthy, he knows exactly why they're like this, why the door of the hotel room Sharon's swung for them is barely closed before they're on each other. The need for closeness and release both physical and emotional isn't surprising at all, but given what happened Sam had honestly worried Bucky would treat him like something fragile. Instead they nearly tumble, nearly break a lamp or two, all teeth and tongues and greedy hands.
Sam's still in a world of hurt, but the on call medics cleared him. Poor guys - Sam had had to talk a young looking emergency responders through how to free Captain America and Sergeant Barnes themselves from the wreckage of his wingsuit and check them both over, at Sam's insistence. Knew Bucky was fine, knew that he himself had taken the brunt of the impact after the fall, but also couldn't focus on himself. It's the pararescue in him - the way he just wants to make sure other people are fine, whether he himself is bleeding out or not.
He's fine. Hey're both fine. Except in all the ways in which they aren't, can't be after this close a call. The fact is Bucky might not have survived the fall, and they both know it. The serum doesn't make him impossible to kill, and that... that was a long drop right there. Much higher than what Bucky leaps without issue. And Sam... well, Sam knows his guy, doesn't he? That's why they're here, why they go on missions and then go home together, why they spar and kiss and hold space for each other before anything else. So Sam... doesn't know all the details, but knows enough. And Sam, who has lost too many people, and who wouldn't survive losing another partner and lover to a fall specifically, couldn't let Bucky, who has suffered too many freefalls and never got to be saved from them, hit the ground on the chance that he'd probably be fine.
Bad enough that he fell to begin with. Bad enough that for all his speed in the air, Sam didn't catch up too him until the ground was an inevitability, not a mere looming threat. He remembers the split second decision. Reaching for Bucky, reaching around Bucky.
The pararescue motto is 'The things we do so others may live'. Sam's always been like that. He will always be like that. And so he's between Bucky and the ground when they hit, their combined weight and momentum heavily damaging the wings - they'll be fine, vibranium is sturdy, it's mostly the electronics that need fixing. So for all intents an purposes, the wings broke, and Sam almost broke, and Bucky didn't.
It's a small miracle Sam survived, and yet all he can think when he looks at Bucky is 'I caught you' and 'You're alive, you're alive, you're alive', and he wants Bucky so deep they won't know where each of them ends and the other begins, wants so much it hurts and makes him dizzy, and doesn't have the words to ask for everything he needs, so he's just tongue and teeth and desparate hands, trying to get more, more, more, because they're alive, they're alive, they're alive. ]
( bucky's pissed. or — he feels a thousand, a hundred thousand, different things and it's so much easier to just be angry than face those daunting emotions, like shadows living on in the back burner of his skull. it's a simple equation, he thinks. math that anyone can understand. in no world will bucky barnes ever be worth the sacrificial martyrdom of captain america. it wasn't true for steve, it isn't true for sam, and everyone else seems to know it except for the guy himself. sam is worthwhile, sam is priceless, and he's made up of more than the red, white, and blue streaks that don his body when he heads out in the name of honesty fucking equality, liberty. foundational stuff even a man from the forties can understand. bucky is a pipe bomb constantly waiting to explode. everyone keeps a distance, to avoid the blast radius, and they should.
at the end of the day, sam is flesh, blood, bones. bucky is too, except for the milliliters of nazi experiment super solider serum permenately taking residence against his red blood cells. he would've been fine. and if he wasn't? that would've been fine, too.
he isn't going to get philosophical about the worth of a life, but he knows he's mud and dirt compared to golden sam. it was a stupid move, about the stupidest thing he ever could've done and bucky — he wants to punch him in the face for being careless, and kiss him on the mouth for being alive. he lands somewhere in between, kissing sam as brutally as he can, until his lips are bruised and bitten and bucky feels one singular molecule of satisfaction with the thought that he might just be, inexplicably, alive beneath him. he already knows it's not enough, not with the way he's feeling. drowning in the weight of his own self-loathing. surviving off air and the impossible, heavy thought that sam thinks he's worth taking a fall for alone. )
Don't.
( when they part it comes out roughly, bucky's hands already going to the zippers of his suit, knowing exactly how to effectively get sam naked by now, that he's almost turned it into an art. don't. don't die for me. don't think i'm worth it. don't ever, ever do something that fucking stupid again. )
Don't grab control. It's mine.
( he doesn't let anyone else see him when he's pissed, because everyone else acts like bucky's solution to an argument is to grab a machine gun and kill the problem. which is — not exactly unfair, but at least sam fights back. at least sam doesn't treat him delicately. bucky gets his suit off enough to unveil his chest, and gives him an ungentle shove down to the bed, manuvering him upwards to the headboard. )
Fuck you, man. ( he says it almost softly. his hands go into the bedside table, and he pulls out handcuffs. coldly, he drops them on sam's chest, taking a seat astride his stomach, like he's going in for a pin. it's as close to asking permission as he's going to get. ) Grab the headboard.
[ It starts, like so many things do between them, with some bit of inane banter or other while working on the house. No, not Sarah's house - the house. Theirs. It's a bit of a fixer-upper, a bit of a situationship that they're still figuring out, same as so much else in their lives. And much like whatever's going on between them, it's much more solid than those vague terms might make you guys. Solid foundations, just gotta work on the fine details.
They work on the house in little bursts between missions that take them everywhere and nowhere at all. In between Sam losing it while training Torres on the wings, because all he sees for a few days are the charred chunks of Riley's body being scattered over the desert. In between Bucky's near sleepless nights. In between both of them trying to make the stray cat skirting the edge of their property to fall in love with them, damnit. In between learning to like and love one another, in between growing past what they each thought they could be on so many levels.
It starts, like so many things do, with Sam making some dumb joke or another. He doesn't even remember it later - it was the dead of the night, he'd been half drunk with sleep deprivation and fading adrenaline while they both tried to figure out how to install a cat door without murdering each other or the cat or the door. Something about revolving doors turning into a lewd joke about sex in the 40s turning into a joke about Sam's assets turning into a joke about if Bucky weren't so obviously gone on Sam's ass, he might notice that Sam would win any wet t-shirt contest, too, hands down, and it just devolves into dumb commentary on Sam's tits later, and on Bucky's taste (and lack thereof). Halfway between home renovations turning into christening yet another surface of their growing, evolving home, Sam had teased about giving Bucky access to way too much skin, when surely a man from the 40s was all about a brief glimpse of wrists and ankles. Somewhere in between kisses, he'd caught the scoff, the allusion to Sam mixing up his eras, to tantalizing underwear. Somewhere in between kisses and touches had been a tease that maybe Bucky would appreciate Sam's assets more if they were presented in lace.
It's just silly, it's dumb. It's a joke. And yet a few weeks later, when Sam walks into their living room to find Bucky in the new armchair and an ostentiously wrapped gift on the coffee table, Sam's forgotten all about the exchange. Just cocks an eyebrow. ]
What are you apologizing for?
[ Because he knows damn well that he didn't forget some special occasion - Sam is nothing if not meticulous about his calendar these days - so the only logical conclusion must be that Bucky did something that merits buying Sam's good will.
[Bucky sits confidently, sort of confidently, actually a little smug with his feet wide and planted and leaning back in the chair, right up until Sam comes in. That's when it hits him that his joke might be a little stupid. What if Sam takes it wrong? What if it's not as funny in real life as it was in his head when he ordered this stuff online.
It had seemed hi-fucking-larious when he was shopping online.
What if Sam doesn't get it?
He tries to push aside that thought. Actual worst case scenario? Probably Sam throws the box back at Bucky's head and he actually owes the other man a real apology. Fairly low stakes, considering how often they deal with things that are life and death.
Before he can lose his nerve, he tosses the box right at Sam. His aim is good.]
Open it.
[Should he say something else? Make more of a quip? He considers it, but he can't quite come up with the right thing to say in the moment. Instead he shrugs.]
Unless a guy isn't allowed to get a gift for his boyfriend these days?
[ Funny, how some things just click together. Sam's life has been the weirdest set of dominos falling one into the other. You go jogging one day, and somehow that leads to you becoming Captain fucking America. Of course, you take a brief detour for being dead for five entire years in the interim, as you do. Fight an intergalactic threat or two.
Somehow still deal with good old racism.
That's how he finds himself in need of legal representation, in the end. The media circus is arguing back and forth about whether or not he should be allowed to just take the shield, Twitter is engaged in a nasty #notmycaptain campaign. And Sam? Well, Sam mostly tries to keep his head down and play nice. Continue to be on the GRC's ass in order to make sure the Blip refugees aren't displaced, throw his weight behind some public housing efforts.
And then, of ourse, the government decides to try and take a bite. The papers are full of ceases and desists and 'stolen government property's. Which, to be fair...
but Sam draws the line at the shield, at their attempts to seize it back - 'cause that went oh so very well last time. Thing is, though, Sam's just a dude, and a dude straddling the poverty line to boot. And while Bucky's offer to just punt Secretary Ross into the ocean is tempting enough that Sam considers it for like 5 seconds before turning it down, the point is that Sam is getting buried here, and can't exactly run to Tony Stark's widow asking for a damn handout.
Banner's spectacularly useless - seriously, what use is him having a lawyer cousin if she's on the other side of the country? - but Sam actually gets some good pointers from Barton and Happy. That's how he finds himself at Nelson, Murdock and Page. They got a damn good reputation - and to their credit, only one of them nearly walks into the door frame when they realize who their 2pm appointment really is. And Sam considers himself lucky that he's somewhat charming, because he's not sure if many lawyers would have been thrilled at the ease with which he admits that yes, his Falcon wings were technically stolen AirForce property, and yes technically he stole the shield from Walker in Europe, and no he can't technically pay them a dime because technically no one ever paid him for being an Avenger - and that's before you add 'hey I was an internationally wanted fugitive' and 'I'm currently a walking controversy, apparently' to his increasingly unattractive portfolio.
By some miracle, they decide to take his case. He does admit it's nice to know his legal counsel apparently consists of a bunch of thrill seekers like him, and he's only half joking. Sam appreciates that they're willing to take on this mess of a situation with him and for him.
He shows his appreciation where and how he can. Pulls late nights with Page, whose work ethic of 'why stop when you can push yourself beyond all reason' matches Sam's. So he often stops by, after a mission, after a grc conference, just 'cause he can. Keeps her company while she's working on his case, brings her dinner because someone oughta. Sam's new favorite late night pastime might be making Karen Page smile.
So sue him.
No seriously, do it, far as he's concerned he's got the best legal rep he coulda ask for, so just try it.
And like those little dominoes toppling one into another, the whole thing eventually leads to him standing in her office's pantry kitchen, unbuttoning his shirt to dab at his chest with a dish towel. They'd been pouring over some paperwork for the case, Nelson and Murdock long gone home for the day, drinks on the table between them, and he'd gotten the brilliant idea to mention that he'd secured some more funding for a project to turn some warehouses and empty office buildings into housing for the displaced. Karen seemed to be thrilled with the news - so much so that her drink ended up half down the front of his shirt.
It should be an unsexy disaster, by all accounts. And yet he can't quite help the way he looks at her from underneath long lashes, eyes bright with a little bit of something. He might not be in a hurry to dry off when he notices her eyes lingering - might instead just put the towel down, leaving half his torso exposed in the dim light. ]
You know, I think we established I'm down to do something unethical here and there...
[ It's been a non-issue for years. Military grade suppressants make heats a thing of the past that can't interfere with his work in the AirForce, his counselling at the VA and later his training and subsequent missions with the Avengers. Military grade blockers ensure that at no point does Sam become a distraction, same as how the alphas in the Avengers have the courtesy of hiding their scent. Showers after heavy sparring sessions are the only times when scents leak all over, and they've all worked closely enough together that they only give each other shit in the sense of cameraderie.
So it's not a problem. Until it is.
They can't exactly pick and choose top shelf stuff while on the run. They're wanted fugitives, and another stay at the Raft without being afforded any lawyers is all that awaits on the other side of carelessness. But they have to make sacrifices in comfort - and protection, on some fronts.
At first, they don't fully realize what's happening when they get a shitty batch of blockers and suppressants. Some scent leakage is to be expected with this kind of quality available to them, and Sam thinks both Nat and Steve are quietly agreeing that it's soothing more than concerning - this is, after all, what omegas are exceptionally good for. Their scent makes a house a home, brings packs together. Soothes frayed nerves and becomes a building block of any community. So when their safe houses start carrying the subtle scents of coconut and cocoa butter, of oranges and spun sugar, of drift wood and amber, something altogether pleasant, sweet and fresh, it's not a problem. If they all curls up a little more tightly together in response, that's not a bad thing either - this part of Europe is cold this time of year, and Sam appreciates the shared warmth. Besides, making fun of Steve for getting a little scent drunk is completely harmless - Sam's not worried about either alpha in his presence crossing any sort of boundary.
So yeah. It's not a problem.
Until it is.
It starts happening on more supply runs than is comfortable - the way some stranger will suddenly be all up in Sam's space, leaning close and trying to nose at him, to chase the scent. And Steve's not possessive in a romantic sense here, but he is protective of one of his closest friends and most trusted allies.
They don't fully realize what's happening until one day while out on a supply run, a situation like that nearly comes to blows, and leaves Sam unable to stop trembling. Still it's not until they all notice that the low whine comes from the back of his throat that Sam truly realizes how screwed he is.
It goes rapidly downhill from there. They have maybe a few hours if that before it's going to hit hard - and how badly, they don't know yet. ]
I need to leave.
[ Sam wipes a hand over his face, then crosses his arms tight. Feels the way need and shame curl hot in his guts. Makes him want skin on skin, makes him want. They don't have a lot of time before his scent is gonna leak out of this cabin badly enough that it's not unthinkable people from the nearby town will show up at their door.
Society has moved on from considering omegas in heat free game. That's a thing of the distant past. Still - an unmated omega with no one to claim their heat for themselves is a call not everyone can (or wants to) resist. So what this does is put them all at risk - because there's no way to fly under the radar once his heat kicks in fully.
He's not looking at either of them. Steve nearly lost his shit on the supply run when some alpha groped for Sam, made him an offer for the night. Sam's not sure he wants to see the expression on Natasha's face - his biology is screwing over her carefully laid out plan to let them fly under the radar. It also overlaps with a check in they'd wanted to do with Wanda and Vision soon.
And Sam... ]
Or you two need to. Either way - I can't blow your cover.
[ He can't look at them, mostly because they're his friends, and he knows if either of them told him to strip naked and present, he would.
It's that bad already, and there's no hiding the way his eyes are already glassy with rising fever, the way he's already trembling and needy. ]
[Natasha's voice is firm. She barely tears her eyes away from Sam to glance at Steve, confirm agreement in the steely look in his eyes. The two of them—her boys, Natasha thinks with an iron clad possessiveness that most wouldn't consider characteristic of the Black Widow and wouldn't expect from a small, rather diplomatic woman but that they would expect from a dyed in the wool alpha—had come back from their supply run with Steve seething and Sam shaking.
And it's all she can do not to give Sam a hug, kiss his forehead, and then go out and find whoever it was who'd put both of them in that state so she could make sure this never happened again.]
If we leave you behind, you'll be back on the Raft in a week.
[The idea of Sam being arrested while he struggles through a heat alone puts her teeth on edge, makes her own scent change. Normally rather sweet and spicy, all autumn spices and earthy honey, turns hot and tart with temper.
Steve and her are close enough, bonded enough as co-alphas on the team that it doesn't start a fight, but there's no missing the fact the more protective side, the aggressive side, the part of her biology that tells her to keep the people who were hers safe is kicking in.]
Or worse.
[Where worse is someone else would claim him. If it were Steve, she'd be able to stay calm about it, despite the way she and Sam have flirted off and on for years now.
She's understood they wouldn't be a good match.
At least her head understands it.]
We'll just have to find somewhere more remote. No neighbors. We'll ride this out—when you think about it, it was bound to happen eventually. Either you'd hit your heat or one of us would have a rut. We can't give up on the plan just because we don't have access to the quality of drugs we've gotten used to.
[It's not even really a surprise it happened eventually. Natasha's thought about it before. She just expected it would be Steve, that superhuman metabolism of his burning through the lower calibur suppressants before they could find something more sustainable.
This changes her plans significantly.]
One of us will stay with you, the other makes the rendez-vous with Wanda.
It’s all quiet, landing pad is clear for you, move.
[ The words are uttered into her headpiece as her eyes remain locked onto the hacked security feeds she currently has rerouted to a very stolen laptop. Not at all her usual quality of infiltration but it was the best she could on shot notice. It served it’s purpose and since she still had a secret backdoor into some of Tony’s original tech, which all the security for the Raft had been based on… Well. She’d been happy to take advantage of the exploit for this particular mission.
Rain was pouring outside, a steady pounding on the metal of the jet. Natasha hit the button that would lower the ramp, even as she saw the three hunched shapes break from the exit and head in her direction. They’ll no doubt spot the lumps of downed bodies scattered about outside the jet, but she’d promised them no threats left between them and freedom and she’d made certain of that before giving them the all clear on their way up.
Besides. Steve wasn’t the only one to have some aggression that needed worked out. No reason he should get to have all the fun.
She’s got their tech disconnected and the jet lifting off the moment Steve gets Sam and Wanda on board, the ramp still closing as the engines burn with thrust, getting them out of here. And if she’d left a digital calling card of an angry Hulk stomping on the now-deleted prisoner records, she’s sure Bruce will forgive her, wherever he is. She can hear murmured voices behind her, but she keeps her eyes on the skies as she maneuvers them through the storm, only shifting to autopilot when she’s certain they don’t have any tails.
Unbuckling from the pilot’s seat, Natasha slips out of the cockpit and moves back deeper into the jet. She spots Wanda spread out on one of the benches with Steve leaning over her, talking to her softly. They lock gazes for a moment and he gives her a nod, so she leaves them to it and moves to come sink down in front of Sam instead, crouching in front of where he sits and searching his face with an intent gaze. There’s a frown lurking on her lips at the state he’s in, even though she tries to find that balance of lighthearted - if slightly sarcastic - humor they tend to default to.
It’s a safer response than the one her instincts are screaming for at the sight of the injuries he sports. The urge to turn the jet around and make sure whoever laid a hand on him is paying for it. Which is a little overly aggressive, even for her, but she’s blaming it on the stress of the last few weeks. Apparently beating up a handful of guards hadn’t gotten it all out of her system after all. ]
I really hope the other guy is one of those ones back there looking way worse right now. [ Reaching out, Natasha rests her hand lightly on his knee, holding his gaze. ] Hey you.
[ The thing that Sam intends to take to the grave is this: he didn't actually know if he was going to get out. He had believed Stark and sent him after Bucky and Steve as an ally... and then not seen or heard from either party. Just had to sit in his cell, imagine what his poor late mother would say if she were still alive to see him like this - he imagines she'd click her tongue and complain about how the colour of the prison garb washes him out, in an effort not to cry over her son being in prison.
And then the days stretched on. No calls, no lawyers. Clint and Scott were led away eventually, didnt return. Sam only knows what happened with them because Ross showed up once to gloat, tontry and get Sam to talk about Steve, about Nat, about Bucky.
He doesn't know where they are.
And that realization had to be enough, had to sustain him. Clinging to the thought that they were out there and free. That his sacrifice hadn't been in vain. Sure, he was gonna rot away in prison meant to hold super powered people, locked away without due process for doing what he still believes is the right thing.
So yeah - he doesn't think he will get out. Doesn't think Stark will care enough about his two former team mates still left on the Raft, doesn't think two super soldiers and a world class agent/spy are enough versus the Raft.
Mouthes off against the guards to keep their attention off Wanda, cause Sam isn't blind to the things an environment like this does to already skewed power dynamics. They don't do more than knock him around a bit, feed him a little less.
When you lock people up without due process, whonis gonna hold you to any sort of standard as to how you treat your inmates?
And then, one day, it all changes. Guards drop and Steve is right there, and the horror of the situation becomes fuel for future nightmares rather than an ongoing reality.
Freedom tastes like ice cold rain on his chapped lips.
Natasha is a sight for sore eyes, and Sam manages to find a smile to drag onto his lips from somewhere. His dark skin is ashy other than the deep purple bruising on his face, cheeks a little sunken. Under the scent of prison and the alpha guards strutting around, Sam's own sweet and wild scent is sour with barely restrained hurt and fear. It clings to him like a parasite. And still, for Natasha, he smiles as if there's nothing wrong with his world, all because she grounds him with that hand in his knee. For Natasha he makes an effort to look less haunted. ]
When Bucky learns that Sam is on the Raft he makes a deal with Steve, immediately. Alternatively, he tells his oldest… friend? That he’ll handle it. Depends on one's definition of "tells" or "makes a deal with".
Either way, Bucky is dealing with it. It being Sam. Everyone else, Steve is better equipped to manage, especially considering the Maximoff girl and what she's capable of. How any power would want to control and manipulate that.
(Ask him how he knows.)
He feels guilty, certainly. Does that stop him? No. Does it empower him? Not exactly. Mostly it just is, and sometimes it is a complication, but as he takes out government agents, various contractors, and a few faces that recognize him even without the arm on display (unsurprisingly, really) the guilt gnaws at his guts a little.
What if Sam hates him for this? It's a possibility. Perhaps a thin one, perhaps not. Did he kiss Sam the last time they saw one another? He wanted to, but the problem of memory is that it is an unreliable narrator. The problem of his memory is that dreams and reality get blurry when he's stressed.
Oh, he realizes as he breaks the hinges on the second to last door between him and Sam. He's stressed.
The door gives. So does the next. There's a light show plus klaxon now, all strobes and loud noise intended to set him on edge but his heart rate slows a little once he sees Sam. He should probably knock Sam out for his own good. Instead he puts earplugs in Sam's ears, wasting precious time in order to do so before he's broken Sam's restraints.
Sam's face looks strange in the flashing lights but Bucky can't quite spend more time staring. They've got to move.
[ Sam looks worse for wear in a big way. His dark skin has an ashy cast to it, other than the vibrant, dark purple bruising around his eye and cheek bone. His features are a little sunken. Nearly two weeks on the Raft have done this. And yet he looks calm when Bucky busts down the door of his cell, as if nothing about this bothers him. Just searches Bucky's face as the noise of the klaxon is blocked and his restraints broken. Takes a long, deep breath as Bucky shifts this terror into nothing but fuel for future nightmare rather than a terrifying, constant reality.
When Sam rises to his feet, he cups Bucky's face with his hand, brings his lips close to his ears. Makes sure that Bucky can hear him above the klaxons for a moment: ]
It's okay. You've got me now.
[ As if Bucky's wellbeing is the one in question here. But Sam exudes calm, his ok only concern directed towards Bucky, as if nothing else about their surrounded has impact. Because he knows. He remembers Bucky ripping himself and then Sam free of spider webs (gross), hauling Sam to his feet. He remembers being crowded against a wall, remembers a kiss without finesse but with all the heat and desperation of combat adrenaline. Remembers feeling crushed between a broad chest and the wall, with a surprisingly gentle hand cupping the back of his head to keep him from hurting himself, and a greedy hand in his ass, grip strong enough to be felt through tac gear. Remembers the way he grabbed and clung right back, desperate to get closer. Frankly, Sam thinks if not for a voice over comms calling for their status, they might have gotten busy right there. Isn't sure he could have said no this time, too riled up by the way they clicked together in the fight, keeping each other safe, taking blows for each other.
Sam remembers. He remembers everything, from a variety of first dates to needy begging for a night together, to the endearing frustration with which Bucky had made the first move, again and again, with such earnest desperation to have any bit of Sam he could have, long before he was able to retain any memory of it. It's why he understands that the near feral look in Bucky can be soothed through Sam's safety, and nothing less. It's why that's the reassurance he offers - he's fine, Bucky's got him. And Sam understands that there is no place as safe as on a battlefield with Bucky by his side. ]
Sam doesn't catch on immediately, but when he does, he has the wrong kind of reaction.
There's an alpha on his ass. Not literally, at least not yet. But he can tell he's gained a stalker, after a while. The whiff of a scent that is showing up a little too often in places Sam frequents, and a little too regularly to be coincidence.
The stalking is smooth, he has to give the alpha that. Sam doesn't notice immediately, and when he does it's just because he pays attention to the scents around him so much. But he can tell - his standard seat in his favorite coffee shop. The corner where he always stops to stretch mid-run. His favorite route through the park. Fucker's going around getting his scent all over Sam's path, like he's marking his territory already. Presumptuous.
Kinda hot, though, which is the dumb reaction Sam has. Dumber still is he gets so fed up with the long distance stalking that he flips the script.
The reason that's dumb is that he can tell his stalker alpha is a predator species. But here's the thing... Sam's many things, but prey ain't one. He knows he runs the risk of being dragged into a back room, pushed and pushed and pushed until he opens his legs and lets some alpha gets his dick wet. Unless they run for the hills once they figure out he's not a meek little doe, or on the flipside, a sex-crazed kitten. Just a bird, smelling wild and free. Apparently that's been enough to wet this alpha's appetite for him.
So Sam flips the script. Turns from prey into predator himself, and lets his nose guide him onto the trail of the alpha, into a dark bar with a claiming room - and a couple shamelessly going for it in the corner, filling the place with pheromones that have everyone just a little hornier than they might otherwise be. Sam finds a seat that carries the spicy, heavy scent of his stalker alpha - and slides ride into it. Gives the bartender a shit eating grin when the man - also an alpha, blonde, tall and muscular, totally a golden retriever pretending to be a big tough canine - moves to point out the folly of his life choices. But in the end Steve - the bartender - just gets Sam a drink.
And then Sam waits, back turns to the room as if he's oblivious to how his jeans hug his ass, how the dim lighting makes his dark skin glow, highlights his sharp cheek bones and plush lips, how he's planted that ass where his stalker prefers to sit, how he's subtly bleeding scent all over this spot. How he's basically broken all social customs by coming here and putting himself in the alpha's way like this.
Sam's not one to play games, though. Not one to let himself pursued like prey for weeks and months until the alpha decides it's time to make a move. No, Sam considers this a challenge, and rises to it. And the way he keeps his back to the room is a clear middle finger to whoever's been on his scent, a fuck you that couldn't be greater.
And perhaps, in some ways, it's also a bit of a 'fuck me, if you dare'.
To be fair, Bucky hadn't originally intended to be stalking Sam. He'd been out, running, and went past... Someone. Someone who smelled fucking amazing. Now, Bucky knew better than to double back and try to find him. Him being the Guy with the Scent that was so fucking good it was like having had too much ice cream but you end up going back for seconds anyway.
So instead of following the origin he goes hunting for other concentrated scent locations along the run. And then it's time for a shower, and work, and while Bucky is thinking about that scent all day... airy, birdlike, strong... he has a life to lead and it's not his day off.
Next day is though and still thinking about that scent, Bucky aimlessly wanders a neighborhood adjacent to one of the big park entrances and goes into a coffee shop where he's hit with it again. Fresh but not live and in person.
Well.
Maybe it's just meant to be?
He doesn't think this scent is prey... he knows the difference, knows how it makes him feel. He wants to chase, not maim. He wants to play. Bucky can't remember ever having someone's scent make him want to play. Granted, his dating life is "tragically haunted" according to Peggy, so maybe this is what he's supposed to feel like? Instead of afraid or uncertain or like he's already doing to much?
But Bucky is a lot of things that epitomize wolves living solo while simultaneously trying not to live too hard into being an alpha wolf out in the world, unhinged and horny at every moment, completely incapable of higher reason once something or someone has his attention. So he doesn't stalk the bird, not properly. He just. Revisits those places. A few times. Maybe almost every day for about a week and a half.
The smell is really good, ok? And he isn't trying to cover it up he just wants it to carry with him a little more than it would otherwise. That's not so bad, right?
He knows this isn't tenable, in the long run, but it's been... a minute since he pursued anyone so the next steps elude him. He bitched to Steve and Peggy about it in that exact seat the Perfect Bird is sitting in just last night. What's a wolf to do when first impressions are everything but instinct is uncertain?
Apparently, the Perfect Bird came to him.
Bucky smells it in the doorway and is immediately excited. The Perfect Bird is here, in the bar, and he doesn't know what to make of it immediately other than (!!).
Steve looks at him from the bar with a deeply unimpressed expression.
The Perfect Bird doesn't turn around.
Well, alright then. Bucky unfreezes from the doorway and comes completely inside, taking a moment to appreciate the Perfect Bird's ass in that barstool, before sitting in the adjacent stool and fixing the Perfect Bird with a grin.
"You know you're sitting in my seat," is not actually a question.
[ After that disastrous press conference, they’d been hustled out stunned and a little shell-shocked, accompanied by clamouring yells of reporters and the flash-pop of cameras; maybe one of Bucky’s least favourite things, the bright lights always feeling like they were on the verge of awakening something else within him.
The supposed New Avengers have been stashed in the lobby of an office building repurposed as a makeshift crisis center. (Not everyone survived the day, despite their best efforts: debris was flying everywhere. Those helicopters went down, and their pilots didn’t have anywhere safe to come back to.) The Russians are huddled on the other side of the room, conferring with each other; Shostakov looks completely overjoyed. There’s a specialised medic examining Starr and Robertson, making sure they’re physically okay, their augmented abilities not chewing them up from the inside. Walker doesn’t look much the worse for wear; the benefits of being a supersoldier. They still give each other a wide berth.
Bucky mostly feels empty. His body still aches from the brief fight earlier; it’s been a while since he went toe-to-toe with someone who could thrash him so easily. But above all, the day feels surreal, dream-like, untethered from reality. He keeps glancing to the corners and waiting for the shadows to grow and lengthen and swallow the room anew.
He excuses himself and moves over to the side hallway, by the restrooms. He’s an old-fashioned guy, he still doesn’t really prefer texts over the assurance of hearing a voice on the other end of the line. And when the chips are down, there’s really only one person he wants to hear from.
So he calls Sam Wilson. Waits for him to answer, his heart thudding hollow in his chest; he knows the other man probably caught the breaking news, the attack on the city, the eventual press conference. Once he picks up: ]
[ continued from HERE ][ Sam watches her for a moment - not distrusting, just observing. ]
Glad to hear it. I'm sorry we had to subdue you, for the record.
[ Sam gestures for her to take a seat the kitchen island. Puts down plates and cutlery for her - evidently, he has no issue trusting her with a knife around him. Though he also knows that she doesn't need a butter knife to do him harm, if she wished. ]
Massive buffet, ain't it? We usually just have a little bit of everything out so that the ravenous horde moonlighting as my team can grab what they want when they want. You get dibs of today's first batch of pancakes if you'd like.
[ It doesn't feel like the end, is the thing - or at least, not like how Sam pictured it. He has a brief moment of feeling his fingers and toes going numb, of having a sensation of wrong flood through through him. And then it's over faster than he can consciously think 'not here, not like Riley, without leaving a body behind for my sister to bury'. Sam Wilson dies. Nobody sees it, nobody bears witness. He dies alone, in a thicket in Wakanda. He dies alongside trillions of people all across the galaxy. Half of all life... culled.
And then... he's... back.
It feels like the blink of an eye, like no time has passed at all. One moment he's here, then he's... not. It's like breathing wrong for a second. It's like walking down the stairs in the dark thinking there's one more step, but hitting the floor too hard. It's like the way his stomach lurches when he drops out of the sky, letting the ground rush up at him like a familiar friend wondering when it'll be his time to collide.
Dying, in the end, felt like it never happened, and that's not nearly as pleasant or comforting as it might sound.
Afterwards, Sam feels... numb, for the most part. He's good at compartmentalising. Good at being there for everyone around him while he's fraying at the edges. He keeps clenching his fingers, willing feeling back into them while he feels like he's about to crumble away again. But he steps up, because it's what he does, and because after the battle there's work to do, him and Steve and Wanda and Bucky are still technically wanted fugitives, and Secretary fucking Ross is sniffing around them like a blood hound while everyone is still trying to get their footing back, and...
He tries to look to the people he spent the last two years with. Except... that was five years ago. He lost five years, just like that, and he doesn't know what happend to Sarah and her kids, he doesn't know if they're okay, he needs to go home, he needs to...
Tony Stark almost died on that battlefield, surviving the final snap by a hair, and Sam still feels sick with how close the man came. Sam remembers yelling at people to move, remembers running while others were standing still, years of pararescue training and work kicking into overdrive, and then other people also moving, and in the end it's him, Bruce, Shuri kneeling over Tony, a flurry of hands and shoddy battlefield work, but Sam's done more with less in the desert, and Shuri has better tech than the Air Force ever had. Sam barely remembers what they did to get Tony through, but he does remember catching the man's eyes at some point and quietly telling him that dying after a cool one-liner wasn't on the menu today.
And then...
Then Sam, later, learns that Natasha Romanoff is dead.
And Vision died five years ago.
So did Loki - not a personal loss for Sam, but one for Thor, so it still hits in its own way.
There is no body for Nat. Sam thinks somebody tells him she led the team, and she saved everyone, and now she's gone, and that's all anyone can bring themselves to say, and they have haunted looks in their eyes, and he can't press, he can't tell them 'Steve and her are all I have left, I need to know what happened to her' because his grief doesn't supersede theirs.
Sam died and came back to life like he'd just blinked his eyes, like his heart had just skipped a single beat, like his breath had caught just for a second, and just like that he's lost five years and several team mates and one of his two closest...
Steve Rogers leaves.
There's no warning, no heads-up - at least not for Sam. Steve just steps on a platform to place the Infinity Stones back in their timelines, but he never returns, and Sam is so close to straight up panic. He thinks he yells at poor Bruce, because they just had services for everyone they lost, because Natasha is dead, and what do you mean Steve is just gone and...
A few minutes later, Sam is given barely an explanation, and he's given a shield that doesn't represent people like him, a job he never asked to have, and he's lost both of his closest friends, the people he spent the last two years with 24/7 except it was five years ago and now they're just... gone. One dead, one left, and at that point, it hardly feels like a difference.
Bucky walks away because the man is a mess, and Secretary Ross is lingering, making unpleasant eyes at both Bucky and Sam because he's still itching for those arrests and Sam takes a few steps through the trees and then he just...
He's no longer holding it together.
The shield hits the ground and Sam takes another two or three steps, puts his back to a tree and sinks down, knees against his chest, hands between the knees because they're shaking badly. His face is ashy, and he feels like throwing up. His eyes are wet, and his fingers are numb, and he's not sure he's breathing right, vision fuzzy at the edges.
He tries to pull it together. It feels too selfish to fall apart like this, not when things need doing. Not when other people have suffered the same losses he has, if not more, not when they need support, not when...
Someone's walking towards him. From far away, Sam thinks his brain registers Tony. Outside of fighting for Tony's life just a day ago, Sam dimly registers that he's last actually spoken to Tony two years ago from inside a cell on the Raft. Ten days on the Raft, and thank god Clint and Scott got plea deals to go home to their families. But oh god, it's not been two years for Tony, has it, it's been seven years.
Tony stops by the shield where Sam just dropped it on the ground, and for a moment they both just look at it on the forest floor. And then they look at each other, and Sam doesn't want to say 'Steve left', so instead... ]
[ Tony exhales through his nose, making a sound that might've been a chuckle. He forces a smirk onto his face, a little upturn of his lips on the not scarred side. ] Oh, don't worry about me; they got me on the good shit. [ He quips. It's always a fuckin' quip with him, isn't it? Steve would probably be so annoyed when Sam told him about this, later.
Except... Tony looks back down at the shield, resting on the ground, it's red white and blue paint standing out starkly against the greens and browns of the forest. He rolls his bad shoulder - it makes a horrible clicking-popping sound as he does - and decides this, like snapping with the Infinity Stones, was best done like ripping off a Band-Aid: Quickly and without thinking too much about it.
He bends over, fingers scraping up the dirt as he picks the shield up with the arm not currently confined to a sling and walks the few paces over to where Sam's stooped over. ] Think... You mighta dropped this. [ It's another quip, and he hates himself for it a little, picking up the slack in Steve's absence.
Tony blinks rapidly as the realization sinks in. He isn't gonna cry, damn it, but- It was strange, still, losing the last piece of Howard that he'd gotten to keep all these years later. Don't think about it, he orders himself. As usual, he does a terrible job listening, and he inhales sharply, trying not to make it sound like the sniffle it is. ]
[ If Joaquin makes one more joke about there being a disturbance in the force, Sam might just re-think this entire gig and kill the man himself. Well, he adores Joaquin, is the thing. That's his friend and partner before anything else, and Sam couldn't have done the Cap thing for three years without him. His presence is a tremendous help in Sam's tentative efforts to rebuild the Avengers. But seriously, if he makes that joke one more time...
Carol Danvers put them on this trail. And Sam still can't believe that he gets to just put the intergalactic nuke on his team and coordinate with her. Granted, Carol won't likely be around for every single street level mission; but she's on the roster. Apparently her fancy space tech - and Sam has access to that now, what a novelty honestly - has picked up weird readings somewhere in the ass end of nowhere, Utah, or some shit like that.
Sam and Joaquin are scouting it out from the air. Just get some readings, some visuals, to send back to the likes of Banner and Strange with a big question mark attached. A quinjet hovers nearby with some other members of the team, just in case shit goes sideways.
What they find is... well, it looks like a tear. Except it's mid-air. Not very big, all things considered. A little taller in height than Sam. It looks like a widening crack in a wall or something. Well, except it's kind of purple and glowy. Sam and Joaquin agree that 'purple and glowy' are usually signs that point to 'shit's weird' and 'well that's not good'. That's their professional assessment, anyway.
Redwing's getting a nice visual scan from all angles, while Joaquin and Sam are hovering mid-air, a safe (safe-ish?) distance from the tear, collecting some readings and data with various tools and instruments Danvers, Banner and Strange thrust at them along with enthusiastic nods that translated to 'you got that, we're gonna stay inside where it's nice and cozy and neither purple nor glowy'. Assholes. Sam would threaten to cut their pay, except he's not Stark, so none of them are technically getting paid. Goodwill and all that jazz.
He's about to announce that all the beeping little devices seem satisfied and well fed, when the tear decides to widen. And... well, that's probably not good. Joaquin and him are about to fire up the thrusters, put some more distance, but the tear snaps open from one second to the next, and before Sam knows it...
A storm rolls through the gap between realities. ]
[ The storm that rolls through the gap shouldn't feel all that different to those who monitor it. It's abrupt, the way the clouds gather and darken around the rift, the way lightning sparks and crackles, how the temperature dips in the storm clouds but suddenly spikes around the tiny bolts of thunder. No, all that should be normal, if sudden. What is not normal at all is the body that finally drops out of the glowing purple tear through space and time.
The woman that falls out is fully unconscious, her long, white hair and the wings of her black and gold cape rippling upwards as she plummets towards the ground at a breakneck pace. Gravity pulls on her, and nothing is making her slow down...
To the naked eye, she might seem like a normal human body. But to anyone getting any readings on her, they may note how her body exudes a spike of energy. Like a bolt of lightning contained in flesh, running terribly hot as she'd just come from the icy wetness of a heavy cloud primed to release a doozy of a rainstorm over the nearest city. She won't sizzle when touched, but she may or may not crackle with static that'll short out any comms devices once caught. If she's caught at all. ]
[ When the dust settles, it takes shockingly long for them to get a moment. Battlefield reunions aren't all they're cracked up to be - too much chaos for meaningful moments. Perhaps it's for the best. Sam's still reeling from implications he barely understands. Went from an impossible battle to watching his fingers crumble to dust, to flying through a portal, heralding the arrival of reinforcements for Steve. Straight into another round against Thanos and his forces.
And afterwards...
Hours of clearing the battlefield. Wounds that needed patching up, and Sam's retained enough skill from being a battlefield medic as pararescue that he can't not help. There's debriefings, there's an immediate, dizzying new reality to contend with - being dead for 5 years, Tony's death, learning about Natasha who from Sam's perspective had JUST been on the battlefield, too, and they'd JUST spent two years living in each other's pockets on the run, Steve and Nat and him...
It takes hours. Sam's eyes scan over everyone regularly. Steve is always nearby, but they don't get a moment to themselves. Not until they're all carted off. Pepper pulls some strings, gets them situated in a hotel, those that don't need further medical treatment. Sam retreats, for a bit. When there is nothing and nobody he can directly help, he slips away to the room he got put in, needs to make a phone call.
Sarah falls apart on the other end of the line. And finally, it begins to hit Sam. Not just the words, but the reality that half the universe had died and was just gone for five whole entire years. Not just the universe. He did, specifically. It means he hasn't seen Sarah in two years, but she hasn't seen him in seven. It means she's grieved him for five years.
So has Steve, and that hits Sam like a gut punch, once the adrenaline finally falls out from under him. Two years on the run, they'd been circling this unspoken thing that has been brewing for a while. In hindsight, maybe they've always teetered on that edge - Natasha's knowing looks certainly implied so. Different, though, when you're friends and work side by side, to when you're on the run together, sharing tiny safe houses and shitty motel beds occasionally. Sam doesn't think he was alone in noticing the way they'd been inching towards something. Sliding one another glances that lingered like touches. It had felt like they were tentatively feeling out the edge of a maybe, but Sam wasn't sure if Steve wanted to, if Steve could, if Peggy rested in the same closed box for Steve as Riley did for Sam, if Steve would ever want to, or if theirs was going to be a beautiful maybe tucked alongside their friendship.
Sam's not a naive man, and yet he'd thought there'd be more time for him to give this thing, to see where it would fall. And then Thanos had...
Sam takes a long, hot shower, in the end. Needs to get the battlefield dust off of him. Needs to shut the world out and take a moment to grieve their losses, to find out how he feels about his own death, to calm himself so he'll be of use to anyone in the days to come. When he emerges from the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, skin damp, the room isn't empty, and perhaps that shouldn't come as a surprise. Sam stays relaxed. For him, having Steve nearby 24/7 has become the norm, even though he knows Steve had five years to come to terms with Sam's absence. ]
Steve.
[ A gentle prompt. Steve's by the window, looking out over the city. Sam knows his friend is aware of Sam re-entering the room after his shower. Still, Sam steps a little closer, waits until Steve's back is no longer to him. It's been a long and brutal day, but tired aches fall away the moment their eyes meet. And finally... the chance to reunite, properly. ]
[ It's a good question. The universe is saved. Everyone is back. He should be thrilled that after five years it's all over and they're safe from Thanos forever. But the price of that sits heavily on Steve's shoulders and the work going forward, fixing everything, weighs on his mind. He should be out there working on fixing it.
But Sam's back. Sam's here and for the last five years Steve's looked for his friend time and time again only to find and empty spot next to him. A silence in his life where Sam once took up space and made noise and was there. He was there for years when Steve needed him and then he was gone.
Five years of nothing.
And he's back. Like nothing ever happened. Steve couldn't fully explain the urge he felt to just be in Sam's presence and know he's there but that's what he's felt since Sam ducked away to deal with his own things. ]
I'll be okay. [ Steve turns away from the window and flashes a brief smile. ] You good?
[ Sam's got a lot to deal with too.
Steve will be okay as long as he's in Sam's presence. He just needs to be able to look over his shoulder and see Sam there like he was for two years. As long as he has that Steve feels like he'll be okay. ]
[ For a while, everything feels like a massive disaster. After Steve leaves, Sam is left to grieve too many friends while having a legacy and responsibility thrust upon him that he never asks. And the one person he thought he'd be able to count on to help figure that mess out... has his own trauma to shoulder and handle. Bucky goes to mandatory therapy and life in Brooklyn, Bruce retires to an island, Thor goes off-world, Clint retires to his family farm, Rhodey is still active duty in the Air Force, Wanda is grieving, and franky... so is Sam.
They all drift, in big and small ways.
Sam buries himself in work, at first. That includes reconnecting with his family. His nephews don't even remember him; they were too young when he had to go into hiding. And then he'd died, and they'd grown up on stories about their uncle Sam. It hurts, badly so. Alongside that, he begins throwing himself into contract work with the Air Force. Trying to do good while the shield sits in his bedroom, heavy and accusatory. The government begins to hound him - they want to know what he intends to do with it. After six months, he decides to put it into the museum, have it be part of Steve's exhibit. Doesn't believe that as a black man he should or would want to uphold the legacy of that shield.
Of course, then everything goes to shit anyway. He finds his way to the shield in a slightly roundabout way, but when he does, his speech in that sleek new vibranium suit is broadcast all over. His first action as Captain America is to step on government toes, dress some politicians down in public, and tell them to do their jobs better, which overall feels like that means he's doing the Cap thing right.
Things don't exactly get less busy, after. He's got to figure out a lot of things. Bucky's backing him, though has indicated he doesn't want to stay in the field. Joaquin, on the flipside, is almost too gung-ho about being in the field. Sam's pretty closely allied with Wakanda now, flying on gifted vibranium wings, and his messages are rapidly filling up with various heads of states and figures of importance who want to start off on the right foot with the new Captain America.
And in the midst of all that, Sam begins picking up more and more pieces that were left behind. It's not fair that it all lands on him ,but it would be even less fair to leave some people hanging. He wants to start showing up in the ways he needed others to show up for him. And if he struggled to pull himself up with little support, he knows others are struggling, too.
And so, not long after Sam's televised speech in the wake of the Flagsmashers, he calls a number he should have called much sooner, hoping that an old friend will pick up who he knows is in desperate need of a good friend by her side. ]
[after everything, it's better for her to be alone. pain has been a constant in her life for a long time, but it can't be collapsed inside anymore; it explodes out of her, beyond her control, taking an entire town along with it. wanda can't guarantee that the same thing won't happen somewhere else, not when she's only had more to lose.
a rural cabin in the mountains of serbia, where there isn't another person for kilometers on any side, seems like the best place for her.
the routine she establishes is simple, but effective. she wakes with the sun, brews tea to drink on the porch as she breathes in the morning air; it's centering, and she continues to breathe in, slowly, until the last bit of shakiness from yet another nightmare is gone. after that, and a quick breakfast, she tends the surrounding land with just her hands, pruning trees and tilling soil, doing something real, and good, until she's aching and exhausted.
as long as she is, she thinks, she can keep the closet door closed, where she keeps what she shouldn't touch.
but the dreams plague her. she wakes screaming in the middle of the night, shaking and covered in sweat, feeling emptier, more hopeless than ever. it gets worse, and worse, until one night —
she gives in, turning the knob on the door. taking the darkhold into her hands.
immediately, she feels a rush of power crackle under her skin, a sense of direction and purpose that the work outside will never give her.
it consumes her nights — and her days. the trees go unpruned, the soil untilled, and more times than not, she forgets the morning tea; every conscious moment she has is devoted to slipping through its pages, in search of a way to feel whole again, just like the whispers tell her: a little longer, wanda, a little longer, you'll see them. she understands more about herself than she ever has, when for so long, she's just been adrift.
this is the answer. it's —
a ringing sound is shrill in her ears, pulling her out of her trance.
she'd almost forgotten about the old cell phone, left unused on the kitchen counter; that had been easy to do, when she can't remember the last time anyone had actually called it. at first, she wonders if she'd imagined it, but it rings a second time, then a third.
the book drops out of her hands as she stands, walks toward the sound. a familiar name flashes bright, almost friendly on the screen. with a shaky breath, she presses the button to answer.]
[ ooc: continued from HERE. ][ Sam sends back a thumbs up, smiling at the phone. He allows himself a little more time lounging, just enjoying the anticipation of their evening together. Beyond the promise of mind-blowing sex, he's also looking forward to having Bucky close in general. End of the day, they could be falling asleep on the couch during a bad movie, and Sam would consider that an evening well-spent.
When Bucky arrives later, after his appointment, the smell of good food is wafting through the apartment. Pasta with a rich sauce, garlic bread fresh out of the oven, a small salad on the side. Candles on the table, wine allowed to breathe, music crooning from a record player. It's a bit old-fashioned, but Sam hopes Bucky will enjoy it. ]
[Old fashioned usually goes down well with an old man, and Bucky steps in, smiling - charmed by the effort Sam put in. He called a greeting as he let himself in, knocking at the door but not waiting for Sam to open it.
The place smells like garlic in a pleasant way and Bucky walks into the kitchen to find Sam, wrapping arms around his waist and kissing the back of his neck when he did.]
The past five years were a different kind of hell, but today?
From having the absolute shit beaten out of him, facing certain death and (worse) sweeping defeat, to having an army at his back. People he loved and has spent five years grieving for back -- and Tony gone.
Steve's there through the clean up. He's there for taking care of the injured, debriefings and arrangements being made for the displaced or newly returned. There's no impatience in there, or signs of any cracks in Captain America. He's got it together.
...He wants five minutes alone with Sam.
That 'on your left' is something he can still hear. Still feel the disbelief and the sheer, unbelievable relief and surge of hope.
He doesn't immediately find Sam. He showers, and scrubs the filth of that battle off his skin, and puts on a pair of clean jeans and a button down shirt. Some of the deeper bruises are still faintly visible, and the cut on his arm hasn't disappeared, just turned into a red scar.
Even the serum has limits. Bucky found those limits on Hydra's carrier. They'll keep fading, he'll keep healing, but right now he's still physically stiff and sore. Hungry. Tired.
Needs to find Sam more than he needs food or sleep.
When he finds Sam, finally, all he says is, "Hey. You have a few minutes?"
Sam hits the ground running much the same as Steve. From his perspective, he goes form one battle to the next without a reprieve. It's Thanos in Wakanda,and then it's Thanos in upstate New York. It's calling out for Steve on comms as portals open, flying over a battle field where Steve stands facing Thanos alone and broken.
And then it's more fighting, more losses, more grief. There are five years between then and now, and yet to Sam, it feels as if he loses Vision, Tony and Natasha back to back to back. Natasha cuts especially deep - Steve, Sam and her have been a unit on the run, living together, breathing together. It was them against the world, and now she's gone.
But there are wounded to treat, there is rubble to clear, there are things to do.
Somewhere in there, he manages to call Sarah. Sarah whom he hasn't seen or spoken to in two years because he was made a fugitive, and for her it's been seven years because then he was dead. And now... well, now he doesn't think he will ever get the sound of her sobs out of his nightmares.
And in all that, he keeps having to look down at his hands, flex his fingers. Make sure he's still here, not crumbling away. Steve is a welcome reprieve from that line of thinking. Sam was just putting away the Falcon suit - dirty and grimey from two battles five years apart. It feels like there's a never-ending list of things to do and take care of. There's a whole world out there in need of fixing. There are five years of death to grapple with, somehow. But for now...
For now, Sam - recently showered and cleaned up as well - has to smile when he looks at Steve, feels tension melt out of his own shoulders.
"Yeah. For you, always. C'mon in, make yourself at home."
'Home' is, temporarily, a really shitty hotel room. Pepper has gotten them all situated now that the immediate aftermath is over. With Avengers Compound blown to smithereens, so many of them having no accommodations on account of being dead, this is what they gotta work with for the time being.
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And, sure, it's been about eighty years since Bucky last had to do those things (he's not really going to count his recent failed dating attempt, thankyou kindly), but he remembers it being so easy. Once upon a time, he had natural charm, and being around people came easy. Now he know he's stiff and awkward and too intense and the only person who seems to make him feel like his old self again is Sam. Bucky's been trying to hint at his obvious affection. As if he hasn't done enough between helping with the boat, or bringing Sam a real Captain America suit, or all the other stuff between now and then. It used to be a lot easier in the Forties. People, Bucky thinks, expect a lot of different things now when they want to date.
Hell, most people seem to skip the courting process all together and while Bucky can see the convenience, what's the point if you don't even get to know the person?
But Bucky's realized that he has to be direct. That's what people want these days. Less subtle hints and acts of affection and more straight-forwardness. So he'll be straight forward, and either he'll fall flat on his face and have to go back to living on his own for the rest of time, or it'll work in his favour.
And he's pretty sure it'll work in his favour.
Bucky shows up with a bouquet of flowers in hand. Nothing too showy, but nothing small, either. Just a generous amount of in-season blooms that he holds in his hand as he makes his way in through the back door, taking off his sunglasses. ]
Honey, I'm home.
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Didn't take long after the mess with the Flagsmashers for them to decide that Bucky was spending too much time here to really need that apartment in NYC, and that if he moved here, they should get out of Sarah's hair. So... here they are. Got a nice little fixer upper, spent a few weeks working on it, making it a home. 10 minutes from Sarah's, with a nice back porch and a cute pier of its own. Enough space to land a quinjet outside if need be, and for them to have set up a training area.
They've started looking into getting a small place in NYC or DC, too, just something small where they can crash when work keeps them there longer. Turns out, Bucky's not exactly poor, given that the government quietly provided him with a generous backpay as the longest POW in history.
But Delacroix, in the meantime, has become home, and Sam loves their life together. Loves evenings spent cooking, days spent tending to the abandoned Reggio Cemetary, like all local fishermen do, afternoons spent taking Sarah and the boys to the big parish cemetary to visit the Wilson family graves. Trips to New Orleans to get some culture into this poor man. Nights sipping drinks on their own dock.
It's a good life. Sam wishes he didn't feel like it could be better. Bucky's been... charming, to say the least, and always willing to lend a hand. On his best behaviour, and whenever they visit Sarah, Sam can take a guess as to why, sees how Bucky is with her and the kids, and feels his heart ache and sink.
Isn't gonna say anything, 'cause lord knows his sister deserves some happiness, and so does Bucky, so he'll... he'll just... figure it out. Keep himself quiet. He wants for nothing in life, he's decided.
Except when Bucky comes home, calls out like that and has flowers in his arms, something inside Sam's chest flutters pleasantly, and he yearns in ways he has not in years. Honey. Doll. Sweetheart. Sam would give so much to be... but he swallows it. Can't quite help the way he looks, though, mouth lifting into a soft smile that makes his dark brown eyes bright. ]
Honey, huh? Those are nice, Buck. But you know we ain't going over to Sarah's tonight, right?
[ Because clearly, that must be why Bucky brought flowers. Right? ]
For @foreclaws
Yes.
[ The words come a little too easily. It itches at the back of Sam's mind, the awareness that he's not usually this agreeable, this docile to be led. He doesn't feel dizzy, though, just a little lighter. His thoughts wander, briefly to the strangely sweet smelling flower someone on the streets tucked into his breast pocket, to musings on the source of his strange willingness to just 'yes and' all current developments.
It occurs to him he should actually ask where they're going, but something in hims is so bone deep mellow that he ends up not caring, tugging along in full capacity of his wits, but with something inside of his stomach rolling at the very thought of saying no to anything T'Challa asks.
Sam frowns. Is vaguely aware of being led through doors, and concludes 'building' somewhere in his mind. Is even more aware of the fact that under usual circumstances, he'd have at least stated his case, that he was on his way somewhere with purpose, that this sidetrek may well blow his operation. But the thought comes and it goes, and Sam just follows along. Too quiet, perhaps. Because T'Challa told him to choose his words wisely. Curious, that. ]
I should probably make you aware that there's a very real chance I've been drugged or otherwise compromised.
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[ They stop only when Sam warns him, at the side of a lobby with a plush but hideous carpet, waiting for the elevator. ]
It has become clear. Be at ease, Captain, we are going to a safe place.
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For @laviny
[ Sam shrugs a little. The gesture almost seems dismissive, but the way he briefly glances down, frowns, lips pressing together - that isn't. ]
Yeah. Don't change the fact that Avengers failed you.
[ Failed Natasha, too. His expression twists for a moment - the sympathy and understand and patience he gives her overshadowed by grief and bitter anger. Because he too returned to a world that suddenly lacked Natasha, and had to swallow down his thoughts when there was no large funeral service for her, just a small headstone in Ohio that Sam didn't even know about until much later. ]
You deserve to have the ways in which you were failed acknowledged and addressed. Someone should apologize to you for how you were let down. Someone should see you and know that's the least you deserve. I'm the one that's here - so I'm the one who takes responsibility. [ Sam swallows. ] I'd give you more than words if I could.
[ Hell, he'd throw himself off a cliff on an alien planet to give her back her sister, quite honestly, because Natasha didn't deserve that - to die so far from home, not even her body brought back. ]
For @brushpass
[ Natasha would be a sight for sore eyes even without this magnetic pull between them they've been dancing around that she's so very creatively decided to tackle now. Really now, asking him how to tell a guy she wants to sit on his face. He'd even been genuine in his response, somehow fighting the urge to throw his phone all the way across the room lest he just respond with 'Don't tell him, I volunteer'.
All things considered, that turned out nicely in his favor after all.
He throws her an easy grin as he follows inside, taking off the goggles first, then the heavy wingpack and leaving them by her coatrack. ]
I feel like I should be smooth and give you a line 'bout how I was just in a hurry to be at your beck and call... but honestly, it's cold as shit without the flight suit. Upside: The wine's got a good temperature.
[ Speaking of: He hands the bag over. ]
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She leaned in and kissed his cheek as she accepted the bag.]
Well, I'd offer to warm you up, but that feels a little cheesy. I've got a fire going in the living room. I'll be there in a minute.
[She lifted the bag to indicate her intention and disappeared into the kitchen. True to her word, she joined him in the living room after a few minutes with two glasses of the red. She handed him his wine and then tipped her own glass in acknowledgement as her mouth curled in a smirk.]
To being unladylike.
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[ There's no one at the pier, at this hour, the only company being the shy wind and the stars. James uncaps the beer bottle and leans against the railing, swirling it around, watching the shadows dapple on the water. There's another close by, if Sam wants to leave the comfort of the four walls behind them and the laughter of children, but between that and what's out here he's got a finger on the pulse. He knows the choice. ]
[ Sure enough. Footsteps, and the squeeze of lightness. The Winter does not forgive nor does he go away, but there are times when there's a ravine between them, and that cold bastard is too far away to touch. ]
[ James says, without looking, ]
That one's yours.
[ He shifts, absently, even as he notices how Sam fits into the space next to him. ]
So. [ A beat, and a heh. ] You got your speech all practiced for tomorrow?
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And yet, as seems to be the case when it comes to the two of them, those hours had stretched out. The knowledge of Captain America stepping off a plane at LaGuardia airport had spread like wildfire. And by the time the two of them had made it to Bucky's apartment, the paparazzi were already lying in wait. Even having the Winter Soldier staring them down hadn't been enough of a warning to get them to back off. Hadn't kept them from snapping pictures and yelling questions out with a varying degree of insensitivity. And even once they'd made it to the apartment, it hadn't kept rogue reporters or even Bucky's (former) neighbors from knocking the entire time they'd been there.
So. That'd been fun to deal with.
Naturally though, that had been the easy part. Ignoring those knocks while he'd gathered together the few clothes that were still sitting in the closet. While the two of them began packing up the barely used contents of his kitchen. It's only when the knocks had become a call, and the call had turned in to an invite, that they'd finally accepted the fact that their stay would be extended. That even carrying the shield isn't enough to protect them from being dragged in to the public eye once more.
Rogers: The musical.
The few days they'd been given to prepare had been both too long and not enough. For Bucky, at least, he'd spent the entire time fighting the urge to run. Had wanted nothing more than to put space between them and New York. It'd only been the knowledge of just how bad it would look for Sam if he opted not to go that kept him from following that instinct. (Well, that, and the unspoken promise of sex each night the two of them shared the previously unused bed in his apartment.) Sure, the offer had only been extended to him under the proviso of Sam attending the premiere. But he knows it wouldn't look good for the man if his own partner refused to attend.
So attend, he had. The two of them having to dress up for the event was an additional step that Bucky wasn't too happy to have to undertake. Though seeing Sam dressed to the nines was a definite motivator in him agreeing to head out to buy a suit anyway. And being able to get an upfront view of Sam getting the limelight he deserved as they'd made their way in to the theatre that night had been worth it. Worth the discomfort of it all. Even worth fending off the occasional questions that'd been directed towards him when Sam's attention had already been taken up by another camera.
Whether it was worth sitting through the entire performance or not though... Yeah, he's undecided on that.
Yet somehow they had. They'd managed to keep their commentary contained. Had hidden their laughter behind tight lips and coughs. And even once the curtain had closed and the applause had died down, they somehow kept it together long enough to accept the invitation to the afterparty.
Which Bucky has quickly come to regret.
He knows, of course, that as new as his relationship with Sam is, neither of them are the type to play around. That even as they continue to feel out how this thing between them works, they aren't going to risk hurting one another by looking elsewhere. Their relationship isn't public yet, of course. Not hidden, but not shouted from the rooftops. But seeing Natasha's actress curl her hand around Sam's arm, seeing her understudy staring adoringly at the man- It takes everything in him to keep Bucky from storming across the room and claiming what's his. Which is a task made that much more difficult as the woman claiming to be the set designer starts to laugh airily at something Sam says.
Time for another double whiskey, it seems.]
For @armeyets
It's the first thing that registers, always. When his synapses start sluggishly firing again, pain is always the first thing that takes conscious shape and lets him know that he's thawing. That the Red Falcon is being deployed. And then, along with the pain, there is the thrill of knowing he's wanted and needed and about to be unleashed into the skies like a bird of prey and wings of...
Pain.
He stumbles forwards, unable to keep himself upright. The wings are connected to his screaming muscles in sheer agony, and it means that right after thawing, when he hardly has control over his limbs, it's not unusual for his wings to try and unfurl from the metal slats on his back. It's why his arms are crossed over his torso, and he's tightly bound by a harness made of metal bands. Too many scientists and handlers sliced to ribbons by sheer accident. Too many wounds he dealt himself with razor sharp metal edges flailing in sheer agony without conscious control.
Talk about a flight risk.
He doesn't see the hands that grab at him, haul him out of his cryo tank and begin dragging him physically, uncaring for the fact that his body isn't yet obeying him. Any scrapes and bruises will heal long before he's delivered for the mission, after all. He doesn't see them - he can't hear them either. They put a cowl over his head that covers his eyes and ears. He thinks he screams, sometimes, when their treatment gets rough - but he doesn't hear it. The sensory deprivation holds fully.
Some part of him, some synapses in his conscious mind that haven't been fried in their attempts to dehumanize him, provide context for that. He's not meant to feel human. he's meant to feel like the tool they treat him as. They're trying to make him imprint on the first person he sees, be it as asset to handler or pet to master. They don't care what level it gets to. They think they've fried the Red Falcon's mind enough that he considers himself as subhuman as they do.
Sometimes, it's too easy to go along with that. To shut off the parts of himself that feel more than pain. The parts of himself that do more than become a weapon aimed by someone else.
He hits a metal slab, is forced down onto it. Hands prodding, examining. They're making sure there's no damage caused by cryo. The Red Falcon thinks he screams again when fingers dig into the metal slats on his back, feeling for the wings to see if there's damage. They won't deliver him for the job if he's not fit to do it, and he flinches from every touch, knows he snarls, knows the metal harness is all that keeps him from slicing everyone around him apart. His mind skitters ahead, to the comfort he knows to come. To blue eyes and touches that make him shiver for different reasons.
There's only one person who can and will requisition the Red Falcon as an asset for missions. They don't dare send him on other missions, the Red Falcon knows that. They can't risk damaging or losing him, when he's the Winter Soldier's favourite possession. He's asset, tool and reward rolled into one, something they can utilise in keeping the Soldier compliant.
There's no one who can wield the Red Falcon the way the Winter Soldier can. Hydra doesn't care how the Winter Soldier chooses to use the Red Falcon - they only care about results. And they get results, the two of them.
He's dragged to another adjoining room, eventually. Pushed down onto his knees, still bound and naked. A weapon presented to the Winter Soldier for inspection. It's a hand off - the Solder is now in charge of the Red Falcon, in readying himself for the mission, in handling him. The Red Falcon still can't hear or see him - but he knows the next touch will be his regardless, knows the next touch he won't flinch from. Knows when the cowl is lifted off, he will be met with blue eyes, blank in he way his own are blank, pained in the way his own are. A gaze so sweet it makes compliance deceptively easy.
Hydra's got it all wrong. He didn't imprint on the Winter Soldier. Their bond isn't that benign. No - he belongs to the Winter Soldier on a level much deeper than that.
And so the Red Falcon waits for his Winter Soldier to set him free, to give him purpose and direction, to give him warmth after the ice.
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So. They always wake up the Winter Soldier first, but then his partner is usually close behind. The memories of their missions are occasionally scrubbed — leaving them blank slates, unable to give any details if they’re ever captured by enemies — but the memories of each other remain surprisingly solid, a steady bedrock beneath these haunted days and nights.
The Soldier’s metal hand (crisp and cool) digs into the cowl, tugs it loose with a delicacy which one might not have expected from the iron fist of HYDRA, and then he’s looking down at the other man. His expression is carefully blank — to anyone else, it would look neutral — but, oh, there. The Falcon knows his subtle tics well enough by now that he can see that slight dip to the Soldier’s chin, the smallest nod of acknowledgment and personal greeting.
Hello.
The cowl still crumpled in his hand, he runs his metal index finger along the line of the other man’s jaw. Not tender, precisely — too many people are still watching, a couple guards hovering outside the door in case the handoff goes ugly — but it’s as much as he can get away with.
“Sokol?” he says by way of prompt (“Falcon?”), the same way his own handlers wake him every time, drag him up from the ice every single time, waiting for the call-and-response.
( Soldat?
Ready to comply. )
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For @coincides
Sam's still in a world of hurt, but the on call medics cleared him. Poor guys - Sam had had to talk a young looking emergency responders through how to free Captain America and Sergeant Barnes themselves from the wreckage of his wingsuit and check them both over, at Sam's insistence. Knew Bucky was fine, knew that he himself had taken the brunt of the impact after the fall, but also couldn't focus on himself. It's the pararescue in him - the way he just wants to make sure other people are fine, whether he himself is bleeding out or not.
He's fine. Hey're both fine. Except in all the ways in which they aren't, can't be after this close a call. The fact is Bucky might not have survived the fall, and they both know it. The serum doesn't make him impossible to kill, and that... that was a long drop right there. Much higher than what Bucky leaps without issue. And Sam... well, Sam knows his guy, doesn't he? That's why they're here, why they go on missions and then go home together, why they spar and kiss and hold space for each other before anything else. So Sam... doesn't know all the details, but knows enough. And Sam, who has lost too many people, and who wouldn't survive losing another partner and lover to a fall specifically, couldn't let Bucky, who has suffered too many freefalls and never got to be saved from them, hit the ground on the chance that he'd probably be fine.
Bad enough that he fell to begin with. Bad enough that for all his speed in the air, Sam didn't catch up too him until the ground was an inevitability, not a mere looming threat. He remembers the split second decision. Reaching for Bucky, reaching around Bucky.
The pararescue motto is 'The things we do so others may live'. Sam's always been like that. He will always be like that. And so he's between Bucky and the ground when they hit, their combined weight and momentum heavily damaging the wings - they'll be fine, vibranium is sturdy, it's mostly the electronics that need fixing. So for all intents an purposes, the wings broke, and Sam almost broke, and Bucky didn't.
It's a small miracle Sam survived, and yet all he can think when he looks at Bucky is 'I caught you' and 'You're alive, you're alive, you're alive', and he wants Bucky so deep they won't know where each of them ends and the other begins, wants so much it hurts and makes him dizzy, and doesn't have the words to ask for everything he needs, so he's just tongue and teeth and desparate hands, trying to get more, more, more, because they're alive, they're alive, they're alive. ]
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at the end of the day, sam is flesh, blood, bones. bucky is too, except for the milliliters of nazi experiment super solider serum permenately taking residence against his red blood cells. he would've been fine. and if he wasn't? that would've been fine, too.
he isn't going to get philosophical about the worth of a life, but he knows he's mud and dirt compared to golden sam. it was a stupid move, about the stupidest thing he ever could've done and bucky — he wants to punch him in the face for being careless, and kiss him on the mouth for being alive. he lands somewhere in between, kissing sam as brutally as he can, until his lips are bruised and bitten and bucky feels one singular molecule of satisfaction with the thought that he might just be, inexplicably, alive beneath him. he already knows it's not enough, not with the way he's feeling. drowning in the weight of his own self-loathing. surviving off air and the impossible, heavy thought that sam thinks he's worth taking a fall for alone. )
Don't.
( when they part it comes out roughly, bucky's hands already going to the zippers of his suit, knowing exactly how to effectively get sam naked by now, that he's almost turned it into an art. don't. don't die for me. don't think i'm worth it. don't ever, ever do something that fucking stupid again. )
Don't grab control. It's mine.
( he doesn't let anyone else see him when he's pissed, because everyone else acts like bucky's solution to an argument is to grab a machine gun and kill the problem. which is — not exactly unfair, but at least sam fights back. at least sam doesn't treat him delicately. bucky gets his suit off enough to unveil his chest, and gives him an ungentle shove down to the bed, manuvering him upwards to the headboard. )
Fuck you, man. ( he says it almost softly. his hands go into the bedside table, and he pulls out handcuffs. coldly, he drops them on sam's chest, taking a seat astride his stomach, like he's going in for a pin. it's as close to asking permission as he's going to get. ) Grab the headboard.
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For @leftcold
They work on the house in little bursts between missions that take them everywhere and nowhere at all. In between Sam losing it while training Torres on the wings, because all he sees for a few days are the charred chunks of Riley's body being scattered over the desert. In between Bucky's near sleepless nights. In between both of them trying to make the stray cat skirting the edge of their property to fall in love with them, damnit. In between learning to like and love one another, in between growing past what they each thought they could be on so many levels.
It starts, like so many things do, with Sam making some dumb joke or another. He doesn't even remember it later - it was the dead of the night, he'd been half drunk with sleep deprivation and fading adrenaline while they both tried to figure out how to install a cat door without murdering each other or the cat or the door. Something about revolving doors turning into a lewd joke about sex in the 40s turning into a joke about Sam's assets turning into a joke about if Bucky weren't so obviously gone on Sam's ass, he might notice that Sam would win any wet t-shirt contest, too, hands down, and it just devolves into dumb commentary on Sam's tits later, and on Bucky's taste (and lack thereof). Halfway between home renovations turning into christening yet another surface of their growing, evolving home, Sam had teased about giving Bucky access to way too much skin, when surely a man from the 40s was all about a brief glimpse of wrists and ankles. Somewhere in between kisses, he'd caught the scoff, the allusion to Sam mixing up his eras, to tantalizing underwear. Somewhere in between kisses and touches had been a tease that maybe Bucky would appreciate Sam's assets more if they were presented in lace.
It's just silly, it's dumb. It's a joke. And yet a few weeks later, when Sam walks into their living room to find Bucky in the new armchair and an ostentiously wrapped gift on the coffee table, Sam's forgotten all about the exchange. Just cocks an eyebrow. ]
What are you apologizing for?
[ Because he knows damn well that he didn't forget some special occasion - Sam is nothing if not meticulous about his calendar these days - so the only logical conclusion must be that Bucky did something that merits buying Sam's good will.
Obviously. ]
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[Bucky sits confidently, sort of confidently, actually a little smug with his feet wide and planted and leaning back in the chair, right up until Sam comes in. That's when it hits him that his joke might be a little stupid. What if Sam takes it wrong? What if it's not as funny in real life as it was in his head when he ordered this stuff online.
It had seemed hi-fucking-larious when he was shopping online.
What if Sam doesn't get it?
He tries to push aside that thought. Actual worst case scenario? Probably Sam throws the box back at Bucky's head and he actually owes the other man a real apology. Fairly low stakes, considering how often they deal with things that are life and death.
Before he can lose his nerve, he tosses the box right at Sam. His aim is good.]
Open it.
[Should he say something else? Make more of a quip? He considers it, but he can't quite come up with the right thing to say in the moment. Instead he shrugs.]
Unless a guy isn't allowed to get a gift for his boyfriend these days?
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Somehow still deal with good old racism.
That's how he finds himself in need of legal representation, in the end. The media circus is arguing back and forth about whether or not he should be allowed to just take the shield, Twitter is engaged in a nasty #notmycaptain campaign. And Sam? Well, Sam mostly tries to keep his head down and play nice. Continue to be on the GRC's ass in order to make sure the Blip refugees aren't displaced, throw his weight behind some public housing efforts.
And then, of ourse, the government decides to try and take a bite. The papers are full of ceases and desists and 'stolen government property's. Which, to be fair...
but Sam draws the line at the shield, at their attempts to seize it back - 'cause that went oh so very well last time. Thing is, though, Sam's just a dude, and a dude straddling the poverty line to boot. And while Bucky's offer to just punt Secretary Ross into the ocean is tempting enough that Sam considers it for like 5 seconds before turning it down, the point is that Sam is getting buried here, and can't exactly run to Tony Stark's widow asking for a damn handout.
Banner's spectacularly useless - seriously, what use is him having a lawyer cousin if she's on the other side of the country? - but Sam actually gets some good pointers from Barton and Happy. That's how he finds himself at Nelson, Murdock and Page. They got a damn good reputation - and to their credit, only one of them nearly walks into the door frame when they realize who their 2pm appointment really is. And Sam considers himself lucky that he's somewhat charming, because he's not sure if many lawyers would have been thrilled at the ease with which he admits that yes, his Falcon wings were technically stolen AirForce property, and yes technically he stole the shield from Walker in Europe, and no he can't technically pay them a dime because technically no one ever paid him for being an Avenger - and that's before you add 'hey I was an internationally wanted fugitive' and 'I'm currently a walking controversy, apparently' to his increasingly unattractive portfolio.
By some miracle, they decide to take his case. He does admit it's nice to know his legal counsel apparently consists of a bunch of thrill seekers like him, and he's only half joking. Sam appreciates that they're willing to take on this mess of a situation with him and for him.
He shows his appreciation where and how he can. Pulls late nights with Page, whose work ethic of 'why stop when you can push yourself beyond all reason' matches Sam's. So he often stops by, after a mission, after a grc conference, just 'cause he can. Keeps her company while she's working on his case, brings her dinner because someone oughta. Sam's new favorite late night pastime might be making Karen Page smile.
So sue him.
No seriously, do it, far as he's concerned he's got the best legal rep he coulda ask for, so just try it.
And like those little dominoes toppling one into another, the whole thing eventually leads to him standing in her office's pantry kitchen, unbuttoning his shirt to dab at his chest with a dish towel. They'd been pouring over some paperwork for the case, Nelson and Murdock long gone home for the day, drinks on the table between them, and he'd gotten the brilliant idea to mention that he'd secured some more funding for a project to turn some warehouses and empty office buildings into housing for the displaced. Karen seemed to be thrilled with the news - so much so that her drink ended up half down the front of his shirt.
It should be an unsexy disaster, by all accounts. And yet he can't quite help the way he looks at her from underneath long lashes, eyes bright with a little bit of something. He might not be in a hurry to dry off when he notices her eyes lingering - might instead just put the towel down, leaving half his torso exposed in the dim light. ]
You know, I think we established I'm down to do something unethical here and there...
For @deaddrop
So it's not a problem. Until it is.
They can't exactly pick and choose top shelf stuff while on the run. They're wanted fugitives, and another stay at the Raft without being afforded any lawyers is all that awaits on the other side of carelessness. But they have to make sacrifices in comfort - and protection, on some fronts.
At first, they don't fully realize what's happening when they get a shitty batch of blockers and suppressants. Some scent leakage is to be expected with this kind of quality available to them, and Sam thinks both Nat and Steve are quietly agreeing that it's soothing more than concerning - this is, after all, what omegas are exceptionally good for. Their scent makes a house a home, brings packs together. Soothes frayed nerves and becomes a building block of any community. So when their safe houses start carrying the subtle scents of coconut and cocoa butter, of oranges and spun sugar, of drift wood and amber, something altogether pleasant, sweet and fresh, it's not a problem. If they all curls up a little more tightly together in response, that's not a bad thing either - this part of Europe is cold this time of year, and Sam appreciates the shared warmth. Besides, making fun of Steve for getting a little scent drunk is completely harmless - Sam's not worried about either alpha in his presence crossing any sort of boundary.
So yeah. It's not a problem.
Until it is.
It starts happening on more supply runs than is comfortable - the way some stranger will suddenly be all up in Sam's space, leaning close and trying to nose at him, to chase the scent. And Steve's not possessive in a romantic sense here, but he is protective of one of his closest friends and most trusted allies.
They don't fully realize what's happening until one day while out on a supply run, a situation like that nearly comes to blows, and leaves Sam unable to stop trembling. Still it's not until they all notice that the low whine comes from the back of his throat that Sam truly realizes how screwed he is.
It goes rapidly downhill from there. They have maybe a few hours if that before it's going to hit hard - and how badly, they don't know yet. ]
I need to leave.
[ Sam wipes a hand over his face, then crosses his arms tight. Feels the way need and shame curl hot in his guts. Makes him want skin on skin, makes him want. They don't have a lot of time before his scent is gonna leak out of this cabin badly enough that it's not unthinkable people from the nearby town will show up at their door.
Society has moved on from considering omegas in heat free game. That's a thing of the distant past. Still - an unmated omega with no one to claim their heat for themselves is a call not everyone can (or wants to) resist. So what this does is put them all at risk - because there's no way to fly under the radar once his heat kicks in fully.
He's not looking at either of them. Steve nearly lost his shit on the supply run when some alpha groped for Sam, made him an offer for the night. Sam's not sure he wants to see the expression on Natasha's face - his biology is screwing over her carefully laid out plan to let them fly under the radar. It also overlaps with a check in they'd wanted to do with Wanda and Vision soon.
And Sam... ]
Or you two need to. Either way - I can't blow your cover.
[ He can't look at them, mostly because they're his friends, and he knows if either of them told him to strip naked and present, he would.
It's that bad already, and there's no hiding the way his eyes are already glassy with rising fever, the way he's already trembling and needy. ]
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[Natasha's voice is firm. She barely tears her eyes away from Sam to glance at Steve, confirm agreement in the steely look in his eyes. The two of them—her boys, Natasha thinks with an iron clad possessiveness that most wouldn't consider characteristic of the Black Widow and wouldn't expect from a small, rather diplomatic woman but that they would expect from a dyed in the wool alpha—had come back from their supply run with Steve seething and Sam shaking.
And it's all she can do not to give Sam a hug, kiss his forehead, and then go out and find whoever it was who'd put both of them in that state so she could make sure this never happened again.]
If we leave you behind, you'll be back on the Raft in a week.
[The idea of Sam being arrested while he struggles through a heat alone puts her teeth on edge, makes her own scent change. Normally rather sweet and spicy, all autumn spices and earthy honey, turns hot and tart with temper.
Steve and her are close enough, bonded enough as co-alphas on the team that it doesn't start a fight, but there's no missing the fact the more protective side, the aggressive side, the part of her biology that tells her to keep the people who were hers safe is kicking in.]
Or worse.
[Where worse is someone else would claim him. If it were Steve, she'd be able to stay calm about it, despite the way she and Sam have flirted off and on for years now.
She's understood they wouldn't be a good match.
At least her head understands it.]
We'll just have to find somewhere more remote. No neighbors. We'll ride this out—when you think about it, it was bound to happen eventually. Either you'd hit your heat or one of us would have a rut. We can't give up on the plan just because we don't have access to the quality of drugs we've gotten used to.
[It's not even really a surprise it happened eventually. Natasha's thought about it before. She just expected it would be Steve, that superhuman metabolism of his burning through the lower calibur suppressants before they could find something more sustainable.
This changes her plans significantly.]
One of us will stay with you, the other makes the rendez-vous with Wanda.
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[ The words are uttered into her headpiece as her eyes remain locked onto the hacked security feeds she currently has rerouted to a very stolen laptop. Not at all her usual quality of infiltration but it was the best she could on shot notice. It served it’s purpose and since she still had a secret backdoor into some of Tony’s original tech, which all the security for the Raft had been based on… Well. She’d been happy to take advantage of the exploit for this particular mission.
Rain was pouring outside, a steady pounding on the metal of the jet. Natasha hit the button that would lower the ramp, even as she saw the three hunched shapes break from the exit and head in her direction. They’ll no doubt spot the lumps of downed bodies scattered about outside the jet, but she’d promised them no threats left between them and freedom and she’d made certain of that before giving them the all clear on their way up.
Besides. Steve wasn’t the only one to have some aggression that needed worked out. No reason he should get to have all the fun.
She’s got their tech disconnected and the jet lifting off the moment Steve gets Sam and Wanda on board, the ramp still closing as the engines burn with thrust, getting them out of here.
And if she’d left a digital calling card of an angry Hulk stomping on the now-deleted prisoner records, she’s sure Bruce will forgive her, wherever he is.She can hear murmured voices behind her, but she keeps her eyes on the skies as she maneuvers them through the storm, only shifting to autopilot when she’s certain they don’t have any tails.Unbuckling from the pilot’s seat, Natasha slips out of the cockpit and moves back deeper into the jet. She spots Wanda spread out on one of the benches with Steve leaning over her, talking to her softly. They lock gazes for a moment and he gives her a nod, so she leaves them to it and moves to come sink down in front of Sam instead, crouching in front of where he sits and searching his face with an intent gaze. There’s a frown lurking on her lips at the state he’s in, even though she tries to find that balance of lighthearted - if slightly sarcastic - humor they tend to default to.
It’s a safer response than the one her instincts are screaming for at the sight of the injuries he sports. The urge to turn the jet around and make sure whoever laid a hand on him is paying for it. Which is a little overly aggressive, even for her, but she’s blaming it on the stress of the last few weeks. Apparently beating up a handful of guards hadn’t gotten it all out of her system after all. ]
I really hope the other guy is one of those ones back there looking way worse right now. [ Reaching out, Natasha rests her hand lightly on his knee, holding his gaze. ] Hey you.
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And then the days stretched on. No calls, no lawyers. Clint and Scott were led away eventually, didnt return. Sam only knows what happened with them because Ross showed up once to gloat, tontry and get Sam to talk about Steve, about Nat, about Bucky.
He doesn't know where they are.
And that realization had to be enough, had to sustain him. Clinging to the thought that they were out there and free. That his sacrifice hadn't been in vain. Sure, he was gonna rot away in prison meant to hold super powered people, locked away without due process for doing what he still believes is the right thing.
So yeah - he doesn't think he will get out. Doesn't think Stark will care enough about his two former team mates still left on the Raft, doesn't think two super soldiers and a world class agent/spy are enough versus the Raft.
Mouthes off against the guards to keep their attention off Wanda, cause Sam isn't blind to the things an environment like this does to already skewed power dynamics. They don't do more than knock him around a bit, feed him a little less.
When you lock people up without due process, whonis gonna hold you to any sort of standard as to how you treat your inmates?
And then, one day, it all changes. Guards drop and Steve is right there, and the horror of the situation becomes fuel for future nightmares rather than an ongoing reality.
Freedom tastes like ice cold rain on his chapped lips.
Natasha is a sight for sore eyes, and Sam manages to find a smile to drag onto his lips from somewhere. His dark skin is ashy other than the deep purple bruising on his face, cheeks a little sunken. Under the scent of prison and the alpha guards strutting around, Sam's own sweet and wild scent is sour with barely restrained hurt and fear. It clings to him like a parasite. And still, for Natasha, he smiles as if there's nothing wrong with his world, all because she grounds him with that hand in his knee. For Natasha he makes an effort to look less haunted. ]
What - you don't think I'm pretty like this?
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Either way, Bucky is dealing with it. It being Sam. Everyone else, Steve is better equipped to manage, especially considering the Maximoff girl and what she's capable of. How any power would want to control and manipulate that.
(Ask him how he knows.)
He feels guilty, certainly. Does that stop him? No. Does it empower him? Not exactly. Mostly it just is, and sometimes it is a complication, but as he takes out government agents, various contractors, and a few faces that recognize him even without the arm on display (unsurprisingly, really) the guilt gnaws at his guts a little.
What if Sam hates him for this? It's a possibility. Perhaps a thin one, perhaps not. Did he kiss Sam the last time they saw one another? He wanted to, but the problem of memory is that it is an unreliable narrator. The problem of his memory is that dreams and reality get blurry when he's stressed.
Oh, he realizes as he breaks the hinges on the second to last door between him and Sam. He's stressed.
The door gives. So does the next. There's a light show plus klaxon now, all strobes and loud noise intended to set him on edge but his heart rate slows a little once he sees Sam. He should probably knock Sam out for his own good. Instead he puts earplugs in Sam's ears, wasting precious time in order to do so before he's broken Sam's restraints.
Sam's face looks strange in the flashing lights but Bucky can't quite spend more time staring. They've got to move.
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When Sam rises to his feet, he cups Bucky's face with his hand, brings his lips close to his ears. Makes sure that Bucky can hear him above the klaxons for a moment: ]
It's okay. You've got me now.
[ As if Bucky's wellbeing is the one in question here. But Sam exudes calm, his ok only concern directed towards Bucky, as if nothing else about their surrounded has impact. Because he knows. He remembers Bucky ripping himself and then Sam free of spider webs (gross), hauling Sam to his feet. He remembers being crowded against a wall, remembers a kiss without finesse but with all the heat and desperation of combat adrenaline. Remembers feeling crushed between a broad chest and the wall, with a surprisingly gentle hand cupping the back of his head to keep him from hurting himself, and a greedy hand in his ass, grip strong enough to be felt through tac gear. Remembers the way he grabbed and clung right back, desperate to get closer. Frankly, Sam thinks if not for a voice over comms calling for their status, they might have gotten busy right there. Isn't sure he could have said no this time, too riled up by the way they clicked together in the fight, keeping each other safe, taking blows for each other.
Sam remembers. He remembers everything, from a variety of first dates to needy begging for a night together, to the endearing frustration with which Bucky had made the first move, again and again, with such earnest desperation to have any bit of Sam he could have, long before he was able to retain any memory of it. It's why he understands that the near feral look in Bucky can be soothed through Sam's safety, and nothing less. It's why that's the reassurance he offers - he's fine, Bucky's got him. And Sam understands that there is no place as safe as on a battlefield with Bucky by his side. ]
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For @pamyat
There's an alpha on his ass. Not literally, at least not yet. But he can tell he's gained a stalker, after a while. The whiff of a scent that is showing up a little too often in places Sam frequents, and a little too regularly to be coincidence.
The stalking is smooth, he has to give the alpha that. Sam doesn't notice immediately, and when he does it's just because he pays attention to the scents around him so much. But he can tell - his standard seat in his favorite coffee shop. The corner where he always stops to stretch mid-run. His favorite route through the park. Fucker's going around getting his scent all over Sam's path, like he's marking his territory already. Presumptuous.
Kinda hot, though, which is the dumb reaction Sam has. Dumber still is he gets so fed up with the long distance stalking that he flips the script.
The reason that's dumb is that he can tell his stalker alpha is a predator species. But here's the thing... Sam's many things, but prey ain't one. He knows he runs the risk of being dragged into a back room, pushed and pushed and pushed until he opens his legs and lets some alpha gets his dick wet. Unless they run for the hills once they figure out he's not a meek little doe, or on the flipside, a sex-crazed kitten. Just a bird, smelling wild and free. Apparently that's been enough to wet this alpha's appetite for him.
So Sam flips the script. Turns from prey into predator himself, and lets his nose guide him onto the trail of the alpha, into a dark bar with a claiming room - and a couple shamelessly going for it in the corner, filling the place with pheromones that have everyone just a little hornier than they might otherwise be. Sam finds a seat that carries the spicy, heavy scent of his stalker alpha - and slides ride into it. Gives the bartender a shit eating grin when the man - also an alpha, blonde, tall and muscular, totally a golden retriever pretending to be a big tough canine - moves to point out the folly of his life choices. But in the end Steve - the bartender - just gets Sam a drink.
And then Sam waits, back turns to the room as if he's oblivious to how his jeans hug his ass, how the dim lighting makes his dark skin glow, highlights his sharp cheek bones and plush lips, how he's planted that ass where his stalker prefers to sit, how he's subtly bleeding scent all over this spot. How he's basically broken all social customs by coming here and putting himself in the alpha's way like this.
Sam's not one to play games, though. Not one to let himself pursued like prey for weeks and months until the alpha decides it's time to make a move. No, Sam considers this a challenge, and rises to it. And the way he keeps his back to the room is a clear middle finger to whoever's been on his scent, a fuck you that couldn't be greater.
And perhaps, in some ways, it's also a bit of a 'fuck me, if you dare'.
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So instead of following the origin he goes hunting for other concentrated scent locations along the run. And then it's time for a shower, and work, and while Bucky is thinking about that scent all day... airy, birdlike, strong... he has a life to lead and it's not his day off.
Next day is though and still thinking about that scent, Bucky aimlessly wanders a neighborhood adjacent to one of the big park entrances and goes into a coffee shop where he's hit with it again. Fresh but not live and in person.
Well.
Maybe it's just meant to be?
He doesn't think this scent is prey... he knows the difference, knows how it makes him feel. He wants to chase, not maim. He wants to play. Bucky can't remember ever having someone's scent make him want to play. Granted, his dating life is "tragically haunted" according to Peggy, so maybe this is what he's supposed to feel like? Instead of afraid or uncertain or like he's already doing to much?
But Bucky is a lot of things that epitomize wolves living solo while simultaneously trying not to live too hard into being an alpha wolf out in the world, unhinged and horny at every moment, completely incapable of higher reason once something or someone has his attention. So he doesn't stalk the bird, not properly. He just. Revisits those places. A few times. Maybe almost every day for about a week and a half.
The smell is really good, ok? And he isn't trying to cover it up he just wants it to carry with him a little more than it would otherwise. That's not so bad, right?
He knows this isn't tenable, in the long run, but it's been... a minute since he pursued anyone so the next steps elude him. He bitched to Steve and Peggy about it in that exact seat the Perfect Bird is sitting in just last night. What's a wolf to do when first impressions are everything but instinct is uncertain?
Apparently, the Perfect Bird came to him.
Bucky smells it in the doorway and is immediately excited. The Perfect Bird is here, in the bar, and he doesn't know what to make of it immediately other than (!!).
Steve looks at him from the bar with a deeply unimpressed expression.
The Perfect Bird doesn't turn around.
Well, alright then. Bucky unfreezes from the doorway and comes completely inside, taking a moment to appreciate the Perfect Bird's ass in that barstool, before sitting in the adjacent stool and fixing the Perfect Bird with a grin.
"You know you're sitting in my seat," is not actually a question.
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text; movie night’verse
And I think I’m going to blame you for it.
[IMG]
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you better treat her right
[ Sam has never seen this cat before in his life. ]
we’re pretending that pic was in the window and not in a sink okok
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post-thunderbolts | we’re fixin it
The supposed New Avengers have been stashed in the lobby of an office building repurposed as a makeshift crisis center. (Not everyone survived the day, despite their best efforts: debris was flying everywhere. Those helicopters went down, and their pilots didn’t have anywhere safe to come back to.) The Russians are huddled on the other side of the room, conferring with each other; Shostakov looks completely overjoyed. There’s a specialised medic examining Starr and Robertson, making sure they’re physically okay, their augmented abilities not chewing them up from the inside. Walker doesn’t look much the worse for wear; the benefits of being a supersoldier. They still give each other a wide berth.
Bucky mostly feels empty. His body still aches from the brief fight earlier; it’s been a while since he went toe-to-toe with someone who could thrash him so easily. But above all, the day feels surreal, dream-like, untethered from reality. He keeps glancing to the corners and waiting for the shadows to grow and lengthen and swallow the room anew.
He excuses himself and moves over to the side hallway, by the restrooms. He’s an old-fashioned guy, he still doesn’t really prefer texts over the assurance of hearing a voice on the other end of the line. And when the chips are down, there’s really only one person he wants to hear from.
So he calls Sam Wilson. Waits for him to answer, his heart thudding hollow in his chest; he knows the other man probably caught the breaking news, the attack on the city, the eventual press conference. Once he picks up: ]
Hey. Sooo, uh… I’ve got good news and bad news.
Antonia Lives AU for @mimikrija
[ Sam watches her for a moment - not distrusting, just observing. ]
Glad to hear it. I'm sorry we had to subdue you, for the record.
[ Sam gestures for her to take a seat the kitchen island. Puts down plates and cutlery for her - evidently, he has no issue trusting her with a knife around him. Though he also knows that she doesn't need a butter knife to do him harm, if she wished. ]
Massive buffet, ain't it? We usually just have a little bit of everything out so that the ravenous horde moonlighting as my team can grab what they want when they want. You get dibs of today's first batch of pancakes if you'd like.
For @ironypoisoned
And then... he's... back.
It feels like the blink of an eye, like no time has passed at all. One moment he's here, then he's... not. It's like breathing wrong for a second. It's like walking down the stairs in the dark thinking there's one more step, but hitting the floor too hard. It's like the way his stomach lurches when he drops out of the sky, letting the ground rush up at him like a familiar friend wondering when it'll be his time to collide.
Dying, in the end, felt like it never happened, and that's not nearly as pleasant or comforting as it might sound.
Afterwards, Sam feels... numb, for the most part. He's good at compartmentalising. Good at being there for everyone around him while he's fraying at the edges. He keeps clenching his fingers, willing feeling back into them while he feels like he's about to crumble away again. But he steps up, because it's what he does, and because after the battle there's work to do, him and Steve and Wanda and Bucky are still technically wanted fugitives, and Secretary fucking Ross is sniffing around them like a blood hound while everyone is still trying to get their footing back, and...
He tries to look to the people he spent the last two years with. Except... that was five years ago. He lost five years, just like that, and he doesn't know what happend to Sarah and her kids, he doesn't know if they're okay, he needs to go home, he needs to...
Tony Stark almost died on that battlefield, surviving the final snap by a hair, and Sam still feels sick with how close the man came. Sam remembers yelling at people to move, remembers running while others were standing still, years of pararescue training and work kicking into overdrive, and then other people also moving, and in the end it's him, Bruce, Shuri kneeling over Tony, a flurry of hands and shoddy battlefield work, but Sam's done more with less in the desert, and Shuri has better tech than the Air Force ever had. Sam barely remembers what they did to get Tony through, but he does remember catching the man's eyes at some point and quietly telling him that dying after a cool one-liner wasn't on the menu today.
And then...
Then Sam, later, learns that Natasha Romanoff is dead.
And Vision died five years ago.
So did Loki - not a personal loss for Sam, but one for Thor, so it still hits in its own way.
There is no body for Nat. Sam thinks somebody tells him she led the team, and she saved everyone, and now she's gone, and that's all anyone can bring themselves to say, and they have haunted looks in their eyes, and he can't press, he can't tell them 'Steve and her are all I have left, I need to know what happened to her' because his grief doesn't supersede theirs.
Sam died and came back to life like he'd just blinked his eyes, like his heart had just skipped a single beat, like his breath had caught just for a second, and just like that he's lost five years and several team mates and one of his two closest...
Steve Rogers leaves.
There's no warning, no heads-up - at least not for Sam. Steve just steps on a platform to place the Infinity Stones back in their timelines, but he never returns, and Sam is so close to straight up panic. He thinks he yells at poor Bruce, because they just had services for everyone they lost, because Natasha is dead, and what do you mean Steve is just gone and...
A few minutes later, Sam is given barely an explanation, and he's given a shield that doesn't represent people like him, a job he never asked to have, and he's lost both of his closest friends, the people he spent the last two years with 24/7 except it was five years ago and now they're just... gone. One dead, one left, and at that point, it hardly feels like a difference.
Bucky walks away because the man is a mess, and Secretary Ross is lingering, making unpleasant eyes at both Bucky and Sam because he's still itching for those arrests and Sam takes a few steps through the trees and then he just...
He's no longer holding it together.
The shield hits the ground and Sam takes another two or three steps, puts his back to a tree and sinks down, knees against his chest, hands between the knees because they're shaking badly. His face is ashy, and he feels like throwing up. His eyes are wet, and his fingers are numb, and he's not sure he's breathing right, vision fuzzy at the edges.
He tries to pull it together. It feels too selfish to fall apart like this, not when things need doing. Not when other people have suffered the same losses he has, if not more, not when they need support, not when...
Someone's walking towards him. From far away, Sam thinks his brain registers Tony. Outside of fighting for Tony's life just a day ago, Sam dimly registers that he's last actually spoken to Tony two years ago from inside a cell on the Raft. Ten days on the Raft, and thank god Clint and Scott got plea deals to go home to their families. But oh god, it's not been two years for Tony, has it, it's been seven years.
Tony stops by the shield where Sam just dropped it on the ground, and for a moment they both just look at it on the forest floor. And then they look at each other, and Sam doesn't want to say 'Steve left', so instead... ]
You should be resting, you know.
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Except... Tony looks back down at the shield, resting on the ground, it's red white and blue paint standing out starkly against the greens and browns of the forest. He rolls his bad shoulder - it makes a horrible clicking-popping sound as he does - and decides this, like snapping with the Infinity Stones, was best done like ripping off a Band-Aid: Quickly and without thinking too much about it.
He bends over, fingers scraping up the dirt as he picks the shield up with the arm not currently confined to a sling and walks the few paces over to where Sam's stooped over. ] Think... You mighta dropped this. [ It's another quip, and he hates himself for it a little, picking up the slack in Steve's absence.
Tony blinks rapidly as the realization sinks in. He isn't gonna cry, damn it, but- It was strange, still, losing the last piece of Howard that he'd gotten to keep all these years later. Don't think about it, he orders himself. As usual, he does a terrible job listening, and he inhales sharply, trying not to make it sound like the sniffle it is. ]
oh look matchy icons
uwu
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For @agoddessonce
Carol Danvers put them on this trail. And Sam still can't believe that he gets to just put the intergalactic nuke on his team and coordinate with her. Granted, Carol won't likely be around for every single street level mission; but she's on the roster. Apparently her fancy space tech - and Sam has access to that now, what a novelty honestly - has picked up weird readings somewhere in the ass end of nowhere, Utah, or some shit like that.
Sam and Joaquin are scouting it out from the air. Just get some readings, some visuals, to send back to the likes of Banner and Strange with a big question mark attached. A quinjet hovers nearby with some other members of the team, just in case shit goes sideways.
What they find is... well, it looks like a tear. Except it's mid-air. Not very big, all things considered. A little taller in height than Sam. It looks like a widening crack in a wall or something. Well, except it's kind of purple and glowy. Sam and Joaquin agree that 'purple and glowy' are usually signs that point to 'shit's weird' and 'well that's not good'. That's their professional assessment, anyway.
Redwing's getting a nice visual scan from all angles, while Joaquin and Sam are hovering mid-air, a safe (safe-ish?) distance from the tear, collecting some readings and data with various tools and instruments Danvers, Banner and Strange thrust at them along with enthusiastic nods that translated to 'you got that, we're gonna stay inside where it's nice and cozy and neither purple nor glowy'. Assholes. Sam would threaten to cut their pay, except he's not Stark, so none of them are technically getting paid. Goodwill and all that jazz.
He's about to announce that all the beeping little devices seem satisfied and well fed, when the tear decides to widen. And... well, that's probably not good. Joaquin and him are about to fire up the thrusters, put some more distance, but the tear snaps open from one second to the next, and before Sam knows it...
A storm rolls through the gap between realities. ]
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The woman that falls out is fully unconscious, her long, white hair and the wings of her black and gold cape rippling upwards as she plummets towards the ground at a breakneck pace. Gravity pulls on her, and nothing is making her slow down...
To the naked eye, she might seem like a normal human body. But to anyone getting any readings on her, they may note how her body exudes a spike of energy. Like a bolt of lightning contained in flesh, running terribly hot as she'd just come from the icy wetness of a heavy cloud primed to release a doozy of a rainstorm over the nearest city. She won't sizzle when touched, but she may or may not crackle with static that'll short out any comms devices once caught. If she's caught at all. ]
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for @vintagecaptain
And afterwards...
Hours of clearing the battlefield. Wounds that needed patching up, and Sam's retained enough skill from being a battlefield medic as pararescue that he can't not help. There's debriefings, there's an immediate, dizzying new reality to contend with - being dead for 5 years, Tony's death, learning about Natasha who from Sam's perspective had JUST been on the battlefield, too, and they'd JUST spent two years living in each other's pockets on the run, Steve and Nat and him...
It takes hours. Sam's eyes scan over everyone regularly. Steve is always nearby, but they don't get a moment to themselves. Not until they're all carted off. Pepper pulls some strings, gets them situated in a hotel, those that don't need further medical treatment. Sam retreats, for a bit. When there is nothing and nobody he can directly help, he slips away to the room he got put in, needs to make a phone call.
Sarah falls apart on the other end of the line. And finally, it begins to hit Sam. Not just the words, but the reality that half the universe had died and was just gone for five whole entire years. Not just the universe. He did, specifically. It means he hasn't seen Sarah in two years, but she hasn't seen him in seven. It means she's grieved him for five years.
So has Steve, and that hits Sam like a gut punch, once the adrenaline finally falls out from under him. Two years on the run, they'd been circling this unspoken thing that has been brewing for a while. In hindsight, maybe they've always teetered on that edge - Natasha's knowing looks certainly implied so. Different, though, when you're friends and work side by side, to when you're on the run together, sharing tiny safe houses and shitty motel beds occasionally. Sam doesn't think he was alone in noticing the way they'd been inching towards something. Sliding one another glances that lingered like touches. It had felt like they were tentatively feeling out the edge of a maybe, but Sam wasn't sure if Steve wanted to, if Steve could, if Peggy rested in the same closed box for Steve as Riley did for Sam, if Steve would ever want to, or if theirs was going to be a beautiful maybe tucked alongside their friendship.
Sam's not a naive man, and yet he'd thought there'd be more time for him to give this thing, to see where it would fall. And then Thanos had...
Sam takes a long, hot shower, in the end. Needs to get the battlefield dust off of him. Needs to shut the world out and take a moment to grieve their losses, to find out how he feels about his own death, to calm himself so he'll be of use to anyone in the days to come. When he emerges from the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, skin damp, the room isn't empty, and perhaps that shouldn't come as a surprise. Sam stays relaxed. For him, having Steve nearby 24/7 has become the norm, even though he knows Steve had five years to come to terms with Sam's absence. ]
Steve.
[ A gentle prompt. Steve's by the window, looking out over the city. Sam knows his friend is aware of Sam re-entering the room after his shower. Still, Sam steps a little closer, waits until Steve's back is no longer to him. It's been a long and brutal day, but tired aches fall away the moment their eyes meet. And finally... the chance to reunite, properly. ]
You alright?
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But Sam's back. Sam's here and for the last five years Steve's looked for his friend time and time again only to find and empty spot next to him. A silence in his life where Sam once took up space and made noise and was there. He was there for years when Steve needed him and then he was gone.
Five years of nothing.
And he's back. Like nothing ever happened. Steve couldn't fully explain the urge he felt to just be in Sam's presence and know he's there but that's what he's felt since Sam ducked away to deal with his own things. ]
I'll be okay. [ Steve turns away from the window and flashes a brief smile. ] You good?
[ Sam's got a lot to deal with too.
Steve will be okay as long as he's in Sam's presence. He just needs to be able to look over his shoulder and see Sam there like he was for two years. As long as he has that Steve feels like he'll be okay. ]
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For @wundagores
They all drift, in big and small ways.
Sam buries himself in work, at first. That includes reconnecting with his family. His nephews don't even remember him; they were too young when he had to go into hiding. And then he'd died, and they'd grown up on stories about their uncle Sam. It hurts, badly so. Alongside that, he begins throwing himself into contract work with the Air Force. Trying to do good while the shield sits in his bedroom, heavy and accusatory. The government begins to hound him - they want to know what he intends to do with it. After six months, he decides to put it into the museum, have it be part of Steve's exhibit. Doesn't believe that as a black man he should or would want to uphold the legacy of that shield.
Of course, then everything goes to shit anyway. He finds his way to the shield in a slightly roundabout way, but when he does, his speech in that sleek new vibranium suit is broadcast all over. His first action as Captain America is to step on government toes, dress some politicians down in public, and tell them to do their jobs better, which overall feels like that means he's doing the Cap thing right.
Things don't exactly get less busy, after. He's got to figure out a lot of things. Bucky's backing him, though has indicated he doesn't want to stay in the field. Joaquin, on the flipside, is almost too gung-ho about being in the field. Sam's pretty closely allied with Wakanda now, flying on gifted vibranium wings, and his messages are rapidly filling up with various heads of states and figures of importance who want to start off on the right foot with the new Captain America.
And in the midst of all that, Sam begins picking up more and more pieces that were left behind. It's not fair that it all lands on him ,but it would be even less fair to leave some people hanging. He wants to start showing up in the ways he needed others to show up for him. And if he struggled to pull himself up with little support, he knows others are struggling, too.
And so, not long after Sam's televised speech in the wake of the Flagsmashers, he calls a number he should have called much sooner, hoping that an old friend will pick up who he knows is in desperate need of a good friend by her side. ]
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a rural cabin in the mountains of serbia, where there isn't another person for kilometers on any side, seems like the best place for her.
the routine she establishes is simple, but effective. she wakes with the sun, brews tea to drink on the porch as she breathes in the morning air; it's centering, and she continues to breathe in, slowly, until the last bit of shakiness from yet another nightmare is gone. after that, and a quick breakfast, she tends the surrounding land with just her hands, pruning trees and tilling soil, doing something real, and good, until she's aching and exhausted.
as long as she is, she thinks, she can keep the closet door closed, where she keeps what she shouldn't touch.
but the dreams plague her. she wakes screaming in the middle of the night, shaking and covered in sweat, feeling emptier, more hopeless than ever. it gets worse, and worse, until one night —
she gives in, turning the knob on the door. taking the darkhold into her hands.
immediately, she feels a rush of power crackle under her skin, a sense of direction and purpose that the work outside will never give her.
it consumes her nights — and her days. the trees go unpruned, the soil untilled, and more times than not, she forgets the morning tea; every conscious moment she has is devoted to slipping through its pages, in search of a way to feel whole again, just like the whispers tell her: a little longer, wanda, a little longer, you'll see them. she understands more about herself than she ever has, when for so long, she's just been adrift.
this is the answer. it's —
a ringing sound is shrill in her ears, pulling her out of her trance.
she'd almost forgotten about the old cell phone, left unused on the kitchen counter; that had been easy to do, when she can't remember the last time anyone had actually called it. at first, she wonders if she'd imagined it, but it rings a second time, then a third.
the book drops out of her hands as she stands, walks toward the sound. a familiar name flashes bright, almost friendly on the screen. with a shaky breath, she presses the button to answer.]
Sam?
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For @alwaysendsinafight
[ Sam sends back a thumbs up, smiling at the phone. He allows himself a little more time lounging, just enjoying the anticipation of their evening together. Beyond the promise of mind-blowing sex, he's also looking forward to having Bucky close in general. End of the day, they could be falling asleep on the couch during a bad movie, and Sam would consider that an evening well-spent.
When Bucky arrives later, after his appointment, the smell of good food is wafting through the apartment. Pasta with a rich sauce, garlic bread fresh out of the oven, a small salad on the side. Candles on the table, wine allowed to breathe, music crooning from a record player. It's a bit old-fashioned, but Sam hopes Bucky will enjoy it. ]
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The place smells like garlic in a pleasant way and Bucky walks into the kitchen to find Sam, wrapping arms around his waist and kissing the back of his neck when he did.]
Hey. Smells good.
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lmao the congressman barnes shade. Also I'm setting this before Joaquin and Sam get their cabnw base
It was just so out of no where! lol. And that's fine by me I figured toward the start of F&TWS
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The past five years were a different kind of hell, but today?
From having the absolute shit beaten out of him, facing certain death and (worse) sweeping defeat, to having an army at his back. People he loved and has spent five years grieving for back -- and Tony gone.
Steve's there through the clean up. He's there for taking care of the injured, debriefings and arrangements being made for the displaced or newly returned. There's no impatience in there, or signs of any cracks in Captain America. He's got it together.
...He wants five minutes alone with Sam.
That 'on your left' is something he can still hear. Still feel the disbelief and the sheer, unbelievable relief and surge of hope.
He doesn't immediately find Sam. He showers, and scrubs the filth of that battle off his skin, and puts on a pair of clean jeans and a button down shirt. Some of the deeper bruises are still faintly visible, and the cut on his arm hasn't disappeared, just turned into a red scar.
Even the serum has limits. Bucky found those limits on Hydra's carrier. They'll keep fading, he'll keep healing, but right now he's still physically stiff and sore. Hungry. Tired.
Needs to find Sam more than he needs food or sleep.
When he finds Sam, finally, all he says is, "Hey. You have a few minutes?"
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And then it's more fighting, more losses, more grief. There are five years between then and now, and yet to Sam, it feels as if he loses Vision, Tony and Natasha back to back to back. Natasha cuts especially deep - Steve, Sam and her have been a unit on the run, living together, breathing together. It was them against the world, and now she's gone.
But there are wounded to treat, there is rubble to clear, there are things to do.
Somewhere in there, he manages to call Sarah. Sarah whom he hasn't seen or spoken to in two years because he was made a fugitive, and for her it's been seven years because then he was dead. And now... well, now he doesn't think he will ever get the sound of her sobs out of his nightmares.
And in all that, he keeps having to look down at his hands, flex his fingers. Make sure he's still here, not crumbling away. Steve is a welcome reprieve from that line of thinking. Sam was just putting away the Falcon suit - dirty and grimey from two battles five years apart. It feels like there's a never-ending list of things to do and take care of. There's a whole world out there in need of fixing. There are five years of death to grapple with, somehow. But for now...
For now, Sam - recently showered and cleaned up as well - has to smile when he looks at Steve, feels tension melt out of his own shoulders.
"Yeah. For you, always. C'mon in, make yourself at home."
'Home' is, temporarily, a really shitty hotel room. Pepper has gotten them all situated now that the immediate aftermath is over. With Avengers Compound blown to smithereens, so many of them having no accommodations on account of being dead, this is what they gotta work with for the time being.
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