Chapter Text

Flight calls 

***

There really was kind of a quiet, fragile beauty to these moments -- Sam had always known this, sure, but he seldom had the chance to really appreciate it, anymore. The music of dawn was all around: frogs singing, flocks of pelicans and gulls crying across the water -- plus about a fuckton of other bird calls he had been able to name, back when. By now both boys probably could, though; maybe he’d ask them to teach him, later.  

The sun was rising over the horizon -- burning off twilight’s mist, making the air heavy like molasses and twice as thick -- but inside the boat it was still cool in the shade, for now, and Sam Wilson was not alone. 

Bucky, bless him, was being quiet -- knew how to be quiet. More importantly, knew when to be quiet, most of the time. Knew when to just be there, solid and quiet and not-alone, with Sam, doing things that were important. Important like taking care of your people, like taking back the shield. 

Fuck, he didn’t deserve this. He didn’t deserve much of anything, really, but especially not this; fragile, beautiful things were fucking unbearable, these days. 

Sam tossed his screwdriver aside, loud in the silence: fragile meant easy to break. “I thought I told you not to flirt with my sister.” 

“I’m not flirting with your sister.” Maybe the best thing about Bucky was that he liked shattering those stupid moments just as much as Sam did.

Sam leaned back, rag in hand and on safe ground, and ticked his fingers off one by one. “Showing up, making yourself useful --” 

“Helping you out, you mean.” Bastard didn’t even look up. 

“Fuck you, you oversized socket wrench.” His temper was so close to the surface these days, but at least here he didn’t have to pretend -- Buck knew all about this kind of rage. Had lived with it for a lot longer than Sam had, albeit of a different strand. “Fine. Helping out, making nice with the whole community, cozying up to the boys -- this is a pretty old-fashioned town. You’d best be careful -- around here, some folks might consider that courtin’ behavior.” 

Bucky shrugged, all careful nonchalance and studied carelessness, calculated precisely -- Sam just knew it -- to piss him off. “What can I say? I’m an old-fashioned guy.” 

Sam squared his stance, arms folded across his chest, and hardened his voice a little. “Don’t flirt with my sister, man. You do not want to fuck with me right now, I promise you.” 

Now Bucky did look up. “I’m not,” he repeated, taking a step closer, “flirting with your sister.” And then he reached past Sam to set something down, crowding into his space, and -- and doing that staring thing, ugh, the one with his face. “And I’m not fucking with you, either.” 

Ah, shit, he knew this position. “You’re always fucking with me,” Sam grated out, twisting away from the hold Buck had almost tricked him into -- the hold he was so proud of having blocked that, while he was busy congratulating himself, he never saw the leg sweep coming. “Oooff!” 

Damn. Round two to the White Wolf on a TKO.  

Looking up at James Barnes’s stupid floating butter-won’t-melt grin was fucking infuriating, as always. “True.” Ugh, and then he had the nerve to stick his hand in Sam’s face. “But this time no more than usual.” 

Sam accepted Bucky’s still-outstretched hand. “I’m holding you to that.” And then as Bucky pulled him to his feet Sam made the mistake of meeting Bucky’s eyes, just for a split-second, their hands still clasped between them -- and wow, okay, right, there was a reason they didn’t do this; it was because every time they did they were on the verge of having a moment. 

“Good.” Bucky smiled, a real one this time, one that reached his eyes, no less, but then -- then he -- he did that thing again, with his face, and -- and -- God, how did this motherfucker always know just how to get under his skin? Even with Sarah, even when they’d been kids, Sam had never felt this overwhelming need to have the last word. 

He yanked his hand away and stepped back. “Fine.” 

“I hope you do.” Asshole. 

“I’m going to.” 

“Okay.”   

“Great.” 

“So we’re agreed, then.” 

“I said great, there was no need for you to --” 

“Look, I’m just clarifying your --” 

“-- what I just --”

Fragility was overrated. 

***

Chapter Text

Trailing edge

*** 

Sam Wilson had never been one to shy away from a fight. 

He’d been a good -- no, a great -- no, no, an exceptional wingman to Cap, back when Cap had meant Steve and not whoever the fuck this fucking whiskey-ass asshole was. It had been easy to be Steve’s wing, because he'd trusted Steve to lead. Because even way back when, before Thanos or the Sokovia Accords or any of it -- back when Sam had first showed Steve and Nat the photo of what he’d really been doing during his time with pararescue, Steve had asked about Riley. 

Even being in pararescue had been easy, come to think of it -- not the actual rescuing, of course, but the doing of it. He’d never had to be unsure about the rightness of his mission, because it was right there in the name: rescue. And even though he’d maybe ended up doing more fighting than he’d initially wanted, going in, Sam had liked the job most days, because he’d liked the rescuing part. He had liked being Cap’s wing, too -- helping him out, watching his back. He’d been proud to fight alongside Steve, because Steve had asked about Riley. 

So Sam didn’t shy away from fights, no, as long as they were good fights, because he mostly just liked to help. His favorite gig of them all had maybe been his stint at the VA, when he’d been working as a therapist: he'd gotten to help people who were like him, who’d gone through some of the same shit -- and who were struggling to deal with all of it, too. The sheer number of them had been staggering, and there was never enough help to be had, never enough funding to go around. Sam had done as much as he could, helped as much as was possible -- but in the end he was just one guy with a clinical social work degree, and working at the VA had made him start to think that maybe -- maybe if he wasn’t the only one, if all of the veterans he knew felt like this… maybe they weren’t the problem. Maybe it wasn’t that they weren’t strong enough or brave enough or emotionally literate enough to deal with this shit, maybe they’d all just been… abandoned. Forgotten, by the brass and the government and all the systems that had promised to take care of them afterward, back when they’d joined up. 

To be honest that was why Sam had refused the shield: he’d learned not to trust what it represented, even when it'd been Steve’s. He hadn’t wanted it, hadn’t wanted to be Captain America. Hadn’t wanted to represent those systems… 

But that didn’t mean they could just hand it to any blue-eyed motherfucker who could point a gun. 

Sam kept pace with Torres, doing a really great job of paying attention to the mission checklist while his entire brain was screaming at him to focus on the video playing on his phone, because seriously, what the hell? 

So Johnny Fucking Walker was the new Captain America, rah rah, hooray, fuck you and your travesty of a ceremony. Did they really have to give this man an entire marching band, complete with a whole fucking drumline? And majorettes? Damn, he felt sorry for those kids.  

Whatever, it didn’t have anything to do with Sam anymore. He worked with the US government, sure, because they had all the resources and the personnel and the power, but he didn’t work for them, so he could officially label this ‘Not My Fight, Not My Problem.’ 

Yeah, keep telling yourself that, pal.  

Because if there was one thing he knew, it was that a different blue-eyed motherfucker was about to come chasing after him to make it his problem faster than you could say hey, isn’t that the Winter Sold--aaaaaaaaggghhhhh!

And then some flicker on the screen grabbed Sam’s attention again, and -- oh, great, now they had the motherfucker talking. Was this Walker asshole for real? It'S tHe GrEaTeSt HoNoR oF mY -- shut the fuck up, sir. It’s not an honor, it’s a burden. And you have a stupid face. 

Whatever. Whatever! It wasn’t his problem! 

So why was he still glued to his phone when he supposed to be prepping for the mission at hand? 

“Shouldn’t have given up the shield.”* Right on schedule. 

“Good to see you too, Buck.”* Sam tore himself away from the screen and kept walking -- at least now his need to get away from Bucky outweighed his morbid fascination with whatever bullshit Walker was spouting. 

“This is wrong,”* called Bucky, who was now following him. Great, now he had another -- nope, nope. Focus on the mission at hand.  

"Hey, hey, look, I’m working, all right?”* As if that had ever stopped the Popsicle Assassin before. “So all this outrage is gonna have to wait.”* Because I really can’t have this conversation with you right now. Or probably ever, so stop following me. 

“You didn’t know that was gonna happen?”* Dammit, didn’t this man ever give up? And when had Torres peeled off? 

But that had been pretty insulting, so, “No, of course I didn’t know that was gonna happen!”  Ah, shit, can’t yell in public like that -- calm it down, calm it down. Breathe… “You think it didn’t break my heart to see them march him out there and call him the new Captain America?”* Yeah, that was not better. Whatever, just keep walking. 

Okay, mission checklist -- 

“This isn’t what Steve wanted,”* said Bucky just over his shoulder, and that broke Sam’s concentration, which just pissed him off even more.  

“Oh, my God! So what do you want me to do? Call America and tell ’em I changed my mind? Huh?” At this Bucky stepped back a little -- uh huh, that’s what I thought, what did you think you were gonna accomplish by coming here, dumbass? “Yeah, right. It’s a great reunion, buddy, be well.”* Good, now clap him on the shoulder and make a smooth exit. 

Okay, mission checklist: Torres -- check. Wings -- check. Gear? What gear should -- “You had no right to give up the shield, Sam.”* 

Sam wanted to scream in frustration, because Bucky’s stupid voice had interrupted his concentration again, and it had arrowed straight into his brain because that thought had maybe been hiding somewhere back there already but it was absolute bullshit coming from Bucky, and -- oh, goddammit, there went his temper. 

He turned and rounded on Bucky once more, got right up in his face. “Hey. This is what you’re not gonna do. You’re not gonna come here in your overextended life and tell me about my rights.” To Sam's surprise, Bucky dropped his gaze -- yeah, I know you know that was outta pocket. “It’s over, Bucky.” He put as much force behind the words as he could. “Besides, I have bigger things to deal with now.”* 

“What could be bigger than this?”* Bucky demanded, and that was how ‘Frozen Asshole with a Staring Problem’ ended up on the mission checklist, because apparently Bucky didn't shy away from fights either. 

***

Chapter Text

Pair formation

***

Right, okay, so in an unforeseen twist of fate it turned out that Snowy von Trapp was actually pretty handy to have on your side in a scrap -- vibranium-wise, of course, but also just in general. Kinda surprising, and really annoying -- but hey, given the choice between being annoyed and fighting eight Super Soldiers with nobody but his own two fists, Sam would take annoyed almost every time. 

Shit, who had they been? Where the fuck had they gotten the serum? And -- maybe most importantly -- had Redwing had enough time to back up the footage of Bucky’s chuteless jump before they'd destroyed it?

Sam was walking and thinking, thinking and walking, and in his peripheral vision the Winter Assface was marching all soldier-like and serious, probably cogitating on mostly the same things. They’d fallen in step pretty quick, actually, once they’d dusted themselves off and made their way to the road, which was kind of nice, because apparently they were going to have to hoof it to the rendezvous point, which -- fuuuuck. Could they maybe use the wings? He’d have to carry Bucky, though -- Sam glanced sideways. Nah, probably not, those bionic bones were way heavier than the standard set.  

So here they were, do re mi, trudging down the lane, and the hills were alive with the sound of eight new Super Soldiers, and oh by the way apparently New Captain America was also tracking the Flag Smashers, because he and some other dude had dropped into the middle of the fight with that goddamn shield and started throwing punches. 

Sam was honestly amazed at how quickly he and Bucky had become an us once New Cap arrived on the scene. They’d been engaging more or less separately when it was just the two of them, but when That Motherfucker showed up Bucky'd jumped over to Sam’s truck so fast that he’d barely registered what was happening before Buck was right there next to him, taking on three or four Smashers at a time. 

Damn, they’d really gotten their asses kicked. 

It had been right around the time ol’ Stars and Stripes pulled out a gun and straight shot someone in the face -- and boy howdy had that been deeply uncool, for lack of better phrasing -- that Sam decided it was time to bail. So he’d found Bucky -- dangling off the bottom of one of the trucks, daaamn -- waited til they had a clear landing, lined up the shot, and arrowed forward to wrap the wings around Bucky and throw them both clear of the road. It was only when they were rolling around in the flowers Bollywood-style that Sam remembered that the Bionic Freaking Man had a vibranium skull or whatever and definitely did not need Sam’s wings to protect him; and as a matter of fact Bucky’s cold metal hand was actually cradling the back of Sam’s head like he was a noodle-necked baby, and wasn’t that just a trip? 

And holy shit, now they were walking together, still in step, and -- Sam risked another look sideways -- yep, Bucky was still cogitating quietly while staring at nothing in particular, and that made maybe ten minutes since they’d found something to snipe at each other about, which was probably a record. 

When Sam had found himself staring up at Bucky’s stupid face framed by yellow wildflowers in a meadow in the middle of the goddamn Alps like he was Fraulein Maria (or maybe Shah Rukh Khan?), it had been really weird to look into Buck’s eyes and realize that they were actually having the exact same thoughts at the exact same time: oh, shit, you protected me. Wait, am I protecting you? Did we just protect each other? Whatever, it’s not personal, I’m just following my code, don’t make it weird. 

But something about that realization had been a little bit great, too, because Sam still didn’t like Bucky and Bucky didn’t like him but it didn’t really matter how much someone liked you if they weren’t the kind of guy who’d watch their partner’s back, so they didn’t actually have to like each other. 

Not that he and Bucky were partners. 

But you didn’t want to run field ops with those other guys, the ones who wouldn’t really risk themselves for you when it came right down to it -- and Torres was great and all, as far as tactical support -- but Bucky was maybe the first person since the Blip Sam had actually not had to actively worry about, in a fight. So that was pretty okay. 

And then they’d been lying in the flowers with their faces all close together having those same thoughts at the same time, and it was awful and kind of a lot because of reasons, so it really had to end, and Sam had just opened his mouth to say so what do you you wanna do, kiss about it but Bucky got there first with coulda used that shield so fuck that guy. 

“I hate that guy.” Wait, what? Oh, right, now they were easing on down the road, and Bucky was probably talking about New Cap. 

Sam rolled his eyes and didn’t stop walking. “You don’t even know him.” 

Bucky spat in the dust. “Don’t need to.” 

“We should at least give him a chance.” 

“Why?” 

“Because --” damn, that was actually a pretty good question. “You just don’t like him because he’s not Steve.” 

“Damn right he’s not Steve -- that’s exactly why I don’t like him, and you know it.” 

“‘I knew Steve Rogers, I served with Steve Rogers, and you, sir, are no Steve Rogers,’” mimicked Sam. “Wait, do you know that one?” 

“What one?”

“Okay, that’s a no -- look, he helped us out of a tight spot whether we like it or not, so how about we play nice until he gives us a reason not to.” Us?  

“I have a reason,” Bucky muttered. 

“No, you have a knee-jerk reaction to a first impression, that’s different.” Sam huffed -- was he talking to Bucky or to himself? “All I’m saying is that we don’t know him yet. We need to reserve judgement for now, keep our options open.” 

Buck was doing that stupid staring thing with his face again, but whatever, Sam was right. Who knew? New Captain America might turn out to be a pretty okay dude. 

***

Chapter Text

Supercilium 

***

“It’s not exactly hacking -- it’s government property, Sam.” Walker smirked and looked around, as if the answer should have been obvious. “I’m kinda the government?”* 

Sam controlled his expression, but -- yeah, no, New Cap was nothing but a jumped-up motherfucking cop with a Black Best Friend™ and breath you could smell a mile away. 

Walker looked from Sam over to Bucky, then back to Sam. “Does he always just stare like that?”* 

Sam didn’t actually need to see Buck’s face to confirm, but he looked anyway, because he had a feeling that Bucky was staring at That Motherfucker exactly the way Sam wanted to, and -- yup, he was, and it was pretty fucking validating. “You get used to it.”* 

And the other dude was Lemar Hoskins, who apparently had nothing to his personality beyond Battlestar, John’s partner and and holy fucking shit did Sam hate running into these guys because he never really knew whether they were actually trapped in the Sunken Place or happily frolicking about down there.   

Bucky had jumped ship at Battlestar which was honestly a smart move, because the next thing Walker said made Sam want to punch him in the face. “Look, I’m not trying to be Steve.”* 

Yeah, that’s the problem. 

“I’m just trying to be the best Captain America that I can be --”* 

Captain America never commanded our loyalty -- 

“-- and it’d be a whole lot easier if I had Cap’s wingmen at my side.”* 

-- Steve did. 

Sam rolled his eyes -- like fuck the Scotch Asshole was entitled to anything from either of them. “It’s always that last line.”*  

He jumped out of the jeep. 

Was there a difference between brooding and sulking? They were different words, after all. Brooding sounded better. If someone was brooding, it was probably because they had something to brood on. Sulking was more childish. Petulant. 

Bucky was sulking. Sam was brooding. They were both walking. 

And then Bucky was talking. “Steve ever tell you how we met?” 

Sam didn’t break stride. “When you were kids, right?” 

Bucky nodded. “There were a couple of guys in the neighborhood who used to pick on -- well, everybody, but especially the kids who were scrawny or sissies or both. So I’m walking home through the park one day, and I'm about to pass their corner, and I’m kinda scared, right, because I’m pretty sure I’m about to get jumped, as usual. 

“Only instead, I find them already busy beating up this other kid, someone I’ve never seen around before. He’s trying real hard to fight back and protect himself, but he doesn’t stand a chance, ‘cause he’s real small and skinny. And because he’d tried to fight back, they were really going in on him, you know? 

“So this little kid is getting his face pounded in, and here I am watching it, and I’m thinking, ‘they’re really gonna kill him if this doesn’t end soon,’ so I step in to try and stop ‘em, ‘cause I figure I at least have a better chance than the twig.” 

“So what happened?” 

“They beat both our asses is what happened. But at least I drew some of their fire -- even back then, I knew how to take a beating better than him. So eventually they get bored, Steve and I clean ourselves up and go home, and I thought that was the end of it. 

“But the next time they caught me, turns out Steve was right there -- put himself between them and me, fists up and ready. And from then on -- well, we still got beat up all the time, but at least we got beat up together, you know? So I wasn’t really surprised, that they picked him to become Captain America. He’d already been jumping on grenades for me all our lives.”   

“Seems like you’d been doing it for each other,” said Sam neutrally, eyes trained forward, but he could feel Bucky glance at him and do that weird double-take thing, as if he didn’t really know where to look. “What’s your point?” 

“Sam,” said Bucky, enunciating very clearly, “that motherfucker has never actually jumped on a grenade.” 

Oh, thank God -- Sam wasn't even mad about having to admit that Bucky had been right about Walker, because of how much Walker suuuuuuucked. “Okay, right? And he had the nerve to say he’s ‘done the work’ like he even -- plus, Steve never called himself the damn government, he knew better.” 

“And what a terrible face,” Bucky added.  

The validation. “Holy shit, I’m so glad it’s not just me -- it’s awful -- ” And then they started speaking on top of one another, but it didn’t really matter, because they were mostly saying the same things. 

“Just makes me wanna punch it real --” 

“Shoulda heard what he said after you --” 

“ -- nobody needed to hear past ‘Battlestar’ --” 

“-- talking ‘bout how shit would be easier for him if --” 

“-- the fuck he thinks we care about how --” 

“-- entire personality based on --” 

“-- not even about him --” 

“-- this shit ain’t the Galactica!” Sam threw up his hands. “It’s a terrible name.” 

“Right?” And then Bucky stopped talking for maybe two strides -- ha, the bionic gears had ground to a halt again. “Galactica?” 

Sam cracked a smile. “It was a show, they called the spaceships battlestars, don’t put it on your list -- it’s too much like real life, with androids and catastrophes and shit.” 

“Noted.” 

So yeah, they ended up walking most of the way to the rendezvous point in the end, but it wasn’t all bad: at least they weren’t hitching a ride with That Motherfucker with the Worst Possible Face. 

***

Chapter Text

Induced drag

***

On long flights, by plane or otherwise, Sam liked to listen to music from back home. The exact choice depended on his mood, but it was pretty much always something out of the Delta. Sometimes the songs brought him back to dozing on the dock in the morning sun while Carlos plucked the banjo, sometimes to the blues bar in the bayou, or sometimes -- and this was today’s selection -- sneaking out with Sarah to go party in the Big Easy. 

Had he heard from Sarah lately?

Yup, they’d texted this morning. 

Sam still had a nagging feeling, though, like something wasn’t quite right -- and then he realized what it was: they were maybe two hours into the flight home and Bucky hadn’t said a word since Switzerland, probably because he was still sulking. 

What a lucky break. 

Unless there was something actually wrong, like, Winter Soldier-wise. Meeting That Motherfucker had deeply unsettled Sam -- he couldn’t imagine what Bucky must be feeling, and Bucky already wasn’t exactly known for being the most stable person ever. 

Yeah, he should probably check in. 

Sam paused his music stream. “You all right?”* 

“Let’s take the shield, Sam.” Bucky was staring into space. “Let’s take the shield and do this ourselves.”* 

Sam sighed. “We can’t just run up on the man, beat him up, and take it. Do you remember what happened the last time we stole it?”*

“Maybe.”* 

“I’ll help you in case you forgot.” He sat up. “Sharon was branded enemy of the state, and Steve and I were on the run for two years. I don’t know about you, but I don’t wanna live the rest of my life la vida loca. We just got our ass handed to us by Super Soldiers, and we got nothing.”*

“Not entirely true.”* And then Bucky sat down next to Sam and did that fucking thing with his face, stared at him all hangdog and earnest and somehow patronizing at the same time. “There is someone that… you should meet.”* 

There was a strange fucking emphasis there that Sam didn’t like. “You wanna say anything more on that?” 

“Not really, no.” 

Asshole. “Let me rephrase: are you going to say anything more on that?” 

“Don’t really feel the need to, nope.” 

“Okay, so let me get this straight --” 

“-- must you constantly --” 

“-- telling me that I don’t have a plan --” 

“-- because you clearly --” 

“-- difference between having a plan and planning around your --” 

“-- not what you said when --” 

"-- didn't ask you to --" 

“-- have me jumping out of --” 

“-- pretend like you even needed a -- fine! Fine! Just give Torres the coordinates and leave me the fuck alone, then.” Sam threw up his hands -- at least they didn’t have to talk to each other. He turned his music stream back up before laying back to zone out, or maybe even try to catch some sleep. 

Except that definitely wasn’t about to happen, because even with his eyes closed he could feel Buck staring at him. “You’re doing it.” 

The Icy Fuckface didn’t even bother to deny it. “And?”

“What. Do you want.” 

The answer, when it came, was not anything he’d expected. “...what are you listening to?” 

Oh. 

Well, excellent, now they really didn’t have to talk to each other. Sam shared his music stream to Buck’s earpiece without a word. 

He gave it a good long time -- they made it through all of 3rd Ward Bounce and most of GTFOMF before Sam looked over to check Bucky’s reaction to the best music genre of all time. 

Bucky’s head was bopping, his toe was tapping -- of course it was, New Orleans made the greatest music anywhere period, Sam would fight anybody who said otherwise -- hell, it even looked like Buck was mouthing some of the words to the chorus. 

When the song ended, Bucky motioned for Sam to pause it. “You didn’t tell me you liked bebop.” 

Okay, seriously? “You’ve gotta stop calling everything bebop, man.” 

“I don’t do that anymore,” said Bucky, indignant, “but this actually is bebop.” 

“Look, I promise you, New Orleans bounce is a long way from --” 

“If you listen to the bassline --” 

“-- tell me about the motherfucking bassline, you --” 

“-- no respect for --” 

“-- really gonna --” 

“-- fine, I’ll prove it!” finished Bucky. “Put another one on.” 

Sam scoffed, but he put on another song, because Big Freedia was definitely influenced by early jazz, sure, the way every single musician who came after owed homage to Sister Rosetta Tharpe, but she certainly couldn’t be considered bebop by any stretch of the imagination, and he had to prove the Frozen Asshole wrong. 

“See? Listen!” Bucky started waving his hands around and saying “Dah! doo-dah!” at what he probably thought were regular intervals, bless his heart. 

“Dude, give it up." Sam half-smiled. "It isn’t bebop.” 

“Okay, but listen to where he puts the accents -- ” 

“She,” Sam corrected. 

That brought Bucky up short. “Huh?” 

“Big Freedia is a she, not a he,” said Sam, and gave no further explanation. 

“But… um, is,” said Bucky, and it was hilarious to watch him flounder -- though to be honest, Sam was actually really curious about how he was going to ask the question. “Is she, does she, um… does she… sing about Nelly, Queens?’” 

Uh, what. “Where the fuck is Nelly, Queens?”

Bucky looked incredulous. “It’s -- you really don’t -- wait, are you serious? It’s a famous song.” 

“Clearly not that famous,” Sam pointed out. 

“No, c’mon, it’s a thing, you’ve gotta know about --” 

“Just because you’re a dinosaur --” 

“-- absolutely no --” 

“-- you go talking about respect again like --” 

“-- fight actual Nazis, and maybe then --” 

“-- many times are you going to --” 

“-- since you clearly --” 

“-- okay, so how about you tell me what this ‘famous song’ has to do with Big Freedia, huh?” Sam challenged, and Bucky seemed to actually think about his answer. 

“You know how everybody used to sing God Save the Queen at the end of the night at the clubs, during the war?” At his nod, Bucky continued. “So the Nelly Queens version is -- it’s God Save the Queen, right, only it used to be -- at the, the places where Queens did the entertainment, they’d always sing it last.” 

“Barnes, you’re making even less sense than usual.” And wasn’t Bucky from Brooklyn, not Queens? 

“Just -- fine, fine, Google it, you’ll see.” Bucky sat down in a huff. “Turn the bebop back up.” 

“It’s not bebop,” said Sam, but obliged.  

Two choruses later something clicked for no particular reason, and Sam finally put together that Bucky hadn’t been talking about Queens like Brooklyn but queens, like RuPaul -- wait, but did they even have that back -- Sam sat up and looked over at Bucky, who raised his eyebrows. “What? You finally gonna admit I’m right?” 

Ugh. “It’s not bebop,” said Sam, and lay back down. He could already hear what Buck would say if he said anything: ha, you didn’t think your generation invented that, too, did you? First it was Gandalf, now gays -- what next, reefer? 

“Stop whining and turn it up,” said Bucky. 

***

Chapter Text

Irruption

*** 

What. The actual fuck. 

Keep it cool. Calm down. 

Sam sat motionless on the hard plastic chair with his elbows braced on his knees, about to break his fingers with how hard he was trying not to just start throwing hands instead of keeping them clasped in front of him. 

Breathe, breathe, breathe. 

He was trying to keep it cool. He was very almost calm. But he was also really fucking angry, for a lot of very good reasons. 

Anger is a secondary emotion -- it’s almost always rooted in something else. 

Fuck you, therapist brain. 

What are you really feeling? 

He didn’t want to interrogate his anger. He wanted to sit in in, stew in it, let it blast through him like a burning wave -- wanted to just fucking destroy everyone and everything because what, what, what the actual fuck. 

Do you need the list?

Fuck his therapist brain. 

But Sam was acutely aware that going apeshit on everyone here would actually be very counterproductive to getting Bucky out of a cell, so he did in fact need the list, because he really needed to calm the fuck down.  

Okay, check-ins: go. 

Sarah -- texted this morning. Breathe. AJ and Cass -- selfies exchanged right before the Munich mission: the boys had been fishing out back, and Sam had sent them a selfie of him rolling his eyes at Bucky. Breathe. They’d just left Torres. Breathe.  

You good? 

Yeah, he was good -- for now. The check-in list always worked to center him when he got like this -- it got him thinking about the people he loved, reminded him what was important, which was usually definitely not whatever he was angry about. 

What was he angry about? 

Start with the obvious: he was angry at Bucky for -- well, for a lot of things, but right now it was primarily for not having told him about Isaiah. 

Okay, yeah. But what was underneath his anger? 

Underneath was Sam looking into the face of a man who could’ve been his grandfather saying you think you can just wake up one day and decide who you're gonna be? it doesn’t work like that. 

Underneath was the break in that man’s voice when he said do you know what they did to me for being a hero? they put my ass in jail for thirty years. 

Underneath was the cookie tin embedded deep into the wall, the crack in Isaiah’s control as he’d shouted get out of my house like it was the only thing he could let himself say without giving in to his rage. To see someone from his grandparents’ generation lose it like that… shit, it had shaken Sam more than he liked to admit -- his elders were the ones who’d impressed upon him the importance of maintaining his shield of calm at all times in the first place, especially around white folks. 

Sam’s view of his hands was blurring -- this was why he hated interrogating his anger: usually underneath it was just pain. And this… this was the same pain he’d felt a thousand times before, multiplied a thousandfold -- powerlessness in the face of unbearable injustice, in the face of more violence inflicted by the state from yet another angle, on yet another one of his people. Grief, for -- fuck, for all of it. Just… grief. Pain, and grief. 

So yeah, Sam was angry at Bucky for not telling him about Isaiah, and he was also now a little angry at Bucky for having told him about Isaiah. Mostly he was just angry at Bucky because it was easier to be angry at Bucky than to hold his own pain. 

Because the thing about pain was, it hurt. 

Fuck, he’d grown up hearing whispers about things like this, back home --  to the old folks in his town Tuskegee had meant not the airmen or the college, no; to them Tuskegee had meant that place where they experiment on you. This, though -- this was closer to home than he could ever have imagined. 

And why hadn’t Bucky told Steve?

You know why. 

No, fuck that. He had to believe that Steve would have done something, and that’s why Bucky hadn’t told him. Because the other option was that Bucky hadn’t told Steve because Bucky had been afraid Steve wouldn’t do something, and Sam really needed it to be the first one, because of reasons. 

He’d already been through enough, that was what Buck had said. 

Something about that moment had shook Sam, because it was right after Bucky had not only been arrested for missing therapy of all things but had also willingly complied with the arrest, had let them cuff him without protest. Sam had known that therapy was a condition of Bucky’s pardon, of course, but he hadn’t thought he’d actually been going. Well, no, Sam knew he’d probably been attending sessions -- but he hadn’t expected Bucky to actually be doing the therapy, so to speak. 

Except that pre-Wakanda-and-therapy Bucky Barnes would not have rolled his eyes, shaken his head at Sam, and let them take him away. Pre-Wakanda-and-therapy Bucky Barnes would not have put himself between Sam and the cops and said do you know who this is when those motherfuckers rolled up, pre-Wakanda-and-therapy Bucky Barnes would have just started punching. 

And that was when Sam realized that Bucky was actually trying. 

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit. 

God, now he was blinking back tears again -- Sam didn’t want to care about this, he already had enough to deal with. It would be so much easier to just stay angry, to blame Bucky for all of it, made even easier still by the fact that Sam knew Bucky could take it. Would take it, probably, would just stand there and say you’re right, I’ve done terrible things, I’m broken and worthless. 

But fuck Sam if he wasn’t a helper at heart, and Buck was trying to be something different, trying to believe something different about himself. Sam couldn’t let himself be another one of the voices in Bucky’s head telling him that he wasn’t worth saving, even if it meant having to reckon with his own feelings. 

Steve hadn’t known -- of course Steve hadn’t known, of course Bucky hadn’t told him, because Bucky had been trying to do the right thing by respecting Isaiah's wishes, because Steve would have done what Sam wanted to do: something, anything. Tell somebody, or, fuck, even just learn the rest of Isaiah’s name, for God’s sake. Maybe Bucky had earned the first-name basis, what with the dismemberment and all, but Sam damn sure hadn’t.  

And then Bucky’s therapist walked up. 

Dr. Raynor arrived about thirty seconds before New Cap busted in calling her Christina and spouting bullshit about Bucky like he’s too valuable of an asset to be tied to a strict schedule and unilaterally putting an end to Bucky's fucking therapy, and holy shit did That Motherfucker really just go full HYDRA and call Bucky an asset like Buck was a piece of artillery and not an entire annoying human person? 

Okay, seriously, fuck That Guy. 

But whatever, it didn’t matter, because now the cops were leading Bucky out -- Sam honestly wished he’d brought the wings, he wanted to wrap them around Buck and just get the fuck out of here, because Bucky was still being eerily compliant, which was worrying, because Sam couldn’t exactly tell if this was post-Wakanda-and-therapy compliance or closer to the Winter Soldier kind. 

Trust that he’s trying. Sam tried to catch Bucky’s eye, but the therapist got there first. 

“James, condition of your release: session. Now.” Dr. Raynor walked off. “You too, Sam.”* 

No thank you, please. “No, I’m good, I’ll just --”* 

“That wasn’t a request.”* 

Ugh, shit. 

***

Chapter Text

Anisotropy

*** 

Sam had nothing against therapy. Far from it, in fact. He’d been through a lot of therapy himself, and then he’d done it for a living for a long time, and he recommended therapy to pretty much everyone he met. Therapy was great. Therapy was fantastic. Therapy saved lives. 

But also, however, rebuttal thing one: he didn’t need therapy right now. He and his ten daily milligrams of escitalopram were dealing just fine on their own, thankyouverymuch. 

Rebuttal thing two: he and Bucky were Not That Close. 

Conclusion: Sam had absolutely no desire to be a part of Bucky’s therapy session, and Buck clearly didn’t want him there. 

So by mutual silent agreement they decided to go for bickering rather than emotional honesty, no lookbacks. Sam threw out some snarky comment, Bucky rose to the bait, and they were off to the races. 

“You leave me no choice,” said Dr. Raynor when she’d tired of their evasive maneuvers. “It’s time for the soul-gazing exercise.”*

Sam rolled his eyes. “Oh my God, he’s gonna love this --”* 

“ -- I like this one better --”* 

They scooted their chairs to face one another, and didn’t stop firing shots. 

“ -- this is right up your alley, you should really enjoy this -- ”*

“ -- oh, I’m going to!”*  

“Closer,”* said Dr. Raynor.  

Miss me with that gay shit, bruh. Sam could hear it now: what he might have said, what he’d trained himself to say, back when he’d thought That Guy was the only kind of man he could be. What he’d had to train himself not to say, once he realized there was another way. 

Sam still didn’t want to be a part of Bucky’s therapy, but he wasn’t That Guy anymore and didn't want to be ever again, and the helper in him wouldn’t shut the fuck up, so he scooted his chair forward until his and Buck’s knees were touching. 

“Closer.”* 

Okay, but the Frozen Asshole wouldn’t move his legs. “You --”* 

“Which way --”*

“-- why you have to have your legs open --”*

“ -- why you have to be so --”*

“You know what? Fine. Here.” Sam grabbed Bucky’s knee -- they’d do the slide-in-between thing, with their thighs, it was fine, they could just -- “You happy now?”*

“Yes, in fact, I’m --”*

“-- we’re locked in, okay? There, we’re locked in --”*

“It’s a little close --”*

“Yeah, it’s very close -- that’s what you wanted, right?”* When had he raised his voice? Shit. 

Bucky looked at Sam and opened his mouth, then closed it. Then Bucky looked at Dr. Raynor,  then back at Sam, and then at the floor. 

Ah, shit. 

Sam had thrown that last taunt without really thinking, meaning, you wanted to do this fucking staring thing didn’t you or maybe you enjoy when I’m uncomfortable, but -- yeah, it had clearly come out a different way -- and clearly it had landed that different way to Bucky. 

Mother fuck. 

And now they were gonna soul-gaze, and Buck’s face was way too expressive in the first place, and Sam just knew it was gonna be awful if they let it happen. He couldn’t take this -- not right now, not when he himself was hurting so badly, and especially not after he had maybe hurt Bucky with that last comment, so he looked into Bucky’s broken-sad-stupid-expressive eyes and said -- silently, of course -- I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way, we don’t have to actually do this, in fact it’s probably better if we don’t. 

Buck caught on immediately -- excellent. Sam settled in for the long haul.

“Are you having a staring contest? ” Ha, it had taken her long enough. “Just -- blink!” Dr. Raynor snapped her fingers between them. “Sweet Jesus.”* 

Sam breathed a sigh of relief -- another moment successfully avoided, once again the day was saved, could they please leave now? 

No, apparently Buck’s villainous therapist had other plans. “James, why does Sam aggravate you? And don’t say something childish.”* 

Bucky looked at her, then looked at Sam -- and then back at her, and Sam saw the moment Bucky decided to engage, saw it and and resented him for it -- they’d been doing so well. Plus, Sam knew for a fact that he definitely did not want to hear whatever was about to come out of James Barnes’s stupid mouth. 

“Why’d you give up that shield.”* Yup, confirmed. 

Sam sighed. Fucking really? The Icy Fuckface was really going to make that about him? On today, of all days? “Why,” he said very, very calmly, “are you making such a big deal about something that has nothing to do with you?”* 

“Steve gave you that shield --”* That did it. 

“You’ve gotta be kidding me --”* 

“-- he believed in you, and you threw it away like it was nothing --”* 

“Shut up,”* Sam warned, but Bucky just got louder. 

“-- so maybe he was wrong about you, and if he was wrong about you then he was wrong about me!”* 

Oh, shit. 

Bucky’s eyes widened, and he closed his mouth, and nobody said anything for a second. 

Ohhhhhhhh, yup, there was that anger again, rising up in Sam’s throat about to choke him, whispering to just lash out at everyone and everything. 

This time it was directed at That Assface Therapist, who’d driven them to this and forced a conversation that neither one of them was ready for. It was directed at Bucky for keeping his sense of self-worth tied up in that fucking shield, for making Sam’s very difficult and incredibly personal decision all about his own insecurities. Mostly, it was directed at himself, because it was all his fault That Motherfucker had the shield now, and this would never have happened if he’d just … 

Just what? Been strong enough, brave enough, good enough? Fuck that. Sam knew he wasn’t the problem, had to believe he wasn’t the problem -- he’d run the scenarios a thousand times, and he always came to the same conclusion: he could never have lived with any other decision. After hearing Isaiah’s story today, he was even more secure in his choice. 

But that didn’t make him any less angry, especially with Bucky. 

Sam knew that underneath this particular set of angers was his own damn empathy, among other things, and he really didn’t want to be empathizing with Bucky Motherfucking Barnes if Bucky couldn’t empathize with him, so he had to at least give him the chance to try.  "You finished?”*

Bucky sat back in his chair. “Yeah.”* 

“Alright, good.” Sam was tearing up again, but he did his best to focus on Bucky’s face, because he really, really needed Buck to hear him on this one. “Now, maybe this is something that you or Steve will never understand. But. Can you accept that I did what I thought was right?”* Sam had literally just decided he trusted Bucky's intentions, dammit, couldn’t Bucky do the same for him? 

Bucky was doing that thing with his face again, like he was trying to avoid something, and it didn’t really matter how much pain he was in or how much Sam empathized with it if Bucky was going to choose to be angry at Sam instead of facing it. 

Asshole. Coward. 

But then Bucky’s face was doing a slightly different thing, and -- and something was happening, those bionic gears were doing their cogitating, it was entirely possible that Sam was actually witnessing Bucky trying to work through his feelings -- reflecting on shit like the day they’d just had and thinking about the way Sam had said you or Steve  -- or maybe he wasn't, maybe he was just thinking about how Sam was making this all about race again and choosing to wallow in his own self-centered bullshit, it was hard to tell -- and while Bucky was doing all that thinking and feeling and cogitating he just kept staring, and staring, and staring, and staring at Sam like  -- like maybe -- oh shit, were they about to have a moment?  

Yeah, no, Sam couldn’t take this. Not today, not now, and probably not ever. 

So maybe he was the coward after all, because he forfeited the feelings contest and turned to Buck’s therapist instead. “You know what, Doc? I don’t have time for this.” Well, and that part was at least true: they one hundred percent did not have time for any kind of emotional epiphany or racial reckoning or whatever the fuck would have happened had that Moment been allowed to proceed. “We have some real serious shit going on. So how about this -- I will squash it, right now, we'll go deal with this, and when this is over we can go on separate, loooong vacations,” he looked back at Bucky, “and never see each other again.”* So we never have to deal with whatever that would have been. 

“I like that,”* said the Snowflake Wolf. His expression had closed off once more. 

“Great. Well, let's get to work. Thanks, Doc, for making it weird. I feel much better.” Sam stood and smacked Bucky on the arm, the vibranium one. “I’ll see you outside.”* 

***

Chapter Text

Upwash

***

“Well, I feel better,”* Sam deadpanned when they finally got out.   

“I feel awful,”* said Bucky, and Sam did a double take: wait, what? No sniping, no sass, no -- did Buck just do more emotional honesty at him? Unacceptable. They'd had an agreement. 

And then for some reason That Motherfucker decided it’d be a good idea to grab their attention by running the fucking siren. 

Deep breaths. 

Walker had said something, or maybe asked them something, or told them something in the key of we should work together, but only if you work for me. Sam glanced at Bucky like he might have something useful but let’s engage as little as possible and Bucky looked back like I checked out of this a long time ago, so Sam guessed it was up to him to lead this particular op. 

He gritted his teeth. “So what do you got?”* 

And then That Motherfucker started talking, and Sam didn’t need to hear anything past we’ve been targeting civilians to know that he wasn’t going to be able to handle the rest of whatever Walker said, so he fell back to make Bucky take point on the rest of this one. 

Huh. 

Sam was okay letting Bucky take point. Okay, that was new, and weird like a loose tooth. When had -- oh, right, because of the trust thing. 

No time for that, get your head in the game: New Cop was going off about something Bucky had said, and damn, it had been too easy for Buck to get a rise out of that guy. Like, way too easy.    

And then James Buchanan Barnes, who’d spent the morning introducing Sam to new levels of racial trauma via the revelation of a secret he’d been carrying for seventy years, the afternoon in a jail cell, and the evening engaging in the Worst Couples Therapy Session Ever -- not that they were a couple -- said, cool as you please and with a completely straight face, “Things are really intense for you, aren’t they, Walker.”* 

Sam could maybe have kissed the Snowflake Wolf for that moment, because it was so much fun to watch Bucky troll someone else, especially when that someone else was That Motherfucking Cop and His Sidekick, Battlestar, and it made him want to bust out laughing or maybe dance around like u mad, bro? but that would would be a bad idea. 

Because Bucky’s taunts were also kind of a test, and That Motherfucker had begun to work his jaw in a way that Sam really didn’t like, and if they got into a fight in this here parking lot there was only one way it could end. So yeah, he figured he should probably do a little de-escalating before shit got too weird. 

He angled himself slightly away from New Cop -- this might work better if Walker thought he was talking to Bucky -- and said, “Hey, hey, take it easy.” Then he turned back to Those Fucking Guys and said something to appease Walker’s ego, then threw out a very valid reason for them not to work together, and then disengaged. 

Or so he assumed. “A word of advice, then,” Walker called after them, and ooh, yikes -- Sam knew that tone, he'd served with that tone, and he did not like that tone -- it never meant anything good. “Stay the hell out of my way.”* 

Yeah, no, it was time to get the fuck up outta here. 

One block, two blocks -- they gave it a good three blocks before Bucky bumped Sam’s shoulder and growled, “Stay the hell out of my way.”

That was all it took. “Can you believe --” 

“-- again with --” 

“-- the motherfucking nerve --” 

"-- his terrible face --" 

"-- way too heated over --" 

“-- couldn’t resist, I’m --”

“-- no, don't apologize, you were incredible --”  

“-- oh,” said Bucky. He looked at Sam, then at the ground. “Thanks.” 

“Yeah, well, don't get used to it,” said Sam. “And don’t make it weird.” 

They gave it another minute after that debrief, just to walk in silence, and a few blocks later they were back to work.

And then Bucky was saying hydra was my people without flinching away from it, and making a suggestion that made sense but not in a good way, to which Sam said so you wanna just sit in a room with this guy and Bucky said y-yes, so Sam now had a decision to make, and Bucky had apparently decided to do the staring thing while Sam thought it over.

Wow, that was definitely not at all distracting. 

Alright, look. The thing was.

Bucky was broken in a lot of ways -- some of which Sam shared, but a lot of which he couldn’t even begin to fathom, just like Bucky couldn’t fathom his. 

But win or lose, super strength or super gadgets, it didn’t matter -- there was one thing besides their broken-ness that all the Avengers had in common: at the end of the day, Sam never had to worry about what they would do with their power. He knew they all had their shit, yeah, and he also knew that were dealing with their shit, all of them, because they had to, so that their broken-ness could never make them lash out and hurt people. 

That was why he trusted them, all of them, every last one. He trusted that in any given situation they would be the ones trying to help. Even if they were fucking up, even if he didn’t exactly understand some of the decisions they made -- at the end of the day, he knew they were at least making them for very good reasons. 

So yeah, while Buck was busy staring, Sam was busy realizing that he knew for a fact that he didn’t have to worry about what Bucky would do, in a fight or otherwise, because Buck didn’t just react out of anger anymore, he did the work. He tried to help. 

And seriously? Sam had just sat in on Bucky’s therapy, for Chrissakes. If they could weather that room without losing their cool, they could do this, too. Like, easily. 

“Okay, then,” said Sam. “We’re gonna go see Zemo.”* 

***

Chapter Text

Passerine 

***

Possibly the worst feeling in the history of the entire world forever was when you couldn’t figure out what music to put on, especially when you just wanted to be in your feelings about something for a minute, and even more especially when you’d just boarded a million-hour flight to go talk to a guy who thought you and your friends shouldn’t exist -- and had actually almost made it happen. 

Shuffle was no use, and listening to the first two bars of forty-five misses had just made Sam even more upset than before he started. At the moment he could only think of things he didn’t want: he didn’t want to listen to bounce, because it would be too high-energy, too much right now. He didn’t want to listen to Coltrane or Davis, because Bucky would just call it bebop and then it’d be a whole thing. He definitely did not want his Delta blues playlist, it was too close to his pain and it would just make him cry. But he wanted something that at least didn’t ignore his pain. Or his rage. 

Anger is a secondary emotion. Yeah, but anger was different from rage. 

Anger was the easy way out -- anger was how you reacted when you were trying to avoid pain. Rage was what happened when you faced it, when you’d been facing it for so long that it had begun to bloom into something else. Rage was thousands of pain-flowers, pressed in oil and distilled into perfume. 

So yeah, he wanted something for that. 

But first he had a Bionic Staring Problem to take care of. “You’re doing it.” 

Bucky’s shrug was entirely too nonchalant, all disingenuous-like. “Seems like you’re scrolling a lot there.”  

“Fuck you,” said Sam. The tiny part of his brain that spoke for That Guy wanted to stop there, but he’d gotten used to tuning That Guy out a long time ago. “It’s kinda hard to pick a playlist for ‘I feel awful for very valid reasons,’ okay?” 

There. If Bucky was gonna do emotional honesty, he could too. 

“Oh.” Bucky stared at him for a second -- but like, in a different way from before. “Well, do you want your music to make you feel more awful or less awful?”

“Neither,” said Sam. “Both. I don’t know, just different.”

“Huh.” And now it was back to the cogitation stare. “Sounds like you need some bebop.” 

That actually startled a laugh out of Sam, albeit a weak one. “No bebop.” 

“Your loss.” Bucky shrugged again but finally stopped staring, and Sam turned back to his quandary. Jazz in general might honestly have been a not-terrible choice for the moment, depending, but Sam wasn’t about to prove Bucky right, so. More scrolling it was. But it was kind of nice that Bucky had tried to help. Actually had helped, a little. 

And then Sam thought of one more way Bucky could help. “Hey.” 

“Yeah?” 

“What’s his last name?” 

Buck did that thing with his face for a second. “Bradley.” 

Sam nodded. “Thanks.” He tapped his earpiece. “You wanna share?” 

“No, thanks,” said Bucky. “I’m gonna try to catch some sleep.” 

“Sweet dreams,” said Sam, and queued up Kendrick and Solange. 

Okay, so in retrospect Sam had probably jinxed it. That one was on him. 

But Bucky was stirring restlessly and muttering under his breath in Russian, clearly having a nightmare, and now Sam had to decide what to do about it. He didn’t know how long it’d been going on, but he’d made it through damn. and A Seat at the Table and had just switched back to Kendrick when he noticed. 

Luckily, the choice was made for him before he could really agonize too much over it: Bucky woke with a gasp, eyes wide, and took a bunch of deep therapy-type breaths. 

Then he looked over at Sam. 

When Sam had been That Guy he might have said something like do you need a blankie or look who’s a scared little bitch but it had been a long time since he’d actually let That Guy come out of his mouth, so. “When I have nightmares, they’re usually about not being able to save the people I love,” he said instead. “What are yours like?” 

Bucky considered it for a second, then cleared his throat. “Murdery.” 

Sam could offer to listen, could ask if Bucky wanted to talk about it. They could have a whole moment, and then he’d empathize with Bucky even more, but Bucky still wouldn’t understand about the shield, and then Sam would either have to squash it again or try to explain but either way they’d have to have a whole other moment after that one. Again. 

Or they could argue about music. “Wanna hear something that’s definitely not bebop?” 

“Challenge accepted,” said Bucky, and sat up. 

So Sam restarted To Pimp A Butterfly. It didn’t take long. 

“Okay, are you kidding? You’re definitely kidding, right?” 

“It’s not bebop.” 

“Look, you maybe had a case before, but this literally sounds the exact -- ” 

“There’s a difference between --” 

“-- can’t tell me you don’t --” 

“-- not to mention that rap clearly --” 

“-- same accents --” 

“-- ignoring the entire history --” 

“-- sounds just like Salt ‘n’ Pepa!” 

Wait, what? “Okay, what the hell?” said Sam. “First of all, how do you know about Salt ‘n’ Pepa, and second, what does that have to do with Kendrick and bebop?” 

“I saw them at the Apollo, when they toured with Thelonious Monk,” said Bucky in the key of I read The Hobbit in 1937,  “and then again when they opened for Count Basie.” 

“Barnes, that’s literally impossible,” said Sam. “I can’t believe I have to say this, but Salt ‘n’ Pepa did not tour with Thelonious Monk.” 

“Steve was there, too,” said Bucky. 

Whaaaaaaaat. “You and Steve. Went to the Apollo?”  

“Yeah, I used to drag him out to all kinds of places -- Coney Island, Dodgers games, the Met -- just so we could go somewhere that wasn’t the library. The Apollo was pretty high on the list, once we got old enough.” 

“What the fuck,” said Sam. “Number one, I hate that you just told me that you literally liked jazz before it was cool --” 

“Jazz was always cool --” 

“-- fuck you, you actual original hipster --” 

“-- believe the term is hep cat --” 

“-- don’t make me punch you in the face, Buck, and number two, are you honestly trying to tell me that two female emcees from the 1990s somehow time-traveled sixty years into the past to perform in Harlem, twice, and you and Steve just ‘happened’ to catch them in concert?” 

“What are you talking about?” For some reason Bucky was looking at Sam like he was the crazy one. “Salt ‘n’ Pepa never emceed, they were the lesbian tap dancers.” 

“No, they’re --” it’s a song about nelly queens, not Nelly, Queens, remember? And it turned out to be legit. “Wait, are you saying ‘Salt ‘n’ Pepa’ or ‘Salt and Pepper?’” 

“Yeah, that’s what I said.” 

Not helpful. “Uh-huh, yeah, okay, I’m going to have to Google this,” said Sam. “Somehow ‘Black lesbian tap dancers who toured with jazz greats’ seems like kind of a stretch.” 

“What, you don’t think Black lesbians can be great?” Bucky raised his eyebrows. “Sam, I’m surprised at you --” 

“That’s not what I said --” 

“-- when I was actually there --” 

“-- like I woulda heard about it --” 

“-- feet sounded exactly like this ‘rap’ you’re --” 

“-- my words because you have no --” 

“-- their flow, if you will --” 

“-- the fuck you think you know about flow --” 

Yeah, this was way better than having another moment. 

***

Chapter Text

Pennaceous

***

Sam flopped onto what was now his bed. Bucky was already fully laid out on the floor. 

They’d made it to the hotel with a few hours to kill, and Sam had entered into that horribly familiar mindspace of ‘exhausted, but too keyed up to sleep.’ Zemo in the morning meant he needed The List tonight, like, in a big way, so he started a couple media downloads for when he was done and pulled out his phone. 

“Hey, Scott, just calling to say hi, you know how it is. Hope you’re good, wherever you are. Hit me back when you have a chance, I’m around.” 

“Rhodey! Nah, it’s just one of those calls. Everything copacetic? Mm-hmm. Shiiiit, who the fuck are you telling?”  

“Hey, Torres! No, no, I don’t need anything, just calling to check in. Yeah, I know you just left us. How’s your grandmother? Excited to see you?” Torres was on his way to see some relatives on the Navajo reser-- nope, nope, Torres was going to the Navajo nation, aka unceded Diné lands, he had told Sam about that, words were important. “Tell her I said hi when you get there. Keep an eye on your phone, I’m gonna send you some money for flowers or something. Nahh, don’t get it twisted, they’re not for you.” He kind of had a thing about elders. 

“Hey, Sarah -- ah, shit, are you busy making dinner? Okay, put the boys on for a minute. Don’t forget the salt.” He grinned and held the phone away from his ear while Sarah yelled about how she knew how to cook, thankyouverymuch, and she didn’t need her little brother to tell her shit, especially when -- “Uh-huh, look, I’m just saying that your gumbo --” and he was pretty sure Bucky could hear her yell that was one! time! from clear across the room. “Ma’am, you seem kind of hysterical,” said Sam seriously. “May I speak to the man of the house, please?” 

Sarah hung up on him. 

“Uncle Sam!” said AJ when he picked up the video call. Bucky snorted. 

Sam shot him a glare. “Hey, little man! Whassup? Your brother around?” 

“Yeah, yeahhhhhhh, he’s here, we can go find him.” If Sam hadn’t been a highly trained professional, he would have definitely gotten vertigo from AJ tearing through the backyard to find Cass with no care whatsoever for camera stability. 

“There’s my two favorite nephews,” said Sam when they were both on screen. “How was your day?” 

“Fine,” said AJ. “We found some cool rocks on the way home from school.” 

“Are you off saving the world with the Frozen Asshole?” said Cass. “Is he there with you?”

“Don’t let your mother hear you call him that,” said Sam. “And yes, he’s here.” 

“Shouldn’t they be more afraid of me hearing it?” said Bucky.

“What about the Winter, um, Ashface?” said AJ. 

“You already heard it,” Sam said to Buck before turning back to the screen. “Nice try, but that wasn’t any better. You got no reason to be scared of Bucky, and every reason to be more scared of your mom -- I know I am.” 

“Wow,” said Bucky. “Wowwwwwww.” 

“But he’s got a vibranium arm and he’s strong and stuff,” said Cass. “He could beat you up.” 

“I like that kid,” said Bucky. 

“Yeah, but he won’t,” said Sam. “And he could try, but I bet I could take him. I’m pretty strong.” 

“Not as strong as the Frozen Ashface,” said AJ. “Or Mom. I bet Mom could beat you up, Uncle Sam.” 

“I like that kid, too,” said Bucky. 

“Okay, get over here, I can’t fight a war on two fronts,” said Sam. “Boys, you wanna meet the Ashface?” 

“Yeah!” said Cass. 

“I fought a war on two fronts,” said Bucky, but he got to his feet.

“New rule,” said Sam. “You can only bring that up once a day.” 

“So that’s why you kept texting me on Saturday mornings,” Bucky said after the call had ended. 

“What?” 

“I wondered why they were so clockwork.” He was picking at the bedspread. 

“Oh, yeah -- you’re on the list, even though you have literally never answered a single one of my messages.”

“So why’d you keep texting, then?” 

Sam sighed. “I guess it’s just kind of a Thing I Do, now. Just making sure I haven’t… I dunno, missed another five years in my sleep or something, you know?”

“Huh. Can’t relate.”  

Sam chuckled. “Hey, um.” This had been bothering him, and it would keep bothering him if he didn’t get it off his chest, and now was as good a time as any. “I’m sorry about what I said, in the… right before the staring contest back there. It came out wrong, I wasn’t thinking.” 

Bucky did the staring thing. “Don’t mention it.” 

Okay, that could have gone worse. “Anyway, I downloaded a thing I thought you might like, if you feel like watching something.” 

“Is it about bebop?” 

“No,” said Sam. “But it is about Nelly, Queens?” 

Buck did the staring thing again. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Cut the lights off. You gonna watch it from your bed?” 

“No.” 

“Okay, I’ll join you on the floor once I pull it up, we can project it onto the ceiling.” 

About two hours later, after Paris is Burning was over, they kinda just lay there in silence for a good long minute while the credits rolled. 

“Wow,” said Sam finally. “I haven’t seen that since grad school. I forgot how it ends.” 

“It was good, though,” said Bucky. “Thanks.” 

“You’re welcome.” More silence. “I’m gonna brush my teeth.”  

“You’re doing it.” 

Sam was in his bed. Bucky was on the floor. 

“Are you awake?” 

“No.” 

“Seems like you’re awake.” 

“Yeah, because you -- gnrgh, this is what you get for napping on the plane.” 

“So you’re up now, though.” 

“I was never down.” Sam sighed. “Thinking about Zemo, mostly," and Isaiah Bradley, but he didn't say that part aloud. "You?”  

“That movie,” said Bucky.

"Oh." He didn't know what to say to that. 

“Remember what the dancer said about the balls, with the taking ugly broken things and making them -- celebrating each other, or whatever?”  

“Yeah?” 

“That’s what the nelly queens song was.” 

Oh. Don't be That Guy. “I’m, uh. Glad to learn that history, then. Thanks.” 

“We didn’t think it was. History, I mean, when we were there. It was just a thing we did.” 

Yeah, Sam didn’t know what to do with that one either, and Bucky's we was far too ambiguous for his comfort, so, “I kinda always wanted to try voguing,” he said instead. “But I feel like I’d look ridiculous doing it.” 

“I haven’t danced since 1943,” said Bucky. 

“To the internet we go,” said Sam. “Cut the lights on so we don’t break anything.” 

“A good soldier operates in darkness,” said Buck in his Siberian Husky voice.

“Boy, this darkness is about to operate on you if you don’t cut these damn lights --” 

“-- didn’t know you were a surgeon --” 

“-- not listening to you, I’m pulling up the tutorials --” 

“-- about to school you on how we did it --” 

“-- said you haven’t danced in --” 

“-- there when Paris actually was burning --”

“-- did I just say about once a --”

“-- midnight --” 

“-- technicality --” 

“-- still less ridiculous than --” 

“-- see who looks ridiculous when --” 

“-- that a challenge? You’re on, Black Pigeon.” 

“ -- you know what? You’re going down just for that, Frosty the Ashface.” 

Yeah, okay, they both looked pretty ridiculous trying to vogue, in the end. But Sam could at least dance and Buck’s left arm could move in all kinds of fucked-up ways, so it was kind of a tie. 

*** 

Chapter Text

Phenotypic plasticity

***

Bucky was in there alone. 

Sam was on this side of the door, and Zemo was somewhere on that side of the door, and Bucky was also somewhere on that side of the door, and Bucky was somewhere in there with Zemo, alone. 

Sam wasn’t worried. 

Much. 

Alright, look, the thing was, it wasn’t because Bucky had those code words that Sam was worried. After all, Sam had spent his whole life around guys like that -- you couldn’t avoid them, especially in the military. The world was full of men who’d been programmed just as surely as Bucky had -- just as intentionally and effectively, only without the fancy equipment -- programmed with trigger words designed to incite violent anger, when someone threw them at you. Words that hurt and burned and made you want to just -- 

Bitch. Pussy. Fa-- no, Sam didn’t even want to think it, didn’t want any of those words to worm their way back into his brain, because even thinking them brought him right back to when he’d been That Guy, the one who had learned how to use those words as weapons, just as they’d been used on him. He’d had to work hard to deprogram himself, was still doing the hard work of deprogramming his own responses to those words. The only difference was that Buck’s words had been in Russian. 

And also, Zemo knew them. 

So yeah, okay, Sam was worried about Bucky. But not really, because he never had to worry about Bucky. 

But he was maybe a little worried. 

Though to be fair, the actual Dora Milaje had officially deemed Bucky A-OK to move about the cosmos, and if the Dora Milaje said someone was cool you knew it was legit because there was a technical term for what the Dora Milaje were and that term was ‘unfuckwithable.’ Shuri and Ayo would never have let Bucky out of Wakanda if there’d even been the slightest chance he would put shame on their names. 

So no, Sam wasn’t really worried about Bucky.  

Except he was. Because it was kinda his job to worry about Bucky, a little. Because they were working together on this, and Sam needed to know that his -- not partner, nope, that his mission checklist item had his shit together. But he wasn’t actually worried. Like, at all. 

Yeah, no, okay, so he was worried. But the thing was, he wasn’t really worried about what Bucky would do when he heard those words . Bucky had said trust me, I got it and he did -- trust Bucky, that is -- and Sam had every confidence that Bucky could and would do the thing, whatever it was. That’s not what he was worried about. 

Sam was worried because he and Bucky had stayed up til dawn laughing at themselves trying to vogue and it was the lightest slash most grounded he’d felt since the Blip, or maybe even before. Because Bucky had said that’s what the nelly queens song was like and it was just a thing we did. Because Bucky still slept on the floor even now, when he slept at all. 

Mostly, Sam was worried because Bucky was trying, and Zemo would do everything he could to fuck with that -- and worse, would likely succeed, a little at least. And Bucky didn’t deserve that, Bucky deserved to be okay.  

So maybe Sam was more worried for Bucky than about Bucky. After all, he had been in there kind of a long time now. And something about the way Buck had said we have a history before going in had really just -- gotten to Sam. Because history was a really nice word for what Zemo had done to Bucky, which was actually more like ‘hunt down Bucky’s personal vulnerabilities in order to exploit them for his own nefarious ends and thus retraumatize Bucky by violating his mind in the process.’ 

Stupid empathy.

But he wasn’t actually worried. 

...

     ... 

          ...

Alright, maybe just a little. 

But not like. Actually. 

And then the door opened, and Sam legitimately felt his shoulders relax as he stood. “Hey.” 

“Hey.” The Frozen Ashface looked -- well, he looked ashen-faced and frozen, actually, but overall okay, and he was doing his regular-Bucky walk and not his Winter Soldier walk, so. That was a positive sign.

Still, Sam couldn’t help asking, “You good?” as he fell in step. 

“Yeah,” said Bucky in his regular-Bucky voice. “Let’s go.” 

Sam should have been more worried. 

“We are not breaking Zemo out of prison.”* Sam followed Bucky into whatever the fuck building this was, trying to talk sense into quite literally the hardest-headed person he knew. 

Seeing Zemo, sure. A single conversation to scrape together a couple leads, yes, that made sense. Even a second visit if necessary -- that was 100% doable. But this? 

No. No. No. Absolutely not. Zemo had already almost succeeded in breaking up the Avengers once, there was no way Sam was gonna give him the chance to try again. “Zemo's just gonna mess with our minds -- especially yours. No offense.”* 

“Offense.” Bucky’s face came into stark view as he switched on a set of lights. “Super soldiers go against everything he believes in. He may be crazy, but he still has a code.”* 

“Yeah, and I’ve been on the wrong side of that code, Buck, and so have you,” Sam reminded him. “He blew up the UN! He killed King T’Chaka and framed you for it! Did you forget that? Do you think the Wakandans forgot about it?!” Bucky opened his mouth, probably to say something annoying, but Sam beat him to it. “It’s a rhetorical question! They didn’t! Look, I know why this matters to you, but c’mon, it’s pushing you off the deep end.”* 

I’m worried for you. This won’t be worth it if you… but Sam didn’t actually know how he wanted to finish that sentence, so they argued it back and forth for a few more minutes until -- 

“Look,” said Bucky in a weirdly calm voice, “let me walk you through a hypothetical. Can I walk you through a hypothetical?”* 

Uh huh. A hypothetical. Right. “What did you do.”* 

“I didn’t do anything,”* Bucky said with that strange fucking emphasis, again, and about thirty seconds later Zemo showed up. 

So yeah, Sam should have been more worried. 

Because as a matter of fact Zemo was already doing it, was being all charming and witty while Sam was just trying to have a single fucking uninterrupted conversation with his mission checklist item. Something about the way Zemo was intentionally insinuating himself in between him and Bucky really set him off, and so the next time Zemo talked Sam said “Shut up.”* 

With bass. 

Not too much. Just… enough. 

Take it easy, soldier. Breathe. 

But it had worked, so. 

Sam turned back to Bucky, who was now looking at Sam and doing that thing with his face, with the eye contact and the staring and the earnesty. “When Steve refused to sign the Sokovia Accords, you backed him,” he said. “You broke the law and stuck your neck out, for me. I’m asking you to do it again.”* 

Wow. 

How dare Bucky invoke asking and Steve in the same sentence? It was like he knew exactly where to strike. 

Actually, he probably did. No, scratch that, he definitely did. Because he was still doing that stupid thing with his face, the one where he made his eyes say things, and it was the worst. 

Fuck you, Ashy Wolf. 

Sam really wanted to tell himself that it was the triple-punch combo of asking and eyes and Steve that had done it but to be honest Bucky’d had him since things are really intense for you aren’t they Walker aka approximately a million hours ago, though he wasn’t about to tell Buck that, so. 

He gave it a good run -- made some stipulations, heaved a huge sigh, all the requisite objections -- but in the end it was a foregone conclusion.  “Okay, Zemo,” he said, since apparently this was what they were doing now. “Where do we start?”* 

Yeah, they should probably be more worried. 

***

Chapter Text

Wind shear

***

Zemo had a plane. 

Sam took off his sunglasses as they walked onto the tarmac. “So all this time you’ve been rich?”* 

“I’m a Baron, Sam. My family was royalty before your friends destroyed my country,”* said the Old World oligarch who professed to believe that organized groups of disproportionately empowered people shouldn’t exist. 

Isaiah Bradley was never far from Sam’s thoughts these days, and as they stepped into Zemo’s motherfucking plane Sam was thinking a lot of thoughts. He was thinking about how Isaiah Bradley’s house had needed a new coat of paint and probably some roof repairs, by the looks of it. He was thinking about the bars on the windows of Isaiah Bradley’s house, and about how Isaiah Bradley’s super strength hadn’t exactly translated into power for him. Mostly Sam was thinking about how Isaiah Bradley lived in constant fear, and about how Baron Zemo had just fucking strolled out of prison and called up his servant-butler to come get him in his plane. With champagne. 

This opening-sequence-of-Anastasia motherfucker. 

“Why don’t you tell us about where we’re going?”* asked Sam once they were in the air. Mostly it was to have something else to focus on -- he couldn’t really stand to watch Zemo perform the role of Benevolent and Benign Master to Oeznik’s Grateful Serf any longer. 

“I’m sorry,” said Zemo, and seemed to look at something inside the book he was holding. “I was just fascinated by this. I don’t know what to call it, but this part seems to be important. Who is… Nakajima?”*

In the time it took Sam to lean forward, Bucky was across the cabin with his vibranium hand at Zemo’s throat. “If you touch that again, I’ll kill you,”* he growled, then grabbed the little book from Zemo and sat back down. 

What a surprise, Zemo was already testing Bucky. Seeking out new trigger words, trying to find something he could use to break him. Something that would make Bucky lose control. 

Sam wasn’t all that worried.

“I’m sorry,” said Zemo unapologetically. “I understand that list of names. People you’ve wronged as the Winter Soldier.”*

“Don’t push it,”* said Bucky. He stared out the window and took a couple deep therapy-type breaths. 

Yeah, time to de-escalate. “I’ve seen that book,” said Sam. “It was Steve’s when he came out of the ice.” And then he thought of something that would definitely work to distract Bucky from Baron Elmo’s bullshit. “I told him about Trouble Man, he wrote it in that book. Did you hear it? What’d you think?”*

Buck engaged, thank goodness. “I like ’40s music, so --”* 

“You didn’t like it --?”*  

“-- I liked it --”*

But then Zemo had to go and fuck it up. 

“It is a masterpiece, James. Complete. Comprehensive. It captures the African-American experience,”* said the man who’d introduced Oeznik with his family has worked for mine for twelve generations.

 Sam really wanted to say don't you dare take my side, but -- don’t engage him, Wilson. “He’s outta line,” said Sam to Bucky, “but he’s right. It’s great. Everybody loves Marvin Gaye --”*

“I like Marvin Gaye --”*

“-- Steve adored Marvin Gaye --”*

But before they could really get going, motherfucking Zemo interrupted again. “You must have really looked up to Steve,” he said in that stupid affected rasp of his. “But I realized something when I met him. The danger with people like him, America’s Super Soldiers, is that we put them on pedestals.”*

Shit, Rasputin had gone from hunting down Bucky’s trigger words to finding the cleavage points between Bucky and Sam with a quickness -- though to be fair, this one was pretty obvious. 

Also, had he called Steve an ass on purpose? Probably. 

“Watch your step, Zemo,”* Sam warned. 

“They become symbols,” Zemo continued. “Icons. And then we start to forget about their flaws. From there, cities fly, innocent people die. Movements are formed, wars are fought.” He tilted his head at Bucky, who stared back impassively. “You remember that, right? As a young soldier sent to Germany to stop a mad icon.” Wow, that hadn’t taken long. “Do we want to live in a world full of people like the Red Skull? That is why we’re going to Madripoor.”* 

Sam really wanted to say can you… not? right now? with your bullshit? but that would be extremely unprofessional, so instead he jumped at the opportunity to distract Zemo from the hunt for the Bucky-Sam fracture points in favor of something a little more constructive and asked, “What’s up with Madripoor? You talk about it like it’s Skull Island.”*

“It’s an island nation in the Indonesian archipelago,” said Bucky. “It was a pirate sanctuary back in the 1800s.”* 

“It’s kept its lawless ways,” Zemo added. “But we cannot exactly walk in as ourselves. James, you will have to become someone you claim is gone.”*

Sam looked at Bucky -- shitty, but not totally unexpected. “And me?” 

“You will need to impersonate a known member of Madripoor’s criminal element.” Zemo tilted his head. “It should be easy enough for Oeznik to find someone who fits your description.” 

Punch him in the fucking -- break his -- stop -- stop -- make him -- stop -- and that’s when Sam realized that Zemo was searching for his triggers, too. 

And worse: he’d found one. 

Don’t be That Guy. Don’t let him -- breathe. Take it easy. Shut him the fuck -- no, you’re not That Guy, don’t be That Guy. 

It hadn’t been this hard to talk himself down in a long time, but inside Sam’s head Isaiah Bradley was saying do you know what they did to me and the police had asked Bucky is this guy bothering you and AJ and Cass had been walking home from school all by themselves yesterday and That Motherfucking Cop was Captain America and and and and and and and -- 

Take it easy, Wilson. Don’t engage him. Don’t. 

-- and something in his pocket was buzzing. 

Breathe. Don’t be That Guy. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. “‘Scuse me,” Sam said very, very, calmly. Then he turned away from Zemo, pulled out his phone, and thanked every single good thing in the universe for whoever had chosen that moment to text him. 

does it still count as my mention if he’s the one who brought it up, said the message. 

From Bucky Motherfucking Barnes.  

Wow. 

Sam flicked a glance up to Bucky. He was staring out the window doing a really great impression of having no interest whatsoever in was happening inside the cabin, but Sam knew better. Thing one, this was the first and only confirmation Sam had ever gotten that the Frozen Ashface actually knew what his thumbs were for, and also thing two, Bucky was 100% intentionally talking him down. This was new. 

And surprisingly helpful. 

Sam exhaled. “Alright, Baron,” he said to Zemo. “Find me a part to play, and we’ll make it work.” Zemo raised an eyebrow in response but didn’t say anything. Instead he nodded, then buried his nose in his book and gave every appearance of minding his business. Which was not at all comforting. 

Sam turned back to his phone and set it to silent, then sent back: 

you can respond
use it wisely 

great, wrote Bucky.
then let me just take this opportunity to say
I knew the Red Skull, I fought the Red Skull, and Hamlet Nemo is just a less red Red Skull  

Probably the most difficult thing in the world was trying to pretend you weren’t mocking the person sitting right next to you in a completely separate screen-based conversation with the person sitting across from you. 

I KNOW RIGHT?????
DUCKING HYPOCRITE
also, nice 

thanks, was Bucky’s reply.
I looked it up 

Sam shot a glance at Zemo, who was still pretending to read. 

side note, he texted Bucky. how do you know about Nemo  

that was autocorrect 
but i read Jules Verne 

lololololololololol 

but you’re not actually laughing though? 

Sam rolled his eyes -- but like, surreptitiously. 

i know you know how figurative language works.

“Gentlemen,” said Zemo, looking up from his book. “There is no need for these artless attempts at concealment. I assure you, I have no interest in interfering with --” he motioned between the two of them. “-- whatever this is.” 

A little bloop! went off in the back of Sam’s mind, something someone had said once -- what was it Banner had told him, about quantum particles and how they moved? Or maybe it was something from Strange, about how reality changed based on whether it was observed -- or actually, it may have even been when Thor was talking about how he crossed that Mario Kart level to get to Asgard, to be honest. 

Either way, the point was, loren ipsum cogito ergo sum, Zemo had already interfered. In fact, this little jab was clearly just another ploy to drive the wedge between them further.  

But it didn’t really matter, because Zemo still wasn’t as bad as Bucky’s therapist. 

“Whatever, Zemo,” said Bucky dismissively. “If you want to die with your work unfinished, keep talking.”  Zemo mimed locking up his mouth and throwing away the key, which, hadn’t he just locked up his mouth like, an hour ago? The gesture seemed pretty ineffective. 

Still though, if the last twenty minutes had taught Sam anything it was that he and Bucky needed something Zemo couldn’t touch, otherwise Tsar Nicholas really would succeed in driving that very real Steve-and-shield-shaped wedge into the cleavage points of their so-far-medium-successful working relationship. 

Sam caught Bucky’s eye, raised an eyebrow inquiringly, and tapped his earpiece on the side Zemo couldn’t see. 

Bucky’s answer was a sort of why not gesture, so Sam shared his music stream to Buck’s earpiece and queued up Big Freedia. “I’m going to take a nap,” he said aloud. Then he closed his eyes, exhaled, and hit play on the bebop. 

***

Chapter Text

Altricial 

***

First stop on the way to Madripoor was Bali, to regroup and get into character. Oeznik escorted them to the five-star penthouse with “apologies, sir, but this was the best I could do on such short notice,” which, fucking hell. 

Upon arrival Zemo immediately announced his intent to “seize this opportunity to bathe for longer than fifteen seconds uninterrupted” and disappeared into the en-suite. Based on the shower he’d taken when he’d gotten out of the Raft, Sam figured they had a good ninety minutes before they had to worry about Baron Elmo’s scheming again, so that was pretty nice. And as for Bucky -- Sam glanced around -- yep, the Ashy Wolf was sprawled facedown on the floor, as usual, and showed no signs of moving anytime soon. 

Excellent. Time to escape to the balcony and make some calls. 

Sam stepped out into heat that dropped over him like a blanket, heavy and comforting. Afternoon sun, air so thick you could almost swim in it, insects singing -- if he closed his eyes, he could almost convince himself he was back home. 

“Hey Wanda, it’s Sam, haven’t heard from you in a while. Call me back when you have a chance, yeah? Or text, whatever, just so I know you’re okay.” 

“Barton, hey, how ya doin? How’s the family?” 

“Mama Riley, good morning -- oh, wait, is it still morning where you are? Okay, wonderful, good morning, then. Are you well? Enjoying your Sunday?” 

“Torres, hi! Nothing to say, just checking in. Did you get your grandmother something nice from me?” 

“Cass, Cass, the smallmouth bass! Is your brother around? Okay cool, let’s go to the dock.” Cass showed even less regard for camera stability than his brother on the way out. “How are my two favorite nephews?” 

“Where’s the Frozen Ashface?” asked AJ. “Is he there too?” 

“Wow,” said Sam. “Not even a word for your own uncle. That’s cold, man.” 

“Not as cold as the Frozen Ashface,” Cass piped up. 

“That didn’t even make sense,” said Sam, but he tapped on the glass door and waved Bucky out all the same. 

“Hiiii, Mr. Ashface!” the boys chorused when Buck came into frame -- ooh, yeah, that nickname was definitely sticking around. “Are you guys still saving the world together?” AJ added. 

Sam made a face. “Not like, together together. But yes, we’re still working together.”  

“I think he was talking to me,” said Bucky. “The Ashface.” 

“No, he wasn’t,” said Sam. 

“Yeah, I was,” said AJ. 

“Did you catch any bad guys yet?” said Cass. 

“Now, you know I’m not gonna talk about the mission like that,” said Sam. 

“Still talking to me,” said Bucky, and plucked the phone out of Sam’s hands before he could blink. “And as a matter of fact, I have an extremely important recent development to report.” 

“No way!”

“Really?” 

“Where are you going with this, Barnes,” said Sam under his breath, but Bucky ignored him. 

“Gentlemen,” said the Popsicle Assassin with utmost seriousness, “I am delighted to inform you that shortly after our recent conversation, I bested your uncle in a dance-off.” 

“Whoa!” 

“No way!” 

“Lies --”  

Bucky nodded gravely. “Decisively.” 

“-- slander, heresy, lies --” Sam grabbed for the phone, but Bucky slapped his hand away. “You --” 

“That’s awesome --” 

“ -- can we see?!” 

“Maybe another time,” said Bucky. “Gotta let him practice for a while so he can at least try to get on my level.” Sam leaned out of frame and held up his middle finger. 

“Aw, mannn…” 

“Do you promise, Mr. Ashface?”

“Um,” said Bucky. 

“Please?” said Cass. “If you’re a better dancer than Uncle Sam you must be really good.” 

“That’s flattery,” said Bucky. “It won’t work.” 

“But is it flattery if it’s truuuue?” Ha, score one for AJ -- well done, youngling. 

Bucky looked at Sam with a sort of desperate please get me out of this expression on his face but Sam only shrugged and grinned at him like don’t talk shit if you can’t back it up, old man.  

Cass deployed his not-so-secret weapon and made his eyes really big behind his glasses. “Pleeeeeeeeeeeease?” 

“Uhhhh, I don’t think --” Bucky began, and Cass’s lip began to quiver. “-- no, no! I mean, um… okay, yeah,” he finished. The boys cheered in triumph. 

“You know they’re gonna hold you to that,” said Sam when they’d hung up the call. “Better stop making promises you can’t keep.” 

“What, you think I won’t dance circles around you any day of the week?”

“Damn right, White Fang --” 

“-- sounds like a challenge, Black Magpie.” 

Sam chuckled. “Boy, get your ass outta here and let me call my sister. Maybe check on Zemo?” 

Bucky smacked Sam on the arm and stood. “See you inside.” 

He could tell something was off as soon as Sarah picked up. “Everything okay?”  

“Yes,” she said. “No. It happened again.”  

A boulder dropped in his stomach. “Where?” 

“Ohio, this time. He was twelve.”  

AJ was eleven. “Fuck,” said Sam, and blew out a breath. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.”  

He could hear his sister’s sigh from clear across the world. “Yeah.” 

“I’m here, Sarah.” It seemed so inadequate. “Anything you need.” 

“What I need is a country where I don’t have to worry about the motherfucking government shooting my sons for walking down the street,” she snapped. “And to sell this goddamn boat.”  

Another boulder joined the first. “Sarah. Please.” 

“You weren’t here, Sam --”  

“But I’m here now, though --” 

“-- you’re not --”  

“ -- just make these decisions without me! We can --” 

“-- you know what, can we please not do this today?” She sounded weary. “I don’t -- I can’t, I can’t do this with you right now, not today.”  

“You’re right.” A beat. “You know I love you, right?”

Sarah gave a long-suffering sigh. “Feeling’s mutual, Samuel Joseph. I’m gonna let you go, I gotta start dinner.” 

“Don’t forget the salt,” said Sam, and hung up before she could. 

“Zemo’s still in the shower,” said Bucky when Sam entered, then did a double take. “You okay?”

“The cops killed a kid in Ohio.” And then, because he felt the need to clarify, he added, “A Black kid.”  

“Oh.” A beat. “I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, me too.” Sam sat on the edge of the nearest bed, but the -- the, it, it was too soft, the sinking thing was happening, he was sinking -- shit, fuck, he needed something solid -- and before he knew it Sam was sliding to the floor to curl his knees toward his chest.  

Bucky sat up. 

“Don’t,” said Sam. “Just don’t.” He closed his eyes and let his head fall back. 

But then something was pressing into his right shoulder, something hard and unyielding, like -- oh. Like vibranium. 

Okay, that wasn’t so bad. 

“I looked up all the Howling Commandos, years ago.” Buck’s voice came from right next to his head, soft as Sam had ever heard it. “It was pretty much the first thing I did.”

Sam didn’t know what to say to that, so he said nothing. But he did open his eyes. 

“Gabe Jones was the smartest guy I’d ever met -- he’d gone to college, for Chrissakes.” Bucky  shook his head. “Spoke German and French, three semesters at Howard. Saved my ass more than once.” 

Fucking Christ, was this about to become an I once had a Black friend conversation? Please, God, no. 

“But after the war… I s’pose it didn’t matter who he was. Wrong place, wrong time, you know? Back then we didn’t even question it, the mobs were just a thing that happened when -- when too many Black people in some place or other tried to ‘step out of line,’ I guess." His mouth had a bitter twist. "We knew it was fucked up, but it was just -- just the way things were.” 

Oh.

“I’m a hundred and seven years old,” said Bucky. “And the worst part about adjusting to this new future that everyone keeps telling me is so different is the shit that hasn’t changed.” 

Oh. 

Sam had to clench his jaw to keep from -- doing something, he didn’t know what.

“Anyway,” said Bucky. “I think the shower just stopped. You gonna be -- not okay, but, you know. Okay?” 

“More or less. Thanks.” Sam waved him off. “And -- thanks.” 

“Don’t mention it. Magpie.” 

*** 

Chapter Text

Supracoracoideus

***

The whole thing was a clusterfuck from jump. 

“Only an American would assume a fashion-forward Black man looks like a pimp,” said Baron von Fuckface, face alight with unholy glee at the chance to throw another jibe at Sam. “You look exactly like the man you’re supposed to be playing -- a sophisticated and charming African rake named Conrad Mack, aka the Smiling Tiger.”*

Don’t engage him. Don’t be That Guy. Breathe. 

Sam was just about done with Zemo’s bullshit. He was done with the way Zemo kept whispering things into Bucky’s ear, snatches of Russian like daybreak and freight car and ready to comply, Winter Soldier?  as if they were sweet nothings. Every so often he would cast a glance at Sam as he did so -- because Sam didn’t speak Russian but he’d damn sure looked up all the Winter Soldier phrases, at least, and Zemo had to know that. 

Sam was done with the way Zemo had said it is of the utmost importance we stay in character, there is no margin for error, because shortly thereafter Zemo tossed Winter Soldier, attack over his shoulder and started shoving people at Bucky just to put on a show, just because he could. And then -- the nerve of this man -- he'd fucking turned to Sam with that stupid little smirk and said didn’t take much for him to fall back into form as if he hadn’t made him do it. 

Sam hadn’t seen this Bucky Barnes in a long time -- relentless, mindless, nothing behind his eyes but brutality and violence -- and he wasn’t prepared for how heartbreaking it would be. Buck was trying so hard to believe that he was more than this thing -- this version of himself that stalked rather than walked, the assassin who went for killing rather than disabling blows. It affected Sam to the point that he finally intervened -- put his hand on the Winter Soldier’s vibranium arm to stop him crushing a man’s trachea, cover be damned. 

Zemo had of course chosen that moment to slide in and hiss something about staying in character, and that’s when Sam realized that the whole thing had been a test not just for Bucky but for him, too -- to see how far he could be pushed. Great, excellent, wonderful, more Zemo bullshit. 

Sam found himself murmuring “You good?”* under his breath to the Winter Soldier after it was over, just to make sure… just to make sure. Bucky emerged for a split second -- just long enough to disguise a nod to Sam as a sniff as he turned away, but it was enough.  

And then they were standing in a room with Selby and her goons, and Selby had asked weren’t you rotting away in a prison somewhere and Zemo had said people like us always find a way, don’t we and holy fucking Christ, Isaiah Bradley, Isaiah Bradley, Isaiah Bradley, stay in character, stay in character -- smile, Tiger.  

When Sam wrestled his awareness back to his surroundings it was just in time to watch Zemo run his fingers over Bucky’s mouth in a sick imitation of a caress while Bucky’s eyes went dead again, and then Ivan the Terrible turned to Selby and said he will do whatever you want with about a million awful shades of implication, and Sam’s mind went white.  

The most fucked-up part was that Zemo was enjoying himself. He was enjoying his attempts to -- to trigger a relapse, as it were. He was enjoying the chance to control Bucky again, he liked making Bucky feel powerless.

So yeah, Sam was one hundred thousand percent done with this bullshit. Between the snake heart in his drink and the very real fur at Zemo’s collar he was also done with the casual animal cruelty, but that was beside the point. Honestly, it was kind of a relief when his phone went off.  

Before he knew it they were hightailing it out of the bar and Sam was yelling “I can’t run in these heels!”* as he chased Bucky down an alley. Zemo vanished at some point and reappeared right when they were just about cornered, so that was something, and that’s when Sharon Fucking Carter materialized out of thin air like some kind of sniping angel. 

When Sharon’s driver pulled up Sam maneuvered into the middle seat with a quickness, because what wasn’t about to happen was Zemo putting himself between him and Bucky right now. Sharon took shotgun. “You two seem chummy,” she said, half-turning in her seat to motion between Bucky and Sam. 

Beside him Bucky had gone quiet and cold, so Sam figured it was up to him to field this one. “We’re not chums.”

“They deny their affection for one another,” said Zemo, tilting his head, “because it is easier than the alternative, which would be to face the fundamental conflict at the heart of their partnership.”  

Okay, first of all, uncalled for. Second of all, wow. Third of all, fuck. Had Sam really thought that Zemo wasn’t as bad as Bucky’s therapist? He needed to stop setting himself up like that. Fucking hell. Squashing it had seemed like a good idea at the time, though it clearly wasn’t working out super well at this exact moment -- but they couldn’t let Zemo win, so, “Nobody’s denying shit.” Sam smiled. “But you don’t call your cranky toothless grandfather your chum, do you?” 

“And we’re not partners.” Oh, thank God, Bucky had picked up the rebound. He was still cold and quiet and far, far too blank for Sam’s liking, but he’d picked up the rebound, and that was something. 

Sharon grinned. “Well, when you put it like that.” She turned to Zemo. “And you?” 

“I am invaluable to the team,” said Zemo. “Madripoor was my lead, in fact.” 

“So you’re who we have to thank for all this. Good to know, for when the Power Broker comes knocking.”   

“You wouldn’t sell us out,” said Sam. 

“You? No. Him?” She motioned to Zemo. “In a heartbeat. Less, even.” 

“I am flattered to think that I warrant such depth of feeling in someone I had never met personally before today,” said Zemo. 

“Says the iconoclast,” Sam muttered under his breath. Beside him Bucky exhaled through his nose with just enough emphasis to be a proto-laugh, and it was -- it was -- it felt kind of like the first drink of water after a really long run, like, in the desert, to hear Bucky laugh even a little bit, because they may have programmed all the joy out of the Winter Soldier but Bucky Barnes could still laugh. “Soooo, Ms. Carter, how’d you end up in High Town?” 

Sharon grinned. “Thought that I’d be broke without you, but I’m richer,” she sang, then added: “Started in Low Town, worked my way up. C’mon, we’re here.” 

***

Chapter Text

Cohesion 

*** 

Mission objective: lay low, blend in, enjoy the party. Try to stay out of trouble. Easy enough. Theoretically. Except relying on Sharon to track down information on Nagel and Karli meant that Sam, Bucky, and Zemo were at loose ends for a while. And loose ends could be… dangerous. 

“What’s your 20?” Sam murmured, just loud enough for his earpiece to pick up. He’d just finished his second round of Zemo duty, so. Time for a drink. 

“Southwest corner of the bar. And before you ask, yes, I’ve got eyes on Zemo.” The nice thing about these tactical earpieces was that Bucky could be right in his ear from all the way across the room. 

Sam chuckled. “How’s the party?”

“A couple of the Mont Sainte-Victoires are here,” said Bucky. “You should go look at them.” 

“As soon as I get my drink, sure. Where?” 

“Due east of you.” A pause. “I always liked Cézanne. So many different ways of seeing the same thing, you know?” 

“Uh, no, I don’t, actually,” said Sam distractedly. “Okay, I’m here. They’re… nice?” 

“Nice? One of the greatest painters of all time and all you have to say is nice?!” Ha, he’d never heard Bucky so outraged. 

“I was never much of a visual arts person,” said Sam. “Not out of -- I’ve just never, you know, had the context, or time, or whatever. So you’ll have to tell me what I’m looking at.”  

That sparked such an impassioned lecture on something called Post-Impressionism -- whatever that was, oh well, Sam was willing to bet that he’d soon find out -- that he had to smile. Shit, he couldn’t have picked a better way to draw Bucky out of his dissociative Winter Soldier state if he’d tried. Who knew the Frozen Ashface was an art critic? 

“How do you know all this, Barnes?” said Sam about twenty minutes later, when Bucky finally paused to take a breath. 

Buck was quiet for a second. Then: “Spent a lotta hours staring at stuff like this with Steve, back in the day.” 

Sam didn’t know what to say to that, so he said, “Mmmmm,” just to show he was still listening. 

“It was the Depression.” Wow, it felt surprisingly intimate to have Bucky’s voice basically inside his head telling this story. “We’d hang out outside the fence at Dodgers stadium, or sneak past the bouncers at Coney Island. We conned our way into a lotta places, too, had a whole routine. By the time we were in our 20s Steve still looked way younger than we were, obviously, so he’d play the sickly kid and I was the older brother. There was a real nice lady at MoMA who used to let us in through the staff doors. That’s how we saw the original Guernica, when it came in ‘40. Steve was obsessed.” 

“Picasso, right? I’ve seen that painting.” 

“No, you haven’t.”

“Ugh, you’re the worst.” 

“Sharon will back me up -- I’m sure she knows who has it.”  

“Huh. Guess I’ll have to verify when I check in with her.” Sam wandered away from Cézanne, making sure to copy the drifting I’m-looking-at-art-with-a-drink-in-hand walk that everyone seemed to be doing. 

“The Met was Steve’s and my favorite place, after the library, mostly ‘cause it was free,” said Bucky’s voice in his ear. “We’d take our pencils and sketchbooks and stay there all day, when we could. Sometimes it was the only way I could pry him from the bookshelves.” 

“Man, what do you have against the library?” 

“Nothing at all,” said Bucky indignantly. “But the thing about the library is that you can check the books out.” 

“Touché.” Sam bent to examine a sculpture. 

“Stevie was always the one who could sit still. I couldn’t even make an hour before I’d have to get up and run around, or hit something. We started going to a boxing gym -- Goldie’s. He could never train for long, what with the asthma, so he started bringing books, and he’d sit by and read aloud while I kept training. We stopped getting beat up so much after that. 

“Anyway, you might like the Fuller sculpture. It’s right next to the Rodin, she was his student for a while. We can play spot the differences.” 

“Are you pointing me toward this sculptor’s work because she was Black?” 

“Uh,” said Bucky. “Kinda, yeah?”  

Sam wasn’t sure what he was feeling, but it was something. “Okay, well. Explain to me how much better she eventually became than this white man she learned from, then.” 

This time it was more like forty minutes before Bucky paused for breath. About ten minutes in he’d started to slide into a different vocal register, something a little less menacing and a little more hey I’m walkin’ here -- and fuck, but it was good to hear James Barnes instead of the Winter Soldier. “Your Brooklyn is showing.” 

“Oh, you want Brooklyn? I’ll give you Brooklyn, dollface,” said Bucky in a voice Sam had only ever heard in movies. 

“Holy shit,” said Sam. “Is that for real? Do it again.” 

“Only if you show me yours, pal.” 

“What?” 

“C’mon, you’re not telling me you don’t got an accent, Mr. Delacroix, Louisiana?” 

“Oh, okay. Let me get into the headspace.” Uh, except, what was that? Could he even dredge up that version of himself on command? “This is harder than I thought.” 

“See? It ain't so easy now you're the one in the hot seat, is it?” 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” 

“Oh my God, Wilson, you need to get over here right now.” 

Sam was already on the move. “What’s wrong?” 

“Zemo is dancing.” 

“Hey, Bucky told me to ask you about the real Guernica. He says it’s not in Madrid.” 

“Funny you should ask,” said Sharon. “Top of the stairs, to the left. Go find Bucky, I’ll tell them you’re coming.” 

“But --” 

“Yes, obviously I’ll keep an eye on Zemo. Enjoy your date, tiger.” 

“Buck was right,” said Sam. “You are kind of awful now.” 

“So?” asked the Frozen Ashface -- not in Sam’s ear this time, but from right next to him. They were standing before the enormous painting, having been waved past about twelve thousand layers of security, which, wow, Sharon. 

“Oh,” said Sam. “Oh, I -- I get it. Okay. Okay, yeah.” It was about war. 

“I haven’t seen it in eighty-plus years,” said Bucky. He was doing the staring thing, although thankfully not at Sam this time. “I hadn’t been -- it was before -- it hits kinda different, now.” 

“I bet,” said Sam. And then before he could stop himself, he blurted, “You’re… not really a soldier, are you?”  

Bucky blinked twice. Then he raised his left hand and waved. Pointedly. 

“No, I mean, you --” okay, think of a better way to say that, Wilson. “Before -- before everything.  You and Steve, you -- hung out at the library, you snuck into art exhibits. You were nerds.” 

Dammit, now Bucky’s face was facing Sam again, doing that thing, and it was a long time before Bucky spoke, and when he did it was very, very soft. “We were born a year before the Great War ended.” A sigh. “When we were kids we thought that meant something. Guess it did, just… not what we thought.” 

Sam didn’t know what to say to that. So he said nothing. 

“We were actually in an art class together when we heard the news about Pearl Harbor on the radio, and America entering the war,” said Bucky. “Day that’ll live in infamy, and all that. S’when he decided to join up.” 

“See what I mean?” said Sam. “Nerds. Library-dwelling, storytime-boxing, art-class-in-your-twenties-ass nerds. I’m never gonna let you forget that, Barnes.” 

***

Chapter Text

Auriculars

*** 

i already know what you’re about to say
don’t you dare 

never 
even I wouldn’t call this bebop
it’s clearly blues 

again you are conflating “is” and “is rooted in” 
that’s okay, it’s not your fault 
it’s a common mistake among ashfaces 

Aside from Bucky’s blisteringly incorrect assessment of Jimi Hendrix, the flight out of Madripoor was smooth enough once they got in the air. Well -- aside from that, and Zemo’s bullshit, of course.

This last round had started with him pulling out a gun -- and who’d let Zemo get a gun? -- and shooting Nagel, the scientist who’d recreated the super-serum, directly in the chest. That in itself had been fucking upsetting -- not only for the usual reasons, but also because, well, it wasn’t the first time Sam had found himself wanting to applaud something Zemo had done, but it was the only one he still didn’t regret. Because according to Nagel, if you were white you could be a hero or a god, but apparently if you were Black you were nothing but a ‘test subject.’ 

And then Bucky had gone the wrong fucking way when they were trying to get out of the shipping container maze, and -- just -- it was the first time in a very long time that he and Bucky had actually not been in perfect sync during an operation. Even in the warehouse outside Munich, they’d bickered, sure, but they hadn’t run in opposite directions.

And it was all down to Zemo’s bullshit. Zemo’s mind games, Zemo’s sick fetish for power and control -- especially over Bucky. This won’t be worth it if you… 

Ugh. Mostly Sam was just really aggravated that Zemo was succeeding at driving that round vibranium wedge into his and Bucky’s whole thing and fucking up a perfectly good system of never addressing their real issues. Because squashing it had been working, until Zemo showed up. 

Okay, so admittedly that hadn’t been very long, but still -- what business did Zemo have bringing up Steve, talking about him like -- we put them on pedestals, we forget their flaws -- fuck you, Zemo, you didn’t even know him. Between that and ready to comply, Winter Soldier? Sam had realized that yep, that's right, Zemo had succeeded in messing with Bucky's mind. Again. Bringing the warmth back into Bucky's eyes had been hard enough last night, when they'd had Picasso to help, but then when Zemo swooped in and saved their asses from all those bounty hunters Sam knew it was gonna be a lot harder this time around. 

And how long had Bucky been waiting for the opportunity to flip you’re not gonna move your seat up, are you? Literal years, was the answer -- and it would have been a hilarious callback had it still been Steve in the driver’s seat. But now it was happening with Bucky riding shotgun not to Steve but to Zemo and it was fucking terrifying. 

fuck you Wilson  
there are only two genders of music: bebop and blues 
genres** 

lolololololololololol 
wait that was amazing
it was better the other way

why 
i don’t get it 

lol i’m gonna have to send you a lot of links buddy 

Okay. So. The thing was. 

Hendrix hadn’t not played the blues. In fact, someone had released a compilation of Hendrix’s blues recordings, back in the nineties. So. It was entirely possible for Sam to keep nurturing this bond between him and Bucky by putting that album on -- in fact, in light of Zemo's efforts to tear them apart, he probably should nurture that bond if he wanted to keep Bucky mostly sane. Because Sam empathized with Bucky’s struggle -- really and truly, he did, especially after their conversation the previous night.  

Bucky was mourning Steve. Bucky missed Steve, felt lost without Steve, didn't know who he was without Steve. Bucky wanted to cling to Steve’s goodness and rightness, especially in the face of Zemo's bullshit -- understandable, and still frustrating nonetheless.  As for Sam, well. A lot of that was true, of course. 

And. 

Sam was also very, very angry at Steve.

Sam was angry at Steve and had been for a long time, but he also wasn’t exactly what one might call “ready” to examine it, or to think about what might be hiding underneath. On the flip side, Bucky still equated Steve with the shield and still couldn’t take his head out of his own ass long enough to try to understand why Sam's experience of the shield might actually be very different from his, so here they were at what the experts called an impasse and folks back home called chickenshit. 

And real talk, Sam was a little sick of always being the one to squash it. Of constantly taking care of Bucky -- of always being the caretaker, the one who had his shit together, the one who looked out for everybody else. He was sick of always having to make space for other people’s good intentions, or their inability to deal with their shit -- of always being the one to reach out and extend his empathy, rather than the other way around.

So no, Sam actually wasn’t feeling super forgiving just now about the fact that Bucky was choosing to blame Sam for the shitty way he felt about himself rather than deal with his co-dependence issues re: that fucking thing. 

That wasn’t to say that Bucky couldn’t have his feelings about the shield -- of course he could. But what Bucky was not allowed to do was abdicate responsibility by shoving the shield into Sam’s hands, then turn around and try to dictate what the fuck Sam did with it by holding him hostage with a hundred years of feelings about the damn thing. 

If the shield was Sam’s, it was Sam’s, and the decisions and their consequences were his, too. And the thought had crept into Sam’s mind that maybe… fuck, maybe it was his fault Walker had the shield. Because he could have made sure he didn't -- not by picking it up, but... maybe it shouldn’t exist altogether. The government had done so much harm with it, even from the beginning, even to create it -- maybe it shouldn’t have existed to begin with. Maybe it never really had. 

And how had Sharon not been on The List? 

Speaking of which. 

i don’t understand jokes anymore 
humor requires so much goddamn context 

lolol get off my lawn you meddling kids 

see? i bet that was a reference too 

By the time he’d hung up with Sharon and then Sarah, it was time to check in with Torres. 

Torres’s call doubled up -- Sam got to meet Torres’s grandmother over video call, which was lovely. But then he had to give Torres the name of another elder near death -- advanced fucking tuberculosis, what was this, Moulin Rouge? -- with instructions to find her not so that they could help her, but so that they could use her to track Karli Morgenthau and the rest of the Flag Smashers. 

So yeah. He wasn’t in a great state of mind when he sat back down. 

“You okay?”* asked Bucky, which, okay, that was… sweet. 

“Yeah.” Sam sighed. “Just thinking about all the shit that Sharon had to go through. And Nagel, referring to the ‘American test subject’ like Isaiah wasn’t even a real person… Just makes me wonder how many people have to get steamrolled to make way for this hunk of metal.”*

“Well, it depends on who you ask.” Ugh, of course it did. “That hunk of metal saved a lot of lives.”*

“Yeah, I get that. All right.” Nobody’s denying the lives saved -- the problem is that those are the only lives you count. “But maybe I made a mistake.”* 

“You did.”* Fuck you, Ashy Wolf. 

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Maybe I shouldn’t have put it in a museum.” He met Bucky’s eyes in challenge and said what he was thinking, and if Bucky wanted to feel some type of way about it he could keep it the fuck to himself. “Maybe I should have destroyed it.”* 

Bucky’s entire posture changed: he leaned forward, shoulders hunched, eyes intense. “Look, that shield represents a lotta things to a lotta people, including me.” Yep, of fucking course it did. “The world is upside down, and we need a new Cap, and it ain’t gonna be Walker. So before you go and destroy it, I’m gonna take it from him myself.”*

And there it was: the staring and the earnesty and the eyes -- not quite a moment, but maybe about to possibly become something other -- because what did that mean, and no they maybe didn’t need a new Cap, that was the point, there maybe shouldn't even be a Cap -- and obviously yes, fuck Walker, but there was a lot of room between ‘not Walker’s’ and ‘Sam’s to melt down’ and Bucky had said 'before you go and destroy it' but did that mean that he but what if but and and and and and and -- 

-- and Zemo slid between them to set down a plate of buns in front of each. 

This fucking asshole. 

Shortly thereafter Torres called back with intel pointing them to Riga, and of course Zemo tilted his head and said I have a place we can go, and it was all Sam could do to nod and sink back into Hendrix. 

If that thing belonged to anyone, if anybody had a right to it, it was Isaiah Bradley, who’d been betrayed by what it represented before Steve ever picked it up. Or maybe it belonged to Torres, who still believed in the promises America had fed him. Or Sarah, who lived in fear for her own and her children’s lives at America’s hands -- or his nephews, who deserved the safety of an impenetrable shield.  

Either way, at least he and Bucky agreed on one thing: it sure as hell didn’t belong to That Motherfucker. 

ok but seriously how do you not hear the blues

i’m not saying i don’t hear the blues 
what i’m saying is that 

you are ignoring the chord progression

the integration of new elements makes a thing a different thing 
fuck your chord progression
YOU are ignoring the introduction of electricity, for one 

electricity doesn’t make a thing a different thing 

it does when it changes the listener's experience of the thing 
snowflake 

An album-and-a-half later Zemo was asleep, and Bucky was staring again. 

Sam sighed and paused the not-blues. “What.” 

Bucky stared for another second, then said abruptly, “You wanna talk about why your phone wasn’t silenced during an undercover op?” 

“No.” My compulsive behaviors and I are very happy together, thanks.  

“Fair enough,” said Bucky. “But for the record, I get it.” 

“The cops killed an unarmed child my nephew’s age yesterday,” said Sam, straight from gut to mouth. “So I don’t think you do.” 

Bucky looked away first. 

Sam pressed play and let Jimi fill the silence between them once more. 

Breathe. 

He could leave it there. Bucky would take his anger -- had taken it, without protest. Could take a lot more, if Sam felt like putting it somewhere -- and oh, how he wanted to, fuck, it would be so much easier than this, it would hurt so much less to just let himself be That Guy. 

But Bucky was reaching out -- wasn't that what he'd wanted? Bucky was trying. And even if he hadn’t been, it still wouldn’t be okay for Sam to make his anger Bucky’s problem. Sam knew his anger was valid, even justified -- but taking it out on Bucky wasn’t, because Sam's feelings were his own responsibility to manage. He knew all that, knew what he had to do, he just… didn’t want to. Because it took so much fucking effort. 

Fuck. Fuck his therapist brain, fuck his helper conscience, fuck his empathy. Fine. Fine. 

He paused the music. Bucky looked up. 

“I just.” Damn, this was harder than he’d thought. “What you said before, about sitting still… there’s a reason I fly. But I -- when I’m out here, there’s always this -- this growing itch, like a song in my head that gets louder and louder the longer I’m away, telling me I’m needed at home. And then when I go home, I can only stay for so long before I have to fly away again.” 

Bucky was doing the thing with his face. 

“There’s a German word for that, you know,” said Zemo without opening his eyes. 

Of course there was. “Thanks,” shitface, “Zemo.” 

“Always a pleasure to help,” said the guy who’d spent the last forty-eight hours trying to pit him and Bucky against each other. 

Zugunruhe

Gesundheit

***

Chapter Text

Aerie 

***

“There are two bedrooms in the flat,” said Zemo as he unlocked the door to his place we can go in Riga. “I will take the master, if you don’t mind." 

“Of course,” said Sam, cross-eyed with exhaustion. “How kind of you.” 

“I live only to serve.” Ugh, did this man ever fucking quit? “The guest room has likewise been aired out for our use,” Zemo continued, tilting his head to indicate a door off the main room, “though the two of you may not wish to share, as there is only one bed.” He smirked in challenge.

Ooooooh, okay, shit, Rasputin might actually win this one, to be honest, because -- creaking leather, movement in his periphery -- wait, what was happening? 

Sam made his eyes focus just in time to see Bucky stalk past him and Zemo without a word. Then he watched as the Ashy Wolf went to the second bedroom door, shoved it open, and disappeared inside. 

And didn’t close the door. 

Oh, fuck yeah.  

Sam grinned at Zemo with all his teeth. “That won’t be a problem.” 

“Nice one,” he said once they’d put a good three inches of solid oak between them and their host. “So do we need to worry about Count Vronsky absconding in the night?” 

Bucky shook his head. “He doesn’t have anything else.” 

“Fuck, that’s dark,” said Sam, and grabbed his toiletries. “I’m gonna brush my teeth.” 

Balto was still standing half-shadowed in the corner, assassin-style, when Sam came back in. It was entirely possible he hadn’t moved at all. 

Sam went to his bag -- time to do finding things, sleeping things, finding things for sleeping. Pants? Pants. “Bathroom’s all yours.”

“Did you mean that?” Buck’s voice was so floaty. 

“Mean what?” Pants and, ummmm, pants. Wait, pants were already pants. What next? 

“About the one bed not being a problem.” 

Right, the shirted tee. “‘Course I did, why?” 

“Because I sleep on the floor,” said Bucky. “Right?” 

“I mean, I figured you would, yeah, but you don’t have to. I’ve bunked with worse,” said Sam absentmindedly, because shirted tee was secure, time for go time.  

Okay, mission checkl-- “You’re not afraid to share a bed with me?” 

Fucking hell. “No? Why would I be?” 

Okay, mission checklist -- sweatpants on, check. Shirty on, ch-- 

“You know why.” -- oh my God fuck you I just wanna -- 

Yeah, so Sam had pretty much had it with Frosty the Ashface’s unrelenting self-pity, and it had been a really, really, reeeeeally long day, and there was really only one thing he wanted to do right now and that thing was sleep and White Fang was keeping him from it -- yup, oh yeah, oooooh -- there went his temper, straight from gut to mouth unfiltered. Lord, have mercy. 

“You know what, Bucky?” Sam turned and rounded on the Ashface. “I actually really fucking don’t. So tell me, is it because you didn’t used to pay to get into MoMA, or ‘cause you asked God to Save Us Nelly Queens? Is it ‘cause you dream in Russian? Is it on account of your terrible opinions about music?” Bucky opened his mouth, definitely to say something annoying, but Sam kept ranting right on over him. “No, no, don’t tell me -- it’s ‘cause somewhere in the back of your closet you still got a shelf full of library books eighty years past due! Or maybe it’s ‘cause you ain’t showered in two days -- well, guess what, motherfucker? Neither have I! 

“Exactly what in the hell is it you think I’m s’posed to be so goddamn afraid of? Huh? Your greasy hair? The light in your pretty eyes? That metal arm?” He scoffed. “It ain’t no part of you could scare me, Snowflake. No, I don’t give a fuck where you sleep. Matter of fact, I plan to be unconscious before you decide." He smacked Bucky on the arm, just to drive his point home. "So take your time.” 

And with that he promptly turned around, fell on top of the covers, and passed the fuck out. 

*** 

Chapter Text

Dawn chorus

***

“Wilson.” Something was poking his shoulder. Repeatedly. “Hey, Wilson. Sam.” 

Sam didn’t open his eyes. “Gggggnnnnnrnrrrrhrggggghhhhhhh.” 

The poking turned to shoving. “Are you up?”

Well, that was easy. “No.” 

“Kinda seems like you’re up.” 

 “Fuck you.” But he let Bucky’s next shove roll him onto his back. 

“So you’re up now, though.” 

“Oh my God, you unbelievable asshole,” said Sam, and threw an arm over his face. 

“C’mon, get up, you’re gonna wanna see this,” said the Ashy Wolf. 

“The only thing I wanna see right now is the back of my eyelids,” Sam retorted, but pulled himself to a seated position with a groan nevertheless. “What time is it?” 

Bucky tugged at his elbow. “Doesn’t matter. Get up, Black Pigeon. I know you can do it.” 

“Not ‘til you tell me what I’m getting up for, shithead.” Sam rubbed his face with a yawn, and finally opened his eyes to -- wait, what the fuck? 

Was that a smile on Bucky Barnes’s face? Like, a real one? Not an I’m-fucking-with-you smirk or a baring-my-teeth grin but like a regular old something-genuinely-kinda-good-is-happening type smile? What the fuck could make the Scowling Commando smile at the actual ass-crack of dawn? And why was it getting wider the longer Sam looked?  

And then Bucky punched Sam’s shoulder and said, “The window faces east.” 

Holy shit. 

“C’mon, admit it, I’m right,” said the Ashface. Bucky had dragged Sam into the main room and perched them on a table in front of -- well, it was -- dang, was that real? 

Holy fucking shit. 

It was an entire wall of stained glass, just barely glowing at the bottom like jeweled geometry as the sun pushed over the horizon -- blue and yellow and red and crystal clear, all kaleidoscoping together on the blue tile of the wall behind them, and -- oh, wow, okay. Okay, wow. 

“Shut up,” said Sam. “Don’t ruin it.” His head was about a thousand times heavier than it had any right to be, so he let it fall onto Bucky’s shoulder. 

“Excuse you,” said Bucky. 

“You woke me up, shithead,” said Sam by way of explanation. “Even for rainbow sunrise is ass move, so. To let me rest here during watch, ‘kay?” 

“You make no goddamn sense in the morning,” said Bucky, but he didn’t shove Sam’s head away. 

“Still more than you,” Sam mumbled, and yawned again. 

Yeah, okay, alright, watching liquid sunlight fill and pour through that window was… ah, who was he kidding, it was fucking amazing. Magnificent, gorgeous. 

It was the glow of a firefly cupped in Cass’s hands -- it was the gleam of scales on AJ’s first fish -- it was the suncatcher in the kitchen window, throwing rainbows across his mama’s face as she pounded cornmeal on the counter or chords on the old piano while the meat cooked and his TiTi sang along. It was his daddy’s strong hands on the net he cast across the bayou in the morning mist, it was Sarah’s eyes spilling over with tears. 

Yeah, okay. Alright. Okay. 

The window was about half full of liquid sunlight when Sam felt the weight of Bucky’s attention settle on him with the suspended silence of i have something to say but i’m trying to figure out how, and -- damn, but he’d kinda been enjoying the moment. “What.” 

“About last night.” 

Oooh, right, he’d lost his temper. “Ah, shit. Sorry for going off on you like that.” 

Bucky snorted. “More funny than anything. But.” He left it there. 

Sam didn’t know how to respond to that, so he said “Mmmmm?” just to show he was still listening. 

Another few minutes of sunlight trickled into the room before Bucky spoke again. “You said I had pretty eyes.” Oh, shit, that had been out loud? 

Welp. Better just brazen it out at this point.

“Did I?” Sam executed a one-shoulder shrug as nonchalantly as he could. “Sounds about right.” 

“So it’s true, then,” said Bucky. “You think I have pretty eyes.” 

Accidental Mean Girls reference aside -- don't be That Guy, Wilson, can’t turn back now, you gotta commit, let’s go.  

Sam lifted his head from the Frozen Ashface’s shoulder to initiate a staring contest, and said, straight from gut to mouth again, “James ‘Bucky’ Barnes, I find you to be a good-looking human person. You got real nice eyes, when you’re not using ‘em to stare at me in disbelief, and a pretty decent face overall. I like your smile -- not the creepy one.” He raised an eyebrow. “We good?” For some reason adrenaline was loosening his neck muscles, making his fingers twitch. 

Bucky looked away first. “It’s kinda fucked up of you to mock me like that,” he said, voice low, and -- shit, that was more than a little heartbreaking. 

Sam smacked the Siberian Snowflake on the arm before hopping off the table to amble on back to their room nice and easy, because he sure as hell couldn’t look Bucky in the face for this part.  “You want to believe I’m mocking you,” he said over his shoulder, “because it’s easier than facing the alternative, which would be to accept that I’m telling you my truth.” And there went that adrenaline rush again -- damn, emotional honesty was kind of a superpower in its own right. 

“Fuck you, Zemo,” Bucky called after him. 

“What did I do?” said Zemo, emerging from his bedroom. “No, don’t answer that. It’s too early.” 

Back in the room, the imprint of Sam’s body on top the covers and the half-crusted puddle of drool on his pillow were the only signs that anybody had slept in there at all. No wrinkles on the other half of the bed, no other blankets that might have been dragged to the floor -- Bucky may very well have just stood in the damn corner all night, for all Sam could tell. 

Sam was rifling through his bag when he heard the door open and shut behind him. “Didn’t wanna deal with Hamlet Nemo’s bullshit first thing in the morning?”

“Fuck no, I need a lot more coffee before I take that on.” 

Sam snickered. “Don’t you process caffeine at like, sixty thousand times the rate of most people?”

“Like I said.” Bucky’s voice was wry. “A lot more coffee.” A pause, as if he wanted to say something more -- and then -- “So you really…?” 

Sam finally straightened to see Balto still standing by the door, all forlorn and shit. “I mean, yeah,” he said. “C’mon, that can’t be a surprise. I know you’ve seen you.” 

Bucky shrugged and looked away. “Not recently.” 

Again with the heartbreakingly real shit dropped like it was nothing. Fuck. 

“Don’t make it weird,” said Sam, instead of what he wanted to say, which was possibly something maudlin like i hope you can look at yourself with compassion someday or maybe you deserve to be seen. “You hungry, Ashface?” 

“Always,” said Frosty von Wolftrapp.  

Sam grinned. “I bet Zemo has a place we can go.” 

***

Chapter Text

Path integration 

***

Zemo did, in fact, have a place they could go -- and as an added bonus, it was only a short walk from the Magic Window Flat. 

“The establishment is quite exclusive,” said Baron Nemo said as they made their way down one cobblestone alley after another. “They are always reserved months in advance -- but luckily for us, I know the owners.” 

Of course he did. 

“It used to be our favorite, when I could make the time for breakfast,” he continued. “My son especially loved their hot chocolate. My wife and I preferred the coffee, of course.” 

Sam didn’t know which was worse, the fact that he couldn’t tell whether Zemo was intentionally saying these things to gain sympathy, or that it was working even if he was. 

“Have you ever had Sokovian pancakes? Of course not. They’re a hundred times superior to Swedish -- a thousand times, ten thousand. You see, we make them by --” 

Huh. Baron Elmo was a pancake nerd. That was surprisingly -- Sam glanced at Bucky, who gave him a look in return -- no, Zemo was doing this on purpose, too. Fuck. 

“-- and fresh cream, which is then folded --” 

Okay, but Sokovian pancakes did sound delicious, though. 

“-- and here we --” Zemo stopped short as they rounded a corner. “I don’t…”

They’d come to stand before a sort of run-down building with a crumbling stone facade. The maybe-once-blue awning had faded to dishwater grey a long time ago, and the name on the sign, if there’d ever been one, had been effaced completely. One of the front windows was held together with duct tape and cardboard, and the -- oh. 

Oh. 

“You were saying?” muttered Bucky. Sam elbowed him with a pointed look -- be kind, even if it is Zemo. 

“But it’s -- Ilze’s has always been --” Zemo looked around lost and bewildered, as if somebody might stick their head out a window and give him an explanation, but -- ah, shit. Sam knew that look, he was intimately familiar with look, and it was impossible to fake that look. “What can have happened?” Helmet Emo asked the air. 

Fuck, now Sam was empathizing with motherfucking Zemo? What the hell. 

ok is it just me 
or do you get the vibe that we’re about to get murdered in this place 

i mean 
we’re usually about to get murdered in most places we go

...so that’s a yes 

Ilze’s, it turned out, was still open -- barely. But Ilze and her husband welcomed Zemo with a greeting to rival Oeznik’s, with tears and embraces and kisses on both cheeks, and the three of them were soon ushered to one of the empty tables in the shadowed interior. When they were seated Zemo made a show of ordering something on all of their behalf, motioning to Bucky and Sam with an expansive gesture and a wink -- ugh. 

But it turned out to be coffee for the table, so that wasn’t so bad. 

Still, it was deeply disconcerting to have Zemo speaking for all of them, and since this wasn’t Madripoor and their lives weren’t at stake Sam looked at Bucky like you really just gonna let him do that? and Bucky rolled his eyes like ugh, fine, and when Ilze came back to the table Bucky asked her something in Russian, probably about pancakes. 

Ilze’s eyes went wide, and she looked from Bucky to Sam and back to Bucky before answering. She ticked off her fingers one by one, speaking in the singsong voice of someone listing items they knew well (except for the last one that they could never remember, what was it? oh, right), and when she’d finally remembered the last dish Bucky looked at Sam and grinned before saying something that Sam was pretty sure meant we’ll take one of everything, please. 

Ilze raised her eyebrows like you’re kidding, right? and looked at Sam for confirmation, who smiled and nodded like yup, we’re serious. Then Ilze looked at Zemo, who shrugged, said something stupid (probably) with one of those little smirks of his, and waved her away. 

what did he say 

something stupid 

lol that much was obvious
but what was it

you know what i like, darling 

what the fuck
oh 

Ilze and her husband soon started bringing out plate after plate of steaming food -- bacon and pastries and eggs and some sort of porridge and yes, Sokovian pancakes -- and every time one or the other -- or both -- of the elderly couple came to the table, their eyes went right to Sam.

Fucking hell. 

He tolerated Bucky’s staring -- barely. It was annoying, yeah, but it was also like, okay, when Bucky did it, because that was just Buck’s face. But this? Ugh, they just kept looking at him and looking and looking and looking and every time Bucky sent another plate away empty they’d come back to replace it and just keep fucking looking at Sam. 

Out of nowhere, Zemo smirked at him from across the table. “You cannot blame them,” he said. “You are a rare specimen to their eyes.” 

In a motherfucking nanosecond, Sam went from calm quiet breakfast mode to -- red and blue and yellow and red blue veins yellow bruises all kaleidoscoping together -- an American test subject -- oh, fuck -- fucking break his -- don’t let him don’t be That Guy don’t let him don’t fucking don’t be That Guy -- oh fuck, oh fuck, he needed to have had about a gallon more water with breakfast, he was not hydrated enough to deal with this bullshit first thing -- don’t let him -- or maybe more coffee would have helped, but it was too late now -- do you know what they did to me -- and Zemo was looking at him straight in the face with that little fucking smirk and Sam just wanted to break it the fuck in half and and and and and and and and and -- fucking ow! 

Breathe. 

Under the table, Bucky’s foot had connected with Sam’s shin. 

Breathe, Wilson. Take it easy. Breathe. 

“Just eat your fucking breakfast, Baron,” said Sam, and tried to ignore the staring. Bucky’s foot was now resting on top of his -- just barely pressing down, but enough pressure to keep him grounded -- and again, Ashy Wolf: surprisingly helpful. 

Also helpful? Sokovian pancakes. Zemo lied a lot, but he hadn’t been lying about that. 

you think it’s because i’m Black or because they think we’re together

yup

lol wut

well i’ve been reading up on this thing called intersectionality, idk if you’ve heard of it
but if not
i’d be more than happy to explain it to you

i’d tell you not to sleep tonight but you already don’t 

The answer, it turned out, was d) none of the above -- or possibly it was e) one or more of the above plus another thing, too.

After the last plate was cleared, Ilze approached their table with a pad and two pens in hand, and said something to Bucky with a shy smile. Bucky replied, shook his head, and put out a hand in denial. Zemo smirked again. 

“What does she want?” Sam asked. 

Zemo answered before Buck could. “They’d like to request autographs from the Black Falcon and his partner, the White Wolf --”

“We’re not partners,” said Sam. 

“-- because apparently the two of you are their grandchildren’s favorite Avengers,” finished Zemo with a sneer. 

“Can’t say much for their taste,” Sam joked (kinda). “But I’d be happy to sign an autograph, ma’am.” Bucky looked at him like really man? and Sam looked at him right back like they just fed you an entire cow and two pigs, you can write your name on a piece of paper. After all, being recognized as Avengers was a way better reason for the staring than any of the other likely options. 

“The kids will fight,” said Bucky aloud, and -- what? “If we only do one autograph,” he clarified, “they’ll fight over it, she says, so if it’s not too much trouble, could we --” 

“Of course,” said Sam. “I know how siblings and cousins are.” He smiled at Ilze. “We’d be happy to sign as many as you like. How old are your grandkids?” 

A few minutes of peeking over shoulders, glaring, and scribbling later the three of them left Ilze’s well-fed and fully caffeinated and ready to take on the -- well, if not the world, at least the Flag Smashers. 

“The city -- it’s changed so much,” mused Zemo as they threaded their way through the streets back to the Blue Tile Flat. “Ilze’s has been there for years. Before I brought my son there my parents used to take me there, on Sunday mornings. That was when her grandmother was proprietor. I cannot believe --” 

Okay, seriously, it was really time for Zemo to stop fucking talking so Sam could stop empathizing. He glanced at Bucky, but the Frozen Ashface was paying less attention to what Zemo was saying than to their surroundings, which honestly was probably wise. Of course, with Bucky keeping an eye out to make sure nobody was tailing them, Sam was left on Zemo duty. 

“ -- all that time I was away, I never imagined that even the little of my country that remained after the Avengers were through with it might disappear in my absence. But then again, *I heard what became of Sokovia. Cannibalized by its neighbors before the land was cleared of rubble, erased from the map. I don’t suppose any of you bothered visiting the memorial?”*

Oooh. That was an uncomfortable thought. 

“Of course not,” said Zemo dismissively. “Why would you?”*

Shit. 

“I’m gonna take a walk,”* said Bucky as they neared the door to Zemo’s building.  

Sam looked over at him. “You good?”* Zemo isn’t getting to you more than usual, is he? 

“Yeah,” said Bucky. “See you in a bit.”* 

Huh. Okay. 

Because Zemo was getting to Sam more than usual. As he followed Zemo up the stairs to the Stained Glass Flat, Sam was thinking a lot of uncomfortable thoughts about Zemo, and those thoughts were kinda beginning to get to him. Like, more than usual.  

He was thinking that he empathized with Zemo more than he might have imagined. He was thinking about i don’t suppose any of you bothered visiting the memorial and about how no, he actually never had, and how had it never occurred to him to visit the memorial? 

Mostly he was thinking that Zemo was a hypocritical sadistic piece of shit who’d chosen to abuse and manipulate Bucky instead of dealing with his own pain, and that even a broken clock was right twice a day. 

     To Aivars

First you walk, then you run, then you fly -- it only takes one step to start. 

     Sam Wilson, aka the Falcon Purple Penguin

     Aivars,

Don’t take this guy too seriously ^^ he’s mostly full of shit  

     James ‘Bucky’ Barnes aka the White Wolf 

     Iveta,

I’ll let Wilson take it from here. 

     James Bucky Barnes aka the White Wolf the Pasty Puppy 

     To Iveta,

I thought I was full of shit, Barnes?

     Sam Wilson aka the Falcon

***

Chapter Text

Oscines

*** 

Zemo was either pooping or showering. 

Probably both. 

Not at the same time, though, unless he had some condition Sam didn’t know about. Knowing Zemo, Sam would bet that he was one of those twisted motherfuckers who pooped after showering instead of before. He probably also folded his toilet paper into perfect squares before wiping, which he probably did by remaining sitting down and reaching basically all the way into the toilet bowl to get to his buttcrack, like a creeper. 

Eurgh, and Zemo probably didn’t use a washcloth either -- Sam had been graduated from Grambling and well into Basic Training before he learned that white people -- well, the ones he'd met in the military at least -- didn’t use washcloths (but how did they bathe, though? or get their asses clean? did they just walk around leaving skidmarks on their drawers on the daily???) 

Ooh, but speaking of clean asses, Zemo almost definitely didn’t fold his toilet paper, because the smug bastard obviously used a bidet, because he was European and civilized and more worldly than good ol’ Sam, as Sam had cuttingly put it in Madripoor -- though to be totally honest he couldn’t even blame Zemo on that one, because bidets ruled, they were like a shower for your booty! Sam had used the one in their bathroom just this morning. 

In sum: Kaiser Wilhelm was probably poop-showering, which meant Sam had time to make some calls. 

“Hello hello, Ms. Jalapeño, it’s Sam, calling to say hi. No need to call me back if you’re not feeling up to it, just wanted to let you know that I’m thinking of you, and that I’m here. I miss him, too.” Him and Nat both, so much it hurt. Vision, too. 

“Peter Parker parked the car in Harvard yard, my man! What’s going on? Ahhhhhhh, look kid, you’re what, twenty years old? If I can’t get you to stop calling me Mr. Wilson, can you at least call me Mr. Sam? All Avengers are officially on a first-name basis with each other. Yes, it’s a rule -- because I said so, that’s why! Excuse you, I know you did not just -- ugh, okay fine, Mr. Wilson is better than Dad, I guess.” 

“Torres, hey, how ya doin? How’s your grandmother? Good, good -- yeah, we’re set up here in Riga. Uh-huh, I got the coordinates for Madani’s camp, thanks for sending those along. Any new intel on Karli and her crew?” 

And of course, he always saved Sarah and the boys for last. 

Cass picked up first this time. “Hey Uncle Sam, I got a question for you.”

“Let’s hear it, bud,” said Sam. 

“How does a bastard, orphan --” 

“Noooooo,” Sam wailed immediately. “You --”  

“ -- immigrant decorated war vet unite the colonies through more debt --?” 

“-- songs just ‘cause they have bad words has gotta --”  

“Fight the other founding fathers til he has to forfeit --” chimed AJ, popping into frame to sing along. 

“-- have it all, lose it all -- you ready for more yet?” said Cass. 

“No,” said Sam. “I am not ready for more. You know I’m gonna have that stuck in my head for -- aaaaagggghhhhhhh, it’s playing in my head right now, you little shits.” 

“Ooooooooh,” said Cass. “You called us shits! I’m telling Mom.” 

“Tell her,” Sam countered. “I ain’t scared.” 

“That’s not what you said before,” said AJ. “You said we had no reason to be scared of Mr. Ashface and that you were scared of Mom. I bet she’s gonna be maaaad.” 

“Psh, your mother talks more smack than that just for beating her at Spades,” said Sam. “It builds character.”

“SPAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAADES!” bellowed Cass. 

“When are you coming back, Uncle Sam?” said AJ. “We can’t play with three people. And where’s Mr. Ashface? Does he know how to play Spades? Can he be my partner?” 

“Whoa, whoa, slow your roll,” said Sam. “The answer to all of your questions is ‘I don’t know.’” 

AJ gave him the kind of supremely disdainful look that only a child could pull off. “What do you know, Uncle Sam?” 

“Wow,” said Sam. “Wowwwwwwwwwww.” 

It only went downhill from there. 

“Thanks for getting them riled up again,” said Sarah when she picked up. “We were just about to sing our blues and go to bed.”  

“Cass started it,” said Sam. 

“Daaaaaamn, blaming it on the child -- you are exceedingly mature, little brother.” 

“By a whole eighteen minutes!” 

Sarah sighed. “Eighteen minutes and five years.” 

Fuck. 

Bucky returned from his “walk” just as Zemo emerged from the bathroom after his inordinately long poop-shower. “Well, the Wakandans are here,” said Bucky as he came in the door. “They want Zemo. Bought us some more time.”* 

Okay, so that was both good and bad, because on the one hand Zemo would be out of their hair and somebody else’s problem, but on the other hand he had actually been very helpful to the mission -- except for the murdering-people-in-cold-blood parts. 

Speaking of which. 

“Sam,” said Bucky, interrupting another one of Zemo’s attempts to get a rise out of Sam re: Nagel. “Karli bombed a GRC supply depot.”* 

Oh, shit. “What? What’s the damage?”* 

“Eleven injured, three dead. They have a list of demands and are promising more attacks if those demands aren’t met.”* Fuck. Fuuuuuuuuuuuck. 

“She’s getting worse,” said Zemo. “I have the will to complete this mission. Do the two of you?”* By complete this mission he obviously meant murder a child, but of course Archduke Ferdinand was too civilized and genteel to call it that. 

“She’s just a kid,”* Sam protested. 

“You’re seeing something in her that isn’t there. You’re clouded by it. She’s a supremacist,” said the actual motherfucking Habsburg. “The very concept of a Super Soldier will always trouble people. It’s that warped aspiration that led to Nazis, to Ultron, to the Avengers.”*

“Hey, careful.” Sam's retort came out a little more sharply than he'd meant it to, because of course Zemo had used supremacist and Avengers in the same sentence just to rile him up, and of course it had worked. “Those are our friends you’re talking about.”*

“The Avengers, not the Nazis.”* Thank God for Bucky and his way of undercutting tension. 

“So, Karli is radicalized,” said Sam, a little calmer now, “but there has to be a peaceful way to stop her.”* After all, he was pretty good at talking people down. 

“The desire to become a superhuman cannot be separated from supremacist ideals.” Sam looked at Bucky like only a Sith deals in absolutes but apparently that hadn’t been part of his cultural education . “Anyone with that serum is inherently on that path,” Zemo continued. “She will not stop. She will escalate until you kill her. Or she kills you.”* 

Well, fuck. 

“Maybe you’re wrong, Zemo,” said Bucky. “The serum never corrupted Steve.”*

“Touché,” said Zemo. “But there has never been another Steve Rogers, has there?”*

Well. Fuck. 

Why did Baron Elmo have to make so much goddamn sense sometimes? 

“Well.” Bucky glanced sideways at Sam and did that thing, and -- it was just like the alpine wildflower moment, they were back in sync and oh, it was kinda perfect -- and then Buck said it aloud. “Maybe we should give him to the Wakandans right now.”* 

“And you’ll give up your tour guide?”*

Bucky said what they were both thinking again. “Yes.”*

Ugh, as much fun as they were having, it was probably time to divert and distract. “From my understanding, Donya is like a pillar of the community, right?” said Sam. “So, when I was a kid, my TiTi passed away.”* 

“Your… your TiTi?”* said Bucky. 

“Yeah, my TiTi, yeah.” *

“Who is your TiTi?”* asked the Ashface like it wasn’t clear from context. 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Fine. When I was a kid, my aunt passed away -- and the entire neighborhood got together for a ceremony. It was like a week long.” They'd had second lines and everything. “Maybe they’re doing the same thing for Donya.”*

Bucky shrugged. “Worth a shot.”*

“Your… TiTi would be proud of you,” said Zemo, and upended a tin of candy before Sam could tell him to take his TiTi’s name out of his mouth or Sam would do it for him. “Turkish delight. Irresistible.”*

Well shit, if Count Olaf hadn’t clearly cast himself as the villain before, he was damn sure going all in on it now. 

***

Chapter Text

Patagial tendons

***

Okay, so as telegraphed as the Count of Monte Cristo’s whole Narnia vibe had been -- and to reiterate, that was real ermine fur lining the collar of his kid leather coat, who the fuck was this man -- Sam was still a little surprised, when he descended the stairs to join Bucky in the courtyard of the palace-turned-camp-for-internationally-displaced-persons (words were important), to see Zemo quite literally luring children into snitching on their families via Turkish Delight. 

He honestly hadn’t expected the White Witch to be quite so on-the-nose, but Sam supposed they couldn’t afford to be subtle now that the Flag Smashers had started killing people, so. Plus, it’s not like it wasn’t an effective strategy.  

“That little girl,” said Bucky to Zemo when they were back in the Sunrise Window Flat. “What’d she tell you?”*

Zemo made a great show of pouring some kind of pink flower-tea and carrying the tray over to Bucky and Sam -- ugh, again with that faux-servile bullshit -- before answering. “The funeral is this afternoon.”* 

Blech. Bucky had this one handled. 

“You know the Dora’s coming for you any minute,” said Call of the Wild. “In fact, they’re probably lurking outside right now. Keep talking.”* 

“Leaving you to turn on me once we get to Karli,” countered Count Dooku. “Hmmm…” He tilted his head at Bucky. “I prefer to keep my leverage.”* 

Oh, shit -- Sam felt the switch flip in Bucky’s head -- ohhhhh, yeah, yikes, that one had gotten under his skin -- and truth be told, it’d almost gotten to Sam to hear motherfucking Vlad the Impaler relish another chance to flex his ill-gained power over Bucky. Eurgh, what a slimy, manipulative leech -- he wanted to throw salt on Zemo’s soul, if he had one. 

Bucky stalked over to Zemo all graceful like a lion, grabbed the teacup from his hand, and threw it against the wall. “You wanna see what someone can do with leverage?”* he said, soft and slow -- but the tension had ratcheted up, and -- okay, fuck, time to talk the Ashface down. 

Sam got in Bucky’s line of sight. “Hey, take it easy.” Those pretty eyes went from Zemo to him, and -- yeah, that’s it, you’re okay, you’re okay, you’re in control. “Don’t engage him -- he’s just gonna extort you and do that stupid head tilt thing.” Zemo un-tilted his head, and Sam raised an eyebrow like see? he’s doing it already. “Let me make a call.”* He smacked Bucky’s arm on his way past. 

“You want some cherry blossom tea?”* asked the White Witch. 

“No,” Sam heard Bucky say. “You go ahead.”* 

Bucky joined him in their room just as Sam hung up with Sharon. “He’s getting on my last nerve.” 

“You and me both, Snowflake.” Sam flopped back onto the bed. “At least Sharon’s gonna help us out.” 

Bucky sat on the bed next to him. Perched. Stared down at the bedspread and started picking at it like he had something to say. 

Sam sighed. “What’s on your mind, Buck?” 

“D’you think he’s right?” No need to specify who. 

“Never.” Bucky half-snorted. “About what in particular?” 

“About -- about me. About Super Soldiers being supremacists.” 

“Well." Sam thought about it for a second. "That’s not what he said, is it? About you.” 

Now Bucky looked up. “What do you mean?” 

“He said -- he didn’t say ‘Super Soldiers,’ full stop, he said ‘the desire to become a Super Soldier,’ right?” Sam shrugged. “Steve didn’t ask for the serum, he didn’t go looking for it. And you sure as hell didn’t ask those motherfuckers to take you prisoner and shoot you up with all kinds of God knows what. So.” 

“I,” said Bucky, who’d gone from picking at the bedspread to examining the back of his metal hand very, very closely. “I, um.”  

“Yeah,” said Sam. “Yeah, you.” And then Bucky lay back on the bed next to him , and Sam punched Bucky’s shoulder before closing his eyes just for a little rest, and they didn’t talk for a while. 

“So if we do find Karli at the funeral,” said Bucky finally, breaking the silence. “What’s the plan?” 

Sam opened his eyes to stare the ceiling. “I’ve been thinking about that. She’s -- she’s motivated by the right things, you know, even if she’s acting out of anger. She was stealing medicines, redistributing resources… She’s what -- sixteen? I really do think there’s still time for her, she just needs -- I mean, I don’t know, has anybody even talked to her? Has anyone tried?” 

“You should,” said Bucky, and -- wow, okay, Sam had expected him to need a lot more convincing. Shit, he’d needed a lot more convincing, when Bucky’d wanted to sit in a room with Zemo. 

“I won’t pretend I hadn’t thought about it,” Sam admitted. “But what would we do with Zemo while we’re talking to Karli? He sure as fuck can’t come in with us -- he’d probably just shoot her on sight.” 

Bucky shook his head. “I’ll babysit Dracula. You talk to her, you’re good at this kind of thing.” 

“Excuse?” First you should and now you’re good at this? Who was this and what had he done with the Original Ashface? 

Bucky smiled. “Don’t get used to it. And don’t make it weird.” Sam chuckled and let his eyes drift closed again. “Hey. Magpie.” 

“Yeah?” Wait, had he just answered to Magpie? Dammit. 

“You know you’re gonna have to silence your phone, right.” 

“I know.” A beat. “I can do it.” Even though he could feel his heart rate skyrocketing at the thought. 

“I know,” said Bucky. “But you don’t have to.” 

Sam cracked one eye open. “You kinda just said I did, though.” 

“What I mean is -- you, you,” Bucky fidgeted. “Look. I dunno if it’d make you feel better, but -- if you -- my phone doesn’t have to be silenced while you’re talking to Karli, is what I’m saying.” 

A very large part of his brain wanted to say you think i can’t take care of my own family, fucker? but Sam knew that it was just That Guy talking bullshit again, and that the voice of That Guy was all the louder because he was scared. So Sam took a deep breath, reminded himself that emotional honesty was a superpower, and sat up to look down at Bucky’s face. “You’d do that?” For me? 

“I mean. Anything for the success of the mission, right?” Which in Balto-language meant i’ve got your back no matter what, so.  

It made Sam feel something he didn’t really care to examine, way down in the pit of his stomach. “Yeah. Um, thanks,” he said, instead of what he wanted to say which was maybe why does it feel okay to let myself trust you or possibly you know i still don’t like you, right? “That’d be -- thanks. I’ll, uh, I’ll call Sarah right now.” He smacked Bucky’s arm. “Thanks. Seriously.” 

Sarah picked up on the first ring. “Didn’t we just get off the phone like, three hours ago? It’s almost midnight here, Sam, what do you want?” 

“I’m gonna be going dark for a little while. Just a few hours. But I -- I’m gonna give you Bucky’s number just in case you need anything, okay?”

“What the hell could I possibly need that would make a couple hours’ difference when you’re in who-the-hell-knows-where on the other side of the world?” She sounded like she was spoiling for a fight. 

“Just -- humor me, okay?” Sam really wanted to say don’t get an attitude but that definitely wouldn’t go over well. 

“Whatever. And your Ashface has agreed to this?”

Shit, his sister knew exactly how to push his buttons, didn’t she. “Oh, so we’re all calling him that now -- cool, good to know, thanks for sharing.” 

“Okay, well. Since we’re sharing, I found a buyer for the boat.” No. No. Fuck, please, no.  

“‘Didn’t we just get off the phone like, three hours ago?’” Sam mimicked, because that boat-boulder had returned and was sitting heavy in his gut. “What could possibly have changed since then?”  

“Mr. Dinh called me and agreed to buy the boat is what changed. So I’m selling it to him.”  

The boulder was turning to lava -- a melting, burning river twisting its way through his insides. “But Sarah, we haven’t even --” 

“Don’t you go talking about we --” 

“-- of our memories, our --”

“-- the one who was left --” 

“-- all we have left of --” 

“-- okay, you know what, Sam? It’s a little hard to believe that you care as much as you say you do when you’re calling me to tell me that I need to make a man you don’t even like my emergency contact for the next four to six hours. If you’re so invested in this, why aren’t you here?” 

Fuck. “That’s not --” 

“Oh, you wanna talk about fair?” Shitfuck, now he’d made her really angry. “Listen shithead, you’re allowed to be in your feelings about this -- God knows I am. But what you’re not allowed to do is saddle me with the damn thing so you can fly off into the sunset, then turn around and call me from the other side of the world telling me what the fuck to do with it just because it makes you feel sad to think about it being someone’s problem besides mine. They were my parents, too.” 

“I don’t --”  

“Look, it’d be one thing if you were the one carrying the weight, Sam, but you’re not. So until you can tell me why you’re there instead of here, thanks for giving me Bucky Barnes’s number. I’ll make sure to call him if I need anything.” And then she hung up.  

Sam sat on the bed for a long time and tried not to think about anything. 

Like, anything. 

Because there was something deeply uncomfortable happening inside his brain or his heart or possibly his colon -- and keeping it from oozing out was like trying to close a suitcase bursting with -- well, with baggage -- and there were thoughts floating around somewhere, thoughts that had to do with Bucky and shield and Sarah and boat and they were eeling through Sam’s mind like gator turtles through murky water and he really, really, really didn’t want to poke at them too closely, because snapping turtle bites hurt. So. Sam already knew he was gonna let himself choose to be angry at Sarah, for now, instead of trying to deal with that and this all at once. 

After all, what else were siblings for? 

*** 

Chapter Text

Efference copy

*** 

“Karli Morgenthau is too dangerous for you guys to be pulling this shit.”* Ugh, it was only a matter of time until That Motherfucker showed up, although ‘in the middle of the goddamn street on their way to surprise Karli at her foster-mom’s funeral’ was maybe not the exact time or place Sam would have chosen. 

Bucky spread his arms wide like seriously, what the fuck? “Ah! How’d you find us now?”*

“Come on, man, you really think two Avengers can walk around Latvia without drawing attention?”* said Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar, which was maybe the most sense either of Those Motherfuckers had ever made. 

“No more keeping us in the dark,” said Walker like he had any authority in the situation whatsoever, and pointed at Zemo. “You can start by telling us why you broke him out of prison.”* 

“He did that himself, technically.”* Damn, did Sam love listening to the Bionic Staring Machine troll That Motherfucker. 

But then Walker had to go and ruin it by erupting over Bucky’s opening salvo, for crying out loud. “Oh, this better be an UNBELIEVABLE EXPLANA --!”*

Ugh, de-escalation time already. “Hey, take it easy, before it gets weird.”* Sam put himself between Walker and his team. 

“I know where Karli is,”* said Zemo from behind him, and started forward. 

Walker stopped Zemo with a hand to his chest. “Well, where?”* Damn, no need to get physical, why was New Cop so quick on the trigger-pull? Oh, wait. 

“Look, all we know is, it’s a memorial,” said Sam. “So, we’re gonna intercept her there.”*

“That means civilians,” said Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar. “High risk of casualties.”*

Walker looked satisfied. “All right, good, we’ll move in fast. Take her by surprise.”*

Ooh, this was going to take some persuasion. “No, I wanna talk to her alone,” said Sam. “I’m not losing her again -- look, the person closest to her died, she’s vulnerable. Now is the best time to reason with her.”*

“What? No.” That Motherfucker ran a few steps ahead and turned around like he was going to actually try to give Sam a fucking order. “Wait, no! No! Stop. Hold on. Stop, okay? I think we’re way past reasoning with her, unless you forgot that she blew up a building with people still in it.”* Pff, if that was the criteria for reasoning with someone they wouldn’t be having this conversation right now.

“Sam, you walk in there cold, she could kill you,”* said Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar in an affected rasp worse than Zemo’s. (What was with these guys and their ‘I’m trying to speak in a lower register than my vocal chords will allow’ voices? Was it an attempt to sound cool? A desire for more bass in their lives? What-the-fuck-ever.)  But at least Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar’s objection had been reasonable and answerable, so. 

“Yeah,” said Sam in a regular fucking tone of voice, “and if I go in hot and the op goes wrong, more people will die.”*

Walker turned to Bucky. “Are you gonna let him do this?” Let him? Oh, fuck That Guy. “Are you gonna let your partner walk into a room with a Super Soldier alone?”* 

“He’s dealt with worse,” Bucky snapped back like a solid fucking colleague rather than Sam’s ranking officer or whatever-the-fuck Walker seemed to think their relationship was. “And he’s not my partner.”* Good ol’ Ashy Wolf. 

Sam shouldered his way forward. “I used to counsel soldiers dealing with trauma, okay? This is right in my wheelhouse.”*

“I know.” But did you though, motherfucker? “And I know those soldiers, which is why I know this is a bad idea,”* finished Walker, as if that made any goddamn sense at all. Ugh, there was no talking to This Fucking Cop whose response to i am an expert in this exact thing and thus better qualified than you to assess the situation amounted to nothing more than ‘nuh-uhhhhhhhhhh!’

“Wait, John,” interrupted Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar, who apparently had the brain cell today. “If he can talk her down, it might be worth a try.”* 

Walker was doing the jaw thing and rolling his eyes, and oh, Sam hated that look, he despised that look -- but then Walker scoffed and said to Zemo, “We’ll deal with you later,”* which in That-Guy-language meant i am reluctantly agreeing to the thing i just sidestepped mentioning, so apparently Walker listened to one single person in the world and that person was Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar. Cool.   

“I’m sure it will all come to an agreeable conclusion,” said Zemo in that bullshit way of his. “My associate is just up ahead.”* He gestured to the kid from the camp, who was standing a little ways up the hill shifting nervously from foot to foot -- though she calmed down when Zemo slipped her some cash. 

Pff. And Count Olaf claimed not to have superpowers.  

i’ll bet you a thousand Picassos he’s blown up a building with people in it 
like 
at least twice

no bet 
that’s how he got the medals 

wait, really? 

yup 

what a fucking asshole 

ikr 

“So you are the new Captain America,” said Zemo, after a few minutes of jostling into formation and -- ooooh, damn. As fun as it was to hear Bucky troll That Motherfucker, Sam had a feeling he was gonna enjoy Zemo’s needling a lot less. “You must be very proud of having earned that shield.” 

“Uh,” said New Cop. “I guess so, yeah.” 

Oh, sweetie. You’ve gotta know better than to walk into it like that. 

Zemo tilted his head. “And how was it decided that you were the best man for the job?” 

“I --” That Motherfucker looked to Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar for guidance, but unfortunately Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar only looked confused. “I was, uh, squad leader, and, um, tested off the charts in, uh, in all the categories, like strength and endurance --” 

“Ah, yes,” Zemo cut in smoothly. “You are certainly an attractive model of American manhood. And as I recall, Steve Rogers was well-known for his military ability and physical prowess prior to imbibing the serum.” 

Bucky snorted. Sam elbowed him. 

“Yeah, well, there’ll never be another Steve Rogers,” said That Motherfucker. 

“Certainly not,” said Zemo silkily. “But what a comfort to think that his chosen successor now carries the shield.” 

Okay, so Sam was enjoying Attila’s trolling a little. But New Cop’s jaw was working again, and Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar was looking between Zemo and That Motherfucker with increasing concern, and ooh, yikes. Time to de-escalate, again. 

Fortunately, Bucky elbowed the White Witch before Sam had to. 

doesn’t seem to like me much, does he? 

oh no no no no nope fuck no absolutelynot 
i refuse to be part of a group text with helmet nemo  
we are not that close 

sam, you wound me 
you’ve slept under my roof as my guest 

he feels threatened by you because he perceives you as effete
Walker, not Wilson 
although Wilson too maybe 

i’m not engagingggggg 

but why should that threaten him? 

well he has a classic case of what we experts call ‘toxic masculinity’ 
Walker, not Wilson
although...  

ALKJHASDFLIUZBLKAFFLH MOTHERFUCKRER I SENT YOU THOSE LINKS 
and you 
stop riling him up 

i thought you weren’t engaging? 

Sam shoved his already-silenced phone deep into his pocket, the better to leave those shitheads on read. 

he’s not 

and you are? 

not anymore 

***

Chapter Text

Polyphyletic 

*** 

Sam kind of had a thing about elders. 

He was standing in a balcony room of the old chapel (or was it a cathedral? he never knew what counted as a cathedral, but this seemed like one, it was all old and carved stone and echoey) overlooking the sanctuary, and Karli Morgenthau -- international fugitive and community-organizer-turned-possibly-violent-radical -- was bouncing a child on her hip, giving a eulogy for the honored elder who’d cared for her when no one else had. 

Karli looked like a child herself, her too-big jacket and cloud of red curls braided back from her face making her seem smaller, fragile somehow -- except for her eyes. They were a dark, deep brown -- tired eyes, sad eyes, the eyes of someone who’d been forced by circumstance or society to grow up too quickly -- someone who although they were a child hadn’t actually been allowed to be one, not for long. Sam knew that look, knew it intimately, because he’d seen it in the mirror every morning for almost as long as he could remember. AJ had that look, now. He hadn’t, before -- it had happened sometime in the last five years. 

A lot had happened in those five years. 

Most days it was easy to lock the funeral Sam hadn’t gotten to attend away behind about a billion trapdoors, keep it buried somewhere in the recesses of his mind. But after bringing up his TiTi’s homegoing this morning, and now seeing the crowd gathered here to honor the woman who’d mothered them all, the fine veil over the casket -- hers must have looked like this, hers must have looked just like this. Sarah had told him about it, a little: a small knot of people huddled in a too-large space, glass candles in a dark room… Not even enough musicians for a real second line. Nobody to sing the liturgy or the blues. 

Who’d played her out? 

“... so live accordingly.”* Karli looked up, directly at Sam. 

Time to do the work. 

The first thing Sam did when he entered the chamber was beeline directly for the casket, light the votive candle he’d purchased on the way in, and place it with the others. Maybe he couldn’t have been there then, but he was at least here now, and he could do this much -- he could at least pay his respects. He looked down at the body, at Madani’s face -- was that how hers had looked, in death? Sam had seen a lot of people die -- too many -- but almost never an elder. Did they all look like this? Wizened, frail? 

She’d never been frail. 

Karli, thank goodness, let him have his moment of silence -- or else she thought he was just putting on a show and was waiting for him to drop the facade, which couldn’t be helped. But either way it worked out, because Sam needed that time in a way he hadn’t exactly expected, and he ended up having to swallow hard and blink a whole lot before he felt ready to turn around and face her. 

“I saw you back there,”* said Karli when he finally did. 

“I came alone.” Sam raised his hands, palms out, in that universal gesture. “I just wanna talk.”*

Karli smiled. “Bold of you.”*

“I’m sorry for your loss.”* It was the only thing he could think to say. 

“Don’t condescend to me.” Karli’s voice sharpened. “I’m not a child.”*

“I’m not,” said Sam. “I know what it’s like to lose someone. Believe me.”* If you believe nothing else, believe that. 

“No, you don’t. Not like this.”* God, how heartbreaking to hear -- because Karli was right, she wasn’t a child -- but this knee-jerk you don’t understand was the exact thing a child might say, because she was a child -- or else she should have been, she should have gotten to be. 

“It doesn’t have to be a war, Karli,”* said Sam, instead of what he wanted to say, which was you’re right, kid, at least you got to be here for yours or maybe you’re not the first to lose the one person who made you feel less alone. 

“They started a war as soon as they kicked us out of our new homes and onto the street,” said Karli. “People around the world need me. Millions of them.”* 

God, she wasn’t wrong. “Right, I can’t speak for millions, but I understand you. I understand your frustration. I understand your helplessness.”* Sam didn’t have to try to show his empathy -- it was right there on the surface, bleeding into his every word: frustration. helplessness. 

And it seemed to get through to Karli, because she changed tack. “So, you want me to stop because people are gettin’ hurt, right?” At Sam’s nod, she continued. “But, Sam, what if I’m making the world a better place?”*

“No, it’s not a better place if you’re killin’ people. It’s just different.”* He had to believe that. 

Karli hopped up to perch on one of the dark wood tables that had been pushed to the sides of the room to clear space in the middle. “You’re either brilliant or just hopelessly optimistic.”* 

Ha, like he hadn’t heard that before -- Sam chuckled. “Well, can’t I be a little bit of both?”*

Karli shook her head and smiled, legs dangling. “Mmmmmmm -- no.”* Okay, now they were getting somewhere. 

Sam walked over to the casket, gave it a couple breaths to let the moment land before speaking again.“I can’t imagine what you went through,” he said quietly. “The ones who were left behind to pick up the pieces… we’re the ones who had it easy. You had to live through it. You had to keep going, had to survive.”

“We did, though.” Karli’s voice was fierce. “We built something. We built a whole world. They wanted us, they told us we were worth something to them because we were their people. Because we were all one people. And then their real people came back and suddenly we were nothing but a Blip. Just bodies taking up space.” 

“You feel betrayed,” said Sam-the-therapist, all reflective-listening-style -- and it worked.  

“They said!” Karli cried. “They promised! But now that we’re not useful anymore they want to throw us away and pretend it’s our fault we’ve got nothing when they’re the ones who took it away!”

He had to be very, very careful about this next nudge -- gently, gently, gently, Mr. Therapist-man. “You deserve better,” he said to Karli. “ We deserve better -- we deserve better than governments who see us as nothing more than disposable labor, who hoard resources just because they can.”  

“They had -- I wasn’t going to,” said Karli, and Sam held his breath. “But I just -- I got so angry, when I saw how much they’d kept back. Dovich looked through their books, and it was -- they were -- so -- I was going to let the workers out before the building went, that was the plan. But instead I just walked away.”  

“It’s hard to walk away from something like that,” said Sam in his neutral-therapist voice, eyes trained on the candlelit casket. 

“I thought it would be easy,” whispered Karli. “And it was. Until it wasn’t. Then it was just scary.” 

“Your anger is justified, Karli.” At that she looked up, and her too-tired eyes were maybe a little shinier than before. “So is your fear. But we can’t kill people just because we’re angry, or scared. We can’t hurt people just ‘cause we’re in pain. And -- you have a lot of power now,” Sam pointed out. “You have the power to hurt a lot of people, if that’s what you choose.” 

Karli sidestepped talking about the serum, as he’d expected she would. “Everybody wants to pretend like the last five years never happened. But they did. Just ‘cause the people came back don’t mean the time didn’t pass.” 

Sam sighed. “I know. Believe me, I know. There are people in my life who are -- who are grown now, who were babies just a few months ago, to me. People who are just gone, people I never got to say goodbye to, or tell them how much I…” Stop there, Wilson, you’re getting dangerously close to self-disclosure. “Look, holding governments accountable for the things they said and promised is a good thing. But if you kill people to make your point you’re not holding anyone accountable, you’re just causing more pain. You’re just killing. And you’re using your newfound power to do it.” 

“I’m using my power to put a stop to this,” Karli insisted. “I’m using the serum for good.” 

Sam had give that one the side-eye. “This guy I know,” he said, instead of that thorn in my side or maybe this pain in my ass, “who knows more about Super Soldiers than anyone else on the planet, he says… you’re a supremacist.”*

“Me?”* Karli looked shocked. 

Sam took a seat beside her. “Yeah.”*

“That’s ridiculous. Everything I do is to end supremacy. These corporations and the beasts who run them, they’re the supremacists.”*

“So, let me ask you. You have more serum, right?”*

“So?”*

“Are you going to increase your army?” Karli looked away -- yep, that was an answer. “You’re killin’ innocent people.”*

“They’re not innocent. They’re roadblocks in my journey and I’d kill them again if I had to.”*

He didn’t need to say anything to that except -- “Wow.”*

Karli backtracked. “No, no. I didn’t mean it like that. You tricked me into sounding like…”*

“Like what?”* C’mon, c’mon, you know I didn’t trick you into shit, you know you’re better than this.  

Rather than face her cognitive dissonance head on, Karli evaded again. “The people I’m fightin’ are trying to take your home, Sam. Why are you here instead of stopping them?”*

Sam stopped short -- fuck. Fuuuuuuuuuuck. He knew it was just a tactic, but damn, it’d worked. “You know, my sister’s waiting for that exact same answer,” he found himself saying, straight from gut to mouth -- fuck. Get it together, Wilson. “Look, I’m not your enemy. I agree with your fight. I just can’t get with the way you’re fightin’ it. And I’m sure she wouldn’t either.”* He gestured toward the casket. 

Karli looked to the casket, then back to Sam, and her face -- fuck, she was a kid, she was just a kid, and she was trying so hard to do the right thing, and it was working, he was getting through to her, she was about to ask for help, he just knew it -- they were about to have one of those moments, it was all going to be okay, he could fix it -- he could fix everything: this, the boat, his country, the world -- he could save this girl, he could save his home, he could protect them all from -- 

“-- Karli Morgenthau, you’re under arrest.”* 

Oh. 

Karli’s eyes went flat and accusatory. 

Oh, no. 

“So that’s what this was --?”* Her voice was climbing. 

No --  

“ -- tricking me until your backup arrived?”* 

No, this was his heart, breaking.  

*** 

Chapter Text

Orbit

*** 

“I’ll get Nemo upstairs, see how badly he’s concussed,” said Sam. “You got the perimeter check?” 

“Yup.” Bucky ducked out from under Zemo’s arm and transferred Count Olaf’s weight over to Sam -- oof. “See you in a bit.” 

well that could’ve gone better 
zemo has a medium concussion, btw
i told him ice + rest + no alcohol and he immediately poured himself a drink 

sounds about right 
at least he destroyed the serum 

yeah and shot karli 
plus he says he only got 11/12 before he got knocked out 
fucking walker and his ‘violence is the only answer’ 

i should’ve held him off longer
i fucked that up for you

nah, don’t blame yourself
i’m 100% certain it was either let him through or fight him  
and as much as i wanna punch the guy that’s the last thing we need rn 
you did the right thing  

why are you like this 

like what

nvm 

Once Zemo was safely laid out on the couch with his whiskey (and his head) on the rocks, Sam pulled out his laptop and opened a secure connection to contact Sharon. 

funeral’s over 
Walker showed up, everything went to shit
Zemo destroyed most of the vials 

damn 
what about karli, did he get her? 

he shot her, if that’s what you mean, once she got spooked 
but she got away 

double damn 
what did i tell you about seeing this through, Sam 

you and him are cut from the same cloth, jesus 
i’m not gonna kill a kid 
Walker’s the real erratic variable here anyway 

so what do you want me to do then 

keep your eye in the sky on walker, let me know if he moves on karli* 
he’s too fucking volatile to leave unmonitored 
and thank you, again 

just get karli and the others 

“Were you ever offered it?”* Zemo’s voice came out of nowhere. 

Sam kept his eyes on the screen. “What?”*

“The serum.”*

Easy. “No.”* But he knew what Zemo’s next question would be, so he looked up. 

“If you had been -- hypothetically, that is -- would you have taken it?”* 

Sam had spent a lot of time thinking about this one -- but it’d turned out to be even easier to answer than the first, in the end. “No.”* 

“No hesitation. That’s impressive.” Eurgh, Count Olaf’s insults were annoying, but his compliments felt downright gross. “Sam, you can’t hold out hope for Karli. No matter what you saw in her, she’s gone. And we cannot allow that she and her acolytes become yet another faction of gods amongst real people. Super Soldiers cannot be allowed to exist.”* 

Okay, enough of this bullshit. 

Sam tilted his head at Zemo. “Isn’t that how gods talk?” he asked pointedly. Zemo opened his mouth -- and then closed it. That’s right, shut the fuck up, you cowardly Bourbon hypocrite -- but he didn’t stop there. “And if that’s how you feel...” he paused for effect, then finished, “then what about Bucky?”* What about Isaiah Bradley? 

Zemo looked away. Yeah, that’s what I thought.

“Blood isn’t always the solution,”* Sam said with finality, just as the door creaked open. 

the fuckshit brigade is outside and headed our way 
no sign of the dora of course but our 8 wakandan hours are up so
they’re definitely close by 

well shit
any suggestions? 

just the one 

and that’d be? 

grab some popcorn
i’m on my way up

“Something’s not right about Walker.”* Bucky spoke as he came in the like it was the continuation of an earlier conversation -- and really, it kinda was. 

“You don’t say,”* Sam deadpanned. 

“Well, I know a crazy when I see one.” Bucky went to the tiled counter, poured himself a drink. “Because I am crazy.”*

Heh. “Can’t argue with that.”* He turned back to the laptop. 

Bucky’s voice floated behind him, caught a thermal before arrowing straight into his brain -- “Shouldn’t have given him the shield.”* 

Sam was instantly on his feet, because -- fuck, every time. Every fucking time, every time he started to think that maybe he and Bucky were starting to get somewhere, the Icy Fuckface had to go and ruin it by spouting bullshit like this. 

It pissed Sam the fuck off. 

“I didn’t give him the shield.”* He put some bass in it, just for emphasis. 

“Well, Steve definitely didn’t,”* Bucky muttered into his drink, and -- oh my God, fuck you, seriously? Seriously? 

But they didn’t have time to get into it, because about half a second later That Motherfucker busted in the door with Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar trailing faithfully behind -- ugh. Fucking fuck. 

“All right. That’s it. Let’s go. I’m now ordering you to turn him over.”* New Cop pointed at Zemo, who’d stood from the couch and was easing his way toward Bucky. 

“Hey, slow your roll,” said Sam. “Let’s be clear: shield or no shield, the only thing you’re runnin’ in here is your mouth. Now, I had Karli and you overstepped. He’s actually proven himself useful today,” he motioned to Zemo, “and we’re gonna need all hands on deck for whatever’s comin’ next.”* It was a pretty convenient cover for what Sam actually wanted to say, which was maybe turns out i shan’t be turning anyone over to you ever or possibly i just realized i wouldn’t trust you with my worst enemy. 

“How do you want the rest of this conversation to go, Sam? Huh?”* Walker squared his shoulders and did his best to stare Sam down, and Sam felt his posture stiffen -- there was the adrenaline again, responding to that tone in Walker’s voice -- “Yeah.” New Cop let out a pungent chuckle. “Should I put down the shield? Make it fair?”*  

What the --? 

Walker lifted his chin -- oh. 

… 

     … 

          … 

Ohhhhh… okay, right, okay -- that sound, right there? 

That was the sound of Sam realizing that John Walker hated him.

Oh.

John Walker hated Sam, hated him just because, hated him for no goddamn -- reason had very little to do with it. 

John Walker hated Sam for everything he was and stood for and believed in. John Walker hated him because Sam had refused to be subservient to him. That Motherfucker hated Sam because Sam was a constant reminder that John Walker maybe didn’t deserve the power he held -- a constant reminder that there just might be somebody out there somewhere who was somehow better than he was -- not even better, just different -- and still just as deserving, or maybe more. John Walker hated him just for existing -- for existing, and being not-subservient, and for being something other than John Walker. 

Ohhhhh, yeah, yup, Walker was spoiling for a fight -- Walker wanted to beat Sam, to break him, even, in order to -- to prove something -- his dominance, maybe, or his worth. Because -- because Walker felt threatened, threatened by the mere fact that Sam was walking around alive and breathing -- and rather than deal with his own insecurities and doubts about the uniform he wore and the badges he carried and the (il)legitimacy of the power he held, Walker had chosen -- would always choose -- to hate Sam Wilson instead. 

Sam rolled his eyes and scoffed before he could stop himself -- fucking cops. 

But that was probably the wrong move, because That Motherfucker’s jaw was starting to work again, ugh -- 

-- and then all of a sudden there was about six feet of vibranium sticking out of the tiled pillar between them, and Ayo was saying something to Bucky in Wakandan from the doorway -- all of Sam’s breath escaped him in one long sigh -- oh, excellent.  

Just in time. 

*** 

Chapter Text

Shitepokes 

***

If you were a cisgender humanoid man-being who wanted to run in certain circles, a couple things had to happen before you could actually hang. 

The first involved recognizing and accepting your inevitable crushes on Barton’s aim, Romanoff’s thigh-takedown maneuver (r.i.power), and Thor.

The second was basically just coming to terms with the fact that you were never going to be the strongest, smartest, or fastest person in any room, ever again. 

But the third, and maybe most important, was you reckoning with your own internal reaction when the Dora Milaje handed you your ass on a platter for the first of every time. You could learn a lot about a guy by how he first reacted to the Dora Milaje, but you could learn even more from how he reacted to that reaction. 

Speaking of which -- 

“Hi. John Walker. Captain America.”* 

Oh, fuck yeah. 

Sam caught Bucky’s eye -- ohhh, he really hoped this was about to go down exactly as expected. Bucky sipped his drink, grinned back, and -- 

“Well, let’s, uh, put down the pointy sticks and we can talk this through, huh?”* 

-- oh, yeah. They were gonna enjoy this. 

But because of who Sam Wilson was as a person he had to at least make a good-faith effort to de-escalate, so, “Hey, John. Take it easy,” he said, holding out his hand in a placating gesture. “You might wanna fight Bucky before you tangle with the Dora Milaje.”* 

“The Dora Milaje don’t have jurisdiction here,”* said Walker, like an idiot, and then -- ooohhhhhh, shit, oooohhhhhhhhh shit, it was about to -- 

“T h e D o r a M i l a j e h a v e j u r i s d i c t i o n w h e r e v e r t h e D o r a M i l a j e f  i  n  d  t  h  e  m  s  e  l  v  e  s  t  o  be,” said Ayo, all soft and menacing and immense-power-held-in-check-like -- and oooooohhhh, Sam was literally shivering, he had goosebumps all over -- was this ASMR? Is this what ASMR was? Holy shit, mental note, look up Dora Milaje ASMR just in case it’s a thing -- 

“Okay…” The Whiskey Idiot looked to Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar for guidance, but Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar just looked confused, bless his heart. “Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot --”* 

And then for some reason New Cop thought it’d be a good idea to try to actually touch any part of Ayo’s person, and -- well, Sam had known Walker had questionable judgment, of course, and yet he somehow genuinely hadn’t realized the guy was like, a Complete Yosemite Sam? But hey, you learned something new every day. 

Anyway, after that it did, in fact, go down exactly as expected. 

Black femmes do not exist to do your dirty work, Sam had to remind himself as he got the fuck out of the way, the better to watch Ayo beat the shit out of Walker without breaking a single one of her spear-length eyelashes. In the other corner her lieutenants were busy putting Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar down like a baby for a nap. The Dora Milaje are separate people with their own completely separate agendas, Wilson. 

Ugh. Fine.

Sam spoke to Bucky in an undertone. “We should do something.”* 

Bucky responded by calling out, “Lookin’ strong, John,”* and sipping his drink, so no help from that quarter. 

Or rather, all the help from that quarter, because to be honest every single cell of Sam’s being wanted to just let this play out, he couldn’t remember a more satisfying experience to save his life -- nope, nope, nope, Wilson. This isn’t FOR you, remember.  

And then a different part of his brain said, shut the fuck up a second, conscience, and let me enjoy this, because -- damn, but it was glorious. Like. Fucking glorious. 

Unfortunately, they didn’t get to enjoy it for very long.  

“Bucky,”* said Sam warningly, and nodded to where Ayo had laid Walker out, then to the corner where her two lieutenants were quickly growing bored of thrashing Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar -- and then across the room to Zemo, who was watching the scene as if waiting for his moment to slip out unnoticed. 

Sam hadn’t been lying earlier -- they kinda did need Zemo around, because who the fuck knew what Karli would do next now that Walker had ruined everything -- but of course, the Dora weren’t gonna be distracted by That Motherfucking Cop and Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar for much longer. 

The Ashy Wolf groaned and rolled his eyes at Sam, then tossed back the rest of his drink -- yep, another alpine wildflower moment: can’t even handle being the diversion, for fuck’s sake -- and then they dove into the fray: Bucky to redirect Ayo, and Sam to take the heat off poor Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar. 

It was whatever. Sam was pretty much always down to take a few hits from the Dora -- after all, he usually learned something from it (speaking of learning new things on the daily), and today was no exception. For example, Sam had just learned, after being whacked to the ground by one of her lieutenants, that Ayo could make Bucky’s entire left arm fall off in about two seconds flat. 

Yeah, that pretty much wrapped things up. 

Sam looked around as Bucky’s arm clanged to the floor -- sitrep: Zemo was gone and the doors to the poop-shower WC were closed; Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar was down for the count; and the other lieutenant had somehow pinned That Motherfucker to a table via the shield without harming him at all, and -- ohhh, praise all that is just and holy for the Dora Milaje, bless their gracious name and let the saints say a-fucking-men. 

“Bast damn you, James.”* Ouch -- fuck, but Ayo knew how to make a curse stick. Sam was pretty sure those eyelashes alone had the power to send someone to hell.  

Welp. Guess that meant Zemo had gotten away clean. 

Ayo walked over to the poop-shower bathroom and threw the doors open. “He is gone.” Yup, confirmed. “Leave it,”* she said to her lieutenant, meaning the shield and/or possibly John Walker. 

Sam got to his feet with a groan as the Dora left and Bucky did something to stick his arm back on. “Did you know they could do that?”* 

The Ashface swung his arm around in a circle like he was clicking it back into its socket and grimaced. “No.”* 

Meanwhile Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar had gotten up from his beatdown and was seeing to his “fallen” comrade. “You alright, man?”* 

As for The Motherfucking Cop himself, Walker looked -- lost. Bothered, bewildered. “They weren’t even Super Soldiers.”* He said it like error 404: explanation not found. 

Blech. 

Sam couldn’t help giving Walker a good, long stare as he passed them on his way to the poop-shower bathroom, because -- yeah, you could tell a lot about a guy by how he reacted to the Dora. 

And seriously -- comparisons weren’t fair, of course, and of course no two things were alike (except maybe a couple of houses in Verona, dignity-wise), but honestly -- honestly? Honestly, if the motherfucking Winter Soldier could react with that level of equanimity to the kind of iffy faith and/or subterfuge involved in the actual targeting of his disability by the people who’d fitted him with the prosthesis in the first place then John Walker could deal with losing a damn fight like a motherfucking adult. 

Anyway, at least now they had an explanation for why Zemo had spent so much time in that dang bathroom. “I can’t believe he pulled an El Chapo.”* 

“I can,” said Bucky. “C’mon.”* 

*** 

Chapter Text

Communal roost

*** 

“Dinner and regroup at the Autograph Place?” asked Frosty on their way out. 

“Like you had to ask.” Sam’s eyebrows shot up -- Bucky had pulled a ring of keys out of nowhere and was now locking up behind them. “Huh?”

“Zemo slipped ‘em to me when he handed off the decanter.”

Sam half-smiled and shook his head -- it was a lot easier to think fondly on Ivan the Terrible when he wasn’t around. “Accounts for everything, doesn’t he.” 

“Lucky for us. Don’t much like the idea of having to f-find a new base of operations.” 

“Ain’t that the damn truth.” Back online, Sam texted Sarah as he and Bucky walked the now-familiar cobblestone path to Ilze’s. A few minutes later he received a middle finger emoji in reply -- excellent. Good to know they were on the same page. 

“Is it just me,” floated Bucky’s voice from somewhere, “or did the temperature drop like, a thousand-d-degrees in the last two m-minutes?” 

“It’s just you,” said Sam automatically, then did a double take. “You okay, Barnes? You don’t look so good.” 

“‘M fine, I guess. J-j-j-just cold.” White Fang’s fangs were actually chattering. 

“Bucky, stop.” Sam pulled him around, grabbed the Ashface’s right hand to check the nail beds, then looked closely at his -- fuck, at his fully ashen face, at his pretty -- yep, cyanotic. “Your lips are blue. When’s the last time you ate?” 

“T-too long ago,” said Bucky shortly. “Can we get-t-to Ilze’s?” 

“Yeah, fucking stat.” Sam took Balto’s elbow as they went, the better to hustle him along slash keep him upright and bipedal. “You got your gummies? Or those protein packs?” 

“Not on m-me. Maybe b-back at the Sunrise.” 

“You don’t keep any in your pocket, Snowflake?” 

“Wha’ever, Ma. ’Mgrown.” Bucky was listing sideways -- Sam ducked under his shoulder just in time. 

“Fuck, man, you know better than this,” he scolded before he could stop himself.  

“‘S cute you’re worried, birdie. Woulda been okay,” Bucky slurred in response, “‘cept for the arm. T-takes energy to reconnect’n’reboot, I g-guess.” 

“Barnes, you’re heavy as shit,” Sam panted. “Stay with me, yeah? We’re almost there.”  

“Yuralmosssstherr,” said Bucky. 

Sam leaned back in his chair with a sigh, having just finished his second plate, and looked around. Ilze’s hadn’t looked any different, on the outside, but somehow the vibe seemed cozy and welcoming rather than murdery this time around.  

As for Bucky, the Hypoglycemic Popsicle was on his sixth plate of food and showed no sign of slowing down -- yeah, they were probably going to be here a while longer. 

Time to order dessert. 

“Hoskins seems alright, despite the Battlestar of it all,” Sam mused when Ilze had come and gone -- he’d been cogitating on Those Fucking Guys (and also about that rye bread pudding Ilze had mentioned when they came in) all through the first part of the meal. “You see how he looks out for Walker? But Walker only looks out for himself.” 

“Mmmmm,” said Bucky into an almost-empty bowl of something called ‘grey peas and speck,’ which, despite the dubious-sounding name, had actually tasted delicious -- kinda like black-eyed peas and ham hocks, only different. 

Ilze soon came back to swap out the bowl for another couple steaming platters to place in front of the Ashface, who was making like his name and wolfing that shit down like there was no tomorrow. 

“They seem so young,” Sam said when she’d gone again. “They act like kids -- but they’re grown-ass men. Fucking government representatives, for crying out loud.” 

“Everyone seems young t’me,” said Bucky, and started in on the potatoes.  

“Everyone is young compared to you.” 

“True,” Bucky agreed. “But them more than most.” He shoveled a forkful of starch into his mouth. 

After that it was a good long few minutes before either of them spoke again, and that was kinda nice. Ilze came and left, this time with chicken dumplings for Bucky and dessert for Sam, and Sam was almost done with his bread pudding when he finally decided to break the silence. Truth be told, he really mostly only did it because something wasn’t sitting right in his belly, and he didn’t want the bread pudding to bear the brunt, ‘cause it probably wouldn’t taste as good coming back up.  

“It just -- I just -- I don’t --” he finally began, and -- damn, it was hard to articulate the precise balance of empathy and fear and rage and disgust all roiling around in his gut. “I used to be like them.” 

“You were never like Walker,” said Bucky into a pile of some kind of greens.  

Sam smiled. “True. But I used to be a lot closer than I like to think about, most days.” 

Bucky looked up. “What changed?” 

BLONK -- there went the boulder, down into his whirlpool-gut. “I lost Riley.” 

Bucky had thankfully shifted his focus back to his plate, but he did say “Mmmmmm?” like he was still listening, so. Sam figured he could keep talking. 

And… fuck, but he kinda needed to talk about this. After the memorial and everything that had gone down with Karli, and then everything with the Dora Milaje and Walker, and all of Zemo’s bullshit, and his fight with Sarah … he needed to talk about it, needed to have acknowledged it, needed to have said it aloud. 

And anyway, with his mouth full Bucky was way less likely to interrupt with something annoying. 

“When we were kids, Sarah and I used to joke about how we basically had four parents and two homes. We had our mom and dad and the boat, and we had our TiTi and Ainnell and the bar.” 

Frosted Flake status check: face fully immersed in food. Looking less frosted now, which was definitely a good sign blood sugar-wise.

“Ainnell… her legal name was Nellie Rose, or maybe Penelope Rose, I think, but nobody ever called her that. Her go-by name comes from how ‘Auntie Nell’ runs together, after while -- anyway, Ainnell was my TiTi’s best-friend-slash-roommate. It was the kind of thing we accepted at face value, as kids -- one of those everybody-knows-but-nobody-will-say-it-type deals. Took until I met a good number of other openly queer folks before I realized that my TiTi and Ainnell were -- well, were like Salt and Pepper.” 

Bucky looked up. “Mmmmmm -- mm-hmmmm,” he said through a green mouthful -- ha, what manners. 

“We were a real musical family -- some of my earliest memories are of sitting on my TiTi’s lap learning piano chords on the old upright in the living room back home, and oooh, she and my Mama used to play duets like you wouldn’t believe.” Sam shook his head. “TiTi and Ainnell owned the blues bar in town, they lived right above it. Sarah and I would ‘run away’ to there, when we wanted to get outta chores or just get away for a little while. It’s the kinda place you’d like, or woulda liked, Snowflake -- all kinds of nelly queens this and that, once you knew how to look for it. ‘Course they never served us drinks or nothing, but we’d sit up all night and listen to the musicians play. That’s where I learned to play the trumpet, before I joined the marching band in high school.” 

Greens fully demolished, Bucky was now onto the chicken dumplings.  

“Then my TiTi died, and it was just Ainnell running the bar. Sarah and I would still run away there, ‘least once a week, and sometimes the old heads would let us jam with ‘em, when it was quiet, or sneak us a drink or two. Learned how to roll a joint from a guy who played with Muddy Waters, can you believe that? But you can’t blow horn too good if you’re smoking weed all the time, so mostly it just made me popular at parties, ‘specially when I got to Grambling State. 

“So we lost our TiTi, but it was okay, because I still had Sarah and our parents and Ainnell -- and then I joined the Air Force, and I had Riley.” Sam took a second to watch the dumplings disappear with remarkable speed. “Drink some water, will you? Gonna choke yourself with how fast you’re downing those.” 

“‘M fine, Ma,” said Bucky, but he went for the water next. 

“Riley was -- Riley was -- Riley was my partner,” Sam continued when Bucky was appropriately hydrated. “We joined up together, went into the test pilot program together, looked out for each other… guess I don’t need to tell you how it is, Steve was still mourning you when we met. Even then I could tell… I could tell that he knew, he knew what it was like to have someone like that.” He avoided Bucky’s eyes. “Like a lifeline, keeping you from spinning out into space.  

“I needed that lifeline, when my parents passed. Sarah was married by then, and it -- not that I didn’t love my brother-in-law, don’t get me wrong, but it’s just, it’s different when your twin has another half who isn’t you. But it was okay, because I had my partner, I had Riley. We used to joke about that old Bette Midler song, you know --” 

“Mmmmmmmmmmrrrrrh?” said Bucky around a mouthful of beets.  

“ -- ooh, maybe you don’t, we should put it on your list -- but anyway, she’s got one about the ‘Wind Beneath My Wings,’ and we used to yell it at each other over the comms while we were flying.”

“Mmmmmmm,” said Bucky. 

PLONK, went the boulder. “And then Riley died.” 

Bucky looked up. His chewing slowed and stopped.  

“We were flying a mission. Nothing special about it, just like any other. He was flying at my wing, singing in my ear right next to me, and then all of a sudden he was just -- gone. You -- it’s -- I guess I don’t need to tell you what that was like either, losing him. It was toward the end of our second tour, so I took the discharge and ran away home. I went to the one place and the one person I had left: Ainnell’s.” He sighed. “Then I hit rock bottom, found me a good sharp shovel, and started digging.” 

Bucky nodded, eyes crinkled in wry empathy. “Mmmmmm.” 

“Man, swallow those beets unless you wanna wear ‘em as a lip stain for the next two days,” said Sam. 

“Fuck you,” said Bucky very clearly, but at least he’d swallowed the beets.

“Ainnell was a veteran,” Sam continued, “a pilot, the reason I joined the Air Force, actually. She’s the only one who understood the -- the ‘flyboy spirit,’ she used to call it, you know, your German word. We were the same, her and me. She was so proud of me when I got my wings…”

“Mmmm,” said Bucky, who’d now turned to the plate of sauerkraut and pork belly.  

“She was a big woman -- and strong, so strong. And one night she got sick of watching me destroy myself little by little, I guess, so she took me and held me while I -- and then she said something I’ll never forget. Seriously, I wrote it down.” Bucky looked up at that, a couple strips of cabbage still dangling from his mouth, and -- aww, it was kinda cute. Sam felt the corner of his mouth lift unbidden, either at the memory of Ainnell or at the sight of the Ashy Wolf held spellbound by his story, or probably a combination of both. “She said ‘you think you’re alone, child? You think you’re the only one with pain so heavy it feels like it’s gonna crush you, like a boulder full of lava sitting on your chest?’” He shook his head. “She had a way with words, did Ainnell. Then she said, ‘Baby, I know you can’t even stand to think about being something other than angry right now -- shoot, sometimes I think we women got it easier that way. But take a good long look around, sparrow, at all these old men who keep coming to my bar night after night. The fuck you think the blues are for?’” 

Sam’s voice broke on the last word, and he had to take a drink of water after that, and then he had to fold his napkin into pleats until his vision stopped being so damn blurry, and he had to do basically anything other than look at Bucky Barnes. 

“Mm,” said Bucky. “Mm-hmm.” 

“Anyway.” Okay, Wilson, get it together. “It feels fucking trite to say that music saved my life, but it did. Music, and Ainnell.” 

“Mmm,” said Bucky.  

“She helped me set up that first therapy appointment at the VA, too, sat through all the awful hold music with me and everything, because of course I had to make about thirty-leven phone calls and jump through several flaming hoops to get a fucking intake on the books.” Another drink of water, more napkin-folding. 

“Where is she now?” asked Bucky after a couple minutes, and at that Sam actually did look up at him. 

“She died,” he said shortly. “During the Blip. So did the bar.” He sighed. “And now Sarah’s selling the boat.” 

“Oh.” A beat, and then the Ashface spoke again. “That’s -- sometimes I think seventy years are easier than five, you know?” And fuck -- Sam couldn’t even control his expression, could do nothing but stare back at Balto’s earnest hangdog face, because -- fuck, fuck, what even, what -- there were so many fucking emotions happening all at once and it was just kind of a lot, is all -- and then Balto seemed to backtrack. “Anyway. I’m sorry.” 

“Yeah, me too,” said Sam, instead of what he wanted to say, which was maybe something like what’d you think you were gonna do, kiss it to make it better? or possibly there’s never a right thing to say in a situation like this but it means a lot that you tried. He tossed his napkin onto the table and stood. “Let’s get outta here.” 

***

Chapter Text

Powder down

*** 

“I could go for a nap right about now,” said the No-Longer-Hypoglycemic Popsicle. They’d just arrived back at the Magic Sunrise Flat, having been seen off from Ilze’s with almost as many kisses on their cheeks as Zemo’d gotten that morning. 

“Back home we call that the itis,” said Sam. “You earned it, all that food you put away -- might as well go to bed now.” 

“Nah,” said Bucky. “I sleep maybe ninety minutes at a time, tops.” 

Sam’s mouth twisted in empathy despite itself. “I got you.” That was about how long it usually took to slip into REM sleep, aka dream. “You want the door closed?” 

Bucky shook his head. “You’re gonna do your calls, right?” At Sam’s nod, he continued. “Leave it cracked. White noise is good.” 

The really nice thing about Bucky Barnes was that by now they had enough of a -- a vibe going, or whatever, that Sam knew he could bleed off some of his frustration into bickering with the Ashy Wolf, just like Sarah with her middle finger. “Oh, so I’m noise to --” 

Bucky immediately engaged. “That’s not what I --” 

“-- over here trying to --” 

“-- even talking to me, so --” 

“-- and here you are just --” 

“-- fucking soothing, that’s all, like --” 

“-- your lullaby --”

“-- Black Nightingale --”

“-- no damn whippoorwill --”  

“-- like whooping crane --” 

“-- my God, Snowflake, go the fuck to sleep so I don’t have to knock you out myself, yeah?” 

“Copy that,” said Bucky, and took himself off to the bedroom. 

“Torres, hey, got some updates for ya -- but first, how’s your grandmother?” 

“Fats Dominatrix! Can’t believe I actually got you on the phone, you must be between clients, huh?” Fatima had been his mentor at the VA. “Ooh, nice, we love cancellations, as long as they’re for the good kind of reason. You got a minute to catch up, then? Nah, I won’t keep you long, you should enjoy this hour of your life you just got back.” 

In lieu of calling, Sam decided to text Sarah hey i’m about to call the boys and got two middle fingers in response. He sent back three. 

AJ picked up this time, but the opening was pretty much always the same. “Uncle Sam, I got a question for you.” 

“Go ahead,” said Sam. “Unless it’s more Hamilton.” 

“What’s tear gas?” 

“Uh.” Fuck. “What makes you ask that, bud?” 

“On the news they said the police used tear gas on protesters,” said Cass helpfully. 

“Protests?” said Sam. “For the boy who was killed?” 

“Those were last week. These ones were for the uncle.” 

“The uncle?” He was beginning to feel like an echo. 

“Yeah,” said Cass. “They put him on the ground and then the policeman put his knee on the uncle’s neck so he couldn’t breathe for like, ten minutes. Then he died.” 

“So what’s tear gas?” said AJ. “Is it like what we get at the dentist? Does it make you cry?” 

“Did the police explode tear gas because they were sad?” said Cass. “I like crying when I’m sad, it feels like picking your nose.” 

“Picking your nose is gross,” said AJ. 

“So is crying, with all the snot and stuff,” retorted Cass. “But everybody does it anyway.” 

Sam couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t -- fuck, fuck, fuck, he couldn’t breathe. 

“Did the cops explode tear gas because they were sad, Uncle Sam?” said AJ. 

“No,” Sam managed. “No, they -- they -- tear gas is a gas that, uh, that hurts people. The cops exploded the tear gas because they wanted to make the protesters stop protesting.” 

“Oh,” said AJ. “Like the fire hoses in history class.” 

Fuck. “Yeah, buddy. Like the fire hoses in history class.” 

“On TV they said the cops shot the boy last week because they were scared,” said Cass. “But his hands were up, so why were they scared? Why did they kill him if his hands were up? ” 

“I don’t know, buddy,” said Sam, because the answer he wanted to give would have taken a lifetime to say -- but the boys deserved more emotional honesty than that. “Except I kinda-sorta do, deep down in my bones -- and you do, too, we just don’t want to believe it. But we can’t afford to not face the truth, even if it’s hard.” 

There were a couple seconds of silence as the boys digested that, and then -- 

“They killed him because he was Black, right?” Cass’s voice was very small. “Like us.”

“No,” said Sam. “They didn’t kill the boy because he was Black. They killed him because they thought it was okay to use their power to kill someone different from themselves, just because they were angry or scared, or because they were having a bad day.” 

“And the other one from last week, the auntie,” said AJ, and -- fuck, the other one? “They thought it was okay to kill her just because she tried to run away?”

“Yeah.” That was all Sam could get out.   

“But why?” Cass persisted. “Why can’t they just do the breathing things or sing the blues if they’re having a bad day, like you taught us?” 

“They could,” said Sam. “But they don’t. They choose to kill people instead.” 

Nevertheless, Cass persisted. “But why do they choose to kill us?” 

“Because they think we’re lesser than them,” said Sam. “Because they think anybody who’s different is lesser.” 

“But -- but why?” 

“You know why,” said AJ. “Cass, stop asking. You know why.” 

Cass’s eyes began to spill over. “But -- b-but -- but, but… but are they gonna kill me?”  

Sam had to take a second, at that -- and his eyes spilled over, too -- because the really fucked-up part was that he couldn’t say no, i promise, nobody is ever gonna hurt you, i can keep you safe. It’d be a fucking lie. 

“Listen to me,” said Sam when he could speak again. “You deserve to grow up free from harm, surrounded by people who love and support you no matter what, with the power to be your own person and decide your own futures without fearing that somebody will kill you for it. You deserve to grow up, and I will do everything in my power to make that happen, do you understand?”  

“Yeah.” AJ looked down at Cass, who looked up at him, and then back at Sam, and -- oh. Oh, there it was: that look, in both boys’ eyes now. “Yeah. We -- yeah.” 

“I love you each and I love you both,” said Sam. “So much. I’ll -- I’ll always be here for you, no matter what, okay?” 

“We know, Uncle Sam,” said Cass, and rolled his eyes. “You only say it like, every day.” 

“And imma keep saying it forever and ever,” said Sam. “‘Cause it’s true.” 

“We love you too, Uncle Sam,” said AJ. “When are you coming home?” 

Fuck. Fuck -- heartbreak in B-flat minor. “Soon.” Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Wilson. “As soon as I can.”  

When he’d hung up Sam went to the bedroom door and slammed it wide open, so hard the tile cracked -- fuck . Get it together, Wilson. Breathe. 

“Nrrggghhhhhffff--whwhhh --” came Sleeping Beauty's voice from somewhere in the corner. 

“Oh, good,” said Sam, and crossed the room to his gear. “You’re up.” 

“-- the fuck, asshole?” 

“I need to get the fuck outta here a minute.” Shirt off, check. Pants off, check. “Gonna grab the wings, do a sweep.” 

Behind him Sam could hear Bucky take in a breath -- probably to say something stupid -- and then reconsider. When Balto’s voice finally came, it floated soft over Sam’s shoulder like a butterfly and stung like a bee. “You okay?” 

Fuck, please don’t, don’t you -- no, no, no -- 

-- suit on, check. 

Thank the Lord for checklist-brain. “Nope,” said Sam, and left -- he could do the wings outside. 

Flying, it turned out, was a lot like playing music. Sam had had a lot of time to think about this. 

They were basically exactly the same: you spent years and years in training, acquiring all the different techniques to make your instrument do the thing you were told to make it do -- building skills in controlled settings. Learning to overrule your instinctive reaction, whatever that might be, by doing an exercise someone had designed for you over and over and over until it became second nature. Which was great, right up until you got into any kind of real-life situation -- until the tactical team said what's the plan, sir or the old bluesman said okay kid, let's trade fours -- and realized that it was still up to you to assess the whole thing and decide what beats to hit, what notes to play, which thermals to catch. You’d learned control by playing a course someone else had written, yeah, only to reach a certain level and realize that you had to fucking let go of all of that and stop fucking thinking, because you couldn’t think fast enough to do it all on manual. 

Training wasn’t about teaching you what to do, only how to do it -- training only made the doing instinctive. Beyond that, it was up to you to actually make those split-second decisions and hope you’d trained well enough to do the thing you were about to try, because -- in both music and flight -- there was never any time to think about it. Time kept going, whether you liked it or not, so you had to learn to give up that control and trust yourself. 

But that’s what improvisation was: the instinctive use of developed skill to support your real-time reaction choices. Those choices were never anything but honest, because you never had time to think, only do. Only play, only fly. And the more you’d trained -- the more techniques you had, the more skills you’d developed -- meant the more choices you could see for yourself, more options you had. 

So yeah, it was time to stop thinking.  

Wings strapped on, Sam pulled up the playlist he’d named the bluest note, turned it up as far as his hearing-loss prevention settings would allow, and hit shuffle before taking off.  He also turned off his GPS tracking and flight camera stream, because what he didn’t need right now was anybody fucking contacting him -- but Sam Wilson was also either a good little soldier or a highly trained professional, depending on his mood, and so instead of blocking his comms system entirely he set it to ‘emergency contacts only,’ because lives were at stake. 

Fuck, lives were always at stake, even when they shouldn’t be -- this was why Madripoor had gone sideways, because he couldn’t figure out how to fucking be there for his family. Fuck. Fuck. Fu-- no, stop. Stop it. Stop thinking, stop feeling, stop everything, Wilson. 

Start flying. 

Bucky’s voice came floating up about forty-five minutes in. “Wilson. Hey, Wilson.”

Sam ignored it. 

“I know you’re there, Sam, you left the line open.” 

Yeah, ‘cause i’m a fucking idiot who doesn’t know how to do boundaries. 

“Look, Falcon, you don’t gotta talk. But you -- just don’t disappear on me, okay?” Wow, Frosty -- float like a butterfly, sting like a murder hornet. “Like -- like a kite string.” 

Like a lifeline, Sam thought, but didn’t say it because Bucky wasn’t his goddamn partner, Bucky wasn’t Riley, Bucky wasn’t -- but thoughts of Steve were even worse than thoughts of Riley, so instead of thinking any thoughts at all Sam just tuned back into the playlist -- which was currently serving up Grant Green’s maybe tomorrow, fucking wow -- and shared it to Bucky’s earpiece without a word. 

Then he opened his own settings, bypassed all the security measures, and turned that shit all the way up. 

*** 

Chapter Text

Plumulaceous

***

The moon had made it maybe a quarter of the way through the sky before Sam felt remotely ready to head back toward the Blue Magic Flat -- and even then, it was only because watery eyes and a runny nose after a long flight were kinda to be expected, goggles or no. 

Mostly he was hoping that he’d timed it well enough that Bucky would be in the middle of one of his ninety-minute sleep shifts, because what he wasn’t feeling up to right now was facing anybody, let alone Bucky Barnes and his pretty eyes and his trying.  

But no such luck. 

“So is the name of the playlist because of the record label or the Toni Morrison book?” 

Balto was sitting on the blue couch in the main room, facing the door as if he’d been waiting for Sam, and -- and -- and oh, shit, oh shit, thank fuck -- he’d chosen to do their thing rather than that other thing, the one where he tried. 

Okay, Ashy Wolf. I see you. 

“Yes,” said Sam, and made a not bad-type face, instead of what he wanted to do, which was start crying again. “How do you know about Blue Note Records?” 

“You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” said Bucky. “You talked at me for like half an hour about that guy Miles Davis yesterday, Professor Nightingale. It was almost as long as one of his songs.” 

“Fuck you.” Damn. Maybe it was time to stop being surprised that Frosty knew how to be helpful -- and not only how, but when. “And Toni Morrison? I know I didn’t give a seminar on her yesterday.” 

“Yeah, but at this point you’ve sent me about twenty billion links and she’s in at least three quarters of ‘em.” 

“So not only do you take lecture notes,” said Sam, “you also do the supplemental reading, you absolute fucking nerd.” 

“Fuck you,” said Bucky. “What else I’m gonna do between one and four in the morning, huh?” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Because four is when you wake me up, right --” 

“Never said you weren’t smart --” 

“-- like you did, though, at some point --” 

“-- can’t cite your source, so --” 

“-- repeat, absolute fucking nerd --”

“-- you’d rather I didn’t listen, that could be --” 

“-- not what I said, what I said was --” 

Okay, Ashy Wolf. 

I see you. 

Bucky was staring, Sam couldn’t sleep. Pretty standard scenario these days, all things considered. 

The tiles on the ceiling of their bedroom were actually really pretty. They were painted in all different shades of blue, with a design complicated enough in its symmetry to hold Sam’s attention, trying to find all the different patterns. It was the kind of thing he could focus on instead of thinking his thoughts or feeling his feelings, which was exactly what he needed right now, because he’d been trying to fall asleep for approximately the last forty million hours, and nothing had worked so far -- but he thought the tiles might. 

Too bad it was too dark to see ‘em. 

So fine, between the weight of Bucky’s stare and the lack of anything else to focus on Sam figured he might as well give up and engage. “You’re doing it.” 

“I’m usually the only one up right now,” said the Frozen Ashface like it was any kind of explanation. “You’re cutting into my supplemental reading time.” 

“Far be it from me to keep you from doing homework.” Maybe if he squinted he could see all the different blues, painted up there. 

Bucky’s voice did the floating thing again, right up around where Sam was trying to look. “You wanna talk about it?” 

“Not even a little bit.” But there was something about the darkness, and the floating, and the blues magic tiles, and -- “I’m scared,” Sam admitted. “For my family. For my -- my nephews.” 

“Because of the boy in Ohio?” And there was the sting. 

“Yeah.” Sam bit back a sob. “And the uncle in Minnesota, and the auntie in Kentucky. They busted into her home, Snowflake, she was sleeping. And then it was ‘oops, wrong house, sorry you’re dead and your kids are orphans’ -- so yeah, now I can’t sleep, like, ever.” 

“Fuck.” Bucky blew out a breath. “Fuuuuuuck.” 

“Yeah. I just, I feel so helpless.” Blues magic-induced emotional honesty was a heady thing, it turned out. “It don’t matter where I am, ain't nothing I can do for ‘em.” 

“Well... There is maybe one thing, Magpie.” 

The fuck?  “What.” 

“You could practice for our dance-off,” said Bucky very, very seriously. “I mean -- c’mon, you’re still miles away from my level, I don’t wanna have to embarrass you like that in front of your family -- ” 

Oh. 

Sam felt that Dora Milaje-style shiver-cascade, all across his shoulders and down his spine -- oh, fuck yes -- oh, thank the Lord for -- “You better watch yourself with all that --” 

“-- the one who needs to watch yourself, like, in the mirror --” 

“-- big game when you can’t --” 

“-- some time with the source material --” 

“-- not listening to you --” 

“-- clearly the superior --” 

“-- boy, get your ass out into the living room and start moving furniture while I pull up these tutorials, before I --” 

“-- way ahead of you, Whippoorwill --” 

“-- what did I just --” 

Yeah. Yeah, thank the blues for the Ashy Wolf. 

*** 

Chapter Text

Hyoid

***

“Boom -- shuggah-doo-bap, BAP -- no, not like that, like this: bap -- and twist, BAP, here, with your hip, right, and then -- brrrrrr-aa-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka- again -and boom, shuggAh-doo-bap, BAP, brrrrrr-aa-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-and -hit,” said Sam, and slid his leg forward into an almost-split for the end pose. 

“What the fuck,” said Bucky, who’d somehow crossed all his limbs together and was sitting in a ball on the floor. 

Sam didn’t even try to hide his cackle. “I don’t know how to make it any clearer. We can run the video again if that’ll make you feel better about how much you suck at this?” 

“Fuck you.” The Frozen Pretzel started to untangle his arms from his legs. “But yes. I still don’t get what I’m doing wrong.” 

“Your problem’s all in your stance,” said Sam. “Damn, I feel like Uncle Iroh.”

“Who?”

“Oh, that's definitely going on your list -- but look.” He got back into the proper position: palms flat on the ground, balanced on the balls of his feet -- the technical name for which was face-down-ass-up . “See how I’m shifting my weight so it’s easy to slide my leg forward from here? You gotta put more weight into your hands. Try it.” 

Bucky tried it. “Like this?” 

“I mean, it’s great that you’re that flexible, but -- Jesus, bend your knees, man, that can’t be comfortable.” Sam chopped at the Ashy Wolf’s legs with the easy physicality of teammates used to training together and/or sparring with each other -- not that they were teammates. Plus, most of Sam’s experience fighting Bucky had come from actually fighting him, so. “And widen your stance.” He kicked Bucky’s ankles apart. “You’re shaking your ass, not piking up to a handstand. Try it now. Ready, and -- brrrrr-aa-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka -- yeah, okay, better. Still not on my level, but better.”  

“Pretty sure it’s not the bent knees and wide stance that’s making the difference, Professor Whooping Crane,” drawled the Ashface, glaring at Sam from beneath his armpit, “‘cause y’see unlike you I’m not burdened with an excess of ass --” 

“Don’t act like you ain't trying to eat up all this cake,” Sam retorted, and smacked Bucky’s ass without thinking -- the kind of gesture he’d done in the Air Force for years. “Oh, shit, sorry --” 

“You’re good.” And then the Russian Gymnast piked up into a handstand like a fucking show-off. “But it looks like I’m not the only one hungry for --” Phew, thank goodness -- but also, the audacity.

Sam grabbed for Bucky’s calves to yank him over, and then it was on. “Don’t you dare --” 

“-- just saying --” 

“-- compare your bony ass to my --” 

“-- an entire dessert, I’ll have you know --” 

“-- enough protein for a twelve-course meal --”

“-- sweeter than candy and twice as hard --” 

“-- keep even your metabolism satisfied for --” 

“-- take me maybe three minutes to finish you off, tops --” Pretty von Pretzel’s limbs were twisted up again, trying and failing as he was to grapple his way out of Sam’s hold, but Sam had him pinned good and proper.  

“-- uh-huh, I’d like to see you try,” Sam taunted, and sat on Bucky’s chest to seal his victory. “Run that video again, maybe you’ll actually hit the ‘ography this time now that I’ve shown you how it’s done. Oh, wait, you c-- whup!” Bucky’d given up playing fair, apparently, and basically just gone and done an entire Turkish getup -- except with Sam instead of a kettlebell. “You better not drop me, Snowflake.” 

“Please, I’m a professional,” Bucky retorted -- but then surprise swooped in Sam’s belly as the Ashy Wolf tossed him like, three feet in the air before catching him in a bridal carry and setting him down with exaggerated gentleness. 

Ugh, point taken. “Professional show-off, maybe.” 

Bucky smiled all honey-sweet, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. “If you’d rather I didn’t catch --” 

Sam let out a growl. “That’s not what I --” 

“-- obviously don’t have to --” 

“-- what I said was --” 

“-- seems kinda --” 

“-- me around like I’m the damn Princess Bride -- and no, don’t bother, I already know you haven’t seen that one. That’s now two priority additions to your list from tonight, Twinkletoes.”  

“I love this fucking window.” The sky’d begun to lighten before Sam could be still for longer than three seconds without spinning out.  “Wall. Of windows. Window-wall. Wonderwall.” He chuckled. “Window-wonderwall. Wonder window-wall? Mmmm -- wonderful window wonderwall. Mm-hmm.” 

“The Blackbird sings nonsense at dawn,” said Bucky, eyes trained east. They were kneeling side-by-side, elbows and chins resting on the back of the couch. 

“That was almost poetry.” It felt natural at this point for Sam to lean into Balto’s shoulder while dawn trickled in through the Magic Sunrise Window. And then after that, it felt -- well, it was the end of the night, right, so it felt pretty natural to -- “God save us nelly queens,” he sang softly. “God save us nelly queeeeeens --” 

Bucky exhaled, another proto-laugh, and Sam felt him smile, and then he made it a duet. “God save us queeeeeens...” 

“From every mountainside --” 

“ -- long may we live and thrive --” 

“ -- God saaa-aave us nelly queens --”

“ -- God save us queeeeens,” they finished together, and fell silent. 

More light spilled into the flat: firefly glow, fish-scale gleam, suncatcher-rainbows -- the bayou’s morning mist, new-minted sunshine reflecting off the water. 

Eyes, spilling over with tears. 

“You looked up the song.” Bucky’s voice was almost a whisper. 

“You ain't the only one doing the supplemental reading.” Sam let out a yawn. “How’d you learn it, though? Seems like it got popular after your time.”  

“I didn’t have an Ainnell,” said Bucky, like it was the beginning of a story. “But we did have José.” 

“Mmm?” said Sam, just to show he was still listening. 

“Staff Sergeant José Sarria. He was just about five-foot, as long as he was wearing pumps, and maybe ninety pounds soaking wet. Little scrap of sparkle, but hard like a diamond. Reminded me a lot of Steve, actually -- José got turned down by the Army almost as many times as Steve did. Never caught Erskine’s interest though, I guess. Ended up seducing his recruiter instead. 

“José ran an officers’ mess hall in occupied Germany. ‘Swhere the Howling Commandos used to go back to, kind of our home base. Most of us wouldn’t’ve been allowed to walk in the front door if times’d been regular, not being officers and all -- and there being a bunch of queers and colored folks in the crew besides -- but since we were Cap’s men they let it slide. 

“And then at night, the hall turned into Sarria’s Mess, and José turned into a queen. Come dawn every morning she’d sing God Save Us Nelly Queens, and we’d all join in, and then we’d toddle off to catch a couple winks while José cooked breakfast in heels.” 

“Mmmmmm,” said Sam.  

“He had a man back home in California. Some filthy rich Austrian baron -- Kolish something or other, was his name. You know the type.”

Sam snorted.  

“I dunno, José and I, we… knew it wouldn’t last, of course. Didn’t even wanna make it a thing, neither of us -- he had his baron, and it was wartime. We figured we could die any day, so why…” Bucky shrugged, which jostled Sam’s head a little, but Sam didn’t complain. 

Instead he asked something that wouldn’t have made it past his filter had he slept like, at all in the last twenty-four hours -- something he’d been trying not to wonder about, because the answer would be kind of a lot one way or another. “Did Steve know?”  

“About me and José, or me in general?” Bucky didn’t seem fazed, which, okay, three cheers for being at ease with oneself or whatever. 

Might as well go all in. “Both, I guess.” 

“Dunno,” said the Ashface. “I mean, he was around for all the dicks in my sketchbooks in addition to the titties and asses, when we were younger -- but he never asked, and I never volunteered. Like your TiTi and her Pepper. Figured he saw The Mess as just one more place I dragged him out to.” 

“Oh.” Sam digested that for a minute. “So you and Steve never…” 

Bucky shook his head. “Nah. There was a minute it coulda gone that way, I think, right after he rescued me and he’d gotten all those damn muscles. But I -- I hadn’t really figured my shit all the way out yet, and I needed him more as a brother, y’know?” 

“Mmmmmmmm,” said Sam. “Mmm-hmm.” The windows were beginning to kaleidoscope, just a little bit, so he closed his eyes. 

“Plus, Steve -- well, you know how he was. During our museum days I’d park myself in front of the nudie paintings for hours, trying to cover up the hard-ons with my sketchbook cover, y’know -- but Steve only had eyes for Guernica. He actually tried to join up again the night I shipped out, as a matter of fact, rather than come out dancing with me and a couple of dates I’d lined up. ‘Swhen he met Erskine.” 

“Mmm,” said Sam. The sunlight felt real good on his eyelids. 

“Anyway. José was one of the first people I looked up. After the war he bought a bar and turned it into a place for -- for people like us. They used to line up outside the jail across the street and sing it to all the patrons who’d gotten arrested from the bar overnight, for cross-dressing or -- or looking queer, or whatever. It didn’t used to be as much of a thing, before. ” 

Sam nodded sagely. “Happ’n’d t’ev’ryone after th’war.” Another yawn. “Ev’ry war.” 

“That bar -- how it made people feel. I’m pretty sure they mentioned it in that movie -- it was just like him to do that, it was just like that Mess in the middle of Nazi Germany. He made it into a home.” 

“Ain’José,” murmured Sam, because he was definitely still listening, even if his eyes were closed. 

“Exactly. The -- it was just, just some silly song we used to sing at sunup, something he made up one night on the spot -- but José went and gave it meaning. Made it into a symbol, made it something beautiful. Her Royal Majesty, Empress of San Francisco, José I, The Widow Norton.” 

“Th’fuck you think th’blues’re for,” Sam mumbled, or thought he did -- it was kind of tough to tell, because the cotton of Bucky’s t-shirt was just the right mix of rough and soft against his cheek, and the sunlight was nice and warm on his face, and there was a distinct possibility that he’d only dreamt having spoken at all. 

*** 

Chapter Text

Poikilothermy 

*** 

Sam woke up, which wasn’t weird in itself. 

What was weird was that he woke up on top of the covers of the bed in the bedroom, rather than where he’d fallen asleep, which he was pretty sure had been on the couch. It was obvious what had happened -- he’d passed out on Bucky’s shoulder sometime around dawn, and rather than wake him Bucky’d carried him to bed like a little kid. 

He couldn’t remember the last time someone done that for him -- had lifted him and cradled him so gently he hadn’t even woken up. He couldn't remember the last time someone had chosen to let him rest rather than -- just, because -- because there had to have been a last time, of course, there had to, but the thing about a last time for something like that was that you never knew when it would be the last time, so you couldn’t make sure to remember it. 

Also, Bucky was sleeping next to him. 

By the angle of the sun, Sam had been asleep for a good five or six hours. If Bucky’d been asleep for even half that -- yeah, it was weird, but like, good-weird, because Bucky didn’t sleep, as a rule. So he’d been sleeping, and that was good. 

‘Course, the Insomniac Wolf stirred basically as soon as Sam sat up, but still. 

“Morning,” said Sam. “You hungry?”

“Nnnnnnggggggggh.” Bucky hid his head under a pillow. “Don’t need to eat just yet.” 

Sam lifted the pillow for a quick visual inspection. “The color of your lips says otherwise.” 

“Betrayed by my own weak body. Shouldn’t’ve swallowed the beets.” Bucky threw the pillow at him.

“I will buy you an entire pack of beet-flavored lipstick to wear daily if you shut the fuck up and get dressed right now.” He bopped Bucky’s shoulder with the pillow. “And I’ll still be able to tell when you’re hypoglycemic, so there.” 

“Does lipstick come in packs?” 

“Dunno. I’ll ask Sarah.” Wait, but they were still in a fight. “Later. I’ll ask Sarah later. I’m gonna brush my teeth -- you better be ready to go by the time I’m done.” 

“Fuck you,” called Bucky, but he sat up. 

Sokovian pancakes were quickly becoming Sam's new favorite food. 

“Hey,” he said to Bucky sometime around the tail end of the twelfth stack, because this had been bugging him since yesterday, and it was gonna keep bugging him if he didn’t do something about it. “Can you ask Ilze if we can redo our autographs?” 

“No,” said Bucky. “Why?” 

Sam folded his napkin into pleats, because there wasn’t really a good way to say watching Ayo hack your arm off made me think about some things. “The one I did before was ableist,” was what he landed on, in the end. “I wanna fix it, it’s gonna bother me if I don’t. My name is on that, man.”

Bucky stared all blank and pretty for one, two, three beats, before -- “Wilson,” said Balto very, very seriously. “Are you aware that you are a cartoon character?” 

“Fuck you,” said Sam. “I’m just trying to be the best me that I can --” 

“Sweet fucking cherry pie, Whippoorwill, you --” 

“-- ‘scuse me for doing my --”

“-- after-school special wrapped up in a --”

“-- model good behaviors so --” 

“-- worse than Steve, I swear to --”

“-- make the world a better --” 

“-- so fucking wholesome I can’t even stand it --” 

“-- man, would you quit your yammering and talk Russian to the nice lady so we can go home? We need to plot our next move now Walker’s gone and fucked it all up.” Sam chucked the napkin at Bucky’s face. “And that’s Professor Whippoorwill to you, asshole.” 

A call came in from Sarah on their way back to the Blue Sunrise Flat, which was a little bit of a surprise, but -- “Hey,” said Sam when he picked up, instead of hello, have you decided i’m right about the boat yet? “Does lipstick come in packs?” 

“You need to text this number I’m about to send you.” His sister’s voice was very calm. Like -- very, very calm. Fuck -- what -- 

Everything in him went to high alert. “What? Sarah, what the hell?”

“Sam, listen to me,” said Sarah in her scary-calm voice. “Don’t react, just listen, and then do what I’m telling you to do. Okay?”

BLONK -- “Okay.” 

“Okay.” He heard her sigh on the other end of the line. “Karli Morgenthau called me --” AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH -- DON’T REACT, JUST LISTEN, FUCK “-- told me she wanted to talk to you. I’m sending you a phone number. I need you to text her, right now, and tell her it’s you. Did you get the number?” 

“Okay.” AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AAAAHHHH AAAH AAAAAAAAHHHHH NOPE GET IT THE FUCK TOGETHER SAMUEL STOP FREAKING OUT AND DO WHAT SARAH SAID, YOU ARE A PROFESSIONAL AND PROFESSIONALS DO NOT -- AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHH -- DO NOT PANIC. “Okay. Yes. Okay. Fuck, fuck, okay. I’m texting her. Right now. There, did you hear the little swoop? It says delivered. You delivered the message, Sarah, I did the thing, please, fucking tell me what’s going on.” But he didn’t really need her to tell him what had happened. 

She did anyway. “She knew their names, Sam. She said ‘out back by the dock.’” 

At his shoulder Bucky was keeping stride, and it was all Sam could do to stay -- AAAAAAAAAAAAH AAAAAAAAAH AAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH -- “She said what?”* 

“I know you heard me, Samuel Joseph,” said Sarah in her Scary Mom Calm voice. “And I swear to God if you make me repeat myself --”  

“Right --”*  

“-- will never speak to you again, do you hear me --” 

“-- hold on, hold on --”*  

“-- tell me to hold on, this is your fault --” 

“-- I know --”* 

“-- anything happens to my sons it will be on you --” 

There went the boulder again. “I know -- ”* 

“-- while you’re fluttering around or whatever --” 

“-- listen, pack an overnight bag and take the boys,”* he said, instead of any of the other things that came to mind, which mostly centered around self-recrimination and defensiveness or maybe just AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH --  

“What happened?”* asked Bucky beside him. 

“-- don’t talk to me like I’m a fucking amateur, we’re already --” 

“Karli called Sarah, she threatened my nephews,”* Sam said to the Ashy Wolf, and fucking shit, having said it out loud felt so -- so -- it felt so very -- nope, nope, nope -- he turned back to his phone, because he couldn’t allow himself to feel those feelings right now. “Only pay cash, let me know when you get there --”* he said to Sarah -- they’d made a plan together for this exact scenario, way back when, but -- fuck, fuck, he’d never thought they’d actually need it. 

“-- Sam, you already know what I am doing, we agreed on this a long time ago --” 

“ -- I love you. I’ll never let anything happen to you and the boys, you know that,”* said Sam, not because it was a promise he could keep but because he and Sarah both needed to hear him say it. 

“-- I love you too, shithead. I’ll send word through a burner. Don’t contact me ‘til you know it’s safe.” She hung up. 

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHH -- fuck, man, get it together, you’re a professional. “She left a contact number, she wants to meet,” Sam said to Bucky -- and then Karli’s reply came through and stopped him in his tracks in the middle of the alley. “She said come alone.”* 

“I’m coming with you,”* said Bucky like it was a given, and oh, holy shit, ohhh, holy shit -- fucking AAAH AAAAAAHHHH AAAAAAAAHH -- okay, look, okay, so one of the reasons anger was such a useful emotion to manipulate others with was that it was utterly predictable in its violence, and right now Sam Wilson was very fucking angry. 

He wanted to punch something. He wanted to kill something -- he wanted to kill someone, it didn’t matter who. Karli had threatened his family, and she’d tried to fucking scare him and isolate him and here Bucky was just all i’m coming with you and the last time he’d said that Sam had said no you’re not but this time he just wanted to tackle Frosty Gamgee to the ground, like, just, completely launch himself at Bucky Barnes and shove either his fist or his tongue down the Ashface’s throat for that i’m coming with you, but Bucky’d already had enough things shoved into his mouth with no regard for his consent, what with HYDRA and all, and also that would be extremely distractful at this exact AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH -- so instead of responding to i’m coming with you at all Sam opted to turn on his heel and start walking -- to switch focus back to his phone, because if that fucking terrorist thought she could intimidate him into submission by threatening his family then she had better think the fuck again. 

“Who’re you calling now?” Bucky, like a butterfly. Butterfly-Bucky. 

“Zemo,” said Sam. “It’s time to stop playing these games. Karli can meet the White Witch instead of the Black Falcon, see how she likes it.” 

Bucky grabbed his arm. “You don’t want to do that.” Fuck, fuck -- okay, yeah, that fucking stung. 

Sam shook the Icy Fuckface off. “Pretty sure I do.” But his thumb was hovering. 

“Okay, maybe, but you don’t wanna choose it.” 

Easier to lift his eyes from his phone, easier to be angry at Bucky than to think about the decision he was about to make. “What the fuck, Barnes --” 

“You’re the one who --”

“-- seriously fucking overstepped --”

“-- ends aren’t worth his means --” 

“-- who the fuck you think you are --” 

“-- no matter how much --” 

“-- telling me what the fuck I do and do not wanna choose!” Sam couldn’t help it -- he lashed out, punched Bucky in the center of the chest, a good hard strike, but Bucky didn’t even flinch, just grabbed him by the shoulders with that superpowered grip, and try as he might Sam couldn’t wrest himself free.

“Hey. Hey.” But Sam avoided that stupid pretty fucking stare, because -- “Eyes up here, Wilson. Look at me. Look at me.” Okay, fine, fine -- “I’d die to protect those boys, but this ain't the way. You hear me? This ain't the way and you know it.” 

Fireflies, blue sunrise, Bucky’s eyes -- breathe. 

Sam forced his hand open -- breathe, Wilson, fucking breathe -- no, there went the fist again, fuck, fuck -- because he was so angry, he was so angry -- no, fuck, you're not That Guy, don't be That Guy -- but it would be so much easier to just -- 

It’s not okay to kill a child just because you’re angry, Wilson. 

Fuck you, self. 

It’s not okay to murder someone just because you’re scared -- 

Shut the fuck up -- 

 -- it’s not okay for you to hurt people just because you’re hurting.   

“-- but I want to,” Sam finally managed, up into those pretty eyes. He could feel his nostrils flaring with how hard he was trying to keep his breathing controlled, because -- there's a difference between wanting and choosing, Sam.

“I know, Magpie,” said Bucky. “Believe me, I know.” And fuck the Ashy Wolf for that, for his empathy, and his knowing, and his eyes. 

“Guh,” said Sam, and clapped a hand over his mouth rather than let the sob escape, because fuck, fuck -- keep it together, shithead, you gotta keep it together, gotta be strong, gotta see this through, gotta keep your family safe, can’t keep your family safe, you can’t do this -- can’t even keep it together, can you -- he whined into his hand, the kind of sound that happened when you were clenching your teeth to keep from just, like, fully breaking down, and as he shoved his still-locked phone deep into his pocket Sam felt a tear drop onto his cheek, and Bucky Barnes’s stupid pretty face was hovering right fucking there with his telltale mouth and his this ain't the way and and and and and -- 

-- and fuck it, time to admit the truth: Sam wasn’t angry, no, not really -- well, he was, but -- but underneath he was mostly just scared shitless. 

Figuratively speaking. 

It was an old familiar terror -- the kind of everyday existential fear for his family’s safety he’d grown used to shoving into the back of his mind, compressing it down so it only took up a tiny kernel of a back corner somewhere, because if he didn’t he wouldn’t be able to function -- but he couldn’t hide from it now, couldn’t compartmentalize it away and focus on the mission, because Karli had brought his family into the mission, because he’d been stupid enough to let one too many details slip. 

You goddamn fucking idiot, Wilson. You know better than this, you’ve gotta do better than this, ‘cause if you can’t protect your family then what good are you to anybody, fuck -- another sob broke free before he could stop it. 

“C’mere,” said Bucky, “hey, c’mere, it’s gonna be okay.” And then Frosty was pulling him in, and his hand was making big circles on Sam’s back, all soothing-like, and oh, oh, thank fuck for the Ashy Wolf -- Sam let himself lean on Bucky Barnes, Immovable Object, just for a second -- on Bucky’s hard-won strength and dogged resolve, on that unyielding stubbornness which was usually infuriating but right now was just about the last thing keeping him tied to himself, so. “You’re okay, birdie, you’re okay. I got you, Wilson, I’m right here, yeah? You’re okay. Shhhhh-hhhhh, you’re okay.” 

Sam took in a single shuddering breath -- “Ffffffhhhhfhfhfhfhfhfhffhfhhhhhh --” and exhaled just as shakily.  

“She’s just a kid,” Bucky murmured. “She’s just a scared and grieving kid, you said so yourself, remember? You reached her once before, you can do it again. You are pretty good at this, y’know.”  

“I’m a goddamn professional,” Sam managed, and pulled away to stand on his own. He wiped his eyes, then his nose -- and then some of his actual snot from Bucky’s jacket collar, yeesh. “Thanks, Balto.” 

“Don't mention it,” said Bucky, and wiped at the rest of the snot with his sleeve. 

Iveta,

   I’m sure whatever Duck Duck Goose is about to write will be very profound and inspirational. Just don’t take him too seriously - he’s mostly full of shit. 

- Bucky Barnes aka the White Wolf Cauliflower Canine 

 

Iveta, 

     Being a hero isn’t about never failing. Everybody feels defeated or discouraged sometimes, Barnes and myself included. The true heroes are those who keep trying -- we may not reach the end, but someone else will. 

- Sam Wilson aka the Falcon

     ps: and never take advice of any kind from Bucky Barnes 

Aivars, 

     I’ll let Barnes take it from here. 

- Sam Wilson, aka the Falcon Orange Ostrich 

 

Aivars,

     ARE YOU KIDDING ME WILSON 

- Bucky Barnes aka the White Wolf 

     ps hey kid, you’re doing great, keep it up 

***

Chapter Text

Predation 

***

They'd nearly made it to Karli’s rooftop rendezvous when Sam got a text from Tommy and Carlos’s shared number saying he’s got padfoot at the place where it’s hidden.

That single message produced such a wave of relief in Sam's core that his knees basically just gave up entirely right in the middle of walking, because it meant Sarah and the boys had made it to Miz Patty’s cousin’s church's fellowship-hall-slash-emergency-housing-shelter in New Orleans, where he and Sarah and half the kids in their marching band had stayed up all night one summer reading Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix after the midnight book release while the rest of their bandmates stuck to the tried-and-true traditions of liquor shots and kissing games. 

“You okay?” asked Bucky, who’d caught Sam’s elbow when his knees went. 

“Better,” said Sam. “Sarah and the boys made it to the safehouse.”  

He saw the tension leave Bucky’s shoulders. “Whewwwww. Good. That’s good.” 

“Who you telling.” Okay, last equipment check -- this should go a lot faster now that Sam’s mind had cleared enough to let him actually pay attention to much of anything other than AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. 

“Did I do those okay?” Mmmmm, floaty. 

Sam tugged at the wing-pack straps -- yep, secure. “You did perfect. Thanks again.” His hands had been shaking too badly to do them himself, back at the flat. 

“‘Course,” said Bucky. “I think we’re here.” 

“I think you’re right,” said Sam. “Here we go.”

“I'll follow your lead, Whippoorwill,” said Bucky, which made Sam enter the courtyard rolling his eyes in fond exasperation rather than already at an eleven, which was probably why Call of the Wild had said it.    

“Karli!” Sam barked once they’d gotten close enough -- with exactly as much bass as he wanted to, and no more or less. He started up the stairs. “You called my sister? That’s how we’re gonna play this?”* 

“Sam, I would never hurt her,” said Karli, exactly like a child who didn’t understand the consequences of her actions. “I just wanted to understand you better.”* She made a show of checking over his shoulder. “I see you, um, didn’t come alone.”*

Yeah, he wasn’t gonna engage that. “You have to end this now.”* 

“I don’t wanna hurt you. You’re just a tool in the regimes I’m looking to destroy.” She was talking a big game, but her eyes looked scared and tired, and she kept her fists balled up in the pocket of her hoodie. “You’re not hiding behind a shield. If I were to kill you, it’d be meaningless.”* Sam checked over his shoulder, because there was that strange fucking emphasis again, and if Karli thought she was going to go after Buck -- no, but she’d said not hiding behind a -- “I was gonna ask you to join me. Or do the world a favor and let me go.”* 

Shit, it was starting to sound like Karli was stalling for -- 

“Hey Sam,” Sharon said in his ear. “New Cap is moving. Looks like he found them -- or maybe they found him.”* 

 -- aaaaaand confirmed. 

“It’s Walker,”* Sam said over his shoulder to Bucky, who immediately jumped off the balcony. Karli intercepted the Ashy Wolf in the air -- knocked him into a pillar, and then -- oh, fuck -- she was about to hit Bucky while he was down -- but Sam was quicker, because that’s what training was for -- and he got between Bucky and Karli just in time, blocked her attack with one of his flying capoeira kicks. By the time Karli’d recovered, so had Bucky -- Sam could feel him coming up right behind his shoulder. “I’ll send you the location -- go!”* He didn’t even wait for Bucky to nod back -- because he never had to worry about Bucky, that’s what was so great about the Ashface -- before he took off, caught a thermal going the right direction and let himself fly on auto while he checked in with his team. “You got those coordinates, Balto? Head north.” Just like Munich. 

“Copy, Falcon. I got ‘em.” 

“They’ve got him outnumbered, Sam. It doesn’t look good,” said Sharon. 

Fuck, fuck, fuck. “We’re on our way.” 

“Uploading the floor plans to you now,” said Zemo. 

What the fuck? “Didn’t we lock you outta this channel when you up and vanished, Wile E. Coyote?” said Sam. 

“Hey, I know that one,” said Bucky. 

“Apparently not,” said Zemo. “And how lucky for you.” 

“You had better not show up in the middle of --” 

“I have no desire to return to prison while my work remains incomplete, nor do I wish to draw the attention of the esteemed ladies of the Dora Milaje.” Blech -- mental note, tell Ayo that Zemo called them ladies, and not in the let's get in formation kinda way -- not that that'd have been any better, honestly.  

“I’m telling Ayo you called them that,” said Bucky. “Sam, Karli’s on my tail.” 

“Keep her on you if you can,” said Sam, and crashed through the skylight of their destination just in time to watch one of the Flag Smashers -- Dovich, probably, judging by the hair -- come flying down a flight of stairs, with New Cop following close behind at -- at a steady walk, the kind of walk that -- the kind of -- it was like Walker knew that he was gonna come out on top no matter what, like a cat with a mouse, all overconfident and creepy-patient -- and then Dovich came at Walker with a steel pipe and That Motherfucker didn’t even blink, just bent it in half like -- 

“Oh, shit,”* said Sam and Dovich together, and then the kid scrambled.  

Smart kid. 

“What’d you do,”* Sam hissed as Walker stalked past him, like it was any kind of  question at all -- because yeah, you could tell a lot about a guy from how he reacted to the Dora Milaje, you really could -- but you could tell even more from how he reacted to that reaction, and apparently That Motherfucker’s reaction to finding out that somebody other than himself had power comparable to his had been to immediately try to find a way to assert dominance, and now they knew where that twelfth vial had gone -- ‘course, the man didn’t even treat his own partner as an equal, so how could anybody expect -- and wait, speaking of which, where was -- 

“They’ve got Lemar.”* Hoskins, Battlest-- wait, fuck. 

Fuck.  

Sam started after Walker. “What happened?” 

“I dunno where he went,” said New Cop. “He was supposed to stick to me.” 

No, you’re supposed to stick together. But Sam remembered Madripoor and kept his mouth shut -- plus, it was better not to escalate, especially now that That Motherfucker didn’t have Hoskins around to talk him down. “Well, which direction did Dovich come at you from?” he asked instead. 

“Who?” 

“The kid you just fought,” said Sam very patiently, he thought, considering. 

“You mean the terrorist?” And hearing that word out of Walker’s mouth made Sam doubly ashamed that he’d even thought it in his anger, when he’d let the part of him that was still That Guy speak inside his head -- because it was even worse hearing it out loud. 

Ugh. “I mean the Flag Smasher who just ran off.” 

“Why do you know their names?”

Are you fucking kidding me? “I have a good intelligence guy,” said Sam, instead of what he wanted to say which was because i read the mission briefs or maybe something more like because they HAVE names, motherfucker, but neither of those things would be helpful right now. “Hey, careful, there’s a ballroom up ahead. Multiple exits, good place to get ambushed --” 

“Incoming,” said Bucky in his ear. 

“-- and the rest of ‘em have gotta be around here somewhere,” Sam finished. 

“I’m not scared, Sam,” said Captain Angry White Man With A Gun.

“Just giving you the lay of the land,” said Sam, instead of you better take my name the fuck outta your disrespectful-ass mouth, because they had more important things to focus on right now -- namely, finding Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar. He didn’t think the Flag Smashers would do much of anything to Hoskins beyond knock him out and tie him up somewhere, as long as nobody made Karli mad again, but -- 

 -- actually, that was not a promising prospect. 

Because Karli’s emphasis had been strangely specific: you’re not hiding behind a shield -- if I were to kill you, it’d be meaningless -- oh yeah, no, yeeeeeeeahhhhhhh, nooooooooo, they were definitely using Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar as bait to lure Walker somewhere they could pin him down -- and the Whiskey Idiot was making like his name and walking right into it.  

Well, this was a clusterfuck. 

Sure enough, as soon as they entered the ballroom two more Smashers dropped down from somewhere, practically right on top of them -- DeeDee and Diego, it looked like, armed with -- 

“What’s with all the knives?”* asked Walker, like an idiot. 

Sam rolled his eyes and didn’t say do you even know where you are? they actually have gun control here -- because ugh, only an American would -- oh, FUCK, was he turning into Zemo???  

But there was no time to entertain that thought, because after that it was just fighting -- these kids weren’t particularly skilled or anything, so they didn’t land many blows, but there were two of -- no, three of them, Dovich had appeared again -- and also they were Super Soldiers, so. Sam was trying to keep half an eye on Walker just to make sure he didn’t do anything stupid, but Walker was grappling with -- with Nico, maybe, but when had Nico arrived, what the -- and just then Sam heard a collision happen behind him, right over his left shoulder, and he turned around to see Bucky Barnes standing there with Diego on the ground at his feet, clearly having intercepted the kid on his way to attack Sam. 

“You’re welcome,”* said the Ashy Wolf, all smug and smirking-like. 

Ugh, ugh, it was the worst -- but also the best, because thank fuck Bucky had arrived to help manage the situation before shit got too out of hand -- but wait, if Bucky was here, that meant Karli was somewhere close behind, and if -- but no, Walker was still grappling with Nico, so where was --  

“Grrrrrrrrrraaaaaaaahhhhhh!” Oh, there she -- 

KRR-ACK. 

-- Sam and Bucky’s heads both whipped round at that sound, because that was a very specific sound: the sound of bone cracking, and not in a good way -- it was the sound of something having gone horribly, horribly wrong -- the splintering of some essential lifeline -- a breaking, a severing --  

… 

     … 

          … 

               … 

                    … 

                         … 

                              … 

-- oh, fuck.  

It was Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar. 

***

Chapter Text

Trophic cascade 

***

-- did you ever know that you’re my hero?

“Lemar.”* 

The rest of the room was quiet -- wary. John Walker had rushed over to Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar, and everyone else had frozen, and -- you’re everything -- and it was the weirdest thing, but in the echoing silence Sam could swear he heard -- i wish i could be -- and Walker was kneeling beside his partner’s -- oh, oh -- i can fly higher than an -- oh no, no, no, fuck, no no no no no -- breathe, Hoskins. Please, breathe. 

“Lemar.”* 

-- you are the -- no, no, no, please -- but Sam knew, he already knew, he could already tell there was no -- wind beneath my -- 

“Lemar.”*

-- and then everything inside Sam went dark and silent all at once, and everything outside him slid into hyperfocus -- and thank training for that, for his ability to shut down feeling in order to function through having just watched -- no, no, focus, focus -- 

Bucky smacked his arm, and thank fuck for that too, because Sam turned just in time to see Karli disappear through one of the many egress points, hadn’t he told Walker about that, hadn’t he warned That Motherfucker -- focus, focus, focus. 

As the rest of the kids scattered in all directions he and Bucky took off after Karli -- whether to bring her in or protect her Sam didn’t know, both were equally likely, because Walker hadn’t yet realized -- or hadn’t let himself realize, more like -- what had happened, but it was only a matter of time, and as soon as he did Sam just knew that there’d be no stopping him until -- 

               -- CRASH, somewhere above them and to the right, and --  

-- yep, there went Walker, right through the window probably. Fuck. Captain Trigger-Happy would catch them soon enough, and if Walker managed to get between them and Karli -- shit, shit, shit -- Sam dropped back a little to better cover their six, kept his eyes on Bucky in the lead up ahead, because maybe New Cop was coming up behind them instead? 

They turned a corner -- Sam had been expecting Walker to intercept them long before this, where the fuck was he, if not -- and then someone bumped into him, and then two more people, and -- oh, fuck, a crowd was gathering -- Sam and Bucky changed course to follow the flow of foot traffic, found the gravity’s direction and let it pull them toward its center, into an open square with a statue in the middle and and and and and and and and and and and and and where the fuck was -- 

“WHERE IS SHE?” 

-- oh -- oh no -- oh, please, please, no, no, no no no no no no no -- 

“It wasn’t me!”* 

Nico’s hands were up.  

“It wasn’t me!”* 

It didn’t matter. It never had. 

Sam made it to the front of the crowd just in time to watch as John Walker raised Captain America's shield high above his head -- no, please God, please please, please no -- 

-- and brought it down once -- 

     -- please, God, no -- 

          -- twice -- 

               -- stop -- please, God, please make him stop -- 

                    -- three times -- that sound again, oh, God, that splintering, that breaking -- as Walker severed Nico’s spine at the neck, just as neatly as if he were splitting a piece of wood...  

… 

     … 

          … 

… and then That Motherfucker looked down at Nico's corpse for a moment, nodded a little to himself like job well done, and settled the shield back on his arm before raising his gaze to the horrified crowd, most of whom had caught the entire thing on camera. 

There was a particular thing that happened when -- yup, there it was: there might’ve been a moment, right when Walker had been faced with Nico’s body, that he could’ve been made to -- though Sam doubted it, to be fair -- but instead, when faced with recrimination from all the civilians who’d witnessed the entire thing -- right there, right there! -- he was doing it, it was happening right now -- That Motherfucking Cop had chosen to dig in and double down. 

So after murdering the unarmed Nico Kovaczsik, John Walker stood straight up and looked around -- at all the eyes on him, human and camera alike -- with defiance, like yeah, i did it or maybe who here’s gonna try and stop me, huh? and one by one each bystander dropped their gaze, chose to look away from him rather than face the force of his hatred head-on -- 

I see you, John Walker. 

-- until he got to Sam. 

I saw what you did. 

Sam didn’t let any of his own feelings show on his face -- that was the trick, the therapist-trick -- he just opened his expression and made his eyes a mirror. 

I watched you do it. 

Walker took a step back, then two, and a few drops of Nico’s blood fell from the shield --  

I see you for what you are.

-- and then That Motherfucker turned around and took off running. 

The crowd parted around him, of course, and Sam let him go, because more important things had to happen right now. He started toward -- toward the center of the square, didn’t need to check to know where Bucky was.

“Karli’s gone,” Balto murmured at his shoulder, and in his ear.  

“Expected.” They’d reached the dais and what was left of Nico, and Sam didn’t want to look, but -- we can’t afford not to face the truth, even if it’s hard. 

No matter how many times he’d seen it happen -- and the answer was too many times -- he was somehow always surprised at how much blood there was when someone bled out. But Nico’s head was on this step, and his body was on that step, and in the space between them, God, so much blood had spilled out that it’d made a puddle all the way down there on that step. 

And it was always so red…  

… 

     … 

          … 

...no time for feelings. 

Sam didn’t have to say anything -- he and Bucky took up positions on either side of Nico, because they couldn’t just leave him there, somebody had to -- had to stand guard, or keep watch, or sit vigil, or something, until -- until someone came and got him, Sam guessed.  

And thank God his people knew how to keep a channel clear when it counted, because they’d all been watching the entire time via his and Bucky’s camera feeds, and if they’d vocalized any horrified reactions they’d at least had enough sense to mute their lines beforehand. 

“Team,”  said Sam. “Report.” 

“I’ve had a call put in to Interpol,” said Zemo. 

“Sending you Walker’s live location feed now,” said Sharon. 

“I’m on,” said Torres. “How can I help?” 

“This is why you’re my guy, Torres,” said Sam. “Need you to get in touch with the brass. There’s a body.” 

“We’re on it already,” said Torres. “Scrambling jets from Germany as we --” 

“No, Joaquín.” Sam looked over at Bucky, because it was somehow easier to say what he needed to say when he did. “It’s Lemar Hoskins. Battlestar.”

“Fuck,” said Torres. “Oh, fuck.” 

“Yeah. Barnes’ll send you the coordinates.” 

“Interpol is here,” said Bucky. “Let’s go.” 

They didn’t actually say anything to the Interpol squad, just nodded as they passed and set off at a steady walk. Sam checked Walker’s location tracker -- yep, That Motherfucking Cop was still running and showed no sign of stopping anytime soon. 

“Sharon,” said Sam. “Where’s he gonna end up?” 

“Most likely place is an abandoned rail station due east of you,” said Sharon. “Sending the coordinates now.” 

Sam pulled one of Bucky’s special protein bars from his wing-pack and passed it off to the Ashy Wolf -- Bucky’d rolled his eyes and said thanks, mother hen when he’d added it to the checklist, but right now Sam was feeling pretty fucking vindicated, so. 

“Received. I have uploaded the floor plan,” said Zemo. 

“Is that Baron Zemo?” said Torres. 

“You got all those coordinates, kid? Should have three sets,” said Bucky around the entire protein bar, and three cheers for Balto and his redirects -- but also, honestly.  

“Don’t talk with your mouth full,” said Sam. 

Bucky rolled his eyes. “If we live through this, Wilson, I’m gonna kill you myself.” 

“If?” said Torres. 

“We’re going after Walker,” said Sam. “Thanks, everyone. Over and out.” And then -- well, he didn’t shut off his comms entirely, per se, but he did set it to ashy wolf only so that pretty much counted. 

Because yeah, that if was very much an if indeed. 

***

Chapter Text

Alulae 

***

We can’t just run up on the man, beat him up, and take it. 

Shit, Sam really, really needed to stop setting himself up like that. Like, fuck, seriously. 

“Walker took the serum,” he said, because he wasn't sure whether Bucky had --  

“No shit,” said Bucky. 

Cool, okay then. “Fuck you.”  

“Uh-huh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you. Hey, Walker’s bearing south.” 

Sam checked the location tracker. “He’ll tack north again soon enough. Guessing he’ll turn to follow along that river up ahead.” 

“You don’t think he’ll decide he’s hopped up enough to try crossing it in a single bound?” asked the Ashface. “He’s not thinking clearly.” 

“That ain't special, that’s his baseline,” said Sam. “I think he’s gonna take the path of least resistance.” 

“I think he’s gonna smash his way through every obstacle in his path, rivers included,” said Bucky. 

“How would that even work, first of all, and second of all I guess we’ll see which one of us is right soon enough, won’t we.” 

“He’s not gonna end up at that railway station,” Bucky insisted. “We’re headed the wrong direction.” 

“Are not,” said Sam automatically, and fucking yikes -- look, their whole bickering routine was great and all, like, it mostly worked for them, but if they weren’t careful this could turn into the wrong kind of -- 

“Are too,” muttered Bucky. “And I’m not gonna say ‘I told you so’ about the shield.” 

-- aaaaaaaaand there it went. 

Sam felt his mouth contort into a sneer, couldn’t find it in him to try to prevent it from happening. “And yet somehow you managed it.”

Bucky shrugged. “Funny how that works.” White Fang’s gait was changing step by step -- leading more with his shoulders, almost a prowl, and -- fuck, it was the Winter Soldier walk. Obviously. If Sam hadn’t been so -- so fucked up, was probably the right word for what he was right now -- if Sam hadn’t been so fucked up, he’d have caught it sooner. 

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. They couldn’t walk into a fight like this. They couldn’t walk into any fight like this -- Madripoor had taught them that much -- let alone this fight. Fuck. 

We can’t just run up on the man, beat him up, and take it. 

Except here they were, easing on down the road once again, headed to -- what now? Oh, right, do exactly that.  

There wasn’t really a great outcome here, was the thing. Obviously they could lose, and that would be bad because Walker would have killed them both, and then the world would be less one hipster cyborg and two traumatized veterans and also who would check up on the rest of the Avengers? Or his family? If Sam were the only one dying here he wouldn’t be too worried, honestly -- like, he would be, but it was the kind of baseline worry that came with the job -- anyway, if it were only him he’d just be regular-worried, because Bucky had said i’d die to protect those boys as if it’d been something Sam should’ve been knowing -- but the problem was that it wouldn’t be just Sam dying, of course, because there was no timeline, reality, or universe in which one of them survived this thing without the other. That was just how it worked. 

Or at least, that’s how it was supposed to work. 

Lemar Hoskins had deserved better. Lemar Hoskins had always deserved to be more than just Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar -- Lemar Hoskins had deserved so much better than John Walker for a partner. Lemar Hoskins had deserved a Sam Wilson -- or barring that, at least a Bucky Barnes. Lemar Hoskins had deserved someone who looked out for him, someone who saw him. Someone who saw to his wellbeing beyond just what he could do for them. 

Nico Kovaczsik had deserved better, too. Nico deserved to have grown up free from harm, with the power to be his own person and decide his own future without fearing that he’d be killed just because some government-empowered blue-eyed motherfucker refused to learn how to regulate himself emotionally like a goddamn adult -- or any Black child, for that matter. 

So double-death was one possible outcome here, sure. 

But the other possibility was that they’d win, and that was awful in a completely different way, in a way that Sam had refused to think about for -- if not a very long time, at least a fairly long time. And that sinking feeling in his stomach -- the thing that even now was making his head fill with static instead of that dark quiet inside/hyperreality outside -- that sickening sinking whirlpool had something to do with Steve, and shield, and -- and -- and sitting on that bench looking out over the water and being handed that fucking thing and told oh by the way it’s your responsibility now byyyyeeeeeeeee -- and seeing Steve and Bucky looking at each other and then looking back at Sam and smiling in an awful i’m proud of you, boy type of way -- because they’d clearly planned this, they’d just -- just put their heads together and decided and they’d -- they’d looked at him like -- and -- and right then inside Sam, fuck, there’d been nothing but static, just like now, and rising pressure behind his eyes, and -- and anger, so much anger, and also a decent amount of nausea, yes, that too, and and and and now they were right back here again only now more people were dead because he’d shirked his responsibilities and Sam’s hands were clenching into fists and his shoulderblades were drawing together and his feet were landing heavier and heavier and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and and -- 

          -- oh, shit. This was how Bucky’d ended up in the Winter Soldier walk just now, huh. 

Yeah, no, they couldn’t go into this fight already fighting each other -- or themselves, for that matter. Madripoor was one thing, but there was no margin for error now. Which ultimately translated to Sam squashing it a-fucking-gain, and reconciling himself to the fact that if all went well, at the end of this fight Sam was gonna have to deal with Bucky Barnes’s fucking feelings about the whole thing, just like the time before and the time before that and the time before that and oh, yeah, that one too. It would be just like that fucking Time Machine Grove, with Sam holding the shield on his arm and Bucky just standing there looking at him, scrutinizing the minutest of Sam’s actions and reactions as if Sam were watching Bucky’s favorite YouTube video of all time, aka passing a referendum on Bucky Barnes’s entire existence. 

Fuck. Shit, shit, fuck. 

Sam was gonna have to squash it. He was gonna have to squash it, and then when they won -- because they’d win, they had to -- he was gonna have to take up the shield and with it all of Barnes’s damn expectations and aspirations, he was gonna have to become that thing, he was gonna have to go to that place, he was gonna have to flatten himself down to two dimensions, just like Lemar Hoskins, Battlestar. 

Well. At least That Motherfucker wouldn’t have it anymore, hey. 

So, fine. It was a small price to pay for today’s two fallen brothers. He owed it them to make sure That Motherfucker, Texas Ranger didn’t keep killing people with impunity while trading on Black lives to justify his murderous rampages. It was time to squash it, time to get back in sync with the Frozen Ashface. 

It was time to play Hendrix’s blues. 

Luckily, the first line on the first track was also kind of a jab at Bucky, so it didn’t feel like too much of a defeat. The Ashy Wolf started a little when the music came on, but then he glanced sideways at Sam, and as the intro spooled between them they fell in step together, and look, it was already working. See? Squashing it. Pretty much already squashed. 

well, I wait around the train station, sang Jimi in their ears, and Sam did his best to turn himself into the living embodiment of the side-eye emoji, because New Cop had indeed just swung north, so. 

“Fuck you,” said Bucky. 

“You’d like to, wouldn’t you,” said Sam. He checked Walker’s location feed -- yep, right on course: the vindication.  

“That’s beside the point,” said Bucky. “Are we there yet?” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Shut up and have another protein bar, honey child.” 

“Honk honk, Mother Goose,” said Bucky, but grabbed Sam’s elbow and pulled him closer to reach into the wing-pack nevertheless. “You hover pretty good in those little wings, don’t --” 

“You better put some respect on these --” 

“-- henpecking me to death before Walker even gets --” 

“-- about to get more than a peck if you don’t --” 

“-- like a tiny baby hummingbird, just --” 

“-- make you wish you’d --” 

Yeah. Yeah, this was working -- it was working, and Sam could squash the rest. He had to. 

     … 

               …

                         … 

didn't you think I’d do that? said Jimi, warm and knowing at the end of the track, and laughed. 

***

Chapter Text

Furcula  

*** 

Fighting, it turned out, was also a lot like playing music. 

Well -- okay, so to be fair, Sam was kinda realizing that to him most things ended up being a lot like playing music. He was pretty sure that said more about how he thought about the world than how the world actually worked . 

But seriously, this one was legit: fighting a person, whether with or against, was basically exactly just like playing music with them -- the real kind of playing. Because really playing music with someone meant not just pushing out notes in nice predetermined patterns, but actually listening to one another and making it up together as you went along, to create something better and more genuine and more artistically complex than you could do on your -- look, shared improvisation was a whole thing, is what Sam was saying. Like, a whole entire thing. 

Anyway, he and Bucky had finally caught up to That Motherfucker, and dammit if Sam didn’t hear Hendrix playing in the back of his mind right up until they came to a halt outside the -- wait, why was Bucky looking at him like -- 

-- ohhh, right. Oops. 

Okay, now the music was off. 

But for real though, them listening to Jimi Hendrix play the blues together had helped, like, kind of a lot? Like, by the time the album wound down to the last track -- same song as the first, but electric to the first track’s acoustic -- he and Bucky were fully and completely connected. Sam was aware of Bucky’s presence, his breathing -- he was aware of what Bucky was thinking, of Bucky’s emotional state, and Bucky was clearly aware of his because he was reacting accordingly -- they were in sync, in other words, and on any other day Sam might’ve made a joke about them making beautiful music together but it wasn’t fucking funny at this exact moment in time because their lives depended on their ability to play well with each other for… well, for the duration, shit. 

Sam glanced sideways at the Ashy Wolf. “You good?” 

“Yeah,” said Bucky -- but because of who Sam Wilson was as a person he had to double-check, just to make sure, and -- healthy-colored lips, no cyanotic nail beds, visual data backed up Balto’s self-report, all systems go. “You?” 

Uh, no. “Yeah.” But he was ready. 

“Gonna try to talk him down first?” 

“Yeah.” The odds of that actually succeeding were maybe lower than Strange’s calculation re: them winning against Thanos, but here they were, so -- “Gotta try.” 

“‘Course,” said Bucky. “Shall we?” 

The interior of the building itself was pretty standard -- warehouse ceilings, steel pylons, concrete floor -- Sam took note of the points of egress as they moved deeper into the space -- shafts of light were slanting in from the windows, falling on abandoned furniture and rusted equipment, and -- footsteps, coming from the back of the space. 

Sam couldn’t hear Bucky, per se, because they were both in stealth mode, but he could feel Balto beside him, because they were -- they were playing this out together. 

And then there he was. 

That Motherfucking Murderer was pacing the depot with the nervous energy of someone who had too much anger and nowhere to put it. As Bucky and Sam approached they fanned out to cover the possible escape routes, moving far enough apart that New Cop couldn’t keep both of them in view at the same time. 

Sam spoke first. “Walker.”*

Walker’s head jerked like he couldn’t control it. “You guys should see a medic,” he said, either as some kind of joke or because he was actually disconnected from reality. “You don't look so good.”* He turned away.  

“Stop, Walker,”* said Sam. 

“What?” Walker yelled, already on the defensive, and oh, shit -- if there’d been hatred in John Walker’s voice before, it was nothing compared to what was hemorrhaging into it now. “You saw what happened, you know what I had to do. I killed him because I had to! He killed Lemar!”*

Sam was trying so hard not to say no you did that Balto had to take the reins for a minute --  but again, that’s what was so great about the Ashface: Sam could actually trust him to do the thing, because improvisation. “He didn't kill Lemar, John,” said Bucky with what was clearly -- to Sam at least -- forced patience. “Don't go down that road. Believe me, it doesn't end well.”*

“I'm not like you,”* Walker snarled, and -- 

-- no, you’re not like him at all -- because Bucky Barnes tried. 

Fuck, Wilson, get it together.  

Sam took a breath and stepped in to take over once more. “Listen,” he said, and the words felt slimy even as they slid out, but if it worked -- “It was the heat of the battle, okay? If you explain what happened, they may consider your record.” Well, and at least that much was true -- chances were that John Walker was gonna get out of this scot-free, and anyway it didn’t matter how the words felt coming out because they were working, it was working, it was working -- Walker was looking at him with the kind of uncertainty that meant he might actually -- “We don't want anyone else to get hurt.” And that one actually did land, and holy shit, it was actually -- c’mon, c’mon, c’mon -- but here was the nudge, here was the crux: hey, you have to vacate your position of power -- “John... You gotta give me the shield, man.”*

Walker’s eyes hardened. “Oh. So that's what this is.” Dammit, shit, fuck -- “You almost got me.”*

Sam kept trying, though, just in case -- “You made a mistake --”*

“You don't wanna do this,”* said Walker in that fucking tone.  

Bucky looked at That Motherfucking Murderer and did the staring thing, the one with his face. “Yeah, we do.”*

And then shit got real. 

The intro was what it was -- there was fighting and then some fighting and a little more fighting, and no time to think about it, just go -- sixteen bars of trio, and then Bucky stepped forward for a solo while Sam held time.

Toward the end of his section the Ashy Wolf actually almost got there -- Walker had backed Balto up against a something and he was yelling “Why are you making me do this? Why are you making me do this?!”* like he didn’t have complete control over his own actions and decisions, and of course they weren’t making him do anything -- they hadn’t made him kill an unarmed human person, they weren’t making him cling to his unearned privilege, he was choosing it. 

Shit, though -- Barnes’s solo was coming to an end, and not in a good way, because -- fuck, fuck, fuck, Walker had thrown Bucky into a -- and there were blue sparks crackling all up and down -- get up, get up -- fuck, no time to think, just go -- and as Walker went after Bucky there lying on the floor Sam flew forward to intercept, and then it was his turn to take his bars. 

He went for the first break once he’d successfully maneuvered Walker away from Bucky, folded the wings because de-escalation and spoke, soft and comforting: “This isn't you, John.”* Sam didn’t think it’d actually work, but the more bars he could add here the longer he could give the Ashy Wolf to -- get up, get up, please get up, Barnes, please get up -- the better. 

“We could've been a team,”* Walker growled, and then it was time for another sixteen. 

The second break ended up being more of an actual break in the literal sense, because the shield had come to a clattering rest between them, and then Sam and That Motherfucker both went for it but Walker got there first -- and then Sam tried to use the wings to break Walker’s stance but instead ended up flying in a neat little parabolic arc and getting slammed bodily to the ground, and then Walker got on top of him. 

Fuck. 

Sam’s hands were scrabbling at That Motherfucker’s chest, his neck -- he was trying to use his legs to gain any kind of leverage at all, fuck -- but Walker just -- just -- just reached for him, oh, shit, oh shit -- but rather than put his hands around Sam’s neck Walker grabbed the wings instead, because -- because -- because -- 

     -- “I. Am. Captain America!”* Yeah, you fucking are -- 

-- because John Walker hated him, fuck. Walker didn’t just want to kill Sam, he wanted to hurt him, he wanted to make sure Sam knew his place. He wanted to prove his dominance, he wanted to degrade and desecrate and destroy Sam, he wanted to break him, and there was nothing Sam could do to stop it, except --  

          “GrrrrraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” 

 -- except scream. 

As Walker tore the wings apart the shrieking metal almost harmonized, and --  yeah, no, yeaaaaaahhh, nooooooo, Sam wasn’t gonna survive another sixteen bars with Captain America. 

And then That Motherfucker went for the shield, and Sam was -- worried. He was worried because Bucky still hadn’t come charging to his rescue, not even to -- to keep time, which meant Bucky still hadn’t gotten up, and if Bucky hadn’t gotten up it was because Bucky couldn’t get up, so Sam was worried not about Bucky, no, he was never worried about Bucky, but he was worried for Bucky.  

Also, Sam was worried for himself a little. After all, he’d be just -- just another Negro killed by a cop. Maybe there’d be protests, though he doubted it -- he’d been asking for it, after all. 

He hoped they’d at least have a homegoing, though. 

John Walker raised the shield high -- fuck, was this what Nico had seen at the moment of his death? Nothing but hatred in those eyes? -- and then --  

   -- a ringing in his ears, oh, Sam could hear his train a-comin -- oh, shit, this was it, was this it, this was it -- 

          -- Lord, have mercy -- Cass, AJ, Sarah, I’m sorry -- 

-- and then the beat dropped and BUCKY MOTHERFUCKING BARNES really DID come charging to the rescue and OH HOLY FUCK THANK YOU JESUS SAM WILSON WAS NOT DYING TODAY!  

Bucky’s second solo was shorter than the first, because Sam jumped in to make it a trio again basically as soon as he’d recovered from NOT DYING TODAY and pretty soon they had Walker pinned down, and Sam was using the wing-pack to pull at the shield, and Bucky was staring into That Motherfucker’s eyes and better him than Sam, honestly, Sam had had quite enough of seeing features contorted with hatred for who he was as a person, thanks and then -- 

     -- splintering, breaking -- 

-- the resolution of the melody: John Walker screamed, a high, pure note, and Sam had expected to feel some satisfaction at the combination of those sounds but instead he just felt pain at the pain in Walker’s voice, and at the awful sound of breaking bone he was hearing for the third time today, and mostly he just felt sick. 

And now the coda: Bucky stood up and spat blood from his mouth all badass, moved into position with his steady Bucky-Barnes walk, and -- shit, Sam felt that, it was an entire goddamn mood -- 

“It's mine,”* Walker growled. 

Sam put the shield on his arm. “It's over, John.”* This is the outro. 

“It's mine!”* said Walker on a rising scale like he was gonna start back up again, but Bucky stepped in and slugged him across the face. 

Time for the big finish. 

Bucky picked Walker up, threw That Motherfucker over his shoulder, and -- they hadn’t practiced this, but Sam could see where Buck was going with it, that’s what shared improvisation was, that was the whole point -- and so as the Ashy Wolf swung Walker around Sam used the wing-pack to propel himself forward and ring That Motherfucker’s head like a gong. 

The thing about a vibranium shield was that you never felt the impact, the shield absorbed all of it, that was the point. So Sam didn’t feel himself knock Walker out, but he damn sure heard it, and then they were all just kinda lying there dazed on the floor for a second and that was the fucking finale, the end. 

Except it wasn’t. 

Because Sam knew what was coming next -- no rest for him, no. He was lying flat on his back, and everything -- fuck, everything hurt -- and he was so fucking tired, he was exhausted, he was sick, he was sick and tired of being sick and tired and he was staring up at the dust motes dancing in the shafts of light and Bucky was about to do that fucking thing, the one where he shoved the shield into Sam’s hands and stood over him to make sure he took it up this time --  

CLANG. 

-- yep, right on schedule. Another blue-eyed motherfucker coming in to make this fucking thing his problem. 

Sam looked up at Bucky, and Bucky looked down at him, breathing hard like yeah this thing is yours whether you like it or not and now i’m gonna tell you exactly what you have to do with it and in that moment all Sam could think of was fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck -- 

-- but then -- what the actual hell? -- then the Ashy Wolf just… turned on his heel and ambled on outta there like --  

     -- didn't you think i'd do that? -- 

Wait, what? 

Waaaait… oh. Ohhh. 

Everything hurt. Everything hurt, everything, all of it, it all still hurt, and -- and now that he was alone (if you didn’t count the knocked-out Walker) Sam could let it hurt, he could let himself feel it. He could even cry, if he wanted. 

Ah, who was he kidding -- he was already crying. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe, Wilson. You can breathe. 

White, and blue. 

And red -- 

     -- and red.  

-- did you ever know that you're my hero? 

Fuck, he had to -- had to -- Sam pulled himself to a seated position, reached out to take the shield in his hands, felt sticky blood and cold metal underneath his fingertips, and -- and -- and as he took in what felt like his first breath in months everything in him released itself all at once, all of his -- breathe, Sam -- all of his dead, fuck, the, the dead, how many dead, and the blood -- so much of it, always so much -- all of his fear,  and his hurt,  and his rage -- everything i wish i could -- it all erupted out of him, burst from his spine, his ribs, from between his shoulderblades -- i can -- unfolded and expanded through the shafts of light streaming in from the windows, filling up the echoing cavernous space, and so powerful was the force of all that feeling he’d been holding inside that Sam could swear it almost yanked him backward, almost lifted him right off his feet. 

And it fucking hurt. 

…deep breaths, Wilson. You can breathe. 

Lemar Hoskins, Nico Kovaczsik. Two brothers dead today. 

Isaiah Bradley...  

      -- fuck this thing --  

… no time to linger here. Bucky was somewhere outside, maybe waiting for him or maybe not but definitely keeping a -- at a respectful distance -- because when Bucky’d left he’d taken with him all of his feelings, the ones that’d sucked the air out of every single one of their interactions up ‘til now, every room, every moment -- and without that fucking vacuum of emotions standing there wanting things from him re: the shield, Sam had finally had the space to breathe. 

And that made him feel a type of way. Like, a sorta-weird type of way. 

What do you wanna do, kiss about it? 

… um. 

Actually? 

Sam slid his left hand through the straps -- fuck, it felt like a tick, sucking out his lifeblood and injecting poison, but how else was he gonna carry it -- and then started after the Ashy Wolf, because -- well -- just, because --  

Okay, so look, that particular thought had popped into his head enough times that he could admit that it -- that it kept popping into his head. And somewhere along the line the tone of their -- let’s face it, their homoerotic, yes, Sam had read enough books to recognize that, too -- their homoerotic bickering had changed from haha-funny to haha-no-but-really-what-if-we…? And yeah, like, of course Sam had been looking at Bucky’s lips lately, because of the hypoglycemia, right, but he’d sure been quick to find a totally-legit-no-really reason to stay staring at Bucky Barnes’s mouth. 

So yeah, thoughts of kissing the Frozen Ashface had kept popping into his head, and they were gonna keep popping into his head louder and louder until he did something about it, that’s how those things worked, and anyway Bucky was perfectly capable of declining if he didn’t want Sam to kiss him, it wasn't like Sam was gonna run up on the man beat him up and take it and to be honest Sam couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d actively wanted to kiss anybody at all, let alone a guy -- at least, not any one guy in particular, though he wasn’t against the idea, really, he just hadn't felt a whole entire urge to actually -- but up until an hour ago Sam had also never watched Captain America decapitate an entire unarmed human person via the most fucked-up possible interpretation of the term ‘rimjob,’ so.  

It wouldn’t be the worst thing that had happened today, is what he was saying, if he went in to kiss Bucky and Bucky wasn’t into it. Like, by far. 

Sam thought there was a chance he might be. Into it, that is, Bucky might be into it, lips-wise, if Sam kissed him. Or not, possibly not, it was very definitely possible that Balto would not in fact be into doing kissing with him, but the weirdest part was that Sam wasn’t even worried about that part, because he knew they’d be okay either way.

And now he was within shouting range. “Hey,” he called to the Ashface’s retreating back -- but Bucky didn’t stop. “Hey! Don’t you walk away from me, Barnes!” 

That made Balto turn around, and -- and it was mostly because Sam didn’t want to have to look at his face, that was it. He didn’t want to see Bucky doing that staring thing, with his you’re okay birdie and his i’m coming with you and his stupid, stupid face -- and so the best way Sam could think of just now to make Bucky stop staring was to stride forward to close the distance between them, and lean in to put his face really close to Bucky’s face, so close they had to either close their eyes or turn into cyclops, and after that their lips and hands did the rest.   

…

     … 

          … 

So this was what this felt like. 

Huh. 

It was… different. But not that different. But also very different, not so much because Sam was kissing a guy but because he was kissing the Howling Snowflake. 

And even more different: the Howling Snowflake was kissing him back. 

Bucky kissed like he’d done it before, though it’d taken a second for him to respond post-contact, like maybe he’d had to remember how -- but of course he’d done it before, obviously, he’d just told that story -- and on his end Sam was -- well, if not equally out of practice, at least something approaching -- because there was like, a trick to kissing someone with thinner lips than yours -- and though Balto had fortunately been spared the Curse of the Attenuated Kissing Parts that had bestruck so many of his skinfolk, basic physics and the surface area ratios involved meant that it took some finagling on both their parts to keep the whole thing from devolving into just, like, a total slobber-fest. 

Shit, they were still -- like, this was definitely not just a -- they were, they were getting into a whole groove with it now -- that stupid metal hand was cradling the back of Sam’s head like he was a noodle-necked baby, and Bucky’s other hand was sliding along his hip, burning a hole in his suit, and Sam’s left arm was kinda squished up against the shield in between them, but his right hand was cupping Bucky’s jaw and he could feel rough stubble and cool skin stretched over hard bone beneath his fingertips, and Bucky’s mouth on his felt really, really good, and dammit if the Howling Snowflake didn’t taste a lot like blood and a little like the blues.  

Okay, decision time: this could escalate, if they let it. If they chose. 

Sam pulled away, didn’t lean in again like he wanted to, and opened his eyes to see an expression of what could only be described as unbelievably pleasant shock on Balto’s pretty, pretty face. “Don’t make it weird,” he warned. “Let’s go.” 

And that’s how Sam Wilson got the last word on Bucky Barnes. 

***

Chapter Text

Specific epithet 

***

“You know, if you want,” said Sam, “I can come with you.”*  

Steve smiled and shook his head. “You’re a good man, Sam. This one’s on me, though.”* 

Okay, phew. As willing as Sam had been to be Steve’s wing for the very last piece of this Escher painting of a mission, he was also more than a little relieved not to be going back in time. Steve and Tony could just rock up to a mid-century modern military base in Jersey and expect to walk right in, but Sam damn sure couldn’t. 

Well. He could, right, if he disguised himself as -- like, that’s what Invisible Man was about, he knew that much, it’d been required reading at Grambling -- but he didn’t fucking want to, because there was a very good chance he wouldn’t come out on the other side alive even if he did go full Sambo.

(And he wasn’t about to go full Sambo, not even for the prettiest rocks in the -- multiverse, was the word Strange had used during his hey-we're-all-back-time-to-fight speech? Right, yeah, the multiverse.) 

After that Steve went to Bucky next and gave him a weirdly long and serious hug -- but hey, no judgments here, that was the kind of thing partners did. “Don’t do anything stupid ‘til I get back,”* said Rogers like it was some kind of inside joke -- which, to be fair, it probably was.  

Sam had gotten used to not being his best friend’s best friend. After all, who could compete with ninety and/or thirty years of history, depending on how you counted? 

Bucky smiled a little back at Steve. “How can I? You’re taking all the stupid with you.” And then his face got serious again. “Gonna miss you, buddy.”* Yeah, but wasn’t Steve only gonna be gone for like, a minute? Talk about codependent.  

“It’s gonna be okay, Buck,”* said Steve, all reassuring like don’t worry i’ll put the stones where they belong and be back before you know it.  

Okay, cute, bye for now, time for Steve to go so he could come back and then they could move on. 

Banner was standing at the controls, looking all huge and green and self-actualized. Grieving, yeah, like the rest of them, but self-actualized. “Ready, Cap?” he asked, and Steve nodded. “Alright. We'll meet you back here, okay?”*

“You bet,”* said Steve, and took his place on the launchpad of the Definitely A Time Machine, Right?   

“Going quantum,” Jolly Green Banner announced. “Three, two, one–”*

           -- oh, shit. Was that what they’d done to bring them all back? Fuck, daaaamn, that looked intense. 

And here came Banner’s countdown: “And returning in, five, four, three, two, one–”*

          -- but no Steve. 

Uh, that wasn’t part of the plan. “Where is he?”*

“I don't know,” said Banner. “He blew right by his time stamp, he should be here.”*

Blew right by his -- what the fuck did that mean, and why was Bucky walking away from the Dance Dance Quantum Leap pad like he didn’t expect --  “Well, get him back.”*

“I'm trying --”* Banner was pressing all kinds of buttons, but -- 

-- and, okay, look, Sam usually had better control of himself than this but right now he was a little touchy about people disappearing and not reappearing, imagine that. “Get him the hell back!”* 

“ -- hey, I said I'm trying --”*

And then Bucky Motherfucking Barnes’s voice came floating over from somewhere behind him, and it was maybe the worst thing Sam had ever heard, because he knew that tone, he knew that tone, it was the tone of somebody who knew something you didn’t -- 

“Sam…”*

-- and how dare Bucky Barnes say his name like that, how dare he -- but -- but -- but there was someone sitting down by the water, someone Sam’s brain refused to recognize, because -- no, wait, what? No. Wait, what? 

“Go ahead,”* said Bucky, and this was starting to feel like the world’s worst surprise birthday party. 

Sam didn’t actually want to do what Bucky’d told him to, but that was mostly just out of orneriness and not much else, so he walked down to the edge of the water to speak to -- “Cap?”* 

“Hi, Sam,”* said a very, very old version of the Steve Rogers who’d kneed Sam’s kidneys three nights out of four over the last two years with his grabby sleeping self. 

Well -- the last two years, five years ago. 

“So did something go wrong,” Sam ventured, or did something go right?”*

“Well, after I put the stones back, I thought, maybe I'll try some of that life Tony was telling me to get.”*

Sam felt the corner of his mouth lift into a smile. “How'd that work out for you?”*

“It was beautiful.”* Old Steve smiled too, and -- shit, were those dentures? or had Steve’s teeth always looked like that and Sam had just never noticed? Did you even need dentures if you had super serum? 

“I'm happy for you. Truly.” Steve deserved it, after all -- he really did. “Only thing bumming me out is the fact I have to live in a world without Captain America.”* You were the last good thing about those colors and you know it, Rogers. 

“Oh, that reminds me.” Old Steve unzipped the leather shield case at his feet, made a gesture of invitation at Sam. “Try it on.”*

What. 

        Zip-a-dee-doo-daaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhh -- 

Sam looked over at Bucky, because, like -- maybe it was Bucky’s turn next? -- but Bucky only did that stupid fucking smile again like isn’t she lovely and nodded at Sam, exactly as if Sam was about to hold his and Steve’s less-than-one-minute-old firstborn fucking child in his arms. 

               -- zip-a-dee-ayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy -- 

“How does it feel?”* asked Old Steve. 

Well that was easy, straight from gut to mouth -- “Like it's someone else's.”*

“It isn't.”* It took Sam maybe half a second longer than it should’ve to parse that, but -- what, what, what, what, what -- oh, fuck, this was exactly like To Serve Man, this fucking swerve that Sam could’ve seen coming the whole time if he’d only just paid any fucking attention at -- 

                         -- my, oh my, what a wonderful day -- 

“Thank you,” Sam said, instead of fuck you. “I'll do my best.”* It was really the only promise he could make that he’d actually keep, because what the fuck? 

“That's why it's yours.”* Old Steve offered Sam his hand to shake, and of course Sam couldn’t do anything but shake it, of course, because --

                                   -- plenty of sunshine headed my way -- 

-- and then Sam saw the ring, and oh, thank God there was something shiny for him to fixate on. “You wanna tell me about her?”*

                                                  -- zip-a-dee-doo-dah, zip-a-dee-ay -- 

“No,” said Old Steve, and -- fuck you, fuck you, fuck you for saying no when you know I can’t. “No, I don't think I will.”*

After that Steve went over to Bucky to have another one of their moments -- probably cooking up another plot between them, like maybe drawing up a binding marriage contract between Sam and motherfucking Ayo or some shit, as if they had every single right to dictate the course of everybody else’s lives -- never mind that everybody else should maybe have a fucking say in their own futures or that Ayo and Aneka were very happy together or just really even taking anybody’s preferences but their own into account at all. 

                                                            -- Mister Bluebird’s on my shoulder -- 

And shit, as they walked back over to the pad for Steve to fuck right on off back to his perfect little life in the 1940s, Sam had never been more conscious of the fact that his best friend was a very old, very tired white man who had been fighting for a very, very long time -- and his other best friend, the only one who might’ve seen this bullshit coming and prevented Steve from executing on it? Was dead. Not dusted, not stuck in an alternate dimension, just -- just dead. 

But here was the Uncle Fucking Remus of it all: it’d be fine if Steve wanted to opt out of this constant cycle of trauma-repress-fight-trauma and just fucking rest, he deserved it, if that were the only thing it’d be fine, but -- 

“I know you’ll make me proud, Sam,” said the Original Captain America.  

Fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck -- “Bye, Cap,” said Sam, and then Steve Rogers was just -- gone. 

                                                  -- it’s the truth -- 

As soon as the quantum door slammed shut Sam got that thing the fuck off his arm with a quickness, zipped it right back up into its case where it belonged. “So where is he now?” he said to the Time Machine Grove at large, because what he couldn’t take was Bucky Barnes staring at him in silence like Sam was about to swoop in and solve all of Bucky’s many, many, many problems with one sweep of his Magical Negro Wand. 

Yeah, no. Sam only had one Magical Negro Wand, and it was not for Bucky Barnes. 

                              -- it’s actual -- 

“Our past is now Steve’s future, but it's also our past,” said Banner. “For us, what’s happened will have always happened, there’s no changing history, but he'll experience a completely different future-past. Wanna know the reason time passes differently in the quantum realm? Because there’s nobody around to observe it. Everything is possible, and all the possibilities are always happening, all at once. But as soon as you add sentience everything solidifies, because we can’t exist in eternal uncertainty. When we perceive reality, we’re actually creating it.” 

                -- everything is satisfactual -- 

“Think about it like a river. To us, sentient beings, it’s possible to conceptualize with the whole river -- all the different forks, all the tributaries and the estuaries and whatnot, and the fish and the birds and the -- frogs, I guess? I dunno, I’m not a biologist. But we can perceive it in its entirety, interact with it, dip in and out if we want, or build a dam, or… whatever else people do with rivers?” 

“Float,” said Sam. 

“What?” said Bucky. 

“You can float rivers,” said Sam. 

“What, that doesn’t make sense, you can float in a river or, or on a river, maybe, but --” 

“Shut up, city boy,” said Sam. “Floating a river means getting on a boat or a raft or whatever and --” 

“Ohhh,” said Bucky. “Like Huck Finn. Gonna float me down the Mississippi, country boy?” 

      -- ZIP-A-DEEEEEEE-DOOOOOOOOOOO-DAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH -- 

“I am not your Negro Jim,” said Sam. He couldn't say that to Steve, right, he couldn't be mad at Steve, but he could damn sure be mad at Bucky. “Fuck off, you talking assault rifle.”  

“I am not --” 

Banner cut back in before things could get physical. “The point is, each individual water molecule only goes through the river one time. Well -- not technically, right, because of the water cycle, but for the purposes of our metaphor let’s accept that either things have souls and reincarnation is a thing or that by the time the components of that exact molecule get back to that exact river they’ve each changed so much that the molecule is no longer that molecule in any meaningful way, and neither is the river. So there’s no such thing as back to the future, for example.” 

Sam grinned despite himself.  

“What?” said Bucky. 

“It was a --” he shook his head. “Never mind. So Steve is what, floating a different fork of the time river now?” 

“More or less,” said Banner. “Every sentient being creates and re-creates their own self-contained reality moment to moment. Sometimes those realities intersect, sometimes they don’t.” 

“Okay, see, you said more or less and I thought I understood,” said Sam, “but then you immediately went and made it confusing again.” 

Banner shrugged. “Welcome to quantum physics.”

“Either way,” said Bucky, and looked over at Sam like Sam was gonna start shuckin’ and jivin’ for the Winter Soldier’s benefit. “At least we’ve got a new Captain America in our timeline to take his place.” 

Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, fuck -- “You don’t get to talk ‘til you’ve had a shave and a haircut, six bits.” 

“It’s two bits.” 

Fuck you. “Times’ve changed, you ancient hag. But because I have charitable love in my heart for my fellow sentient beings, I’m still gonna give you the number for my barber in New York --  that is, if you dare venture all the way into Harlem, colonizer.” 

“Only Shuri gets to call me that,” said Bucky. “And I’ve been to Harlem.” 

          --  ZIP-A-DEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE-AAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYY -- 

“‘Course you have, you fucking tourist. Here, I just texted you his number. Look him up when you get there and don’t tell him I sent you unless you plan to leave a real good tip, you hear?” 

“Sure,” said Bucky. “Good to know all that ‘charitable love for your fellow sentient beings’ extends as far as making sure I get a fucking haircut.” 

“It’s not for you,” said Sam. “Jamal was on the other side of the Blip. He needs the business.”   

                            -- WONDERFUL FEELING, WONDERFUL DAY!   

***