Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Perched on a stool, Shuri’s eyes trained on the sand table as it shifted from shape to shape. The hour was well past reasonable, but the drive to continue pushed her to a place where it seemed like the only way she'd set down her tablet was for it to fall from her unconscious fingers as she keeled over in a dead faint. If her brother could see her now, he'd have several choice words (you are coming home).

Thankfully, T’Challa remained thousands of miles away and the single soul who spied her in this unwoven condition was unlikely to put her on a flight home. Instead, slipping through the temporary lab in that silent way of his, Bucky circumvented the various open 3D files and plans and notes, to appear at Shuri's side. Tilting dangerously on the stool, she gave him bleary-eyed stare and was unable to compose a single protest or tart observation to ward him off.

As though it were a net, Bucky tossed a fuzzy blanket across her shoulders, wrapped his right arm around her and, applying firm, steady pressure, propelled her to unsteady feet. She did not protest when he led her away to bed.

Chapter Text

Titus stood at the door, holding a basket of name tags and color Sharpies. Earlier, his mother had stopped him leaving the house wearing his usual: t-shirt, track pants, Crocs.

"Ooooh, no you don’t,” She said, despite being covered head-to-toe in cheery violet scrubs. "Aren't you supposed to be helping out Mr. Wilson tonight? You can't go in that."

"Maaaaa!" Titus not-whined. "I'm not the one speaking to a room full of people. I don’t need my Sunday best."

His mother pulled her lips to one side, “Who said anything about Sunday best? You’re not lifeguarding at the Y! Mr. Wilson and Mr. Barnes expect you to be presentable. You need to --how is it your friends say? Level up.”

"Maaaaaa,"

"Level up, level up,” his mother sang, grinning hugely as she did a little dance step towards him, pumping her fists. “LevelupleveluplevelUP!"

Embarrassing, even with nobody around.

This was how Titus came to be standing in a crisp blue button-down, slacks, and shiny shoes. In his head Ciara’s Level Up played on repeat, but with different words.

A young man approached. Titus greeted him, handing out a name tag and marker, “Welcome to Circle Up!”

Circle Up.

Circleup.

CircleupcircleupcircleUP!

Chapter Text

“I’ma go lay face down,” was something Sam claimed often at the end of a long, hard day.

Shuri had never seen him actually do it. As Americans had notoriously dramatic manners of speech, she’d received ‘lying face down’ as another flip turn of phrase. The sentiment being, I’m so exhausted, can’t be bothered to keep my airway clear. The assumed result: death by suffocation. Sad.

Therefore, when she entered the gym at the Avengers Compound, with its large windows over a flat and placid Hudson, she startled to see Sam prone on the mats. Indeed, face down.

After a grueling few weeks split between the Wakanda’s community outposts in Oakland and Harlem, she’d convinced her companions, namely Double Cap, Riri, and the still-jumpy spider guy, to accompany her upstate. At first everyone complained about crowded schedules. Next, they crowded into the Volkswagon parked at Stark Tower and bickered over the shotgun seat. And speaking of sniping, Bucky happened to be away that weekend visiting Wanda, leaving the care and prodding of Sam to Shuri.

Making a reasonable noise as she approached, Shuri leaned down to poke Sam’s shoulder.

“Alive?” she asked.

He didn’t lift his head to confirm, “Alive.”

Chapter Text

The fight took a neat ten minutes.

These days, NYC was rich in supers. Spiderman swung in from Queens; Riri, in her Iron Heart suit, blasted over from Harlem; and Sam, self-admittedly super only in that he skipped neither leg or arm day on any given week, roared up on a borrowed Triumph motorcycle. With his Wakandan-designed wingpack, he could have flown but he and Bucky had been deep in an argument over which was crunchier —Vlasic or Grillo’s pickle spears— when he left Bucky blinking in the produce aisle, swiping his bike for the trip.

Today’s special? Some-villainous-body who insisted on hitting Fiddler crabs with a ray that grew them huge and hangry. Afterward, the streets were splattered in drippy, pink globs and no super had been spared the indignity.

“Christ,” Sam griped, brushing hopelessly at crab flesh clinging to his suit. “Who keeps riling up the sea life? And why? Man, can’t we leave the fishes alone?”

“A better question: why not horseshoe crabs?” added Riri. She’d removed her helmet, holding it against her hip.

“An even better question,” Peter started and then snapped his mouth shut after a narrow-eyed glare from Riri. “Nevermind! Time to clean up.”

Chapter Text

Mr. Samuel T. Wilson
USAF Pararescue
Captain America
Executive Director,
Circle Up, Inc.

Dear Mr. / Captain Wilson,

I am writing on behalf of my brother, Christopher Morris, a participant in your new program, Circle Up. I know there’s a hotline to call, but I’m afraid if I tried to leave a voice message I wouldn’t be able to get a word out for bawling. It’s hard to express emotion in text messages. This is a real Goldilocks conundrum so I’m sending a handwritten note. My mom always said notes count most.

I should get to the point. You see, my brother Chris has had a hard life. Even before the Blip, when essentially our whole family was gone five years, he struggled. He’s older than me, one of those kids for whom things didn’t come easy. There were learning troubles, some addiction, jail time. After the Blip, we all felt like he was getting a second chance but nobody knew which way to turn until we heard about Circle Up. Yesterday, Chris received a grant that will pay his living expenses for a full year, plus job training and counseling. It’ll make a huge difference. Thank you.

Sincerely,
Tanner Morris

Chapter Text

Shuri leaned into the projections, one hand swiping to enlarge and reduce slowly rotating 3D images as the other hand tapped emphatically at a keyboard. If a third hand appeared to lift a steaming tea to her lips, Sam wouldn’t have been terribly surprised.

Preferring to work on and repair his suit and wing pack himself, Sam tinkered and fussed with the electronic elements as much as he was able before giving in and bringing recent malfunctions to the Princess. When he’d arrived in her lab, there were already at least six projects going, blue-lit shapes scattered in the air above her work station. There was also a pile of machinery on a nearby table, which was giving Sam some concern.

“Shuri,” he craned his neck to get a better look. “Do you smell that?”

She went rigid, “Oh, Bast—!”

Without thinking Sam dove, taking Shuri to the floor and rolling them beneath a large metal table. He yanked the shield up before an explosion rocked the room. They both coughed as smoke billowed. Debris rained down around them.

“I smell it now,” the Princess admitted.

“Probably everyone does,” said Sam as he peered around the shield at the damage.

Chapter Text

“Uh oh!”

Ordinarily a subtle utterance, the words arrived as a shout and Sam stilled.

Nearby and oblivious, Shuri had paused in a sunbeam. Her tilted face was lit golden as she stood equidistant between pines rising into an open blue sky, crowns barely visible, and Bucky’s humble pop-up tent. He’d come to get some peace and failed utterly: too many tagalongs so-called seeing him off.

Not Sam’s fault. He’d suggested traveling further afield from the Compound. Instead, here they were —Shuri and Sam inspecting the campsite while, not far off Riri and Peter could be heard crashing around like unruly cubs. Occasionally Sam wished they behaved like normal youth: noses buried in their phones, slow moving, and easy to track.

“Craaaaap!”

This time Shuri startled. Before she could inquire with Sam, the nearby brush started waving wildly and a Brown bear burst out. Lumbering at that fore-described shocking speed, it crossed the clearing and shot between Sam and Shuri, bee-lining towards Bucky’s tent.

Shuri’s hand flew to her mouth as bear and tent collided with a powerful crunch. The bear, unimpeded, disappeared from sight while the pulverized structure produced a decisive, “Aaaaargh!”

“Well,” Sam said. “Good thing he’s indestructible.”

Chapter Text

“I can’t believe you have all this in the city,” said Titus as he trailed after Bucky through the rooftop garden situated 80 stories up, with still more building to go. Glass and chrome shone in the summer sun.

“I mean, most people just keep pigeons or whatever,” Titus observed. “Never seen anybody with bees.”

“They’re around,” Bucky led them past raised beds and large cloth tubs bursting with flowers. Although he and Sam kept their own separate places in Brooklyn, the tower had remained a hub of social activity. It sported a gym, pool, kitchens and the conference rooms where Sam had installed half a dozen new program staff employed by Circle Up.

“You’ll notice them now, I bet.” Bucky added.

He stooped to gather hand fulls of white, delicate Queen Anne’s Lace, purple Northern blazing star, and yellow Foxtail Lilies. Honeybees trundled by, paying Bucky and Titus little notice. Tony’s gardeners hadn’t kept hives, but when Pepper offered upon learning of Bucky’s interest, he’d decided to convert the some of manicured space.

Handing the bouquet to Titus, he said, “For your mom.”

Titus grinned, with a small shrug. “Thanks. She’ll think I swiped these from the High Line.”

Chapter Text

"When I signed up for knife skills with the Winter Soldier," Pilar said. “This wasn't what I pictured."

“For one," Chandra replied. "We're supposed to call him Mr. Barnes. Two, this is a cooking skills class.”

Pilar paused in lining up potatoes on a wooden cutting board to roll his eyes so hard, his head rolled with it. "Duh, Chandra. It's not like they'd just come out and say it."

She pointedly turned her attention back to chopping. Pilar had to admit, Chandra was far better at cutting vegetables into identical pieces. He felt confident with carrots and celery, but potatoes remained his nemesis.

Across the commercial kitchen, the man-in-question assisted two of the class's six students. Above their heads, a large whiteboard declared: Circle Up - Job Skills - Cooking Prep 101.

"Prep Cook 1-No Fun!" Pilar thought.

Sighing loudly enough to prompt a derisive, tooth-sucking response from Chandra, he considered how to proceed.

"Need pointers?" Asked a voice behind him. Pilar's own voice dried up. He nodded.

Mr. Barnes returned the nod and selected a potato. “Fingers tucked in--"

He suddenly performed the nastiest knife-twirl, prompting gasps from Pilar and Chandra. And for his next trick, Bucky diced the potato.

Chapter Text

When Sam first complained of the heat, Bucky didn’t pay him much mind. Whenever they focused on paperwork, or other brain-numbing tasks, Sam had a tendency to mutter. Occasionally, despite himself, Bucky engaged his non sequiturs. This never failed to annoy Sam, as though Bucky had interrupted him.

The Internet was out in Sam’s building, so today they’d set up in Bucky’s cramped kitchen. For his part, he suggested they head to Harlem and mooch the Wakandan outpost’s superior broadband. Sam insisted he couldn’t spare the travel time. Apparently, he’d rather lobby endless complaints about conditions in Bucky’s flat.

Finally, Bucky consulted the fancy digital thermostat Shuri installed, anticipating an accidental setting . . . or a prank.

“Heat’s not on,” he said, surprised.

Sam looked up, wiping at his glistening face. “You sure?”

Bucky considered the scene. Sure it was autumn. Sure his altered body ran hot. Yet, across the room the window sat open to the energetic chirps of dusk-loving birds. A breeze drifted in. It was the absolute picture of pleasant.

Bucky pressed his wrist against Sam’s forehead, clutching his noggin like a melon. Sam twitched away, affronted. “What are you doing?”

“It’s not the apartment,” Bucky announced. “It’s you.”

Chapter Text

“C’mon,” Titus nudged. “Just try ‘em.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I . . . they’ll get stretched out,” Bucky said, lamely.

At that, Titus burst out laughing. Bucky didn’t find a single thing funny. Over the past many years, he’d worked hard at freedom: submitting to Wakanda’s version of cryo in anticipation of the removal of Hydra’s trigger words, rehabilitation of his body, hours of talk therapy for his mind —all in service of autonomy, to be able to say ‘no.’ And now here he was, with this kid, in his own damn apartment, fighting for the right to not don a Croc.

“They don’t stretch. They’re plastic or whatever. Rubber? Dunno.” Titus nudged him, this time with the wedge-shaped toe, held in his hand. Or flip flop, or however the hideous thing was classified. “For real, man, they’re made of clouds. Don’t you want to wear clouds?”

Making a face, Bucky made to rise from the couch but Titus blocked him.

“I thought your new therapist said you needed to try more new stuff?”

“Not those.”

“Foot,” Titus held out a hand. “C’mon, Cinderella!”

Bucky caved. Titus crowed. A bright yellow monstrosity slid over Bucky’s toes.

Titus wasn’t totally wrong about the clouds.

Chapter Text

“Ah. You must be the new recruit," said the woman remaining at the concierge desk after the 5:45 herd of regulars trundled through. She wasn't especially tall, ‘though the braids piled on her head gave an extra inch. Her outfit —deep purple scarf draped across her shoulders and black leggings that stopped at the ankle, accentuating impeccable tricolor hightops— screamed 'not from here.’

Titus admittedly hadn't been paying attention; maybe she was a lost Columbia student?

He waved, “Welcome to the 92nd Street Y. How can I help you?"

“Begin by telling me about yourself.”

“Um . . . what?” Titus dropped a hand out of sight, patting around for his phone. This lady gonna turn out to be a creep? The girl with the shift before his often dealt with sketchy dudes coming in off the street, asking too many personal questions.

“You work with Sergeant James Barnes. Yes?” With her head tilted, eyes bright and quick, it was hard to imagine this pretty lady asking highly inappropriate questions about his butt, or whatever.

Titus made a wild guess, “I mean, he’s my friend. Are you . . . Princess Shuri?”

Her smile nearly blinded him as she clapped her hands together, “I am!”

Chapter Text

Titus's mother yanked open the door, speaking before Bucky rounded the stairs. Mid-afternoon sun poured through the windows at the end of the hall, as well from behind her, in the condo. "I hate to ask last minute like this!”

“It’s no problem,” he assured.

“My sister usually steps in but the restaurant is short staffed—”

“Hey,” he held up a hand. “Happy to help. I made soup.”

Titus's mother pulled a pained face,“I don’t think he’ll be eating much . . .”

Bucky glanced around for a surface to set the thermal lunch bag. She took it so he could peel off his boots.

His first impression of Titus's family's home was fashionable coziness dotted with sturdy furniture built to withstand a teenage boy and his gangly friends.

Roslyn indicated a nearby hallway as she hurried into her coat and grabbed a laptop bag. “He hasn’t left the bathroom in the past hour. Stomach bug. Poor kid. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and I’ll call to check in. Again, I'm so sorry--"

“Ma'am” Bucky interrupted gently. “I spent my best years looking after a sickly friend. We'll be fine."

She gave a wavering smile, "Ok. And it's Roslyn."

Chapter Text

Sam turned up unannounced. This was odd. Between the three of them, they adhered to a strict, call-first politeness pact. He, Shuri, and Bucky of course could access one another's homes for emergencies, or the occasional, totally deserved prank.

Admittedly, Bucky had gotten a bit banged up during the day's battle with a teenaged super whose abilities are irritatingly energetic and . . . smash-y. Hulk, with his superior experience and bulk, could have put the kid down in three seconds, but Bruce semi-retired following the war. It took Sam, Bucky and crew twenty minutes to subdue their opponent because they didn't want to harm the kid or damage the surrounding neighborhood, Chelsea. Supervillian or no, they’d never live down a busted High Line.

So. Back to the problem. Here Bucky stood: bent and creaky. Here Sam appeared: whistling, letting himself in like this was normal behavior, plastic Duane Reade bag dangling from one wrist and what smelled like take-out in a paper bag under the other arm.

“Excuse you?” Bucky attempted, and failed, to raise an eyebrow. Even his face felt creaky.

“Don’t steal my catch phrases,” Sam admonished, brandishing a bright green container. "Epsom soak first, then dinner, bed. Zero complaints."

Chapter Text

“Okay, okay, okay!” said the teenager posted in front of four others at the front of the classroom. She gracefully lifted an arm, “We’re gonna run through the whole routine. Ready?”

“Nope,” Riri muttered darkly behind her.

Shuri hid a smile. After her own R&D heart, the younger woman was a geyser of everything science and tech, generously lending her talents to both Wakanda’s outpost and Circle Up while on temporary leave from MIT. Riri effortlessly connected with young women and femmes who’d nervously registered to learn subjects usually left to male-identifying people. Under Riri’s tutelage, the youngsters bloomed. Soon enough, some wanted to give back.

Rhianna, benefitting from both social programs, spontaneously volunteered to teach others dances she’d choreographed for social media. Turned out, her particular mathematical talents expressed in an ability to assess space, consider the bodies in it, add the complex time signatures of her favorite dance beats, and devise simple but complicated-looking routines that the other kids —excepting a begrudging Riri— ate up. Young dancers squirmed in anticipation.

“Ready!” Shuri lifted her phone.

She’d claimed the videographer role before a resentful (and too slow) Riri managed to.

Winking at Riri’s dramatic frown, Shuri grinned. “Go!”

Chapter Text

He could see her in the far corner of the jet, head down, fingers interlaced over the back of her neck. It was a position he knew intimately. Having shivered off much of the river water and sheltered beneath a silver space blanket, Bucky felt ready to lend warmth.

“Ok?” Sam glanced up as Bucky rose.

Cap had been tending to team members who’d met the business end of this week’s super-gone-wild. Like Wanda, this young woman was blessed with amazing abilities. Unlike Scarlett Witch, today’s grim outcome concluded with no opportunities for redemption —ever.

“I’m good,” Bucky murmured.

He picked his way across the jet, passing Peter, against whose head Scott pressed a cold pack. As he moved, Bucky assessed the states of Riri and three Dora Milaje from the Wakandan outpost. All appeared whole.

Shuri, though. Lowering himself beside her, Bucky intentionally bumped her shoulder. When his soft ‘hey’ met silence, he grabbed a nearby fleece blanket and tucked it around her body. Settling close, he let his view fuzz to grey.

After an hour in the air, Shuri stirred, making a soft sound of surprise.

She blinked at him. Bucky shrugged, “Yeah.”

To which Shuri responded, “Yeah.”

Chapter Text

“How advanced can Wakanda be if there’s no a cure for the sniffles?” Bucky grumbled woozily. “We caught the same damn viruses in the 40’s. I’d have thought by now--”

He faltered, feeling a distinct shift in Okoye’s silence.

After a pregnant moment, she said in a low, silky voice, “Do continue . . . enumerating the failings of modern Wakanda.”

“Uhhh,” Bucky hunkered on the chase, eyeing her. What was he saying? And why? Talking out of school about the nation that had welcomed him, sheltered him.

Plucking a tissue from the nearby box, Bucky struggled to regain his bearings.

Shuri reappeared, carrying a tray loaded with steaming soup and soft, flat breads. “What are you doing, Okoye?"

The General loomed over Bucky, whom Shuri had badgered into sheltering at her flat following the morning’s dunk in the cold Hudson. The villian-of-the-week (oversized crabs again) attempted to drown him several times over and now here he was, laid beneath blankets in Shuri’s airy living room.

“Back away with that spear,” Shuri frowned, setting the tray down.

“My Princess,” Okoye inclined her head, one eye glinting. “I merely visit a friend. Would you have me overlook James in his time of need?"

Chapter Text

"LOOK at his face!" Shuri gasped, reaching grabby-hands towards the other side of the wall-length, two way mirror. "Bast bless us, how will I restrain myself?”

Beside her, Bucky stared with dismay. He hoped his expression showed the usual, impassive grump.

During a brief, intense, and intensely weird battle with the most undesirable option from Sam's ridiculous Big Three, Sam had gone silent on the coms. His abrupt absence necessitated cutting the struggle short. Worry inspired decisive action, and decisive action brought a sorcerer to heel.

Peter had been the first to reach the deflated Cap suit, which he’d unlatched to reveal a reduced Sam. This was probably for the best, considering the faces Shuri made as they watched Phil Colson, clad in his usual bland suit, sitting cross-legged on the floor of an otherwise empty conference room, chatting up Small Sam.

"No," Shuri corrected. "That's smol Sam. Spelled s-m-o-l.”

"You do realize this is serious, right?” Bucky tried for neutral, not scolding, and failed.

Shuri snorted indelicately, "Seriously adorable.”

Bucky struggled for words for a moment. Finally, he said, “He can’t stay like that. We gotta figure how to reverse the spell.”

“Do we?”

“We do!”

Shuri sighed, “. . . today?”

Chapter Text

"Ok," said Titus. "Now to pick the skateboard up, don't bend down and grab it.”

Bucky felt his brow wrinkle as he studied the slip of wood at his feet. They were stationed in an empty basketball court near Titus's school, early on a slow Sunday.

"No?" Bucky said.

"That’d be inefficient," Titus informed sagely. "You're gonna stomp the tail, like this, and it will flip up. Grab it by the nose, see?"

Bucky watched closely as the teen demonstrated. Simple enough.

"BUT GENTLY, Mr. Super Strength.” Titus warned.

Bucky considered, calculated, and carefully positioned. Naturally, he snapped the board.

Chapter Text

The scene upon entering: three on the couch in Shuri’s living room; Shuri, hands looping gracefully as she addressed a rainbow of holograms-in-the-air; beside her Bucky with a lap of white paper slips; and finally Titus, ankles crossed on a leather cassock, tapping away at a laptop. Sam allowed himself a private smile, just out of sight near the front door. He toed off his sneakers, holding three drinks aloft.

Venturing out into the city to procure refreshment had been unnecessary considering the Princesse’s fully stocked kitchen, but Sam’s desire to stretch his legs and refresh his lungs (sorta, this was NYC afterall) was enough to tempt him to the nearest overpriced coffee haven. Returned, the brief break seemed the gift that kept on giving as he took in three of the most influential, important, and admired people in his life reviewing and cataloging survey data submitted by the inaugural group of Circle Up participants, nearly 100 strong.

Shuri was clearly working on several projects at once, and Sam heard Bucky reading aloud to Titus as he deftly entered information.

“Huh,” rumbled Bucky. “More folks than I expected put five stars.”

“Mmm,” Titus hummed nonchalantly, “I 100% expected rave reviews.”