Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stumbling home from his best friend’s wake in the pouring New York night. Drunk beyond articulation, unable to fully cope with the fact that his best friend was dead. It had been a miracle that the war hadn’t killed him. A skinny, sickly thing like Steve Rogers shouldn’t have even been recruited. Yet, he survived the war. But he didn’t survive tuberculosis. Bucky would have killed him again for dying. And it was the embarrassing irony that had Bucky stumbling into the back alley of Steve’s shitty apartment. 

Just as he was about to scale the stairs, he tripped in a pothole and fell face-first into the too-large puddle. He groaned low and long, feeling entirely pathetic. Quiet, Bucky turned his head just enough to breathe air as he inhaled dirty water. With eyes closed, he allowed the pitiful disgust to overtake him.

“Is this really how you planned to die?” A familiar voice asked, unimpressed.

“No,” Bucky said despite how water filled his mouth as he spoke. “I thought falling off the train and being a Prisoner of War would have done me in.”

“Well, I guess drowning in a puddle is as good an option as any?”

“I wish,” Bucky sighed. 

“No, I suppose you’ll just let the sun burn you to a crisp…” 

“Very funny, ghost Steve, but he didn’t know.”

Rich brown leather shoes stepped into Bucky’s eyeline, the sound unheard in the torrential rain. The ghost kneeled, and Steve peered at him with a curious tilt of his head. Across his young, healthy visage, a close-lipped smile graced his strong features. Then, he said, “You think I don’t know that we’re the same?”

A horrible, frustrated laugh tore through Bucky. “There’s a lot of rules, from what I hear, and I don’t think you’d be chosen.” 

“And a one-armed sniper is a good choice?” the voice seemed to echo.

“I have two arms.”

The ghost hummed, unconvinced. “Why don’t you get out of that nasty puddle?”

Warmth radiated off of Sam. He was fresh from the gym. A musky, sweet scent of sweat wafted and filled the room. Sam sat at his small dining table. Normally, he would shower after, but that had been delayed. Bucky’s fault. He visited without warning. They sat in the barren dining area with windows open to cool the house down from a warm, muggy day. But that didn’t dissipate Sam’s essence. The man’s heart rate was slow, almost hypnotizing as it tried to lull Bucky into a relaxed state. And normally, it would have, if Sam had showered and put on his cologne. But, without the shower or cologne, Sam’s scent right after the gym made Bucky want to drown himself in his scent—his blood.

“You look like you want to eat me,” Sam broke the silence.

Bucky’s eyes moved from the man’s neck to his teasing brown eyes.

“More than usual anyway…You good?”

As if parched, Bucky cleared his throat and said, “I’m fine.”

“Well, that’s a lie,” Sam laughed good-naturedly. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.” Bucky stood. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be here—or…I’ll go get you food and you can clean up.”

“I know the date,” Sam sighed and waved his hand for Bucky to sit. “It’s why I left the house unlocked.”

As if an unlocked home could have stopped him. “You really shouldn’t do that,” Bucky lectured. “Anyone could come and—”

“I have a guardian angel,” Sam interrupted. “I’m not too worried about it.”

“You’re an asshole,” Bucky muttered and sat down. “If anyone—”

“Can I shower?”

Bucky could feel the dissatisfaction contort his face, so he looked away from Sam. “Do whatever you want.”

Sam stood, then hesitated before he asked, “When was the last time you ate?”

“None of your business,” Bucky snapped.

“How long have you been lingering around Louisiana now…three weeks? A month?”

Bucky did not answer.

“Not a lot of meal options in the south,” Sam pointed out. “Not in this community, especially.” 

“What does this have to do with you showering?”

“It has to do with you wanting to make a meal of me.”

Bucky swallowed and held his breath. Not breathing would prevent him from smelling Sam, but it also would silence him. In the quiet where only the locusts and frogs could be heard, Sam made his way to Bucky’s side of the table. His hand pressed flat, fingers spread, giving him leverage as he leaned into Bucky’s space so their faces were hardly an inch apart. Ever so gradually, he tilted his head so his neck was on display. Torture. Bucky gripped his chair with inhuman strength and pressed his lips flatter, thankful in that moment he did not need air to survive. But he wished Sam would just kill him rather than try to prove a point. 

“You’re holding your breath. Do I smell that bad?” Sam asked with a puckish smile. 

He looked away from the other with a roll of his eyes. 

“No,” Sam whispered. His smile was almost as fond as it was teasing. “I don’t smell bad, or you’d be talking my ear off right now.” Bucky’s eyes snapped back to Sam’s sultry brown vexed. “Don’t take that tone with me,” Sam laughed.

The man was beautiful under the moonlight that filtered through the window and the candles Bucky had lit around Sam’s home. For a moment, he opened his mouth to speak, but still couldn’t find his breath. He glowered down at his balled fists rather than continue to be mesmerized by Sam’s beauty and charm. A warm hand fell on top of Bucky’s cold right hand and remained until it relaxed. In that moment, he inhaled quickly, mouth open as he sucked in more air, nostrils flared at the overwhelming scent. Sharp fangs dropped—

“Go shower, I’ll be back,” Bucky said as he shoved his chair back to put distance between him and Sam. 

But Sam held on to his hand, knowing Bucky would not pull from the touch for fear he might hurt him. Fingers tightened around his wrist, Sam’s other hand cupped his cheek. “Why do you hide this part of you from me?” Sam asked in a gentle tone. 

“You’ve seen me feed before, Sam,” Bucky hissed and backed up, but Sam followed him. “I’ve hidden nothing from you.”

“Okay, sure,” Sam agreed, however reluctantly. “But, recently, you’ve been getting worse. Why aren’t you feeding as regularly?”

“The options are limited.” Bucky backed up more, and again Sam followed.

“That’s what I said,” Sam huffed, and Bucky fell back in his seat. “So I’m calling bullshit.”

Bucky met Sam’s intense and searching gaze. Then he pressed his cheek into the man’s hand affectionately before he admitted, “Nothing tastes good anymore.”

“Is that a line?” Sam laughed from where he stood between Bucky’s spread legs. “Are you so tired of our friendship that you’ve resorted to eating me now?” He placed himself between Bucky’s spread legs.

“I’m not flirting with you, I’m giving you a warning,” he protested. “Please, Sam, let me go feed and then—”

“Then what?” Sam scoffed. He moved to rest his hands on the arms of the chair so they were at eye level. “We watch the game? LSU versus A&M?”

“Whatever you want,” Bucky whispered wide-eyed. 

To his immense surprise, Sam shifted so that he straddled Bucky. Afraid Sam would fall, he placed his hands on his waist to hold him steady and held his breath again. He would not allow himself to be overwhelmed by Sam’s scent or his warm proximity. Bucky was stronger than his instincts. 

“What I want is for you to be honest.” Sam’s warm, calloused hands cupped his face, and his thumbs traced the outline of his lips. Fingers carefully massaged the clenched joint of Bucky’s jaw. With gentle curiosity, thumbs pulled at Bucky’s lower lip, only for Sam to sigh when he didn’t budge. “Come on, Buck, show them to me.”

With a hissing exhale, Bucky steeled himself before he opened his mouth slowly. His lips pulled back, and his fangs dropped again. For a moment, he dared to watch Sam’s face before he squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath again. 

“Does it hurt?” Sam asked.

“Does what hurt?” Bucky hissed. 

“Look at me, Buck.”

He opened his eyes to look at Sam. The man smirked, his thumbs pushed Bucky’s lips back again before they dragged down the length of his fangs. Bucky jerked his head back before Sam could cut himself and cause something irreversible. 

“Be careful,” he snapped.

“Do your teeth hurt?” Sam clarified. 

“Yes,” Bucky muttered and felt shame spread through his empty veins. “They ache and it gets worse when I’m hungry or…”

“Or…?” Sam pushed as his hands stroked Bucky’s face.

“...Or when some asshole tortures me.”

“Is that I’m doing Bucky?” Sam teased with a fond smile. “Am I torturing you?”

“You know you are. You’re doing it on purpose.”

“Now, why would I do that?”

“Fuck if I know.” Bucky shook his head to rid himself of the gentle touch that he did not deserve and squeezed his eyes shut again. Big brown doe eyes were too much for his hunger to contend with. “Since when do you just sit on me, Samuel? What is it you’re doing to me right now?”

“Trying to get you to eat.”

Bucky sneered and peered at Sam with narrowed eyes. “I would like to, but there’s this jerk sitting on top of me.”

“Am I not good enough?” Sam asked suddenly. Then, whatever thought he seemed to have disappeared and was replaced with an affectionate smile. “No, I know that’s not true because you like it when I’m fresh from the gym.” 

“You’re just saying anything,” Bucky replied breathlessly.

Sam hummed and pushed his fingers back into Bucky’s mouth, who hissed and opened wider to allow Sam to drag his thumbs down elongated canines. If the man wanted to play that game, Bucky would let him. He had done all of the resisting and warning that he could before the desire to be touched and seen took over. When the inevitable happened and Sam finally admitted that he was scared and couldn’t handle being friends with someone like Bucky, at least he knew he had tried to warn him. Thumbs continued to stroke up and down his fangs while he was lost in thought. Then, Sam hissed in pain from pricking the rough pad of his digit. Bucky closed his mouth around the thumb, his hand gripped Sam’s wrist, and sucked slowly. His eyes held Sam’s as he dragged out the slow drip of blood from the cut. 

In an instant, Sam was off his lap with his back turned to Bucky.

Bucky stood and said, “I’m going to find a meal.” 

“Wait, what?” Sam asked as Bucky fled his home. 

“I’m fine here, thank you.”

“Hey jerk, as nice as it is an' all that you’re suicidal over my death—”

“‘Til the end of the line,” Bucky interrupted Ghost Steve.

“Jerk face,” Ghost Steve snapped at him, literally. “The line hasn’t ended. I’m still here.”

“As some fucked up drunk hallucination, yeah,” Bucky grumbled as the water bubbled around his mouth. “And I’m not even supposed to be here. I ran—”

“They’ll get you back, I’m sure, but you’re not going to kill yourself.” 

“If I kill myself, I’ll see you again, and I won’t have to be their puppet.” 

“Buck, are you looking at me or through me?” Ghost Steve reached out and stroked his fringe out of his face. 

The touch felt so real, but it was so cold, and so he shut his eyes. “You’re not even warm, and you want me to believe you’re alive.”

“I haven’t been warm for a long time, Bucky.”

Suddenly, Bucky was yanked to his feet by the echo of his dead best friend. He was helped to the wooden staircase, where the small blond man helped him sit. Still dizzy from the drunken blood he had consumed, Bucky lay back on the staircase as his narrowed eyes tried to focus on his hallucination. With a quivering hand, he reached out and caressed Steve’s face.

“You’re real?” Bucky’s voice wobbled. 

“You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

Bucky pulled Steve down and into his arms. He squeezed the man with the strength he never would have dared use against him before, and Steve did just the same back. “My god, Steve, when?”

“You’re not the only one who was…experimented on…” Steve laughed then. “What drunk bozo did you find?” He asked and shifted back to stroke Bucky’s face affectionately. 

He reached up to push Steve’s wet bangs back from his wide eyes. It seemed he wanted honesty, so Bucky replied, “After your funeral, I stalked a senator. He was my mission…Before I knew it, their programming took over, and he was dead. Stumbling through the streets in the rain, I think brought me back, and I realized everything I lost.” It had been a curse to be allowed to attend Steve’s funeral, and Bucky felt he had no remnants of his humanity left, especially after killing the Senator had been so easy. 

“When do you think they’ll come for you?”

That was the only question that mattered. Bucky knew their reunion had to be brief; there was little Steve could do against an organization that led to their creation and only knew how to destroy them without the sun’s help. 

“Before sunrise,” Bucky answered.

Steve frowned, “And you’re sure you can’t…run?”

Bucky shook his head and shut his eyes. “No, my maker is…uh…”

“I understand,” Steve said. Then, with determination proclaimed, “I’ll kill him. I’ll free you and I’ll kill him.”

“We won’t see each other again, Steve.” Bucky pulled him back into his arms and buried his face in his neck. “They’ll know that we’ve seen each other. Don’t hold your breath for me.”

“I’ll figure it out—Not like you’ll remember unless you get drunk at my wake again.”

Bucky snorted and released Steve so the man could get away before Hydra came to take what belonged to them. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me until the worst possible time,” he chastised. 

“My timing is impeccable as always,” Steve teased.

“You're dramatic as always,” Bucky sighed as he studied Steve. “Who is your maker anyway?”

Steve hesitated, then frowned, “I don’t have a maker. I became what you are without one. Erskine had developed a serum, but it didn’t turn out how he expected—at least he died before he found out how much of a failure I was.” 

“So, what does that kind of power feel like then?”

“I wouldn’t know the difference, like I said. I don’t have a maker, first in my bloodline.”  Then Steve tilted his head, hearing something Bucky couldn’t. He said, “But, I’m dead, remember? No power for me to use.”

In an instant, Steve was gone as quickly as he had appeared, and Bucky couldn’t be sure he wasn’t a hallucination. Bucky stood back up and as he was about to go chase his long dead friend, gravel crunched under heavy boots and he froze at the bellow, “Soldat!” Without so much as another verbal command or telepathic force, he was prostrate, forehead pressed into the wet, muddy alley. The Winter Soldier prepared for recapture by Hydra’s coven. 

Chapter Text

Every evening after school, Mama would go out with Sarah to put out new traps, reaffirm barrier wards, and check in on folk that wanted the comfort the Wilson family could provide. Every night, Sam stayed home because it wasn’t his place. With his father, he learned how to run the family business and cook for their family or the whole community. Admittedly, Sam was not great with the business side of things, but he was a good cook, and that seemed to help his father get over his son’s ineptitude. 

In the early dawn, when their mother was too busy preparing for the day, Sam would go with Sarah. With her, he would learn all he could. Though not too adept at spells, he excelled in the formulation of medicine and the construction of traps. Activities Sarah struggled with. Despite her struggle, Sam was not allowed to do as his sister did. Men were not the leaders of hunting families, and there were plenty of tales about why. Sam did his best to be the man he was supposed to just as Sarah did her best to be the woman she ought to be. 

With the final trap reset, Sarah sighed and remained seated, tired from a long morning. Sam, on the other hand, shivered despite the warm, humid air. In an instant, he stole Sarah’s crossbow, aimed it at a tree, and let the arrow fly. When it landed, the tree morphed into a reptilian creature and fell from its perch. Before Sam could think, he loaded the weapon and pierced the head with another arrow. Only then did the electricity dissipate from his skin. 

“How did you know there was a Parlangua there?” Sarah balked. 

Sam’s breaths were ragged, his hands shook, and the crossbow rattled. His sister took the crossbow from him, replaced it on her back, and then pulled him into her arms. For a while, they stood with Sarah hugging him and Sam staring at the dead creature over her small shoulder. He had never meant to intentionally harm anything other than the creatures they captured to eat. It wasn’t his purpose to protect the community; it was Sarah’s. 

“What are we gonna do?” Sam whispered. “Mama is gonna be furious…Daddy…he’ll—”

Sarah pulled back and held Sam’s shoulders in her small hands. For a younger sister, she always behaved much older than him. But he supposed that was the result of being a huntress rather than being allowed to be a kid. Sam had been allowed that privilege because he was a boy in the Wilson family. It was unfair, but he had no idea how to help save her childhood. Sarah waited until Sam could finally tear his wide-eyed gaze from the creature and look at her. 

“What we’re gonna do is this: you bring that thing home and tell Mama what you did. You saved both of us ‘cause you got the Instinct.”

“If Mama finds out…you know the stories.”

“I think it’s weird that men rule the world, but when it comes to hunting, that’s women’s business,” Sarah hissed. “Mama needs to help you or you’ll be lost, and that’s that. She knows it well enough.”

Sam looked at her doubtfully. “Sarah, she’s gonna…she’ll have to call…”

“Samuel Thomas Wilson,” Sarah barked at him. He straightened up. “You will do as you’re told or I’ll curse you so all your school lunches turn to worms.”

He scoffed only because she couldn’t transmutate even if she wanted to—but she could make his food taste like worms. “Fine, but you best feed me once I live chained up in the attic.” 

Sarah laughed and parted from him. No longer would she lend him her confidence. He had killed; he had to take ownership of what he had done. So he went over to the Parlangua, took hold of the arms, and began to drag the creature. The short journey home was made long by the weight of the seven-foot beast, without taking stock of the length of the tail. 

“Tell me the first fable Mama told you,” Sarah asked as she watched his struggle. 

“You’re twelve, you know them all.”

“After a first kil,l you have to tell a tale, the first one you remember because it holds meaning for the hunter you’ll become. Mama did it to me two years ago when I killed Letiche.”

“I still think if you tried to talk to it or exorcise it, maybe Letiche wouldn’t still be lurking around.”

“Oh, Mama is gonna love training you,” she said with a roll of her eyes. Sarah then frowned and stared ahead. “Tell your tale.”

With a grunt, Sam got a better hold of the beast before he tried to remember the first fable. “The first time I remember Mama getting hurt, you were about three, so I was five. I remember crying as I lay in bed with her, vowing I would become a hunter just like her so she would never get hurt again. Instead of encouraging my desire to join the Wilson hunting line, she told me the tale of the first hunters. 

“The first hunters were twins. A girl and a boy. Their parents, of course, were overjoyed to have such an abundance. Healthy babes who never complained about their lot. The twins’ parents were normal folk, nothing of note. Like everyone in their community, this family foraged, they worked their small gardens, managed their livestock, and hunted. Occasionally, the community would move, either as the seasons changed or the food migrated too far for the hunting party to follow. 

“As the twins grew older, the girl and boy always found themselves in some sort of unique trouble. Drawn to creatures that only myth dared to dream up. The twins learned their lands and of these creatures. From their self-education, the girl and boy kept their family and community safe as best as they could, despite their youth. There was no one to show them the path, so they forged it together.

“In adulthood, the twins found their talents diverged in striking ways. The woman excelled at almost everything from medicine to hunting to storytelling and the mysterious magics she had invented. The man, who had as much breadth of knowledge as his sister, found his talent excelled beyond articulation in medicine and Instinct. Though his sister had the instincts of any hunter, it was far more methodical than the man’s Instinct. And that made him more dangerous. 

“Instinct, like the woman’s, would save their community from mythological legends and curses. The Instinct found in the man would bring death and destruction. It affected him so greatly that he was unable to think before he slew beasts who might have better lived after the care of medicine or exorcism. Worst of all, the Instinct led to the man becoming entangled with creatures not of his world—”

“Engangled? What do you mean by that?” Sarah interrupted. 

Sam swallowed and replied, “Sex, Sarah.” 

“Oh.” Sarah’s face contorted into disgust. “Ew.” 

With another grunt, Sam adjusted his hold on the beast, knowing better than to take a break. Sarah didn’t get a break, so he would not allow himself one either. “Anyway,” Sam breathed out. “The boy, now a man, who was led only by Instinct, forgot his other skills and forgot his community. As his sister struggled for balance in the world, he lost balance within himself, always in search of the ecstatic Instinct that came with the danger of a creature.” 

Sam dropped the dead reptilian in front of their home and heaved air into his lungs. 

“Finish the story,” Sarah commanded.

Before he could continue, their attention was drawn to their parents, who had exited their home and stood on the porch to assess the situation. 

“Not much left to tell,” Sam sighed. 

“I can tell you’re leaving out the important part,” she insisted. When Sam did not continue, she took his hand in her smaller one and looked up at him with her wide childish eyes. “Ignore Mama and Daddy, please finish for me, Sam.” 

 With a reluctant swallow, he looked at his baby sister and continued, “The man died because he could not control his Instinct. Swallowed whole by the last creature he had been drawn to. More importantly, every man born from his sister’s bloodline, where the Instinct emerged, fell into the same patterns. The men, consumed by Instinct from the creatures they attracted. It was inevitable that Huntresses would make it law to marry men who did not descend from Huntresses. The hope had been to rid the Huntress bloodlines of the Curse of Instinct. But when it happens…” 

“What?” Sarah urged. 

Sam looked away from Sarah to their parents, who crossed the short distance to meet them. “When it happens,” their Mama said, “the Huntress ought to cut the umbilical cord and leave the babe in the forest to be consumed by the beasts the Instinct craves.” 

There was no reply Sam could give, no more story to tell. So he bowed his head and did not speak. 

“Mama, he saved us. I didn’t even know—”

“Inside,” Mama commanded. 

“But—!” Sarah protested. 

“Inside.”

The girl scurried inside, and Daddy followed behind her. When the echo of the screen and front door closing rang through their forested home, Mama pulled Sam into a bone-crushing hug. Frigid in the hold, Mama rubbed a hand up and down Sam’s back until he melted and began to cry in his mother’s arms. They stood that way until Sam had no more tears left to cry, and he just shook in fear. Though his Mama brought him comfort, it did not mean he would not be sent away. His Titi had taken plenty of Wilson boys who had shown even an affinity for the hunt, boys whose parents took firm hold of the superstitions that surrounded the Curse of Instinct.

“The story you told,” his Mama began, “That really the first one you remember?”

Sam sniffed. “Yes.”

“Why?”

“Cause it reminded me of me and Sarah, and explained why it’s wrong to be this way.”

Mama pulled back from him just enough to hold his face and wipe his tears away. “It ain’t wrong.”

“But it ain’t right,” Sam argued. 

“Oh, honey,” his mother pulled him close again and kissed his head. “I’m not cutting the umbilical cord and putting you in the forest. You did a good job today. Took good care of your sister. The boy in that story you told…did he take care of his sister?”

“No,” Sam mumbled with a soft croaking whine. 

“Then I think we can work with your Instinct,” Mama said confidently. 

“What about…” Sam swallowed.

“What about what?”

“The electricity?” 

“Baby, that is the Instinct. Sarah and I both feel danger, our hair stands up on end…yours is just more intense. I don’t know why, not all boys who hunt have the Instinct and not all boys who have the Instinct feel that way…”

“Will I…” Sam swallowed the question, too embarrassed. 

“The story is just that, baby boy, a story. Meant to scare little boys and make them believe they have a specific role to fill. Everyone learns fables like that, sweetheart, it doesn’t mean it’s fate.” Mama kissed the top of his head again and pulled back to squeeze his shoulders. “Does it, Sam? Is that story your fate?”

“No, Mama, we don’t believe in fate.”

“Exactly,” Mama nodded approvingly. Then she stroked his face again, suddenly melancholic. “You’re gonna start growing and getting all big…I’m gonna miss my little boy.” 

“I’m fourteen, Mama, my voice is already changing.”

Mama smiled a bit cheerier. “Oh, I know, it makes us all joyful whenever we hear that sweet crack.”

Sam groaned and ducked away from Mama’s hands. “I’ll go take this thing to the back to get butchered.”

“That’s my good boy. Finish what you can before you have to get ready for school. Daddy and I will finish the rest later.” 

For weeks, Sam had been stalked. Treated as someone else’s prey. It was unnerving that his Instinct craved confrontation, but he was in control, not the Instinct. Rather than attempt to surprise the creature that followed him or go headfirst into a battle he was unprepared for, Sam reminded himself to be methodical like his sister. Thoughtful of his actions, he would need to dampen the Instinct lest it lead him to the deepest waters and drown him. It was also important to remember that Instinct required balance. Not only did he need to be methodical like his sister, but sometimes the Instinct needed to have a say, or he would be in more danger. So to manage the balance while hunted, he planned a confrontation that would work to his and his predator’s advantage. 

In a multi-level nightclub at the stroke of midnight, when the music of all levels converged into a symphony of genres, Sam waited. Only when he felt his Instinct rise did his eyes scan the room. Plenty of people did not dance, a few did not mingle, but only one looked like a man out of time. He moved away from his dance partner and slid into the corridor to scale the stairs to the next floor. Without the strong beating of music in the stairwell, Sam’s Instinct amplified, electrifying his skin. He looked over the banister and saw the man out of time slip into the corridor after him. Sam continued to scale the flights until he reached the uppermost floor; from there, he slipped through the crowds to the stairs that led to the roof. 

Below his feet, the thrum of music vibrated up into his body, disrupting his Instinct. The fresh biting fall air cooled his Instinct and allowed his senses to take control. There were a few people at the small bar, which gave a sense of privacy from where Sam leaned against a railing that overlooked a row of nightclubs where crowds of people milled about. Instinct spiked, but did not excite. Sam looked to the man out of time who glided toward him and stood beside him. 

“What do you want?” Sam asked. 

The short, skinny blond blond-haired man looked up at him with blue eyes crinkled with amusement. “I’ve been watching you—”

“I know, it’s a little unnerving,” said Sam. 

“Sorry about that,” the man grinned and seemed genuinely apologetic. “I’m Steve Rogers.” 

“Sam Wilson,” he offered. 

“I know,” Steve smiled. “You’re pretty famous—among the undead and unseen.” 

Sam looked down at the crowds again with a frown. “That is not something someone like me wants to hear.”

“Well, it’s not every day we come across a hunter, let alone one who rarely kills.” 

“Men can’t be hunters, so I think you have the wrong guy.”

“While that is typically true, the men who do hunt often aren’t good hunters, right? Because you all have this urge to be—”

“Be what?” Sam frowned down at the man. “Why are you following me?”

“I just wanted to meet you,” said Steve sincerely. 

“Because I’m famous?” Sam asked deadpan. 

“Because…” Steve shrugged and gave him a nervous, lopsided smile. “Well, I need your help with something.” 

“You just said that men aren’t good hunters. So why would you want my help?” Sam gripped his belt in anticipation of the answer. 

“Because you approach the hunt differently, which makes you a good hunter,” Steve replied. He pushed his fallen fringe back, but his steady gaze did not leave Sam’s. “But, I can’t tell you what I need help with here, I want you to meet some friends of mine first.”

Sam laughed in surprise and shook his head. “No, thank you, Steve, have a good night.” He slid a hand into his pocket while the other remained on his belt as he walked away. 

“Wait!” Steve took hold of Sam’s wrist and pulled him back with a strength that small of a body should not have possessed. Although Sam was back in Steve’s space, the strong grip remained. In retaliation, Sam pulled a small stake from his belt and pressed it to Steve’s lower abdomen. “Oh,” Steve laughed. “How did you get that past security?” 

“I have my ways,” Sam said with displeasure. He tried to focus on the small man in front of him as Instinct had become excited from the close proximity and touch. All of his nerves and senses were aflame, and his control waned. “Let go of me.”

Steve did. “Just hear me out.”

“What does your maker want from me?” Sam hissed at him.

The smaller man tilted his head in confusion and blinked. Then, he laughed. “No, I don’t have a maker. At least, not in the traditional sense.” 

“First of your bloodline and you’re bothering me with a request?” Sam scoffed. “How far the mighty fall, I guess.”

Steve laughed more with genuine glee. When the humor passed the small man, he smiled up at Sam with a fondness meant for close friends, not new acquaintances. “That’s how you know I’m serious.” 

“I have a feeling you have never once been serious in your too-long life,” Sam snorted with a roll of his eyes. “Whatever you need help with, do not involve me.” He walked away, and Steve let him. 

It was on the bus ride home that he had an epiphany. Quickly, he pulled out his phone and called his sister. It was late, and it wasn’t guaranteed that she would answer, but he had to try. Although Sam was sure he was going to do something entirely hairbrained in the future, it was only polite to ask the Head Huntress of the Wilson family’s opinion.

“Sam? Are you okay?” 

“Yes, I am fine, are you busy?” He asked. “Did I wake you?” 

“No, the baby was kicking and keeping me up, so I was letting Antoine sleep without me bothering him.” He could hear her shifting around and the door of the house opening and closing behind her. “What’s going on?”

“Does the name Steve Rogers make you think of anything?” Sam asked. 

“Like the Howling Commandos you were so obsessed with? You aren’t back on that conspiracy theory shit, right? I cannot deal with that right now.”

“It’s not a conspiracy theory if it’s true.” The line went dead. Sam sighed roughly and noticed he missed his stop. So he got off the bus at the next stop and decided he would be better off walking home, given how distracted he was. Again, he called his sister and she answered. “I just met Steve Rogers.” 

“Are you drunk? Did you make out with some twink and his name just rhymes with Steve Rogers…like Reve Stogers?”

“Reve Stogers?” Sam hissed and then cackled, covering his face from second-hand embarrassment. “That’s the best you could think of?” 

“It is one in the morning, Samuel. You do better than Reve Stogers.” 

“Anyway,” Sam sighed with a smile. “Do you remember why the Howling Commandos started?”

“Ugh, Sam, can you just cut to the chase? I don’t want to play this game.”

“Fine, I just met Steve Rogers, and he was trying to ask me a favor.”

“Hold on,” Sarah grunted. He could hear more shifting and the sound of her fingers tapping on her phone. “The internet says he died from tuberculosis after the war.” 

“Well, immortals always fake their deaths, right?” 

“True, and he was pretty scrawny and sickly. Kind of mind-boggling he survived the war.” Then she groaned. “Sam! You called me in the middle of the night cause that's the only way you would have convinced me!” 

Sam laughed, “If I had known as a kid I just needed to get you sleep deprived to believe it, I would have done it.” 

“I’m saying it’s pregnancy brain.”

“So you agree that he definitely was a part of an experimental program and that probably led to him being the Captain of an elite and the only desegregated squad,” Sam whispered into his phone as he entered his townhome. “And that guy asked me for a favor.”

“What’s the favor?”

“I don’t know,” Sam said. 

“What?” Sarah asked with a flat intonation. “You called me at one in the morning to tell me some freaked out twink asked you a favor and you didn’t find out what it was before calling me? What was the whole point of this then?” 

“To ask your advice?”

Sarah ended the call again. 

Sam called her one last time. She picked up after too many rings and stayed silent. “Just wanted to know your thoughts on whether I should find out what this favor is. He wants me specifically and wants me to meet his coven.” 

“Sounds like bullshit.”

“That’s what I said. First of his bloodline, and he’s asking my ass for help?” 

“Well, is it because of your ass?” 

“Sarah,” Sam groaned. “No, he was being serious, but you know, because of…”

“Instinct in control would have had you listening and following him to his coven. Instinct would have had you asking what the favor was—”

“Well, I did ask, but he said I had to meet his coven, so I left.”

“Sam,” Sarah sighed. “Maybe you should come home. I don’t know what you’re even doing in DC anymore, he’s gone and you gotta let him go.” 

“That’s unfair,” Sam whispered and pulled his phone from his ear to collect himself. He put it back and sighed. “I’m sure that’s not the last time he’ll bother me.”

“Sam, you aren’t listening to me—”

“I hear you loud and clear, Sarah. Get some sleep. Tell Antoine to get you more pillows and have a good night.”