Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"There's a thin line between government-sanctioned murder and government-penalized murder."

Bucky couldn’t remember how the conversation had turned from an upcoming fireworks sale to John Walker, but he was pleased to find that his venom toward the failed police state puppydog was returned in Sam’s terse words. He recalled the moment that Steve had been invoked – the reflected betrayal on both their faces – and smiled as he listened to Sam badmouth Cap Lite.

"I was willing to put up with Walker at first because he seemed like just another product of the military institution. I can respect a vet looking for purpose and taking what he’s thrown to do it even if it gets him in trouble… He really fucked that up with his little police siren microaggression at the station, though."

"Micro aggression?" Bucky's face scrunched up in that way it did when he was confused, lips pulled away from one side of his teeth. He’d been pissed at Walker long before he’d imposed on them after his release from Dr. Raynor, but he wasn’t sure how the guy being a dick was micro.

"You don’t know what a microaggression is? You have Google, Million Dollar Man. What, no activism and human rights terms in that crusty bucket list Steve passed you? No Wakandan Charm School for the Fossilized? Do some research."

"I have Bing. It's... like an encyclopedia with an attitude that keeps trynna sell me stuff."

"Bing? What do you have, a Microsoft flip phone from the dawn of the 2010s?"

"A Nokia. I heard it's sturdy. For when I inevitably throw it at the wall when you send me another meme of Steve on the moon."

"You know you love my memes. That's art."

"The art of cyberbullying. Elder abuse." Sam was not getting the satisfaction of knowing he was right.  Not after the fossil joke. Bucky looked good for his age. Ish.

"Ooh look at you with your modern buzzwords, Bucky Bear. And zero comprehension of the definitions. For a cyborg you’re not very advanced in the intellectual department. No fourth grade Language Arts files downloaded in there?"

"Yeah... well I can’t catch up as quick as Leeloo Dallas."

“Ohoho! Is that a pop culture reference? Damn, just when I thought you had no room in that Jello salad brain for modernity you hit me with The Fifth Element. Who let you watch Bruce Willis movies?”

Bucky loved the fond little scrunch to Sam's face when he teased him, eyes sparking with mischief. How he wouldn't shy away from insulting him jokingly or calling him out when he was missing the point, refusing to treat him like something broken or dangerous. How he never backed off from what he knew was right.

Captain America had always been a symbol of what was. A product of wartime nationalism and mongering hope over fear for not the far future, but tomorrow. It had gotten worse when Walker stepped into the name, every inch the white savior mobilized in the name of a global superpower. Sam though... Sam was the future. He was what should be, and what would become when the people at the table were the same as the people in the halls. He was what Cap was always meant to be, under the star-spangled spandex and swoon-worthy musculature: a good person who stood for his people, not his country. Someone Karli Morgenthau would have fought beside in another world where they’d had time and peace to earn her trust.

He must have been staring for too long, thinking too fondly for his expression to keep its mock-irritation at the earlier jest, because Sam gave him that x-ray squint he always did before complaining about it.

Sure enough, “Those eyes gettin’ a little rusty, Inspector Gadget? They haven’t moved in a commercial break.”

Bucky pointedly rolled his eyes in a near full circle before fixing Sam with an unimpressed brow raise. “Fully functional, Cap.”

Chapter Text

Three weeks. Three goddamn weeks and not a peep out of Mister ‘Got some things to work out in Brooklyn.’ Sam had thought it was a longshot when he half-jokingly brought up the idea of moving in with Bucky at the cookout. He had barely even mentioned it to the man himself after, just a buzzed joke about refusing to share a bathroom with his German Shepherd level shedding. He just hadn’t thought the idea would be so uncomfortable for the man he’d been starting to think of as his closest friend that he’d rather go radio silent for three weeks than just tell him he wasn’t interested.

He hadn’t even gotten a reply to his text from this morning asking if Bucky would be in town for Sarah’s birthday party next week. Everyone would miss Bucky at the party and ask Sam where he was, and Sarah would ask him if he’s sure he’s feeling okay about it, and he would lie and say he wants Bucky to do whatever he wants. Because he knows what a wounded man who thinks he’s responsible for the things he did under coercion will choose, and he doesn’t have the guts to think that Sam Wilson is enough to pick up the pieces if he pushes too far too soon and Bucky falls into that pit of self-denial that consumed the waking lives of half the people he worked with in the VA (Hell, half the Avengers). It wasn’t his job to fix Bucky or make the hard decisions for him – but it also wasn’t in him to watch him self-destruct.

So instead of double-texting a newly-pardoned ex-Winter Soldier to pester him to come to his… ‘just a guy’s sister’s birthday party’ (dammit he needed to get that awkward exchange out of his brain), Sam Wilson was pointedly ignoring the silence of his cell phone and baking a test cake. He knew the community would pull out all the stops to celebrate Sarah, but he wanted to make something simple and homey to preamble all the excitement. It had been a while since he’d taken the time to be present for his family out of the field. Even if he got called on some last-minute Cap Op (and hey maybe then Barnes would answer his damn phone) he wanted to leave something tangible behind, to remind Sarah and the boys – and himself – that they were his priority and he wouldn’t do anything stupid before he got back.

He pretended the vitriol with which he stabbed the wooden skewer into the admittedly heavenly-scented banana pudding cake on the middle rack was aimed at the dessert and not his absentee supersoldier partner. Glaring at the uncooked batter that clung to the stick, he closed the oven door with too much force, then grumbled an apology to the oven before casting off his mitt and defiantly eating the batter off the skewer. “Salmonella should try tasting worse,” he muttered, tossing the used skewer into the trash and tamping down the lecture on raw flour and e. coli being the danger that played in his head in Sarah’s ‘mom voice’. Sam set the timer for another five minutes, giving the viewing window of the oven a ‘watching you’ gesture with narrowed eyes before picking up his phone again.

.

.

.

Radio silence. It had to be intentional.

Sam was nearly ready to pitch the cell at the nearest hard surface when his brooding was interrupted by a soft knock at the front door. He tossed the phone on the couch loosely, abandoning his line of thought with it, and dusted both hands on his apron to dispel any stubborn flour before going to answer the door.

Sam plastered on a smile as he reached for the doorknob, expecting Sarah back early with the boys trying to one-trip the groceries, or a neighbor with questions about the arrangements for Sarah’s birthday – someone who didn’t deserve the shadow of Sam’s sour mood cast over them.

Instead, he received a boneless mess of bloodied supersoldier falling into the gap created by the opening door. Swooping down, he managed to catch Bucky under the arms, vibranium cold against his skin as he shuffled backward into the house. “I always love your unannounced visits,” he sighed, voice tight with the effort of dragging the man and not shaking him or demanding to know what the hell he’d been doing instead of texting him back. He kicked the door closed, breathing out slowly when he didn’t hear any sounds of pursuit or gunfire.

“Okay, what the hell?”

Chapter Text

Bucky had only closed his eyes for a moment, just since his last breath out, but the sun seemed to have disappeared, and the door he’d been leaning on had gone softer and warm.

“Buck? Come on, talk to me. What happened to you?”

Ah. There was the sun.

“Sam,” he sighed, nodding to himself. That made sense. It did smell like Sam in here. And… bananas?

He made it to the right place, then. With a low groan, he forced his head up from its resting place (on Sam’s chest apparently, which was comfier than it had any right to be) to stare an aproned, flour-smudged Captain America in the eye. He opened his mouth to snark something as he managed to stand up on wobbly feet, but was interrupted with a wet cough that saw him spitting blood down the other man’s very nice tartan apron.

Oh yeah, that.

“Knife. Lung. Hurts like a bitch…” He squinted. “Needed. Here.” He tried to wipe his mouth once he got enough breaths in to say all that intricate detail, but his arms had betrayed him and hung leaden at his side. He expected this from the vibranium but et tu, flesh arm? Rude.

Once he recovered from blood loss and whatever the hell was making his ribs feel like knives, he’d have to tell Sam about how he’d run into Hawkeye 2.0 in New York, and topped off three weeks tailing her cross-country to keep an eye out for Fisk-related concerns on her archery meets with her weird French stepdad almost getting knifed by a pizza delivery boy in a tracksuit - and several of them exiting a third story window the hard way. Hell, he’d probably see something of it on the 6 o’clock news. But for now, all he could manage was…

“Sorry.” Bucky averted his bleary eyes from Sam’s face as soon as irritation started to form in the set of his brow. He shouldn’t have come here. What if he was followed? Sarah and the boys deserved to feel safe in their own home – Sam deserved it too – and it only took one asshole to destroy that forever. Sure, he’d been close by, and things had seemed resolved when he’d waved off Kate’s caffeinated post-fight questions to sneak back to the one couch in Louisiana where he could get a decent night's sleep, but it was a beginner mistake to go home right after a fight, especially when he wasn't at his best.

“Man, you need to learn how to apologize. And when. Am I pissed that you showed up here one lung and several ribs down, bleeding everywhere instead of reaching out for help with whatever got you like this? Yeah. But this is a damn sight better than finding out from Rhodey after you broke out of the Avengers medbay you were supposed to be confined to for three days of heal time. Again. Now come sit down in the tub and let me take care of what I can before you pass out on my sister’s floor, okay?”

Bucky’s head was swimming a bit, and his chuckle was cut off with another annoying bloody cough (god he hated lung wounds), but he didn’t miss the question in the end of Sam’s words. Giving him a choice despite how obvious it was that he couldn’t help himself much in this state aside from sleeping it off. [Will you let me take care of you?]

“Ten-four, Cap…”

He shuffled painfully toward the bathroom, plastered along a stiff and slow-moving Sam’s side like an anglerfish dissolving into its mate. He felt a little bit like he was falling apart, but the firm hand at his waist, warm and just slightly wavering, was holding him together. Sam was Atlas, holding up the world in bloodstained hands.

He wasn’t sure if it was Sam or blood loss that was painting his brain into poetry, but either way he was feeling miles better than he had on the way here. He supposed it could be both, with a hefty helping hand from the exhaustion of his 3 weeks on high alert subsisting on gas station hot dogs and coffee. In a way he didn’t care to dive too deeply into, the cold of near unconsciousness and the warmth of Sam’s aura both felt like coming home. He was sinking into both like a pool of molten gold, and it burned beautifully.

Between one watercolor thought and the next, Bucky found himself reclined as comfortably as he felt was possible in the bathtub. The smell of salt and aloe was the same as when he’d bathed here a month ago, barely managing to drag himself up and back to the life outside the door. Today he wouldn’t even make it over the lip, but if he tried warm hands were there to catch him. He still marveled at how Sam managed to make cold porcelain feel like a place of healing with a single cushion behind his back and hand through his hair. Even as he descended into Med Evac mode and put Bucky back together, that warm feeling of comfort and rightness and home never slipped away.

“You all good in there, Buck? Not gonna faint on me like a regency romance heroine, are you?” The words were strained; whether it was from the forced humor or the effort of pressing a towel to the still-bleeding chest wound without jostling the cracked ribs beneath was up for debate.

Bucky grinned, though he wasn’t sure how much of the motion carried from his brain to his bloodstained mouth. “You only call me Buck when you’re worried. I’m good, Sammy. Better than I’ve been in a while.”

“Yeah, new rule: No lying in Sarah’s tub.”

Bucky moved to sit up straighter, only for a gentle hand to halt his progress. “Man, you know what I mean. Don’t make shit up in my sister’s house. This is the family home, and that means speaking the truth and being heard. Nobody lies about how they’re feelin' here just to avoid bein' a burden, and nobody gets treated like one. We don’t do that to the people we love. Okay?”

“Okay.” The assent was barely more than a whisper – the adrenaline that had carried Bucky here was fading, and the burning of his punctured lung and bone deep ache of bruises and fractures had gone from a source of physiological arousal to a reminder of how long it had been since he’d rested like this, secure in the knowledge that he could trust the world around him if he closed his eyes for just a moment. He wasn’t sure what it meant that his peace revolved around having Sam to watch his back, his voice to pull him away from the doubts, his hands gently patting his shoulder, checking in. Or maybe he knew and didn’t want to say it out loud.

“Sam?” The words were distorted in his ears, echoing and muffled like after a deep dive.

“Yeah, Buck?”

“I missed you.”

“I m…“

Chapter Text

Sam breathed deeply, soft in the practiced way of someone trained in stealth and manners, and dutifully drew his gaze back to the man in front of him, three little words on loop in the back of his head like the one line of a song that won’t leave him be until he’s wrung every ounce of dopamine from its sound, played ad nauseum as he tries to sleep or work or think about anything else.

I missed you.

It was five hours into Sarah’s birthday party, and the coconut cake he and Bucky had purchased (after an incident with flaked coconut and the broiler left their last attempt at homemade lightly smoked) was reduced to crumbs. Most folks with kids were beginning to say their goodbyes and others were happily, drunkenly stuck in loops of conversation that would come back around to farewells in their own time. Five hours in, and Bucky Goddamn Barnes had disappeared. Sam had been rolling his eyes at Carlos’ mirthful and knowingly soft insinuation that a certain chat they’d had at the last local gathering had been mirrored by a certain supersoldier. None of this was what Sam wanted to think about at the moment; things had been good with Bucky here since he’d healed up and decided to stay a while, and for all Carlos’ teasing (and Sarah’s as well) Sam couldn’t take the risk of changing that. Bringing up alternatives meant reminding Bucky that he had every other option than to stay with Sam. It meant bursting the bubble they’d been living in since Buck stumbled through the front door. Even if all he could think about for the last week was that Bucky had missed him during those weeks of silent separation- that he'd noticed his absence, maybe not the way Sam was attuned to his since New York, like a phantom limb, but enough to care. Enough to say it to his face, even if it was in a state of exhaustion. But then he’d glanced up, and the spot where Bucky had been standing, waving back at a toddler who’d sneezed in Sam’s face during a photo op as her parents carried her to the car, had been empty. The silence smothered that echo of Bucky’s voice in his head, leaving him with his own breath and the muffled sounds of the party in his ears.

It didn’t take Carlos long to catch on to his continued scanning of the perimeter, the tension in his shoulders and diaphragm, and the older man stood up from his seat with a pop of his knees and a slow sigh. “Well, Sam, it’s about time I wish the birthday girl a goodnight. You should check on your boy.” His head tilted toward the direction of the Wilson home. “I think he was in a hurry to get something to the house by the way he was moving.”

Sam frowned, suspicion mostly on Bucky’s odd behavior but a bit on Carlos’ insistence. “Fine. I’ll go make sure he’s not breaking any of Sarah’s fancy new wines and cooking oils. You get home safe.” His face softened as Carlos clapped a hand on his shoulder.

“Bring him around more for the little things along with the big, Sam. You’re good for each other.”

“Yeah, yeah. Good luck playing cards with a guy with three expressions.” Sam started to move then, breath carefully even, skirting around the scattered clusters of the families and folks still partying quietly. He heard Carlos’ chuckle, saw Sarah’s knowing gaze, eyes crinkled with a smirk, as she gestured in the same direction he had, and made one resolution. He was never telling either of them anything again.

By the time his speedwalk took him to Sarah’s front door, the sky was glowing a dim orange over the trees, and his stomach was gently roiling at the hypotheticals of what was inside playing in his head like flashbulb memories: Bucky packing his bags for New York, resolved to make his exit now that the birthday party he’d stayed for was done; Bucky gearing up, summoned for some mission with or without him that he’d been waiting to alert Sam to until his own family commitment was up; An empty house…

Chastising himself for the rumination and worst-case scenarios, Sam shook off the tension in his shoulders and headed inside.

“Buck?” He walked slowly, keeping his voice level – no need for Bucky to think he was searching for him in a panic over something, even if he kind of was. The distant sound of the shower running lulled his racing heart, the steady patter a stencil in which to scribble his EKG. He let the sound devour his mutters, testing a few casual greetings for when Bucky eventually came out of the shower to Sam’s awkward, early return from the party. 'Checking that the kitchen is still intact,' despite being his initial excuse, sounded a bit weak. 'Checking in,' teetered too hard on the line between work and whatever the last week had been.

Bucky hadn’t replied to his call. Maybe he hadn’t heard over the shower. Maybe Sam could sneak back to the party and avoid the unimpressed looks and grumbles about ‘Ten minutes of privacy, Jesus Sam I can shower without burning down the house.’

A resounding thud from the direction of the bathroom decided for him.

With a sigh that wobbled between a chuckle and a groan, Sam beelined for the bathroom, deciding at the last moment that he did in fact have the decency to knock even when his supersoldier friend partner dumbass probably fell in the damn shower. Two quick raps, followed by one louder, preceded his carefully level, “You okay in there, Barnes? I just got the blood out from last time you were unconscious in the tub, don’t make me get out the scrubbing bubbles again man.”

There was quiet for a long moment, some splashing under the spray of the showerhead, a smaller thud, then, “Fuck!”

“Okay I’m coming in there, cover your unmentionables ‘cause I will not be covering my eyes – unlike you I don’t have Life Alert if I fall in the bathroom…”

Sam tested the doorknob, blessedly unlocked – only sparing a moment for how weird that was before swinging the door open and bursting inside the bathroom to what had to qualify as the strangest sight of the day. Bucky was hunched over the side of the tub, dripping from the shoulders up, metal and flesh hands struggling equally with a writhing mass of dirty white fur, teeth, and claws that appeared to have done a number on his face if the damp, bloody grimace shot his way was any indication. Bucky tried again to get the kitten under the spray of the showerhead, head thrown back away from three lashing limbs and sending beads of water flying against the wall.

“Man have you ever bathed a cat before?”

“I bathed a much bigger dog a couple weeks ago!”

“Not even close to the same thing.” Sam watched for a moment, amusement dimming as the cat shivered and scratched at Bucky’s hands, before sighing and reaching over the kneeling supersoldier to turn off the tap. Bucky pouted up at him, opening his mouth to gripe about how he had it handled before seemingly thinking better of it at the incredulous brow raise and once-over Sam was giving his cat-scratched face.

“Okay Buck, I’m gonna grab a cup, and then we’re gonna do this the right way. Put the kitten in the sink and try not to lose any more fingers.”

Sam snickered to himself at the indignant grumbles Bucky gave in reply, though he noted while exiting the room that the other man was carefully cradling the little cat as he tried to stand from the wet tile and sopping bathmat. He made his way to the kitchen and snagged a cup from the cabinet, some plastic novelty with a lid and straw scattered elsewhere in the drawers that one of his nephews had brought home from a restaurant – bendy enough that it could be used to make a spout, and faded enough that a bit of collateral damage wouldn’t put him at risk of Sarah’s wrath.

He hurried back to the bathroom, waggling the cup as he slipped through the door and leaned back to close it before the scruffy hellcat in Buck’s arms got any ideas about a grand escape. Bucky had the kitten lowered into the bowl of the sink, scratching at one of its ears with his metal thumb as it tried to chew his other Vibranium fingers, batting at the gold lines.

“You two are perfect for each other,” Sam mused, grinning at the eye roll he got in return.

“So why the cup?” Bucky asked, so effortfully nonchalant that Sam almost called him out on it.

“So you can control the spray of the water. Just pour it where it’s needed rather than having to force the cat under a faucet. ‘S quieter too.”

“Hm.” Bucky stroked at the top of the cat’s head, brushing the damp fur away from its eyes before shifting so that it was out of the line of fire- or water, as it were. “Give me a hand?”

“Ooooh that gives me so many openings for a joke man you have no idea! Lucky for you I want to get this poor fuzzball clean and dry so no time to go into all of ‘em… now.” Bucky groaned at the waggle of his brows and gap-toothed grin but did little more than playfully swing his elbow at Sam, who turned on the tap, feeling the water as it warmed.

Sam filled the cup, pouring the water, while Bucky held the cat just firmly enough not to allow for a prison break. It already seemed more relaxed under the soft flow of warm water, paws able to touch the bottom of the sink and Bucky’s hands relaxed enough for a gentle scrub with the shampoo. By the time wet fur was white and free of tangles, both cat and supersoldier were blinking half lidded eyes and yawning.

Sam sighed, wishing he had a camera to catch the dynamic duo, but settled for setting a fluffy towel on the counter and waggling Sarah’s hair dryer in question. Bucky shook his head as he started to towel off the back and head of their miniature houseguest, protesting, “The noise,” and Sam shrugged and set the implement back on the shelf.

“So what are we calling this menace-in-training?”

“... Alpine.”

“Cute.”

Slipping out the door with a roll of his shoulders and one last glance at Bucky’s clumsy cat-drying technique, Sam gave them both a wave before closing them in with the humidity and pulling out his phone. He ambled to his room as he speed-dialed Sarah, debating the best way to introduce the second stray and put all the responsibility on Bucky before she and the boys came home. Unfortunately, Sarah was quick on the draw and picked up after only two rings, giving Sam the time to come up with a not-at-all-suspicious opener of, “Heyyyy so I found Bucky.”

“Uh huh…” The unimpressed sound was heavy with the implied, ‘And what did he do to my house that you’re trying to ease me into?’

“Well, he seems to have picked up a little friend.”

“Another supersoldier in my living room friend, or he named a seagull friend?”

“More like the seagull I guess… but not a seagull.” He fell back onto his mattress, stretching out the arm not holding the phone and trying to decompress his spine from hunching over the sink. “More of a stray kitten that he seems kinda attached to. And I know what you’re gonna say, he’s gotta get it all its shots and be responsible for food and play and not letting it scratch up the furniture-”

“-That seems to be what you’re saying, Sam. I don’t have anything against animals. Obviously I prefer domesticated ones like James, but a kitten is better than a squirrel. And if he’s really attached, I think it’s nice. It can be healing to have something to care for. It’s certainly helping you.”

“Wha- Bucky isn’t my stray cat, Sarah. He’s just some guy that ripped the steering wheel out of my car and shows up when he needs a place to sleep or a hand overthrowing a government organization.”

“Cat behavior.”

“Ha ha.” Sam fiddled with the edge of his comforter, eyes drifting to the doorway, then up to the ceiling. “But really… it’s not gonna be an issue?”

“You’re sure good at asking for stuff when it’s not for you… at least not directly. It’s fine Sam, we’ll figure it out. James is a grown adult, he can handle pet care or fostering or whatever he’s gonna do. And it might be good for the boys to get some practice with an animal in the house before you try to one-up Bucky as best uncle and get them a dog for their birthday or something.”

“Hey, I am the original uncle. If anyone has to try, it’s Bucky.

“I don’t know Sam, he did bring a cat home. On my birthday…”

“He’s lucky I love him.”

“And you’re lucky I’m such an understanding, magnanimous sister who deserves breakfast in bed tomorrow after cleaning up my own birthday party while you had a crisis about James picking a cat’s company over yours.”

“Uh huh I see how it is. He gets to keep the cat and you get me in the kitchen workin’ my magic.”

“Mmm. On second thought maybe burnt toast and wet eggs isn’t a great reward for my charity. I’ll let the boys cook.”

“I don’t have to sit here and take this. I can hang up anytime I want.”

“Yes but I know where you sleep.”

“Touche.”

Chapter Text

“Okay, where the hell is he?!”

Bucky sighed heavily, pulling closed the door to Sam’s designated guest room and quarantine chamber with more force than necessary and flexing the fingers of his flesh arm against the vibration it made against the doorjamb. He’d only been gone 20 minutes to fetch cough drops that didn’t ‘taste like pine sol’ and Captain America had gone AWOL.

“Language,” Sarah called from the kitchen, barely loud enough to be heard over the sounds of popcorn exploding in the foil-topped pan she was shaking over the stove and the pouring rain outside.

Bucky shuffled grouchily from the hallway toward the kitchen, sparing a sheepish glance for the boys set up innocently in the living room in front of the opening credits to some movie about an animated sea sponge. They didn’t look smug enough to know where their uncle had snuck off to when he was meant to be sleeping off the flu and not touching anything in the house. Alpine was sprawled between them, serene in a way that betrayed the absence of the prime enabler to her chaos as she stretched out her front paw to bat clawlessly at AJ’s knee in a slow motion biscuit gesture.

Sarah granted Bucky's silent wish for a hint between rattling shakes of the aluminum. “He probably slipped outside for ‘fresh air’ again.”

“In this weather?”

“Sam’s never handled his Nyquil well, James. Can you get him inside and dry before he wanders back in with twice the flu and drips his germs all over my nice clean floor?”

“Yes ma’am.” Bucky affirmed, throwing a worn leather jacket on and pitching the cough drops on the kitchen counter. The cold didn’t really bother him as much these days – not in Delacroix – and he was already damp from the shop, but he could pawn the thing off on Sam once he found him to keep the man from giving himself hypothermia for a taste of freedom.

He took a deep breath. No need to storm out (pun not intended in the least) and immediately yell at a flu-ridden national hero. Considering this, he headed to the couch first, leaning over the back to scratch gently at Alpine’s shoulders, calibrating the softness of his touch and letting the smooth, rote motion dissolve the tension of stress in his own shoulder blades. Cass leaned back against the cushions, raising his eyes from the tv screen where the yellow lead was getting ready to accept a promotion at an oceanic burger joint(?) to tip his head back and fix Bucky with a look equal parts curious and smug.

“Hey Uncle Bucky, if they made an Avengers 2 like the Krusty Krab 2, do you think Uncle Sam would let you manage it?”

“Uh…” Bucky understood about half that sentence, but, “I wouldn’t really want to be the manager of another group of heroes if Sam is in charge of the first one. He’s like one of three people I actually like working with. And another one of those three is a dog, so...”

“Oooooh,” AJ chimed in, familiar singsong tones indicating he'd been caught at something, a toothy grin flashing even as he half-focused on taking over petting a glowering Alpine as Buck had paused in confusion, “You like Uncle Saaaaam.”

“Working with Uncle S- with Sam. Who I should be finding right now instead of talking about him.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you like him.” As if Bucky didn't already understand the juvenile implications of the teasing tone, AJ added in some kissy noises for good measure. 

The supersoldier managed to keep his reaction to a respectable flush, swallowing down the reactive, 'Do not,' that crawled up his throat like the echo of a childhood comeback. His stomach churned a little, but he just rolled his eyes and hummed a noncommittal, "Hm."

Cass snickered audibly, attention seemingly turned back to the movie but subtly offering his little brother a fist bump behind Alpine’s back. AJ accepted the motion, but his big eyes stayed on Bucky, grin faltering a little. Bucky could almost watch the mirror of the film in the reflection of his glasses, tried to as he avoided catching that stare directly. "You do, don't you? Isn't that why you're staying with us?"

Bucky's jaw worked, mouth falling open then closed, but he couldn't really come up with a counter to the argument; he found that he didn't want to, either. Even if he could only admit fondness in moments of accidental vulnerability or beneath three layers of sarcasm, he could, privately, acknowledge that he cared about the Wilson family and looked for excuses to spend more time with them, like keeping an eye on an ill and wandering Captain America. But that was a bit different-

"I-"

"-He likes you too," Cass added, still not looking away from the TV as Bucky felt his cardiac system factory reset, "That's why he wants you to stay here. And he thinks one of you is gonna get hurt if you split up 'cause you're not as good at taking care of yourselves as you are each other."

Seemingly that was the end of the boys' verbal assault, both content enough to grant him the mercy of watching their movie after dropping that unconfirmed bomb as Sarah emerged from the kitchen with a full, open pan of popcorn and a tamped down snicker on her lips. "I didn't tell them anything," she swore, though Bucky couldn't be sure how much of the laughter in her voice was at his expense.

Another deep breath for his sanity and he gently patted each of the boys’ shoulders, a subtle, ‘This conversation is over for now but I won’t forget your betrayal,’ before he beelined for the front door, stealing a few kernels on his way that he barely tasted over the sourness of the thoughts scratching at the back of his skull. Why was he still here? And why was Sam just letting him do as he pleased without asking for rent or when he was going to find a place of his own? Sam, at least, he could explain away as being too good for his own good, but himself- aside from a bittersweet longing to hold onto something familiar in the wake of lifetimes rushing from battle to battle with no claim to anything or anyone, there were only a few explanations for the vice grip in his ribcage as he wandered across the property in the rain looking for the missing piece to the family unit he'd been lingering on the edges of.

Once he'd banished thoughts of the one-sided conversation with Cass and AJ, he found that Sam was going to somehow make locating him both easy and a pain in the ass – Bucky’s first thought was to find their informal practice ground, but he had no idea if Sam would be wandering through the trees or throwing a frisbee at them a la the shield (luckily he knew they’d locked the real vibranium disc up until Sam was lucid again or that would be a fun [read: hazardous] game of catch).

In the end, Sam was in the clearing where he’d first thrown the shield, though he was sprawled on his back in the grass with the rain pelting him openly as he seemed to sink uncaringly into the mud. He had a content, sleepy look on his face — maybe only partially conscious — as he stared up into the sky that was actively dropping water into his eyes and mouth as if he could see the stars through the cloud cover and occasional distant flashes of lightning.

Bucky stalked over, some of the tension in his limbs returning at the sight as he tried to brainstorm the best way to help the man up (and get him to agree to be helped to his bed where he’d complained of being cooped up all week). He tried to lead with a positive, unrelated to the sight of Captain America laying in the dirt getting rained on like a cartoon character having an existential crisis.

“I got the strawberry-honey cough drops.”

Sam made a noise between a gasp and a cough, tilting his head around until he could pin the other man in place with a squinty, bright-eyed stare. He waggled an arm in an uncoordinated but enthusiastic wave before it dropped bonelessly back to the earth to join the rest of him, and he replaced the gesture with a grin. “Buckyyyyy. Buuck. Love of my life. Light of my Easy Bake oven…”

God he was high. How much nyquil had he taken? Steve hardly got like this back in the day and they had him on harder things year round…

“It’s uh, time to go inside,” Bucky managed, loud enough not to be drowned in a roll of thunder but carefully non-demanding. “So you can have a hot… drink and some cough drops before dinner.” He’d intended to offer a shower or bath, but Sam’s state didn’t bode well for standing or sitting upright long enough not to fall or drown mid-wash, and despite his patching up of Bucky and their often shared-quarters, they weren’t in the practice of helping each other bathe, so that would have been a tough sell even without the flu medicine soaking his brain in drowsy rebellion.

He crouched beside Sam, offering down his right hand. “Up.”

“Mmmdno,” the man protested a little stuffily, rolling over as if in bed—but with no blanket to hide beneath he just ground one shoulder into the wet dirt while the other scrunched away from Bucky’s reach, resembling a perishing spider curled in on itself.

The supersoldier sighed and rested both forearms on his knees for balance, leaning ever so slightly toward Sam’s angled retreat. “You can have my jacket,” he offered, trying to add a singsong tone at the word for enticement.

This got a shift out of the muddy form before him, a turn of his upper half and a clarifying sneeze allowing his head to wobble and fix a suspicious, slightly less bleary stare on Bucky’s expressionless face before it wandered to his shoulders and down his arms. “The soft leather one? With both sleeves?”

Bucky nodded, peeling off the slightly-damp leather and holding it aloft with a couple of upward twitches like one of Alpine’s feather toys. “Yep.” And if he didn’t specify that the offer spanned their walk back to the house, that he needed it back immediately after so it wouldn’t become permanently inundated with Sam’s flu germs, well, you try adding caveats to something that made Sam’s face look so hopeful and pleased amid a week of sickly complaints and unwilling naps.

“Whattaya say, Sam? Equivalent exchange?”

Sam didn’t acknowledge the pop culture reference, having made him start the anime it had come from three times in different languages since he’d been sick so he could make Bucky dub over it for him in even, unexpressive tones while he dozed off to complicated plotlines about fascism and grief narrated by a confused old man. His hand drifted up from the ground, raising up toward the leather outerwear as far as it could while propped up on his elbow, short by a few inches of reach as he instead made a grabby hand motion.

“Gimme.”