Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Wilson.”  

“Sam. How are you?” The words betray Maria Hill's tone of urgency.

Sam shoves his phone to fit snuggly between his shoulder and ear before picking up the ketchup bottle and replying, “Now I know you didn't call to catchup, what's going on?” He teases her, but scowls.

She rarely wavers her consistent professional stoicism with any emotion. In the nine months since the Flag Smashers mess, her and Rhodey decided enough was enough and began rebuilding the Avengers some semblance of infrastructure. With Pym's funding finally clearing two months ago, things were finally looking like a semi-functional organization. The base in New York is still in the process of being rebuilt, but their skeleton crew is expanding along with their missions. And yet through all that, he hasn’t seen nor heard her break a sweat.

She sighs, bone deep exhaustion ruminating through the speaker so Sam knows it's bad. 

“A few…disturbances are going down in South Florida." Oh god not Florida. "The biggest priority is an alien arm dealer by the name of Chrome Crook who has-”

Maria pauses as Sam snorts, causing ketchup to splatter evrywhere. He tuts, cleaning up the prep table before moving the finished plate to the edge. “Sorry, continue.” He amends.

“Chrome Crook-” He bites his lip but doesn't mutter a word as he fumbles open a new two pack of burger patties, “-has been using the ports for distribution. There are a few unconfirmed political connections in Broward and Miami Dade counties, we suspect it's how they keep escaping law enforcement raids, but critical pieces of evidence disappeared two weeks ago proving that. We think they might have some access to teleportation or shrinking technology like Lang’s. We can't be sure yet, but it's weird and urgent enough to call you in.”

Sam sets the two burger patties on the grill with the spatula in his right hand, while preparing the plates on his left. “Okay, what else? You said there are a few things right?”

“Yeah well. These aren't regular alien lazer guns. There's a small gang in Broward that's purchased some in bulk who have been wreaking havoc. Ranging from inverting mall cafeteria tables to turning concrete into metal. In Miami, there's a video of someone shooting a lamppost and making it glitch. With spring break in less than two weeks, the governor and top brass are concerned with the situation getting worse and someone getting hurt."  

They've fought interstellar aliens and handled some weird shit since the Flag Smashers, but glitching lampposts? Metal concrete? What does an inverted table even look like? Sam sighs, now understanding her contrite demeanor. 

“You're putting us on quite the deadline, aren't you Maria?” She hums. “And uh, are we sure these aren't magic alien guns?” 

Sarah comes over and gives him a look that says stop working and keep cooking as she sticks a shrimp in his mouth. “No, we're sure. Checked in with the Sanctum first thing. Received a magicked memo that burned immediately when I read it. Quote, ‘Not our problem’. You're the next line of defense.”

Chewing then swallowing the shrimp, he evaluates his options. On one hand, he is not really looking forward to spending the next two weeks dealing with nonsensical chaos, but he has been getting a little stir crazy. “I haven't heard good things about Florida, but point and I’ll shoot.”

Typing clips in and out of the speaker before she answers. “Your ticket is through economy-” He sucks in his teeth, knowing his back is going to pay for it. "Sorry, all air force crafts are full heading south east for the next three days. Your flight leaves New Orleans Airport 0800 tomorrow morning. Arrives in Fort Lauderdale Airport at about 9am.”

Sam makes a haphazard mental note to try to get familiar with the area through google maps, but that hope falls through quickly as he sees the church choir pull up in a large SUV. He waves as he asks, “Copy that Hill. Did-”

“Barnes has been briefed, he'll be there.” She cuts him off. Sam tries not to be annoyed at the fact that she knew what he was going to ask. Granted, since their first mission post Flag Smashers when Bucky just showed up without telling anyone, she said quote “you will be dropped off at the nearest civilian town if you pull this act again Barnes. It's a nightmare of paperwork on our side” so he makes a point to ask before every mission. Although, it's the first time she hasn't humored him with the question.

“I'll be sending you a digital file of the briefing, along with the location of your supply depot and living arrangements. Let me know if you need anything else. Good luck Cap.”

“Thanks Maria.” He hangs up, slipping the phone into his back pocket as he flips the last burger. Adding some extra pressure, he plates it onto some prepped buns.

Sam pouts thinking about Bucky. He hasn't seen him in over a month, his partner mumbling something about ‘personal stuff’ he had to sort out when they departed at the air force base on their last mission. Granted, Bucky was acting a little weird during it too. 

It was a simple assignment. Intel said there was some abandoned cellar discovered after a demolition that was the property of a shell company of a shell company of a shell company of a dead Hydra scientist. Better to be safe than sorry, Hill sent the two of them to inspect it before allowing civilian construction to continue. Bucky was in Brooklyn at the time, which was not unusual, but when they met at the base in D.C. to take their connecting flight to Utah, something felt off. 

Bucky wasn’t as much of a moody and self absorbed prick as he used to be. They’d actually been able to have a few heart to hearts and more cookouts and missions to get them past the mild tempered partnership they started with.

Sam was content with their relationship. He considered Bucky a good friend, someone he can trust and lean on and open up to if there is something on his mind. They'd even worked their way up to casual touch, Sams number one love language, through fist bumps, shoulder leans, happy hugs and calming pats. 

Things were finally going well. 

So when Sam greeted him with a hug, Bucky stiffening hurt a little. He reciprocated, but it was awkward. The rest of the mission followed a similar pattern. Sam's jokes fell flat, Bucky wasn’t communicative about the plan he had in mind before entering. Almost like he backslid into that stupid self-sacrificial mentality when he heaved open the two ton cellar door and just dropped inside.

Sam got aggravated, and didn’t bother to hide it. 

Thankfully, there weren’t any traps or assailants for him to worry about while he passive aggressively questioned Bucky's attitude. He'd been hoping for some reciprocation, even negative communication, but it still resulted in another stupid staring contest in the aircraft hangar on the flight back. They landed without saying a word, and the asshole just spared Sam a curt nod before walking away. When Sam caved and finally invited Bucky again to Delacroix to cool off whatever was bothering him, he just shook his head and rejected Sam's offer for his stupid, probably made up “personal reasons”.  

Granted, he can't really hold a grudge against the guy. Bucky called the next day and sincerely apologized. 

“I-I’m sorry, I wasn’t good company yesterday, and an even shittier partner-”

“Yeah Buck, gotta tell the guy who's watching your back if your plan is to just start yanking open old ass cabinets first. You could've gotten hurt.”

Bucky sucked in his teeth. “Yeah, you're right. That choice wasn't safe for you either. I know I wasn’t much better than..well... I’m sorry. It wasn’t a good day and I should’ve told you that and sat it out instead or let you take point. I just need some time to myself. I’m still here if theres another mission, and I’ll call you in a week or two, but I do need to sort out some things.”

Sam smiled proudly at that. A sincere apology with an actionable plan. That's what the Wilson’s called Growth with a capital G. 

“Okay. I trust you Buck. Call me if that changes.” 

He heard the smile through the phone, and Sam knew Bucky was alright. “When it changes. Keep some gumbo warm for me.”

So sue him, he misses his partner and friend. Bucky would come usually for a week or two each month to train, or Sam would come up to stay in DC for Avengers business if they weren’t going on missions. Things were good. They talked, or just hung out in silence, Bucky with his endless supply of books while Sam worked on his laptop. Those moments were nice, so it’d be cool to return to their routine. 

Yeah that's it. He just misses the routine. He smiles to himself, excited to see his partner. Hopefully tomorrow, Bucky will be back to normal. 

Bucky is not back to normal. 

He is far, far from it.

Sam is confident Bucky must’ve locked himself in some secret cryo chamber hidden in the sewer systems of Brooklyn, and re-emerged with maybe half his brain frozen over.

Because as Sam steps out of the bridge into Fort Lauderdale's gate G7, he sees James Buchanan Barnes holding a navy blue duffel bag over his shoulder, dressed in a short sleeve cyan blue Hawaiian shirt with printed on alligators wearing hawaiian shirts, reflector aviator sunglasses sitting proudly on the bridge of his nose, in baby pink golf shorts that look a size too small, and green flip flops. 

He stops dead in his tracks, pausing to take this all in. Objectively, he looks like someone dipped a tourist into a corny advertisement about country clubs, and shouted ‘here's our poster boy’. It's loud, radiation colors that kind of make Sam want to look into the sun. Subjectively, he looks happy. Relaxed. He even has his metal arm out that he still acts weird about people seeing. The tightness from his shoulders is gone, and he's grinning like a child at Disneyland. Some businessman knocks into him, reminding him not to block the exit from the plane. As Sam approaches Bucky, he peeks over his sunglasses with a smirk.

“What, my new look doin’ it for you?” 

Sam shakes his head laughing and starts walking towards the airport exit, Bucky in tow. “If by doin’ it for me you mean making me nauseous? Then yeah Barnes, you’re gonna see what kind of donut I had for breakfast.” 

Bucky scowls, the divot of his eyebrow only noticeable because again, he’s tilting his head to look at Sam over his sunglasses. “That's not breakfast Wilson, I know the perfect brunch joint, you’re gonna love it-Hey!” Sam snatches his sunglasses off and puts them on his own face. 

“You weren’t wearing them right Barnes, plus what’d you do, kidnap some midwestern tourist and switch clothes with him? You look like a commercial, and I’m not sure they’re gonna let us into a nice brunch spot with you in flip flops.” 

Bucky harrumphs and crosses his arms like a toddler. “First of all, they’re sandals Sam, you can’t disrespect the footwear game like that.” Bucky fucking wiggles his toes like a madman making Sam choke out a laugh. Bucky is grinning as he continues, “Secondly, I carefully cultivated this outfit in the 45 minutes I was waiting for your flight to land.” As they ride the escalator down to baggage claim, Bucky noticeably doesn’t try to take the sunglasses back, and Sam smiles to himself that he definitely won this round.

“I can do better than that in 10 minutes Buck, but I’ll let you slide since you had airport fashion to work with. Doesn’t matter though because you stick out like a sore thumb. Thought this mission was incognito only."

They finally walk outside into the heat - Sam grunts as he feels his clothes stick to his entire body almost immediately. Bucky rolls his eyes and grabs Sam's suitcase. “Look around Sammy, if anyone sticks out it's you, wearing a bomber and jeans man. Tsk tsk.”

Sam removes his jacket as they wait for the crosswalk signal to change. “At least I don’t look like a highlighter.”  He rolls up the jacket then gestures to Bucky to hand him the duffel bag, stuffing it inside.

“You know Sammy, you’re already using my stuff and being so ungrateful about it. Just for that, you’re payin’ for brunch.” 

Sam laughs, taking his suitcase back as the crosswalk signal changes to green. “Finally! I was starting to think you’d been paying for all of our meals for tax deductions. Which, Hill emailed me last week saying we can finally submit our receipts to the accountant they just hired.” 

“You mean to tell me you knew for a whole week I could’ve been getting comped for my meals?” Bucky stops right when they reach the entrance of the parking lot. “Sam, what the hell? I could’ve gotten free dinner all week!” 

Sam raises an eyebrow. “And what the hell were you doing all week that warrants Avengers business?”

Bucky pouts by jutting out his bottom lip and exasperatedly says, “Keepin’ myself alive! That's definitely Avengers level business.”

Sam is stunned for a moment as Bucky's joke sinks in, then he’s cracking up. He doubles over clutching his stomach as he wheezes. In combination with Bucky's insane misinterpretation of basic tax law and his getup, he knows his partner is definitely back to normal, if not with a screw or two loose.

“Buck, I swear you’re gonna fit right in with these snowbirds.” Sam wipes a tear from his eye as he calms down.

Bucky continues walking, fishing out the car key from his shorts pocket. “Yeah that's the goal Samuel. I'm one of them, but hotter.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “And what happened to the ‘dating isn't in the cards for me, woe is me Sam, who'd love the winter soldier?’” Sam chuckles again as he finishes mocking Bucky, who glares over his shoulder while clicking the unlock button. He leads Sam to an unassuming Grey Toyota Corolla, probably 2018 or 19. 

“I said who'd wanna date me cause of my trauma, not cause of my looks. I'm pretty damn handsome for a 108 year old.” He's grinning as he opens the trunk and takes Sam's suitcase.

Sam shakes his head, but honestly he couldn't disagree with that point. The man was blessed with the definition of good looks that aged like fine wine. Sam chooses not to inflate his ego though, sitting in the passenger seat knowing Bucky always prefers driving for whatever reason. Even when he's been exhausted, Bucky has fought Sam tooth and nail over driving late at night after a mission. It's ridiculous. Sam doesn't always let him win though, at least for those situations. But he decided to let Bucky be Bucky for once. 

When he settles in the driver's seat, Sam asks, “So? What's this amazing brunch place you promised?”

Bucky starts the car, then fiddles with the bluetooth connection settings on his phone. “Okay, I'm going to give you two options. Beach or planes?” 

Sam grins as the beginning notes of Soul Bossa Nova by Quincy Jones starts playing. He turns the dial up a little as Bucky pulls out of the garage. “Okay, Buck. I see you man. You're really leaning into this whole Golden Girls, freshly minted retiree vibe huh.” 

Bucky somehow rolls his eyes and checks his blind spot at the same time. “Laugh it up Wilson, next thing you know I'm invited to the next Polo game with a free buffet ticket and you'll be left in the dust.”

Sam laughs hard at that, wiping a tear from his eye. “Man seriously though, what's gotten into you? Did you hook up with someone? Or fall in love or something?” 

Bucky scowls incredulously at Sam. “No. More importantly you haven't picked and we're less than a minute from the interstate that separates into North or South. Very mission critical decision Cap, beach or planes?”

Sam scratches his chin. “I'm not dressed for the beach. Planes it is.” Although Sam really hopes it's not like some restaurant inside of a plane because he'd kind of die inside. Even though the flight is only an hour and a half, his lower back is sore from readjusting his seat too much, and he feels the residual tendrils of claustrophia from his flight.

Sam looks at Bucky to say something, but his smile is wide and undeterred, tapping his fingers off beat to Quincy's crescendo. 

He bites his tongue, choosing to admire the palm trees and bright blue sky outside the passenger window instead. 

It takes about thirty minutes and four near accidents later to arrive. When Bucky finally parks the car, they both just look at each other, shaken. 

“Sam I-”

“No, no its not your fault.” Sam sucks in a deep breathe. "I heard about this. Not your fault.”

Bucky quirks an eyebrow. “You heard that Florida highways are literal construction zone death traps? That the drivers are speed demons with no shred of courtesy left and forgot the existence of a blinker?” 

“I didn't think- I thought it was an exaggeration okay!” Sam groans. “Fuck that means the other shit is probably true.” 

Bucky glares at him like hes about to drive them back to the airport. “Okay it's not that bad. It's really just if New York City was hot as shit, had roaming alligators and palm trees. Don't stare at people, don't stay out too late, and definitely avoid bodies of water.”

Bucky exhales with frustration. “New York, but a fiery tropical hellscape. Got it.” He motions for Sam to get out of the car and follow him.

It's then Sam realizes, they're at a private airport. There's a Very Light Jet hanger to the right of him, half the door is open to repairs a few mechanics are making on the engine. He sees the runway between the buildings. There's an awning with a sign that reads Jet Runway Cafe, and Sam smiles. They have to single file line down a small walkway under the awning before Bucky opens the heavy double doors for him to the left. Conversational noise and warm lighting welcomes Sam.

The host is occupied doing something on a tablet to the left, but he looks up then looks between the two of them and smiles. “For two?” 

Bucky nods politely. 

“Right this way.” 

It's just one big 4x4 dining room area, booths lining the left wall and tables for four or six occupying the remaining space. The other two sides are giant panels of glass, displaying the start of the airplane runway to the end. The kitchen is positioned on the last wall behind the host counter. 

The host leads them to the corner table intersecting the two glass windows. The restaurant is practically full except for this table, and Sam has an awful suspicion Bucky reserved it. He voices his thoughts and Bucky looks confused. “What? No.” 

“Oh.” Sam's not going to acknowledge a very micro sized piece of him is just a little disappointed.

It's a weird voice that's been appearing lately, that started since Utah. Like when Bucky didn't sit next to him on the ride home, or when Bucky didn't answer his texts until the next day during their month break. It's a little voice though, small and unassuming, so Sam ignores it like always.

Menus are placed in front of them, Sam opts to focus on scanning the items. “So did you find this place while waiting for me?”

Bucky shakes his head. “When Hill told me we're going to Florida, I got sucked into the bottomless pit that is Google Maps, found this place and a lot more I want to visit.” 

Sam decides on the California Club before setting his menu down. He's able to see the start of the runway over Buckys shoulder and smiles. “I didn't know cool stuff like this was in Florida. Only heard enough things to avoid it.” 

Bucky nods, setting his down too. “I hear that now. But back then, when we'd hear about Florida in the 30s, it was a captivating kind of hot, but exotic. There's something interesting to do at every corner. City and swamp clashing dramatically. Everyone dreamed of going there or California. You have your ups and downs of every state I suppose, so now that I have the chance, I'm gonna make the most of it.” 

“Ups and downs of every state.” Sam mutters thinking of the truck driver that plowed ahead through their blindspot despite having the right away entering the connecting highway. 

Something else catches his attention though before he can spiral on his first hour in Florida being somewhat close to a disaster. “You know we are allowed to take vacations right? Is there anywhere else you want to go?” 

Bucky smirks. “Sam, when's the last time you thought to yourself, ‘I'm gonna take the day off today’.”

Sam scoffs. “Literally the past month-” Bucky leans forward, resting his elbows on the table,”-where you weren't entertaining people, or taking care of chores, or taking care of paperwork, or errands, or the family business, or AJ and Cass.”

Well, there's not much he can say to counter that because it's the unfortunate truth. Sam's mouth parts in shock as he realizes that truly, he hasn't asked for a vacation in years. A real one, where he's separated from the rest of the world. No duties or responsibilities. Unless he counts being dead for five years. 

“I-yeah okay.” 

“See? And there are other places I'd like to go too abroad. See it from an unbrainwashed lense. Realistically though, nowhere soon unless there's a mission or for other reasons.”

“What other-”

A server, young blonde girl in her 20s probably, greets them. “Hello! What can I get you two to drink today?”

“Two cranberry mimosas, and we're ready to order, right Sam?” Bucky asks oddly pointedly. 

“Uh, sure.” Sam tries to brush it off, hoping both are for Bucky since he doesn't like drinking on the job. He orders a water and the sandwich while Bucky orders an All American Burger. 

“Great! They'll be right out.” She chirps before moving onto the next table. Sam takes the reprieve as a chance to ponder the mimosa order again. It's always a hassle to convince Bucky to take a cold one with real alcohol, as he opts for Arnold Palmers or nonalcoholic beers. It's always grated Sam a little, especially since Bucky can't get drunk anyway. 

“So what's with the day drinking? Thought you were too keyed up to enjoy it.” 

Bucky laughs, a sudden uproar that has Sam chuckling with him too. “It's Florida, you gotta daydrink or you're just not doin’ it right.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “You've gone full retiree on me Barnes. Is this your last mission?” 

The waitress comes back with the mimosas, bloody red and two half empty wine coolers. Bucky takes a sip, releasing a satisfied sigh as he eases back into his chair. The juice stains his lips a little darker than normal. “What, you'd miss me Wilson? If I just decided to stay here?”

Sam knows he's kidding. They just drove through the infamous I-95 to get here, and local roads don't fare much better. Bucky wouldn't survive a month based on just the traffic alone.

But something slightly louder than his usual disappointment voice stirs at the possibility of losing his sparring buddy a little too soon. 

“Buck, if you decided you wanted to retire, I'd just hope it's not in that seriously sad and empty sack in Brooklyn you call an apartment.” Bucky grins, and takes a larger swig of his mimosa before pushing the untouched one across the table. 

“Enjoy Wilson, it's on you after all.” Sam rolls his eyes again, knowing he's going to regret it later when they show up at the armory for supplies. He prays he won't be tipsy, but if he is he's sure Bucky can haul the supplies to the car on his own. He watches a plane speed down the runway and the whole building rumble with the power of the engines. 

He shrugs to himself, then cheers. 

“Fuck it. What happens in Florida stays in Florida, right?” 

Chapter Text

Sam does get tipsy, off three more mimosas and the corresponding remainders of the wine coolers.

Not that he's complaining. 

He's shimmying in his seat while singing along to Feel So Good by Mase when he sees Bucky exit the Armory doors with a duffel strapped to his back, and two on his shoulders. The wind disrupts Bucky's perfectly placed swoop in his chestnut hair, shimmering from the sunlight. Is he using a new conditioner to make it look more soft and shiny?

Whatever it is, the black straps and hardware poking out of the back duffle completely contradict Bucky's boyish grin that softens the lines on his face. The man is glowing as he practically saunters across the parking lot to the chorus bad bad bad bad boy, you make me feel so good, and Sam's wine drunk mind swears time almost slows. 

Almost.

Hearing the trunk pop with a flick of the key, Sam clears his throat for no one, and skips the track. Another Bossa Nova beat fills the car as Bucky slides into the driver's seat. 

“You good?” 

“Yeah. Give you any grief?”

“Nah, Hill cleared us in advance. It took a minute because some kids jumped the fence this morning. Thought it'd be funny to write 'Eat shit and die' on the doors."

Sam is hilariously baffled. "What? Did they show you pictures?"

Bucky chuckles. "They did. It was brown. I didn't ask any more questions."

Sam huffs. "Man they need better publicists down here-"

"And security." Bucky adds with a grin. "Anywhere you want to stop by before we get to the hotel?”

Sam settles back in his seat, tiredness creeping up on him. “No I'm good. Ready to pass out though. We got that meeting later at 4 with the sheriff downtown right?”

“Yup. Plenty of time for a nap.” 

Sam knows he means the hotel room, but there's no reason why he can't knockout in the car either. So he leans the cars seat back and promptly falls asleep to the image of anarchist kids writing with shit in their hands.

Bucky wakes him up with a gentle shoulder shake. He grumbles as he stumbles out of the car, grabbing their luggage as Bucky handles their supply bags. He's thankful Bucky uses the soft timbre of his voice to lead Sam into a bustling room, positioning him to lean against a desk with a lavender scented candle, because he's pretty sure he's more disoriented than he was before. Bucky then directs Sam to stay put, while he goes off somewhere, and Sam struggles to fight off an impending migraine. When Bucky comes back saddling thankfully very close to Sam, he leans into his partners warmth. “Where are we?”

“Hyatt on Las Olas.” Bucky says as he presses the 35 button in the elevator. 

Sam whistles as his head lolls against Buckys shoulder, reading the top floor goes to 50. “Downtown Fort Lauderdale huh.” 

Bucky lightly adds with an undertone of excitement while watching the rising floor numbers.“Sam you missed it. It's a developing city, so all the buildings are relatively modern and colorful. Thankfully everything is in walking distance more or less so we won't have to worry about-” Bucky shudders, ”traffic again. The boardwalk is on my list, so its convenient.”

Sam hums, Bucky's shoulders making an excellent pillow despite the muscle he's packing. “We can check it out probably after our meeting if there's no urgent mission work.”

While that likely won't be the case, when he tilts his head to rest his chin on Bucky's shoulder, it's worth seeing the childlike hope on Bucky's face. He scrunches his nose and mouth like he's got a secret he can't wait to spill. It's cute.

The elevator dings on their floor and Bucky leads the way to their room. A double queen. It's a quaint room, nice TV and upscale bathroom. There's even a closet, which Sam is grateful for. He sets his suitcase on the bed closest to the window and starts to unpack, but Bucky stands next to him. “Sleep. I got it.” 

“I appreciate it Buck but-” He's going to say he's a grown adult who can put away his own underwear, but Bucky's raised eyebrow tells him he should take the grace his partner is giving him.

He sighs, zipping up his suitcase and handing it to Bucky. Sam kicks off his shoes and faceplants into the bed. Then once again, he passes out.

The wine is finally processed through his system when Sam jolts awake. There's a brief moment he forgets where he is and panics, but then he hears a click and lightly padded footsteps that only match Bucky's pattern. 

Sam let's out a much needed groan, adjusting himself to a sitting position against the headboard. “What time is it?” 

Bucky sits on his own bed facing Sam. “3:05. Woke yourself up right before I was about to.” Bucky adds with an easy grin, "Got to take it easy on the liquor man, I keep telling you.”

Holding his face in his hands he groans again. “I want to argue with you, but my liver agrees wholeheartedly. What kind of alcohol did they use?” He holds the side of his head in confusion. He's usually downing more than this with at least 5 beers at any given cookout.

“Before you get paranoid that you got drugged, they were serving some decent stuff. 20%.”

Sam's eyes bulge out of his sockets. “Didn't think to cut me off?” 

Bucky shrugs, then gets up to make some instant coffee. “You were having a lot of fun rambling facts about every type of plane we saw on the runway.” 

“Sure sure, let Captain America get himself drunk in public. Become Captain Airline next. That'll work out great.” Despite his attitude, he gratefully accepts the cup of energy Bucky hands over. 

“Yeah yeah, you were trippin’ over yourself. Also, awful pun.” Sam harrumphs as he sips the coffee, feeling a little more like a person. 

“Time to get to work.” Sam says with a groan as he heaves himself up to get ready. He changes his shirt to a rustic red one, and dark blue Chino shorts, because, well, it's hot. 

Bucky gives him a once over before they head out. “What?” 

“You realize you've been defaulting to Cap colors a lot more lately?” Sam just shoves him out of the room without dignifying a response. 

Riding back down to the lobby is a different affair. Sam's not swaying on his feet and actually retains some details he missed, like the overbearing chandelier and the Cafe inside the hotel to the left. A bunch of tourists that Bucky blends right in with flow in and out onto the street, which they quickly step out onto. Outside, he's met with sparcely built skyscrapers mostly to the right, one bordered with an orange reddish brown concrete and another two built in the classic all window format. It's nice. Feels like a mix of tropical clay and modern technology in one. Bucky was right about the city.

“Where are we meeting Sheriff Tony?” 

“Just a block around the corner, across the street at the county governmental center.” 

They start walking, passing a soccer field with kids playing, that leads to a bridge beside it. A museum across the street to their right also pulls their attention with the abstract rainbow band contrasting against the pristine white building. “I wonder if they have Kandy Lopez.” Bucky mutters with a yearning look.

“Who?” 

Bucky looks a little sheepish as he replies, “Kandy Lopez. She's a local artist.”

“You know art like that?” Sam wonders aloud. He's never heard Bucky express an interest in the world, it's always been Steve who regaled art, and sketched on whatever surface was available. 

Bucky chews his lip. “Kind of? Steve wanted to study it, I picked it up from him as a hobby. I've been paying some more attention to it lately, finally crossed off the Met from my list.”

Sam's eyes widen. “You went to the Met? How was it? What'd you see?” 

Bucky appears taken aback by Sam's interest, and it makes him wonder if Bucky thought Sam would make fun of him or something.  “We…we could… we could go together next time. They get new installations every month so we'd have to go right after we finish this mission.”

Sam nods, realizing that meant Bucky went sometime the past two weeks. Huh. Bucky taking up new hobbies outside of science fiction novels is pretty incredible, along with actually indulging in experiencing the art space. He wonders what spurred this new development. Maybe he lied that he was seeing someone. Somehow it strikes Sam as improbable that Bucky was coerced out of his hermit shell just on a whim.

“So Kandy Lopez? Is she well known?” Sam asks as they make it to the intersection. He really doesn't care for art much, but Bucky's new hobby intrigues him. It's nice hearing him ramble on about the plot of a new book he picks up, and now he gets to hear about a new subject, it's a win win. Bucky hits the button while they wait for the light to turn.

“She's well known in the tricounty area, and has had a few displays in the Dominican Republic. She's mostly local to Broward, an artist who centers on Afro Caribbean portraits. She uses mostly yarn to weave her pieces onto mesh, but she's multimedia. Like fabric, stained glass, prints; focusing on incorporating culture and changes of local environment from her perspective into her portraits. She's really interesting.”

They cross, and Sam's realizing he's seeing a new side of Bucky. Or at least maybe registering what's there. He thinks of the moments Buckys dropped some worldly knowledge out of the blue. A medieval fact about the plains of France, or some popular african dish-Mopane- he became obsessed with in Wakanda. Sure the man's been all over, but it's easy to forget just how interesting Bucky can be because he doesn't tend to share at all. He strives to be involved wherever he is, with the culture and customs. The Bucky he's used to is tight lipped, hates casual conversation more than anything, and tends to stick with commenting on what's in front of him or their shared expierences.

For all he's grumpy for though, Sam's caught glimpses of this mostly in Delacroix when he'd share a quick anecdote with the boys, or now, Sam thinks, Florida. Maybe it's just warmer climates that regulate Buckys temperament. 

“Sounds like I do have to see for myself. Let's check it out after.” Bucky nods like a kid in a candy store. They might not get to everything, but it'll be worth it to try anyway.

When they enter the building, they check in with the front security. “Sam Wilson and James Barnes, we have a meeting with Sheriff Tony at 4.” The security guard, a young woman with braids looks excitedly between the two. She stutters “oh my god” and nods eagerly as she picks up the phone. 

She whispers as if they can't hear her, and Bucky glances at Sam with a shit eating grin that says look, your fans. Sam reciprocates with an equal weighted look, seems like yours too. Bucky scoffs in disbelief, then looks at her as she says, “Sheriff Tony is on his way down. Please have a seat.” As they turn to sit in the lobby, she quickly stands, playing with her long acrylic nails. “Could you-sign my arm! Please!”

She rolls up her sleeve and hands Bucky a sharpie. “Uh, me? You know I'm-” 

“Sergeant Barnes! Howling Commandos! White Wolf!” She squeaks. “Please!”

Sam chuckles, “Go on Sergeant Barnes.” Bucky glares at him for a moment, but then gives the young woman a million dollar smile that makes Sam wonder what he can do today to earn a smile like that. 

After he's done, he hands over the sharpie and she slowly retracts her arm to look at the signature, holding up her forearm like it's gold. “Oh my god..." she practically vibrates while Sam and Bucky chuckle at her excitement.

A man clears his throat behind them, and the girl immedietly quiets down. The man is a shade lighter than Sam, and a few inches shorter, bald and sporting a strong mustache with a no bullshit determined look in his eye. The green sheriff uniform crinkles slightly as he extends a hand to greet Bucky and Sam. 

“Fellas. Follow me.” Sam watches Bucky wave to the girl, before they follow in step closely behind the Sheriff as he leads them up glossy marble stairs.

“I'll keep this as brief as possible since we are out of time.” Sheriff Tony scans a keycard that beeps the glass door open, then leads them down a hall with grating yellow fluorescent lighting. 

“Two months ago we get word of a new smuggler. Weapons, drugs, the works. Start seeing more mass shootings across counties around the same time. Best Buy, high schools, Walmart, parks. We've found these weapons have the same markings indicating the same dealer. We put together a task force to track down the group.” The Sheriff takes a left down another hallway, windows decorating the right side displaying the cityscape.

“We arrest two commissioners and a mayor, but we know there's at least one senator of the state in on this too. Right when we are ready to take our evidence and accomplices to trial two weeks ago, they all vanish. Everything.” Sam looks at Bucky raising an eyebrow, hoping maybe this is something he's heard of from an old Hydra experiment. Bucky shakes his head.

“This is our top priority, because 13 days ago on the dot, our mass shootings aren't shootings anymore, they're…events as we've been calling them. Thankfully no one's died yet, and no injuries from more than a bullet wound, but we think we're up to see some, pardon my french, horrific shit if we don't wrap this up quickly.” The sheriff finishes his debrief as he stops in front of the last door of the hallway, looking between the two of them.

“Here is our control center.” He opens the door to a half sized windowless conference room. A center round table occupies half the room, with four people buried in their computers who have yet to register the three of them at the doorway. Sheriff Tony clears his throat, and they all look up. The shortest man stands, looking older than all of them but the best kept, who reaches out to shake Sam's hand.

His voice is soft, barely audible even in the quiet room. “Ramon Ramirez, pleasure to meet you Captain. These are our analysts, Lynn Campbell,” a taller woman, with coily hair in a tweed baby blue blazer waves timidly, “Sydney Gutierrez,” another woman slightly shorter than Lynn with flushed cheeks and white hoodie smiles at both of them, “and Miller Kosjef.” A man in a clean button up similar to Ramon's is wearing thickly rimmed glasses, and who is certainly more buff than a normal office employee waves. “Hey! It's so-”

Even though Ramon is the most quaint and unassuming, Miller shuts up once Ramon interrupts him. “We'll brief you quickly so you can start gathering intel on the field.” Sam feels for Miller, his excitement barely containable as Sam pats him on the shoulder.

Ramon steps towards the wall that's just one large white board, already taped up with pictures and lines of red string. There's a photo, Chrome Crook written hastily on it, of the shoulders and head of an indistinguishable figure in a black hat wearing a grey and white striped shirt. The magnet holding the picture has a red string knotted around it, which leads to a picture of a mixed man with braids and studded sunglasses by the name of Lo Castro, Los Seminarios.

There's a few more men and one woman posted on the board, clearly separated by affiliation to either leader. 

Ramon looks at both Bucky and Sam. “Have you read the debrief?” They both nod. Sam read the digital file front and back the night before and during his flight until his eyes dried up.

“The Broward gang, Los Seminarios, were historically at war with Chrome Crooks men. Bodies have been found on both sides. Yet recent events by them indicate Los Seminarios have been buying weapons from Chrome Crook. Between the sudden temperature change in territory feuds, and prominent mules being photographed with local politicians, there's enough to estimate they're planning on expanding their market throughout the southeast U.S, and spring break is the perfect distraction from mass shipments outside of the region.” Sam summarizes from the documents. 

Ramon nods in approval, then points to Lo Castro. “A local patrol found a few stragglers of his gang camping in an abandoned church just outside of downtown. They had city plans, markings across Las Olas-” Lynn offers her laptop to Ramon, who holds it up to show the Google Maps satellite view of the strip. “Here, here and here.” He points to three pins, one is an Italian Cafe, the other an Indian restaurant and the last one is the pier on the beach. Ramon hands the computer back to Lynn. “None of their technology or written documents indicated what these markings were for, but we think they are targets for the next…event.”

The sheriff interjects behind Sam and Bucky. “We want you to go undercover tonight and tomorrow, see if you can't glimpse something we might have missed. That raid happened two days ago. We don't know if the hit will happen this week or two weeks from now, but we're at a dead end fellas.” Tony then sighs dejectedly.  “I've given our analyst team your cells, and Director Hill's direct line. We've got our best people on this, but we can only hope it's enough.”

Ramon nods solemnly. “Please if you have questions or think of anything, new input is always welcome.” 

Sam approaches the whiteboard. “Is there any way Pym's technology has been replicated?”

Sydney speaks up. “We spoke with Scott this morning, and while their tech is a heavily guarded secret, there's no way to rule out a copycat like Ivan Franko with Iron Man in 2010. Someone genius enough to come up with schematics just from scrubbing through superhero footage is an unfortunate possibility. We just can't know for sure until they want us to.” 

Bucky meanders to one of the open laptops, Miller steps forward to point to folders on the screen. A few files pop up Bucky appears to skim through, then he asks. “And the politicians, they haven't resurfaced?” 

Miller responds, “Two out of five did this week, the Miami Dade Commissioner Jackson Knives and Davie Mayor Jeff Sheppard. Unfortunately, we didn't have anything concrete enough to keep them in holding. They were the only two who weren't photographed with a gang member.” 

Sam turns to Ramon. “What about other gangs or illicit organizations in Florida as a whole? Has there been increased activity?” 

“Not that we've been notified of. Every police department in the state has been alerted, nothing reported outside the usual chaos yet.” 

“No source of the alien weapons yet either right?” 

Lynn shakes her head. “Nothing yet Captain. I've been analyzing meteorological events the past six months to year, with nothing large enough to supply much less one weapon. There have been a handful of sites we inspected for unidentifiable materials, but they're the standard space stuff. The weapons from the 2012 New York invasion have been all accounted for or destroyed, with no related activity for the past two years.” 

Sam stews on the information for a moment. Regardless of the lack of otherworldly activity and weaponry, it's still entirely possible there's some deposit of alien ore somewhere on the east coast. Either from the past two decades or from earlier, some ancient ore was discovered like Hydra and the tessaract in WW2. It makes Sam wonder, are these weapons being manufactured one by one, instead of forgotten from Thanos' army? Maybe all the events are just beta tests for something larger, not just distribution, especially considering the disappearance of the politicians.

When Sam voices his concern, Sheriff Tony shakes his head. “These gangs aren't organized enough to stage a coup if that's what you're worried about Captain. We've been keeping tabs on their activities for a lot longer than we've had this weapon fiasco, and they're too petty to cooperate long enough for something as complex as that.” 

Sydney nods in agreement. “He's right. There's about four other criminal organizations we've been keeping an eye on in Florida, all of which have decorated history. They all hate each other. Even if money binds them to distribute weapons, a coup doesn't serve their purpose. These are profit organizations, looking for fast cash, and power doesn't offer that.”

Sam looks at Bucky, who's eyes communicate to Sam that he disagrees wholeheartedly with Sydney. They both know from Hydras extensive history alone how profitable it can be from just having one weapon destabilize a whole country. He just bites his tounge though, knowing it won't serve a purpose unless they have concrete proof. 

“I think our questions are answered for now.” Sam says. Miller and Ramon move to the edge of the room and carry bags to the table, opening them to retrieve communication equipment. The analysts set up their discrete ear pieces, then breakdown the different weapons that have been encountered, all of which also conveniently disappeared from evidence lockup. Finally, the Sheriff leads Sam and Bucky out through the same way they entered.

“Fellas, I wish you luck. Let me know if you need anything.” Sheriff Tony shakes their hands firmly, a hopeful look in his eyes disappears quickly as he turns around. 

Bucky sighs, then looks at Sam. “Looks like the museums going to have to wait after all.” He barely shows it, Bucky is the most stoic person Sam's ever met, especially around strangers.  Yet, his lips are downturned slightly and he's slouched.

Disappointment.

Sam clasps Bucky's shoulder firmly as they walk back the way they came. “We'll find time Bucky, we're here for two weeks.” He receives a nod and that's the best he can hope for. 

They return to the hotel room to get their gear. Sam situates the nano vibranium bracelet tightly on his wrist, and Bucky does the same with his own. It was a stilted but welcome gift from Shuri they received when the official announcement of the return of the Avengers was released two months ago. Bucky nearly cried, standing stiff while gently cradling the gift with glossy eyes. Sam quietly encouraged him to at least call Ayo, seeing as she actually accepts his calls, albeit with a curt attitude. 

Could Bucky's good mood be attributed to amending his relationship with Shuri? Sam wonders as he finishes checking his comms.

Regardless, he's thankful for them as the nano suits have been incredible help when operating undercover missions like this. But Sam doubts the term undercover, when his partner changes his clothes from cotton candy on acid vibe for a tropical candy corn evening look. 

Even though it's 6:17PM, the sidewalk bustles with mostly suits and pencil skirts, moving in and out of the local bars and restaurants for a post work happy hour. Sam catches outliers that are actually a very common sight, luxury cars crossing through the intersection and rolling into one particular place called YOLO.

“Lively for a Wednesday night right?” Sam wonders aloud. “Do office workers really go out in the middle of the week-” they walk past one particular table closer to the sidewalk, and an older man in a dress shirt and jeans stands and makes a garbled toast on something about meeting an audit deadline. 

Bucky shrugs. “Guess so. You think if we have a satellite office here-” 

Sam knows where Bucky is going with this and he doesn't like it one bit. “No. Buck. No.”

A slow, mischievous grin grows on his face. More subtle than it would be in private quarters, but still it's enough to make Sam's cheeks go hot. It still won't be enough to make him buy into this whole happy hour thing. 

“Sam, hypothetically speaking-”

“A bunch of superheroes getting drunk in the middle of the week is a complete disaster-”

“It'd be a shift thing, designated sober hero, and it'd be by team right. Team Cap gets drunk Tuesday brunch and Wednesday happy hour-”

“You hear yourself right? Promoting alcoholism is not what I signed up for-”

“It's not alcoholism if it's a team bonding event. Look at those employees.” They are already on the other side of the block, but when Sam glances back the same group is slapping each other's shoulders and laughing, pink tinging their cheeks.

“Bucky we have children, much to my protest, on our team.”

Bucky holds his hands up placatingly. “Solution: virgin drinks.” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “When did you get to become a such a little shit. Is this what you were like in the 40s?” 

Bucky nudges Sam as they start seeing the Riverwalk entrance to their right. “I was much worse in the 40s, Steve could-” Bucky clears his throat, but then continues. “Steve could attest to that.” He finishes slowly. 

Sam chuckles soberly. It wasn't a topic they breached on much. Sam knows it hurts, it hurts for him too, a lot still. Their best friend bailed on them, then quietly passes away without leaving space for them to mourn. It sucked, more than Steve probably intended. His self sacrificing morality ended up being selfish towards the end of his life, unintentionally harming those that cared about him the most by thinking they wouldn't miss him that much.

What's worse is that even after they reconciled since the whole shield scandal, Sam hadn't been able to stop thinking about what Bucky said when they were in the interrogation room with Raynor.

“If he was wrong about the shield then he was wrong about me!” 

Sam knows at the end of the day it's not about Steve leaving them, it's about Sam and Bucky's sense of purpose. Steve opened a gaping hole for them to quickly fill on their own with no semblance of guidance or direction. Only Bucky wasn't equipped with the right tools to even know what that meant for him. Sam's only been hoping that he's been able to be a decent enough example for Bucky to take some notes on.

And it seems so, as this is the first time Bucky has actually finished a thought when he's accidentally mentioned Steve.

“Bucky.”

Rows of stores with the same green canopy line their sight on both ends of the street as they walk past the Riverwalk, skyscrapers giving way to quaint shops. Bucky looks away from them and focuses on Sam, his concentrated icy blues forcing Sam to clear his throat.

“Level with me. What did you do in the last few weeks man? I was kind of worried.”

Bucky stares at Sam for a moment, then looks at the endless sidewalk in front of them. He chews his lip, then scrubs his vibranium hand over his face. 

“I found a new therapist.” He mumbles.

Sam stops for a moment to process, Bucky walking ahead a few paces then stopping to raise an eyebrow in question. “Wh-What!? Bucky that's great! Why are you being so-so weird about it then?” He catches up with Bucky, wrapping his arm around Bucky's shoulders. 

“I-I dunno, I guess I just- I'm not used to it being a…positive experience. It's a little…very embarrassing.”

Sam let's him go to keep walking. Baffled, he asks, “Why is it embarrassing?”

He chews his lips, then sighs painfully. “She said it's because I'm so used to negative feedback I subconsciously push away positive progress and relationships.” Duh, Sam thinks. He's been forced front row seat to that show. But in a different context like personal progress, he supposes its makes sense. 

“It's embarrassing to have cordial and nice relationships, not just with other people but with yourself.”

“Yeah, something like that.” 

“Not saying I get it, but it makes sense.” Bucky shoots him a glare that tells Sam he knows Sam's bullshitting. Whatever. This isn't about him. “So it's been working? You and this new therapist?” 

“Yeah. She's friendly, patient, and understanding. Doesn't force words into my mouth nor indulge my deflection. It's actually…sort of working.”

Sam laughs. “Sorry, don't mean to laugh at you. I'm just glad it's something positive. I was worried the whole time-”

“That I'd snap?” Sam shoves his shoulder hard in spite, and Bucky has enough sense to look rueful. 

“That I'd done something wrong, or that your nightmares got worse again.” 

Bucky shakes his head. “Thankfully no. I'm actually doing pretty good. And thank you, by the way.” 

Sam quirks an eyebrow as they come up to the first location, the Italian Cafe. “For what?”

“Respecting my space. It meant a lot, when you listened for what I asked. I…I was nervous that I'd hurt your feelings or something, or that I was wrong to do so.”

Sam's heart squeezes in chest. “Hey Buck, I'm always here for you, but only if you tell me what you need. That's our compromise right?” 

The night at the docks, the first cookout Bucky came to, Sam stood watching the sunset with a beer in his hand. Bucky joined him shortly after, and they occupied each others space in companionable silence. It was nice. Sam felt comfortable, safe and relaxed with Bucky at his side. But suddenly his thoughts got loud and obnoxious that this was a one time thing. Bucky will dissappear just like he did after Stark's funeral. And if he was letting someone be around his family, letting someone in to his personal life, giving up his trust like that, he couldn't do it on uncertain terms again, so soon after Thanos.

So he turned to Bucky, and quietly asked for a compromise. Bucky will always have a place at his side and in Delacroix, as long as he let him know he was alive every once in awhile. Bucky had nodded with a soft smile, and told Sam he'd try to do better than that. 

And he did. 

Bucky put on that same smile from that night as he reaches to hold the door open for Sam.

“Right.” 

A comforting interior and sweet tiramisu and panna cotta is all that Sam and Bucky derived from the quaint Cafe. The barista let them lounge for a while to watch traffic while indulging the deserts, even let them poke around in the back and scrub through security footage without much luck.

Well that, and apparently not just luxury cars hit the streets, but also strange works of art, like an upside down eiffel tower on top of a newspaper mached taxi, or a truck made of advertising screens, which Sam is 90% sure said something about a cock fight. Bucky swears he didn't see what it said, so he decides not to dwell on it. As they've learned things can get weird in Florida. Sam sends pictures of the taxi and the Cafe to Sarah who types back gibberish and exclamation emojis.

Putting his phone away, Sam catches Bucky's eyes lingering on the display case as he holds the door open. Personally, Sam is more reluctant to leave the cool air conditioned interior for a sticky night, but to each their own. 

He makes a mental note to surprise Bucky later with the fruit panna cotta he didn't have the chance to try. 

Thankfully, they don't have to walk another ¾ of a mile to get to the Indian restaurant to find some clues. A few paces down the crowding strip, a frail homeless man occupying the alley space between two shops waves them over in a rush. 

“Cap! Cap!” Sam steels himself with another short speech of why exactly he can't fly homeless people to empty mansions. “How can I help you sir?” 

“You got five dollars?” Sam nods, but Bucky beats him to it with 20 cash. “Do you need food?” Bucky asks.

The man smiles, a few rotted teeth on display. “I know what you're looking for.” He replies in a sing-song tone. 

Sam straightens, meeting Bucky's eyes in high alert. Could that mean they're potentially surrounded or being watched at the moment? The homeless man looks between their tense reaction, then chuckles. “No sillies. It's obvious you're here because of all that magical crap going on. I told the guys you'd show up at some point!” 

“Uh- What do you mean, Mr.-” Sam asks, not finding comfort in the stranger's humor. 

“Williamsburg! After the great great great great great great great Colonel Williamsburg. C’mon son, I'll show ya what yer looking for.” The man turns around and struggles with gathering his supplies into a rusted old cart. Bucky steps forward to help, but Williamsburg just waves him off. Stepping out onto the sidewalk, he nods for Sam and Bucky to follow. Bucky looks at Sam questioningly, and Sam just shrugs.

Williamsburg leads them back to the entrance of the Riverwalk, a long stretch of sidewalk that follows one of the largest city canals. A few minutes after the crowd thins out, Bucky asks, “Where are we going?” 

Williamsburg glances over his shoulder with a grin. “I’m gettin’ you yer guy. Us around here got nowhere to go at night but this park and some other hidden corners of the city. These vagrants think they’re hot shit, tryna take our turf and threaten us.” 

Bucky gives Sam a look before continuing, “Who threatened you, Williamsburg?” 

“Oh a couple of those kiddos, the only gang y’all prolly chasin’ around right now. The ones with the special shooty thangs.” Williamsburg blurts out into a cackle, “I saw ‘em finally get ol’ Moony out from his blanket ‘cause they scared him so bad. Said somethin’ about liquifyin’ his insides. It's prolly what happened to our other guys on Andrews.” He finishes with a somber sigh. 

“Are homeless people going missing?” Sam asks concerned. He chews the inside of his cheek, worried now. They’re the perfect vulnerable test subjects. No one reports them missing, and no one is none the wiser if they show up dead on the street. 

Williamsburg shakes his head. “Yeah-we been tellin’ the police since two weeks ago.” he sighs, kicking a stone out into the canal. “What can ya do. We’re nothin’ to yall folks.” 

Sam makes a mental note to confront the analysts about this critical piece of information. And book an appointment with HUD the next chance he’s in D.C. He’s only Captain America, but it’ll get some heads turning if he bangs on some doors for sure. 

“We’ll talk to the sheriff about getting you guys some protection. Not right, you're left defenseless.” Williamsburg only sniffles in response, but continues on walking. 

“I’ll know it when I see it Cap.” The comment stabs Sam in the chest, but he’s right. “Anyway, we’re here.” Williamsburg lingers by the corner of the building, but nods to the expanse next to the canal. It's a park, with exercise equipment between two buildings. 

“Ready?” Sam asks Bucky, and gets a determined look in response. Sam and Bucky tap their wrist bands at the same time, Sam’s suit unfurling in a shimmery white over his clothes, and Bucky's navy tactical jacket shaping over his button up  very nicely. Sam shakes his head at that thought. 

Then, Bucky stalks forward first, following the wall while pulling out a pistol to Sam’s surprise. 

“What? Where were you hiding that?" Sam whispers lowly behind him. Shuri’s technology was impressive, but not magic. 

Bucky smirks at him over the shoulder. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” And Sam ponders for a moment kicking Bucky’s knees out from behind because that is a perfectly mature reaction to such a bullshit answer. 

Then Bucky stops abruptly,  holding a hand out to Sam's chest. He points with the gun in his other hand. “There.” 

Three men, or maybe…teenagers? They don’t look very tall or bulky, dressed in all black hoodies and sweatpants. Two of them are whisper yelling at each other and the other is intervening with the argument, or at least trying to against the others’ shoves. Sam and Bucky move a little closer, behind the park slide to hear better. 

“...such bullshit! This is what Mami was talking about! We should be home playing games not scaring old homeless people! I quit!” Sam was right about them being kids. The tallest ones voice cracked with puberty as he poked his finger into the other kid's chest. 

“Marcos, you can’t say that! You know we can’t quit, not until we get paid!” The other boy, definitely a few years older but a little shorter than Marcos cries. 

“And when will that be Pipe? Huh? We’ve been waiting all month to get paid y nada!  Estamos ceco!” Marcos shoves Pipe, hard enough he stumbles back. 

“Please, stop!” The third one steps between them. “Pipe, back off. If Marcos wants out, he gets out-”

“Don’t you know what they’ll do-”

“So we pick up the slack! Now Marcos, vas, por favor. Pipe and I have a job to finish.” The third one and Pipe start marching off, leaving Marcos to head off in the opposite direction. Bucky nods in the direction of the other two, so Sam follows Marcos. He gets close behind Marcos, hearing mumbling in spanish, before shoving him against the wall. Not too hard, but enough in case he’s carrying any weapons. 

Marcos groans in pain, “What?! I’m innocent let me go!’ 

“Sure kid. After you-”  Commotion interrupts Sams thought as he looks to his left and catches Bucky break into a run before he disappears around a corner. “Awe hell.” Sam grabs cuffs and forces Marcos onto a bench. “Don’t move.” He warns, not bothering to wait for a response before he sprints after Bucky. He rounds the same corner Bucky did a few moments ago, and follows the trail of turned over trash cans. Two blocks later, theres an open auditorium facing away from the canal and a giant lawn that blends into the plaza behind them. Pipe lays on the ground thrashing in handcuffs and zipties around his ankles, while Bucky approaches the third kid slowly with his hands up. 

“...want to do this kid. Trust me, it won’t end well.” 

The kid is shaking, holding a regular looking glock, but Sam has a very, very unsettling feeling with it pointed at Bucky. He gets as close as possible without being seen, standing behind a tree a few feet from the kid and a little further from Bucky. He curses internally. The one unknown being the weapon, makes it hard to have a confident plan. Although, when has he ever had one? Just when Sam decides to make a run for the kid, Bucky steps forward and the kid shouts, “Stop! Stop! I’ll do it!” 

“Kid it’ll be okay, just put down the gun-”

“Andrew do it! Do it! Don’t listen to him and just do it!” 

Fuck, fuck, fuck! 

If he moves now the kid will shoot, but if he doesn’t- 

Sam doesn’t get the chance to think it through any longer as he hears a strangled cry from the kid. He races out from behind the tree towards the kid without any hesitation, but not soon enough to stop him from pulling the trigger. A blue flash of light releases from the chamber as Sam tackles the kid, the weapon flying somewhere off to the side. He secures the writhing kid on his stomach with another pair of cuffs, then looks up in horror to see half of the auditorium melted into a bluish black gooey mess. 

No, no fucking way.

Bucky can't.. he can't..

“B- Bucky-”

Groaning from his right catches his attention, and he sees Bucky sit up, then stand, brushing off the dirt from his knees. 

He looks fucking ridiculous, in those bright orange shorts and tactical jacket, but Sam just pulls him into a tight hug and sighs with relief. Bucky brings his hand up slowly to pat Sam's back, and that's when he realizes they haven't really hugged in awhile. 

Outside of the awkward hug in D.C. last month, the other time was two months ago, the last time he came to Delacroix. Sam drove him to the airport, left it at don't be a stranger then gave him a brief hug. All that's to say, they don't really do the full emotional hug.

Sam steps back and clears his throat. Bucky tilts his head in confusion, but doesn't ask. He steps away and sniffles, turning on his comms to radio a squad car. Ramon answers, and he gives a stiff report before giving the location of Marcos and the two other boys. 

He glances again at Bucky while talking to Ramon, watching him help the boys sit up and brush dirt off their face. 

While Sam definetly doesnt think the boys, probably between 14 and 16, are in any place to be blamed, Sam is fucking pissed. Watching Bucky try to talk them out of their stubborn muteness while sirens wail closer and closer just proceeds to add to the mounting pressure in Sam's skull that Bucky could've been fucking melted. He's avidly avoiding looking in the direction of the auditorium because if he looks he knows he's going to vomit. 

Scratch that.

He is going to vomit.

Bile bubbles through his throat and he stumbles against the nearest tree. He spits only saliva thankfully, but his head is spinning watching over and over the same scene of the flash of light and Bucky and melting-

“Sam, Sam!” He feels a firm hand on his shoulder and sees Bucky looking at him with concern. 

“Hey, what's wrong?” He shakes his head, honestly he just wants to lay down but saying anything feels like an invitation to dump the contents of his stomach so he just inhales sharply. 

“Okay, we'll head back. Just wait here, Ramon and Miller just arrived.” 

Sam leans against the tree even more without Bucky's warmth, settling on the ground and just watching the world spin. Some paramedic comes by for a few minutes but he's not paying attention, focusing on not hyperventilating and panicking. 

He's a professional goddammit. It frustrates Sam even more how much he's losing it but he just can't seem to control his brain, overwhelming white noise and bright lights making it hard to feel real. It's not even the first time they've had a scare that one of them might’ve died. In Morocco they intercepted a branch of the Flag Smashers and the building Bucky was in exploded. In Bratislava Sam was nearly crushed by a cylinder that came loose when doing search and rescue after an earthquake. In San Francisco, Bucky nearly fell into the Pacific when someone shoved him over the railing trying to get off the faulty bridge. 

And in all those times, even when Sam thought no, no this can't be it, he pulled himself together at the last second to grab Bucky's flammable ass out of the building, dodged the crumbling cement, and used his wings to fly and catch Bucky before his grip on the railing failed.

But all those times were salvageable, predictable, manageable, despite not feeling like it in the moment.

This time, the liquid mass of metal and plastic and color that just continues to drip onto what is left of the stage crumbles Sam's resolve. 

It would've been absolute. Unavoidable.

Death.

Sam gags again, and Bucky rushes to his side despite the paramedics protest. 

“He's fine. Hes fine, I got him. Sam. Sammy. Hey, you with me?” 

He looks up at those icy blues, and the horrifying image of those same eyes dangling out of his head with half his face sunken as fleshy goop flashes before him before Sam sputters bile all over him and Bucky. 

“Jesus Sam, alright c'mon, Miller's gonna give us a ride back to the hotel room.” 

As he struggles to get on his feet, Sam, for the third time that day, promptly passes out. 

Sam wakes up with a start. “Bucky? Buck-” 

“I'm right here.” The lights turn on. It takes a moment for Sam's eyes to adjust but he sees Bucky in boxers and a tank top sitting on his bed. He takes a moment to inventory his own clothes, and sees he's out of his Cap suit and in a t-shirt and PJ pants. It’s a little weird to think Bucky changed his clothes while he was out, but it doesn’t bother him as much as he thought  it would. It’s better than waking up with vomit all over himself anyway. 

“Are you okay?” 

Sam groans in response. His head is splitting into two and his throat is sandpaper. Suddenly, some white pills and water is shoved into his hands before he can ask. He mutters a thank you before swallowing some pills and downing the whole bottle.

He looks at Bucky, who's staring at him. Bionic machine style. 

“What. Lasers aren't going to come out no matter how hard you try.” Readjusting himself against the headboard, he remembers why Bucky’s looking at him funny. Unprofessionalism at its finest.

“Or you'll tell me what happened out there.” 

Sam shifts. Uncomfortable is the nicest way to put how he was feeling. “Dunno what to tell you man. Shit melting in front of me just freaked me out a little. That and the wine didn't sit right.” 

Bucky's eyes narrow. His mouth opens like he's going to say something, but just clamps it shut again. “Be real with me, we were warned about-”

Extending a hand out to stop Bucky from finishing his thoughts, Sam huffs. “The image of you being melted isn't a very fun one. Makes that mug look more ancient than it already is. Like a thousand year old rotting corpse. So. If you could. You know. Drop it?”

What Sam expects is Bucky to maybe give him a look of really man, we've seen worse, which Sam would then argue that Bucky's seen worse, not Sam. Sam's seen bullet wounds, burns, hell he'd even take that one EXO falcon mission that resulted in a man getting crushed under a tank tread. 

He has that argument prepared to justify his ineptitude, which the more he sits on it the more embarrassed he gets. Instead, when he finally glances at Bucky, he sees sadness. Or more like. Empathy. Like when Sam got humiliated trying to ask out the high school quarterback Jason Taylor, but Sarah's furrowed brow told him she'd been in the same boat. 

Except this time Bucky didn't lose with Sam just like Sarah when she got bullied for making a move on the Jeffrey Dinero, the valedictorian.

Somehow, it doesn't make Sam feel any better. 

Just worse. 

He inhales deeply to gather his thoughts and decides to just freshen up before going to the station.

“Sam.” Bucky says his name once as Sam stands from the bed. “Sam. Sammy-” 

“What.” He finally gives in as he holds the bathroom doorknob, not bothering to look at Bucky.

“Look, it's okay to-” 

“Nope. Not hearing it.” The bathroom door slams harder than he intends, but at least it gets his message across. The last thing. The last fucking thing Sam needs is a Bucky approved lecture that skips ten layers of depth and ends with a passive aggressive get over it. 

Yeah he's gotten better since the while Flag Smasher mess, but receiving comfort from Bucky is the last thing he needs right now. Bucky's proved Sam can trust him, but the thought of opening up to Bucky about it makes him nauseas all over again. 

Sam's got a problem he needs to deal with on his own if he wants to get through this mission.

By the time Sam emerges from the bathroom, it seems Bucky's let the whole thing go, thankfully. They get to the station without trouble, and Ramon introduces them to the youngest kid, Andrew, before dismissing himself. Andrew looks unaffected, and continues to play with his jacket cuffs.

"Do you know who we are?" Sam asks politely. 

“Uh sure I guess. Aren't you guys like 50 or something? Spiderman is waaay cooler. And stronger. Definitely stronger.” It's clear their official titles fail to pull any weight on his confession like most adults do, unfortunately. 

Sam walks behind Bucky and jokes, “Not old enough to beat spider kid.” Sam gets a little dopamine rush when he catches the corners of Bucky's mouth fighting to stay down. Back to normal.

“Okay Andrew, we get it. You don't care. The point is what you are doing with insanely dangerous weapons like these. Have you been in contact with Los Seminarios? Why did they tell you to go onto Las Olas?”

Andrew rolls his eyes. “Again, old man is your hearing going bad?” This time Bucky coughs into his knuckle but Sam knows the little shit is laughing. “I told you. I. Don't. Know.”

He sighs, rubbing the back of his head. He really didn't want to have to do this to a child. 

“Look kid. I know you and your momma are struggling-” 

Andrew goes stock still. “How did you know that?”

“It's natural considering your ages. You and your brothers. Looking out for mom. Trying to pitch in. It's a tough world, an expensive world.” The kid scoffs and looks away. 

“But it's not a world worth living in if you are separated from your family. You know more than anything that family is the one thing you can count on. Don't throw that away to protect people that would let you rot in jail, or kill you or your brothers in a heartbeat.” 

Sam thinks he might've gone a little too far because Andrew's sniffles escalate to sobbing into his sleeve.

“Okay, okay.” The kid whimpers, and wipes his eyes with his sleeves. “I-I can't- can’t talk. We're- we're on green card and they'll kill us in Santo Domingo and I don't want that I just-”

“Okay. Okay kid.” 

“I-I-” 

Andrew buries his face in his hands. At the end of the day he is just a kid, barely capable of properly weighing the options of prison or death. A kid, forced to trust a complete stranger. 

Sam shakes his head to himself. Even though Andrew was dealing with adult weapons, he doesn't deserve to be treated like an adult. 

“How about this kid? I'll go make some calls now. Get you as much proof as I can that your family will be safe. Then you tell me everything you know.” Andrew nods behind his hands. 

Sam turns to leave, not realizing Bucky has already left the room to make calls. When he joins him in the hallway, Bucky updates him. “Rhodey has the clearance to approve temporary security, a motorcade is on the way to pick up their mother. Hill is working on extending their visa. That's going to take at least another day to confirm. Extended protection is dicey at best but being people of interest, Sheriff Tony is on board for the next two weeks.” 

Damn. Bucky works fast. Sam has little moments like these, in awe of his partner's swift action.

When it doesn't make Sam feel incompetent.

They head back in the room and relay this to Andrew. He slumps in the chair, then asks quietly, “can you bring my brothers in here, please?” Bucky nods, then leaves to go get them. 

Sam stands, but Andrew reaches and grabs his hand quickly, whispering, “He knows there's a mole. He's mad, and is looking to get paid off at the big show. Get Lit this Friday. My brother's don't know shit, only what I tell them. Keep it that way, please.”

Andrew isn't telling him everything, evident from his desperate eyes to his shakey candor. Before Sam can ask him anything though, Bucky and the brothers return. Andrew stands to greet Pipe and Marcos with an emotional hug. Pipe checks Andrew for injuries, raising each of his arms, turning him around at the shoulders then cradling his cheeks and moving his head side to side, all the while talking lowly in Spanish. It reminds Sam of when he came home in 8th grade to see Sarah getting reprimanded by their dad from breaking some plates. He waited until his dad tired himself out, leaving Sam to comfort a teary eyed guilty Sarah.

“Alright kids, how'd you get caught up in this?” Bucky asks like a bitter old man telling the neighborhood 5th graders to get off his lawn.

Pipe glares at Bucky replies. Harsh, considering he encouraged Andrew to shoot Bucky. “It was my fault. Mami just moved us here last year, away from our padre who'd smuggled a few times for Lo Castro in the DR. She got low on cash fast, and had a hard time finding a job here. Three months ago, Guerro came up to us and said padre owed Lo Castro a few more runs. We were just making supply deliveries, but when the guys at the church got busted this week, Guerro forced the guns into our hands and just told us to hit Las Olas loud and hard tonight.” 

“Who's Guerro?” Sam asks.

“Our Jefe. We don't know what he does, but we only speak to him. No one else.” Marcos chimes in. He looks between Bucky and Sam, a little nervous. “Tha-that's it. I swear.” 

Sam nods to Bucky, and they turn away from the kids to discuss quietly amongst themselves. “Guerro, what are you thinking?” 

“Gangs like this usually have only one or two guys taking point on everything. Management is run very tight, no room for strangers.” Bucky replies with a contemplative hand resting his chin. 

“We find Guerro, we find Lo Castro.” 

They wait with the kids long enough for their mother to arrive. An older stout woman with caramel skin and kinky curls like Marcos and Pipe runs into the police station pen flustered. She catches sight of Marcos, Andrew and Pipe, and practically sprints the short distance to gather all three of them in her arms. Sam's a grown man, who's seen a lot of reunions while working as Captain America. It doesn’t get any less emotional, and he doesn’t think it ever will. 

Their mother, Felicita, Bucky whispers to him, is crying and yelling at them at the same time in rushed Spanish. After squeezing the life out of her kids, she goes to each one of them, checking them for injuries in the exact way Pipe did for Andrew. 

Ramon comes up from behind, and side bars with Sam and Bucky. 

“I explained to her everything the kids were up to. She was...not happy. She understands the need for protection, and is willing to cooperate to the fullest capacity.”

Sam nods, relieved they have one less obstacle for securing the safety of this family. He proceeds to inform the three of them of what Andrew told him in the interrogation room.

Ramon chews his lip, looking off to the side in thought. “Get lit this Friday…Get lit this Friday…”

Sam wonders out loud. “I’m thinking it's a nickname, person-”

“Maybe a place.” Bucky interjects. Sam nods in agreement. 

“He said Lo Castro’s looking to get paid off the big show. Are there any large events or event venues nearby? Maybe the recent activity is a buildup to something.” Sam finishes. 

“There are a lot of event venues in South Florida. Too many to inspect all of them-”

“Just like there are too many homeless people to keep track of?” Bucky interrupts. Sam glares at Bucky, but he can’t say he isn’t wondering the same thing. 

“What he means is we ran into a homeless man on Las Olas by the name of Williamsburg. Said how him and the community have been reporting disappearances and haven’t been getting much of a response.”

Ramon sighs. “It’s not that we’re ignoring them. Most of these people don’t have much of a history to track once they’re gone, no ID to help identify them. The only thing we’ve been able to do is integrate a few undercover detectives, but we can’t notify them without risking exposure. Lynn has taken point on it, I can follow up with her, see what she says.” 

"He said there's a mole, is that what he meant?" Sam asks. 

Ramon bites his lip. "If thats the case we'll have to also retrieve our agents on the field. We can't risk their lives." Sam nods in agreement, hoping they're not too late. 

Bucky clears his throat. “Sorry. For snapping Ramon.”

Ramon shakes his head, a weary smile replacing his usual stoicism. “I understand Sergeant Barnes. It’s late, and you two have done your jobs for now. The team and I will look into those hints. In the meantime, you two should get some rest while you can. Who knows what big show we have in store for us.” 

Even though Sam was knocked out for a good hour, and they only spent three at the station, he feels bone deep exhaustion crash into his body like a silent tsunami. 

“Yeah I could use some sleep.” Bucky yawns sluggishly in agreement. It's then Sam realizes that Bucky hasn’t slept, probably since yesterday knowing how he gets the night before flights. All wound up, unable to rest no matter how late the flight is. It's kind of funny how lazy he can be with things like paperwork, meetings and decorating his apartment, but flying is the one thing he can’t relax on. 

And the asshole never lets Sam know when he's exhausted. Thankfully, Sam can read him like a book now. Most of the time. 

“C’mon Buck.” Sam opens his arm to Bucky, who rests his head on Sam's shoulder. He leads them to their rental, and drives them back to the hotel without much protest this time from his partner.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Sam and Bucky quietly decide to take it easy. Sam chooses a light blue t-shirt, and navy shorts with his matching prized Air Maxes that only come out when he's feeling funky, and Bucky decides to continue his outrageous fashion cocktail by wearing a bright pink palm tree patterned Hawaiian shirt, and forest green shorts. At least he wears sneakers this time, despite being a horrendous beat up teal. Sam makes a mental note to give Bucky a quality pair of shoes for Christmas.

Since Friday is a full day away, and the analysts need time to research, they quickly decide to indulge in Bucky's Bucket list at the continental breakfast.

“Ha, Bucky’s Bucket List. Say that 10 times.” 

A piece of clementine skin is flicked at Sam in response.

First, they visit the NOVA art gallery across the street. Kandy Lopez isn’t showing, but other famous artists were on exhibit. Louis M. Glackens, Frank Bowling, Helen Frankenthaler, Sam Gilliam and many others. From bright kaleidoscope colors clashing with one another, to pencil drawn fantastical landscapes. Each artist has a completely different style, but after seeing two or three from each person, their showcase gets boring for Sam fast. So, eventually his attention moves onto Bucky. Watching him spend a few minutes at each artwork, carefully reading each description, then standing back and scrutinously observing the canvas.

Sam finds his slightly pinched face, and curious head tilts far more entertaining. 

He even asked a few times what Bucky thought of some. Bucky would then look at Sam like he’s grown a third eye, but proceed to explain his thought process on the color theory, paint strokes, blah blah. Most of it goes over Sam's head, but he catches enough to ask probing questions that makes Bucky talk more, so he must be doing something right. 

When Bucky gets tired of the museum, which takes a full two and a half hours, they decide to check out the Pompano Beach Pier. Driving isn’t as an eventful affair as it was the first day they arrived thankfully. Granted, it's likely due to the fact that Bucky makes the executive decision to stick to local roads. 

Once they arrive, Bucky leads them down a sidewalk toward the beach as if he's wandered the same strip a hundred times. Sam thinks they’re going to the beach first, but instead Bucky makes a sharp turn up a steep winding staircase that leads them to an outdoor bar and deck that outlooks the pier and beach. The sign on the door to the inside restaurant reads Oceanic, and from the sleek marble bar and spacious patio alone, Sam makes a mental note to bring Sarah here.

Because honestly, it’s beautiful. The sky is completely clear of clouds, and the temperature is a mild 78 degrees with a breeze. The bar sits right in the middle of an expansive patio with a few people occupying the space, but not enough to feel crowded. He can see the beach extend for miles and miles in both directions, and the Atlantic Ocean stretches on forever. It doesn't help that the beach and pier are practically empty being a Thursday morning, the smell of the ocean and sand inviting him to come in and forget the world.

Resting against the railing, he understands the snowbird mentality. 

Bucky greets him, holding out a mimosa to Sam. He looks at it incredulously, but Bucky just grins like the unrelenting shit that he is. Guess he really didn’t believe him about getting sick from the wine yesterday. 

“Orange juice this time?”

“Yup. Gotta go classic for this view.” They idly drink while observing the view before them. 

“Have we been fishing yet?” Bucky asks after a few minutes of silence. He's been squinting for at least five minutes now holding his vibranium hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun. Sam thinks this is retribution enough for the mimosa's and finally hands over the sunglasses from yesterday.

Bucky glares at him as Sam responds. “You never asked. You think you can handle it? Hunting fish isn’t as easy as hunting bears or whatever you did in Siberia.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but laughs as he puts them on. “I tell you that story in confidence and look at you. Abusing your power. I’ll leak it to the press. Captain America extorts the world's oldest POW.”

It’s Sam’s favorite story of the Winter Soldier, if there could be such a thing. When something that horrific happens to someone, it’s worth it to try to find some humor in it. Thankfully, Bucky appreciates that more than trepid tip-toeing around the subject, and Sam personally knows tasteful dark humor can be better than therapy sometimes. 

During one of their frisbee practices with the shield three months ago, Bucky just randomly interjected Sam’s recount of the pricey vacuum models at Walmart to say “You know I can take a bear?”. Then proceeded to tell Sam it was one of the few missions as the Winter Soldier he remembers clearly. 

He was sent to collect experimental strength enhancing drugs the KGB were developing in a remote lab in the middle of the Siberian forest. Hydra dropped him off ten miles from the lab to prevent from being seen, since it was an under the table deal that the Russian government didn’t approve of. On his way back to the extraction point, he stumbled into the path of an extremely pissed and starving brown bear. Not knowing the universal hiking jingle ‘if it’s brown, lay down’, he kept moving, triggering the bear to attack him. The animal rammed into Bucky, pinning him to the dirty snow. Just when it was about to bite his head off, he raised his metal arm, causing some of its teeth to fly off. From there, he practically boxed the bear into defeat, delivering as many left hooks as he could while being torn apart by its claws. Eventually, despite bleeding heavily from, well, everywhere, he dealt a particularly hard blow to the bear's stomach. The bear howled, and limped away a few feet before collapsing. Bucky finished that story saying he hoped he didn’t kill it, all the while Sam was crying on the grass from laughing so hard.

Since then, he hasn’t been able to let go of the image of Bucky squaring up against a fucking bear. It’s priceless, in his opinion. 

“When you do, they’ll ask you how I’m extorting you, then you’ll be forced to explain the time you bullied nature because you said if Nazi's can't kill me then your deadliest land mammal can't, and then the world will side with me because who wouldn’t after hearing that story.”

Bucky scowls, peeking his eyes over his sunglasses. “I can never win with you.”

Sam grins at Bucky before sipping his mimosa. “No, you really can’t.”

Their next stop is the pier just below, where the fishing supply shop is probably what inspired Bucky's question. Sam makes an impulsive decision to rent one fishing pole, and some bait. They find a spot under the canopy in the middle of the pier, as Sam talks Bucky through the process.

“I saw one of those videos where someone threw the line and the hook got stuck in their neck.” 

Sam leans against the railing, watching Bucky fiddle with positioning the handle comfortably. 

“As long as you don't try to spin in it or fling it far back you'll be fine.” Bucky is still scowling at the hook, probably worrying about sticking it in some poor civilian's neck. After a few minutes, Sam gives up on being patient and moves behind Bucky to help with the position of his elbows. Lightly holding Bucky's wrists, he gently guides the handle back, then forward, adding a little force past the 90 degree mark. He steps back, nodding in approval at the yardage the line got.

“Nice Buck. See? Not so hard.” He smiles as he turns to Bucky. His partner is sweating more now, and a little red. 

“Did you forget to wear sunscreen again? You're sweating like crazy man.” 

“No I didn't. Just warming up.” 

Sam shrugs, watching the line for any pull. “You're scaring all the fish away from raising the salt level of this spot here Buck.”

“Sam, don't make me put you on this hook next.”

They end up spending three hours on the pier fishing instead of one like Sam intended. Bucky succeeds in catching everything but fish. From a deflated tube, a soaked Architectural Digest which earns a look of disgust from Bucky- “Have you seen their projected trends for 2025 Sam? It's horrendous, lime green everywhere-”, four water bottles of varying emptiness and liquid, five pieces of seaweed and one very stringy, bright red woman's bathing suit.

“You know it'd actually be an improvement from what you have on now-” Bucky swipes at him with his vibranium arm which Sam successfully ducks under. 

After they return the equipment, Sam whines to Bucky. “Man I'm starving. What's for lunch?” 

“How do you feel about Hot Dogs?” 

The place is a quaint takeout restaurant, about a 10 minute drive from the pier in a small plaza. Bright red comic sans font spells ‘Chi-Town Chicago Beef Italian Hot Dogs’ on a giant yellow sign, with the menu posted on the sides of the window. They park on the opposite end of the plaza because the weather is nice enough for a quick stroll, according to Bucky.

At the counter, Sam starts to read through the menu, but Bucky waves him off to go find a place to sit. The closest tables to the restaurant are taken, so Sam backtracks a little towards their car to find a wayward empty bench by a Tax office conveniently placed underneath the plaza awning.

Sam zones out a little watching the street and plaza. It's not that busy, but the line for the hot dogs thins as people come and go, and the plaza empties out. By the time Bucky sits next to Sam holding out a hotdog sitting on a paper tray, its fairly quiet.

"Uh. What is this?"

A large, and very full hotdog is placed in his hand. At least 12 inches, and absolutely overflowing this tiny tray.

“Bucky, are there chips and eggs on my hotdog?” Small crushed up pieces of what looks like lays chips cover the hot dog, topped with zig zagged pink, green and red sauce and four halved baby boiled eggs.

Bucky looks at Sam, with no hint of amusement or sarcasm. 

“Yes.” 

Bucky's hotdog looks the same as his own, except there's one egg in the middle and pieces of pork lining his hotdog instead. He can't even ask to trade because somehow the idea of more pork on this monstrosity sounds worse.

He moves the plate around in his hands trying to figure out how to take the first bite. An elbow nudge makes him look up and witness Bucky unhinge his jaw as much as possible, get a good quarter of it inside his mouth before chomping back down.

Sam just watches him chew happily, scoffing, “I'd be impressed if I wasn't so disgusted.” Bucky then proceeds to lose any shred of respect Sam had for him, by grinning and pushing chewed up bits of hotdog through his teeth.

“Ew! You are nasty!” Sam shoves him as he's wheezing from laughter. Bucky finally swallows and cackles. After they calm down and Sam gives him another shove for being gross, he says “Sam just try it! It's good I promise.”

Sam sighs, eyeing the monstrosity in his hands. Whatever. If he hates it, either Bucky will eat it- well, Bucky will eat it. 

He copies Bucky, trying to open his mouth as much as possible, except he only gets maybe one sixteenth of the hotdog in his mouth because he's not trying to choke to death. He gets a little bit of egg so he thinks it's a successful bite. 

And a delicious one too. He lets out an enthusiastic “Mmmm!” as the thing is surprisingly and ridiculously good. When he's done chewing, Bucky is looks at him like he's on the edge of his seat, dying to know what Sam thinks.

“It's good! The egg is seasoned well, for once, and the sauces are sweet. Bucky, this is really amazing!” He takes another bite, daring to go a little bigger this time. Bucky smiles and does the same, lessening on the dramatics this time. 

Bucky hands him a water bottle mid chew, and Sam takes a big gulp after his second bite. 

“Probably one of the best damn hotdogs I've had. Good job.'' The pride in Bucky's eyes tells Sam if he had a tail it'd be wagging. 

“Here, try mine.” Bucky and Sam trade, and take a bite at the same time. The pork adds more flavor and spice which has Sam obsessed. It's like he's transported into his own version of a crunchy, saucy and juicy flavortown.

So much so, that he doesn't even register right away when a row of ten SWAT officers jump from the roof onto the street right in front of them, and to run towards Chi-Town hotdogs. Three of the SWAT team yell at the civilians on the tables to put their hands up- overzealous in Sam's opinion as it's literally a family of four and a couple- and the other six storm the restaurant.

Sam remembers common courtesy is to swallow before speaking, so he does before looking at Bucky. “What the fuck!?”

Bucky turns to Sam, cheeks full from his food. He just shrugs one shoulder in response. A loud clattering from inside the restaurant captures their attention again. SWAT escorts four employees out into the parking lot. Four police cars pull in from the street and a blacked out van rounds the plaza to park in front. They arrest three employees and have a very passionate questioning with the last person on the bright yellow roundtable.

One detective, a brown haired Hispanic looking woman slams her palm onto the table making the employee raise his arms in fear.

“Oo-” Sam holds his hand to his mouth as another detective, around the same age as the other woman but a white man with curly hair, starts yelling at the employee too. The family and couple next to them start to panic, but thankfully an older although ridiculously swoll detective seems to dismiss them as they scurry away from the scene.

“We should…probably stop eating this right.” He takes another bite anyway because he's really, really hungry.

Bucky looks at the hotdog Sam's eating, and his own like he's weighing the option to eat or not to eat. “They have- had - over a thousand reviews and not one of them mentioned food poisoning.” Sam nudges Bucky to look as five more police officers exit the restaurant holding bags of cash and what looked like packaged cocaine with both hands.

“Guess we’ll be the last ones to test that.” This time, Bucky cheers his hotdog against Sam's and they take another bite as they watch the police retrieve and organize more contraband. 

They officially declare the show is over once they notice the press start to drive into the plaza. Being present during a drug bust isn't the kind of national attention the new Avengers initiative needs.

Bucky wipes his fingers with some spare napkins before entering the car with Sam. “Was dining at a criminal front on your bucket list?” 

“Where better than Florida Samuel? You can't tell me you didn't enjoy that.” 

“I did. Might have even crossed off trying cocaine on my own list because those hotdogs were suspiciously good. Those combinations shouldn't have worked, but they did.”

Bucky cackles again. “Microdosing the masses. Some real Florida shit.” 

Sam laughs. “Now you're getting it. Where to next?” 

“How about some desert?” No, Sam is not going to acknowledge how the little glint in his partner's eye gets him giddy like a high schooler.

“I could use some sugar. Let's do it.” 

About 25 minutes south, Bucky directs as he drives along the coast, there's a hidden gelato shop that's a block away from the beach. He parallel parks in one of the two spaces allotted, and gestures excitedly for Sam to hurry. 

“Alright alright. Can't be better than those criminally delicious hot dogs.” 

Buckys face sours, but Sam knows he's dying on the inside as he locks the car. “Oh please, that couldn't have been more perfect. You're just mad you didn't come up with it.” 

“And you said I disgust you.” Bucky doesn't hold the door open this time. Petty. 

“Hey! Cmon now! You do!” 

Getting some gelato was a little more eventful than Sam anticipated, although maybe he really should be stricter with Bucky on where they go. The server, a teenager with sharp black hair drops her scooper and silently freaks out seeing the both of them. It takes her manager who's barely older than she is- Bucky leans over to Sam's ear and asks “didn't labor laws get stricter?” - to calm her down but even then their picture still got taken. Sam doesn't usually mind, but he doesn't know what kids post online, and Hill has warned them on multiple occasions to watch their public appearances.

After trading two signed napkins for a mint chocolate chip fudge and vanilla fudge hazelnut Gelato, Bucky grabs what looks like an obnoxiously striped green and blue bag from the trunk of the car and leads them down the boulevard.

“You got the world's loudest tote bag but chose the world's most boring flavors. It's not opposites day.”

Bucky tilts his head to peek over his sunglasses, not this shit again. “Wilson, the day you stop judging me is the day you will assimilate into Floridian culture.”

Sam shakes his head, humming contently as the mint and fudge dance nicely in his mouth. “What if I don't want to ‘assimilate’.” He mocks. “‘Assimilate’ is definitely a white man's word. Still got some colonizer left in you even after Wakanda.”

Bucky scoffs lightheartedly. “You don't have to be a colonizer to enjoy the tropical, colorful chaos.” 

Sam rolls his eyes but just sticks another spoonful of Gelato in his mouth. “Don't make me get into the discriminatory practices of vacationing inside and outside the US-”

Bucky groans like a toddler before looking at him. “Sam, c'mon, what's the real reason you don't wanna just- chill.” His look tells Sam he should be serious. 

“I don't know. The mission.” He replies blandly. They're coming onto the beach, and Sam hopes Bucky gets distracted by something. Anything.

“Yeah. Like a mission hasn't stopped you from asking the King of Wakanda if he was bitten by a cat to get cat powers, or summarize and quote Martin Luther King's Letter from Birmingham Jail while fighting off four armed cultists in Alabama, just to prove a point about the emotional balance between activism and extremism.” 

Feeling like a deer caught in headlights, Sam can only clear his throat, and finish the rest of his Gelato. Bucky finishes his while eyeing Sam, before they take off their shoes and socks to trek through the sand. 

“I made some very good points there-”

“You did, I'm very proud of you-” that comment makes Sams heart sing a little. He shakes his head to refocus, then takes a deep breath in, then out to calm himself down. Bucky takes that moment to open the bag into a large beach mat for them to sit on.

“So wait, it functions as a mat and a tote?”

Bucky's scoff tells him to sit. “Stop being a doddypoll Sam. What's on your mind.”

“Okay, you cannot call me a…a pole-” 

“Doddy-”

“No. I work too damn hard on these thighs to be called a Pole."

Sam notices Bucky's breath hitch as he sits down. Weird. It's probably nothing, just some sand or something getting caught in Bucky's throat. His own reflection in Bucky's shades shakes his mind back on track.

"Fine.” He rests his elbows on his knees watching the sun slowly set on the water. It's quiet, there's literally no one around for at least half a mile. A nice, periwinkle and pink dusk reminds him of cotton candy, so much more vibrant than anywhere else he's been in the states.

“It is the mission by the way. I'm trying to relax, I really am, but- The thought of whatever that gun shot out freaked me out a little. I'm-not nervous I'm a fucking professional-just unsettled. That, and I know I embarrassed us last night by throwing up everywhere. I just hope it doesnt end up on Twitter and give FOX news another reason to bash us.” 

“Sam-” 

“Look I get it. Let's be real for a second, since you asked for it last night and you asking for it now. I know I fucked up last night. We check our emotions at the door. It wasn't right of me shutting you down last night if you have some pointers of what I can do better. We're a team, and you had to pull my weight last night and I appreciate it.” He tries not to let his insecurities choke him. But it's hard. When did it get this hard?

“Sam-”

“And I'm also sorry about pushing you about your time off. I just- Maybe I really am a shitty partner-”

“Goddammit Samuel if you don't quit yapping right now.” Sam shuts up, because Bucky sounds genuinely frustrated and that's rare considering this was also a man who lets kindergarteners use him as a jungle gym at the cookouts.

He leans forward into Sam's eyeline. “I wasn't going to make a dig at you last night. I was going to tell you I felt the same. I was terrified you got hit with some of it. I can heal from even a giant hole in my side, but you can't. We don't even know if vibranium can take a hit, but at least my arm is replaceable, your body isn't.” He takes off the sunglasses and scrubs a hand over his face. 

“You're not incompetent, and I'm not upset at you for anything last night or for asking me what I did last month. I'm just- I'm trying here. I fucked up big time nine months ago Sam, and you've practically adopted me into your family so quickly, trusting me again so soon after I hurt you. I don't want to mess that up. So I'm trying to work on myself.”

Well now he feels shitty. “I'm sorry Bucky I didn't mean-” 

“I know you're going to say I've been getting better at communicating. But I'm not all the way where I need to be yet. It's not an excuse,” Sam has a feeling where this is going so he gives him a look that says stop it.

“Okay fine, maybe it is. But I'm not used to expressing with this,” he waves to his face, then taps his temple, “Or this. I didn't, even before Hydra. People always had certain expectations of what I'd say or do or thought. And I always went along with it because I thought I was supposed to fit a certain narrative. I've learned that isn't right. But I'm still struggling to differentiate between what I feel and am supposed to feel. So I need you to understand I won't always come off the right way. Or best way. So I need you to let me try and figure it out.” He takes a deep breathe, and looks back out to the ocean. “Last night, I understand, you're embarrassed even though there's nothing to be ashamed of. But let me tell you how I feel. I'm not going-” he pauses, “ I'm going to try not to lecture you, or if I do, lecture you in a constructive way. And if i fuckup, tell me! I want to learn, do better. I don't want to be the person I was a few months ago. So give me room to grow.”

He shifts a little, looking at Sam through his unreasonably long eyelashes and doe eyes. “Give me space to just tell you what it is. How I feel. Please.”

Damn. 

It doesn't help the sunset and breeze kind of makes his partner look like a rugged angel saying all this.

Sam catches his breath. “You're right. I'm sorry, for jumping to conclusions like that.”

Bucky nudges Sam's shoulder. “I'm sorry for acting in a way to set that precedent.”

And while yes they're having a moment, A beautiful moment of understanding, one that wouldn't have come so easily just three months ago had they not put in the work, Sam needs to joke otherwise his brain will itch from all the serious talk.

“Your therapist made you memorize that?”

Bucky smirks, looking back out onto the ocean. The darkening sky is starting to give way to the stars and it's entrancing. “She had a hard time getting me to focus, but she gave me some pointers.” 

Sam scoffs, and looks up at the stars too. His brain stops itching, and it's nice and quiet outside of Bucky's steady presence and the ocean tide. The knots in his shoulders aren't even weighing him down, for the first time in a while. But he tries not to think about anything. Just absorbing the sounds around him, and imagining himself floating among the stars. 

Maybe a pair of icy blue eyes would accompany him.

Then Sam's phone rings. 

“Ramon, what's up man?” He puts the head analyst on speaker for Bucky.

“Captain, we have a location for you to scope tonight and tomorrow. LIT Lounge in Wilton Manors. We don't know what to expect, so we'll be nearby just in case. Let us know your ETA.”

Bucky nods. “Copy that. We're about 35 minutes from Wilton Manors. Thanks Ramon.”

He hangs up, and Sam quirks an eyebrow at Bucky. “Okay level with me, you were stationed here at some point right?”

Bucky shakes his head as they stand and pack up the beach mat. “Nah.” 

“Sure. You just conveniently know where Wilton Manors is from our current location, whatever that is.”

“I think some people would say it's a tactical advantage?”

“Like stalking Google Maps for days is a tactical advantage when you couldn't even order normal flavors to blend in-”

“I knew you were still mad about the gelato Sam! Who even likes mint chocolate chip-”

The bar is on a long stretch of road and continuous plazas, tucked away in a corner they almost missed. They pull in to the parking lot between two buildings, with a path separating the long hedge leading to the one next door. The bar next to them is an open garage layout, with mostly men and a few women chatting over high top tables and playing pinhole or tabletop soccor. A giant pride flag hangs by the entrance.

Bucky leads them inside to the bar, nodding at the bartender before leaning one elbow against the wood and grins at Sam like a 90s sitcom heartthrob.

Sam rolls his eyes. “Another one of your tactics to get me to relax?”

“If you thought you'd be sober in Florida, you thought wrong.”

“Which is appreciated Bucky, and I will drink my life away when we are on a real vacation. Or when we're doing Bucky's Bucket list. I'll have a non alcoholic one to blend in. Non alcoholic.” Bucky sulks as he orders, and Sam has a look around. 

Mostly older gay couples or double dates. It's nice. Been awhile since he's been around the gay community, and having it be open to the parking lot makes it feel freeing. Not like a stuffy secret to be ashamed about.

When he looks back at his partner, Bucky’s holding what looks like a gin and tonic with some mint. He hands Sam the non-alcoholic beer with judgment on his face but concedes. They people watch in the corner for a few minutes, but when nothing interesting catches their eye Bucky asks. “So what do you think?”

Huh? What do I think?

“I think it's nice. Haven't been out to a gay bar in, well, forever.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “I was asking about the mission.” 

Oh. 

“Not that you're wrong. I've never been to one myself.” 

“Well that makes sense. Steve always said you were-”

“Doll dizzy. He wasn't wrong, but I enjoyed the fellas just as much. Wasn't a very welcomed lifestyle, so it stayed a secret. I'm sure he caught onto me, but never brought it up. I think he was waiting for me when I felt comfortable, which never happened because, well.”

Sam is somehow surprised, and not finding out Bucky is bisexual. A part of him is honestly relieved. While he never really thought Bucky would be homophobic, it's a nice comfirmation he's comfortable in this setting. He nods in understanding. “It's hard to confide even in the people closest to you when everyone talks about it like a sin, or doesn't speak of it at all like a stain. I didn't tell Sarah either, she caught me under the bleachers ogling the star football player. Instead of calling me gross, she joined me.”

Bucky smiles, and in a rare display of physical affection, he clasps Sam's shoulder. 

“It's nice to not feel suffocated by it.”

Sam chuckles, but it's hard to keep his breath from catching at Bucky's earnesty. “Cheers to that.” They clink their glasses together and take a sip, refocusing on the crowd.

“I'm glad your first gay bar isn't a mess. Trust me, been there, done with that. They make do with what they can, that doesn't mean it's always good.”

“Last time you went, on a date?” Bucky's is still sweeping the room, but his eyebrow is furrowing a little like it does when he finds someone annoying or when the sidewalk is overcrowded.

Weird. 

“Yeah, once actually while we were chasing your ass all over Europe.” The man he was with, whose name is lost to the distant past, was fine. Curly black locks, Phillipino, lean and tall with cute slanted eyes that somehow became intimidatingly sexy when he checked Sam out. But in the middle of the date, he put a stop to it. Said something about not wanting to be a rebound or whatever. That he could tell Sam was thinking about someone else. His date wasn't wrong, but he couldn't explain he was on a mission tracking the world's deadliest assassin, so he let that fling go. 

“Didn't go anywhere. The bar was a nice Greek one, more cramped than this one though.”

Bucky's jaw works like he wants to say something. He then points to a door to the side of the bar when a couple comes out. “Looks like there's more inside.” Sam just shrugs and follows. 

It's crowded and racuous, but for good reason. A drag queen, strawberry blonde wearing a sparkly ruby dress, is in the front of the room sitting behind a picnic table with a microphone, bingo lottery machine and bingo board. Everyone in the room has a bingo card and pen, stickers or a blotter. Bucky and Sam lean against the only open corner of the bar with their drinks and watch.

“G6, G6 bitches. I'd say it again but Far East Movement said it so many times I woke up with a new set of keys in my hand.” Sam chuckles a little at that. Bucky looks at him confused. The crowds laughter is too loud, so he opts to lean into Buckys ear. “Early 2000s pop hit. A G6 is a car.” 

Before he can explain further, the queen announces the next ball. “F1, F1 bitches. If men treated their women like they treat their car, we'd all have a brand new rack of tits.” This one Bucky spits a little of his drink out with a laugh. Sam smiles nudging him. 

The wave of laughter is interrupted by a younger blonde man standing and waving his card. “Bingo!”

“Bingo Bitch, honey, and we just started. Bartender, I think he's seeing double. Bring that card over before they kick your drunk ass out.” As the patrons chatter and laugh, she pulls out some reading glasses as the young man holds up his card. “Don't let this 50 pound layer of makeup fool you, I'm old enough to fuck your father.” The crowd roars again as she reads the card. “Holy shit maybe I'm more wasted than I thought. Looks like we're up for round two bitches!” The drag queen stands with the applause, and gets a black plastic bag from under the table.

“Alright baby, here's your prize.” The young man opens it to be a 13 inch rainbow dildo and some pink fuzzy cuffs. His face turns bright red, and the drag queen fusses his hair. “Awe, twinks first kit. Trust me sweetheart, you'll finally get some action if you pull those puppies out.”

Sam is cackling at the kids embarrassment and the sheer size of the dildo. He looks over at Bucky and the color of his cheeks are matching the kids. Sam laughs even harder, wheezing as he rests his hand on Buckys shoulder. He knows from this reaction alone Bucky has steered clear of that section of the internet, intentionally or not.

His second hand embarrasment is kind of cute.

Bucky just chugs the rest if his drink and pouts at Sam. He finally calms down and just wraps his arm around Bucky's shoulders to hopefully placate some embarrassment.

The drag queen moves onto the second round of bingo, and after a few more seedy jokes from her, they decide to head back out to the garage section of the bar, and scope from outside.

Bucky ends up dragging Sam to play pinhole by the opening of the garage, helping them blend in while keeping watch. 

“That your first time seeing a toy?” Sam asks coyly as he tosses a beanbag. It almost lands inside the smallest center hole. He sighs and steps aside to let Bucky have his turn.

Immedietly Buckys cheeks turn pink as he furrows his brows in concentration to aim. “No-I saw some in the back of Spencer's at the mall-”

“You know that store is for like early twenties? Literal children compared to you?” 

Bucky's side eye makes Sam snort. “Well I was hanging out with Leah and she said there are some fun mugs I could try to buy to decorate my apartment. Since it's ‘giving American Psycho’, whatever that means.” 

Sam sees the beanbag perfectly slide into the center hole, but doesn't hear it. Bucky’s mentioned Leah once or twice, but hearing that apparently he listens to her advice over Sam's on decorating, and that she's seen his apartment, because only someone whose seen the sole recliner chair and TV, empty kitchen would say it's reminiscent of Patrick Bateman's living room. Sam feels a stab in his chest that dully pulses every time he breathes. 

But why? Why does knowing this knock the wind out of his lungs and make his eyes sting?

Because he didn't tell me they were a thing.

Something about that didn't feel right with that line of reasoning, but he can't really think right now over the static in his brain anyway.

He clears his throat when Bucky gives him a slightly concerned look at his silence. Sam steps into position to toss his beanbag, grateful for an excuse to look away from his partner. “So did you get something?” He misses even worse this time, and Bucky grins as he steps into position to toss his.

“Almost. Then I went to far into the back. When an attendant asked me if I needed help I practically ran out. So embarrassing.”  He makes it in a second time, and beams at Sam.

While his full teeth smile is adorable, proud of himself for landing a 5 foot distance when he's historically shot a sniper rifle at over 500 meters away, it feels like his heart is stuck in his throat and an elephant is sitting on his chest. He forces a response out, albeit weak. “Ha, yeah.”

He finds a little amusement in how quickly Bucky straightens, tilting his head a little as if inspecting Sam. “Are you okay?” 

Not really because you said you weren't dating anyone but you definetly have feelings for someone. 

“Ye-” he intends to say yes, he most definitely is fine and not hurt at all by the likely fact Bucky has a thing with slash for Leah, but he stops as he sees movement in the foliage behind the dumpster on the other end of the parking lot. He shifts his gaze back to meet Buckys.

“There's movement behind the dumpster.” Unfortunately, it's a wall of bushes and trees so he can't see what they look like. 

“They're moving.” Sam watches out of the corner of his eye while facing Bucky. “Looks like they're headed behind the building. They've past the corner. Go around?” 

Bucky nods, and takes off to round the front of the building. Sam jogs straight across the parking lot to the back of the building. It's extremely dark, with no light and almost no sound from the lot or bar reaching the alley. Despite this, he knows it's Bucky crouching over something against the wall. He approaches, and bends his knees to join Bucky.

“Can you see in the dark?”

He can't see Buckys face, but he knows the look he's getting. 

“I'm not Predator, Sam. I'm not that ugly.”

Sam shrugs. “Some might-” he earns a shove that nearly tips him over. 

“Alright then what are you doing? You haven't turned on your flashlight.” 

“I was waiting for you.” 

Waiting? For him? It's a nice thought. Bucky didn't want to open evidence without him. But it's not productive, unlike Bucky. A robot to the core. “Okay. What's the real reason you haven't opened this yet?” 

“My phone died.” This excuse is just as unbelievable as his last one.

Sam rolls his eyes, not that Bucky can see it. “Fine. Don't tell me.” He fishes out his phone, but before he can turn it on, Bucky asks.

“Why are you being weird?”

Sam's taken aback by the question. “I ask you why you're crouching over a duffle bag in the dark and you ask me why I'm being weird?”

He adds, softer now. “Seriously, did I say something wrong? Is Spencer's like anti NAACP or something because I swear I didn't buy anything-”

Sam really can't help but laugh a little at Bucky's sincerity. “No. No. I'm fine Bucky I swear.”

“Okay.” He sounds unsure. “We just talked about this at the beach you're not-”

“No I'm not assuming nothing-” Sam cuts himself off because as he's talking he's realizing that yes, he is assuming just like he said he wouldn't at the beach. 

Damn Bucky's emotional growth.

“It's nothing, really. I just. Why didn't you tell me about you and Leah? I mean. I'm happy for you, but I would've liked to know.” Even he can tell his voice is straining. It's enough to make his stomach shrivel. 

Sam just can't seem to stop tripping over himself since he got to Florida.

“Oh? I thought I told you?”

“No, you didn't. I would've liked to know you found someone. What's she like?” He knows he's digging his own grave somehow but the headstone is unmarked so who's to say it's for himself?

Bucky hums. “She's helped me settle in a little more to New York. Since she runs Izzys practically by herself there's not much time to see her, but we make it work. It's nice.” 

“Oh so it's not like official yet?”

The outline of Buckys head tilts in confusion. “What's not official?” He asks slowly.

“You aren't in a relationship yet? Just dating?” Sam clears his throat. Damn, having Bucky explain anything is like pulling teeth. He wonders if Leah feels the same way, or maybe she just doesn't ask questions.

“Relationship?!” Bucky stands quickly, practically shouting. “Wha-”

A light luminating from behind Bucky makes Sam have to shield his eyes from the sudden brightness. 

“Sirs, this is public indecency, please take this home.” A bored sounding older cop says by the alleyway entrance.

Bucky turns quickly, but the cop moves to cover his eyes. “Sir if you could please make sure your pants are buttoned or zipped properly? You're in public.”

It takes a second to click on what exactly the cop is insinuating, and horror dawns on Sam's face. He stands immediately too.

“Look, we're not-”

“No he wasn't-”

“I was just-”

The cop dryly chuckles. “I'm not going to arrest you, just go home.” 

Bucky groans in frustration. He glares harshly at Sam, before making his way over to the cop to explain the situation. Sam can only swallow back the hurt Bucky's look caused.

The cop calls for backup, and collects the bag to inspect it with Sam and Bucky looking over his shoulder. They look like ordinary guns, but paint chipping and a few welded seams tells Sam these were modded. He explains his theory to the cop, so when Miller shows up, he takes the bag with him.

“Miller wait. I'll go with you for protection.” Bucky steps forward, breezing by Miller as he says “Oh, thanks Sergant…” Miller looks between Bucky and him, like something doesn't make sense. 

And he'd be right. It doesn't make sense Buckys sudden brusque attitude, unless he's that put off with what the cop assumed earlier. Which, would make sense considering he's… something with Leah. Whatever. It's all so confusing and Bucky deciding to be a stiff asshole doesn't help, if his partner wants some space to cool off he's going to get it.

The anger behind partners eyes makes it a little hard to breathe, especially those same eyes were just as wide and bright not too long ago.

Sam sighs and retrieves his keys to drive back to the sheriff's building in suffocating, lonely silence.

Chapter Text

A mood swing Sam thought would settle once they arrived at the sheriff's office to examine the bag, proved to be a tsunami of attitude. As him and Bucky examine each weapon, thankfully without incident, Sam tries to catch Bucky's eyes anytime he interjects the analysis with his opinion. And yet, not once does Bucky look up. When Bucky speaks up with his own knowledge, he brings up one of Sam's points but talks around him. Not to him.

He quickly shuts up after that, fuming at the ineptitude of his partner to lash out in front of other people. It's embarrassing, for the both of them.

The final conclusion is that the guns are modded, likely to incite events on the mass public. Ramon makes the decision to securely store them in the basement, requiring D4 security clearance and above. Just as Sam is zipping up the bag, Sydney exclaims, “Wait! Cap wait!”

She leans forward, feeling the bag between her perfectly french manicured fingers. “There's another layer to the material! We need to open this up.”

Bucky reaches into his shoe to retrieve a knife before carefully cutting through the material around the fabric stitches. When he opens the flap, paper is stuck to the inside.

“BT. Palm to Dolphin. 14:30. Give our investors a show.” 

“BT?” Miller wonders out loud.

“Bus track?” Lynn answers doubtfully.

“Bus, Bank, Bin, Bullet, Bunny-” Sam lists, more to himself but loud enough for everyone to hear. It works, because Ramon yells, “Bullet? Bullet train! We only have one and that's Brightline. They must be talking about the Brightline.”

“So Palm to Dolphin, those are stops?” Bucky asks.

Ramon holds his fingers to his chin. “Palm. Could be West Palm Beach to Dolphin Mall, so to Miami. But would they drop off supplies over an hour away from the entry point just to go south again?”

“Didn't you say there was a Pompano Beach? Isn't that where we were just at? It might be a moniker. Pom, Palm. And 14:30 is the time.” Sam interjects.

Ramon nods. “I think you're right. Just in case, I'll notify undercover agents to enter from the West Palm Beach station. You two will board on the Pompano Beach stop tomorrow at 1:30, riding back and forth until you see something.”

With that, they're dismissed. Bucky takes off without a word, so Sam apologizes to the team on his partners behalf and drives back to the hotel on his own. Somehow, time moves faster when he's pissed at his partner, who has a stick so far up his ass he refuses to look in Sam's direction. When Sam reaches the hotel room, Bucky's stone coldness confronts him like a wall, deterring any hope Sam had at having a conversation. This time, Sam leaves first, as its either eating dinner alone, or blowing up on his partner in spite.

It's suffocating. Sam hates it.

As he angrily bites into his deli Publix sandwich outside of the grocery store, he reasons he hasn't done anything wrong. All he was doing was asking about Leah. But maybe he poked around too much? Maybe Bucky is just really sensitive about his love life? Yet that didn't make any sense, because they've joked about it time and time again. He literally made a joke the day before and that didn't seem to bother Bucky at all.

Well, in the car on their way to Jet Runway, Bucky shutdown the question of whether he'd met anyone during his month break. But that didn't incite any incident like this one he was in.

He'd call Sarah and ask her, but something tells him he's not gonna like what he has to say. So, he tries giving Rhodey a call.

“Sam, what's happening?” Some keyboard clacking in the background distracts Sam for a moment, imagining Rhodey stuck in the office they just leased a month ago. While most of Pyms' money is funding software, equipment and their skeleton crew, they finally secured a decently affordable office. It's just one synonymous flat, all natural light, thankfully. But cramped. They only managed to fit five desks, none of which are for Bucky or Sam.

It's a start.

“Nothing much Rhodes. Waiting for tomorrow's mission. How's it going on your end?”

The keyboard stops. “Sam, is-is this a social call?” 

Sam sputters as he picks at his sandwich. “Pfft. Yeah.” 

Rhodeys deep sigh makes him change his mind. “No?”

“Man you haven't called to check up in forever. Too busy running around with your boy toy-” 

Sam groans, squeezing the bridge of his nose.“Rhodey c'moff it man how many times I gotta tell you-” 

“Well I wouldn't call him that if you didn't stop hanging out with me man. All business all the time.” Rhodey scoffs, and Sam feels bad.

“Alright. You're right Rhodey, I'm sorry okay?” And, because he's a clown by nature. “Are you jealous? You're not the mistress, okay if anything its him.”

Rhodey chuckles, and it's nice to hear it again. “Flattery gets you nowhere Sam. So. What's on your mind?”

“Why can't this just be a social call man?” 

“Because when is it with Samuel Wilson?” Rhodey is right. He really needs to keep up with his friends.

“Alright alright.” He bites his lip because he knows Rhodeys going to give him so much shit. “Bucky's-”

“Ugghhh, relationship problems. Tell your boyfriend-”

“He's not my-”

“That if he doesn't learn how emotions work, your partnership thing isn't going to work out.” 

"Rhodey I'm not gonna drop him as a partner.” 

“I didn't say you were going to drop him. All I said is that your little dance routine doesn't work if both your steps are different. He needs to learn how to communicate.”

Sam clears his throat. “He-he did. Try at least. We were at the beach when he told me that he's been trying, but he needs me to give him room for growth. Then he later he gets mad at me for whatever reason when I'm asking about the girl he's dating.”

“What?” Rhodey chuckles. “So for once the ice prince wasn't wrong. Sam what exactly did you do before and after this conversation?” 

Sam leans back in his chair and mutters help me because if he knew he'd get lectured he'd just have called Sarah. 

Nevertheless he explains to Rhodey the rollercoaster they've been through the past 24 hours.

“Sam. I didn't think you'd be so jumpy. Is it really the case that has you on edge?” 

He failed to mention the month prior of worrying and stressing his ass off about Bucky, and that maybe there's some residual feelings of neglect. But that's besides the point. 

“I understand what I did wrong with the hotel. But honestly not sure about the bar.” 

Rhodey hums. “Have you considered that they might not be dating? Or that Bucky really hasn't been sleeping around, not that it's your business anyway.” Rhodey mutters the last part, and Sam ignores it. Because it is his business. Bucky dating someone would be huge. A step Steve never took seriously in settling into the modern age. 

But the thought of Bucky bringing this mystery Leah to their cookouts in Delacroix, to play on the boat with the boys, and crash in their living dries his throat something nasty.

Sam coughs to try and bring some moisture back.  “Every time he's talked about her, his eyes get all weird and mushy. Plus, he's taken-”

“Interior design tips from her yes.” Rhdoey sighs. “Look, just ask him. You both literally just had a conversation earlier about communicating and now neither of you are adhering to it. Just be the grown up, and ask him if you fucked up.” 

Sam leans his head against his hand. “Yeah. Alright. Thanks Rhodes.”

“No problem Sam. Let me know when you're in DC next.”

Sam chuckles, but it's still a arid so his voice cracks. “I owe you a beer. See you Rhodes.”

The call hangs up with Sam looking at the empty screen. He sighs, not having much of an appetite after that conversation. 

Just talk it out. Like we already have been. 

Back at the hotel, despite it being only 8:45PM, Bucky is a lump under his blanket, facing away from the door. A part of him sags in relief, but another knows this is just gonna drag onto the mission tomorrow.

He sighs, tossing his keys onto his nightstand. Another problem for tomorrow's Sam.

Tomorrow's Sam doesn't get the time to say anything to Bucky. He makes himself scarce before Sam can even wake up.

“Great.” He runs a hand over his ragged face. He wasn't able to get much sleep last night thinking about what to say to Bucky, and now his partner is committed to the disappearing act.

“So much for room for growth.” He mutters to himself as he brushes his teeth. Checking the time to be 11:30, he has about an hour and half to eat, somehow feel like a human again, and find his partner before they need to leave for the station.

He messages Bucky once while scavenging for scraps at the continental, but it's left on read and he frustatedly chokes down the rest of his clementine. Going back upstairs, he finishes getting ready as slowly as possible, mentally preparing himself to pull out Captain Sam, which he's never done to Bucky before.

He's had to do it to Torres, and the rest of the Avengers sometimes. Which now that he thinks about it, shouldn't be that big of a deal. But pitching his voice deeper and more sternly, while reprimanding Bucky feels just as right as putting on two left shoes.

He's his partner. Bucky shouldn't be acting like that Danny Phantom his nephew's are always watching when stuff gets a little hard between them. Especially if he was real about their progress they've made. Shit. Now it feels like Bucky's just gone and kicked dirt in his face.

And the man wonders why Sam has trust issues.

A text comes through from Bucky, “Meeting you at the station.” And he throws his phone on the bed in frustration.

Sam doesn't talk to Bucky either at the station. He finds him loitering by the entrance, somehow a little worse for wear, which Sam knows he should ask why for the sake of the mission, but he opts not too because he's still fuming 45 minutes later.

He storms right past Bucky, who he feels is hot on his heels. Bucky is wearing his undercover black leather jacket that's also bulletproof, but this time there's no fun ensemble underneath. His usual black jeans and boots compliment the outfit which just prove to make Sam even more peeved.

They check in and board the train without a word, right on the dot at 1:30PM. Ramon calls Sam briefly to say the two agents from West Palm Beach are on board three cars down from them, and that no activity has been reported. After the phone call, they just sit across from each other in the modern blue and white interior, opting to avoid all eye contact through scanning the aisles or looking out the large glass windows besides them.

It takes 20 minutes for Sam to get sick of this. Sick of Buckys quiet huffs, occassional texts- which who the fuck is he texting, Leah?- sideways glances, and the sound of the seat fabric ripping to compel him to say something.

“Man can you stop moving for five minutes?” 

Bucky glowers at him, then proceeds to sulk into his chair. “I thought my fidgeting didn't bother you.” 

Sam scoffs, before resting his chin in his hand to look out the window. “It does when you're being an ass.” 

“Oh I'm being an ass?” 

Unbelievable. He moves to cross his arms. “Disappearing this morning, oh and let me not forget ignoring me last night isn't ass behavior? The 40s really didn't teach you common courtesy huh.” 

“That's a low fucking blow pal. I learned better communication skills than you at least.” Bucky looks away like he's mentally retreading and Sam is not having him quit on this fucking conversation, no sir.

“What kind of skills sanction someone to abandon their partner? Or act completely unprofessional in front of colleagues? Don't think I didn't catch that bullshit you pulled of talking around me-”

“Oh please, no one else noticed. I made sure you got it and no one else because you completely missed the point of our conversation on the beach-”

“If it's about the beach I should be even more pissed at you because you went against your word-”

“I went against mine?” Bucky chuckles a dry, cold laugh. “That's rich coming from you who did it first.” His words are so venomous he'd think they'd been transported back to the hangar nine months ago.

Sam taps the table separating them in frustration. “I don't even know what you mean! What the hell did I do to warrant you acting like it’s the fucking shield part 2?!”

Bucky balks, and while Sam feels a little guilty, he's not fucking wrong. Before he can hear a definitely just as biting reply, a young man around his thirties probably, in sunglasses and leather interrupts.

“Hey y'all.'' His voice is low, but something about it feels...too intentional. Sam immediately checks him as discreetly as possible, but doesn't notice odd pieces poking out of his pockets. “Can ya keep it down here? My crew and I are trying to catch some Z's.”

Bucky groans, then leans back in his chair while Sam nods and waves haphazardly.  Were we really getting loud? Shit. Sam wonders as watches the man walk back down the aisle. There's four other men sitting across the aisle from each other, who all glance up the moment the man sits down. The man looks over his shoulder at Sam, then says something that makes all the other men sit back and out of view.

“There's six of them.”

“What?”

He looks back at Bucky, who's staring very intently at the refreshments section of the train just a seat behind Sam.

“There's six of them. I was scoping out the station earlier because Ramon called you and I picked up so I went to the station first.”

Sam feels his own jaw go slack in shock. Bucky's gaze doesn't move, but he shrugs one shoulder.

“Okay. Okay. I'm.” He rests both his elbows on the table and massages his temples because he is so fucking confused right now.

“The sixth one hasn't come back. I saw him get on the train, but he's not with them. The other team hasn't seen him either. Ramon said to just watch.” 

“Is that who you were texting?” Bucky balks again, and fixes himself to sit upright. 

“Who else would I be texting on a mission Sam. We are on a m.i.s.s-” Bucky must see the antagonistic look in his eye because he interrupts himself with a finger shaking at Sam. “Don't. Don't fucking say it.”

“I'm gonna say it.”

“Sam I swear to Christ you haven't learned a damn thing-”

“Oh I haven't learned a thing? Me?” He stands, planning on taking this stupid fucking argument as far as it needs to go, but the alarmed look in Bucky's eyes tells him to duck.

Folding over the center table, a metal claw whirs over his head, and with a crunch gets stuck in the window pane. The man tries to get it out, but Bucky's fist connects with his face before he can remove it completely. The man slacks against the back of Sam's chair with his hand still attached to the claw. “No, you haven't!”

Bucky's legs leap over him as Sam fumes. Bucky wanting to continue their fight in the middle of another fight is so unbelievably annoyingly characteristic it drives Sam up the wall. He curses to himself as he activates his bracelet and slips out his shield calling to Bucky ahead of him, whose just reaching the group of men towards the end of the car.

“And maybe if you just told me-” Sam runs the few short paces to even out the fight two to five, which isn't really hard considering the surprising tactical advantage the seats give them. “We wouldn't be here right now!” He finishes as he struggles to heave one guy off Bucky's back.

“So. Now. It's. My. Fault?” Bucky pointedly says each word as he his fist connects with the man he's holding hostage by his shirt.

“Yeah! If communicating wasn't like pulling your teeth-” Sam says as he punches over Bucky's dipped shoulder, disorienting the one in the middle of the aisle. “They wouldn't have noticed us!” Another to Sam's right reaches for Sam's cowl, but he just leans backwards which sandwiches the guy hard enough between the seating to make him groan. The aisle guy tries to climb onto Sam, but Bucky hauls him back by his jacket.

“I just think-” Bucky slams the man into the plastic side of the chairs. “If you stopped assuming shit like I asked-” Sam vaults over the chairs to get to one of the three men who look like they're about to flank Bucky. “Then we could stop playing this stupid fucking game!” He delivers a final kick to the man curled up in the aisle, then bows just as one guy to his left swings hard enough to roll over his back.

"Game!?" Sam cries incredulously. There's no room to use the shield, so Sam drops it in front of him. He dances between the two guys now on his side, dodging their fists.

“My total assumptions-” Duck left, duck right. “have been you're whatever with Leah-” He gets a good punch in to the guy on the right, but the one on the left returns it with force. He pushes past the ringing in his head and returns it as hard as he can, which successfully knocks the guy back enough to trip over the man out cold in the aisle. “And that you abandoned me this morning!” He focuses on the man to his right, who looks panicked at the sight of his unconscious crew. Sam mentally clocks the rookie move, but finishes it by stomping on the rim of shield for it to bounce up and ram into the man's chin. “Now, does that really fucking warrant ignoring me?!” He yells as the guy crumples in front of him, and holsters the shield on his back. 

Bucky is dishing punch after punch between the two men in front of him while he replies, “Yes. Because. You. Were. Wrong. Both. Times. And. Hurt. My. Feelings!”

It honestly looks so fucking ridiculous as Bucky deals one last punch to the gut that sends them both to the floor, Sam just laughs at the sight as he catches his breath and thinks. Bucky's feelings were hurt because, he was wrong? Wrong about him and Leah dating? Wrong about Sam abandoning him this morning? What the fuck did that even mean?

He thinks back to their conversation on the beach. 

Was it-oh.

Sam's a big. Big fucking moron.

He's been assuming shit, yet again. Sam didnt remove his personal bias from the whole story, and had set his angle from the beginning of his questioning of Bucky. Whether or not Bucky's with Leah, Sam skipped the part about asking him, straight up. Because replaying their conversation last night makes him realize Bucky never actually said. And, he understands how now that he knows Bucky was scoping the joint, probably to let him sleep in because he's like that, how much it'd hurt to assume the worst. 

Like he's being stuffed in a box of his worst character traits.

All the anger deflates from him as he sets the shield on the seat next to him. “Bucky, I'm sorry.” Bucky's heaving shoulders turn to reveal his face, scrunched up with his mouth downturned sadly, not angrily. 

Dammit. He really fucked up.

He steps forward, kind of wanting a hug now because he's exhausted, his nose is bleeding and Bucky looks like an extremely morose puppy. But before he can even open his arms Bucky screams, “Look out!”

Hes suddenly squished between a train seat and leather as a loud metallic tearing and an ear piercingly high pitched laughing sound, something like an animal girl from one of those shows Cass watches, hurdles violently over Sam then fades distantly. The weight and leather shifts to reveal Bucky looking down at Sam owlishly, his hair whipping in all sorts of direction from-

“Is there a giant hole in the fucking train!?”

Sam yells as sound returns to his ears. Between the wind and shuddering train car, Bucky just nods, clearly even more confused than Sam as he looks up at the shooter. The man is gripping onto the chairs across from them, clearly trying not to get sucked out of a 80 MPH train as he struggles to reload it.

Bucky looks down at Sam, then mouths “Wait here.” Before he can protest, Bucky quickly buckles him into the chair and tightens it, before shakily marching towards the man. The train screeches, clearly hitting the brakes which sends Bucky and the man, along with the other unconscious men, flying backwards.

One of them almost shoots out of the giant hole next to Sam, but he reaches out and grabs his flannel at the last second. As he's struggling to maneuver the unconscious criminal into the chair next to him, he glances at Bucky fighting against the gravity of the train braking to cross two rows of benches.

The man situates himself against the chairs, and points the gun at Bucky while he's in the aisle. Sam yells, “Watch out!” As Bucky ducks and the man shoots.

Hill said they'd see some weird shit on this mission. What she did not say, is that they'd see a giant Hello fucking Kitty, balloon? Stuffed animal? Organism? Fly from the barrel of a regular gun, release a shrieking Japanese greeting, and take giant piece of the train's ceiling with it as it floats into the sky.

Sam's mind is- he thanks his well trained autopilot for reaching behind his back to unholster the shield, and throwing it as hard as he could over the seat at the shooter. It knocks against the back of the man's head, who slumps onto the floor, and a metal arm shoots up to catch the ricochet.

Sam sags in relief as the train finally starts to slow down, and he just closes his eyes until the last lurch forward tells him they've made a full stop. 

His ears are still ringing from the wind and haunting screeches of the-bullet? Projectile? When he picks up on Bucky's footsteps asymmetrically make their way down the aisle, as if he's leaning against every bench on his way to Sam's corner. 

A deep grunt released in front of him finally prompts him to open his eyes. Sitting across from him in the only seat that wasn't demolished, is Bucky. Disheveled, but thankfully in one piece, and his handsome face and eyes are bare with shock.

Sam really, really wants to walk back the handsome thought, but honestly, between Bucky's flushed cheeks, wide eyes and leather, he really, really can't.

He's just glad his partner wasn't crushed by a seven foot tall Hello Kitty...thing. Christ, the thought of what he'd have to say at the funeral, that after everything Bucky has survived, fighting Nazis, bears and aliens, he dies from an anime doll.

Bucky sets the shield next to him, and releases the ammo from the gun before stuffing both into his suit jacket. “Everytime I think I can say, I've seen it all…”

“Two types of bears you've fought and won.” Bucky chuckles at his joke, but then it dies so he just stares at Sam. The speed his partner's face can go from expressive to blank has always been a little unsettling, but this time he can't tell why. Sam's about to ask if somethings wrong, when Bucky sputters, then barks into a laugh.

Sam chuckles at that. It's a light, boyish and melodic laugh he doesn't hear very often. The lines on his face smooth over, making him look 30 again. But then Bucky crumples over himself, clutching his stomach laughing even harder.

Which Sam definetly hasn't heard before. It's a hiccuping, louder escalation to his regular laugh, and the tears and giant smile on Bucky's face has Sam cracking up just as hard.

After who knows how long, Ramon finds them like this, with Bucky halfway off his seat practically crying into his elbow and Sam hollering while slapping his knees. 

“Are-are you guys okay?” the rest of the analysts linger behind Ramon worriedly. Bucky is, surprisingly, the first to finally calm down, his face red like a tomato and puffy as he replies. “Yeah, yeah man. We’re, ha, we’re good. We’re fine. Ha ha, alright. C'mon Sam, ha.” 

He clutches his belly as he stands and leans over to Sam's chair, unbuckling him. He moves his hand to hold the backing of Sam's chair as he opens his other hand for Sam to take. 

And Sam is still laughing, finally coming down from the high now of the very real shit they just survived. But he can't help the residual chuckles escaping his throat as Bucky leans in close enough for Sam to breathe in sweat and sandalwood, see his left dimple and the very light brush of pink across his cheeks, as he's bridged in against the seat. And Sam just.

Stops.

Bucky's icy blue eyes cloud, searching Sam's. His grin weakens little by little with each passing second Sam hesitates. It feels like.

It feels like there's something-

The words come out faster than he can stop them. 

“Yeah. Fine.” 

He grabs Bucky's hand, who steps out of his space to help him stand. 

Suddenly, his legs almost give out as the blood rushes to his brain and he sees stars fill every corner of his vision. A steady arm wraps around his waist as another guides his arm to rest across a broad set of shoulders.

“Hey, hey! We need some apple juice!” He hears Bucky call next to him, catching sight of deep worry lines that make him think, I'd like to live in there, before promptly passing out.

Based on the only slightly stale taste in his mouth, he hasn't been out for long. The second thing he feels is Bucky's leather jacket underneath his temple. He tries to lift his head, but Bucky's hand gently guides him back down.

A baritome whisper relaxes him. “Just rest Sam.” 

So he lets himself work through the slow process of waking up. He smacks his lips a few more times. From the way his spine and left buttcheek are protesting, he knows they're still on the train, probably in the same chairs as before. Tuning into the sound of crunching glass or metal from numerous sets of boots, there's a lot of people in the train car. Ramon and the other analysts voices carry from all different directions, although not enough to make out what they're saying. Bucky's steady breathing, ridiculosly good smell and warmth is tempting him back to sleep.

This peace, or relative peace if he factors in the commotion of cops and investigators, doesn't last as long as he hopes.

“I know you're awake.” Bucky says lightly. The humor in his tone tells Sam Bucky might’ve let him stay like that for a while longer if they didn't have a job to do. 

Groaning while stretching his arms above his head, he yawns dramatically. Bucky glares at him, but it's with the same ease he carried at the beginning of their trip. Before they started fighting.

Speaking of which.

“Buck I- I need to apologize.” His nod encourages Sam to continue. “I understand how I took your agency away from you to explain your thoughts and feelings. It didn't help that I took things personally, and insulted your character and I'm sorry.” 

He finishes with a sigh, scrubbing his face with his glove. 

“I appreciate it Sam. And I'm sorry too. I thought Ramon would've sent a message, that and I was too upset thinking you wouldn't care, but I just ended up repeating Utah. Working on me doesn't mean-” 

“Hey. It's okay. Honestly we're probably going to keep fucking up. I let my trust issues affect us and our progress. That shouldn't stop me from talking to you.” 

Bucky looks at him, like really looks at him. Almost as if he's waiting for any shred of evidence Sam is lying, and if Sam didn't know any better he'd think there's a sheen over them. And, now that he thinks about it, they're awfully close too. Sam is getting the same pink brain fuzz he felt when Bucky was crowding his space before he passed out, and it's kind of making him panic how he if he just tilted his head-

“Are you-”

“Bucky I-”

“Fellas, good work. How are you both feeling?” 

Sam leans back into his own seat faster than he slid onto home base in the little leagues as Sheriff Tony approached their corner of the train from behind. 

Bucky clears his throat. “Yeah. All good.” 

Sam stifles the urge to do the same. He notices Tony slightly narrow his eyes, but he powers on. “We've rested. Where do you need us Sheriff?” 

“Good news is the guys you caught croaked pretty quickly.” Tony sighs, then settles in the seat across from them. “But, looks like there's more excitement tonight. The one that almost flew out of the train that you heroically caught Sam-”

“Oh it was just-” 

Sheriff Tony's sharp gaze shut him up quick. “Don't be modest son. They're criminals sure, but still human. If you hadn't caught that man, he would've been spray paint on at least five different palm trees. These trains go unforgivingly fast. It's grace enough most of this area is wood.”

Bucky sets a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder. 

“It's past 14:30, but nothings happened. The crew says they were supposed to arrive in Miami at the time and await a pickup at the Bayview Marketplace, but they didn't know where. A message was supposed to come through with more directions for them, but since they didn't check in it's unlikely the gang will keep with the same program.”

Tony leans back in the chair. “You gentleman, will be staying in the hotel across the street from the marketplace, and scoping the area for the next few days. Now, is there anything you can tell me about this encounter that stands out to you?” He waves over the analysts who all gather by the aisle next to them. 

Sam tries not to feel stuffy as he reflects on their encounter. “Bucky debriefed you all?” 

Bucky nods. “I took them through how I tailed the sixth man to the station. He was on the phone, but I couldn't get close enough to overhear the conversation. He wasn't holding or carrying anything either. He boarded on a separate car, but I lost sight of him after that. I also explained the confrontation and any weapon fabrication details I could remember.”

“Give me a moment to think.” Sam walks himself through the encounter again. One of the men asked for some rest, all four of them looked to him when he sat down for some confirmation or something. 

“The man we talked to, is he confirmed the leader of their group?” 

Miller steps forward. “Well he didn't outwardly confirm it, but that is a suspicion.” After Sam explains his reasoning, he adds, “And ask about Guerro. See if you can record this interrogation. I doubt they'll admit to their association, but his reaction will tell us what we need.” Miller nods, then writes it on a notepad.

Then Bucky was staring at the refreshments section, probably the reflection of the cabinets gave him a clear view of the car. “Bucky, shouldn't you have seen the man behind me cross from the other car into ours?” 

Bucky nods. “ I should've picked up on it. I never broke focus-” Sam wants to ask despite their argument but he knows they could have a full on screaming match and Bucky still would've clocked the guy. 

“Did you test discharge their weapons? All of them? Maybe the sixth one has what's resulted in weapons and people missing.”

Ramon interjects. “Unfortunately we have to wait until we finish testing at the undisclosed site. But we have results from the three teenagers. Varying sizes of pistols with no correlation to their destructive power. Not only did one guns discharge melt even vibranium,”

An “Oh shit”, slips from Sam's mouth. 

“But the other two weapons the boys had discharged very large bubbles that held up to 100 pounds, made of a viscose material that only popped with a 3mm needle, and long strips of confetti material that stuck to anything much like seran wrap. The other ones from the duffle bag were all modded, but discharged pellets.”

“Pellets?” Bucky asks. “Are you keeping them for observation?” 

“Yes, but no developments so far.”

Sam sighs. “Lang might know a detection method for micro sized weapons. I'm thinking they might try to hide it, especially if it's scarce among Los Seminarios. If the church group and the boys didn't have it, they're not giving it to just anyone.” 

He closes his eyes again. He trusts Bucky to have registered enough about the weapons, even more than himself. Instead, he focuses on the men they fought, replaying the fight over and over. 

Hey y'all.

The smirk the man who talked to them was barely noticeable but it was there. Paired with his tone, Sam was right.

It was too intentional. 

“They knew. That claw the man had-” 

“Slips on and off like a glove but sturdy, no way it would've passed security-” Bucky briefly interjects.

Sam nods at that. “They have the shrinking tech on them, and they knew we were coming..."

Sheriff Tony sits up rigidly, lowering his voice. “Son. Are you suggesting we might have a mole?”

Sam swallows before matching the Sheriff's volume. “The men we fought were severely underequipped with the knowledge on how to handle their weapons much less fight close quarters.. The one that discharged his weapon missed both times by at least two feet, meaning he wasnt trained on the dimensions of the projectile. Another looked away from our fight in shock when I knocked out another one of his colleagues. They were counting on the sixth man to have succeeded, which only would've worked if they knew who they were dealing with.” Sam shakes his head. “You need to lock this operation down tighter than you can imagine, and then some. This has to be as off the books as we can manage. They knew we were coming last night for the duffle bag, stuffed it with probably faulty parts, and are definetly tipped off about the boys. Bucky and I will relocate ourselves once we get to Miami, and accommodations can be handled on our side.”

Tense silence overtakes their group, before Sheriff Tony laments. “Very well. Our conversations on this mission will be limited to those at this table. I will release a press statement alleviating all outside assistance and management.”

With a pat on the table, Sheriff Tony excuses himself and the analysts, before doubling back. “We've sent Lynn to pickup your stuff from the hotel room on Las Olas. She will be debriefed after she drops off your luggage. Once you're ready, Ramon will escort you off the train and drive you the rest of the trip.”

Bucky looks at Sam once the group leaves. His eyebags are darker and his frown lines are on full display. 

“What?”

“Bayview Marketplace is on my bucket list.” His frown gets deeper and he crosses his arms.

Sam shifts himself to face Bucky properly. “Okay?”

“Do you-” He starts off weakly then clears his throat. “Do you think they'll destroy the ferris wheel? I wanted to go on it.”

It's...it's a challenge to keep a straight face at Bucky's pouting. His doe eyes meet Sam's and he most definitely sees through him.

“Sam. This is a serious question.” 

He can either dignify Buckys adorable anxiety, or he can not. Those big blue eyes aren't helping him decide, and the longer he stares the more he loses track of his thoughts. 

“I-mm.” He stands, looking between Bucky and the exit. “I'm just gonna-yeah.” 

“Sam, Sam wait I'm serious, I need to know what I should prioritize-”

Chapter Text

They had to relocate three times before finding the perfect, or as perfect as it could get, hotel room. The first, they were forced to assume was compromised. The second, Bucky had taken initiative to call the hotel next door and book over the phone on the drive over, but when they arrived the room was facing west, not east as he'd requested. Arguing for a room change accomplished nothing, because no matter how many languages Bucky asked for an east facing room, the manager just kept saying, “West Room? You want a west room?”. The third place was an Airbnb Ramon found that had the market in two out of three window views, but the owner who met them to hand off the keys turned them away the moment she realized who they were. She glared especially hard at Bucky, sizing him up before spitting in the grass and slamming the door in their face. Buck slid his hand over his face and walked away before Sam could say anything. 

Finally, after conferring with Lynn who'd gracefully been waiting with their luggage in the first hotels parking garage, they managed to locate a safehouse that'd been decommissioned by the Miami Dade police department 5 years ago, that hasn't been bought since. 

It's a open floor plan two bedroom apartment, marble tile everywhere complimented with dark oak. The only furniture is a dining table, four chairs, two living room chairs in the far corner, a bathroom down the hall and one guest and a master bedroom. A few windows give a perfect view of the park that leads to the Bayside Marketplace and ferris wheel, which Ramon had quietly corrected is actually an Observation wheel, before bidding them goodnight. Sam catches Bucky's grumble under his breath, “same thing”, as he takes his stuff into the master bedroom and nearly chokes trying to pretend like he didn't hear. 

It's just. 

Sulky, childish Bucky is probably his favorite Bucky. Like Las Olas, watching his partner get excited about something is rare. It’s entertaining. And it shows Sam Bucky finding more reasons to enjoy his life instead of regress. As he heads back into the kitchen for some water, he sees Bucky linger by the window as the lights of the wheel turn on and flash vibrant neon colors. A small hum escapes Bucky, before he takes his luggage into the guest bedroom.

He's just so cute.

Sam sighs longingly, then slaps himself.

Jesus Christ Sam what the fuck.

Because he's had thoughts about Bucky, sure . Things he does that might be cute, or kind of attractive. But those are objective thoughts. Like when Rhodey stopped a flipping car from hitting Sam in the War Machine suit when they were stopping a diamond robbery five months ago, it was kind of hot. Or when Scott Lang forgot the camera was on during one of their virtual calls, revealing a sturdy build and six pack, it definitely caught Sam's eye. 

In all those times, it's the action his friends do, not his friends themselves. Copy paste those same situations onto any other guy with handsome features and it's the same feeling every time. 

But somehow, Sam is starting to get the feeling it's happening too damn often with Bucky. In the elevator in Las Olas, by the park on Riverwalk, the Oceanic bar and beach, at LIT, twice on the train. 

No. No, no no.

Sam thinks about his reaction to Bucky dating Leah. He thinks about the little voices in his head being disappointed in missing Bucky’s presence for a month, albeit for a very valid reason that Bucky still contacted Sam throughout, and yet he still found ways to miss his partner even more. He thinks about the voice in his head for being salty at the lack of reservation at the cafe. He gets a shot of dopamine every time Bucky opened doors for him, drove him around and took care of him in the hotel room. He thinks about noticing the way the duffle bag straps shaped his body when he walked out of the armory, and he thinks about how distraught he was at the risk of Bucky’s death.

Maybe. Maybe it's not just what he's doing , but who he is, that's affecting Sam. 

“Oh shit.” He whispers to the same window. 

A small fiery explosion bursts through the roof of the marketplace.

“OH SHIT! Bucky!"  

They're out the door together not a second later. Sam is dialing Ramon as they sprint down the stairs, thankfully picking up before the first ring. “I see it too! Lynn and I are setting up in your apartment, we're corresponding with authorities now!” 

Sam hangs up without a word, tucking his phone back into his tactical jacket as they reach the street. Bucky runs in front to stop the traffic as Sam sprints behind him and onto the lawn across the Marketplace. Bucky catches up with him quickly, and they run together across the park, before leaping onto the sidewalk that leads inside the mall. 

It's difficult moving against the panicking crowd of people, especially with his shield, and he severely regrets leaving his wings at home. “It's an incognito mission Wilson! you won't need your wings Wilson!” He chastises his own faulty thinking as he raises the shield above his head to avoid knocking it into people.

“Sam, at your 6!” Bucky is standing in the clear ahead as he calls to him. Sam nods, and continues to fight his way through as gently as possible. 

When he finally reaches his partner, Bucky hands him his comm. “Thanks.” He says as he sticks it in his ear. 

“I'll go left.” Bucky takes off before Sam can agree, not that he'd object. Sam runs to the right, trying to mentally calculate where exactly this explosion occurred. The layout isn't easy, because the mall consists of a disorganized compilation of columns and rows of vendor booths. 

It's eerily empty with his foot falls being the only injection of life, which is setting off Sam's alarm bells. 

Why would they set off an explosion only to clear out?!

“Ramon, keep the police out of here until we figure out what's going on! Monitor for gasses and aerosols.”

“Copy Captain!” 

Bucky's comm statics. “Sam, you don't think?”

He pauses as goes down a staircase that leads to more of the same disorienting layout as before. “I don't know . Keep an eye out for everything.” 

Sam continues to run through, straining every sense he can. Thankfully at the same time, the redundant mess slowly starts to form a pattern to him. He keeps coming to intersections that lead him deeper and deeper into the mall, with each having a pole in the middle with colorful names like Margherita, Pier Point and Turtle Lane pointing in every direction. 

That's when he realizes it. 

He stops running, looking at the signs, then the tops of the vendor booths. “Bucky, do you copy?!”

“Copy.” 

“Look at the booth numbers! What was the time on the note!” 

“14:30-”

“Row 14, Column 30, Palm and Dolphin is the intersection!” 

“Got it Sam!” 

He sprints this time down the aisle, counting the booths as he passes them. “18,34; 17,33;16-”

The pole is in his line of sight, when two people covered head to toe in black stumble into the intersection from the north aisle. He slows to a stop at the same time they do. “Bucky I have a visual, two 5'8 to 5'10 -Shit we have runners! I'm headed south, the other one is headed west!” 

Sam takes off sprinting, about two rows of vendor booths between him and the suspects gives him visual, but not close enough to throw the shield. He turns when he gains ahead to cut them off, but they aren't there. He turns to scan the environment, then stomps in agitation before holstering the shield on his back.

“I lost-” the sound of footsteps and a gunshot rings out behind him. Another explosion connects with the shield, sending him flying forward at least five rows and crashing onto a tarp of an unfinished booth. 

“Ugh…”

“Cap! Sam! Do you copy!?” Bucky’s yelling through the comm helps clear a little of the fog from his mind. Looking up he sees three guys start to approach him, two holding pistols and one brandishing a shotgun. “Shit. I got company.” 

“I'm almost there-fuck!” Sam catches the sound of a grunt before the signal dies. He knows his partner is okay, somehow he has a feeling divine intervention would let him know if Bucky died. It doesn't make the lost signal any less concerning. 

“Bucky! Bucky!? Shit Ramon see if you can connect with Bucky again.” 

“Copy.” 

He clumsily trips out of the tarp to fight the men in front of him, and unholsters the shield. 

“Alright. C’mon what are you waiting for?”

The one with the shotgun raises his weapon so Sam braces himself against the shield. Before the anticipated discharge, another shot rings out, hitting the man's arm. 

Screaming rips through the man's throat as he thrashes in pain, and the other two stumble back in shock. Sam starts to stalk closer to the men, but before he can get any closer, hundreds and hundreds of tiny spiders start crawling out of where the bullet penetrated his forearm. They envelope the man's body rapidly, invading his eyes, nostrils and ears, and slip under his clothes and crawl all the way to his toes. He stops screaming, convulses, then he slumps over and the spiders shrivel up and die with him. 

“Oh..oh fuck.” He mutters weakly.

At least three pairs of footsteps start running in his direction. The other two men shout something in Spanish and take off, so he makes himself scarce behind the broken down booth. He peeks between the tarp and the pole. 

“Guerro said not to kill them! Fuck! Don't shoot that one again!” The shortest one, a woman, crouches in front of the body. They're all wearing patterned flannels over their black turtlenecks and masks. 

A larger man holding what looks like a rifle growls. “Fuck off Mel, I'll do it if I have to. We gotta go, we’re losing track of the other guys.” 

“Can’t believe the Winter Soldier is here too, what a fucking mess!” The third one is lean but tall, scratches the butt of his pistol against the back of his mask. 

They follow the other men. Sam quietly stalks out from his hiding spot and approaches the body. He has to dust off the decayed spiders, crumbling into black powder. Sam lifts the ski mask to reveal a middle aged Hispanic man. He pats down the corpse, finding a wallet tucked into a hidden pocket inside his pants.

The ID is registered in Los Angeles county, and reads Hernesto De La Cruz, 5’8, from some street called Fairview. 

“What the fuck?” Sam says to himself. He shakes his head, then grabs the shotgun and sprints down the direction the other three shooters came from as he reports the encounter to Ramon. 

“So they're fighting each other?” 

“Looks like it. Although I don’t know why a gang from Los Angeles would pick a fight on the other side of the country.” He pauses to catch his breath, trying to not let the thought of spiders over Bucky's body induce his looming panic attack. “Any progress on Bucky?” 

“I pinged his comm, take one more left.”

He doesn't even have to turn when Bucky knocks into him. 

“Oh shit Buck, thank God you're okay.” Sam hugs him, and squeezes harder when Bucky returns it. 

He lets go to check on his partner to inspect him. Bucky looks totally fine except for his wild eyes, especially compared to Sam who's disheveled and has burn marks all over his back. Bucky pats him down for injuries too, and upon seeing them, he exclaims, “What the hell happened?!” 

“They shot me with this. Shot the explosion we saw from the room. Here I think you'll handle it better.” he hands over the shotgun. “Practically a mini grenade launcher so be careful.” Bucky weighs it in his hand, furrowing his brow in confusion. Another gunshot rings out from the other side of the floor, and Bucky hunches over Sam as an explosion of fireworks not only reigns sparks all over the mall, but rings deafeningly.

He's trying to massage away the tinnitus as they stand up, and Bucky nods in the direction it came from. Smoke from the fireworks obscures their view, so he keeps on Bucky's toes trying not to lose sight of him.

Another gunshot rings out, but this time a laser cuts off the staircase leading to the second floor several hundred yards to their right. 

“Motherfucker!” Sam pats Bucky's shoulder to take point with the shield as they treck on, hoping it's not another case with Andrew's gun where vibranium is useless.

He knows they're getting close when he hears many pairs of footsteps running west. With the sound of double doors opening and a couple of yells, Sam turns to Bucky. “I think they went outside, come on.” 

They exit by a small opening behind the observation wheel, still dancing a combination of neon yellow, green, red and blue. An endless row of stands and palm trees conceals the street in the distance, not enough for the barrage of red and blue flashes to be any less blinding. Two men stand off to the left and the three people from Los Seminario's stand off to the right, who are all holding their guns up to each other. 

Bucky raises the shotgun, pointing to the ground in between them. “Nobody move!” He shouts. 

Sam steps forward with the shield. “I know you don't want to kill each other. Put down your weapons and we can talk-” 

“Oye huevon, we are past talking!” The shorter man between the two on the left hisses, but Sam notices his grip is shaking. 

“I know they killed Hernesto-” 

He can't see their faces from the ski mask, but they falter in shock. “How did you-” the taller one starts to ask, but the shorter one punches his shoulder. 

“Then you know we can't let them leave without a body.” The man says vengefully. Knowing he needs to diffuse their emotion quickly, he nods at Los Seminario's. Bucky angles the weapon towards them while Sam lowers the shield, and raises his hands.

“What's your name?” 

The taller one spits. “The fuck?” He also hears cursing on the other side but pays no mind to it. 

He shrugs. “Humor me.” 

The taller one huffs. “Fabio.” 

“Luca.” 

Sam nods approvingly, giving a small smile. “Okay Fabio, Luca, I'm Sam, this is Bucky.” 

Bucky doesn't move from his position, but says, “Hi.” 

“Luca, Fabio. I can tell you for a fact that those people,” he gestures to his right, “Did not mean to kill Hernesto.” Luca scoffs, but he continues. “In fact, no one is supposed to die tonight.” 

“Bullshit! They had an opportunity and they're taking it!” Fabio yells at the other gang. The woman shouts back, “All you had to do was take the drop! It doesn't have to be like this!” 

“Then why did you kill Hernesto! Why did you set us up!” 

“We didn't set you up!” The woman pleads with them. She chokes like she wants to say more, but yells in frustration. “Argh! We didn't ! I don't know who did but this was supposed to be a simple drop!”

Luca steps forward with intention, but Sam approaches. “Woah. Okay okay. Let's just. Take a breath. Why do you think they're setting you up?” 

“There were supposed to be two people meeting us, but she came with a third. We ask why and she won't say. Then we get a message from our sicario that there are six more on the way.” Luca grips the pistol with both hands. 

“I told you our six men got stung-”

“I don't believe you!” Luca is becoming more emotional, and Sam starts reaching for the shield. 

“Luca she's right. Bucky and I intercepted the six people earlier today. They aren't coming.” Both Luca and Fabio take a step back, and lower their guns a fraction.

“I-what?” 

He takes another step, close enough to retrieve the weapon from Luca, but he maintains his neutral posture. 

“I know neither one of your groups wants to discharge your weapons. If I had to guess, I'm assuming you're both doing this out of some debt or obligation right?”

The silence between both groups confirms his suspicion. “Okay. All you had to do was pickup supplies. Now the plan has changed, but that doesn't mean it has to end with all of you dead. We can help you get out of this safe and alive. Please lower your weapons.” 

Fabio swallows thickly. “You really weren't setting us up? Then why did you kill Hernesto?”

The woman sighs. “We didn't know what these discharged. I'm sorry, we didn't mean to kill him.” In an act of grace, she lowers her weapon onto the grass, and steps back and raises her hands. The man to her left does the same.

Fabio and Luca look at each other, then follow suit. Sam sighs in relief. 

“Okay your turn.” He hears Bucky say, his shotgun still trained on the bigger man with the assault rifle. “Put the gun down.” 

“Put down the gun Romney.” The woman hisses at the man, who has his weapon lowered, but makes no move to set it on the floor. 

“Man fuck this.” Romney raises his rifle at Sam and shoots. 

“ No !” 

By a fraction of a hair Sam turns, missing what looks like a large needle. It lodges between Lucas brow, who freezes. A moment later, spiders explode from the needle, enveloping his body. A strangled cry erupts from Fabio as he lunges for his weapon, and all chaos breaks loose. 

One minute he's reaching for Fabio’s gun, and the next he's on the grass 500 feet away gasping for air. He's choking on nothing, and trying to inhale lights his chest on fire. Sam tries to undo the straps of his suit, when he sees another shot explode with fireworks and lasers where he was standing, obscuring the fight from his view. He can still see movement in the smoke, what looks like Bucky fighting the remaining gang members. Another explosion goes off, but then a shot quickly follows that pulses the smoke away. 

Fuck, fuck I gotta breathe! He needs help! 

He needs help! 

He knows his lungs are getting worse . He manages to undo the torso of the suit and sit up, but the lack of air is starting to feel like a crushing weight, telling him his lungs might be collapsing.

Fuck fuck! 

He looks at the shield next to him, and uses the last of his strength to stand and throw the shield back to Bucky as hard as he can. 

Another pulse clears more smoke, and he sees Bucky in a chokehold catch the shield, and slam it into the man's neck. Another laser emanates from the remaining smoke aimed at Bucky, but he deflects it with the shield. It blasts into the observation wheel, cutting a few support beams. As the wheel slowly weans with a loud metallic groan, Sam takes one final sputtering breath before passing out.

He comes to with Ramon violently shaking him. “Sam! Sam wake up!” Ramon yells to someone in front of him, waving his hand. “He’s awake, tell him to stop, he's awake! Tell him to stop!” 

Sam coughs into an oxygen mask, then groans. He's seriously tired of knocking out in the middle of the mission. At least he didn’t puke this time.

“Sam!” Bucky's face hovers over Sam's, and he feels Bucky's hands carefully frame his face, but it's uncomfortably wet.

Sam reaches for the mask and briefly extends it to speak.  “Hi.” 

Bucky chuckles. He looks mostly fine, with some burn marks similar to Sam’s. But he looks flushed and his eyes are watery. “Hey. You good?” He feels Bucky's fingers tremble against his skin. 

“I'm okay. Are you? Why are your hands wet?” The question makes Bucky's expression sour, and he removes his hands from Sam's face to inspect them. Sam sees them, then pales. 

They're bloody. Sopping like he's dipped his hands in red paint. The black and gold of his vibranium arm is almost completely obscured. Sam struggles to sit up, but only manages to induce another coughing fit that has Bucky fretting over him again. He feels the oxygen mask be resettled over his face. After taking a few breaths, he  stretches it to talk again. 

“What the hell happened, Bucky?”

“I-fuck. I fucked up Sam.” He whispers. Bucky looks just as shaken as he did when he had to act as the Winter Soldier in Madripoor. Regretful, ashamed, terrified. 

“Oh, Buck.” With a deep breath of the oxygen, he heaves himself up slowly. Bucky supports his back, but doesn't look back up at Sam again. Sam knows it wouldn't do any good to push him to talk, and from the scene he can make out from where they sit he can guess what happened.

The observation wheel is destroyed, parts fallen onto the mall and cluttered everywhere. He only sees Fabio handcuffed to the ambulance, covered in a shock blanket and shaking. The shield is resting beside him, with blood splattered everywhere. He doesn't see body bags, but that doesn't do much to comfort him on what happened. 

Bucky tucks his head into Sam's shoulder, and Sam's heart squeezes with how much he’s shaking. He pulls Bucky into a tight side hug and sniffles. “It'll be okay Buck.”

They sit there for a few minutes. Sam gives Bucky his space to calm down, while alternating from rubbing his back to massaging his scalp. Hill calls after a few minutes, leaving Sam to just look at her screen name and lets it ring. 

“Answer it.” Bucky pulls away, his steel gaze does nothing to hide his shaking.

Sam doesn't break eye contact as he places it against his ear, and removes the oxygen mask. “Hill.”

“Sam, is Barnes with you?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” She inhales, then exhales calmly. “Good news is all three of the gang members arrived at the hospital alive, and are in the ICU. Bad news, they're still in critical condition. We don't know how this might make Los Seminario's react. They've been known to be violent retaliators.” 

 He lets a sigh of relief escape, then inhales a good amount of oxygen before moving the mask again. “Thanks Hill.” 

“Don't thank me yet. There's…there's a video. Several actually. Looks like a local journalism group has several angles of Bucky…well. It's obvious what's happening…but the good part is the smoke and metal obscures a lot.” Sam is speechless as he watches Bucky shut down. 

Between the both of them, they've killed five people during missions. Two of them were holding civilians hostage for ransom, and had already killed seven other hostages. The other three were all on different missions, each in defense. But he doesn't know the last time Bucky lost control like that. He doesn't think his partner has ever lost control since he was the Winter Soldier. Much less, harmed people that weren't so blatantly evil. 

It doesn't help that Sam knows this is going to be a PR nightmare that Bucky will inexplicably blame himself for.

He only hopes the three people recover as smoothly as possible. 

“Alright Hill. What should we do?” He reaches back out to Bucky, but he turns away from Sam. He stands, but thankfully doesn't leave yet. 

“Stay low, and continue the mission. The Sheriff isn't upset, but he agrees to keep a low profile for the time being, especially since we don't know who the mole is, and how far up the ladder these connections go.” Just continue what they're already doing, easy enough. He thanks her for her time, then hangs up. 

Taking one last inhale of oxygen, he gestures to Bucky to help him up. Once standing, he leans on his partner, who starts leading them back across the park. Sam wants to comfort Bucky, but it feels useless as countless officers and detectives eye Bucky like he's a live wire. He knows Bucky sees the stares, his partner keeps his head tucked down and his hands are bundled into shaking bloody fists. 

He can't take Bucky's anguish anymore.

“Hey Buck.” Bucky doesn’t acknowledge Sam, just keeps walking. “Bucky, honey, look at me please.” Sam whispers. Bucky looks up finally, eyes wide. 

“Keep lookin at me okay? Don't look at them. I'm right here, honey.” Even though Bucky's carrying half his weight, it feels like Sam is leading them now. He continues whispering reminders to Bucky over and over, all the way until they're outside the apartment door. 

Sam steps back and leans against the doorframe to give Bucky space to unlock the door. Inside, Sam hobbles to the kitchen and grabs the dish towel, wetting it before settling onto the nearest chair. “Buck, come here.” 

Bucky freezes by the guest bedroom doorway, clearly intending on hiding the rest of the night. If Sam has any say, which he knows he does, he won't let that happen. He knows Bucky will be worse if he lets himself sink into a self isolation pit of despair. 

“Come on, honey.” He beckons him to take a seat in front of him. Bucky looks up, the shadow from the kitchen light illuminating his glossy eyes. Clearing his throat, he walks over and drops down on the seat like a bag of marbles. Sam pats the wooden table, where Bucky sets his hands down, palms facing up. 

Sam lifts his right one first, lathering the towel gently to clean the blood. It stains and flakes onto the towel and table, but he decides to clean it up later. He has to get up a few times to squeeze out the water and wash the blood from the towel, but after a few minutes Bucky's right hand is clean. 

Sam finally glances up at Bucky. Almost ghoulish in appearance, it's like someone hollowed him out and replaced an empty soul. His eyes are flat, trained on his hands, and his expression holds no tension except his downturned mouth. 

“One more.” Sam says before working on the vibranium hand. This one he takes more care in getting under and in-between all the plates he can, which takes a little longer. He knows Bucky is probably far away from him at the moment, and it'll do nothing to absolve the cloud over his partner's head, but he has a thought he can't keep to himself. 

A thought he doesn't want to keep to himself. 

“I don't think I ever told you how incredible I think your arm is.” Glance. No reaction. Figures . He keeps going. 

“Not just because it's Shuri's craftsmanship- by the way you haven't updated me on how repairing that's been going- but because you make it your own. The way you move, how you've used it. Bucky, your arm is-” 

He chokes, thinking of how he lets AJ and Cass hang off it when he visits. How delicate his hand was when cleaning dirt off AJs face when he tripped, or how dexterous his hand was when helping Cass make clay dolls for a theater project. Sam thinks of his vibranium hand being covered in dough and flour when he made Sarah beignets one Saturday morning as a thank you treat. Or when Bucky dragged Sam to visit a cat shelter because he had an extremely strong urge to be around cats, scratching their tiny heads with his vibranium one with such kindness. 

He exhales shakily. “Your arm is beautiful. I never told you that, but I've thought it so many over and over. Sorry, I didn't tell you sooner.” He scrubs the center gold striation on Bucky's palm, then gently sets it down.

“Okay. All done.” He looks up again to see Bucky staring at him with a little life in his eyes this time. Even though he doesn't speak, Sam knows Bucky doesn't want to be left alone. 

Sam leave the towel on the table, and leads him to the master bedroom, where the bed is king sized. He lets go of Bucky's hand by his suitcase in the corner, where Bucky stands quietly watching Sam. He fishes out an extra PJ shirt and pants that'll probably fit Bucky. He leaves them on the bed for Bucky to take, then grabs his own pair and heads into the bathroom to change. 

He cleans himself up some more too, wiping off some dirt and grass from his face, the bloody nose he didn't know he had, and adding some disinfectant to his busted cheek. Before he leaves, he stares at himself wondering what the fuck is he doing, sleeping with Bucky in the same bed. They've never done this before, never had to on any mission. He starts to feel panic well inside his chest, but takes a few meditative breaths to calm down.

He needs this. You both do.  

Somehow the thought of sleeping alone is too daunting, more so than the apparent awkwardness of sleeping in the same bed as his partner. Exhaustion begins to creep in, and all he wants to do is rest with Bucky at his side. Stepping out of the bathroom, Bucky is sitting on the bed with his back facing Sam. He sets his phone on the bedside stand, plugging it in before settling in under the sheets. Even with Sam getting comfortable, Bucky hasn't moved an inch, so he gently says “Bucky, honey, come on.” 

Bucky jolts like he was dreaming, then stands to lift the blanket and join Sam underneath it. He's rigid as a freezer pole, and from what Sam can make out in the limited lighting from the city, his eyes are wide and alert.

Sam scoots closer, but not overwhelmingly close. “I'm right here. Don't worry.” His intention is to fight sleep until Bucky closed his eyes, but his vision is already fuzzy and strained. His eyes flutter shut as he mutters. “I'm right here. Not goin’ anywhere honey.” 

Right before sleep overtakes him, he feels Bucky's cool vibranium metal hand envelop his own.  

Chapter Text

When he wakes up, Bucky isn't there. 

There's an empty space in his bed. The dent where Bucky's head rested throughout the night, and the disturbed sheets where he got up. 

He looks up at the ceiling, when a strange combination of excitement, fear and embarrassment threatens to boil to the surface. Grabbing the pillow Bucky slept on, he screams into it, and thrashes his legs while rolling back and forth on the bed. 

WHATTHEFUCKWHATTHEFUCKWHATTHEFUUUUUUUUUUUU-

Memories from last night flash in his mind like the world's most mortifying movie. 

Sam calling Bucky honey- What was I thinking!!!

Sam cleaning his hands and telling him his vibranium arm is beautiful- I swear to god I'm gonna fucking vomit...

Sam leading Bucky into his own bed - WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING!!! 

He finally tires out, starfishing on the bed with the pillow still on his face. He's about to remove it, when he realizes something.

What is that? He takes another sniff. 

Pine and musk. 

Nopenopenope-

He rips off the pillow, where it falls off the bed with a quiet thud. Everything feels so strange. All he can think about is the fact that Bucky was in his bed, Bucky let him lead, let him call Bucky honey. 

He remembers moving closer to Bucky before he fell asleep, but all he recalls is passing out. He wonders if he cuddled Bucky in his sleep, and feels his face heat up at the image of doing so subconsciously.

Jesus fuck. 

Yesterday, he was mostly working on autopilot, because after he was knocked back a couple hundred feet, he was justifiably tired. But thinking about his revelation before the explosion, and the events of last night make him squirm. It must've been a mistake, or it means nothing to Bucky, because he's not here. 

Why would he be?

If Bucky was here when he woke up, maybe he'd just know, instinctually what it'd all mean. Seeing his bedhead ruin his perfect hair, sleep in his eyes that blearily greet him, a smile just as bright as the sun. Sam would smile back…and then..

What would he do? 

At the thought of kissing Bucky, Sam swallows thickly. It's a strange thought, one he's never had before. Bucky's face reels in his mind, when he's pouty, angry, stoic, or happy. Each time his lips are just as expressive, full and plump, or set thin from emotion, or wide with a grin. 

Sam shudders, inhaling sharply. Unable to decide if that was a good or bad thing, he questions himself, if that's even something he wants to do. 

So he tries to imagine it.

Closing his eyes, he continues the scenario. He'd prop himself up on his elbow, watch Bucky's eyes trail from Sam's chest to his face. A mischievous grin would replace his smile, hooded eyes beckoning Sam to come closer. He'd reach his other hand to cradle Bucky's face, just like he did last for Sam last night. Gently caress his cheeks with his thumb, which would incite Bucky to sigh and lean into his touch. Leaning in, Sam would hover, biding his time and teasingly rock into Bucky's side until he gives in, and nods. Then, with a brush of the lips, he'd place a kiss, nice and slow and sweet. Bucky's lips are probably soft and malleable, and Bucky would moan into his mouth, encouraging Sam grind his leg-

Sam smacks himself in the face, and can't help but pull on his dick through his pajama pants just to relieve some pressure. 

“Fuck.” 

Taking some breaths to calm down and banish that image to the furthest void in his mind, he's anxious at his confirmation. So what he wants to kiss and fuck Bucky? Their lives are heavily intertwined already, between work and visiting each other as friends. Could they transition seamlessly from where they are now to spending more time together? Bucky still lives in Brooklyn, and seeing as he's found a support system with Leah - which honestly he's still not 100% sure what Bucky's relationship is with her- he might not even want to move if he's building a life out there. 

And then that almost leads Sam spiraling down a rabbit hole of salacious and venomous news headlines about their relationship. The Winter Soldier seduces another Captain America, Sam Wilson killed Steve to be with Bucky, is Bucky Barnes a viable partner, Black and Gay Captain America is unsuitable for the shield. 

Sam isn't afraid of the press, he understands how they work now. However, what scares him the most about these headlines is how it'd radiate to the government officials that oversee the contract partnership with the Avengers. It could further deteriorate an already precarious reputation, and add more fuel to those trying to strip Avengers jurisdiction. 

He shakes his head. That'd be a problem to be dealt with as it'd come. His biggest issue is, he wants Bucky, but he's not sure if maybe it's a temporary thing, a crush. He'll have to wait it out, just to be safe. 

And then…confess to Bucky? He feels nauseous at the thought. 

Bucky, I want to be with you. You know, have dinner, makeout, have sex type of together.

Jesus that makes him sound so vulgar.

Bucky, I like you, and I think you're hot and I had the best sleep of my life sharing a bed with you. Let's do it again?

No, makes him sound like that's all he wants.

Bucky, I like you. Can I take you out? 

He stares at the white ceiling, hoping it'd just swallow him whole. What if Bucky doesn't even want to date, much less date Sam? He thinks of what Bucky said in the airport parking garage, "who'd wanna date me cause of my trauma, not cause of my looks."

Me, I want to give it a shot. 

He's not even sure what kind of relationship Bucky is looking for. If intimacy is off the table for him, whether or not he's a romantic, or if he's only looking for sex. What if they're so far deep into their friendship Bucky can't even see Sam that way?

What will their friendship be like if Bucky rejects him? 

Sam groans at all the scenarios flooding his brain, ranging from Bucky being disgusted, to letting him down easy then ghosting him. He shakes his head, heaving himself up to stretch. There's no time for these complicated feelings.

Priorities, Sam. 

He thinks for a moment what the day might be like, trying to mentally prepare himself. Bucky will need some space, probably. He'll have to get an update from Hill on crowd control, and check in with the Sheriff and analysts on interrogation of the gang members and weapons they recovered. 

So basically, wait around and do nothing. 

Great. 

He heads to the bathroom to get ready, opting for a gray t-shirt and brown shorts. Stepping out into the living room, he sees Bucky in all black at the table with his laptop. Sam approaches from behind, peering over his shoulder.

It's a newsreel about last night, showing the explosion from a civilian camera phone, then an aerial view of the entire mall and lawn showing a border of patrol cars flashing red and blue blocking the streets, and finishing on a shakey clip of Bucky holding someone by the collar and punching them in the face repeatedly.

Sam leans forward to shut the screen, and Bucky turns to face him, expressionless.

“Not a great way to work up an appetite.” Sam moves into the kitchen to scrape some coffee together. He's surprised to find some already brewed in the coffee maker. 

“You made this?” 

Bucky nods. “Yeah, why?” 

Sam narrows his eyes. He already knows Bucky isn't okay, but his neutral demeanor could fool anyone. The only tension on his face is his semi-permanent furrowed brow, otherwise there’s no indication of stress. He doesn't know if it's better or worse for Bucky to be faking normalcy like this, or be broken like last night. He turns to open the modern oak cabinet above to retrieve a mug, and pour himself some, deciding to leave it up to Bucky. 

“Didn't expect for you to know how to use it.” He sips, watching Bucky's blank stare. Like a marble statue. “Did you eat?” 

“No. Woke up thirty minutes ago.” The lack of eyebags means he's telling the truth, surprisingly.  

“Alright. Want me to grab you something? There's an Italian bakery across the street.” 

“Sure.” Bucky gets up and goes back to his room, leaving the door open a crack. Sam nods to himself, then leaves for the bakery. 

There's a small line out the door, but it appears to be moving fast so he chooses to stick with it. A propped up menu lets him decide on their breakfast, an iced mocha for Bucky, a cappuccino for Sam and two bruschettas. He also decides to get a slice of tiramisu for them to split, hoping a little sugar helps Bucky's mood. He's finally crossing the threshold into the cafe, appreciating the high ceiling, white and tan modern layout that has rows of pastries beside the cash register, when Hill calls him. 

“Good news, they all survived the night, and have stabilized. They're on their way to recovery.” 

Sam lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. “Thank god. Give me a second.” He orders from the cashier, then steps back to wait for his food and drinks. 

“What's Barnes' condition?” 

Sam bites his lip on that. On one hand, they need to maintain transparency being on the field; but on another, he doesn't know what Bucky is feeling, and knowing the condition of the hospitalized gang members might change that.

“He seems stable. We're having breakfast, then I'll check in with him.” 

Hill exhales in relief this time. “Okay. Just keep him away from the news cycle, and out of sight for now.” 

“Thanks Hill.” He’s about to hang up when she asks. “How are you, Sam?” 

The barista calls his name, giving him a chance to think as he collects the food and drinks. 

How is Sam? 

I realized I have the fattest crush on my partner, who's going through it and doesn't have the bandwidth to deal with that. I keep being useless on these missions cause I keep passing out. We have a mole on our team and are no where closer to finding Lo Castro or Chrome Crook. And I have nightmare fuel for the rest of my life watching spiders eat two men from the inside out. 

“I'm fine.” He steps out onto the street with the phone in one hand and balancing the drink container handle and bag of croissants in between his fingers in the other. 

“Sam.” 

Waiting for the crosswalk signal, he sighs. “Everyone's stressed. I think we'll take the day to settle, do some research. I'm fine.” 

She hums. “Okay. I trust you. Let me know if there's anything I can do to help. And if you won't talk to me, call your sister.” She hangs up before he can comment. 

Hill isn't wrong, and it incites the urge to call Sarah and maybe talk through some of this bullshit with her, sparing the details. 

Well, maybe she'd have a riot with the Hello Kitty Doll situation. 

Before turning into the apartment complex, he sees the fallen observation wheel. Strips of yellow caution tape are tied between trees, metal, and fencing. Construction crews and police crawl around the scene and the mall like ants. 

His heart sinks, that a permanent reminder of their astute failure is right in front of them. Sam resolves to rethink the mission, see if there's anything Sam and Bucky can do differently the next time they face off these unpredictable weapons. 

Maybe some training with the weapons would help? A question he tucks away for later when he brainstorms with Bucky. 

He heads upstairs and enters the condo. After setting the food down on the kitchen table, he sits down in the same spot he did last night. That’s when he notices the blood he intended to clean up is gone. He bites his lip, worrying more about Bucky and what went through his head wiping the stains away.

“Buck. Breakfast.” He calls. Bucky leaves his room and sits next to Sam, taking the mocha and sandwich from the carton and bag. Sam is glad Bucky doesn’t retreat back to his room and starts eating. Sam follows suit, but watches Bucky as he eats. 

After most of their food is in their respective stomachs, Bucky glances at Sam and meets his gaze, and almost looks surprised. He takes a sip of his latte, then asks, “What?”

He finishes chewing his last bite and swallows. Wiping his hands, he replies, “Hill called, said all three gang members survived the night and are stable. They’re well on their way to recovery.” 

It’s a miniscule change, but Bucky’s shoulders drop, and his jaw tenses as he exhales. “Okay. Good. That’s good.” 

“How are you doing?” Sam asks.

Bucky stiffens, but then leans back in his chair to look at Sam. “I’m okay.” 

Sam raises an eyebrow, and Bucky's eyes shift. “Alright, fine. Maybe…” he groans, then straightens, putting both elbows on the table, clasping his hands together. “Maybe I’m not. Okay. I think-I’m probably going to call my therapist.” He blows air, hanging his head. “Jesus why is this so hard.” 

Sam laughs, and Bucky whips his head up to glare at him. “Sorry. No just. Thank you for telling me. I think you should call her, that’s very healthy.” Bucky groans again, dragging both hands over his face. 

“I know I know it’s corny. But let me know if you want to talk, or if you need anything.” Sam reaches his hand over to rest on Bucky’s vibranium bicep. “I’m right here.” 

He doesn’t mean to echo what he said last night. Honestly, he was kind of hoping they’d both just not address it, seeing as he’s personally not ready to talk about his feelings, Bucky’s going through some shit right now, and they're in the middle of a mission where they could be interrupted at any second. 

Seeing Bucky’s cheeks begin to blotch pink however, he reassesses whether not talking about it is the best option. Bucky looks at Sam’s hand, then his face, then his hand, then his face again before looking down at the table. “Y-yeah. Got that. Thanks.”

Wait a fucking second. Is he blushing?

Bucky’s face is getting redder by the second the longer Sam’s hand lingers, and because he’s utterly captivated by this sudden turn of events, he gives Bucky’s arm a squeeze before standing up to gather the trash. As he walks to the trash can, he replays Bucky’s reaction over and over in his head. 

Puzzle pieces start clicking into place. It's not the first time he’s seen him flush like that. He turned into a tomato on the pier, after Sam helped him with the fishing pole, and on the train his cheeks were noticeably pink when he helped Sam stand up from his chair and after they talked it out. If he really wants to point out weird Bucky moments, his breath hitched at the beach and he checked Sam out before commenting on the Cap colors. 

Huh.

He dumps the contents of their breakfast in the trash and briefly wonders if he should test this out. There's a very real possibility it’s just because Bucky is shy like that, after all he’s not the most comfortable with physical touch or close proximity. 

Or maybe…

He turns to Bucky, who’s still sitting and playing with a leaf of the fake tree centerpiece. 

Not cute. Focus, you’re on the job for fucks sake.

“We should stay in for the most part today. Waiting on the interrogation report and analysis of the guns, we can brainstorm the mission and do research.” 

Bucky glances up at Sam, but continues playing with the leaf. “Sounds good to me.”

He leans against the counter. “What do you think about hitting the beach around 7PM?” It’d be dark enough they can fly under the radar and catch some R&R after last night. He thinks it’d be a good distraction for Bucky too. 

And an opportunity to test my hypothesis. 

Bucky seems to toss the idea around in his mind, before finally leaving the poor leaf alone and looking back up at Sam. “If the session with my therapist goes well, I’m game. I might be-” He clears his throat, then fidgets in his seat like he’s sitting on legos. Stiltedly, he replies. “I might. Be uh…too…mmm..ugh…I might be too…emotional.” He says the last word with such disdain it’s like he said the word Nazi instead. 

Don’t laugh, don’t laugh-

A small smile escapes that Bucky painfully reciprocates. “Okay, no problem. Do you want to start on that research now, or later?”

“Nah, I'm good now.” He says a little too fast, and must realize it because he corrects himself. “Now is good, if that's fine with you.” 

He smiles a little more now, his heart surging with warmth. “Yeah now is good Buck.” 

After retrieving his laptop from his room, he and Bucky call Ramon to check in on any progress. He first reviews the weaponry they retrieved. 

“In total, we counted an air pistol, which releases targeted pressurized air at an individual- that's what you got hit with Sam, a 900 megawatt laser glock, commercial grade fireworks glock, grenade level explosions shotgun and the exquisite mystery, the needle rifle that releases the spiders. There's one more gun that hasn't been discharged yet that we have to test at the offsite location. We recovered the supply drop that was mentioned, and it was full of the same models as the bag in Wynwood.”

Sam and Bucky glances at each other, and Sam makes a mental note to unpack that later.

“The remnants of the Hello Kitty projectiles had been located by two satellites. Both projectiles popped like balloons, with foil like material dissipating in the air. Sydney estimated that based on the size and severity of the damage done on the train, they must've carried at least two tons of force.”

So Sam was right. Instant death by Hello Kitty. Great.

“The other weapons the men carried still have yet to be confirmed. We've also started the process of retrieving our undercover detectives last night, and they should be returning with additional intel by 6PM tonight. We've put police on watch at every homeless hot zone we could, and the family you picked up in Las Olas has been relocated up north, safely away from all of this.”

Sam sighs in relief. “You're a godsend Ramon, thank you and the team.”

He hears Miller in the background. “No problem Cap!” A few chuckles follow. 

Ramon continues. “As far as the interrogations go, the Sheriff wishes to speak with you directly on that. We've all decided in terms of security and integrity to keep information as linear as possible.” 

Sam raises an eyebrow. “So you'll basically be filtering through us.” 

Ramon laughs quietly, picking up on Sams real question. “Despite the inconvenience, I'm very confident my team that's been working with you has the best interests of public safety in mind. But extra precaution doesn't hurt in case one of our devices is compromised.”

“Okay. Thank you, Ramon. We'll be here if you guys come up with anything else.”

“Oh one more thing. We've ID'ed the woman from Los Seminarios as Patti ‘Melbourne’ Lafell.” Sam thinks of the picture of the one woman on Ramons white board at the office. She had a ski mask on last night, but the picture showed she had dark brown hair, freckles on her cheeks and sharp wise green eyes. 

“She was on your board Ramon, is she another Guerro?” 

“No, she's a layer below that. We're guessing Guerro is Lo Castros right hand man. Melbourne seems to be something of a manager or distributor in the hierarchy. She'll have critical information on how they move, but she won't know the top of the pyramid. We've also located the gang of Fabio, Luca and Hernesto. They're part of the Sueños mafia from South Los Angeles.” 

“The mafia?” 

“Unfortunately yes. We aren't sure why yet, but we've put out APB's on all flights in the tricounty area for any known gang, mafia and cartel members across the nation.” 

It feels like all the air in the room is sucked out at once. “If these weapons become mass distributed-”

“Certain disaster.” Ramon finishes somberly. “We'll let you know if we find anything else.” 

After the call ends, he scruffs his chin. He opens his laptop to make a list of open ended questions, starting with the gun supply drop. “So, guns are the same make and model as the ones in Wilton Manors.” 

“It's another dupe bag.” Bucky adds. “The pellets probably don't do anything.”

“They knew we were coming to the bar and left us that message, knowing we'd get on the train and tried to take us out. The other men on the train weren't properly close quarters combat trained, much less with the weapons they were given.”

He taps the table in thought. “If we weren't removed from the equation like they intended, why would Los Seminarios still send a replacement team, much less with fake guns? They clearly have some type of established contact with Sueños, so they could've rescheduled or moved locations.”

Bucky opens his own laptop, clicking a folder that shows the case file. He moves through the PDF page onto the incomplete profile of Melbourne. He hums. “Remember what she said? ‘You were supposed to take the drop?’”

“Yeah.” 

“The way she said it. Practically begging Luca and Fabio to play along, almost like-”

Sam's eyes widen. “Almost like she knew they were fake. You think Luca and Fabio caught on?” 

“I don't think they even had the chance to look at the weapons. Luca said it before, he felt something was off when the third person was there. If they scheduled the drop with three on their side, two on the other, and one more guy appeared suddenly, anyone would be suspicious.” Bucky clicks through the PDF some more. There aren't any other pictures or references to the two other men with her.

“Do you think the third guy was Romney? He was the only wild card it seemed like.” Sam reflects on how easily the taller one cooperated with Melbourne. 

Bucky nods. “Probably. He was the one who shot to kill, unlike everyone else.”

“So you have a drop with weapons, with combat hesitant members that all have some type of debt or obligation to their gang. None of them really want to be there, much less get into a fight with each other. But the supply is fake, you throw in an unidentified person, and a message from your own boss.” 

“Thats right, Luca and Fabio got a message Los Seminarios were going to kill them.” Bucky intently stares at the screen and crosses his arms. Sam leans back in his chair replaying the information over and over for a few minutes, when Bucky gasps and looks up at Sam.

“They set them up.”

“Who?”

“Sueños and Los Seminarios set them up. They weren't supposed to just make an exchange they were supposed to kill each other. Discharge their weapons. They weren't given training because the gangs are inept, it's because they're cannon fodder for something bigger.” 

He's right. No matter how many times Sam replays it in his head, it's a recipe for disaster. Misinformed agents, an unknown variable and fake goods.

Bucky opens Google search, typing and clicking around until he flips the screen to Sam. 

Multiple tabs are open of different broadcasts of the Hello Kitty projectiles from news stations all over the country, with footage from civilians and helicopters recording the balloons before they popped. Then, he clicks on another tab, and shows the same newsreel he was looking at this morning. Sam knows what to look for now, and notices plenty of footage of the lasers, fireworks and explosions going off.

“They want the damage known.” Scowling as he turns back to the laptop, he reopens the file. “Andrew mentioned a ‘big show’ right? What if…what if it’s not a government revolution, or some gang war, but a weapons showcase? Something like the Gun Expo they host annually down here in Miami, but for weapons of this type?”

“They host a Gun Expo in Miami? For security and government contractors?” Sam asks incredulously. The thought of a gun expo seems a little obnoxious, granted he’s not the biggest gun fan. 

Bucky huffs. “No, anyone can go. They also sell knives and other merchandise. That’s besides the point. Focus, Sam.” It sounds like he’s saying it more to himself, but Sam concedes. 

“Right. Sorry. Yes he said that. But who’d it even be for-Wait.” Sam opens the case file and finds the passage detailing the rivaling gangs history. “Los Seminarios and Chrome Crook were rivals until recently, right? We need to get a list of gang and organized crime affiliations on both sides. I'll bet Sueños has to have some kind of connection with one of them, and then we'll have our list of buyers.” 

They request from Ramon, Hill and Rhodey any relevant files or paperwork and get to work researching. Over the next five and a half hours, they comb through all North American criminal syndicates that have had any member come into contact with either South Florida gangs. It takes going through travel logs, CCTV and satellite footage, police and SWAT raid reports, bail deposits and known distribution networks to narrow the list down to twelve, composed of gangs, mafia’s and two cartels. They separated the list by which gang they’ve encountered, and surprise surprise, a Suenos sicario had worked a few hits on a rival mafia with another sicario from Chrome Crooks side.

Sam stares at the list on his screen, feeling nervous. “I’m not gonna lie Bucky, I’m a little apprehensive fucking with the cartel. Is there a rulebook on whether superheroes intervene with this stuff?”

Bucky smirks at Sam and raises an eyebrow. “You’ve taken down two international underground organizations, one of which was notoriously evil for over 80 years, and you're worried about cartels?” 

Sam rolls his eyes. “In my defense, those two weren’t sanctioned by the U.S. Maybe the cartels won't rain hell on us, our stint watching Narcos proves that-”

“You mean when I watched Narcos and told you about the Hector Bellerez rule later-”

“I was tired that day! You were relentless in training!”

“Tired every time we sat for an episode-” 

“Because we’d start at 9PM or later, those episodes are at least an hour long every time and my back hurt-”

“Not enough to not pass out on my shoulder.” 

Sam laughs as Bucky smiles and shakes his head. Reminiscing about watching shows together was one of his favorite occasions with Bucky. Usually the night before Bucky’s return flight to Brooklyn, he’d stay up with Bucky, or at least try, and keep him company while catching him up on modern history. Dramatized documentaries and historical shows were a great way to do so, and one of them they started before Utah was Narcos. Bucky never asked, but after the first time he left Delacroix sleep deprived and grumpy, Sam decided to try to ease the grumpy part at least. 

Thinking about it now, he’d forgotten about falling asleep on Bucky, and wondered how many times he’d done so. Unable to fully wake up when Bucky would leave outside the first time and handful of others, he barely remembered saying bye. Bucky’s flights were usually ridiculously early, even for Sam, and he’d wake up on the couch with a blanket the next morning to a text from Bucky confirming his arrival.

Sam shakes the image of Bucky gently laying him down on the couch, maybe caressing his cheeks like last night-

Clearing his throat, he continues, “Anyways, the Hector Belleruz rule holds up for cartels that aren’t U.S. sanctioned. We have no way of knowing which groups have ties to the government, and I don’t know if we can take the CIA on top of everything else.” He lets the sentence he just spoke sink in, before muttering, “God this country is fucked up.” 

Bucky chuckles. “You’re not wrong, they had Nazis in Congress for fucks sake. But if Hill says the state government and top brass, meaning D.C., says they’re concerned, I think we’re clear in that department for now. Plus, we aren’t over the border. Think they’d prefer this happening over there, than here.” Sam nods, but bites his lip looking at the list again. 

“Hey.” He looks up at Bucky, who has the same look as he did in the hotel room after Las Olas. “We’ll be okay. If you want to move Sarah and the boys to a secure location, I think Hill and Rhodey are more than willing to help coordinate that.” 

He exhales, relaxing a little. “You’re right. Thanks.” 

The corner of Buckys mouth quirks up a little, then proposes to call the Sheriff, before updating Ramon on what they’ve found. 

“Fellas. How’s it going?”

Sam replies. “Well Tony, thanks. We’re doing some digging, and want to know if you have any updates on the interrogations you can share with us.”

“You called just in time. We just finished with Fabio, and the last of the men from the train. I’ll keep it to sparknotes as much as possible and send you the full reports later.”

The Sheriff clears his throat, before continuing. “Only one of the six men came forward with any useful information, the rest were either too low on the rung or refused to talk. One of them was the one we suspected is the leader of their small crew, surprisingly. His name is Marvin Jehe, and he confirmed they were acting on Guerro’s orders. He also confirmed that Guerro is Lo Castro’s right hand man, and has been orchestrating their train assasination plot for the past few days. However, he had no idea about the Bayside Marketplace drop. When I asked him about the guns he was provided, Guerro said under no circumstance were they supposed to discharge their weapons.” 

Sam groans. “They were experiments too.” 

“What was that son?” 

Bucky speaks up this time. “Sam and I concluded that whoever orchestrated the drop on both sides yesterday was using the members who went. Both sides were supposed to kill each other, and we think it has something to do with the ‘big show’ Andrew mentioned. The gun's mechanisms are being showcased, broadcasted nationally to reach buyers all over North America. The men on the train were ordered not to shoot,  but I'll bet Guerro was counting on them to be trigger happy for the cameras. We have a list of crime groups that have been in contact or dealt with Los Seminarios or Chrome Crook, and Sueños is on that list.” 

The Sheriff hums, seemingly ruminating on the information. “If Sueños is a potential buyer, why would they give them fake weapons?” 

“We're still wondering the same thing. My guess is these are in limited supply, and these events the past few weeks have been the trial runs to analyze mistakes, while advertising the potential and make improvements before the launch date.” Sam finishes.

“Fabio said they received only the three weapons they had on them to use at the Marketplace and that the bag was supposed to have more.” Sheriff Tony adds. 

Bucky nods in approval, confirming he was thinking the same thing. 

“Speaking of the weapons, there's no need for Scott Lang to send us that detector. The gun on the sixth man's body had a one of his shrink pym particles in the chamber. Looks like to activate it he'd shoot himself then load and shoot himself again.” 

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Sounds painful.” 

“Well, yes, according to Mr. Lang it is brutally painful to do it that way, but they don't have the tech to activate it the same way he does. Turns out, a sample shipment of the particles actually got stolen while Darren Cross was CEO and buried deep in a cover up. Fortunately, Mr. Lang recovered the destroyed files, and was able to provide an exact number of particles lost.”

Bucky sucks in his teeth. “Alright Sheriff, how many?” 

“Forty two.”

“Forty two!?” Sam exclaims. 

The Sheriff laughs, and Sam wonders if the man is maybe a marble or two loose in the head. “That's what I said! Mr. Lang said most of the shipment was faulty which is why it was leaving the lab in the first place. About only 5% of them actually work, and he said unless these gangs have a subatomic particle accelerator and four PhD's level understanding of biology, physics and chemistry, they won't get very far in replicating the ones they do have. Mr. Lang and Ms. Dyne agreed to still work on tracking down the lost shipment.”

Sam and Bucky look at each other, gravely aware that it wouldn't be the first time industrial grade lab equipment and scientists fell into immoral hands. “Alright, thanks Gregory, at least they're working at it from that angle.” Sam says. 

“No problem fellas. Anything else you need?” 

“Could you give us the location of the weapons warehouse these weapons are being stored in?” Bucky asks.

“I'll give it to you the next time I see you, I'll drop by tomorrow. And as for your list, send it my way and I'll work on focusing our efforts on the force there.” 

“Sounds good. Take care Sheriff.” After the call ends, they consolidate their notes to send to Ramon, and email the list to the Sheriff. The moment he clicks send, Sam's stomach starts rumbling. 

“Man, I think we need some lunch. I can run out and grab some while you call your therapist. Any preference?” 

Bucky winces a little, almost like speaking of it is taboo. Nodding appreciatively, he replies. “Whatever you decide. Thanks Sam.” 

Offering a full smile, he replies “Anytime Buck.”

The moment he steps out of the building, a savory peppery scent permeates the air. Across the street on the lawn in front of Bayside is a tent with a sign that reads, “Love Life Cafe”. He can see a line of people in front of the tent, and what looks like a Shawarma pole and grill beside each other inside the tent. A few people stand off to the side waiting for orders, when one of the staff calls a name, and a woman grabs what looks like a soft shell taco and joins the sporadic 20-ish people on the field watching the Bayside cleanup.

It feels so surreal that street food and a watch party is happening where Sam's lungs almost collapsed, but he somehow understands the appeal of it. There are cranes now by what’s left of the Observation wheel, and it's still crawling with cops and forensics alike. 

“Fuck it.” He shrugs to himself. 

It takes about 20 minutes to get his Shawarma tacos, so out of respect for Bucky's privacy he eats his meal with the growing crowd of people to watch the cleanup, before ordering three more orders worth for Bucky.

By the time he makes it back upstairs, it's almost 5:30PM, just over an hour after he left. He finds Bucky looking out the hallway window. Bucky turns to Sam, his eyes look a little red around the edges, but otherwise he's smirking at Sam.

“Didn't take you for a superfan.” His voice is a little raspy and low. Only the kitchen lights are on, and Buckys 5 o'clock shadow is pronounced and alluring. His eyes are hooded, and while Sam logically knows it's because Bucky is tired…

Shit…

Sam stills, his throat drying up and his muscles locking up with desire. He drops the takeout bag at the door, almost running the short distance to slip his hands around Bucky's neck and waist, pulling him in for heated kiss before crowding him against the wall and-

Sam blinks again, realizing he's frozen in the same spot by the front door.  He barely chokes out, “What uh, what do you mean?” 

Bucky's smirk falls a little, and Sam can't help but think no, wait, come back. He watches Sam for a second longer than normal, before narrowing his eyes and asking. “You were out on the field just watching the cleanup. Didn't know you'd be a fan of the process, especially considering how it went for us.”

Sure. That makes sense. Way more sense than Bucky flirting with him. Sam nods slowly in agreement, but doesn't trust himself to speak. Instead, he turns into the living room to set the food on the table.

Bucky finally stops watching Sam from the hall, joining him at the table albeit almost cautiously. “You good?” 

Not really. 

“Yeah. Looking at what happened, I needed a second. Sorry. I'm fine.”

Bucky seems to buy it, as he starts unpacking the food. Before digging in he says. “I get it. Thanks for giving me some extra time. It helped a lot, talking with my therapist.” 

Sam chuckles. “How long were you watching me?” 

Interestingly, Bucky takes a large bite of first the Shawarma taco, before shrugging one shoulder and taking another. 

It's Sam's turn to narrow his eyes. Bucky always has a wierd intensity about food, like every bite is his last. It makes sense considering he'd never been able to eat properly during his time in captivity, and that modern food is much better than boiled chicken. But now, Sam presumes it's because of his own recent revelations, his demeanor doesn't strike Sam as a man enjoying his food, but instead avoiding a question. 

Sam shakes his head. He's good at reading Bucky but not that good. 

“Glad it went well.” He keeps himself distracted by messaging Rhodey plans on relocating Sarah and his nephew's. Because it'd be weird to watch Bucky eat his food, no matter how much he wants to.

Rhodey gets back to him quickly, letting him know four Air Force officers will be escorting them to stay at the base for the next two weeks. He's about to text back ‘Thank you’ but then another message from Rhodey comes through that almost makes him drop his phone. 

It's a link to a zoomed in and shakey Twitter video of last night. Bucky sprints across the lawn, practically tripping over himself to slide next to Sam and hover over him. The police car lights illuminate their faces, and he sees Bucky smile with relief as he holds Sam.

He closes the video and sees it was posted by an older man, with a caption that says, ‘If that ain't love I don't know what is.’ He scrolls to see the replies, and it's a barrage of comments from ‘I knew it’, to ‘when is the wedding’. 

After the fifth comment, it gets excruciatingly overwhelming, so he scrolls back up and stares at the post as the video restarts on autoplay over and over again. A notification appears at the top of his screen from Rhodey. On autopilot, he clicks it, opening their messages. 

‘And you say he's not your boyfriend.’ 

“Sam? What's wrong?” He looks up to see Bucky wiping his hands with a napkin, and three empty takeout containers stacked inside the bag for trash. His brows are furrowed in concern, piercing gaze intimidatingly waiting for Sam to say something. 

And at that moment, his brain doesn't process the suffocating grip of anxiety in his heart. He doesn't process how much his relationship with Bucky has changed, how fast it feels like he's flipped the script on their partnership. He doesn't process how the whole world somehow knew before he did, and how there might be a very, horrifyingly real possibility Bucky could feel the same way. 

No, he doesn't process that at all. Instead, pushes all these emotions and fears deep, deep down, and he just wearily smiles at Bucky, asking, “Yeah. Still up for the beach?” 

It doesn't take long for them to get out the door. 

Bucky doesn't take much, or any convincing, to stick with the black shirt, leather jacket and gloves. Sam gently ribs him on not keeping on theme, but Bucky just laughs and says “Just wait and see.” He's still clearly worn out, but some of his excitement returns, which comforts Sam. 

Bucky does have a moment when they step out onto the sidewalk. He looks at the mall and the construction on the wheel, then looks down at his hands. He's pensive, and Sam notices his hands start to shake slightly. 

No.

“Bucky. C’mon.” He nods down the street. Bucky looks up, nodding as he runs his right hand through his hair. 

“Yeah.” 

After that, Sam decides they can spare a detour trip before hitting the beach. He intends for them to just walk around downtown, but as they come closer to the city center, they both notice small train cars quickly weaving between the skyscrapers. 

“Is that a subway?” Sam asks, baffled. 

Bucky smiles, watching one at least 60 feet above them speed up to a small platform ahead. “No, it's the Miami Metromover. Above ground public transit, they have stops all over Brickell. It's incredibly efficient.” 

“Brickell is where we’re at, now?” Sam asks Bucky.

“Yeah. Downtown Miami.” Bucky doesn't look away from the train car. 

Without hesitating, he says. “Alright, come on.” He grabs Bucky's elbow and starts leading them towards the raised platform.

“What? I thought we were going to the beach?” Bucky staggers behind him. 

Sam doesn't spare him a glance as he checks both sides of the street before crossing it, Bucky still in tow. Once they reach the other side, he finally lets go and tells Bucky, “Honestly I don't even know how to get to the beach from here. Was hoping you could help figure it out, but that's later if we have time. Right now, we're getting on this Metrorail.” 

“Metromover.”

Sam scowls. “Same thing.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Okay.”

They have to walk up four flights of stairs to reach the platform. There aren't many people, mostly commuters or students from what it looks like. They get a few glances, whispers and a photo taken without permission, but Sam talks Bucky's ear off the whole time. He knows Bucky will register it, but at least he won't feel self conscious with Sam yapping away. 

Getting on the tiny train car is a different affair. These things move fast, and they almost miss boarding it between it only having two doors. 

When they do board it, they're the last ones in, forced to shuffle close together at the very back. Just when Sam takes a step back to try and get some breathing room because he's suddenly feeling hot and claustrophobic, the train car lurches forward with a sudden force Sam doesn't expect. He almost knocks into the wall, when Bucky catches him by his waist. 

Sam can't bring himself to look up, straightening after finding his balance and muttering a quick “Thanks.” Before looking out the window. All he can think about is the weight of Bucky's arm, and his strong grip on Sam's hip, but when he finally glances at his partner, he's starstruck by the vantage point of the cityscape. Paired with the setting sun, Bucky is painted a golden orange color that somehow magnifies his blue eyes and handsome profile. 

Motherfucking Barnes and sunsets. 

Sam swallows back his thoughts, because he already decided it's what he's doing, no going back now. He tries his hardest to enjoy the view, but between Bucky's arm knocking into his own as the traincar rocks, the burning ghost of his hand on Sam's waist, it's extremely difficult to appreciate giant shiny buildings. 

They ride the train car until night falls and the car has gone through its entire route at least twice, giving Sam enough time to calm down, thank god. At a stop north of their own, Bucky tells him they'll be getting off there, and leads them down the stairs and onto the street. They walk side by side in amicable silence, for a few minutes before Bucky points to a bus stop and says they'll get to the beach on the next bus.

It only takes maybe 10 minutes of waiting for a large city bus to pick them up. Thankfully, it's more empty than the train car, and the bus accelerates at a reasonable pace. Sam is finally able to enjoy some of the view, as the bus exits the main street and onto a highway exit that leads into a long bridge. The skyscrapers of downtown illuminate the night as the bus drives away from it. Its a beautiful angle of the city, picturesque and untouchable, almost as if they've left their mission amidst the shadows of the buildings. 

Eventually, the automated system announces “South Beach.” They file off the bus, breathing in the scent of sand, salty ocean water and alcohol. Even by Sam's standards, which most of the weekends in his early 20s were spent partying on Bourbon Street, was it ridiculously packed.

Cars, illegally parked or not, occupy every space on the strip. Crowds of people moved in and out of the clubs that seemed to stretch on for miles on the other side of the street. Thankfully, on their side, the beach side, there doesn't seem to be much activity outside of drunks stumbling around the sand.

Sam jokes, “Bucky, are you taking me clubbing?” 

Bucky looks at him like he's never considered it. He seemingly stews on it for a moment before genuinely asking. “Do you want to?” 

Now, Sam is, technically, a 35 year old man, 40 if he wants to count being dusted. He doesn't indulge nightlife anymore, those nights came and went lifetimes ago. He couldn't even count Madripoor if he wanted to. All Bucky and him did was wander around aimlessly, avoiding talking and looking at each other while keeping an eye on Zemo as he had the time of his life drinking and dancing. 

A part of him, despite feeling old, wants to say yes. He knows they had fun in Wilton Manors, despite being on a mission, and he knows they could now. He wonders what it'd be like, in a sea of bodies dancing with Bucky. It doesn't take much imagination to know he'd be damn sexy, even if all he'd probably do is sway to the beat. Underneath colorful lights, and a few drinks in him, Sam could probably be convinced to actually say something. Or he'd just say fuck it and grind on Bucky. The image of him doing so is hilariously hot it makes him blush a little. Bucky's eyes would probably widen at Sam's boldness, but then his arms wrap around him as they did on the train-

Refraining from screaming out of frustration, he reels in his thoughts, knowing if he keeps wondering, he's gonna have a real mess of a situation in his pants.

Plus, a part of him would want all of that, without the threat of a mission pulling them away from it.

He clears his throat. “No, not tonight.” Clearly having made the right decision, Bucky sighs with relief, before leading him onto the sand a few steps away. 

They take off their shoes, and Bucky takes off his gloves before leading him closer to the shoreline. Walking side by side, Sam enjoys the peace the ocean brings, despite the boisterous activity beyond the dunes. Buckys presense serves to be grounding too, in comparison to the alternative of driving Sam nuts all day, and the man doesn't even know it. 

Sam wants to laugh at how ridiculous his day has been, having more sexual and romantic desire than he's ever really felt since Riley. Even then, they didn't know each other as long as Sam's known Bucky, nor did they have much time to explore what it meant for them. 

Riley would probably make fun of him, call Sam out for acting like a virgin, then tell Sam to make a move or he will.

He chuckles fondly at the thought, but catches Bucky looking at him questioningly. Sam shakes his head before admitting. “I was just thinking of Riley.” 

“Your wingman in the airforce?” It's really dark on the beach, but it feels like Sam can see every bit of curiosity Bucky is holding back. 

“You can ask about him.” Sam smiles. 

Bucky shrugs. “The only time you mentioned him was after I asked about the photo of you two in the living room. You looked sad afterwards, so I didn't want to push.” 

Of course, Bucky is ever respectful as always. Sam nods, remembering why he went so quiet. It's because he was thinking the same thing he is now.

“I was sad because I don't think of him as often as I used to, before we went on the run. I was in the Air Force for seven years before they recruited me for the Exo Falcon program. It was short lived, only 7 months, but he was my partner.  We were…mmm. It's a little embarrassing to admit but he's probably the closest I've ever come to a relationship, although we never talked about our feelings. Neither one of us really wanted to, since we weren't out out of the closet. That, and if our superiors found out it would've meant an instant discharge, no matter how good we were. He, ha!” Sam laughs at the memory, before continuing. 

“He used to joke that if he ever got access to the barracks cameras, he'd bet his salary we weren't the only ones in our division. Worst part is, he was dead serious, and repeatedly tried to break just to get a peek.” 

Bucky huffs. “Sounds like a troublemaker.”

“He was.” Sam shakes his head, almost letting go of all the joy of that memory. “Our last mission, he…he got hit with an RPG. Died in the air, but I-” 

The memory of Riley’s firey corpse burning as it fell through the air still makes his stomach lurch. Sam inhales and exhales slowly to calm down before continuing. “I watched him go down. They gave me honorable discharge after that, I was inconsolable. Then I worked as a vet counselor in D.C. for almost three years when I met Steve. It felt like I was in the worlds worst rut, like I was stuck there, reliving every second of his death every night. But when he asked me for help, I agreed without hesitation knowing it'd be better than whatever nightmare I was already living.” 

Bucky asks quietly. “Did it help?” 

Sam smile sadly.  “Yeah it did. Scarily so. Between Hydra, Avengers missions, searching for you, going to prison, then being on the run, it distracted me. Not enough for me to stop thinking of him, but to think of him less and less, and the pain to ease each time. When you asked me five months ago, I realized in that moment I hadn't thought of him for at least a few months, and that hurt.” 

“And now?” 

“Now?” Sam reflects for a moment. “Now I've made peace with it. When I do think of him, it's fondly, and I think that's the most I can do. Talk about him, and think about him, but not to let it be another thing I run from like I did all those years ago.” 

Bucky concentrates on the sand in front of them as they walk. He looks up at Sam. “Thank you. For telling me. I'm glad you did.” 

“Me too Bucky. Thank you. For asking and listening.” Sam knocks their shoulders together lightly. 

Sam thinks they're going to go back to companionable silence and enjoying the sights,  but when he looks at Bucky, he's not beside him. He turns around, seeing Bucky staring at the ocean a pace or two behind him. His jaw is working, and he looks pensive. “Can I ask you something?” 

“Sure. What's on your mind?” 

Buckys looks back at him, his stare giving Sam chills, like he's gazing into Sam's soul when he asks, “Do you still run?”

Sam's eyes widen. “What?” 

Bucky takes a step forward, eyes sharp while enunciating slowly. “Do you, Wilson, still run from things?” 

The tone shift throws Sam for a loop, and between his sudden attitude and cryptic question, Sam gets exasperated.

“Bucky, I-I don't know what you're talking about. What do you mean?” 

Bucky looks almost pissed at Sam. He takes another step forward, one more and he'd be crowding Sam's personal space. “You know-”

Sam rolls his eyes, before turning to keep walking and leave Bucky and his weird philosophical questioning. “Contrary to popular belief, I don't have superpowers-”

Bucky grabs Sam's wrist. It's a firm grip, but doesn't hurt. Sam looks down at where Bucky's vibranium fingers curl around his skin, the proximity viscerally reminding him something he feels he'd forgotten. 

Last night, when he was falling asleep, Bucky's hand-

Did Bucky hold my hand?

“Sam, why are you-”

A camera flashlight comes on, interrupting Buckys question. Bucky swiftly lets go of Sam, bringing his hand up to shield his eyes. 

“Awe dammit” a man's slurred voice interrupts. 

“Seriously man?” Sam calls out. He starts to walk towards the drunk, but Bucky quickly raises his arm against his chest to stop him. 

“Drop your weapon.” He says sternly. Sam can't see what Buckys talking about until the flashlight finally turns off. The guy looks about middle aged, wearing a Captain America logo shirt and in one hand is holding his phone, but on the other he's holding what looks like a pistol, but with an extra pointy plastic part sticking out of the top. 

Oh come the fuck on.

The man looks at Bucky like hes crazy, until Sam sees the moment of recognition in his face. “Huh? Oh this?” The man holds the chamber pointed at his face. 

“Woah! Woah don't point it at yourself man!” Sam laughs nervously. 

“Yes, we mean that.” Bucky slowly starts to shuffle in front of Sam. “Please. It's extremely dangerous, it's not a toy.” 

The man looks a little spooked at Buckys intensity, which Sam doesn't blame him. “Look, how about this. I'll trade you a photo for what you're holding. That's a good deal right?” 

The drunk man goofily smiles. “Haha, yeah I like that deal. Okay.” He approaches Bucky and slaps it into his hand. Both of them exhale in relief, and Sam plasters on his best Captain America smile he can muster for the photo.

The man thanks him, but before he can walk away Sam asks. “Where did you get this from?” 

“I got it from over there…” He points in the direction he came from, more north where they were heading. “The guy looked passed out, and it looked cool so, finders keepers I guess.” After the man stalks off, Sam and Bucky don't spare another second and start jogging down the beach until they see the man in question. 

Face down in the sand, is a man in dirty and torn clothing. Bucky crouches, setting down the gun and his shoes, before checking his pulse. He looks back up at Sam, shaking his head. Suddenly, Sam's phone starts vibrating. He reaches into his pocket to answer, watching Bucky turn over the body to reveal a young man, whose entire front is bloody from his slit throat.

“Wilson.”

“Sam, our last undercover agent hasn't checked in yet. It's been over an hour. I'm sending you his last known coordinates just to be sure.” 

Bucky starts to pat the body down for any evidence. He seems to find something in the mans pocket as Sam replies, “Late 20s, 5’7 ish, black with cornrows?”

Ramon sputters. “Uh. Yeah, how did you know?” Bucky stands, handing him an unfurled piece of paper that spells out in bold, all caps:

'RATON'

“We found him.” Sam sighs.

“He's dead.”

Chapter Text

Ramon dispatches the local police department to pick up the body, while he and two other analysts drive the 45 minutes south to meet them. While they wait, Bucky and Sam continue to  investigate the body. 

“The slit looks clean, I'd say a small stiletto knife. He must've been taken off guard from behind, by the way he landed face first in the sand.” Bucky says as he uses his glove to inspect the wound. “Died within the last three hours based on the dried blood and paleness. ”He steps away from the body to stand next to Sam. 

“So this is the last undercover agent.” Sam sighs dejectedly. The man looks young, probably a fresh faced cop that wanted to do some good. 

“They must’ve found out what he was doing and…” Bucky walks around the body, scanning the area. When he doesn’t find anything, he turns his attention to the pistol from the drunk man. “It’s similar to the other ones. He must’ve gotten his hands on one and run.”

Sam has a moment of morbid curiosity as to what the gun could shoot, but quickly admonishes himself. “Let’s scope the area while we wait.”

Whatever hope Sam had to find any trace of the murderer quickly deteriorated. They comb through the grass between the beach and street, and they even scope out the two closest blocks. By the time the patrol arrives to close off the area, they recount the last twenty minutes, but retain the weapon for the analysts to secure. 

Between helping coordinate the steady stream of responders, Bucky and Sam don’t have time to talk. And honestly, he's pretty okay with that. Thankfully, there isn’t a malicious tension between them like Madripoor. That night at Sharon’s party was especially painful. There were words he wanted to say, wanted to hear from Bucky, but he just couldn't bring himself to extend the olive branch. He'd already exhausted himself enough within the months prior, desperately hoping for anything to soothe the pain of losing Steve. While it's understandable why Bucky didn't respond to him, at the time he was still reeling from the betrayal. 

Although, now it's a different story. Bucky has gotten better, they both have, in terms of listening and understanding each other. Sort of. This mission has been testing their dynamic as a team. Even so, he'd still argue they're better with each other than not. Sam might get agitated by his methods, but he can't fault Bucky for lack of trying. It goes a long way, he realizes, the effort Bucky's put forward lately. Maybe Sam is truly the one falling behind. 

That doesn’t mean he has to deal with it right away though. 

Before any more self reflection, Ramon, Miller and Sydney approach him on the sidewalk. Despair is evident in Ramon’s eyes, not even bothering to hide it as he watches the body be zipped up in a black bag and carried into an ambulance. “Victor worked on our team, four years ago, before he got promoted to field agent. We had beers before he was dispatched.” 

He shakes his head, water still in his eyes before facing Sam. “We have his hotel and home address, we'll be heading there now to see if there is anything there.” 

Nodding, Sam scans the area for Bucky, who’s talking with a forensic scientist. Almost as if a Sam sensor is installed in his brain, Bucky perks up and locates at Sam, before jogging over. Against his will, Sam's heart jumps for a second at the speed of his reaction time. 

Focus Wilson.  

Ramon leads them to a black SUV, parked on the beach sidewalk. Filing in, Bucky sits to the right while Sydney sits to his left. It's quiet, until she asks him about the bracelet. He explains to her it's his suit, and she launches into her college studies about vibranium and the flexible applications of the metal. He feels Bucky looking at him, but when he asks him what’s up, Bucky just shakes his head and goes back to brooding out the window. 

Are you still running Wilson?

Sam doesn’t have any answers for him, not that he really understood the question in the first place. Is he still running from the memory of Riley? That doesn't make sense, he'd just explained his feelings on the matter. Is he running away from the shield? No, he wouldn't bring that argument up again, at least not without some improved eloquence and depth. Is he running from his insecurities? Well…actually maybe. Sam has been nothing but unsure, repressed and honestly off balance the whole mission. He feels out of his depth and unfocused. Not the worst Captain America performance, but not the best either. 

He chances another glance at Bucky, still laser focused on the city. Bucky might be right, but it doesn’t seem like the most appropriate time for that conversation anyway. 

They first stop by Victor's hotel room, about 15 minutes north east on the island. Once Ramon parks, he leads them inside a nameless peach building. The front desk receptionist is obnoxiously chewing her gym, and cooperates too easily when Ramon requests Victor's room key. 

The hotel room is too small and cramped with five people. Miller and Sydney agree to question the receptionist while they check the room.  Upon entering, Sam inspects two by two desk shoved in the corner. When he doesn't find anything, he checks out the wall behind it and the trash beside it, to no avail.  

He stands back, then turns to watch Bucky as Ramon steps into the bathroom. Bucky lifts the twin mattress, and Sam steps forward to pat down the box spring and under the mattress, finding nothing. 

They check underneath the bed, behind the bed, in the pillow and sheets, behind the single picture frame of a boat above it, and every corner of the closet. Sam looks in the kitchen cabinets, behind the refrigerator, and underneath the sink. 

He doesn't even see a hair out of place. “Ramon, are you sure Victor was staying here?” 

Poking his head out from the bathroom, he replies. “I'm sure. The receptionist confirmed he hasn't checked out.” The edge in his voice tells Sam that Ramon also noticed the uncanny cleanliness of the motel room. 

Bucky shakes his head, leaning against the counter in front of Sam. “There's nothing here.” Sam has an uneasy feeling as Bucky extends a hand to help Sam up from the floor. He takes it anyway, only to find himself almost chest to chest with Bucky in the cramped kitchen. 

“Thanks.” He mutters, astutely ignoring the heat in his cheeks while leaving the kitchen to sit on the bed. 

Mercifully, Bucky stays in the kitchen, but narrows his eyes challengingly at Sam. He's about to glare back, when Ramon leaves the bathroom, his right hand stained darkly, but he's holding a flash drive. “Not nothing. Found this in the toilet flapper. Let's see what's on it.”

Back at the Bayside apartment, Sam sits at the kitchen table, opening his laptop. Everyone gathers behind him, as Ramon hands him the cleaned drive. The device only has one file- an MP4 video labeled with a string of numbers that prompts a decryption code when he clicks on it.

They try Victor's birthday, his badge number, his height and weight. When those don't work, Bucky taps Sam's shoulder, prompting him to give up his seat. 

“Sergeant Barnes, we don't have any other guesses-” Ramon says, but Sam holds his hand up to stop him.

Smugly, he tells the analysts. “Watch this.”

Bucky opens a black window on the desktop, and starts rapidly typing codes and commands. A few more windows appear, and he expertly switches between all five of them as he works. 

“Cool.” Miller watches in wonder.

After a few more minutes, Bucky clicks the video again. This time, no password is required, the video opens and Bucky clicks play.

Victor appears to be sitting at his desk in the hotel room in a frantic state. Sam notices the walls are littered with pinned papers covered with strings, packed bags lining his bed with counter tops stacked with takeout containers and dirty dishes.

“I stole their schematics, and now they're pissed. I know he's coming for me, so I don't have much time.” He jumps as if he heard something, then hunkers down. He reaches for something behind the computer, holding up a large building plan up to the screen while whispering. “Look into these plans, it's their next target for Moneypot. They're using Andre-” What sounds like a gunshot and yelling interrupts Victor. He knocks over the recording device, before picking it back up. “Find Andre Giem. I have to go.” Victor's eyes water as he finishes with, “I love you Mimi.” Before turning off the camera. 

Ramon sniffles, then scrubs his eyes. Sam moves to the kitchen to get Ramon a few tissues which he accepts gratefully. Setting his hand on his shoulder, he whispers for the head analyst to take a minute. Ramon nods, before excusing himself to the bathroom.

Sam stands back from the video, contemplating what they just saw. “So they found his room, and cleared everything. Andre Giem, and Moneypot…” 

Miller hums in thought. “Moneypot, like honeypot or hot pot. Maybe it's a trap of some kind.” 

As Bucky replays the video on mute, screenshotting the plans and editing them, Sam is reminded of their earlier conversation with the Sheriff. “It could be what they're calling this series of events. A showcase for these weapons for buyers, demonstrating the destructive value each carries. Moneypot, they’re planning on making the jackpot.” 

Pointing to the screen, Bucky says,  “Looks like it. The plans say Bergeron Rodeo Grounds.” 

Miller and Sydney grimly skim the screen, then Sydney says, “Those are rodeo grounds in Davie, about 35 minutes north. Tomorrow is the last day of the Spring Blossom Festival, the start of the South Florida rodeo circuit season.” 

“Is it busy?” Sam asks, wondering if they can just get the show canceled for safety precautions. 

Sydney seems to know where he's going with this and shakes her head solemnly. “Most popular event in the town for the past 25 years, sold out every time.” 

Bucky types in Bergeron Rodeo Grounds into Google, clicking the website and scrolling through the event information. “She's right. All tickets are sold out. The event doors open at noon, it looks like an all day thing.” 

“Don't worry about the tickets, we'll get you to the event.” Miller says.

Ramon exits from the bathroom, nodding in agreement. He dabs another napkin under his eyes, otherwise regaining his composure. “Miller is correct. Meet us in the grounds parking lot at 11am, and we'll get you in early.” 

The analyst’s gather their things, and Ramon gratefully takes the drive. He mutters to Sam, “I'll get the message to Mimi, his aunt.” 

Emotion climbs in his throat for a moment. While Sam didn't know the man, seeing another's grief only serves to remind him of his own with Riley. 

A bone deep sigh releases against his will, causing Bucky's head to snap in his direction, unintentionally making eye contact. It’s heavy. Sad. Bucky seems to be feeling something similar to Sam, and he’s overwhelmed with the feeling of wanting to find comfort in Bucky’s arms. 

Instead, he forces himself to watch as Ramon and Miller step outside. Sydney follows, before stopping briefly to write something down on a napkin. Finished, she hands it to Sam. ‘SWAP SHOP’ with left and right directions from the main entrance bleeds the napkin threads. “I can never remember the name of the booth, but follow those directions and you should see it. You guys need to look the part if you don't want to stick out like a sore thumb tomorrow.” With that, she waves and closes the front door behind her. 

Clearing his throat in the deafening silence, he takes a picture of the directions, setting an alarm for 7:30AM to have ample time to check the place out. Right when he finishes, he hears a cautious voice. “Sam.” 

He turns to see Bucky watching him. “Bucky.” He replies flatly, unable to modulate his exhaustion. 

Bucky leans forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees.  “I’m sorry for getting so…aggressive with you.”

“I wouldn't say aggressive. I wasn't scared, just confused. It was like you were having a one sided conversation.”

A frustrated exhale has Bucky jumping to his feet. “I realize that now, I just didn’t know how to ask you-or tell you.”

His heart leaps in his throat. “T-tell me what?” He can’t mean-

“You're not talking to me. I know it's not just the mission.”

Somehow, he’s relieved and mad at the same time. He tries to rein in his anger, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I'm fine, Bucky. There’s nothing to talk about.”

He tilts his head, sarcasm dripping with the movement that sets Sam's teeth on edge. “ Maybe , or maybe not. We haven't had the best track record the past few days so can you blame me?” 

Throwing up his hands, he groans. “Oh come on I thought we squashed that! What exactly have I done to make you so worried? I'm functioning, I'm here, I'm talking! And no dumb cryptic crap, tell me, straight up.” 

Bucky flusters at his question, glancing down and anxiously massaging his hands. A full minute of silence passes, because Sam counts every second. He scoffs, waving his hand. “Not so easy is it? Goodnight Buck I'll see you in the morning.” 

Just when he's stepping through his bedroom door, he hears the Bucky take a step forward. “You called me honey , Sam. We don’t-” Bucky's voice cracks as he quietly answers. 

We don’t do that, so why? Sam's breath hitches as he stops. 

He hears Bucky huff, the creak of his leather jacket giving away the fact that he's probably alternating between crossing his arms and holding his hips. 

“Sam . Look at me.” 

“It's just a southern thing-” 

“Somehow I doubt that-”

“Like you've been doubting my words, Bucky?”  He can’t help but snap. It feels like he's been stripped naked and it's terrifying . He can't admit to it. He can't handle Bucky rejecting him, he can't handle the pain. He can't handle antagonistic jokes or even a pity laugh. Or worse yet, on the micro chance Bucky returns his feelings, he can't handle them starting something and not finishing it. The explosion just outside the condo proves to him they won't be safe until this is over. The image of Riley exploding into a fiery comet of death and decay replays in his mind, and he shudders at the thought of Bucky exploding with spiders crawling out of his eyes and nose and pretty mouth-

Choking, he interrupts his own screaming thoughts. “W-we have to wake up early, it's too l-late.” Sam moves to close the door behind him, when a boot lodges between the door and frame. 

He feels puffs of air on his neck, that god forsaken salivating scent of pine invading his senses and warmth radiating on his back. He doesn’t breathe as Bucky whispers, “We're not done talking about this.” 

Sam tries to suppress his shiver, but he's sure it's noticeable as he feels Bucky step away, and hears the other door slam. He shakily brings one hand to cover his mouth as he silently screams into it. 

Needless to say, that's the final straw on the camels back before he calls Sarah to explain what the fuck is going on. 

“I'm sorry he did what? ” She shouts.

“Shhhhh! Super soldier hearing, remember? And yes he said that while he had his foot in my door.” Running his hand over his head he feels more stressed than he ever has in his life. Bucky, acknowledging last night means he has to talk about it. He knows his partner isn't going to let it go, not completely. He didn't let Las Olas go, why would he let this go? 

Maybe he hates Sam? Hates that Sam did that to him? Feels embarrassed maybe? 

So then why did he hold your hand last night ? 

Sam groans, begging Sarah for help. “I just, I don't get it. Can you please tell me I'm not crazy for being so confused. Why is he so mad at me?”

Sarah roars with laughter. “Love makes someone say stupid shit big brother. You of all people know that.” 

Sam frowns. “What do you mean love ? No one said anything about love. I just said I think I'm crushing on him.” 

“ Hey , momma and daddy didn't raise us to be dumbasses . You literally explained to me how worried about him you've been, from being concerned about his mental health, to his safety and wellbeing. I'd say, last night and just now is the first time either of you have been honest about your feelings with each other since the Flag Smashers.” 

“But-”

“No Sam, it's my turn to talk. I'm not sure why you think avoiding what's so obvious in front of you is going to make it go away, but it isn't. You love him- like him- whatever you want to call it so you don't shut down. But it's there, it's real . And that boy certainly feels the same, or at least, something, otherwise he wouldn't have gotten into your bed last night, or tried that Casanova shit just now.” 

Sam flushes with horror as she continues. 

“I saw you for a month stress over him, checking your phone every other minute despite assuring him you'd give him his space. He sees that, and knows that both of you are a liability to each other the way you are now. Not talking about it, is what's made you vulnerable, Sam.” 

He thinks of all the times he's been distracted in Delacroix, from buying the wrong groceries because he was waiting for Bucky's call, to just his complete lack of professionalism over the past few days. It doesn't help he's not the only one feeling it, because now that he thinks about it, Bucky sent three people to the hospital because he lost his mind over Sam being injured.  

“Oh shit, I think you're right Sarah.” He says weakly. 

“You know I am. Now, instead of waiting for the mission to be over like a maniac, go over there now and tell that boy how you feel, or lord help me I will lock you both in the hallway closet when you come home.” 

Her instructions incite a boil of panic rising through his chest. He hangs his head pathetically, something making it seem like a monumentally impossible task. “I don't…I don't know Sarah I-” He chokes. “I don't know if I'll feel this in a- a month. A year. What if we can't survive the hate? Because people will hate us. Or worst of all, what if we start this and he dies? Or I die? Wouldn't it be better to just…not?”  

Softening her tone, she replies. “Would you have preferred to never start something with Riley? Stick it out as friends? No, and you know it too. What you had then was good, but this time it can be different. It can be better. Why? Because Bucky can actually talk about his feelings, even though it's in a really dumb way. Who asks ‘are you still running?’ as a way to confess?” 

Chuckling wetly, he agrees. “That's what I'm saying.” She laughs, before he hypes himself up. “Okay. Okay, I'll do it. You're right, we don't know what's gonna happen, I'm gonna do it. One night is better than none.”

“That's it big brother.” She cheers, before adding, “Just do it quickly so neither one of you fall asleep on your mission tomorrow.” 

He sniffles, checking the time to be 11:52PM. “Shit, you're right. God, we have the worst timing. Thank you Sarah. I love you.” 

“Love you too bro.” She says before hanging up. 

The silence of the ended call is loud and oppressing. All the courage he had on the phone with Sarah dies immediately. 

Fuck, I said I'd do it. I have to now.

Not even the first time he hooked up with Riley was this difficult if he was being honest. They just looked at each other and knew . They didn't have a complicated history tying them down. They didn't have a bitter and forced association with one another, they didn't lose a best friend together, much less build a well endowed partnership together on the field and outside of it to risk. 

No more thinking, just doing. 

He gets up from his bed, marching to his door before throwing it open, only to see Bucky with his hand raised to knock, wearing Sam's pajamas from yesterday. Bucky's stunning eyes raise to meet Sam's. 

I'm gonna say it, I'm gonna say it-

“Bucky…I-I-”

“I know who Andre Geim is.” 

“ What ?!” 

At his surprise, Bucky's brow furrows in confusion, before clarifying. “I spent the last hour researching the name, I knew I heard it somewhere but I couldn't place it. Andre Geim is a Nobel prize physicist that Hydra wanted me to find in the 90s. I almost had him, then I broke my programming for a minute and he got away. They…anyway they weren't happy, but didn't make me try to find him again so I guess they found a different scientist and…well I forgot about it.” 

Mentally shaking off the whiplash, Sam tries his hardest to concentrate, and ignores Bucky's chest that's alluringly close. 

He really could just reach over…

No, not right now he has a lead. 

This is exactly what he didn't want. To be distracted. 

Fucking blue eyes. 

Forcing himself to focus on what Bucky just said, he realizes whatever Hydra had wanted him for is probably a similar reason he's a target. “Do you know what they wanted from him or if he ever resurfaced?” 

“All I know is that he'd used the Nobel money to start research on how quantum manipulation can protect wildlife reserves from light and sound pollution. He disappeared not long after I failed to retrieve him, there hasn't been any trace of him since. I scanned financial and cyber networks just to be sure.”  

No trace of him for over 30 odd years means complete disappearance from the modern network. Either Andre Geim has some very powerful connections protecting him, or…

Sam's eyes widen. “He's the reason homeless people are disappearing.” Sam grabs Bucky's arms at the breakthrough. “Bucky, we find Andre, we win this chess match. If they don't have him yet, that means these weapons are, like we suspected, faulty and unfinished. If they do have him, he’ll be close to if not guarded by the same people we’re after.” 

Bucky blinks, then glances at Sam's hand. 

What is so firm- he didn't even realize he was gripping Bucky so tightly. “Oh sorry.” Taking a step back out of Bucky's personal space, he turns to retrieve his phone to text Ramon. 

“Wait. This is kind of sensitive right?” Bucky steps into Sam's room, but doesn't move past that. 

Sam hesitates before putting his phone down. They'll have to update Ramon in the morning. “Right. Thanks Buck. And you know I could've helped right?” 

His eyes flicker towards the wall before shrugging one shoulder. “You were talking to Sarah, I didn't hear, but I knew. Wanted to leave you to it.” 

Right. Sarah. 

He swallows, the words sticking to the inside of his throat like a stubborn cough drop. The most he can bring himself to do is mutter. “Okay. Appreciate it.” 

As Bucky turns to leave, Sam's brain sticks on one piece of information Bucky mentioned, knowing he’s probably going to regret dragging this out longer. “You mentioned Hydra. You gonna be alright?” 

Avoiding eye contact, Bucky looks truly and utterly lost, an uncomfortable picture for Sam to see. “I uh…I don't know.” He dryly chuckles. “Guess we’ll find out.” 

Every fiber in his body is screaming at him not to say something. Bucky is a grown man who has been dealing with his issues longer than Sam's had any say in them. But deep down, deep, deep down where his longing and attraction have been festering, he knows he wants Bucky in his bed again. And if the excuse is for his partner to get some much needed rest, then so be it. 

“Bucky.”

“Mmh?” 

Sam takes a deep breath in, then out, before asking. “Did you want to sleep with me again?”

Bucky's eyes bulge out of his sockets. “ What?!” 

At his reaction, Sam can't help but wince,  before dropping onto his bed. “Look, you and I both know you're not going to sleep well tonight. We both got some good rest last night, it’ll help me too. It's okay. Not a big deal.” 

Not a big deal his ass . Sam tries to feign nonchalance, but the thought of Bucky lying in the bed next to him, listening to his soft breaths feels like he signed himself up for a long night of watching the ceiling. 

Bucky stares at him like he's grown a third eye, and from how frequently he's been doing that it might just be the case. Bucky shakes his head, closing the door before sitting next to Sam. “We need to talk, Sam.”

He sighs. He doesn't even know what he'd say to Bucky. That he likes him? Once again, it feels awfully ill-timed. He’s still on edge about the full extent of his feelings, Bucky just spent the last hour probably stewing on some fucked up HYDRA mind control, they're both tense about the mission, about the piling body count, about fighting earlier. It feels like it wouldn't be the sweet, patient confession Sam wants.

Or maybe you're just scared Sarah is wrong. 

“About yesterday, I know. And we will, I promise but let's just. Sleep. We both need it.” 

“You can say it.” Scoffing, he shakes his head, doubting they mean the same thing. If Bucky did know, then it wouldn't truly matter to say it now would it? He can say it later. After the mission. 

Before he can lift the comforter, he feels Bucky's right hand rest gently on Sam's wrist, stopping him. 

“I need you to say it.” 

Shocked, he can only gape at Bucky's wide and vulnerable eyes. 

Say what? What does he think I need to say? 

Weaponizing his sad dog puppy eyes, and pouty lips, Sam would suspect Bucky's fucking with him if it weren't for the glisten in his eyes showing his distress. He sits back down next to Bucky, covering the hand resting on his own. 

“Bucky…I-” he chokes, something telling him he can't admit it. 

Not yet. 

“I can't. We're in the middle of a mission. I can't have this conversation now. Please.” 

Bucky closes his eyes, letting out a shuddering breath before shakily saying. “Is this because you don't trust me?” 

“ No ! No I do trust you. I trust you with Sarah, the kids, my life. I just…” 

He thinks of his doubt, his fear, his paranoia. Moments of clarity like last night or the train don't leave much room for imagining what it's like to have it interrupted, but when it is, he's smacked back down by reality telling him he has a duty to fulfill, and anything else is irrelevant. 

“I don't trust myself right now. I need to be careful. I don't-”

That, and he's afraid. Afraid of who he might become if he lost another partner-

Sam shakes his head to refocus, staring at the wall in front of them instead. “I have some things I need to figure out. On my own time.” He huffs. “And I'll talk to you about it after. I'll answer everything you want me to. But not while we're here, on a mission. You get me?” 

There's a beat of silence, where Sam would have assumed Bucky disappeared into the wind if it weren't for his hand on his own. He stubbornly doesn't look to check either, but he hears Bucky emit a deep sigh, before replying with, “Okay Sam, I get you.” 

At his words, Sam chances a glance. And…

Oh God. 

That look is not unlike bedroom eyes he's gotten from many men over his lifetime. A simple tilt of the head and eye contact through his eyelashes that spells desire. Even though Sam refuses to talk about… it …his crush, whatever he has on Bucky, Sam has a sudden impending feeling his partner has successfully read between the lines.

He might have just been honeypotted. 

Ah shit. 

The moment ends as Bucky stands. Except, he starts walking away and not to the other side of the bed. 

Bucky opens the door, before turning to lean against the doorframe. Sam doesn't know why, but Bucky leaning on shit seems to just do it for him. Whether it's his muscles flexing through the tight shirt or his open posture, not helping Sam imagine what it'd be like to trace his hands all over. It's insufferable torture that's making all logic fade into white noise.

“You’ll be okay?” What he means to ask is if Bucky wants to sleep in his bed again, but the words get stuck in his throat, somehow more difficult to say now that there's a low to moderate chance he's been found out. 

Swallowing back the fear stuck in his airways, Sam doesn't even know what he expected. For Bucky to jump into his arms? Or run away screaming? Not this casual attitude, although maybe he doesn't know? Either way, he doesn't even know why he asked the question again. He blames the static growing louder and louder, making everything feel fuzzy. 

Then, it suddenly stops as Bucky subtly licks his lips before huskily saying, “I don't think it'd be a good idea. Sweet dreams, Wilson.” 

The door softly closes with a click, leaving Sam to fail to process the last twenty minutes of his life.

Sleep doesn't come easy that night, as expected. After endless tossing and turning, Sam dozes off a dreamless sleep for a few hours, but his internal clock wakes him up at 6AM. 

Groggily stumbling out of bed, his body functions on its own to get him ready for the day. He tries washing his face after his shower, again , but he still feels like death ran him over. He pulls on whatever clothing is in reach, a white t-shirt and jeans. There is a moment, where despite being half asleep still he wonders if Bucky will yell at him. Will acknowledge last night and the night before, declaring their friendship null and void. 

He slaps the side of his cheek before stepping out onto the hallway. No sense in dwelling on it. If Bucky couldn’t say it, he won't either. Not seeing Bucky in the shared living space, he tries to reason it off as Bucky's sleep schedule is notoriously unpredictable and ignores the tendrils of insecurity on his shoulders.

Making it all the way through brewing a few cups of coffee for the two of them, he pours himself one before turning. Bucky's vibranium catches the cup Sam drops in surprise at seeing Bucky is standing excruciatingly close to him. At most maybe an inch of space between the two. 

“Morning.” He smiles like Sam is made of the sun, setting the cup down and resting both his hands on the counter beside Sam's waist. 

Sam clears his throat, trying not to let the proximity spiral his mind out of control, but it's probably the hardest thing he's ever done. Bucky's tight black t-shirt and tight black jeans leaves nothing to the imagination, and given his intense eyes, his smell and-

“What happened to personal space?” Sam barely manages out. 

Bucky drawls. “Nothin’.” Bucky lifts his right hand to thumb Sam's chin, and despite every effort to steel himself, a small gasp escapes. The smirk it earns is self-entitled, and yet frustratingly sexy. He moves his hand painstakingly slow across Sam's cheek, and instead of firmly grasping Sam's neck like he anticipates, Bucky just opens the cabinet behind him and retrieves his own cup. 

“I'm just gettin’ coffee, doll .” He finishes before stepping away to pour it. He doesn't break eye contact with Sam, taking a sip and letting out a dramatic sigh, one that borders on a moan, before sauntering back into his room. It’s the same determined strut he uses in battle, except slower, purposeful, filthier . 

Sam is left speechless, gaping like a fish out of water. 

He was right. Not only did Bucky catch on…

He's teasing Sam. 

I'm fucked. 

If Sam thought the kitchen incident, as he's labeled it in his mind, was the best Bucky could do.

He was naively wrong. 

Bucky beats Sam to the passengers side, which Sam knows is on purpose, seeing as he hands Sam a mug with the remainder of his coffee he left behind in the kitchen. Then, he connects his Bluetooth to the car, playing Let's Get it On by Marvin Gaye. Sam screeches to a halt in the middle of the parking garage, shutting it off and glowering at Bucky. 

Like the little shit he is, he just shrugs and asks, overtly innocently. “I thought you loved Marvin Gaye?” 

“Ugh.” He turns it back on and skips the track, but another love song plays titled Another Bloody Love Song. 

He keeps the radio off for the rest of the drive, hoping Bucky gets the message to shut up for the next hour. Instead, his partner proceeds to be the worst little shit in history, messing with air conditioning, opening and closing the glove compartment without searching for anything, and flipping the passenger visor up and down. Sam calls him out at first, even tries swiping at Bucky's hands searching for something to mess with, but after the fifth time Bucky stares at him while aggressively lowering and raising the window, Sam decides to quietly simmer and ignore his partner. 

When they finally park at the Swap Shop, a giant shopping mall framed by metal and aluminum that looks like it's survived a lot worse than rust, Bucky's eyes tell Sam he knows something Sam doesn't. 

“ What .” Sam seethes, irritation he's trying and failing to moderate boiling on his tongue. 

Bucky shrugs nonchalantly, popping on his sunglasses like Sam isn't having a crisis at the way he leans against the back in his seat. Open arms and sprawled out like he's inviting Sam to climb onto his lap, pull the lever on the chair down and grind down until they both-

He doesn't wait for Bucky to answer as he clambers out of the car like it's on fire. 

Fuck, Wilson, get it together!

Following Sydney's directions, they walk outside the perimeter of the building past the out of service carnival rides, past the canopied stage and vendor stands, and right under another metal covering where vendor booths line perpendicular to each other. The very first one is where they stop, a Mexican western goods retailer. 

“Hola Caballeros, que necesitan?” A young man appears at their side almost out of thin air. 

“Hola señor, vamos al rodeo hoy. Tienen algo para nos pongamos?” Bucky asks. 

Sam raises an eyebrow, having never heard Bucky speak Spanish. Although, of all the languages he knows, Sam supposes Spanish makes the most sense. It suits him somehow, and if he had brown eyes instead of blue he could probably pass as hispanic. 

“Sígueme porfavor.” The man beckons them into the booth, where a wall of cowboy hats is displayed elegantly. A simple, white hat with a red and black feather on the side, tucked into the silver studded black strap above the brim attracts his attention. “That one.” He points to it. Then, Bucky points to the one beside it, the inverse of his own, black with a blue and white feather on it. 

Whatever conversation Bucky and the man had in Spanish must've been a charming one, seeing as suddenly Sam was holding boots and a belt that continued the color scheme of his hat. As they walk away from the vendor, Sam can't help but ask. 

“Did you seriously just spend $300 on stuff we're wearing just this once?” 

Bucky shakes his head, leading them back the way they came. “ I definitely won't be wearing it once.” 

“Where else can you wear this? We aren't moving to Florida, and last I checked New York City doesn't have the land for cattle ranches.” 

“You lack imagination, sweetheart ,” the endearment makes him almost trip over a bolt screw on the pavement, the heavy silence implying where else he might use it - the bedroom - before his voice clears Sam’s clouding mind.  “Louisiana has rodeo's.” 

“Oh it does, does it?” Sam's too exasperated to put any feeling into it, thankful to be finally reaching the car. 

With a click of the key fob, they put their stuff in the trunk. He's about to walk back to the driver's seat, when Bucky pushes Sam against the trunk with his palm to Sam's chest. His heart thuds loudly in his chest, which he knows Bucky can feel. His proximity quickly setting his skin on fire, and knowing Bucky could just slot himself between Sam's legs does nothing to settle the red on his cheeks. 

“Wh-”

Bucky's mischievous smirk returns as he replies. “That it does, sweetheart .” He lifts his hand to dangle the keys in front of Sam's face, before moving to the driver's side and calling, “C'mon, we'll be late!” 

The keys were in his back pocket.

Bucky's hand went in his back pocket. 

Bucky touched Sam's ass . 

Even if he didn’t feel it, Sam slides into the passenger's seat, fuming, at this point. He can't even feel real joy knowing at the bare minimum Bucky is attracted to him, otherwise he wouldn't have touched Sam's ass, jokingly or not. 

It's at that point the relentless teasing has only made things painful for him. It's sexy, and hot and all Sam ever wanted, but it's things Sam wants with Bucky consistently. Not with the risk maybe Bucky won't want to come back to Delacroix with him for a while, and not with the risk their friendship couldn't survive the press or pressure. And with Bucky throwing it back in his face, it just adds fuel to the little voice in his head that tells him it wouldn't work out even if they tried. 

Because what friend does that? He asked him to wait , and yet he takes it as a challenge. Whether to annoy him, cheer him up, whatever the reason may be, it serves to only piss him off more. 

He feels Bucky glancing at him throughout the ride back south to Davie, but keeps his focus trained on the road. Thankfully, he has enough sense to keep quiet the rest of the way over. When they arrive, about 10 minutes earlier than their designated time, Bucky finds a spot under a tree some yards away from the entrance. 

“Sweetheart.” Bucky turns to face Sam in his seat. 

“Bucky . ” Sam grits out. 

He's just trying to rile you up. 

“You'll have to talk to me for the mission.” He says as he pops the trunk and steps out. 

Sam follows, seeing Bucky retrieve his stuff first to hand it to him. He turns away from Bucky, removing his shoes first to put on the boots. “Do I?” 

He hears Bucky chuckle, as he slides off his belt next. “Okay, so sweetheart is crossed off the list. Noted.” 

One moment Sam is tightening and clicking closed his Buffalo belt buckle, then next he has his arm across Bucky's chest against the car. Bucky has his hat, belt and shoes on, and between the leather jacket, black shirt and jeans Sam understands now why he gave Sam that secretive look earlier. 

Because apparently, Bucky knew Sam had a thing for cowboys before he knew it himself. He feels his cheeks burn hot and hates the smirk Bucky gets from seeing it. 

Sam still tries to push forward with the heat he started with, but it sounds weak even to his own ears. “ Quit it . I asked you to wait and here you are messing with me. That's too far Bucky, even for you.” 

Bucky raises an eyebrow, still amused.  “Really? You think I'm just messing with you?” 

“Yeah, asshole. You're trying to get me angry or-or I don't know, making fun of me-”

Bucky grips Sam's bicep hard , and for a second he thinks Bucky is going to flip him onto the ground. Instead, Bucky only narrows his eyes sharply, suddenly turning serious like he did on the beach. “I've been a lot of things Sam, but I would never play with your feelings like that.” 

Sam searches his eyes for any wavering, but when he doesn't find any, he slides his arm off. 

“Then, why-”

“You said you didn't want to talk about it .” Bucky shakes his head, keeping his grip firm on Sam's arm. “And you know, I wasn't going to say anything either. But I'm sick of seeing you run. Sick of feeling like what I'm feeling is wrong. It-” Groaning, he drags his other hand over his face. “A whole month of me feeling like shit about it once I realized how I felt, whole month of going back and forth about it with my therapist. I didn't mean to let it get this far, but now that it has I can't go back.” 

At Sam's stunned silence, he sighs, grabbing Sam's hat from the top of the car, gently fitting it on his head. “So. You need time. Okay that's fine. I've got nothing but time. But until you're ready to face it , I'm going to flirt with you because I know I can, I know you want me to, and maybe it'll help you figure out what you want from me. Baby. ” 

He grips Sam's hip with his vibranium hand, almost like he's marking his territory.  Before Sam can even process the bruising handprint, Bucky steps away and waves to someone behind Sam. He turns, seeing Ramon, Miller and Sydney grinning at their getups. 

“Hey, looks like you guys found it!” Sydney says joyously. 

Sam can only give a fake smile, while Bucky chats them all up. He doesn't even hear what they're saying, because all he can think about is that fucking hand on his waist. The ghost of metal seeping through his skin, so tantalizing Sam can't decide if he wants to drag Bucky behind the car and rip off his clothes, or run away back to Delacroix and have a much needed private panic attack. 

Because the very real, terrifying reality is that Bucky has feelings for him. Has been having feelings for him. 

The man who has been glued to Sam's hip since Walker picked up the shield, the man who has fought more wars than anyone he's ever met, loves play fighting with his nephews, enjoys cooking and binging Netflix, has field days with books and hates getting a good night's rest before flights, the man who opens doors for him, insists on treating the stupid mission like a vacation, who treats him to meals every chance he gets, who will fight to protect and avenge him-

His partner , through rebuilding the Avengers, through rebuilding themselves.

Has feelings for him. 

“Shit.” He wheezes, looking at Bucky's strong jaw, kind eyes and smoothed wrinkles. 

It feels like he's seeing him for the first time. 

“What?” Ramon asks. Sam looks away as Bucky turns his head to meet his gaze. 

“Uh nothing.” Sam asks Ramon to repeat what he said, and Ramon gives him a look that reminds him why exactly he didn't want to know this until he had the time and space to freak out about it. 

“Here are your comms. You'll have access to the arena now so I suggest you take a look before people start to pour in. Keep an eye out for Mayor Jeff Sheppard's. He's been known to attend the rodeos before, and he'll have reason to be here again.” 

Sam recalls the debriefing session they had at the Sheriff's office on Las Olas when they first arrived. “Sheppard's was one of the politicians that disappeared but came back right?” 

Miller nods. “Yup. We interrogated him on his whereabouts and connections to Los Seminarios, but he was a tough cookie. Didn't crack. We had been able to track some contracting work from a few of Lo Castro's men, but nothing concrete enough to incriminate.” 

Bucky puts his comm in, thanking them before the analysts say goodbye for now and walk back the way they came. Then, he turns to Sam, tilting his head questioningly. Sam ignores him, putting in the comm.

“Not very Captain-like to zone out like that, Wilson.” 

He steals his emotions as much as he can because he can't acknowledge the L word. He might just break down, curl into a ball right on this nice patch of grass under the shaded tree and cry. So instead, he refutes harsher than he intends. “I think I've entertained you enough Barnes.” 

Moving towards the entrance of the rodeo, it's empty save for some staff starting to get the food and vendor tents ready. He hears Bucky jog to catch up, but continues to maneuver with purpose. The bright red arena looms above, and he sees where they need to go at the very end of the rodeo grounds. 

“Don’t be mad doll, you said-”

Panic swells in his chest as he turns quickly, shoving his finger in Bucky's face. “I am not talking about this with you, on an open line for fucks sake Bucky.” 

Bucky has enough sense to look a little abashed. “Alright alright. Sorry do-Sam.” 

He huffs, searching Bucky's face, before turning and continuing down the aisle next to the first row of bleachers. Rounding the metal pole to access the underside, he presses a few buttons on the bracelet to form his visors, scanning for any objects or substances that could've been placed under the seats. 

Thinking of how he snapped at Bucky, he feels bad. While he wouldn't be ashamed of Bucky being his partner in more ways than one, they haven't talked about it. Having the analysts hear their private conversation isn't the most ideal way Sam wants to start this… whatever …off. If only Bucky kept his mouth shut, Sam wouldn't be so unhinged about the fact that maybe he and Bucky do have a chance at this thing. 

He should be happy, elated, Bucky has feelings for Sam. That he isn't just teasing Sam, that he's attracted to Sam. Likes him, maybe even-

And yet, for keeping Sam on edge, for being infuriatingly vague, for being a damn enigma that loves to make Sam's heart jump in his throat, he wants to punch Bucky. 

With his mouth.

Maybe have some satisfyingly long overdue, rough, angry sex. 

The image of bending Bucky over the bright red railing next to them is enough to make him salivate. Punishment for teasing Sam, not letting him get a word or say in. Maybe Bucky's whole thing is getting back at Sam for not talking about it last night, which he'd let Bucky have his way with Sam under the bleachers, giving Sam a run for his money on this new cowboy kink he apparently has. 

Shut up brain! Not the time or place!

“Christ.” He mutters as his face heats up and his dick twitches with interest.

“What?” Bucky asks behind him. 

“Nothing!” He yells, more at himself. The deafening silence makes him glance over his shoulder to see Bucky raising his hands up again, quirking an eyebrow in confusion. Embarrassment bubbling in his throat, he awkwardly straightens muttering, “Don’t say a word.” Before turning again to walk out of the bleachers to the closest corral to his right. 

He starts to open the first gate, but a vibranium hand clangs against the metal next to Sam's, forcing it closed. Baffled, Sam looks at Bucky to ask what the fuck is his problem, when he sees the mischievous grin on his partners face. Bucky shoves past Sam, entering the corral first. 

Oh so that's how we're gonna play it. 

As they inspect the corrals, their investigative process is passive aggressive at best, fighting at its worst. From Sam tipping Bucky over by ‘accident’ into the dirt when he crouches, to stepping on Bucky's boots when he tries to inspect the gates for anything that sticks out. He won't admit to anyone, not even Bucky, that seeing his shocked face every time chokes him with desire to join him in the dirt and really see if the shower back at the condo is big enough for two. 

Retribution takes the form of Bucky holding the metal closed every time he tries to open the next gate. So Sam, like the petty man he is, grips Bucky's hands tight, shoving against his side as roughly as he can, but Bucky is as solid as a rock like always. 

“Are you guys okay?” 

A younger but worn looking man is gathering rope in his hands as he calls to them across the corrals. Sam looks at Bucky, who's looking at him like he forgot they weren't the only two people in the world. Not that Sam is doing any better. He steps away from Bucky, wiping his hands down as if there was something on them before clearing his throat and answering. “Yeah man. Thanks. Just…checking the uh… fencing-”

“Durability-” Bucky fumbles out. 

“Yup, that.” Sam nods a little too aggressively.

The young man narrows his eyes, before widening them. “Oh! You're-” 

Sam recognizes this face, and thanks the lord it's not the same one his 9th teacher had when she caught him kissing DeAndre in the hallway. “Yeah-Yes! But uh…keep it quiet man. We're undercover.” Sam laughs before winking. 

The young man nods excitedly, then starts unlocking the gates to meet them in the middle. He turns to Bucky, expecting his usual casual demeanor. Instead, he looks a little…scared. 

Sam throws out their little rivalry and situation out the window. He reaches into his own ear, then Bucky’s, much to his confusion, to take off the comms before asking lowly, “What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I just-” Sam raises an eyebrow, making him sigh. “The girl from the Sheriff's office, and now him. I was- I've been getting too comfortable. Now these people idolize me for something I'm not. That woman at the Airbnb despised me. And they should . Especially after Bayside. And you should too.” Bucky trails off before turning away from him. Before he can turn completely, Sam grabs his arm, firmly, but not demandingly. 

The young man is coming closer, so Sam doesn't really have the time he wants to really sit and unpack this with Bucky. But he also knows he can't leave his partner's feelings unmediated. 

“ No . They shouldn't fear you. And they don't. At least, not the girl and not this kid. You are incredible Bucky and I- '' 

It's frustrating how easily the words threaten to spill about how beautiful, selfless and kind Bucky has always been. From throwing himself in front of Sam to block the spider kids’ hit in Berlin all those years ago, to cleaning Sam's vomit off their suits, Bucky never stopped being himself. And that's what more and more people are seeing every day he works as an Avenger. What the community in Delacroix had seen since day one. 

That despite his long ledger wrapped around the world, he is still a man who persists in kindness and love and happiness.

Thinking of his softened nature, his protectiveness, his joyous smile and mischievous grin only serves to clench Sam's throat, and seeing the guilt Bucky burdens himself with makes his heart ache. 

Swallowing back the overwhelming tidal wave of feelings he has for his partner, he pushes past those feelings as now's not the time, making him briefly wonder when will be?

Probably never, so might as well. 

“Us being repressed about our own feelings has nothing to do with what you do or don't deserve. If it did, then you'd deserve the world.” 

Bucky's mouth falls open, searching Sam's face in shock. All he can do is give a genuine smile in return, and triumphantly think, finally shut him up as he shoves their comms back in their respective ears . Before Bucky can reply, the young man unlocks the last gate to join them in their corral.

“So, secret mission!?” He practically wiggles with excitement. 

“Something like that, yeah. Now, we need your help making sure everything is safe for this event. You think you can help us with that?” Sam answers, hoping the kid doesn't notice the shakiness in his voice. 

“Yeah of course! What do you need?” 

Scanning the arena, there aren't any obvious vantage points they missed except for one. They can double back under the other set of bleachers later, but he notices a booth from the direction the young man came in sitting above a tower of red metal. “What's that?” He points. 

“Oh that's the judges booth. The MC usually stays up there too.” 

“Can you let us in?” 

Smiling, he gestures. “Follow me!” 

They inspect every corner of the inside, with all the equipment and cases to ensure nothing is hidden. Climbing to the top of the booth, there isn't much set up, and no hidden traps or secret compartments either. Interestingly, there is the ability to oversee the entire arena, and even get a good look at the vendors setting up outside. Sam workshops best vantage points and blind spots, mindlessly thinking Clint Barton would probably be a good addition to their team right about now. He’s overheard Clint say something about seeing better from afar. 

“So.” Bucky says from under his hat. Sam can’t see most of his face, but his tightly crossed arms suggest something is on his mind.

“So?” Sam raises his eyebrow, before going back to observing the staff set up the event below.

Bucky shuffles in place, clearing his throat. 

“I-mm. I'm sorry for pushing you. For running too.”  

Sam sighs. “I'm sorry for running, and overstepping.” He lightly shoves Bucky's shoulder. “Seriously. We’re good, Buck.” Something in his eyes screams insecurity when they meet Sam’s. It's then he realizes, their relationship, their… whatever isn't necessarily a game or something to have fun with, but a chance for stability.

The man probably hasn't had any semblance of romance or love since the 40s. Steve's gone, for both of them, the public has always been indifferent at the best of times with him, he has no other family or friends besides Sam and the community he's built in Delacroix. It makes him think of one time Bucky opened up to Sam about therapy. How one assignment had been to figure out what he wanted out of life. Bucky stared long and hard at Sam, before saying he hadn't decided yet. 

Sam had the feeling he lied, and now it's confirmed. He knows it's not that Bucky has latched onto Sam like a parasite, depending on Sam for a purpose. More like they've ended up depending on each other, but healthily helping each other grow as people. Sam needs Bucky just as much as Bucky needs Sam. He could've run off during their month separation, found a different purpose, but he still stayed. He still chooses Sam. 

Because Bucky sees Sam for who he is. Because they trust each other, and because Sam isn't afraid of Bucky. Never has been, is pretty confident he never will be. 

And Sam, once again, has disregarded everything he's learned about Bucky because of his own insecurities and fears. 

Keep fucking up Wilson, there might not be any more chances to fuck up again. 

Inhaling deeply, he says. “Bucky, I'm sorry.” He discreetly reaches his hand to entwine with Bucky’s, which earns a wide eyed double take. “We will talk about this. I promise. Right now we need to get through this rodeo, okay?” 

Bucky squeezes his hand as his cheeks darken. He must know Sam can see it, because he lowers the brim of his hat over his face with his vibranium one. “Thanks, Sam.” 

He smiles, the butterflies that felt nauseating before come back brighter and fuller at Bucky’s shyness. 

Confidently, he tells himself, We’ll have time.

And of course, Sam is wrong.

They don’t have time. 

Doing another three sweeps of the entire grounds allows them to mess around with the vendors a little. Bucky points out a leather purse Sarah might like, while Sam coerces Bucky to try some stuffed arepas. Passing the pony rides for kids incites Sam to tell Bucky the story of Sarah and her husband taking AJ and Cass to a goat farm thinking goats were harmless for toddlers, only to snap a photo of the exact moment a goat bites AJs finger. 

Bucky scowls at the pony as if it were the same animal that hurt AJ, muttering he'd probably throw the goat if he was there, making Sam laugh and tell a dumb joke about how super soldiers does it take to lift a pony. This in turn earns him a comment about how many super soldiers it takes to carry Sam Wilson. Anyone else would've taken it as an insult, but Bucky’s grin and pink tinged cheeks tells him the answer is only one super soldier, and he'd go willingly. 

The analysts somehow get them VIP tickets, settling into the bleachers next to the corrals a few minutes before the show starts. The plan is for Bucky to sneak away in 15 minutes to do another sweep of the place. During that time, Sam is to watch the arena for any signs of shady figures or weapons. Rinse and repeat as many times as they can throughout the show. 

Bucky returns from his first sweep about twenty five minutes later, hauling another round of arepas, which incites Sam to tell another joke about how many arepas does it take to get to the fill the stomach of a super soldier. The second sweep he returns with gifts for Sarah and the boys that has Sam’s heart thudding hard enough to make him think he’s having a heart attack. Instead, he intertwines his hand with Bucky's resting on the bleacher bench as a thank you, trying not to let Bucky’s staring make him blush.

By the time Bucky gets ready for the third sweep, over two hours into the rodeo, they announce a legendary act returning tonight known as the Wrangler. An expert wild horse wrangler that’s been on hiatus for ten years, who's making an exclusive come back tonight. Plenty of people seem to know who he is, based on the cheers when they play clips of his previous performances on the arena screens. 

Bucky makes a pouty face, and Sam laughs before offering to sweep this time if he wants to catch the performance. 

“It’s alright Sam, let's stick to the plan. We can see him next time.” Bucky smiles almost adoringly at him, making his breath hitch, before disappearing into the crowd.

A few minutes later, a truck with a giant trailer, at least twelve feet long drives onto the arena, kicking up a mini sandstorm before parking in the middle. Metallic red and black flashily decorates the trailer, with a platform between the truck and trailer attachment. The Wrangler sits gallantly on top of a black horse, dressed in white and red studded leather from head to toe.

Sam watches with power planted in his knees, ready to spring to action at a moment's notice because Bucky didn’t report this trailer, at all. “Bucky, did you get a chance to check inside the trailer?” 

Only static answered him. 

“Buck?” 

When no response came again as the trailer drives onto the arena, he stands looking for a familiar brunette in the crowd. “Team report on Bucky’s location.” Their comms have trackers thankfully for moments exactly like this one. Sam is jogging down the steps of the bleachers when a shaky voice answers. 

“He-his comm is off-” 

The crowd riles up, some standing and stomping their feet in excitement as the Wrangler taunts the crowd with his whip. Sam slowly turns to the performer and trailer he struts atop. 

The trailer stops, and the Wrangler guides his horse down onto the arena. He boasts into his microphone, “You won’t believe what wild prey I’ve hunted tonight!” 

Distantly, he hears, “Oh god Sam the last location-”

“For your entertainment, one night and one night only-”

No-

“The Winter Soldier!”