AND HONESTLY IM DOWN FOR ANYTHING. i like action brackets but can also do prose too! i ship them really hard but can also do bromance/tension! happy or sad or intense or WHATEVER. i have tfatws brainrot right now so i could be up for literally anything. c:
do you have any preferences, though??? c:
Edited (I FORGOT TO ADD THE QUESTION LOL) 2021-04-20 19:30 (UTC)
I'm very happy with action brackets, every time I try to prose, I forget that's what I'm doing halfway through the thread and revert back to brackets because I'm so used to them...>.>
I'll go with bromance to start with, if it's all the same to you o/ I'm about as rusty at rping as bucky is at socializing, so if anything doesn't work feel free to kick me onto the right path/ignore my starter and write your own
~*~
[ nightmares are a fact of life for bucky, have been for a long time. really, the only time they stopped was when the part of him that identifies itself as "bucky" was pushed way down deep into his subconscious, battered to all hell, broken, and buried under mountains of programming, and the occasional hydra propaganda, depending on how what level of humanity any given handler decided to assign to him. in a way, it's almost comforting, to have them, they let him know he's still mostly himself, mostly in control.
but this one? this one's definitely a new one. it's not exactly worse than the others - he's not killing an innocent person in it, not ruining an economy, a country, a family, not remembering a true event - but it's not better, either.
in his dream, he stands before an eleven year old steve rogers; scrawny as he was, he could easily pass for eight. but true to form, the kid doesn't let their size difference hold him back one little bit - he glares at bucky like he's the scum of the earth, like nothing will save him from the well deserved dose of justice that's about to rain down on his head.
it's one of the shortest nightmares he has, because that look alone - the disappointment, the loathing, the disgust on his best friend's face - it's enough to have his heart racing, his adrenaline pumping, and his body waking up ready to defend himself from a lethal blow. but how do you defend against your own head? it's not a question he's ever managed to answer.
bucky pulls himself up to his feet, quiet as, well, an assassin, and walks out to the porch. it's probably not the smartest move, considering people are trying to kill them, and he knows better than anyone just how patient a sniper can be, but maybe a part of him just doesn't care. ]
THANK GOODNESS BECAUSE ME TOO. it's just a habit i can't break anymore.
AND THAT IS TOTALLY FINE WITH ME. i love every interaction between these two. also!!! how are you on spoilers? c: i can adjust any of the below if need be.
-------
[ sam wilson should, for all intents and purposes, be used to this kind of thing by now. the last few years of his life has built him up to a place where this - any of this - shouldn't be surprising. not alien attacks, not intergalactic wars, not time travel, and certainly not bounties on their heads. people being out to kill them is normal, people being out to kill him is normal. this - all of this - should be something he can take with stride.
but there's also a bigger part of him that never wants to be that person. that never wants any of this to feel normal. going home, being with his family - that is the kind of person he wants to think of when he thinks of his life. bounties and assassins and taking classified trips across the globe to places the government doesn't need to know he's in? he can manage. he can survive. he can get through those missions and make it back home and then things can be normal.
all that's to say is that sam hasn't been sleeping well. and whether bucky makes just enough noise to rouse him from whatever not sleep sam had been doing, or it's just the luck of the draw that he happens to be getting a glass of water right when he sees the other get up, it doesn't really matter. what does matter is that sam sees bucky get up, a kind of tension and heaviness to his shoulders, and he can tell it was a nightmare. can tell that it has been a bad night.
sam stands in the hallway for one moment, and then a moment longer, deciding if this is something he plans on doing. if this is a conversation he, or bucky, wants to have. and then, once those moments are over, sam heaves a sigh and follows, moving through the space and stopping just inside the door to the porch. because while bucky may be okay with challenging killers from all angles, but sam is not. so instead he remains just inside, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the door. ]
Hey. [ quiet, though he's sure bucky heard him coming. knows that he's probably not startling him. ] You good?
HIGH FIVE I get so stressed when I have to prose cuz I always screw it up sooner or later.
ME TOO I'm excited for this :D and I'm all caught up, you're good o7
~*~
[ people trying to kill him? absolutely feels normal to bucky. it's everything else that's a struggle. every time he opens his eyes he sees something that reminds him - not that he was ever in any danger of forgetting - that life's gone very wrong, that he's not where he belongs, that he's not who he was supposed to be.
he was supposed to come home, he had a family waiting. twice they were sent letters of condolences. twice, they were lies. and as if it wasn't bad enough, they'd lost steve, too. did anyone bother visiting them? there's no one left to ask. it was his job to take care of them, and he didn't. it was his job to lay down his life for his country - he didn't do that, either.
so what's his job now, and should he even look for one, with his track record?
he can hear sam's approach, and sighs inwardly. like sam, he's not quite sure whether he really wants to have this conversation - or it's the last thing he wants to do. it's one or the other, he can tell that much, but which? well, it's probably not a question he'll have an answer for until he does it, and he's damn good at putting off this conversation. it's real easy, when everyone who's ever really known him is gone. ]
Peachy. [ it would probably be easier if he'd have been a better liar, but the winter soldier was an assassin, not a spy. he didn't really do too much talking. ]
{ but that's the issue, isn't it? bucky's so used to there being people out to kill him. so used to playing the target, and the assassin. being on the run and watching your back when you've spent decades trying to not exist is easy. what isn't, is coming back to it all in the end, and that's what sam gets. that's what sam understands.
granted - being in madripoor and having a multi-million dollar bounty on their heads doesn't really make any of this feel normal, but sam is rolling with the punches here. he's good at that. ]
Sarcasm. Cute. [ he shifts a bit where he's leaning in the doorframe, trying to gauge from bucky's shoulders, from the tension in his back, if this is a real danger that sam should walk away from, or something he can push. it's another second before he exhales, shaking his head a bit.
apparently, he's doing this, so bucky will have to accept that. ]
Do you want to talk about it? [ a beat of silence follows, where sam gives bucky enough time to really think about it before he continues. ] I can hear those cyborg gears turning from here. I know something is going on up there.
[ going back, that really is the struggle. where do you go back, when everyone you love is gone? he's not steve, he hasn't spent years out of the ice cultivating relationships, making friends - and even steve, who had all that, he went back in a heartbeat, first chance he got. so what's he supposed to do, then? who does he go back to? he's pretty sure he's burned the bridge to wakanda, and even if he didn't by some miracle - well, there's a reason he didn't stay there, though it can be hard to remember some days.
most days. ]
You need some new material.
[ if his tone of voice is anything to go by the danger is, for the moment, at least, fairly low. his voice is mostly tired. he's said his piece at their ridiculous counselling meeting, that didn't really get them anywhere, did it? he's starting to feel that maybe nothing ever will - because why should it?
the winter soldier cannot be redeemed, and try as he might to alienate himself from the machine, he was still the man under the mask. nothing is ever going to change that. having to pretend to be that again heartless machine again, it only proved that. zemo's point, he suspects. that's one point to him. ]
(ooc: i leaned post-cw, pre-iw. lmk if you want me to change anything because i am more than happy to re-write! i just yoloed haha. )
--
[ Late at night, Steve dreams about the bunker in Siberia. He can smell the chemicals from the cryotubes, hear the drip of melted snow snaking its way into leaking seals, feel the weight of his shield sinking into the metal of a chest plate, and when he wakes? The fire of anger and desperation courses through his veins.
It's short-lived, and frankly, Steve rarely sleeps more than a couple hours. Better to chase the ghosts and guilt away with the dogged determination of work. It's all he's good for, these days; Steve Rogers the man was laid out on the German tarmac, left in a freezing bunker, changed over instead for the soldier. Cold armor fits better than warm, fragile skin. It's what makes Bucky's delivery to Wakanda easier— he can tuck away the bright-eyed Brooklyn boy that barely exists anymore, knowing that maybe, just maybe all the fighting would amount to something good for once.
It's been a week since their Wakandan getaway and being fugitive is no easier now than it had been at the start of the journey, when they were three wanted men instead of two. He's secured an abandoned flat just outside of Munich, it's not much, but it has four walls and doors, with plumbing that works haphazardly at best. It would feel incredibly isolating, were it not for Sam's banter, even in the quietest, coldest days.
He keeps him human, somehow, pries at the edges of the man hiding deep in his chest, not the soldier. It does nothing for the dark circles starting to form under his eyes, but it's a start.
Steve sits on one side of a lopsided couch, a tablet in one hand, looking first at a map, then swapping to some data on the screen. ]
We've probably got a few weeks here. [ A small huff, then he swipes back to the map. ] Looks like HYDRA has an old bunker about ten miles north that might be worth looking at. Might just be old munitions, but we've got time.
[ They have all the time in the world now, so long as they don't linger overlong, don't let eyes peer where they shouldn't. Steve raises his head when he hears something from the kitchenette across the flat. ]
... Are you still trying to get the stove to work? It's gas. You're gonna blow the place up.
[ Missions, stovetops, messages. They're all easier to deal with than everything they're running from, especially when they shouldn't have been made to run in the first place. ]
Edited (omfg html fail) 2021-05-11 01:18 (UTC)
one day I'll wear it all on my sleeve; the insignificant with the sacred unique;
{ steve has nightmares. and, yes, okay - they all do, in their own way. their own ghosts follow them from each darkness and sometimes even into each sunrise. it's part of the job, an occupational hazard, but sam has worked with enough veterans and and soldiers to know it's anything but normal. it can be the guys down at the va, or it can be captain america, or it can be any of them that fall somewhere in between.
sam has nightmares too. of bodies falling out of the sky - sometimes it's riley, sometimes it's rhodey. bodies, without wings, falling and falling and hitting the ground, hard. he wakes up with a start and can't get rid of the cold chill down his spine, and when he finally gets up to make coffee, steve is already there. already awake. already getting to work. he might be a super soldier, but sam has a sinking suspicion he still has to sleep, and then suddenly sam's own nightmares aren't as suffocating anymore, knowing he has a captain to watch out for instead.
they dropped bucky off a week ago. and yes, sam has his own reservations about the whole wakanda situation, though none of them have to do with what they could do with the winter soldier programming. but that's not their problem anymore. not something they could fix, and therefore couldn't focus on too much. so sam moves onto the next step, the next problem, the fact they're both fugitives and have to figure out their next move. their next place to go. it helps to have a next project, a goal to work towards. they're both the type of guys who need something to do. steve focuses on their next step. sam, focuses on steve. on reminding him the same things that sam needs reminding of every now and then.
that they're more than the uniform. more than the shield. steve doesn't have the shield anymore, and sam wonders if that weighs on him in the same way being a fugitive does. so sam pushes forward, like he always does. keeps it light. keeps them moving. steve does most of the planning, most of the scouting, most of the procuring of the safe houses and the food and the cars he hotwires and then leaves behind, with a full tank of gas and a carwash and a freaking note sent to the owners of where to find it. sam, meanwhile, takes care of the living part of it all. the food they eat for dinner, the houses they sleep in. flirting with the girl at the cafe down the street so that she doesn't remember a car going missing but does remember a charming man who complimented her dress.
tonight - they're in munich. or outside of munich. sam never really liked germany all that much (he assumed probably wasn't steve's favorite either) but they're making it work. can make this work. or at least - he can when the freaking stove works. sam is in the kitchen, but it's a small enough apartment that he and steve can still chat. ]
Sounds good to me. Maybe we can find some more pots and pans. HYDRA had to eat too, right? [ there is a bump, and sam curses under his breath, ducking down to try and tighten on of the ancient hoses connecting the gas to the stove. ]
I am not trying to get it to work, I am going to get it to work. [ another grunt, another ping, another curse. sam huffs and drops the wrench they'd found on the counter, frustratedly wiping off his hands with a washcloth. ] This is ridiculous. It shouldn't be this hard to fix an ancient stovetop. And I'm tired of bad takeout, so don't start that with me either.
[ Fugitive. The word leaves acid, hot and acrid, in the back of his throat. Never in his life did he think he would be labeled a turncoat, that the people he tried so hard to protect would come hunting for blood. But that's how war goes, and much like he'd told Tony on the downy lawn of the compound: he's home, here.
The life of a soldier, the life of a man on the run - they're one in the same, aren't they? No permanent place to rest his head, no one to write home to. Just the chilled German flat, the data on the screen in front of him, and the - what, thunk? - noise of the man in the other room.
Pushing to his feet he crosses some of the distance to get a better look at exactly what the man's doing to the stove that, for all intents and purposes, should be put out of its misery. ]
I'll make sure to call ahead, see if HYDRA left anything behind. Maybe a care package or two, who knows. Maybe some cookies and milk.
[ Wry, but there's a hint of warmth in his voice, his smile a touch warmer. The bump is enough to tell him that maybe Sam's fighting a losing battle. ]
But if you're tired of bad take out, we can find good take out instead. Or find a hotplate. They have those in this century, right? [ A huff. ]
[ sam would argue that maybe, the life of the soldier being that on the run, is more of the government's failing than any of the solders'. he would argue that maybe they shouldn't have to become fugitives for the things they did or the sides they chose to stand on. but sam could argue a lot about how the way the world works, and none of it would change, so instead he picks the right people to back and heads out into the world to fight with them. he left home all those years ago to change the world, to show them what he could do. now he's just picked the people he's sure he can do it with. ]
That would be great. Also if you can see if they might have left behind like- a huge load of diamonds? Also a pizza joint. I would kill for a slide of meat lovers pizza right now. [ sam sounds casual, but also serious, like this isn't som ridicululous bit they're just playing out for too long. though it's definitely a joke, sam's stomach grumbles.
annoyed, he tosses the cloth down on the counter, hands on his hips. ] See- I don't appreciate you giving up like that. Where's the dedication? Where's the go get 'em energy? [ but then sam sighs, shoulders dropping. he's tired, and it's not because of the stove, but that's easier to focus on. ] Ugh- fine. Yes. I would settle for a hotplate. I just... I can't do takeout. Not again.
[ Steve huffs something that nearly sounds like it wants to be a laugh; something he hasn't done in what feels like years. (A century, maybe). A small part of him wants to tell Sam to leave, to send him on some recon mission somewhere, but he knows it won't make for anything, anyway. Sam won't leave, and as much as he'd like to curse his dogged, deterministic stubbornness? Steve sees it in himself as well. ]
They have pizza joints in Germany, Sam. A load of diamonds might be a stretch, though.
[ But the tired lines of Sam's shoulders, the ones that might as well mirror his own, tell him this isn't about the pizza, about the takeout. He reaches for the cloth, then hunkers down near the stove, looking at the fittings, the expose side where they'd pried the cover off. ]
I'm not giving up, by the way. [ Quiet, off-hand like they're really talking about the stove, but the words feel heavy on his tongue. He adjusts one pipe fitting, cranking it with his hand before he tries another. ] But realistically, a hot plate and a meat-lovers pizza would get us through until we figure this thing out. Who'd have thought, with all that gear we've worked with, it's a stove that would get us down.
[ He's no Tony Stark, capable of whispering to machines and engines and murmuring life back into them. He's no Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Scott Lang. The name Steve Rogers feels nearly as foreign here, as useless, but he'll never say as much. ]
[ steve almost laughs, sam can see something of the start of it, and he's...what? disappointed? that he couldn't pull it out fully. he'll keep trying, of course, so there's not too much lost. but each and every moment they get closer, sam feels a bit like he's seeing more of steve and less of the captain poke through. ]
Yeah, but I'm talking about good pizza. New York pizza. Actually, there was a place back in D.C. specifically- [ sam cuts himself off, there, because now he's just making himself sad. he looks at steve and then steps back one step to give him the room to check just how screwed they are, himself.
i'm not giving up steve says, and sam's eyes fall to the back of that blond head for a few long moments. he knows he doesn't mean the stove, he knows that the weight behind the words is meant for something else. some one else. whether or not steve notices, sam takes a long breath, and then exhales. slowly. a silent agreement - i know. ]
Okay, fine- if a hot plate will get me a pizza, I'll leave the stove alone. For now.
[ because he can tell there's something else. his eyes linger on the back of steve's head, just for another second but then sam crouches next to steve, close enough that after a moment, he just ends up bumping his shoulder to the other's. if steve glances over to him, sam will simply grin, because whether or not he was the one frustrated about the stove, it's the other lines he's focused on. the curve of steve's shoulders. his back. ]
Steve knows that Sam has family, that there are people who might be disappointed to hear he's a fugitive and that does something to the aching muscle in his chest. Sam stays at his side, unwavering, and has since the moment he met him on the sidewalks of D.C. Something about the light in him drew Steve in, and even know it's impossible to ignore.
Sam Wilson is a good, kind, gentle man. The nudge to his shoulder, the warmth of the man at his side, proves it. It wills some life back into him, and while he doesn't laugh, his smile pulls across his lips, warm and genuine and easier than it has been in months. ]
Might just want to leave the old girl resting. [ He sighs and looks back at the stove, the work they've put into it. They'll be here a week and here they are, huddled under the side of an old, broken down oven. It makes him snort softly, another not-laugh, but caught in between.
A quiet falls over him and he looks down at his hands, gripped lightly in front of him, and he lets out a long breath. A hand, heavy and warm, falls onto Sam's shoulder, gripping it. ]
I'm sorry, Sam. [ He feels like a coward, not meeting his eye yet. ] All of this... you deserve to be out there living your life. Eating pizza in D.C., as much and as often as you want. This life? [ He gestures to the damp, cold flat. ] This is my responsibility. This is what I chose, not you. Your road can end here.
[ honestly, there's a part of sam that knew he shouldn't have brought up d.c. a part of him that missed the speed of that city, the weird tension that always seemed to flow through it, but also the moment of beauty. of quiet mornings running through the monuments. of days walking the streets and knowing what happened behind the scenes. d.c. wasn't home, for sam, but it was close enough for long enough.
it was where he met steve, after all.
and he shouldn't have brought it up.
but he did, and sam is not one to shy away from a fight, or his own mistakes. the tension that shoots through steve like a crack of thunder. guilt, yes, but also blame. he's been around enough soldiers, enoughs vets who survived and heard the stories of those who didn't, to be able to pick it out of just about anyone. and lucky for steve, he and sam have spent enough time together over these last few months, sam has started to pick up on a few of these steve-isms. or cap-isms. he's not sure what he wants to call them yet.
like that not-smile. like that exhale. somewhere around here steve says leave the old girl resting and sam feels a quick of a comment in the back of his throat. an alright, grandpa, but watch your back when you stand because sometimes steve can pass and other times sam is hit across the face with the fact he's from the forties and there's no denying it. but sam also knows that what steve says next, once he's clasped a warm, heavy hand to his shoulder, is the more important comment to react to.
again - he's starting to guess when these things are going to happen, and he can almost feel the apology before it leaves steve's mouth. sam almost jumps in to cut him off, a quick don't you dare just to pull the rug out from under him. but instead, he just lets steve say his piece. listens to the words and the tone and the responsibility that almost drips from steve's very shoulders. it's at the end of that, just around the word 'end', that sam's brows shoot up. an unspoken oh, is this how we're going to play it? not that steve can see, with how he's avoiding his eyes. coward.
at first, sam just waits. lets them both crouch there under this stove with steve still refusing to look at sam and sam not afraid to let the silence linger. for one moment, and then one more, before he pushes out a sigh of his own and pushes up to stand. ]
I deserve a lot of things, Cap, so I won't argue with you there. [ he'd settle for a pizza, if he's being perfectly honest. and that's still on the table.
sam holds out a hand, then, for steve to take. he may not need the help to stand, but sam offers it anyway, which is movement sam's gotten used to doing. a feeling he's used to having. you might not need me, right now, but don't worry. i can wait. he assumes that steve will take it, even if it takes a moment, but again - sam is patient, and sam waits, and when steve's hand finally makes it in his own, he'll pull the other man up to his feet. ] But this really depressing flat? Is also what I chose. [ with steve's hand still wrapped around his own, between them, sam will smile. will hold steve's eyes now that he can't get out of it, push their hands forward until sam's knuckle taps against steve's chest. ]
And I'm pretty sure I chose you, too. So you're kind of stuck with me.
[ They agree on a date and time over text, once Sam's consulted his calendar. Bucky's not sure if it's a digital one or the kind you hang on a wall. Or even a person. The guy is Captain America now. Maybe the job comes with one of those assistant types, the kind that keeps track of dates and places and times outside of normal hero efforts. Anyway, the point is that between the two of them, there comes a day when Bucky voluntarily leaves the environs of New York and heads down the Eastern seaboard to D.C.
Which he hasn't visited since he tried to take out half of SHIELD. So there's a mind-twist. And he does it on a bike.
Well, a motorcycle. Because commercial airplanes are a pain in the ass and he still isn't much of a train fan. Not even if it would cut a whole day off the trip. In fact, it's kind of nice to just tool down a highway with no particular destination other than the city at the other end. To stop off at little Ma-and-Pa roadside diners on the way when he needs to refill the gas tank. It's a weirdly nice trip when everything is said and done.
When Bucky arrives in DC, he heads straight for the address Sam gave him. It turns out to be VA-affiliated - one of those places that holds group meetings for soldiers and airmen but also helps former military navigate housing, medical needs, and anything else that might come up in civilian life. He turns off the bike and sits there for a little while, watching people go in and out before eventually pulling out his phone. ]
[ god, sam wishes he had an assistant taking care of his calendar. or to do anything else. he didn't really have an idea of the social obligation that came with being captain america, less so in a world now that was used to having one. press conferences, top secret meetings, lunches, politics. it was more than sam ever wanted and then some. it was almost enough to drive him crazy.
however - the good thing about becoming captain america without the approval of the senate was that sam could also, from time to time, tell them to fuck off. not in so many words, maybe, but the intention was there. and he happened to have done just that this morning, when he'd gotten a call at noon telling him there was a dinner he needed to be at. he very kindly, and politely (because momma wilson taught him manners) tells them that he doesn't have to be anywhere unless there is danger and people to save, and then he closes his laptop and ignores any response that might follow.
he and bucky had gone back and forth on details - when buck would arrive, best highway to take, where they'd start off. on top of it, sam calls in a few favors - asks the manager down at one of the va buildings what the schedule looks like. who might be there. it ends up working out almost perfectly - with bucky arriving in the early afternoon, and a group session starting around the same time. one of those large rooms with plenty of chairs and vets who want to come, coming. it's the same sort of deal sam used to run when he worked there, and he's actually quite pleased that it's working out this way.
when sam gets the text, he thanks the girl at the desk - new, someone sam hasn't been before, but sweet and young and energetic - and heads out front to find bucky, and his bike, parked in one of the front spots. ]
Hey, man. [ sam grins, wide and welcoming. ] Welcome back to DC. Glad you made it in once piece.
prompt: you fell asleep on my shoulder on the plane ride and i would ask you to move but you look so comfy and adorable when you sleep. also you smell really good and the feeling of your breath on my skin is somewhat relaxing maybe we can go out to lunch in this shitty airport when you wake up?
---
( in this new world, every direction he glances in raises a new argument from his moral compass. sometimes, regardless of the amount of missions and real-life experiences he walks into, it feels like maybe he's never going to lose his sentimentality for the forties. things weren't any easier back then ( as much as he likes to protest the opposite ) but the world felt smaller. from hydra to s.h.i.e.l.d. to the avengers — it just never gets to be black and white. it's about power: who has it and who wants to take it. one person's best intentions to save humanity usually transform into something ungodly, warped into an ideology that people have to be wiped out for something better to emerge.
they're between wars, which means that steve's mind isn't on what could possibly crawl out of the depths of hell next, it's on the mission at hand. in four more hours, they'll be on another continent, following ghost stories from the mouths of locals. he stops asking sam why he's doing this and trades the inquiries for needless reminders that he doesn't have to follow him, or that he's done plenty and he can leave whenever he likes on the next flight stateside.
he doesn't.
it's part of the reason why when sam dozes off in the seat next to him on the jet, steve doesn't shrug him off into the window to teach him about personal space with a sunburn. he lets him sleep because he's keenly aware of the sleeplessness that comes with the job. he's puzzled over the maps, spent the last 72 hours with headphones in more often than not, trying to pick up key phrases without sounding like a tourist. there's no escaping his well-known looks, although he will do whatever he can to throw smoke.
at the moment, he's practicing mindfulness. he figures if he paces back and forth long enough, he'll tear a hole in the cabin floor. the strokes of his pencil against paper are cathartic in their own creative way, giving him an outlet that's vastly different from using his hands for violence. the other part of the reason he allows sam to sleep long after his shoulder gets tense and his bicep goes a bit dead is because he looks peaceful. his cologne or aftershave isn't totally intolerable either. it's less bothersome than it is when his breath fans against his neck, touching one of the few patches of exposed skin on his body. it's weirdly comforting, like knowing there's a knife under your pillow or someone in the cot beside you. it's nice — nice being the luxury steve doesn't permit himself to have as far as intimacy is concerned.
he won't draw something personal with sam around. these sketchbooks have served as visual journals for him in the past. so he's touching up the falcon's wings, the actual bird, when he speaks up. ) How long have you been pretending to be asleep?
[ the thing about this new world that sam has always accepted is that simple fact that nothing has ever been simple, and nothing has ever been easy. growing up in the south had taught him that early on, and even as he ran off to the airforce, to change the world through force and skill and as much of that wilson determination he could muster, he was still faced with that reality. with the heavy weight of what he did, over there. of what it cost him. of the photos in his home that he can look at more now than ever before, and see riley's face looking back at him.
nothing has ever been simple. not wars, not orders, not life. and after he lost riley, sam had lost his grasp on why he was doing anything at all. which probably makes it fitting, that as the days go on, steve feels things get more and more complicated, because if there was one thing that was crystal clear to sam, it had been that letting steve rogers (and natasha, of course) into his home that day had been the right decision.
even now, as they bounce between countries, chasing ghosts and stories and rumors and the listless look in steve's face when he looks a little less captain and a little more steve rogers, sam doesn't regret it. he checks in with sarah when he can, thinks about her when he can't, and gets up each day with a kind of purpose and motivation that sam hasn't felt in what, honestly feels like years. though, really, if he's being honest, he's not waking up each day because that assumes he slept the night before and didn't just grab naps during any possibly stretch of a few hours he can find. because while steve gets to have some fancy super-soldier serum that apparently made it so he didn't need to sleep. ever. like a normal human.
it works for sam, though. with how often they fly, he takes his few hours the second they take off. something about the seat, the hum of the engine, the knowledge that there are a couple of hours and very little else to do, and sam just passes out. this flight had been no different, except that apparently, at some point, he'd shifted where his head was laying. sam didn't realize this, of course, until he eased back into consciousness and noticed where his head was laying, how much of him was pressed against steve's shoulder. he was warm, and it was comfortable, and sam wondered briefly about the last time he felt comfortable enough to fall asleep on someone's shoulder and that the someone had been comfortable enough to let him sleep.
he can hear steve's breathing, steady and calm and slow, and for a few minutes, sam just lets himself listen to it. though, apparently, those few moments are long enough for steve to notice.
sam lets a very small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. ] I don't know what you're talking about. I'm still sleeping. [ as if to make the point, sam doesn't move an inch. not for ten, maybe twenty seconds, before he lets out a small huff. ] That's still creepy, by the way. [ he means that steve could tell he was awake from his breathing alone, but he doesn't care to elaborate, pushing to sit up straight and rub the last bits of the nap out of his eyes. ] How long do we have left?
( sam is special. steve knew that from the first conversation. the connection of coming back to civilian life after what might as well have been a lifetime in the military, even if realistically it hadn't been. time moves differently in the service of one's country because the most basic mission with the wrong intel or a misstep can become the mission that ends all of them. it's a bond he can't verbalize to natasha when they're running from an infiltrated s.h.i.e.l.d., he's still glad that she never asked. he didn't have a reason beyond that, steve had just known somehow that whereas he felt like he still didn't belong here, sam did. he could help and it would mean something. without knowing it, he had invested hope in a friend that reminded him of what wanting to change the world really looked like.
it's somehow fitting that he's the falcon, taking flight like a new beginning. hope without a lackluster gleam. the thoughts are too heavy for him to sift through stoically with nothing but the white noise of the engine for company. truth be told, he should probably take a page from sam's book and recline back, catch some shut-eye while they're thousands of miles above the ocean and presumably without a care in the universe. insomnia finds steve for a multitude of reasons: the self-afflicted burden of duty, the serum that separates him from normal humans, and the nearly 70-year ice nap, to name a few. he's too stubborn to spend eight hours a night motionless, although he does catch three to four as needed.
he has tunnel vision when it comes to bucky and it's like nothing else matters, not sleep, not eating, not regrouping, second only to saving the world. ( and steve doesn't know that it actually is second. ) he's relieved to have sam with him because he serves like an anchor to reality. a reminder that while he may have lost nearly everything to time, he's needed in this era. this may not be his america but the people here need protecting. these days, he's not positive who the bully is. )
In that case, go back into deep sleep. Not this R.E.M. talking-in-your-dreams cycle. ( his own smile comes in reply at it being creepy. he feels the change in sam's breathing, which is a much less creepy explanation than say hearing it. he's right there huffing on him, how can he not? he lets sam believe he's more powerful and gifted than he actually is. deeper breaths traded for shallow, more controlled ones. it's pretty obvious or maybe just for the kid from brooklyn, who would roll over on couch cushions on the floor and ask: are you still awake? )
A little over an hour now, give or take. ( he hasn't glanced at his watch in awhile, nor has he stretched and bothered their pilot. steve takes the opportunity to set his pencil in the center of the sketchbook and tosses it down on the accent table in front of them. he doesn't want to think about what he owes tony for borrowing his personal jet with all the bells and whistles. frankly, it's a little too showy for him. the seats are plush enough that he doesn't have to fret over elbowing sam in the jaw when he stretches his arms above his head. ) Honestly? Figured I'd let you snore until the wheels were out.
[ that's a bit the pot calling the kettle black, isn't it? because alright, sam's not the type to downplay his own worth. he's done too much self-inspired therapy to know how dangerous that is for your own self-worth and mental health, but if they wanted to get technical here - steve was the special one. a man lost to time, a super human asleep in the ice. a soldier, home from war, given very little if anything at all in terms of help with adjusting.
sam had his issues with the armed forces, with the way the government treated the people they created and molded and left out to dry. whether it's the air force, the army, shield - it's all the same. all systems not built for the care and support that they promise to provide. sam knows what it feels like to find someone who you would risk your everything for, just to protect, and the bond built when you know they would do the same - but steve rogers doesn't just need another soldier, but someone to remind him of...well. what? that there's something worth coming back to? that he's more than just the serum in his veins? sam is working out exactly what he's meant to be, here, but for now there's no question that he wants to be here to do just that.
plus the fancy planes? he could get used to travel, like this. (and maybe even used to naps, here, on soft shoulders and warm bodies, but that's something else entirely)
as he sits up, snorting once at steve's comments - he likes those moments, when steve gives back as much as he gets. it's half the reason sam knows he can joke with him, when he can see steve rise to meet him. to joke in turn. the smiles and laughs he can drag out of steve are the better moments, between them, and he knows they have enough battles under their belt to not worry about how in sync they can be when they want to. ]
Too late. [ sam stretches, pulling away just enough that he doesn't clock steve across the face as he does it. sam's eyes go to the sketchbook on the table. steve's drawing had been something of a surprise to sam, though he supposes it shouldn't have. whether or not captain america was good at art hadn't been in all the propaganda exhibit he'd gone to, but then again - this is steve, the brief glimpses sam likes to hold for himself.
his eyes catch the falcon, the wings spread across the paper, and sam feels himself smile a bit at the image, before he's turning back to steve with an incredulous look. ] First off- I don't snore. Natasha snores. Second, that would leave you bored and restless and we all know how dangerous that can get. [ it's said casually, though sam wonders if the familiarity is too soon. he decides to keep going with it, settling back into the cushions of the chair. thank you tony stark. ]
You heard the woman. She doesn’t snore. That was a sinus infection. ( spoken like a man with no conviction but plenty of self-preservation. he likes the part where natasha doesn’t allow them to take a few extra smacks to the head on the field because “they look like they had it under control.” does he agree with sam? absolutely. the lady sounds like an engine when she lets her guard down enough to crash out. doesn’t matter because there’s an allegation that’s more pressing that needs attention. )
Dangerous? Who are you calling dangerous? ( he strives to come across as cautionary and all he manages is an emphasis on amused. the laugh barely contained at the edge of his voice doesn’t do him any favors. ) I’ll have you know that while the rest of you were dreaming, I haven’t rerouted the flight path once.
( he did have an anchor in the shape of his companion on his shoulder and that is entirely not the point being made here. irrelevant to the point. with the stretching out of the way and his hands unoccupied, he turns in his seat as much as he can. steve wants to face sam without craning his neck. )
I was thinking we hope like hell that these aliases Natasha procured hold up under scrutiny. Maybe try not to get caught. ( better than most he understands what it is to squander time and to avoid something solely due to unpredictable or undesirable results. there's no path around, only through. as much as he dislikes darkening the energy between them by moving away from levity, it's as good a time as any. ) We need wheels. I decided against hiring a driver. Thought we would spare ourselves one set of ears. We still have a four hour drive ahead of us. This airport is the closest they could get us without clearing air restrictions and raising red flags.
So...first order of business: you hungry?
ok none of these prompts on the generator were good
He knows in his heart, that the Accords were a really bad idea. At best, they're an unconstitutional mess, vaguely-worded, and need years of edits. It wouldn't be worth it to him, for all the lives sacrificed in the meantime while they work out where the commas and semi-colons go. At worst, they're a powerplay from Ross to get his hands on Tony's tech and Steve's blood and just, everything about Wanda. He hadn't even read the worst about Ross, hadn't asked it from Bruce because it had never been relevant.
And yet, as he opens the door to the room at the seedy motel they paid cash to stay at, he's thinking that he really, really regrets that they couldn't work things out. He could've played dirty and asked any incidents they caused to be litigated, tying up the court system for years. He could just continue to have to break his friends out of prison every once in awhile.
"Guess we don't have to worry anymore about our beds being too soft." They can't even afford beds for everyone, but Steve's fine with the floor. What really gets him is the lack of intel. Natasha's great, even with both hands tied behind her back - especially, she'd say, with both hands tied behind her back - but having to do everything illegally and sneaking around isn't really Steve's forte.
Placing his bag on the chair, he lays out a change of clothes for how he's going to have to dress tomorrow when they head out. For now, it's late and there's only review to do before the morning, but Steve thinks he should probably let Sam get in some sleep too. "Think the room service here is any good?"
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any preferences?
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AND HONESTLY IM DOWN FOR ANYTHING. i like action brackets but can also do prose too! i ship them really hard but can also do bromance/tension! happy or sad or intense or WHATEVER. i have tfatws brainrot right now so i could be up for literally anything. c:
do you have any preferences, though??? c:
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I'll go with bromance to start with, if it's all the same to you o/ I'm about as rusty at rping as bucky is at socializing, so if anything doesn't work feel free to kick me onto the right path/ignore my starter and write your own
~*~
[ nightmares are a fact of life for bucky, have been for a long time. really, the only time they stopped was when the part of him that identifies itself as "bucky" was pushed way down deep into his subconscious, battered to all hell, broken, and buried under mountains of programming, and the occasional hydra propaganda, depending on how what level of humanity any given handler decided to assign to him. in a way, it's almost comforting, to have them, they let him know he's still mostly himself, mostly in control.
but this one? this one's definitely a new one. it's not exactly worse than the others - he's not killing an innocent person in it, not ruining an economy, a country, a family, not remembering a true event - but it's not better, either.
in his dream, he stands before an eleven year old steve rogers; scrawny as he was, he could easily pass for eight. but true to form, the kid doesn't let their size difference hold him back one little bit - he glares at bucky like he's the scum of the earth, like nothing will save him from the well deserved dose of justice that's about to rain down on his head.
it's one of the shortest nightmares he has, because that look alone - the disappointment, the loathing, the disgust on his best friend's face - it's enough to have his heart racing, his adrenaline pumping, and his body waking up ready to defend himself from a lethal blow. but how do you defend against your own head? it's not a question he's ever managed to answer.
bucky pulls himself up to his feet, quiet as, well, an assassin, and walks out to the porch. it's probably not the smartest move, considering people are trying to kill them, and he knows better than anyone just how patient a sniper can be, but maybe a part of him just doesn't care. ]
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AND THAT IS TOTALLY FINE WITH ME. i love every interaction between these two. also!!! how are you on spoilers? c: i can adjust any of the below if need be.
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[ sam wilson should, for all intents and purposes, be used to this kind of thing by now. the last few years of his life has built him up to a place where this - any of this - shouldn't be surprising. not alien attacks, not intergalactic wars, not time travel, and certainly not bounties on their heads. people being out to kill them is normal, people being out to kill him is normal. this - all of this - should be something he can take with stride.
but there's also a bigger part of him that never wants to be that person. that never wants any of this to feel normal. going home, being with his family - that is the kind of person he wants to think of when he thinks of his life. bounties and assassins and taking classified trips across the globe to places the government doesn't need to know he's in? he can manage. he can survive. he can get through those missions and make it back home and then things can be normal.
all that's to say is that sam hasn't been sleeping well. and whether bucky makes just enough noise to rouse him from whatever not sleep sam had been doing, or it's just the luck of the draw that he happens to be getting a glass of water right when he sees the other get up, it doesn't really matter. what does matter is that sam sees bucky get up, a kind of tension and heaviness to his shoulders, and he can tell it was a nightmare. can tell that it has been a bad night.
sam stands in the hallway for one moment, and then a moment longer, deciding if this is something he plans on doing. if this is a conversation he, or bucky, wants to have. and then, once those moments are over, sam heaves a sigh and follows, moving through the space and stopping just inside the door to the porch. because while bucky may be okay with challenging killers from all angles, but sam is not. so instead he remains just inside, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning against the door. ]
Hey. [ quiet, though he's sure bucky heard him coming. knows that he's probably not startling him. ] You good?
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ME TOO I'm excited for this :D and I'm all caught up, you're good o7
~*~
[ people trying to kill him? absolutely feels normal to bucky. it's everything else that's a struggle. every time he opens his eyes he sees something that reminds him - not that he was ever in any danger of forgetting - that life's gone very wrong, that he's not where he belongs, that he's not who he was supposed to be.
he was supposed to come home, he had a family waiting. twice they were sent letters of condolences. twice, they were lies. and as if it wasn't bad enough, they'd lost steve, too. did anyone bother visiting them? there's no one left to ask. it was his job to take care of them, and he didn't. it was his job to lay down his life for his country - he didn't do that, either.
so what's his job now, and should he even look for one, with his track record?
he can hear sam's approach, and sighs inwardly. like sam, he's not quite sure whether he really wants to have this conversation - or it's the last thing he wants to do. it's one or the other, he can tell that much, but which? well, it's probably not a question he'll have an answer for until he does it, and he's damn good at putting off this conversation. it's real easy, when everyone who's ever really known him is gone. ]
Peachy. [ it would probably be easier if he'd have been a better liar, but the winter soldier was an assassin, not a spy. he didn't really do too much talking. ]
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granted - being in madripoor and having a multi-million dollar bounty on their heads doesn't really make any of this feel normal, but sam is rolling with the punches here. he's good at that. ]
Sarcasm. Cute. [ he shifts a bit where he's leaning in the doorframe, trying to gauge from bucky's shoulders, from the tension in his back, if this is a real danger that sam should walk away from, or something he can push. it's another second before he exhales, shaking his head a bit.
apparently, he's doing this, so bucky will have to accept that. ]
Do you want to talk about it? [ a beat of silence follows, where sam gives bucky enough time to really think about it before he continues. ] I can hear those cyborg gears turning from here. I know something is going on up there.
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most days. ]
You need some new material.
[ if his tone of voice is anything to go by the danger is, for the moment, at least, fairly low. his voice is mostly tired. he's said his piece at their ridiculous counselling meeting, that didn't really get them anywhere, did it? he's starting to feel that maybe nothing ever will - because why should it?
the winter soldier cannot be redeemed, and try as he might to alienate himself from the machine, he was still the man under the mask. nothing is ever going to change that. having to pretend to be that again heartless machine again, it only proved that. zemo's point, he suspects. that's one point to him. ]
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maybe i’m hiding behind metaphor, maybe my heart needs to break to be sure;
--
[ Late at night, Steve dreams about the bunker in Siberia. He can smell the chemicals from the cryotubes, hear the drip of melted snow snaking its way into leaking seals, feel the weight of his shield sinking into the metal of a chest plate, and when he wakes? The fire of anger and desperation courses through his veins.
It's short-lived, and frankly, Steve rarely sleeps more than a couple hours. Better to chase the ghosts and guilt away with the dogged determination of work. It's all he's good for, these days; Steve Rogers the man was laid out on the German tarmac, left in a freezing bunker, changed over instead for the soldier. Cold armor fits better than warm, fragile skin. It's what makes Bucky's delivery to Wakanda easier— he can tuck away the bright-eyed Brooklyn boy that barely exists anymore, knowing that maybe, just maybe all the fighting would amount to something good for once.
It's been a week since their Wakandan getaway and being fugitive is no easier now than it had been at the start of the journey, when they were three wanted men instead of two. He's secured an abandoned flat just outside of Munich, it's not much, but it has four walls and doors, with plumbing that works haphazardly at best. It would feel incredibly isolating, were it not for Sam's banter, even in the quietest, coldest days.
He keeps him human, somehow, pries at the edges of the man hiding deep in his chest, not the soldier. It does nothing for the dark circles starting to form under his eyes, but it's a start.
Steve sits on one side of a lopsided couch, a tablet in one hand, looking first at a map, then swapping to some data on the screen. ]
We've probably got a few weeks here. [ A small huff, then he swipes back to the map. ] Looks like HYDRA has an old bunker about ten miles north that might be worth looking at. Might just be old munitions, but we've got time.
[ They have all the time in the world now, so long as they don't linger overlong, don't let eyes peer where they shouldn't. Steve raises his head when he hears something from the kitchenette across the flat. ]
... Are you still trying to get the stove to work? It's gas. You're gonna blow the place up.
[ Missions, stovetops, messages. They're all easier to deal with than everything they're running from, especially when they shouldn't have been made to run in the first place. ]
one day I'll wear it all on my sleeve; the insignificant with the sacred unique;
sam has nightmares too. of bodies falling out of the sky - sometimes it's riley, sometimes it's rhodey. bodies, without wings, falling and falling and hitting the ground, hard. he wakes up with a start and can't get rid of the cold chill down his spine, and when he finally gets up to make coffee, steve is already there. already awake. already getting to work. he might be a super soldier, but sam has a sinking suspicion he still has to sleep, and then suddenly sam's own nightmares aren't as suffocating anymore, knowing he has a captain to watch out for instead.
they dropped bucky off a week ago. and yes, sam has his own reservations about the whole wakanda situation, though none of them have to do with what they could do with the winter soldier programming. but that's not their problem anymore. not something they could fix, and therefore couldn't focus on too much. so sam moves onto the next step, the next problem, the fact they're both fugitives and have to figure out their next move. their next place to go. it helps to have a next project, a goal to work towards. they're both the type of guys who need something to do. steve focuses on their next step. sam, focuses on steve. on reminding him the same things that sam needs reminding of every now and then.
that they're more than the uniform. more than the shield. steve doesn't have the shield anymore, and sam wonders if that weighs on him in the same way being a fugitive does. so sam pushes forward, like he always does. keeps it light. keeps them moving. steve does most of the planning, most of the scouting, most of the procuring of the safe houses and the food and the cars he hotwires and then leaves behind, with a full tank of gas and a carwash and a freaking note sent to the owners of where to find it. sam, meanwhile, takes care of the living part of it all. the food they eat for dinner, the houses they sleep in. flirting with the girl at the cafe down the street so that she doesn't remember a car going missing but does remember a charming man who complimented her dress.
tonight - they're in munich. or outside of munich. sam never really liked germany all that much (he assumed probably wasn't steve's favorite either) but they're making it work. can make this work. or at least - he can when the freaking stove works. sam is in the kitchen, but it's a small enough apartment that he and steve can still chat. ]
Sounds good to me. Maybe we can find some more pots and pans. HYDRA had to eat too, right? [ there is a bump, and sam curses under his breath, ducking down to try and tighten on of the ancient hoses connecting the gas to the stove. ]
I am not trying to get it to work, I am going to get it to work. [ another grunt, another ping, another curse. sam huffs and drops the wrench they'd found on the counter, frustratedly wiping off his hands with a washcloth. ] This is ridiculous. It shouldn't be this hard to fix an ancient stovetop. And I'm tired of bad takeout, so don't start that with me either.
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The life of a soldier, the life of a man on the run - they're one in the same, aren't they? No permanent place to rest his head, no one to write home to. Just the chilled German flat, the data on the screen in front of him, and the - what, thunk? - noise of the man in the other room.
Pushing to his feet he crosses some of the distance to get a better look at exactly what the man's doing to the stove that, for all intents and purposes, should be put out of its misery. ]
I'll make sure to call ahead, see if HYDRA left anything behind. Maybe a care package or two, who knows. Maybe some cookies and milk.
[ Wry, but there's a hint of warmth in his voice, his smile a touch warmer. The bump is enough to tell him that maybe Sam's fighting a losing battle. ]
But if you're tired of bad take out, we can find good take out instead. Or find a hotplate. They have those in this century, right? [ A huff. ]
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That would be great. Also if you can see if they might have left behind like- a huge load of diamonds? Also a pizza joint. I would kill for a slide of meat lovers pizza right now. [ sam sounds casual, but also serious, like this isn't som ridicululous bit they're just playing out for too long. though it's definitely a joke, sam's stomach grumbles.
annoyed, he tosses the cloth down on the counter, hands on his hips. ] See- I don't appreciate you giving up like that. Where's the dedication? Where's the go get 'em energy? [ but then sam sighs, shoulders dropping. he's tired, and it's not because of the stove, but that's easier to focus on. ] Ugh- fine. Yes. I would settle for a hotplate. I just... I can't do takeout. Not again.
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They have pizza joints in Germany, Sam. A load of diamonds might be a stretch, though.
[ But the tired lines of Sam's shoulders, the ones that might as well mirror his own, tell him this isn't about the pizza, about the takeout. He reaches for the cloth, then hunkers down near the stove, looking at the fittings, the expose side where they'd pried the cover off. ]
I'm not giving up, by the way. [ Quiet, off-hand like they're really talking about the stove, but the words feel heavy on his tongue. He adjusts one pipe fitting, cranking it with his hand before he tries another. ] But realistically, a hot plate and a meat-lovers pizza would get us through until we figure this thing out. Who'd have thought, with all that gear we've worked with, it's a stove that would get us down.
[ He's no Tony Stark, capable of whispering to machines and engines and murmuring life back into them. He's no Bruce Banner, Clint Barton, Scott Lang. The name Steve Rogers feels nearly as foreign here, as useless, but he'll never say as much. ]
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Yeah, but I'm talking about good pizza. New York pizza. Actually, there was a place back in D.C. specifically- [ sam cuts himself off, there, because now he's just making himself sad. he looks at steve and then steps back one step to give him the room to check just how screwed they are, himself.
i'm not giving up steve says, and sam's eyes fall to the back of that blond head for a few long moments. he knows he doesn't mean the stove, he knows that the weight behind the words is meant for something else. some one else. whether or not steve notices, sam takes a long breath, and then exhales. slowly. a silent agreement - i know. ]
Okay, fine- if a hot plate will get me a pizza, I'll leave the stove alone. For now.
[ because he can tell there's something else. his eyes linger on the back of steve's head, just for another second but then sam crouches next to steve, close enough that after a moment, he just ends up bumping his shoulder to the other's. if steve glances over to him, sam will simply grin, because whether or not he was the one frustrated about the stove, it's the other lines he's focused on. the curve of steve's shoulders. his back. ]
Then we come back for this thing.
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Steve knows that Sam has family, that there are people who might be disappointed to hear he's a fugitive and that does something to the aching muscle in his chest. Sam stays at his side, unwavering, and has since the moment he met him on the sidewalks of D.C. Something about the light in him drew Steve in, and even know it's impossible to ignore.
Sam Wilson is a good, kind, gentle man. The nudge to his shoulder, the warmth of the man at his side, proves it. It wills some life back into him, and while he doesn't laugh, his smile pulls across his lips, warm and genuine and easier than it has been in months. ]
Might just want to leave the old girl resting. [ He sighs and looks back at the stove, the work they've put into it. They'll be here a week and here they are, huddled under the side of an old, broken down oven. It makes him snort softly, another not-laugh, but caught in between.
A quiet falls over him and he looks down at his hands, gripped lightly in front of him, and he lets out a long breath. A hand, heavy and warm, falls onto Sam's shoulder, gripping it. ]
I'm sorry, Sam. [ He feels like a coward, not meeting his eye yet. ] All of this... you deserve to be out there living your life. Eating pizza in D.C., as much and as often as you want. This life? [ He gestures to the damp, cold flat. ] This is my responsibility. This is what I chose, not you. Your road can end here.
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it was where he met steve, after all.
and he shouldn't have brought it up.
but he did, and sam is not one to shy away from a fight, or his own mistakes. the tension that shoots through steve like a crack of thunder. guilt, yes, but also blame. he's been around enough soldiers, enoughs vets who survived and heard the stories of those who didn't, to be able to pick it out of just about anyone. and lucky for steve, he and sam have spent enough time together over these last few months, sam has started to pick up on a few of these steve-isms. or cap-isms. he's not sure what he wants to call them yet.
like that not-smile. like that exhale. somewhere around here steve says leave the old girl resting and sam feels a quick of a comment in the back of his throat. an alright, grandpa, but watch your back when you stand because sometimes steve can pass and other times sam is hit across the face with the fact he's from the forties and there's no denying it. but sam also knows that what steve says next, once he's clasped a warm, heavy hand to his shoulder, is the more important comment to react to.
again - he's starting to guess when these things are going to happen, and he can almost feel the apology before it leaves steve's mouth. sam almost jumps in to cut him off, a quick don't you dare just to pull the rug out from under him. but instead, he just lets steve say his piece. listens to the words and the tone and the responsibility that almost drips from steve's very shoulders. it's at the end of that, just around the word 'end', that sam's brows shoot up. an unspoken oh, is this how we're going to play it? not that steve can see, with how he's avoiding his eyes. coward.
at first, sam just waits. lets them both crouch there under this stove with steve still refusing to look at sam and sam not afraid to let the silence linger. for one moment, and then one more, before he pushes out a sigh of his own and pushes up to stand. ]
I deserve a lot of things, Cap, so I won't argue with you there. [ he'd settle for a pizza, if he's being perfectly honest. and that's still on the table.
sam holds out a hand, then, for steve to take. he may not need the help to stand, but sam offers it anyway, which is movement sam's gotten used to doing. a feeling he's used to having. you might not need me, right now, but don't worry. i can wait. he assumes that steve will take it, even if it takes a moment, but again - sam is patient, and sam waits, and when steve's hand finally makes it in his own, he'll pull the other man up to his feet. ] But this really depressing flat? Is also what I chose. [ with steve's hand still wrapped around his own, between them, sam will smile. will hold steve's eyes now that he can't get out of it, push their hands forward until sam's knuckle taps against steve's chest. ]
And I'm pretty sure I chose you, too. So you're kind of stuck with me.
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Which he hasn't visited since he tried to take out half of SHIELD. So there's a mind-twist. And he does it on a bike.
Well, a motorcycle. Because commercial airplanes are a pain in the ass and he still isn't much of a train fan. Not even if it would cut a whole day off the trip. In fact, it's kind of nice to just tool down a highway with no particular destination other than the city at the other end. To stop off at little Ma-and-Pa roadside diners on the way when he needs to refill the gas tank. It's a weirdly nice trip when everything is said and done.
When Bucky arrives in DC, he heads straight for the address Sam gave him. It turns out to be VA-affiliated - one of those places that holds group meetings for soldiers and airmen but also helps former military navigate housing, medical needs, and anything else that might come up in civilian life. He turns off the bike and sits there for a little while, watching people go in and out before eventually pulling out his phone. ]
I'm here.
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however - the good thing about becoming captain america without the approval of the senate was that sam could also, from time to time, tell them to fuck off. not in so many words, maybe, but the intention was there. and he happened to have done just that this morning, when he'd gotten a call at noon telling him there was a dinner he needed to be at. he very kindly, and politely (because momma wilson taught him manners) tells them that he doesn't have to be anywhere unless there is danger and people to save, and then he closes his laptop and ignores any response that might follow.
he and bucky had gone back and forth on details - when buck would arrive, best highway to take, where they'd start off. on top of it, sam calls in a few favors - asks the manager down at one of the va buildings what the schedule looks like. who might be there. it ends up working out almost perfectly - with bucky arriving in the early afternoon, and a group session starting around the same time. one of those large rooms with plenty of chairs and vets who want to come, coming. it's the same sort of deal sam used to run when he worked there, and he's actually quite pleased that it's working out this way.
when sam gets the text, he thanks the girl at the desk - new, someone sam hasn't been before, but sweet and young and energetic - and heads out front to find bucky, and his bike, parked in one of the front spots. ]
Hey, man. [ sam grins, wide and welcoming. ] Welcome back to DC. Glad you made it in once piece.
you can't blame me, it was the prompt
S C R E A M S
nothing has ever been simple. not wars, not orders, not life. and after he lost riley, sam had lost his grasp on why he was doing anything at all. which probably makes it fitting, that as the days go on, steve feels things get more and more complicated, because if there was one thing that was crystal clear to sam, it had been that letting steve rogers (and natasha, of course) into his home that day had been the right decision.
even now, as they bounce between countries, chasing ghosts and stories and rumors and the listless look in steve's face when he looks a little less captain and a little more steve rogers, sam doesn't regret it. he checks in with sarah when he can, thinks about her when he can't, and gets up each day with a kind of purpose and motivation that sam hasn't felt in what, honestly feels like years. though, really, if he's being honest, he's not waking up each day because that assumes he slept the night before and didn't just grab naps during any possibly stretch of a few hours he can find. because while steve gets to have some fancy super-soldier serum that apparently made it so he didn't need to sleep. ever. like a normal human.
it works for sam, though. with how often they fly, he takes his few hours the second they take off. something about the seat, the hum of the engine, the knowledge that there are a couple of hours and very little else to do, and sam just passes out. this flight had been no different, except that apparently, at some point, he'd shifted where his head was laying. sam didn't realize this, of course, until he eased back into consciousness and noticed where his head was laying, how much of him was pressed against steve's shoulder. he was warm, and it was comfortable, and sam wondered briefly about the last time he felt comfortable enough to fall asleep on someone's shoulder and that the someone had been comfortable enough to let him sleep.
he can hear steve's breathing, steady and calm and slow, and for a few minutes, sam just lets himself listen to it. though, apparently, those few moments are long enough for steve to notice.
sam lets a very small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. ] I don't know what you're talking about. I'm still sleeping. [ as if to make the point, sam doesn't move an inch. not for ten, maybe twenty seconds, before he lets out a small huff. ] That's still creepy, by the way. [ he means that steve could tell he was awake from his breathing alone, but he doesn't care to elaborate, pushing to sit up straight and rub the last bits of the nap out of his eyes. ] How long do we have left?
i am here to personally bother you ty
it's somehow fitting that he's the falcon, taking flight like a new beginning. hope without a lackluster gleam. the thoughts are too heavy for him to sift through stoically with nothing but the white noise of the engine for company. truth be told, he should probably take a page from sam's book and recline back, catch some shut-eye while they're thousands of miles above the ocean and presumably without a care in the universe. insomnia finds steve for a multitude of reasons: the self-afflicted burden of duty, the serum that separates him from normal humans, and the nearly 70-year ice nap, to name a few. he's too stubborn to spend eight hours a night motionless, although he does catch three to four as needed.
he has tunnel vision when it comes to bucky and it's like nothing else matters, not sleep, not eating, not regrouping, second only to saving the world. ( and steve doesn't know that it actually is second. ) he's relieved to have sam with him because he serves like an anchor to reality. a reminder that while he may have lost nearly everything to time, he's needed in this era. this may not be his america but the people here need protecting. these days, he's not positive who the bully is. )
In that case, go back into deep sleep. Not this R.E.M. talking-in-your-dreams cycle. ( his own smile comes in reply at it being creepy. he feels the change in sam's breathing, which is a much less creepy explanation than say hearing it. he's right there huffing on him, how can he not? he lets sam believe he's more powerful and gifted than he actually is. deeper breaths traded for shallow, more controlled ones. it's pretty obvious or maybe just for the kid from brooklyn, who would roll over on couch cushions on the floor and ask: are you still awake? )
A little over an hour now, give or take. ( he hasn't glanced at his watch in awhile, nor has he stretched and bothered their pilot. steve takes the opportunity to set his pencil in the center of the sketchbook and tosses it down on the accent table in front of them. he doesn't want to think about what he owes tony for borrowing his personal jet with all the bells and whistles. frankly, it's a little too showy for him. the seats are plush enough that he doesn't have to fret over elbowing sam in the jaw when he stretches his arms above his head. ) Honestly? Figured I'd let you snore until the wheels were out.
i will always be happy to be bothered by you
sam had his issues with the armed forces, with the way the government treated the people they created and molded and left out to dry. whether it's the air force, the army, shield - it's all the same. all systems not built for the care and support that they promise to provide. sam knows what it feels like to find someone who you would risk your everything for, just to protect, and the bond built when you know they would do the same - but steve rogers doesn't just need another soldier, but someone to remind him of...well. what? that there's something worth coming back to? that he's more than just the serum in his veins? sam is working out exactly what he's meant to be, here, but for now there's no question that he wants to be here to do just that.
plus the fancy planes? he could get used to travel, like this. (and maybe even used to naps, here, on soft shoulders and warm bodies, but that's something else entirely)
as he sits up, snorting once at steve's comments - he likes those moments, when steve gives back as much as he gets. it's half the reason sam knows he can joke with him, when he can see steve rise to meet him. to joke in turn. the smiles and laughs he can drag out of steve are the better moments, between them, and he knows they have enough battles under their belt to not worry about how in sync they can be when they want to. ]
Too late. [ sam stretches, pulling away just enough that he doesn't clock steve across the face as he does it. sam's eyes go to the sketchbook on the table. steve's drawing had been something of a surprise to sam, though he supposes it shouldn't have. whether or not captain america was good at art hadn't been in all the propaganda exhibit he'd gone to, but then again - this is steve, the brief glimpses sam likes to hold for himself.
his eyes catch the falcon, the wings spread across the paper, and sam feels himself smile a bit at the image, before he's turning back to steve with an incredulous look. ] First off- I don't snore. Natasha snores. Second, that would leave you bored and restless and we all know how dangerous that can get. [ it's said casually, though sam wonders if the familiarity is too soon. he decides to keep going with it, settling back into the cushions of the chair. thank you tony stark. ]
So what's the plan once we touch down?
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Dangerous? Who are you calling dangerous? ( he strives to come across as cautionary and all he manages is an emphasis on amused. the laugh barely contained at the edge of his voice doesn’t do him any favors. ) I’ll have you know that while the rest of you were dreaming, I haven’t rerouted the flight path once.
( he did have an anchor in the shape of his companion on his shoulder and that is entirely not the point being made here. irrelevant to the point. with the stretching out of the way and his hands unoccupied, he turns in his seat as much as he can. steve wants to face sam without craning his neck. )
I was thinking we hope like hell that these aliases Natasha procured hold up under scrutiny. Maybe try not to get caught. ( better than most he understands what it is to squander time and to avoid something solely due to unpredictable or undesirable results. there's no path around, only through. as much as he dislikes darkening the energy between them by moving away from levity, it's as good a time as any. ) We need wheels. I decided against hiring a driver. Thought we would spare ourselves one set of ears. We still have a four hour drive ahead of us. This airport is the closest they could get us without clearing air restrictions and raising red flags.
So...first order of business: you hungry?
ok none of these prompts on the generator were good
And yet, as he opens the door to the room at the seedy motel they paid cash to stay at, he's thinking that he really, really regrets that they couldn't work things out. He could've played dirty and asked any incidents they caused to be litigated, tying up the court system for years. He could just continue to have to break his friends out of prison every once in awhile.
"Guess we don't have to worry anymore about our beds being too soft." They can't even afford beds for everyone, but Steve's fine with the floor. What really gets him is the lack of intel. Natasha's great, even with both hands tied behind her back - especially, she'd say, with both hands tied behind her back - but having to do everything illegally and sneaking around isn't really Steve's forte.
Placing his bag on the chair, he lays out a change of clothes for how he's going to have to dress tomorrow when they head out. For now, it's late and there's only review to do before the morning, but Steve thinks he should probably let Sam get in some sleep too. "Think the room service here is any good?"