Archive of Our Own

The first real proof Sam got that Bucky Barnes was still alive somewhere inside the Winter Soldier programming came in the form of a bullet. It zipped past a scant six inches in front of Steve’s chest and annihilated a patch of purple and white petunias.

“Down!” Steve yelled, dropping into a crouch with his shield up, angling it perpendicular to the bullet’s path of origin. Sam immediately slid under cover behind him. They froze there on the sidewalk, the supposed Hydra outpost only twenty yards ahead of them.

According to Natasha’s intel, it was a small communications hub disguised as a family dental practice, complete with a cheerful molar-shaped sign hanging outside the front door. The sign had big cartoon eyes and a huge tooth-baring grin painted along the bottom. Sam kind of wanted to shoot it on principle.

“Bucky, it’s me, it’s Steve,” Steve called, obviously trying to project his voice so it would carry without sounding aggressive. It had a plaintive tone that made Sam think of a dad calling for his kids to come inside now, it’s time for dinner after he’d already been ignored a few times. “We’re not here to hurt you. I just want to talk.”

The only response was silence. Steve poked his head up from behind the shield, because he had the self-preservation instincts of a concussed lemming, and looked towards the treeline where the shot had originated. Sam was pretty sure Barnes was receiving the patented Steve Rogers Puppy-Dog Eyes at full force.

Maybe the effects were lessened with distance, or maybe Barnes had just built up an immunity through early exposure, because for once it didn’t have the desired effect. When Steve tried to stand up, a second shot buried itself in the flowerbed, kicking up another spray of mulch and pulped leaves.

Sam turned his head to the side to avoid inhaling dirt and got a firm grip on the back of Steve’s jacket. He tugged down hard, even though his full strength wasn’t nearly enough to actually pin Steve in place. It wasn’t the first time Sam had wished he could grab Steve by the scruff of his neck and haul him around like a mama cat with a particularly reckless kitten, and he was sure it wouldn’t be the last. “Don’t think he wants us to move, Steve.”

Steve’s whole body was thrumming with tension, but he settled back down onto his heels. “All right, Buck. Are you hungry?” he tried. “Do you need medical atten--”

The dentist’s office exploded.

It was a controlled demolition, the roof collapsing in without the walls blowing out, but the windows still shattered outwards in a spray of glass shards. Steve swung his shield forward instantly, pivoting around Sam so they were both protected from the worst of it.

They crouched behind the shield while clumps of insulation and scraps of charred wallpaper settled around them. The molar sign, blown off its post, rolled down the sidewalk like a loose hubcap and toppled over forlornly in the street.

When Steve cautiously got to his feet, no more shots followed. Sam stood up behind him and brushed wood chips off his knees, staring at the burning office. So much for collecting evidence. On the plus side, the communications hub was definitely out of commission, unless Hydra was planning to take up smoke signals.

“Warning shots.” White drywall dust coated Steve’s whole left side like powdered sugar, and Sam could see red scratches streaking his left arm, but Steve was beaming. “They were warning shots, Sam. So we wouldn’t go in and get caught in the blast.”

“Yeah, I think you’re right.”

“He’s not trying to kill us. He’s actively trying to stop us from getting blown up.”

“That’s a pretty low bar, Steve,” Sam said, but he couldn’t help smiling back.

Steve swung the shield onto his back and clapped Sam on the shoulder. “I’ll take what I can get.” Under the layer of grime, Steve looked positively radiant. He was focused and wholly present in a way Sam had only seen before in the middle of firefights, when Steve was too busy to get lost in his own head. It occurred to Sam that this was what Steve looked like when he was happy.

Joy was a good look on him.

In retrospect, Sam identified this as the moment the trouble started.

“I’m fine.”

“You know I don’t believe you anymore when you say that, right? You know why?”

Steve scratched the back of his neck, ducking his head a little. Sam was standing over him, arms crossed, staring pointedly at the bloody rips in Steve’s shirt. “Because of Harrisburg?”

“That’s right. Because of Harrisburg. ‘I’m fine, Sam. I don’t need basic medical care, Sam. Just go to bed, Sam.’ And then I look over and your whole back is red--”

“All right--”

“Because your gunshot wound that you deliberately hid from me has re-opened--”

“All right!” Steve groaned and ran a hand over his face, but he was still smiling. He hadn’t stopped smiling since the explosion, relief still singing through him clear and sweet. Bucky was back on his six. Steve hadn’t felt this good in years. “All right, I give.”

“Finally. Lose the shirt.”

Steve peeled the fabric off, refusing to wince when the dried blood stuck and pulled on tender skin. His shield had blocked most of the explosion’s fallout, but Steve had angled it to cover Sam more than him, so his left flank had been raked by debris. Most of the damage had already healed in the time it took them to call the fire department and drive back to the motel.

Most, but not all, so he probably deserved the unimpressed look Sam leveled at him.

“‘I’m fine.’ Uh huh.” Sam’s hands were gentle, but not at all tentative. He ran a warm, wet washcloth over Steve’s whole side, clearing away the dried blood so he could see what was still bleeding. Goosebumps spread across Steve’s arms as the damp cloth brushed his ribs. “You have a few good slices here, but they’ll seal up in an hour.”

“Told you,” Steve said, just to be contrary.

“Don’t give me that, ‘fine’ and ‘going to be fine’ are two totally different things.”

Sam had told him that before. He seemed to think it was a lesson Steve needed to hear as often as possible.

“What about this one?” Sam said, running careful fingers along a slice in Steve’s thigh. Steve flinched. “Yeah, that’s deeper. Pants off, Rogers.”

Harrisburg had been the most memorable, but it was far from the only time Steve had been injured, and it was nothing new to let Sam patch him up. Steve didn’t hesitate to unbutton his khakis and step out of them. Between the rips and the bloodstains, they were probably a lost cause, but Steve folded them and set them on the end of his bed anyway. It never came easy to him to think of clothing as disposable, and it was genuinely difficult to find pants that fit him properly. Maybe he could buy a sewing kit and mend them while Sam was driving.

Sam ran the washcloth along Steve’s thigh, hissing in sympathy as the extent of the cut was revealed. “I’m going to glue this one.” Sam raised his eyebrows at Steve, anticipating an argument, but Steve just handed him the first-aid kit.

Steve flatly refused to accept stitches, which itched like hell while his body tried to heal around them, for anything short of evisceration. Sam flatly refused to let Steve bleed for longer than he had to. They had compromised on superglue, which could seal up most cuts long enough for Steve’s healing to finish the job.

“This’ll sting.” Sam ran an alcohol wipe along Steve’s thigh. Steve didn’t get infections anymore, but glue adhered better to clean skin.

Steve held his breath at the burn of the antiseptic, then relaxed as the pain cleared. One of Sam’s broad hands squeezed the top of Steve’s thigh to press the edges of the cut together. His other hand spread the superglue, working in short increments to give the glue time to dry.

Sam was beautiful. Steve had noticed that the first time they met in D.C. Sam had turned to scowl at the asshole lapping him, and Steve had almost tripped over flat pavement as early morning light hit the side of Sam’s face. Steve had wanted to paint him; even more than that, he had wanted to touch.

Sam was beautiful, had always been beautiful, but in the frantic days of SHIELD’s collapse and the grim months that followed, Steve had somehow forgotten. It had faded into the background, less important than Sam’s matter-of-fact bravery, his steadfast strength.

Now, when Sam was kneeling in front of Steve, his warm palm sliding down Steve’s thigh, his face only two feet away from Steve’s groin, was a spectacularly bad time to remember.

“Uh,” Steve said.

“That hurt?” Sam gentled the pressure of his hand, and wow, that was. Not helping.  

“No, that’s good. I mean, it’s fine. It doesn’t hurt.” Oh God, he was starting to blush. Diversion, Rogers. “What do you think we should get for dinner? Pizza?”

“I never thought I would say this, but I’m actually sick of pizza. Want to try the diner across the street? I bet they do 24-hour breakfast.”

“I could go for a waffle.”

Sam smiled up at him, warm and easy, and Steve’s mouth went dry.

Oh, shit.

He was in so much trouble.

Sam rolled off the bed and into a crouch even as his eyes were still opening.

Some sound had snapped him awake, a yell or a thump. Sam had learned to wake up fast. He squinted into the dark of the unfamiliar room.

Motel. He was in a motel, in a town in Ohio that had one fewer dental practice/Hydra base than it had yesterday. He was with Steve.

Steve, who was sitting upright in his bed, both hands clenched in his hair. His breathing was harsh and irregular.

“Steve?” Sam eased up out of his crouch. They’d done this before, often enough to have a routine in place. Neither of them were strangers to nightmares. “You with me?”

“Yeah,” Steve rasped. He didn’t raise his head.

Sam moved to sit on the edge of his own bed, facing Steve. He kept his feet wide apart and his posture relaxed. “Can you tell me where you are?”

“Ohio. Red Roof Inn. August 2014.” He dug his face into the crook of his elbow hard, then lifted his head. His eyes were red.  

“You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.” Sam grabbed one of the plastic cups off the ice bucket tray and filled it from the bathroom tap. He felt Steve’s eyes on him as he moved. Whether he was seeking comfort from a friendly face or automatically tracking a potential threat, Sam didn’t know. Either way, Sam wouldn’t hold it against him.

When he tried to hand the cup over, Steve’s fingers wrapped around Sam’s wrist before he could pull away, startling them both.

“Sorry,” Steve said, jerking his hand back. “I didn’t--sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Sam only hesitated for a second before he sat on the bed next to Steve and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Steve hunched down into himself like he could disappear, like he wasn’t 200 pounds of solid muscle and bone.

“You don’t have to--”

“I want to,” Sam said firmly. He pulled Steve in tighter against his side, and all at once Steve collapsed into him, pressing his back and shoulders into Sam’s chest. Sam caught him, bringing his other arm up to wrap around Steve, holding him close.

They stayed that way for a long time, neither of them talking about the tremors that ran through Steve’s body and shook them both. At some point Sam’s back started to ache and he shifted them both backwards to lie down on the mattress, letting it take most of their weight.

Steve let out one last shuddering breath and rubbed his hand over his face. “Sorry.”

“You got nothing to apologize for, Steve. Nothing.” Just to make his point clear, Sam gave him an extra squeeze before he let Steve go and rolled onto his back in the middle of the bed. Steve moved with him, reaching out to touch Sam’s arm before pulling his hand back quick, like maybe touching wasn’t allowed now, even though they’d been pressed together half a second ago. Sam didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Sam wiggled around on the bed, sighing in exaggerated exasperation. “I swear, you always get the comfier bed. Mine has loose springs poking up everywhere. Think I’ll just stay here. That all right with you?”

“You don’t have to,” Steve said, but he sounded relieved. Sam just made a dismissive noise and flipped the bedspread over himself. The new pillow was cool against the back of his neck. Steve shifted a little next to him, getting settled.

It had been a long time since Sam had slept next to someone else. He was a little too alert to fall asleep quickly, and Steve’s presence was impossible to overlook--his breathing was almost silent, but he put out heat like a bonfire.

"Sam?"

“Yeah?”

“I just--” That was as far as Steve got. His voice was rough, and not from sleep.

Sam knew what it sounded like when someone was choking on words they couldn’t spit out. He couldn’t push Steve into saying something he wasn’t ready for--it had only taken twelve hours of knowing Steve to realize that pushing him resulted in Steve pushing back twice as hard--but he could try to defuse the tension, try to show Steve that seeking comfort was okay, and that Sam was okay with offering it.

"If you say 'on your left' right now, I will push you off this bed.” Sam nudged Steve with an elbow. “Fair warning, man."

Sam felt the bed shake, just a little, as Steve let out his trapped breath in a silent laugh. "Goodnight, Sam.”

“Night, Steve.”

They didn’t talk about it the next morning.

Steve woke up first, like always, and by the time he was out of the bathroom Sam was already dressed in running clothes and waiting by the door. It didn’t seem necessary to bring it up, and Steve didn’t know what he’d even say. Thank Sam for somehow knowing exactly what Steve had needed? Apologize for putting that burden on him? Confess that the four hours of sleep he got with Sam beside him were the best he’d had since being catapulted into the future?

It was a lot easier to just run.

They jogged to a nearby park and Steve let himself ramp up to a high speed, welcoming the burn in his legs, the faint sting of cold morning air in his lungs. It felt good to do something normal.

After Steve had burned off most of his excess energy, he slowed to keep pace with Sam, letting the steady rhythm of their synchronized paces calm him.

“Nice morning.” Steve turned around to run backwards in front of Sam, making it look as casual as he could. “It’s a shame Ohio is so flat. Makes it hard to work up a sweat.”

“I’ll show you a sweat,” Sam panted, and tried to shove him into a bush. Steve darted away and sprinted off cackling while Sam shouted breathless threats behind him. This was how it should be; this was what Steve couldn’t bear to lose.

By the time they finished running and went for breakfast, Steve could almost forget the previous night had ever happened.

They checked out of the motel and headed to a gas station, Steve pumping gas while Sam went inside to grab snacks for the road. After that time in Raleigh when Steve had gotten a little light-headed (Steve’s words) and/or nearly passed out cold on the sidewalk (Sam’s words) after seven hours of driving without a break, Sam always made sure they had plenty of snacks for the road.

Steve was pulling into a parking space to wait for Sam when his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID and sighed before accepting the call.

“Hi, Tony.”

“Cap!” Tony sounded cheerful verging on manic. Steve glanced at the clock and automatically calculated the probability that Tony had woken up before 9:00am vs. that he’d worked through the night. Odds heavily favored the latter. “How’s Ohio treating you? Find any brainwashed assassins disguised as scarecrows in the corn fields?”

“Not so far. When was the last time you slept?”

“Your long-distance mother henning skills never cease to amaze, but you’re not allowed to lecture me about staying up late when I stayed up to gather intel for you.” There was a pause. “Well, among other things. But gathering intel for you was one of the projects I was working on, so no judging allowed. Got it? No judging!”

Tony relayed what he’d discovered in a rapid-fire monologue that made Steve glad he had near-perfect recall now, since taking notes that fast would have made his hand cramp. He was already mentally charting a route adjustment and wondering what target Bucky was after this time when Tony’s sudden change of topic brought him up short.

"And how are things with your boyfriend?"

Steve stared at the phone, genuinely baffled. "Who?"

"Sam Wilson? Guy with metal wings and a smile like sunshine? I figured you'd noticed him by now, you keep carpooling together and sharing hotel rooms."

"Tony," Steve growled into the phone, lowering his voice even though Sam was still inside the gas station. "We're not--that."

"Not what?" Tony asked innocently. "Not fucking?"

"No!"

"Why not?"

Steve covered his face with his hands. "Tony."

"No, seriously, why not? Are you saying he turned you down? Because if so, I call bullshit, have you seen yourself?"

"I haven't asked," Steve muttered. He lifted his head and checked the gas station line again. Sam was paying now, laughing with the cashier about something. "How did you even know I was interested?"

"Oh, please, Rogers. Your crush is visible from space. Firstly, I've been analyzing a lot of surveillance footage of you guys to see if there’s a cyborg lurking in the background with a laser scope, and whenever Wilson's back is turned you look at him like he's covered in whipped cream and rainbow sprinkles. Secondly, every time you talk about him you take a full three seconds to say his name."

"I do not."

"You absolutely do. 'Saaaaaaaaam,'" Tony sighed dreamily. "It's one syllable, Cap, just spit it out. Thirdly--"

"Thanks-Tony-gotta-go," Steve said in one breath, hanging up the phone just as Sam opened the driver-side door.

"Stark have a tip for us?"

"Yeah, there was a possible sighting in Indianapolis and a hit off a stolen credit card near St. Louis. Looks like we’re heading west."

“Cool.” Sam handed Steve a large coffee and a fistful of beef jerky. He was slowly exposing Steve to the 21st century’s incredible variety of gas station snacks, an experiment Steve was more than happy to participate in, since it resulted in Sam’s eyes crinkling at the corners while Steve raved about how amazingly salty and sweet everything was these days. Junk food was in Steve’s personal top twenty favorite things about the present.

(Sam’s smile was somewhere in the top ten. Steve had been trying not to think about it.)

Steve’s phone, which he knew he had put on silent, rang with an obnoxious bugle horn call. Steve rejected the call and turned the phone face-down on his thigh. He resolutely did not wonder if Tony had caught Sam giving Steve longing looks too, or if it was all one-sided.

"Is that Stark?" Sam asked, pulling onto the freeway.

"Yep."

His phone rang again, now jangling its way through the “Star-Spangled Man with a Plan.” Steve shoved it deep inside the glove box.

"You gonna answer?"

"Nope," Steve said, and turned the radio up.

The next time they caught up with Barnes’ trail, in an office building on the outskirts of Peoria, Illinois with a hidden underground lab, he had left a pile of handcuffed prisoners instead of bodies. Steve lit up at the sight, like the heap of unconscious people in labcoats and tactical gear was a pile of birthday presents just for him. Sam was more interested in the little yellow squares attached to their foreheads.

“Are those seriously Post-it notes?” Sam stayed at the top of the stairs while Steve checked on the prisoners, because Steve was terrible at watching his own back and Sam was more vulnerable to prisoners hiding nasty surprises. “What do they say?”

Steve pulled one off an unconscious woman’s face and held it up. “‘Hydra tech.’ Most of them say that or ‘Hydra guard.’ The one on the guy in the suit says ‘Hydra boss.’ And this one--” Steve bent over the one prisoner who was conscious and making urgent muffled noises through the strip of duct-tape slapped over his mouth. He was wearing a security guard outfit that was older and shabbier than the other guards’ uniforms, and unlike the others, he wasn’t bruised or bleeding anywhere that Sam could see. “Says ‘Probably not Hydra.’ Oh, I’m terribly sorry, sir.”

Steve untied the security guard and helped him sit up, giving him a drink of water and asking questions in a soothing voice. Sam kept an eye on the exits until the paramedics and backup arrived. Figuring out who had jurisdiction over Hydra crimes in the post-SHIELD intelligence landscape was a royal clusterfuck, but Natasha and Stark had enough contacts with the alphabet agencies to find people willing to pick up prisoners all across the country. Sam and Steve had called in the same harried FBI agent to do Hydra clean-up five times in the last two months; Sam gave her three more weeks before she started screening their calls.

Steve was still keyed up, held in place by his responsibility to oversee the prisoner transfer but obviously itching to move. Sam let a junior agent take over his watch post and sidled over to Steve. “You think he’s still nearby?”

“Prisoners can get loose. He wouldn’t have left them here without keeping watch to make sure they couldn’t escape.” Steve surveyed the lab again, attention lingering on the metal file cabinets piled up against the back door. “He blocked off the rear exit.”

“Probably in position out front, then.” It made Sam itch to know that when he stepped out of the doorway he’d be in a sniper’s crosshairs, but if Barnes hadn’t shot them by now, he probably wasn’t going to. Barnes might not be ready to run back into Steve’s open arms just yet, but he wasn’t a mindless killing machine, either.

They followed the last of the agents outside and watched as the Hydra prisoners were loaded into vans. It was true night now, the darkness providing plenty of cover for anyone hiding in the woods bordering the parking lot.

"This is new," Sam said. "Working with us this way. He chased us off before, but this time his plan relied on us discovering the base and taking custody of the prisoners."

"Yeah." Steve’s eyes kept sweeping the treeline. "You have to wonder how he knew we'd be here."

"Think he's got eyes on us?"

Steve huffed out a quiet laugh and leaned back against the wall. "I think he's had eyes on us since Indiana."

They both saw the red dot appear on the ground ahead of them at the same time. Sam went rigid as he fought down his instinct to hit the dirt, but the laser scope didn’t sight on him or Steve. It circled around them and moved deliberately slowly to a patch of rocks by the front door. The light hovered there for a moment and disappeared.

Steve immediately went over to investigate, because of course he did. Sam sent a long-suffering look in the general direction of the laser’s origin and wondered if Barnes could commiserate. If he had gotten any of his early memories back at all, Barnes must be familiar with watching Steve head towards danger like it was a magnet and he was a hunk of scrap metal.

“Coordinates,” Steve said, holding up a scrap of notebook paper. It was grubby and creased but the writing was precise. “41.6611 91.5302.”

Sam typed the numbers into his phone. “You ever been to Iowa City?”

Iowa City was hotter and wetter than Steve had expected. He’d gone through Cedar Rapids on his USO tour, but that had been in late November, when all the trees were bare and there’d already been a few inches of snow on the ground. Iowa in August was a whole different animal.

When they pulled into town in the early evening, the air was still steaming. They booked a room at a Travelodge and walked the mile into town. Amber light threw long shadows over the flat landscape. Compared to the building-hemmed skyline of Brooklyn or D.C., the sky felt impossibly big and round. It was like standing in the middle of a snow globe.

“No waffles tonight,” Sam said firmly. “This is cattle country. Steak or burgers, Steve, those are your only options. Anything else would be disrespecting America’s golden pastures.”

“Well, golly,” Steve said, deadpan. “We can’t have that.”

“No, we can’t.”

They found a burger joint with old-fashioned vinyl booths and burgers up to Sam’s standards made with local, grass-fed beef. Before Steve could even glance at the prices, Sam snatched the menu out of his hand.

“This one’s on me, Steve, to spare both of us the spiritual agony of you trying to bail and get Burger King instead. Don’t you dare,” Sam added when Steve’s eyes slid to the booth behind them and its stack of menus. “You’re going to let me buy you a goddamn cheeseburger and you’re going to like it.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Sam kicked him under the table. Steve kicked back. By the time the waiter came to take their order they were both disheveled and Steve was perilously close to giggling.

“Excuse my friend,” Sam told the waiter. “He was raised in a zoo, he doesn’t know how to behave in public. Kicking people, Steven? I am ashamed to be seen with you.”

Steve was so busy pretending to be indignant that he forgot all about the prices, even when Sam told the server to double Steve’s order (mushroom and swiss, medium-rare, with extra cheese), countering Steve’s protests with “You’ll eat it all and still have room leftover, man, I know you will.” He was right, of course. Sam didn’t make a big deal out of it, but he never let Steve go hungry if he could help it.

Steve got him back after dinner by managing to buy both of them giant cones of ice-cream from a little outdoor stand. There walked through a park near the center of town, such as it was, where families were out walking with kids or babies in strollers. It was good to just be around normal people for a while. They both got a lot of curious looks--almost everyone around them was white, and Steve was bigger than most--but nobody expected Captain America to be wandering through a park in Iowa holding a waffle cone. If anyone did recognize him, they kept it to themselves.

They were ambling back to the motel, licking their ice-cream and bantering about who had the better flavor, when Steve realized what felt so different. He wasn’t scared. These past few months, Steve had been waiting for the other shoe to drop, terrified that at any moment he’d get a call telling him Bucky was dead, or Bucky had killed a civilian, or Bucky’s trail had dried up for good and Steve would never see him again. He’d spent so long in an agony of suspense that he’d gotten used to it. It was only after it had lifted that he realized how heavy the dread had been. His worry for Bucky was still there, but it wasn’t so big that it was the only thing he could focus on anymore.

Unfortunately, his brain had apparently decided to focus all of that spare attention on Sam. Sam’s back, where a small patch of sweat stuck his gray t-shirt to the skin between his shoulderblades. Sam’s eyebrows, raised for effect while he drawled another insult about Steve’s butter pecan ice-cream. Sam’s laugh, when Steve responded by swiping Sam’s cone of mint chocolate-chip and opening his mouth wide like he was going to eat the whole thing in one bite.

Sam was an observant guy, and sooner or later he was going to notice. Steve caught himself staring at the way Sam casually sucked drops of ice-cream from his fingers and made an effort to look away.

“Steve.” Sam put a hand on Steve’s arm, stopping both of them in their tracks. Their motel room had an envelope propped up against their door. It was a normal paper envelope held in place by a loose half brick. They exchanged a glance, and Sam crossed his arms in a way that looked casual, but brought his hand closer to the knife sheathed at his hip. Steve’s shield was in the motel room, and Sam’s gun was still locked in the car.

Steve walked over and picked up the envelope. It wasn’t even sealed. Inside the envelope were two tickets to a baseball game in Omaha, Nebraska, for a college game three days away. Baffled, Steve handed them to Sam.

Sam relaxed his posture and blew out a breath. “You think it’s Bucky?”

“Who else?” Steve couldn’t keep himself from checking the sightlines to the motel door, scouting potential perches, even though he didn’t have a chance in hell of spotting Bucky unless he wanted to be seen. “I don’t know what it means, though. Why bring us all the way out here just to give us baseball tickets?”

“Could be he wants you to take a day off. Kick back, catch a game.” Sam tapped the corner of the envelope against the center of Steve’s forehead crease. Steve batted the paper away and made a face.

“I thought he wanted our help with a mission or something.” Selfishly, Steve had been hoping that was the case. He wanted so badly to do something to help Bucky, and he was good at clearing Hydra bases. This--whatever it was--was something a lot more obscure.

“He seems to be doing fine taking out Hydra on his own. I don’t think he’s looking for mission backup.”

“Then what is he looking for?”

Sam unlocked the motel door, then turned to lean on the doorframe, facing outward. It put his face in clear view of potential surveillers, and Steve wondered if Bucky knew how to read lips. “Maybe once he figures it out, he’ll let us know.”

They asked Natasha and Stark to research the baseball game just in case; nobody wanted to be caught off-guard by a Hydra attack in a crowded stadium. All their digging came up empty. Sam and Steve lingered in Iowa for a day and a half in case Barnes made contact again, but when no further mysterious letters appeared, they packed up and hit the highway.

Steve did most of the long stretches of driving, both because he was a terrible, fidgety passenger when he had nothing else to keep him occupied and because they were less likely to get pulled over for no reason if the blond guy was in the driver’s seat. Sam didn’t care who drove as long as he was the one in control of the radio. Steve had a weakness for modern pop, which Clint had apparently gotten him hooked on, and Sam could only take so much One Direction.

They had just crossed the Nebraska state border when Steve broke an hour-long stretch of quiet. “I haven’t been to a baseball game since I woke up.”

Steve always referred to going down in the Atlantic and being entombed in ice like it was a nap that had lasted a few decades longer than expected. Someday a very patient therapist was going to have to call Steve Rogers out on his tendency to minimize, but that wasn’t Sam’s job, thank God.

“Seriously? I thought baseball was your game.”

“It was. It is. I mean, I’ve caught a few games on the radio.” Steve had that wry pseudo-smile he got when he was thinking about something sad. Sam was way too familiar with that smile. “I didn’t really get out much when I was working for SHIELD.”

“Wait.” Sam straightened up in his seat. “Does this mean you haven’t seen the concessions stadiums have now?”

“Concessions? Like franks?”

Sam reached out and tapped Steve’s right shoulder with his knuckles. “This is going to be excellent. Stick with me, Steve, I’ll steer you right. Gas station snacks are only the beginning, trust me.”

Steve’s smile broadened into something real, and Sam gave himself a mental pat on the back. “I always do.”

“Holy shit. What is this?” Steve accepted the overflowing paper carton with all due reverence.

“That, my friend, is a basket of smoked BBQ brisket cheese fries.”

“These are fries?” He dug a plastic fork under the top layer, excavating carefully. “There’s half a cow on here.”

“Beef, cheese, and potatoes.” Sam rested a hand on Steve’s shoulder and made solemn eye contact. “It’s the holy trinity, Steve.”

Steve shoved a fist-sized clump of meat and cheese into his mouth and closed his eyes in bliss. “God bless America.”

Attending a baseball game with Steve Rogers was an experience. It only took half an inning for Steve to transform into a champion heckler, his Brooklyn accent suddenly honey thick and broad as a boxer’s nose.

“Waddaya, blind?” he shouted after a call that was apparently Very Bad (Sam hadn’t been to a baseball game since he was in high school, and he’d spent that whole afternoon getting buzzed on cheap beer and flirting with his boyfriend; baseball wasn’t his game). “That was foul! By a fuckin’ mile!”

“Wow,” Sam said. “Do your biographers know you go full-on irascible grandpa at baseball games? What would the Smithsonian say?”

Steve grinned and elbowed him. “Aww, shaddup.”

“Now you’re just doing it on purpose.”

“You can’t prove nothin’. Oh, for crying out loud--” and Steve was off again, gesticulating wildly. Fortunately they were up in the nosebleed seats where the stands were mostly empty. There was a group of college students sitting behind them, but they still had more than enough elbow room to accommodate Steve’s grandpa tantrum.

Since Steve was busy watching the actual game, Sam assigned himself the task of scanning the stands, looking for anything out of the ordinary. He kept getting distracted--not by the game itself, but by Steve watching the game. The flush of excitement high on Steve’s cheeks, the tension in his body as he sat on the edge of the bench, the power in that muscular frame kept, as always, tightly under control--it was hard to look away from.

Sam could imagine how that controlled power would be exercised in a whole different situation, could practically feel those big hands wrapped around his hips, could imagine that same intent look on Steve’s face, but directed at Sam instead of baseball. Arousal slid down his spine to coil low in his belly.

It wasn’t the first time. Steve was funny and kind and built like an Adonis; Sam was far from immune to his dorky, absurdly muscular charms. (Also, Steve’s running gear was really tight. The opportunity to repeatedly ogle Steve’s perfect ass was Sam’s one consolation for being constantly lapped on their morning runs.)

Their first meeting had been so flirty that Sam had thought they were headed for something more than friendship, but the collapse of SHIELD had pushed all that aside. Steve had focused on the hunt for Barnes to the exclusion of almost everything else, and Sam had accepted that a romantic relationship was not in the cards. There were more important things at stake than Sam’s sex life.

Lately, though, Sam had been wondering if he’d called it quits too soon. Ever since they’d made contact with Barnes, Steve had let down his guard a little. The brittle edge to his voice had relaxed, his smiles had gotten wider, and his teasing had started to seem an awful lot like flirting. It was enough to make Sam pay more attention, even if he wasn’t certain whether he was reading the situation right or not. If he was wrong, Sam could handle it like an adult, but there was no shame in hoping.

For now, Sam tuned out the game and drank in the sight of Steve, energized and passionate, alternately yelling encouragement and cheerful obscenities.

Steve looked away from the field and caught Sam staring. “What, I got something on my face?” He wiped a hand over his mouth like he was brushing away crumbs; Sam watched his broad thumb cross his lip and felt a shiver go through him. “What are you looking at?”

“Just you,” Sam said honestly.

Instead of volleying a retort like Sam expected, Steve just opened his mouth, closed it again, and blushed. His gaze flickered to Sam’s lips for a nervous second before snapping back up.

Oh.

Hmm. Maybe Sam hadn’t been misreading the situation after all.

Sam turned towards Steve and bumped Steve’s knee with his own as he shifted to lean on one hand, moving into Steve’s space. Just testing the waters, not doing anything they couldn’t back away from without awkwardness, but Sam was hoping Steve didn’t want to back away. Steve’s eyes went wide, then calculating. He took a deep breath and started to lean forward.

The stadium erupted into cheers. Sam barely noticed. Steve was still moving closer to Sam, drifting iceberg slow, one big hand reaching for Sam’s shoulder--

The college kids behind them jumped to their feet, and someone’s half-empty slushee went flying. The icy slush splattered across Steve’s head and neck. Steve’s startled yelp was drowned out by the gleeful screams of the crowd.

Sam was so disappointed the moment had been ruined that he didn’t even laugh at poor, forlorn Steve, dripping with blue goo and wincing as ice slid down the small of his back.

Well. Sam laughed a little. But he also handed Steve a wad of napkins and tried to help clean the gunk out of his hair, because Sam wasn’t a complete asshole.

“I’ll be right back,” Steve mumbled. He headed off to the bathrooms, blue-stained shoulders slumped.

Sam sighed and sponged the slush puddle off the bench with his remaining napkins. He scanned the stadium, looking for the nearest trash can.

Instead, he spotted Barnes.

Five hundred feet away, in an almost deserted section, Barnes was sitting near the end of a row, vaguely incognito in a black hoodie and dark jeans. He was looking straight at Sam.

As soon as he saw Sam freeze, Barnes got up. He walked calmly to the nearest exit and disappeared down the stairs without a backwards glance.

Sam was halfway to the same exit before he realized he was moving. He forced himself not to run, not to shove people out of his way as he made for the stairs. Barnes had waited until Sam saw him to move. This wasn’t a pursuit, this was a meet.

A meet Barnes had engineered to take place when Steve wasn’t there. Sam winced, but kept moving. His sense of self-preservation wasn’t quite as degraded as Steve’s, but nobody with a normal sense of reasonable caution signed up to fly into warzones on experimental wings, and that was before he started palling around with Captain America. Going to talk to the Winter Soldier without backup wasn’t even the biggest risk he’d taken this month.

Even knowing it was a meet wasn’t enough to stop Sam from speeding up as soon as there was nobody left in his way. Sam leapt down the steps two at a time and almost skidded into the wall with the force of his sudden stop. Barnes was standing by the railing twenty feet away, obviously waiting for Sam. They were on the second story landing, far enough up that Barnes could jump to the ground and walk it off but Sam would break both his legs if he tried to follow.

Barnes stood sideways, metal arm facing Sam, but his hands were in his pockets and his shoulders were slumped in his oversized hoodie. He looked more like a bored teenager than the world's deadliest assassin.

"623 Maple Street," he enunciated clearly. No trace of Brooklyn in his voice; no Russian, either. He could have been a news anchor reading stock prices for all the inflection in his voice. "Madison, Wisconsin."

“Okay,” Sam said slowly. “What’s at 623 Maple Street?”

"Get Steve a hat," Barnes ordered, as if Sam hadn’t spoken. "He wants one, but he won't buy it for himself. Give him a hat and he'll wear it." He turned towards the railing.

“Hey, Barnes!” Sam called. Barnes stopped, but didn’t turn around. “Why here? You could’ve done an information drop anywhere, so why send us baseball tickets?”

Sam didn’t really expect an answer, but a few seconds later, Barnes angled his chin over his shoulder and spoke. “Steve likes baseball.”

He hopped the railing and dropped out of sight before Sam could say anything else.

Sam’s nightmares always started out quieter than Steve’s. If Steve was already awake, he’d pick up the change in Sam’s breathing and knock the headboard or cough to startle Sam awake before things got too far along. When they were both asleep, Steve usually didn’t notice until Sam was already jerking his arms free of the blankets, reaching out for someone he was years too late to catch.

Sometimes Steve was fast enough to wake Sam up before he shouted Riley’s name.

This time, he wasn’t.

Sam was out of bed and behind the closed bathroom door before Steve could do more than sit up and say his name. Steve stood up, but he didn’t know where to go; he hovered awkwardly beside his bed, not sure if he should leave for a minute to give Sam privacy. The sink was running, but Steve could still hear Sam’s breath catching and stuttering under the hiss of the water. Steve clenched his hands into fists and listened to Sam cry.

For someone who kept trying to get Steve to open up, Sam was pretty tight-lipped about his own rough patches. He’d talk about Riley, but only when he was in a situation he could control, during long stretches of highway with no distractions or interruptions, like talking about what had happened without losing himself in the memories took all his focus. When he was having a hard time, he shut down harder than Steve did. Sam was an expert at deflecting concern, downplaying it or redirecting it, and Steve usually let him.

This time, he couldn’t. He couldn’t just lie back down and pretend to be asleep by the time Sam got out of the bathroom. Steve didn’t know how to offer support the way Sam did, he wasn’t deft and sure-footed like Sam was, but he was starting to think that it hadn’t started out easy for Sam, either. Maybe Sam had just tried and failed and tried again until he got better at it.

Steve didn’t know what to do, but he could try. Sam deserved that and more.

When Sam finally opened the bathroom door, Steve was in Sam’s bed, lying on the side facing the front door.

“What are you doing?” Sam leaned against the wall, his arms folded. Closed off.

Steve flipped the opposite corner of the covers back. “C’mon.”

“Steve,” Sam said, his voice full of warning. Steve ignored it. He turned onto his side to face away from Sam, trying to make his presence as unobtrusive as he could get without actually moving back to his own bed.

Sam sighed into the dark. Steve had a moment of panic, wondering if he was going about it all wrong, if this would be the thing that finally pushed Sam away, before he felt the bed dip under Sam’s weight. He’d thought that Sam would pretend Steve wasn’t there, but instead he moved close, pressing along Steve’s back. Sam slid an arm around Steve’s waist and fisted his hand in the fabric of Steve’s t-shirt. Steve brushed his hand along Sam’s arm in silent welcome, then moved it back up to his pillow.

Neither of them slept again that night, but they stayed right there until dawn, Steve’s body shielding Sam from whatever might come through the door, Sam’s hand locked onto Steve’s shirt in an unbreakable grip.

Barnes was right; Steve did wear the Bluejays cap Sam got him. It became an indispensable part of his "who, me? Captain America? I've never even heard of Captain America, fellow ordinary citizen" disguise, along with a navy hoodie that he'd worn often enough to stretch out the shoulders and a pair of truly horrific camo-print cargo shorts. It was a weirdly effective disguise, maybe because the fashion disaster drew attention away from Steve’s face.

Sam hadn't told him that he’d bought the hat on Barnes' instructions. He wasn't sure whether Barnes would want him to pass that information along, and he didn't want to risk betraying an implied trust.

The whole situation with Barnes and Steve was getting complicated. Sam was starting to think maybe the baseball game had been a date. Arranged by Barnes. Which...Sam didn’t even know what to do with that thought, although his libido had a few ideas of its own. He couldn’t stop replaying the moment at the baseball game where Steve had leaned in, lips parted, his warm knee pressed against Sam’s. It was a hard image to shake.

It was also hard not to think about Steve climbing into Sam’s bed and letting Sam hold him. That left him feeling shaky, but in a good way, like the come down after a successful mission when the adrenaline was still receding but everyone was alive and safe.

And then, just to make Sam’s life more complicated, it turned out that 623 Maple Street, Madison, Wisconsin, was an antique Tunnel of Love ride straight out of a turn of the century World’s Fair.

“Seriously?” Sam closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the steering wheel. Was Barnes trolling him? It felt like Barnes was trolling him.

“Oh, wow.” Steve craned his neck out the window, looking the building over. It could use a fresh coat of paint, but it was clearly still in business. “They used to have one of these at Coney Island.”

“Yeah? You ever take your sweetheart there?”

Steve shook his head ruefully. “I was lucky if a girl would walk down the sidewalk with me. Buck used to go all the time, though. He’d come out covered in lipstick. God, he was so smug about it. I would get so jealous.”

Jealous of Barnes, or of the girl, Sam carefully didn’t ask. One problem at a time. They still didn’t know if this was a mission or a meet, although once again their research had turned up nothing suspicious. Steve had brought his shield, loosely disguised in an oversized camper’s backpack, just in case, and Sam had a combat knife sheathed at his hip.

There was a teenager at the desk inside flipping listlessly through an SAT practice book. She seemed a little surprised to see them, but Sam couldn’t tell if that was because they were both men or if she was just surprised to see any customers at all.

“Don’t see Old Mill rides too often these days,” Steve said, in his best being-friendly-for-strangers voice.

“Last one operating in the state," she said. "Admission is eight dollars per person. Students and senior citizens get a ten percent discount.”

Sam raised his eyebrows at Steve and started to grin. Steve put a hand over Sam’s mouth and glared before Sam could say anything

They paid the full sixteen dollars.

The tunnel itself was only lit at the entrance, with pink paper lanterns casting shifting pools of light on the water below. The boats were shaped like swans, painted white on the outside with red interiors. The bench seat had a foam cushion whose vinyl cover was cracked with age. It wheezed as Steve gingerly lowered himself into the tiny boat, and Sam’s laugh echoed off the tunnel walls.

Once they were both settled, the operator pulled a lever and the swan boat glided smoothly into the tunnel. The passage was almost completely dark after the first turn, with only a few cracks in the wooden boards above them letting in slivers of light.

Sam’s tastes didn’t usually run this cheesy, but he had to admit that the gentle rocking of the boat and the quiet sloshing of water was relaxing. He could imagine turn-of-the-century couples seizing this chance to cuddle close away from prying eyes.

Steve’s hand, the one not resting on the backpack containing his shield, was on the bench between them. Sam wondered what Steve would do if he covered that hand with his own.

Emboldened by the atmosphere and feeling like a damn teenager, he slid his hand along the bench, brushing their pinkies together.

Steve sat bolt upright, both hands moving to grip his backpack. “Did you hear that?”

Sam gave him a Look. The Look said, more eloquently than words could, Only one of us has super hearing, and it’s not me, so this is a pretty transparent dodge, and aren’t we both too old for this shit?

It was, of course, too dark for Steve to actually see how Sam was looking at him. Fortunately for Steve.

“Steve, if you don’t want--”

“I definitely heard something,” Steve said, and abruptly climbed over the side of the boat, backpack still in his hand. He waded through the knee-high water to a maintenance access door set into the side of the tunnel.

Sam resigned himself to several hours of wet feet and stepped out after him, almost wiping out on the slimy tunnel bottom before he caught his balance. Hoisting himself up through the maintenance door smeared algae all over his palms and the legs of his pants. It smelled like a combination of rotting lettuce and day-old tuna.

If this was all just a ruse to avoid hand holding, Sam was going to short-sheet Steve’s bed until the end of time.

They crept back into the main building, Steve taking point. Sam kept his steps as quiet as he could, lowering and raising his feet without sliding them to keep the wet rubber soles from squeaking against the cement.

Once they got closer, even Sam could hear the panting and high-pitched whimpers coming from the closet up ahead. The hair on the back of his neck rose. He quietly pulled his knife from his hip sheath, holding it low by his side. Steve raised his shield and held up three fingers. Three, two, one--

Sam yanked the door open and side-stepped, leaving room for Steve to surge forward with his shield held high.

The two teenagers in the closet both screamed and recoiled, scrambling backwards and tripping over mops. Sam recognized the girl as the ride operator; presumably the boy worked in the back somewhere, or had been snuck in. The girl’s pants were unbuttoned and the boy’s shirt was flung over a box of chlorine solution. They had obviously been having a good time before their make-out session had been suddenly interrupted by a zealous Captain America.

Steve spun on his heel and covered his eyes with one hand. Sam resheathed his knife and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with him, staring at the wall opposite and trying not to giggle as his pre-fight adrenaline rush dissipated into giddiness.

Behind their backs, the teenagers crashed into shelves as they pulled clothing back on, the boy stammering incoherent apologies. Sam wasn’t sure if the apologies were meant for the girl or Captain America or the Lord Almighty Himself, but they were certainly heartfelt.

“Son, if you’re both of age and consenting, it’s none of my business.” Steve hesitated, his hand still over his eyes, while his blush intensified. “But I do hope you’re using protection.”

“But I do hope you’re using protection,” Sam repeated, for the tenth time.

“I know.”

“But I do hope you’re using protection.”

“I know!” Steve buried his face in his pillow. They had beaten a hasty retreat to the motel, taken turns showering off the gross tunnel water, and were lying on their beds ignoring the basketball game Sam had switched on. “It just slipped out. You know how many speeches on venereal disease I had to give when I was doing USO shows for the troops?” He adopted his stage voice, the one Sam only heard when Steve was being Captain America™. “You wouldn’t leave your fellow troops without cover, would you? Of course not! So remember to cover your johnson, and always use protection.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open. “No. You really said that to crowds of soldiers?”

“It was the end of the VD speech I gave after every show overseas.”

“Please tell me there’s video. Please tell me that somewhere buried in the Smithsonian’s archives there’s an eight-reel of you wearing spangly tights delivering a lecture on gonorrhea.”

“If there is, I hope to God it stays buried.”

“I bet Stark could find it.”

Steve sat bolt upright, pointing a threatening finger at Sam. His duckfluff hair was pointing in all directions, straw brown where it was still damp and golden around the dry edges. Sam wanted to pet it. “Don’t you dare.”

“But I do hope you’re--”

Steve groaned and wrapped the pillow over his ears.

They stayed in town waiting on word from Bucky. On the third day, Steve called Tony, ostensibly to see if he had any new information relevant to the search. He had promised to check in with Tony and Natasha every so often whether any of them had new info or not. It was how they made sure Steve and Sam were alive and well, where “well” mostly meant “not kidnapped by Hydra.”

“Nothing to report,” Tony said. “If he’s buying anything, he’s using cash, and he hadn’t shown up on any surveillance cameras since last week. Have you told Wilson you wanna bone him yet?”

“Tony.” Steve let his head thunk back against the wall. Sam had called dibs on the first post-run shower, so Steve was sitting on the sidewalk outside, trying not to sweat on anything important.

“Or date him, whatever.” The call didn’t have video, but Steve could pick up on Tony’s air quotes around ‘date’ just fine.

“No, not exactly.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” Because if he asked straight out then Sam might say no, and then Steve would have to stop trying to count Sam’s eyelashes every morning over pancakes and bacon. “I’ve been trying to be subtle, I guess.”

"You really suck at subtle," Tony informed him. "Maybe you should try direct. He seems like the kind of guy who'd appreciate direct, right?"

"Yeah, he does."

"So why not go up to him after one of your horrifyingly athletic morning marathons and say something like, 'Hey, I really like you, can I suck your dick?'"

Steve sighed. “Thanks, Tony.”

“Anytime!” Tony said cheerfully.

Steve called Natasha next.

"Why do I ever call Tony for advice?"

"You don't. You call Tony when you want to be distracted from whatever you're thinking too hard about. You call me for advice." There was rapid shouting in French somewhere in the background, but Natasha sound unruffled. "Are we finally going to talk about Sam?"

"You're breaking up, I'm going through a tunnel.”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me,” Natasha warned. “Why are you being so coy about this? What happened to Mr. Never Run From A Fight? Isn’t plunging into scary situations head-first your standard operating procedure?”

“Yeah, but.” Steve squirmed and fisted his free hand in his hair, not sure how to explain it. “This isn’t a fight.”

Steve knew how to get punched. He was plenty used to that, and pain didn’t scare him. But he’d never gotten any better at losing people, despite all the unwilling practice.

If he told Sam he was interested, how would Sam react? He knew that if Sam rejected him, he would be kind about it, but what if it made things awkward, what if Sam felt he had to pull away and put some more distance between the two of them for both of their sakes? Steve didn’t want to lose the closeness they had--knees bumping in small dining booths, shoulders brushing as they jogged side-by-side, Sam’s arm locked around him in the dark--over a stupid crush.

Hell, he didn’t even know why Sam was still there, letting Steve drag him all over the country, cracking jokes over hamburgers and fussing with the radio every ten minutes and making Steve forget he was in the wrong century. Standing beside Sam was the one place in the world Steve felt comfortable and secure. That was too precious to jeopardize.

Natasha must have read some of that in his voice, because she let the thread drop without interrogating him further. “Any more word from Bucky?”

“Nothing since Omaha. He’s gone radio silent.” Steve chewed on his cheek for a second. “I’m worried about him.”

“It’s only been four days.” The background noise of angry French stopped abruptly, then switched to loud pops. “He can take care of himself, remember? Give him time. Don’t worry too much.”

“I’ll try not to. Were those gunshots?”

Natasha made a dismissive noise. “Small caliber.”

Steve smiled at the phone. He loved his friends. “Oh, well, that hardly counts.”

Very faintly, Steve overheard someone in the background say, “Okay, this looks bad.”

“That’s my cue,” Natasha said. “Catch you later, Steve.”

“Stay safe, guys.”

If there was a level of Hell reserved for people who teased an already sexually-frustrated Captain America, Sam was headed there.

Sam had been patient. He’d kept his distance. He’d tip-toed around the landmine that was the exact nature of Steve’s past relationship with Barnes, and respected Steve and Barnes’ right to privacy. (Even if he was pretty sure he already knew the answer, there was no way to say “Hey, did you and your not-actually-dead best friend used to have sex back in the 40s?” that wouldn’t make him a jackass.)

But in the three days they’d spent cooped up together since the Swan Boat Incident, the level of unresolved sexual tension between him and Steve had risen from “flatteringly noticeable” to “practically suffocating.” It was impossible to ignore that the way Steve looked at him was not 100% platonic. Steve kept trying to hide it, but he was a terrible liar, and now that Sam knew what to look for he couldn’t stop seeing it.

Problem was, Sam also saw the way Steve jerked his eyes away like a guilty puppy every time Sam caught him at it, and Sam didn’t know why. Was Steve waiting for Barnes? Was he having a Greatest Generation sexual identity crisis? Did he think Sam wasn’t interested?

Sam couldn’t do much about the first option, but he could sure help with the last one.

Steve was still outside on the phone, giving Sam plenty of time to put Operation: Damp and Steamy into effect. He stepped out of the shower, picked up one of the cheap motel towels, and wrapped it around his hips without drying his arms or chest. The towel was thin enough to show the warm shadow of his skin through the worn fabric, especially where the towel was wet and clinging to his hips and ass. It was also short enough to stop well above his knees, leaving his muscular thighs on display.

If it took some flagrant cheesecake posing to break the sexual tension deadlock, Sam was ready to step up and do what the mission required. He was noble and self-sacrificing that way.

And maybe he was getting a little bit of revenge for the swan boat debacle. So sue him, his boots still smelled like pond scum, and Sam was only human.

Sam heard the door open. He gave himself a critical once-over in the mirror and tweaked the towel a tiny bit lower on his hips.

Perfect.

He opened the bathroom door and sauntered into the room. “Everything all right with Natasha and Stark?”

The look on Steve’s face when he turned around and saw Sam’s water-speckled bare chest was priceless. Poor boy looked like he didn’t know whether to lick Sam clean or hide under the bed.

“Yeah, they...they’re fine.” Steve licked his lips and took a deep breath, redirecting his gaze to a full two feet up and to the left of Sam’s head. “Have, uh, have a good shower?”

“Oh, yeah.” Sam stretched both arms above his head, groaning with satisfaction. Steve’s eyes locked onto a drop of water trailing down Sam’s arm, following its path as it rolled over his chest and disappeared into the towel around his hips. “Nothing like a hot shower to really loosen you up, you know?”

Sam was going to Hell, but it was worth it to watch the volcanic blush surge up from Steve’s neck to his hairline.

And then there was a knock on the door, because fuck Sam’s life, seriously. Steve practically vaulted over the bed to answer it as fast as possible.

Sam sighed, admitted temporary defeat, and retreated back into the bathroom to put on actual clothes.

When he emerged, Steve was already packing their bags.

“What is it?”

“Mail call.” Steve flicked a post-card onto Sam’s bed. The back was completely blank; the front showed a man leaning against a sphere of rope almost twice as tall as he was. The caption read Greetings from the Twine Ball, Wish You Were Here. “You got any idea where this is?”

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. If this was another date setup, Bucky was definitely trolling him.

The long wait had left Steve eager to get back on Bucky’s trail. They checked out of the motel, went through a McDonald’s drive-thru, then headed straight for Darwin, Minnesota.

Sam set his egg McMuffin down on the dashboard and tapped at his phone. “Wikipedia says it has a population of 350.”

“Not exactly where you’d expect to find a hotbed of spies.”

“I don’t think it’s a hotbed of anything.”

Steve shoved an entire hash brown into his mouth while they were paused at a red light. “Except twine, apparently.”

“Man, chew your food.”

Once they got to Darwin, they didn’t have any trouble finding the Biggest Ball of Twine in Minnesota; it was clearly the focal point of the town. For lack of a more sophisticated plan, they parked the car, got out, and walked right up to it, Steve wearing his shield backpack and civilian disguise hat. It was housed in a gazebo with glass viewing windows, like a giant trophy display case. There was no sign of Bucky.

Steve and Sam stared at the twine ball for a while. It was large. And round. And made of twine. It failed to exhibit any signs of being a Hydra plant.

“I don’t think there’s anything here,” Steve said finally.

Naturally, that was when the sniper fired.

It was a good shot. If they’d been aiming at anyone else, it would’ve been a kill shot, but Steve’s reflexes were literally inhuman. Steve heard the faintest scrape of metal on metal from behind him, and before he’d even consciously identified the sound, he was already turning and whipping his backpack around. The bullet ripped through the backpack, hit the edge of the shield, and glanced off. It tore an exit wound in the backpack fabric and shattered one of the gazebo’s glass panels.

“Down!” Steve shouted, dropping into a crouch. Sam’s back pressed against his an instant later. “Guess this is a mission after all.”

“You think?” Sam had his combat knife unsheathed and ready. He shuffled backwards without rising from his crouch, boots crunching over glass as he retreated into the dubious cover of the gazebo. Steve followed, keeping his shield raised.

There were two more shots, this time from a handgun.

“Multiple shooters. Fantastic.” Sam flattened down against the gazebo’s rough wooden boards. “My gun’s still in the trunk.”

“Too many civilians around anyway. Unless the whole town is Hydra.”

“Don’t even joke about that, Steve. We don’t need to tempt fate.”

The sniper fired again, shattering another pane of glass. The bullet thunked harmlessly into the twine ball. The ball itself was dense enough to be good cover, but the gazebo was out in the open. With multiple hostiles approaching from unknown angles, there was nowhere out of firing range.

The handgun barked twice more, then went silent. A second later, there was a snap and a scream, followed by several dull thuds. Steve felt a surge of dark satisfaction. “And that’s Bucky.”

“Are we the fucking bait? I am not cool with being the bait. Bad enough everyone thinks I’m your sidekick just ‘cause you got the serum and I’m vanilla human. I fly, Steve.” Sam rolled out of his crouch and stole a glimpse around the side of the twine ball before diving back under cover. “Sniper’s on our eight o’clock, there’s a guy with a weird gun coming up on our twelve, and there’s a big black SUV rolling up main street on our six.”

“Bucky will go after the sniper. We’ll take weird gun guy, then find better cover, then worry about the SUV.”

Sam shifted sideways, giving Steve a clear path out through the broken gazebo window. “Count it.”

“On three.” Steve shifted into a runner’s starting position, weight on one foot and the opposite knee, shield on his left arm. “One, two--”

They tore out of the gazebo and sprinted up the street. The Hydra agent facing them had some kind of tank strapped to his back, connected to the gun in his hands by several lengths of plastic tubing. As soon as he saw them emerge, he snapped a pair of blackout goggles over his eyes and fired.

The bulbous gun spat out a vivid pulse of purple light. Sam and Steve dove to either side as the shot went between them, slamming straight into the twine ball they had just abandoned and splattering it with purple goo. The ball, jarred loose from its pedestal by the force of the blast, rocked forward.

The purple goo started to smoke.

Slowly, inexorably, the twine ball kept rolling. It smashed into the wooden gazebo supports, which cracked and buckled on impact like they were made out of styrofoam. The ball bounced down down the gazebo steps and picked up speed as it rolled into the street.

“Oh shit,” Sam said.

The purple-stained side of the ball burst into flames.

“Oh shit,” Steve said.

The twine ball barreled forward, burning merrily, now headed straight for the armored SUV that had been advancing up the street. The agents inside took one look at the flaming wrecking ball heading towards them and bailed out, forced to abandon their cover to avoid the most ignominious death in Hydra history.

The agent wielding the purple energy weapon shoved his blackout goggles up onto his forehead and blinked. "Hail--what the fuck?"

The massive twine ball flattened the armored SUV with an earsplitting screech of tearing metal. The twine ball, its momentum finally sapped, rolled into a muddy ditch.

The remains of the SUV caught fire.

Steve was so transfixed by the whole spectacle that he almost forgot to punch out the Hydra agent.

The rest of the fight was pretty anticlimactic in comparison. The three agents who had bailed out of the SUV had mysteriously acquired sniper rifle bullets in their calves by the time Sam and Steve were done handcuffing the unconscious Hydra agent and making sure his energy gun was safely powered down. Steve handcuffed and disarmed each of them, then stood guard while Sam applied pressure bandages to keep them from bleeding out before the FBI came to pick them up.

They found the unconscious sniper handcuffed to the railing on his rooftop perch, his unloaded rifle lying five feet to his left. The ammunition was lying five feet to his right. Sam thought the placement was intended to be sarcastic, and wondered if Barnes’ actions were actually showing more personality these days, or if Sam had just started interpreting them differently.

Once the shooting stopped, locals emerged cautiously from their homes, swarming and clucking over the remains of their beloved town landmark. The more people gathered around the wrecked gazebo and the tangle of twine still smouldering in the ditch, the louder and angrier their conversation became. Sam, Steve, and the overwhelmed local deputies keeping watch over the Hydra agents were receiving increasingly hostile glares.

Sam exchanged a look with Steve in which they silently agreed that, in this case, discretion was the better part of valor. They retreated to their rental car and got the hell out of dodge.

They drove south until they ran out of daylight, then kept driving. By the time they came to a stop in Topeka, Kansas, it was nearly midnight. They should have been regrouping, finding food, and planning their next move, but Sam was too damn tired to think about it. He almost fell asleep in the passenger’s seat while Steve booked them a motel room.

Steve walked into the room behind Sam, dropped his bag on the floor, and flopped onto his back on one of the beds, limbs spread out like a starfish. “I guess we should have asked Natasha and Tony to research the twine ball after all.”

“Nah, man, they never would’ve let us hear the end of it. Even though there actually was a Hydra base there, we would forever be known as the guys who couldn't handle investigating a ball of twine. We maybe should’ve had a better plan than 'walk up and wait to get shot at' but hindsight’s 20/20.” Sam was exhausted enough that his filter was shot to hell, which was why he added, “I really thought it was another one of Barnes’ weird dates.”

“Weird dates?”

Sam’s first thought was shit. His second thought was fuck it. “Yeah, you know. The baseball game? The Tunnel of Love? Neither of which were connected to Hydra?”

“The baseball game was a meet.”

“Which he could have done anywhere, but he sent us to a baseball game. Two tickets.” Sam sat up so he could see Steve, who had a look of dawning realization. “And the Tunnel of Love? Steve. The Tunnel of Love.”

“I didn’t…” Steve trailed off. He swung up to a seated position, then moved his hands around like he didn’t know what to do with them before clenching them into fists on top of his knees. “That’s. Why would he do that?”

Okay, so we’re doing this. Sam took a moment to compose his thoughts and prepared to plunge into the breach.

Steve didn’t think he had ever been this nervous before without explosions involved. His mind was a haze of static. It was like he couldn’t decide whether to be hopeful or terrified, so he had frozen in place instead, not sure which way to jump until Sam gave him a clue.

Sam was sitting on the edge of his bed, his expression calm and even. “I think we’ve been dancing around this long enough, Steve.”

Jesus, and people thought Steve was brave.

Steve sucked in a deep breath and tried to match that courage. "You know how you asked me when we first met what made me happy?"

"Yeah," Sam said, drawing out the word, like he was being encouraging. He was starting to smile a little bit.

You make me happy. Oh God, no, wait, Steve couldn't say that, that was the cheesiest line in the world, he had to say something else, anything else, like--

"Can I suck your dick?" Steve blurted.

In the half second it took for Steve’s ears to catch up with his mouth, Sam's jaw literally dropped.

Steve Rogers, who had stood fearless in the face of Nazis, giant flying space lizards, and the Red Skull himself, panicked and ran straight out of the room.

Sam stared at the open motel door. It was still swinging slightly from the force of Steve’s exit.

“And here I thought we were finally making progress,” he said out loud, without much hope of being heard. Even Steve’s enhanced hearing had limits, and he’d run out so fast he was probably out of range already.

Ten seconds later his cellphone started ringing. Sam didn’t recognize the number, but he had a feeling he knew who was calling. It had just been that kind of day.

“Hello?”

There was a long pause. “We need to talk.”

Steve was five miles outside the city limits and still running before he convinced himself that at some point he was going to have to turn around.

First off, his shield was back at the motel.

Second, he was barefoot.

Third, if he ever wanted Sam to speak to him again, he was going to have to go back and explain himself somehow. The idea of not talking to Sam hurt worse than a bullet wound to the stomach, so he was damn well going to find a way to explain himself, no matter how mortifying it was going to be.

It was physically painful to imagine the conversation he was going to have to have. Maybe if he apologized, Sam would let him pretend the whole thing had never happened, and they could go back to their nearly unbearable level of sexual tension. Just like normal.

Steve would take it. He’d take anything over Sam leaving.

Oh God, what if Sam was packing up his bags to go back to D.C. right now, while Steve was running barefoot in the dark like an idiot? He would be plenty justified.

Steve pivoted abruptly and sprinted back to the motel, heart pounding more from panic than exertion.

When he ran back into the motel parking lot, it was a relief to see the rental car exactly where they had left it. Steve slowed to a walk, wiping his hands on his pants and trying to figure out what he was going to say.

Steve paused with his hand on the doorknob to their room, halting in his tracks when he realized Sam was talking to someone inside.

“So you’re okay with this?” Sam was saying. “Me and Steve?”

“Pal,” a second voice said, and Steve’s breath whooshed out of his lungs from the shock of recognition, “I’ve been trying to get him a steady girl since the 30s. You’re a good fighter, you’re not Hydra, and you’re sweet to him. You got my fucking blessing, whatever that’s worth.”

“I’m not exactly a steady girl.”

“Yeah, well.” There was a pause. “Things are different in the future. And he never cared about that part anyway.”

“Yeah? I was wondering, you know, if he was maybe working through some stuff, and that was what was holding him back.”

“Nah, trust me, that’s not the problem. He’s just being Steve. You can't take it personal, that's just how he is. The minute he really falls for someone, his brain dribbles out his ears. I don't remember everything, but I remember that."

"See, when we first met, he was actually kind of smooth," Sam said. "He was being a little shit, but in a flirty way, you know? It was working for him."

"Yeah. Problem is, you guys got serious way too fast.”

“Man, I don’t know what you think we’ve been doing, but trust me, we haven’t gotten anywhere at all. I tried to hold his hand on the swan ride and he jumped out of the damn boat.”

“That’s not what I mean. You took him and his friend in when they were on the run, you watched his back in a firefight, and you helped him take out Hydra, all before you guys even kissed. And then he wakes up after nearly dying to find you waiting at his bedside? I bet you my best throwing knife he was ass-over-teakettle in love with you before he even left the hospital."

"Then why didn't he do anything about it?" Sam said, sounding exasperated. "I've been giving him plenty of opportunities, believe me. I've been hitting on him since Iowa. He just turns red and stutters. It's cute as hell, but it never goes anywhere."

"He wants it to, trust me. It’s just that love turns him into a fucking moron. That's why he's standing outside the door listening instead of coming in like a normal person. Ain't that right, Steve?"

"Bucky?" Steve said, without opening the door. Even though Bucky obviously knew he was there, he couldn’t make himself reach for the knob, terrified of spooking him, or even worse, discovering that it was all an illusion somehow.

Bucky opened the door for him, jerking Steve into the motel room with a hand fisted in his shirt before Steve could do more than stare. He was there, really there, and Steve barely noticed that Bucky was glowering at him, he was so happy.

“What’s the matter with you?” Bucky demanded. His hair was clean, he’d scraped most of the stubble off his face, and his eyes were more alive than Steve had seen them since the 40s. “You proposition a guy and then just run off? For shit’s sake, Steve.”

“Bucky,” he repeated helplessly.

Bucky’s glare softened into something exasperated and heart-stoppingly familiar. “You are a tragedy. C’mere.”

Bucky pulled him into a hug, strong and solid and alive. Steve clung unashamedly, tears blurring his view of Sam over Bucky’s shoulder. They stood that way for a long time before Bucky grunted and shoved him back.

“Sit,” Bucky commanded, pointing at the edge of the bed next to Sam.

“Buck--”

“Sit.”

Steve sat.

Bucky picked up Sam’s car keys and walked to the door, pointing a stern finger at Steve. “I’m gonna pick us up some hamburgers. I’ll be back in two hours. You’re going to stay here, and you’re going to talk to him, and the two of you will have figured this out by the time I get back.” The or else was implied but very much present.

The door slammed hard behind him. Steve swallowed hard and looked at Sam, who was looking back at him the same way he always looked at Steve, warm and steady.

“Sam,” Steve said. His hands were shaking. “I’m sor--”

Sam reached over and took Steve’s hands in his, easy as anything, like he’d done it a hundred times before instead of never. Some things just fit. “Let me stop you right there, Steve. My answer is yes.”

“What?”

“You asked me a question before you ran out of here like your ass was on fire,” Sam said, eyebrows raised. “My answer is yes.”

“Oh. Oh!” Steve ducked his head. “That, uh, wasn’t really the question I meant to ask. I mean, not that I don’t want to--if you would want to, later, we could--but I wasn’t--”

Sam, mercifully, interrupted him. “Yeah, I got that. We’ll maybe work up to that. But I know what you meant, and my answer is still yes.”

“Oh.” Steve rocked forward, eyes on Sam’s lips, then hesitated. “Really?”

“Yes, Steve,” Sam said, almost laughing now. “Jesus, you know what, get over here.”

Sam turned Steve with a hand on his shoulder, slid his other hand behind Steve’s neck, and kissed him. Steve’s mind fizzed into static again at the first brush of Sam’s mouth on his. He didn’t have to think about anything right then; it was enough to feel the heat of Sam’s chest, the bump of his nose against Steve’s cheekbone, the clutch of his fingers in the short hair at Steve’s nape. His body lit up everywhere they touched, his skin suddenly hypersensitive.

Sam broke the kiss, panting a little. “All right, here’s what I’m thinking. We make out a little until Barnes gets back, eat cheeseburgers, and sleep in the same bed tonight, on purpose this time. Maybe add some cuddling, nothing too wild. How does that sound?”

“That sounds perfect.”

Sam pushed Steve’s shoulders, guiding him to sit against the headboard, then crawled right into Steve’s lap and grabbed his hands again. “If I try to take you out for an actual date tomorrow night, are you gonna freak out about it?”

Steve smoothed his thumb across Sam’s knuckles, learning the shape of them. “I dunno. Probably.”

“Right,” Sam said decisively. “Here’s how it’s gonna be. These last few months of chasing Barnes around? That counts as dating.”

“It does?”

“Nobody can tell us different.” Sam shifted his body in a little closer, and Steve put a hand at the small of his back to brace him. It was sheer delight to touch him, to feel Sam’s warm weight across his thighs, to know that neither of them wanted to pull away. “We get to decide when our relationship started, right?”

“Right.”

“So we’ve been dating since Omaha. You don’t have to worry about our first date, because it was that cheesy-ass swan ride.” Sam kissed him like it was a conclusion to his argument, an unspoken so there.

Steve snorted and buried his face in Sam’s neck, reveling in the scrape of Sam’s stubble along his cheek. “We ended that date by ambushing teenagers making out in a supply closet.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t our best date,” Sam agreed. “Or, actually, maybe it was. What else are we counting?”

“Well, there was the baseball game before that where I wound up covered in slushee. And this morning’s romantic Hydra ambush that ended with a twine ball of flaming death.”

“So if I take you out to dinner tomorrow and we don’t wind up punching out the waiter or blowing up the restaurant, we’re doing better than average.”

“That’s kind of a low bar, Sam.”

Sam tipped his forehead to lean against Steve’s and grabbed onto Steve’s shoulder with the kind of grip that meant he wasn’t letting go any time soon. It felt like a promise. Steve’s eyes were closed, but he could hear the smile in Sam’s voice when he said, “I’ll take what I can get.”

Bucky drove out of town at a carefully exact five miles over the speed limit. For the first time since he’d assigned himself this mission, he didn’t have an exact destination in mind or a timetable to follow. He was just heading north.

Sam would watch over Steve. Now that Steve had gotten out of his own way (now that Bucky had shoved him out of his own way), they would be all right. Bucky had lingered outside the motel room just long enough to make sure they were on the right track. He was confident Sam would keep them there; Sam seemed like a guy who knew a good thing when he saw it.

Steve would be all right without Bucky now. Better off, probably. With Sam there to steady him, Steve could give up chasing after the idea of his dead best friend and settle down, go back to being part of his new superhero team. Fight the good fight and still go home at the end of the day. Steve would like that.

Bucky could disappear. He could drop off the radar and never come back up.

It was what he'd planned to do, once he'd cleared out enough of the American branches of Hydra that Steve and his allies could recover their footing. That was done, now. Or done enough. There was no eliminating Hydra, not really, but he and Steve’s new team had weakened it. They wouldn't get the drop on Steve twice.

And Bucky had destroyed every one of those fucking chairs that he could find.

Montana. That had been the endgame he’d planned when he’d first come up with this mission, during those dizzying weeks right after D.C. when he was still in a haze of half-broken conditioning. After the fighting was done, he was going to get a cabin in Montana, where he could minimize contact with civilians, pay his fucking taxes, and keep his head down. He'd be a needle in a haystack, out in the mountains, talking to a human being maybe twice a year when he had to resupply.

Alone, the rest of the time. Just himself and his thoughts.

He could get a dog, maybe.

Disappearing was the right thing to do. He should leave Steve in peace, leave him to his new life with Sam. Sam was decent, decent right down to the bone the way Steve was. The way Bucky wasn't. They’d be good together.

Bucky drove another mile.

Another five miles.

Twenty.

Then he swore viciously, wrenched the steering wheel around so fast he left skid marks on the pavement, and gunned it back into town.

Now he was going to have to actually pick up the fucking cheeseburgers.