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i. today is gonna be the day that they're gonna throw it back to you
Sam disappears in an explosion of white, and Bucky's heart stops beating for an entire minute, but then he reappears again, and Bucky breathes a soft sigh of relief. He turns around, starts jogging in the other direction, waiting for Sam to take flight and follow him, realizes a second later he's halfway down the block but Sam's not by his side. "Hey," he turns around and calls back, "pretty sure the bad guys are in the other direction, Sam."
But Sam's still standing exactly where he was a minute ago, when he'd come back. Bucky sighs, then runs back to him, not really paying attention until he gets close. Then he blinks: "What?"
Sam looks lost: He stares down at his body, then up, then shakes his head. "I don't - what the hell is this? Where am I?" He scratches at his head.
Bucky closes his eyes. Then he opens them again, in the hopes this is some kind of odd hallucination. Maybe he's sniffed something wrong. That happens sometimes. But nope, Sam is… young, staring at Bucky like he doesn't know who he is or what he is or anything, anything at all, really.
"I'll," Bucky says, faint. He gulps. "Let me call someone."
*
Scott Lang says, once he shows up: "Wow, you really should have called me earlier."
"It literally happened two hours ago."
"Yeah, you should have called me like, before it happened."
"What the fuck are you talking about? Make sense." Bucky practically growls. He's trying to be nice, really. Scott had been on his side for no reason other than - well, honestly Bucky still doesn't know why. Crush on Steve? Boredom? FOMO? But, you know. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth and all that.
"Well, actually, it's quite obvious what was going to happen, the moment the quantum realm -" Bucky checks out, exchanges a look with Sam, who seems baffled still. Bucky doesn't blame him.
"Sorry, he just - so he time-travelled?"
Scott stops mid-spiel. "No, he didn't. See, his body was deaged, together with his mind. Technically he's still Sam of 2024, just a younger version of him. The one that exists in the past is still there." He pauses. "Actually, I should let Hope explain this to you. Well, when she gets back from her conference in Geneva."
Bucky waves his hand in the general direction of Sam, a rising feeling of horror in his chest. "Are you saying this is permanent?"
"No, no," Scott says. "It's reversible. Maybe. Very likely reversible. Possibly reversible. Just, might take a while."
"How long, exactly. Also, when you say this is a younger version of Sam -"
Scott checks his notes, "I would say he's -"
"Eighteen. I'm eighteen. What the hell is going on, will someone please explain this to me. And why am I in this ridiculous outfit."
"It's not ridiculous," Bucky says immediately, defensive. He'd designed the suit with an incredible amount of thought and care. It might be the best thing he has ever done in his entire life: give a suit to Captain America. "You're Captain America."
"No, Captain America's some ancient white dude." Sam screws up his face. "I really don't remember taking any drugs, but I guess I must have."
"It's, ah -" Bucky doesn't know what to say. He makes a strangled noise in the back of his throat and turns to Scott.
The shrug he's given is not exactly reassuring. "I'll call you," Scott gathers up his files. "It'll be - yeah. Oh by the way, Sam. You grow up great, by the way. A Black Captain America, how awesome is that. I mean."
Sam shoots Bucky another look, this time the universal language of "this guy is an idiot isn't he?"
Scott stops abruptly, then says, "Yeah, okay, bye guys."
Then he's gone.
"Fuck," Sam says, echoing Bucky's thoughts precisely.
ii. i recommend sticking your foot in your mouth at any time
Bucky doesn't know who else to call, really. He goes through Sam's list of contacts instead, and in the meantime tells the poor kid to have a seat. But the kid's gaping now. "Your arm," he says. "What is that?"
"It's. Oh, you won't know. It's made of metal," Bucky says. "I lost my arm in the war."
"What war? God, this is a really vivid trip though. I don't know why I'm apologizing to my hallucination."
"It's not a trip." He shakes his head, says: "No, listen."
It takes a while, but the kid's finally convinced. "So it's really 2024. And I'm really Captain America. But why?"
"Well it's a… really long story. Wow, so long."
"So in 2024 when you lose an arm you get something made of metal that works exactly like a real one? That's all right."
Bucky looks at his arm, says, "No, it's not really a standard issue prosthetic. It's because I'm.” Shit. "It was a gift. Special-made."
"What, by Stark Industries or something?"
"Or something. Okay, just sit, please. I need to figure this out. I need to call someone."
"Sure," Sam says agreeably, and now he looks far, far less anxious than Bucky feels. Which isn't hard, Bucky could be crawling the walls now, that's how he feels. He takes a few deep breaths to calm and center himself, like his therapist advises all the time, then finds the closest military officer he can that's not Torres, who has little to no actual clout. James Rhodes. That'll work, yeah.
Rhodes says: "What do you mean, he's eighteen?"
Bucky drags Sam in front of the phone. "I mean he is eighteen."
"That's a video call? Damn that's clear. Hi, I'm Sam."
Bucky has no time for this, just waves Sam away, gestures until he gives up speaking, slinks away to slump on a couch, all teenaged annoyance.
"Wow, okay," Rhodes says. "This is bad. Did you call Scott Lang?"
"First thing I did. He says he will figure something out. At some point."
"How did this happen?" He says this in a faintly accusatory tone, as if Bucky's somehow responsible.
Bucky just throws his hands up in the air. "I don't know, it just happened. We were fighting something."
"Something? What the hell is that supposed to mean? Be more specific, Barnes."
Bucky sometimes forgets the details in the heat of battle. There's just him and the fight. He exhales. "Look, your accusatory tone is not helping, okay? What do I do with -" he waves at Sam, who looks nonplussed.
"Well it looks like you can't do anything, can you? Just. Keep him safe and hidden for now, maybe Scott will find a solution in a couple of days."
"What do I -" but the line's already cut off.
*
He brings Sam - young Sam, this Sam; not Bucky's Sam - back to their apartment in DC. Sam looks around, then says, "Oh, I'm really Captain America, huh? That's -"
He doesn't sound impressed.
"Yeah," Bucky says, bristling. "You met Steve Rogers, and you became friends."
"That's the dead white guy."
"He wasn't dead, just buried under ice for decades."
"Yeah, that makes total sense." He wanders around the room, looks at photos. "Hey, that's me."
"Yeah, you were a pararescuer before you became Cap."
"Huh. That seems way cooler."
Bucky wants to correct him, to explain. He doesn't understand: Sam loved Captain America, loved Steve. Gave up everything for him, without question.
But also he wants to scream: this is already too much, everything is overwhelming.
Sam would know what to do. Sam would know how to handle the situation.
"I need a drink," Bucky says, to himself.
"I'd take a beer," Sam says.
Bucky's almost handing it over before he remembers, then decides he doesn't really care. They both deserve a beer, even though only one of them is going to get anything out of it.
He points Sam to the direction of the bedroom after Sam starts fussing with the suit, lets him go choose his clothes. He takes much longer than Bucky thinks is reasonable, but then he hears the shower running.
Sam comes out rubbing his head with a towel, in jeans and a t-shirt that's too loose. He's much leaner than adult Sam is, all colt-like arms and legs. Bucky finds himself clenching his fists at his sides.
"So I revise my opinion on the suit - it's actually pretty cool," Sam says. "I've never seen that kind of material before. Those things on its back that look like they can fly? Badass."
"It's vibranium," Bucky says, choosing to ignore the mention of the Redwings. "Most indestructible metal on earth." He raises his hand, flexes his fingers. "Like my arm, see."
"Cool."
Bucky rubs his face wearily. "Yeah, okay, it's late. Maybe you want to get some sleep?" And hopefully magically tomorrow the situation will reverse itself. Unlikely, Scott Lang's overly-cheerful voice rings in his head.
The kid just stands there, and Bucky realizes he's waiting for Bucky to leave.
"I live here," Bucky says. He stabs a finger at a door. "Spare bedroom."
"So I'm a superhero and you're my, what?"
"Partner," Bucky says faintly. "Well, not really." He's not quite sure how to define his relationship with Sam. Friends? Co-workers? The dumb guy with the cool family Bucky can't seem to shake no matter what? "We're friends," he settles on, finally.
There's a thoughtful look in that young gaze. "Sure, friends. Okay. I'm gonna go crash. Night, sir."
"It's just Bucky," Bucky says automatically.
"Yeah, okay. Bucky."
Bucky knows he won't sleep, so he just sits in the living room, staring into space, until dawn.
iii. tv news and cameras, there's choppers in the sky
Breakfast, Bucky cooks as usual, figures the kid will probably eat the same kind of food an adult Sam would. Except Sam's up at 6 a.m., and it's now 10 and the door to the bedroom remains stubbornly closed.
Sam finally wanders out at 11, rubbing at his eyes. "Hello, nice of you to show up," Bucky says, deeply disappointed that the kid is still a kid.
The kid blinks at him. "Yeah, I wasn't aware I was on a schedule." His face brightens at the sight of the food. "Hey, my favorite."
"You're welcome," Bucky says, irritated. "It's mostly cold now."
Sam just waves him away, mouth stuffed with food. Bucky can't look at him without feeling completely unbalanced. He's Sam, but he's not.
Bucky can't breathe. Is this what a panic attack feels like? But then air fills his lungs, and he exhales.
"You all right?"
"Yeah," Bucky replies. If he closes his eyes the kid sounds almost exactly like Sam. Only almost. His southern accent is stronger.
Sam clears his throat. "So, uh. 2024. That must be cool. Do y'all have flying cars?"
Bucky's startled into remembering: Stark, and the floating car that blew up. Funny, how that never worked out, despite all the other Stark tech. But then, helicarriers and quinjets exist, so it's likely - what? Hoarding of technology to keep the masses down, a voice in his head supplies unhelpfully. "Sorry to disappoint," he says.
The kid waves Sam's iPhone around. "This though, this is awesome, man."
"Yeah. It's an Apple. Steve Jobs, genius. Dead now, but."
"No shit." His eyes are wide, curious.
And Bucky thinks, sure, why not. It's not like he's got anything better to do, besides waiting for Scott to fix things.
"Hey, go get dressed. We'll go out, I'll show you around."
The kid doesn't seem particularly impressed with the 21st. Bucky tries to explain most of what happened over the past several years to him, and Sam says: "You're yanking my chain, right? An alien with delusions of godhood got his hands on a bunch of jewels and snapped his fingers and half the population of the universe disappeared and then there was some kind of battle five years later involving time travel and then everyone came back and now the world is a mess because of it?"
"Yeah, I know it sounds… I know how it sounds." Bucky can only shrug.
"And there's a superhero group called the Avengers and I was one and then I wasn't and now I'm Captain America because the original Captain America decided to go back to the 50s to be with some girl?"
"Yep." Bucky could just die, it's so painful.
But then the kid purses his lips, nods. "Well, I'm standing here, so I guess all that's not entirely out of the realm of possibility. Wild though, man."
Bucky has to agree: it's pretty wild. He hasn't even gotten around to talking about his own story, decides he'll leave it out entirely. No point in dragging up unnecessary stuff.
Sam smiles all of a sudden, and the gap in his front teeth is so much more pronounced for some reason. It's oddly charming, and Bucky catches himself staring. He shakes himself. "Come on, I'll buy you lunch."
*
Scott says, "There's a problem."
"What problem. I don't want to hear about any problems, Lang." Bucky bares his teeth. He knows he looks scary, but that's kinda what he wants. Maybe some fear will give him the answer that he wants. Maybe it'll fix things.
Scott blanches, but doesn't change his answer: "Look, all is not lost, okay? It's still reversible, it's just it'll take more than a day. A month?"
Okay. A month doesn't sound so bad. It's not ideal, but it's fine. Bucky can deal. It's Sam still, just a younger version of him. What's so bad about that? Adult Sam's mostly great, if occasionally aggravating. This version is just pre-Captain America, that's all.
*
Sarah's quiet and still for a long time, and Bucky think's they've gotten cut off, that she's frozen on the screen, but then she says: "So he's eighteen."
"Yeah, I know it's kinda hard to wrap your head around."
"Oh no, my head's wrapped around it just fine. I mean, five years ago half the population disappeared, and then came back. Then there's all the other shit that's happened with the other aliens and androids and all. At some point you just get used to stuff."
"You should speak to him."
Sam blinks at the screen, then gives a low whistle. "Wow, sis, you got old. You look good though."
Sarah gives an exasperated sigh, and shoots Bucky a look that says, "Good luck, man."
Bucky frowns in confusion.
"Hey, can I speak to Mom and Dad?"
Bucky inhales, sharp, as Sarah does the same. "I'll leave you alone to speak," he says, nodding at Sarah. He squeezes Sam's shoulder before he exits the room.
*
Sam's sitting, still, at the dining table. "My parents are dead. My grandpa, my -" His voice is distant, hollow.
Bucky drags a chair over, says, "Hey, it's okay. I'm sorry. I understand."
"How would you understand?"
Ah. The kid doesn't know. Bucky clears his throat, decides now is not the appropriate time to explain his long and complicated past. "I was dust for five years, some stuff happened," Bucky says noncommittally.
He doesn't know what else to say. Steve would have: Steve would have known how to comfort someone with the same experience of suddenly finding that you'd lost everyone that ever mattered to you. But for Bucky, it was always more complicated than that. He wasn't asleep for 70 years, just buried alive. The difference was small, but distinct.
"How do you -" Sam waves his hand around vaguely, and he looks so young.
"One day at a time," Bucky says. "You just get up, and you keep moving."
"That enough?"
"Some days. Not always."
A small smile creeps onto his face. "I have nephews though, so that's nice. My little sis is all grown up, that's also cool I guess." He doesn't sound convinced. Bucky wants to touch him; if it were his Sam he would - his Sam, and Bucky already misses him, misses his steady, grounding presence.
What do you do when the guy you depend on to hold you by the edges is now somehow the one needing to be fixed? Bucky leans forward, against his better instincts, puts a reassuring arm around the kid's shoulder. Sam's shoulders are bonier than expected, but he smells mostly the same.
Sam starts a little, but he doesn't pull away. There's a vulnerability to his face that Bucky's never seen before, and his breath catches. "It's gonna be okay, kid," Bucky says. "We'll fix this, it'll all go back to normal again."
No-one should have to wake up in a time they don't belong, Bucky reckons.
iv. see, you had my heart from the start like cupid, and i was just downright foolish and stupid
Everything starts to go south once Sam settles in, starts getting used to being in a different year. Or deaged, or whatever it is Scott says it is.
This takes less than a week.
*
Bucky wakes up one morning and Sam's not there, but there's a faint, familiar sound outside. It couldn't be. He tells himself Sam wouldn't. But it nags at him. So Bucky steps outside, and there's Sam, flying through the air, wings strapped to his back.
Bucky gapes for a bit, then starts yelling, but it goes unheard.
A neighbor comes out in pajamas, then ducks back in. He emerges once again, phone in hand. Bucky stalks over, says, "No recording."
"But it's Captain America."
"You live next door to him!"
"Well yeah, but he usually doesn't fly around the neighborhood, does he?" He tilts his head at Bucky. "I'm Walt, by the way. You're the boyfriend, right?"
Bucky grits his teeth. "What? No, I'm not the boyfriend. I'm his partner." He pauses. "No, not in -" he snatches Walt's phone away from him, seeing as how he refuses to stop recording, then remembers it's rude to just take things without asking, so he gives it back and tries a smile.
"Walt, would you please delete this video. It's a matter of national security, we can't have people knowing where Captain America lives."
"Oh sure, of course." Walt winks. "I never say anything to anyone about the two of you, either. I mean, if he wants to come out it's his business."
Bucky only half listens, is busy watching as the kid struggles to control the wings. He catches his breath as wobbling happens, but the crisis is somehow averted, and Sam makes easy swoops in the air. The wings are designed to be intuitive, like most Wakandan tech, but it still takes some measure of skill to control them properly. Of which this boy has none.
"Wow, you must be really proud of him, huh," Walt says, clearly trying to make conversation.
Bucky ignores him, as Sam has finally decided to land, at the back of the house away from Walt, thank Christ. Bucky starts to stalk away, throws a "We're not together," over his shoulder as he does, knowing it's futile.
There's an overjoyed expression on the kid's face as Bucky approaches, one that only fades slightly under the force of Bucky's glower. "Did you see that? That was -"
"What," Bucky spits out, "the hell is the matter with you."
Sam blinks. "I was just taking it out for a spin."
"A spin? A spin? This isn't a toy, you don't take it out for a spin. It's a weapon that costs more than this entire neighborhood put together and you think you can just take it for a spin?"
The grin falters somewhat. "But it's Sam's wings," he says. "And I'm Sam."
"No, no you're not. Sam is an adult, and a soldier. And you're just a kid." He grabs Sam by the arm, starts dragging him towards the house.
"Ow, hey," Sam protests, and tries to pull away, "Wow, you're really strong."
In the apartment, Bucky confiscates the gear. There's a surly cast to the kid's face as Bucky hauls it away, but he only says, "You were dragging me with your other arm. How are you so strong?"
Bucky says, flat: "I was captured by Nazis in World War II and injected with an experimental super serum. Then I was kidnapped after I fell from a train, given a metal arm, tortured, brainwashed and used as an assassin for 70 years before I finally broke free. And now here I am, babysitting the kid version of Captain America as he tries to get himself killed." He shoves the wings back into the gear box, leaves the kid, mouth hanging open, standing behind.
*
The kid comes into the kitchen as Bucky's sitting there, nursing a whiskey and feeling awful. He clears his throat, says, "So uh, I guess I'm sorry. It seemed cool, and I wanted to try it out." He pauses. "The stuff you said real?"
"No," Bucky says, without expression. "Except for the arm part, maybe."
Sam's nodding with some understanding, letting the matter slide for whatever reason, or maybe just because he's Sam Wilson and Sam Wilson at any age is kind, apparently. He's eyeing Bucky's arm like it's a miracle, and it's the first time Bucky has felt actually cool since - Well. Since. "The arm's awesome. What else can it do though? Can it shoot lasers? Fireballs?"
"No, it's just an arm," Bucky says, deflated. And suddenly he doesn't feel so cool anymore. Like his vibranium arm, which impresses just about everybody simply by virtue of being near indestructible and attached to his extremely strong body, is somehow inadequate. "I'm very strong," he finishes weakly.
"Yeah," Sam says, rubbing distractedly at his arm. "That's cool though. You're cool."
Bucky blinks. So that's all it took then? A display of his super strength and suddenly he's cool?
Or maybe: Bucky narrows his eyes. "Look, you can't just do that kind of thing. Sam - you - trained for years to fly it, and I can't be responsible for you getting yourself killed."
Sam rolls his shoulders at that, and Bucky recognizes it as the actions of someone that's listening to what's being said, but not actually listening.
"It's all good. You've confiscated it anyway, so I guess it's out of bounds." He's annoyed though, Bucky can tell. Doesn't hide it at all, the way Sam does sometimes. There's an intensity in the way he stares at Bucky that makes Bucky bristle, want to square his shoulders and lash out in some way. Except now he's the adult here. It's hard, there's only room for one person to be immature in any relationship.
"You, ah, you want dinner? I'll cook," Bucky says, before the situation escalates.
"Sure," Sam says, and the annoyance abates, but only just.
Bucky throws together something from whatever's in the fridge and pantry, which is just pasta and mixed mushrooms, cream, Parmesan, some herbs. The kid just sits and watches. "So you cook every evening?"
"What," Bucky says, distracted. It was hard, learning how to cook, but satisfying. Sarah had a whole host of recipes that she'd scanned and sent over, and Bucky usually just relied on that, but sometimes he liked Italian food, so had to use the internet and his own interpretations of the recipes. "Not always. We aren't home that often. Saving people and all that."
"It's just a bit weird." His eyes are bright, and Bucky decides he should be made useful.
"Pass me the salt, please. First cabinet on the left." And: "What's weird."
"You don't look like the type of guy that does domesticity." He follows Bucky's orders dutifully, without question. Cuts the vegetables for the salad with the experience of, well. Sam always seemed like a guy who had been raised to help out. Cue: a kid that was raised to help out.
"I'm trying something new," Bucky says. His new therapist, not court-mandated, just a guy Sam said he trusted, and in turn Bucky grudgingly trusts as well, had suggested he pick up constructive hobbies. Bucky can admit to himself at the very least he needs the therapy, that everything rattling in his head is still there.
He likes cooking, he's discovered. And also fixing things up - Sam's apartment is just filled with randomness; Bucky requires order, so he goes to garage sales, buys old cabinets, drawers and other stuff and restores them. Sam doesn't say anything about it, just accepts that things are in new places now, and need to stay there.
"As opposed to?"
"Killing people," Bucky says. "Can you go set the table?"
"Yes, sir."
Bucky grimaces. "Please."
"Sorry," Sam says, as Bucky points to the silverware drawer. "Don't kill me."
Ha.
v. see you at the crossroads, so you won't be lonely
The kid is burning with curiosity, and wants to know everything about everything going on. He insists Bucky bring him around, and when Bucky refuses, just shrugs and says, "I'll go out myself then."
"With what money? What transportation?"
"I can drive." He glances around the apartment. "Maybe I'll sell my signature or something. Captain America's famous right?"
"You can't - that's not how this works." Bucky says. He puts on his flat, Winter Soldier face, but apparently that only works on adults and not demanding teenagers. Bucky gives up. "Fine, where do you want to go?"
Sam beams. "Anywhere cool. You think we could get the Air Force to let me jump off a plane?"
"How about a museum," Bucky says, despairing.
"You know, you don't really seem like the museum type to me," he says, thoughtful. It's true, but: that's not the point. Sam tilts his head to the side. "That bike in the garage, that's yours, right?"
Bucky sends a quick text message to Sarah as they're heading towards the garage: what did Sam like when he was a kid?
Destroying things, is the almost immediate reply. Followed by: Good luck, and then three laughing emojis in a row.
So that's someone Bucky won't be restoring anything for this year. That this brings the number of people Bucky knows well enough to fix something for to possibly only three other members of the Wilson family is besides the point. The Wakandans still aren't speaking to him, so that's out.
Sam is staring expectantly at Bucky. "No," Bucky says, straddling the bike.
He hands Sam the only helmet. "What about yours," Sam asks.
"I got a hard head. Come on."
Sam's not reserved about wrapping his arms around Bucky's waist as they leave, just presses into him like it's natural. His Sam has never been on the bike before: why would you ride when you could fly. Bucky's not all that familiar with DC just yet, so just takes him to the Washington monument.
"This is where Steve and Sam - well, you, met," Bucky says, hands loose on his hips. "You guys were jogging or something, I don't know."
Sam's told him the story once or twice. For so long, it always felt to Bucky like Sam revered Steve, but now he sees there's a difference between reverence and respect. Sam's looking around, suitably impressed. Has the kid ever been out of Delacroix? That explains a lot.
"How fast can you run?"
"Fast enough," Bucky says, wary.
"No, but how fast."
"I'm not running. I'm not dressed for it."
"Your superhero outfit is black leather," Sam points out, clearly having spent way too much time on the internet. Bucky wonders if it's too late to take away those particular privileges.
But: "I'm not a superhero."
"You're Captain America's partner. He's a superhero, so aren't you one too?"
"No," Bucky says, shaking his head vehemently. "I am not. I just help him out sometimes."
"And you live with him. Like superhero roommates."
"You know what, hey, let's race. Try to keep up. Well, unlikely. But try."
It's funny; when he runs, he doesn't feel like he's going any faster than anyone else, but then others are always just left behind, so that's how he knows. He makes three rounds to Sam's half before he slows to a walk, laughing.
Sam catches up in a bit, says, "That was great. I mean I saw you running in videos, but real life is way better." And his fingers are on Bucky's neck, pulling him in with some sort of exhilarated glee, and Bucky flinches for a moment before his body processes the whole "it's only Sam" thing, and he relaxes.
But then it's not Sam, not really, and so Bucky just slides out of his grip, still laughing. "Okay," he says, "you happy now? Let's go back."
Sam only shrugs, easy and without care. But his gaze lingers on Bucky, a hot, heavy-lidded thing. Bucky has to look away, knows it's defeat, but has no choice in the matter.
*
"So there's an entire African nation of people with this metal and they gave you this arm?"
"How did you -"
Sam's waving around the phone that Bucky gave him with the kind of glee only the young have, and then finally he says, a little chastised, a little embarrassed, "Uh, there's this thing called Google. I looked you up. Most of the stuff's redacted but uh, what happened to you. That's rough."
"It, well," Bucky says, nonplussed. "Other people have been through worse, I'm sure."
There's something thoughtful in Sam's gaze, and for a moment Bucky can see the glimmer of the man he'll be some day. "Yeah, but this happened to you. I'm just saying it must have sucked, man."
"It's all right. I got the cool arm out of it, so there's that."
"Yeah, the arm is still pretty great," and his mouth is open and his lips are wet, and if Bucky looks closely he can see that pretty gap between his teeth, and. Shit.
"Look," Bucky says, anxiously, reversing gears. "I'm just a super soldier, all right? You should see the powers some other guys have. Doctor Strange, he's got a time stone. Can do magic. There's Thor too, God of Thunder. Everyone loves him."
Sam nods. "There are entries on this thing called Wikipedia. Very informative."
But then his smile turns shy, which is an expression he has rarely seen on his own Sam, not with this kind of openness at least. It's disconcerting, disarming. Bucky's coming undone. "They're not here though. You are. They say you broke free from your programming when SHIELD fell. Didn't finish your mission because you recognized Steve."
Bucky blinks. "That's on the internet?"
"No, well. Kinda. Well I mean it's not on Wikipedia or anything, but there are forums and stuff. So many forums. You're super popular. There are a lot of fan theories."
"I -" Bucky has to sit down for a bit. "What else does the internet say?"
Sam suddenly looks bashful. "Well, I think a lot is made up. But you kinda confirmed some of it."
"When did I?" Oh. His outburst. Right. Bucky scratches aimlessly at his chin. "Everything beyond what I told you is made up," he says, firm. "Everything."
Sam lowers his head, and again there's this disconcerting dissonance between the familiarity of a Sam Wilson action on a face that's Sam Wilson's, only not. "I saw some stuff, you in that mask. You tried to kill me."
A highway, such a long time ago. Of course video proof exists: SHIELD, or Hydra, would normally scrub that sort of thing, but that was when both went down, so that stuff's likely just out there. "I'm not that guy anymore," Bucky says, tight.
"Yeah, it's pretty obvious. That guy was way cooler."
"Trust me, he wasn't." Bucky squeezes his eyes shut, and he sees Sam, body unprotected by even a shield, barrelling into danger without fear. His chest aches, all of a sudden.
"I can see why he - older me - likes you, I guess. You're still all right," Sam says, obviously throwing Bucky a bone.
"Uh, thanks?"
Sam only smiles, then: "Hey, let's go for a ride."
"Sure," Bucky says, distracted into agreeing. Or maybe he just wants to.
vi. you're blowing my mind, maybe in time, baby, i can get you in my ride
The kid, Bucky realizes, is like if you took the worst parts of Sam: the brashness, the inexhaustible energy, the sheer lack of fear, and didn't temper it with the maturity that comes with the tragedies of war, of losing not just those you love but parts of yourself along with it.
He could be Bucky, impossible at eighteen, happy and free and unaware of his own mortality.
It's a nightmare.
*
When he brings Sam out to places Sam flirts with just about everyone, his smile so lazy and charming it works on, well. Just about everyone. It drives Bucky nuts. Especially since Sam, recently, has taken to turning his charm Bucky's way. He doesn't even pretend he's not doing it, even as Bucky works to pretend even harder he doesn't notice.
But it's hard, because he looks so much like - is, he is - Sam.
Walking around the apartment in nothing but low-riding jeans, insisting Bucky follow him on runs. "Give me some motivation to catch up."
"Literally not how it works," Bucky says, but he follows anyway, because he's dumb and doesn't know how (doesn't want) to say no.
Bucky always follows him afterwards, when Sam is sweaty but still bursting with energy, to an ice cream shop or a cafe or wherever he wants to go to drink milkshakes or some awful sweet blended concoction. Bucky drinks his coffee black, like he always has, but when he's sitting across from Sam, stonefaced, and Sam slides a half-finished Frappuccino his way, he usually can't resist at least a sip.
*
Sam begs and cajoles, and eventually Bucky lets him ride the bike, but insists he wears the helmet. He doesn't want to wrap his arms around Sam's waist, but it seems like it would be too obvious since Sam's done it to him from day one.
But it's: he finds himself with his head on Sam's shoulder, listening to the steady thud thud thud of his heart. Sam rides like a man on fire, and Bucky finds himself yelling more than once: slow down, for fuck's sake.
It starts to rain at some point, and Sam doesn't seem to notice, but he starts to shiver, his thin frame unprotected by his flimsy windbreaker.
At a traffic stop, Bucky takes off his leather jacket, taps him on the shoulder.
"Won't you get cold," Sam lifts the visor of his helmet, even as he eyes the jacket with some envy.
"Cold isn't a thing I do."
Sam only nods, and let's Bucky slip the jacket onto him. It's too big, but it looks good on him. Bucky can only see half his face beneath the helmet, and like this he could be Bucky's Sam, or he could be this kid, or it could be either, and it would be the same, maybe.
The light turns green, and Bucky jerks his head. "Let's go," he says, to avoid anything he might then regret.
He sits on the couch that night, the same as he had the first night Sam had deaged. It feels like a fist is wrapped around his heart, heavy and relentless.
*
Bucky has to leave for a few days, some situation that's escalated in Boston, and at first Torres keeps asking for Sam, seeming not to understand that the kid waving at the phone is in fact Sam Wilson, but then he finally gets it, and says, with barely hidden disappointment: "I guess you'll have to help then."
Sam says, "Hey, I can help."
"No," Bucky says. He's tempted to lock the kid in the apartment, but that's probably illegal nowadays. Instead he just says, "Stay out of trouble, please. I'll be back in two days, tops. There's leftovers in the fridge, you can order take-out if you want. Watch tv, or play some video games or whatever."
Sam only scowls in response.
It's. Not good. Without Sam, Bucky's often untethered, and he knows this. But he manages not to kill anyone, manages to destroy only a million dollars worth of government property, manages to get the bad guys arrested and put away, manages to only injure himself somewhat badly, and calls it a victory.
"Huh," Torres says, "That was. Thanks, actually, for the help," and he sounds sincere.
Bucky grunts.
"So I'll need the mission report by Friday?"
"Yeah, pass," Bucky replies, and thumps a fist against Torres's shoulder, slightly too hard. "I'll see you around."
It might be blood loss: He's vaguely aware that the back of his jacket is tacky, but chooses to ignore it until he gets back to DC. Except when he steps into the apartment Sam is there, staring wide-eyed at him.
"It looks far worse than it is," Bucky says. He staggers a little, but his body is already starting to heal. Sam still reaches for him though, pulls him to the couch, but Bucky moves to the dining table instead. "It'll stain it." The knife had only sliced, but it was deep enough. Mostly Bucky's mad because now he has to get another jacket. He liked this one, too.
"Take off that, whatever it is you're wearing," Sam says, and there's a glimmer of another man behind that voice, and so Bucky does exactly as told unthinkingly, grimacing as the wound that had been stitching itself together opens again from the movement. He can feel fresh blood against the skin.
"Bathroom's probably better." Bucky rises, and Sam follows dutifully.
In the bathroom, he tosses the clothes into the sink and points vaguely in the direction of the cabinet, then slides to his knees and braces his forearms against the edge of the bathtub. He's maybe lost a little more blood than he thought - things are a bit hazy. The Winter Soldier always just steeled himself against any injury, ignored it until he healed. He misses that sometimes, when pain was just a distraction to the mission, easily pushed aside for more pressing matters. It's still like that for the most part, but it's the aftermath that's a bitch, when the adrenaline wears off.
Sam's rummaging through the cabinet, and Bucky feels rather than sees him kneel down behind him. He gives a low whistle. "That doesn't look good. You maybe need a doctor."
"I'm fine," Bucky says. "Just help me clean it up, it'll heal by tomorrow."
"That doesn't seem like -"
"I'm a super soldier, remember?"
"Yeah, okay." His fingers are soft against Bucky's back, and Bucky can't help it, he sighs and arches a little into the touch.
"It's okay," Sam says, voice subdued. "You're okay."
Bucky shudders and squeezes his eyes shut: The kid has no idea. "I can sew it up if you need."
"How would you know how to do that?"
"Isn’t it the same as sewing up a fishing net?"
"I'm not a fishing net. Or a fish." He shakes his head. ""It doesn't need stitches, just antiseptic, wet cloth." It doesn't technically even need the antiseptic: his body is a miracle in many ways, but it's been a curse for so long he's never gotten around to appreciating it.
Sam cleans him up with some efficiency, and by that time the wound has stopped bleeding, is starting to stitch together again. His left hand is on the arch of Bucky's spine, unwavering, and Bucky can barely breathe. At some point everything just stops, and all Bucky can hear is the sound of blood rushing through his ears and Sam's breath close to the nape of his neck, and his touch.
Sam - his Sam - was always touching him, and Bucky always pretended he didn't want it, always just acted that it was something he allowed, or tolerated.
Is this what you wanted?
Bucky turns his head, sharp. "I think we're done," he says, surprised his voice is this steady. "Thanks for the help."
"Anytime," Sam says, but his hand lingers on Bucky's back still, for far too long.
vii. this youthful heart can love you
Bucky calls Rhodes.
On the video call, Rhodes looks distracted, but asks, "So how's the young Captain America."
"I can't deal with him," Bucky says. "Take him back."
"What did he do?"
Bucky does know what to say: it's not like the kid's a delinquent. He's polite to everyone, just about. Bucky introduced him to Walt as Sam's nephew and after Walt got done talking about how remarkable genetics is, because Sam looks exactly like his namesake uncle, doesn't he, they somehow became friends, texting each other and having lunch at Walt's. Bucky thinks Walt must be a little lonely, since he knows from the file he's got on the man that his wife died while he was blipped, but it's still not very appropriate.
Sam's also not behaved inappropriately towards Bucky, not really.
I'm starting not to trust myself around an eighteen-year-old version of my friend is probably not going to fly with Colonel James Rhodes.
So he just mumbles something about Sam being disrespectful.
"Yeah, he sounds like a real handful. But what do you want me to do with him."
"I don't know," Bucky says, with some desperation. "Can't you send him to military school or something? He definitely needs some discipline."
"I've spoken to him a few times, though. He seemed well-behaved enough."
Bucky scowls. "Maybe he's just polite to you. He's driving me up the wall."
"Ah," Rhodes says, and sounds unsympathetic. "Well, maybe that's a you problem and not a me problem, or a him problem."
"I'm the Winter Soldier," Bucky says. "Are you sure you should test my patience this much? I could snap."
"Yeah, that would be awful, wouldn't it. I guess you better work on getting the adult Sam back, then, before this disaster happens." He turns his head to someone offscreen. "Listen, I gotta go. Get back to me if he does something actually bad."
The line cuts off before Bucky can respond, leaving him gaping at a blank screen.
*
Scott calls him, says, "Hey I have some good news. We've almost figured this out."
"Oh, thank god," Bucky says. "Can you bring him back now?"
He wants his Sam back. His strong, reliable Sam. Still reckless, but at least knows how to keep his shirt on for the most part. Doesn't seem to notice when Bucky maybe hovers too close to him sometimes, or when Bucky leans into his touch, just that little too long. Or finding an antique cuckoo clock once, spending days restoring it in secret, only to have Sam give him a low, slow grin and go, "Look at you, all upcycling and stuff," but then when Bucky muttered something murderous had slapped him on the back and said, "Go great in the kitchen, Buck. Thanks." In the way he had that showed he meant it, and Bucky had to look away.
He blinks, because Scott's just shaking his head. "Oh no no, I didn't mean today, sorry if you misinterpreted."
"You know I know 57 ways to kill a man with my bare hands?"
"Hey, now. Come on. A week, maybe two. I promise."
Bucky feels Sam come up behind him as Scott cuts off the call. His voice is quiet when he says, "What happens to me if the other Sam comes back."
"What?" Bucky's tapping viciously on the keyboard, fantasizing about maybe sending a box of baby anteaters to Ant-Man's house. The guy has a daughter though, so that's probably excessive.
"Me. What happens to me."
Bucky finally pays attention. "You're you? We're just aging you back up."
"Yeah, but will I remember this?"
"I," Bucky says. "I don't know, does it matter?"
Sam's face shutters at that, and that's when Bucky knows he's fucked up royally. "What if I want to stay like this?"
Bucky just blinks. "No, you can't."
"Why not? Two wars, losing my best friend, a fugitive on the run for two years, and then I lose another five to the blip and more friends. That doesn't seem like it was a fun life."
Bucky had, on more than one occasion, told the kid everything he knew about Sam Wilson, the man who carried the mantle of Captain America.
Mostly when Sam was doing something stupid, and Bucky wanted to remind him that he wasn't going to stay a wild, untamed thing forever.
Mostly because, more and more, this wild, untamed thing is a Sam Bucky could get used to.
He doesn't know what to say.
"You made choices," he says, in the end.
"Sounds like I didn't make very good ones."
"You're Captain America."
Sam's eyebrow raise says: So what?
Yeah, so what.
"Wouldn't you want to start over, if you could?" Sam sounds aggravated. More than that, though, he looks furious: like his life turned out to be a disappointment, somehow.
And Bucky thinks of all the awful things he's done in his life, of all the awful things done to him in his life. Of how the only things he can't escape nowadays are his own thoughts, his own memories. But losing all of that won't make all the things he's done go away. If he's the only one that gets a reboot, what does it count?
But then again, Sam Wilson has never committed the sins Bucky has.
"It doesn't work like that, kid. I'm sorry. The world needs you."
Sam searches Bucky's face, and in the end only nods.
viii. for every win, someone must fail, but there comes a point when we exhale
"Listen," Bucky tells Rhodes, who, again, looks as if he has better things to do than talk to Bucky. "He can't just sit around doing nothing. At least let me enroll him in boarding school or something?" Far, far away. Norway sounds good.
"Barnes, Captain America is now an eighteen-year-old boy. He has no training, no skills. No way to defend himself. How many people do you think will be lining up to kill him if word gets out he's like this. If he's left unprotected."
"He'll probably be safe on the raft," Bucky suggests, without much hope.
"I'm not - just keep him safe, please. I know Sam trusts you for some reason, so now you get to protect him. Bye."
*
"Hey," Bucky says. "Maybe you want to go home for a while? See your sister? Your nephews?"
Sam shakes his head. "I spoke to Sarah about it. We decided it would be weird, for AJ and Cass, if I suddenly showed up. Even if I said I was a relative, what? I appear and then never do it again?" He sounds upset though, and there's a tremble at the corner of his lips. "Plus. I don't know how I deal with it. So many of the people I love are just gone."
"Yeah," Bucky replies. A thought: "You can drive?"
"Sure."
Sam had ignored the nondescript SUV in the garage in favor of the bike, but he didn't know that it's not just a car, it's Stark tech. Bucky shows him some of the cool things it can do (mostly the defensive, not offensive, features), and Sam is suitably impressed. "So I can take her out for a spin?"
Bucky tosses him the keys. "Come on, let's go."
Sam always has some kind of Blues on, and Bucky always bitches about it, and is ignored. He keeps quiet about it now though, mostly because he was always just pretending he didn't enjoy the music to aggravate Sam, and this Sam doesn't need to be aggravated in that way.
They drive aimlessly for a while, Bucky with his feet on the dashboard, something he would never get away with with his own Sam, but this one's different. This one just smiles, and Bucky leans back into the passenger seat, halfway between sleep and awake, letting the music wash over him.
Which is why he isn't paying attention when the sirens start, until Sam's swearing under his breath and pulling over.
Bucky sits up, glances at Sam, and his spine is rigid, his face set. He puts his hand on Sam's arm, says, "Okay, just relax."
It's hard to get the words out, especially as the cop comes over and asks: "License and registration please," and it hits Bucky that Sam has no license. Sam's not even supposed to be here. And Bucky thinks of his Sam, and the resignation on his face, the anger. That Sam knew better, too.
Bucky leans across to the open window. "Is there a problem, officer?"
"No. Please move back, sir. License and registration, please."
Sam's fingers are gripped tight around the steering wheel. Bucky has to fight every single instinct in his body, to not lash out like he usually does in situations like these. But he can't lash out because then the cop might lash out, and Bucky's not the one in danger here.
"I forgot my license," Sam says, and he finally turns his head.
"Do what he says," Bucky says, low. He lets go of Sam's arm, and Sam nods, sharp, complies when he's told to get out of the vehicle.
Bucky follows suit when commanded to, and outside, he puts his hands on his hips and contemplates his options. He could take both of them in 5.6 seconds, disarmed, knocked out, no harm done to anyone. He has to clench his fists, do some breathing exercises to stay calm as they handcuff Sam, lead him away.
They exchange a look, and Bucky has never seen anyone more disappointed in him in his life.
It takes about 30 minutes for Bucky to get Sam out. Rhodes actually shows up, I am War Machine swagger and all. But it's Bucky he throws his anger at. "I told you to take care of him, not get him arrested. What is wrong with you?"
"Wait -" Bucky jerks himself straight from leaning against the reception counter, follows Rhodes as he stalks away. "How is this my fault?"
Rhodes stops in the middle of a hallway. "You let an eighteen-year-old kid - no, you let an eighteen-year-old Black kid with no license, who doesn't even exist in this time period, drive a car in some DC suburb late at night. What did you think was going to happen?"
Bucky wants to say: Obviously I wasn't thinking.
But Rhodes seems to already know that.
"I told you not to leave me with him," he says, lamely. "I'm not a -"
"Functioning adult?"
"That's not fair." It's true, sometimes, but it's still unfair. Bucky's trying his best.
Rhodes just rolls his eyes as Sam comes into view, looking none the worse for wear. Bucky has to hide his relief at seeing him. "How are you doing, kid," Rhodes asks.
Sam only shrugs. Rhodes squeezes his shoulder, then throws Bucky another dirty look. "I'm sorry about all this. Ask Barnes to give you my number, then you call me any time he tells you to do something stupid."
"I didn't -" Bucky calls to his retreating back as he walks away. Except he did.
In the car, Sam slumps against the passenger door, silent and drawn in on himself.
"You all right? I'm sorry for not doing anything. I didn't want to escalate the situation further."
Sam doesn't reply for the longest time, and when he does he just says: "Why did I say yes to becoming Captain America? I don't get it."
"It's because you're a good man," Bucky says, and he's never said anything more true in his long, complicated life.
"Does it matter?"
"Matters to me," Bucky replies.
Sam doesn't respond, but when Bucky glances over there's a small smile on his face.
*
When Sam kisses him, Bucky kisses him back. Of course he does: he looks like Sam, he smells like Sam. He's the promise of Sam, two decades shy.
He's youth and innocence and a gap between his teeth, a name that's been on Bucky's lips since forever, it seems.
It's sudden, too. One minute they're sitting on a grassy patch at Gravelly Point Park watching the planes fly past, the next moment Sam is leaning forward, and they're kissing.
Bucky breathes into him for a while before breaking away, keeping him at arm's length. "Stop," he says. "Just stop."
Sam looks confused. "Why?"
"I can think of a million reasons why, Sam. Chief of which being that you're eighteen. But then also because you're the kid version of -"
"Of who? The guy you're in love with?"
Bucky flinches. "That's not accurate," he says, gritting his teeth.
Sam's just staring at him. "I like you," he says. "I don't know if the other Sam did or what, but I like you. And you like me too. Don't deny it."
"Well I don't like you," Bucky says, knowing he sounds like a petulant child but unable to stop himself. "And I'm not in love with him. We're friends."
"Wow, really," Sam's shaking his head. "I can't tell who's the adult here right now, that's pretty embarrassing."
"I can't -" Bucky thinks he's having a panic attack. A real one now. "Look, you don't know me, okay? You think you've read stuff on me on the internet and that's information, but you don't know me. Or what I've done."
"Okay, but. So?"
"No," Bucky says, at the stubborn set of Sam's mouth. "It's not going to happen, all right. Can we go home now, please." He turns without waiting for an answer, stalks off to the waiting bike.
Sam appears just as Bucky's about to haul ass to physically drag him back, angles his long legs into the seat behind Bucky. Bucky hands him his helmet silently, and there's a wry expression on his face before he puts it on, but he doesn't say anything.
*
They tiptoe around one another for the next few days. Bucky's just waiting for Scott to get his act together, sends him what he thinks are encouraging messages but which are apparently "aggressively hostile and causing unwarranted stress," and could Bucky please "back off" and let him "work in peace."
Everyone is so sensitive nowadays.
Then, over breakfast: "You really got it bad for him, you know. A blind man could see it. I don't know how he doesn't see it."
And so it begins then. "It's not like that," Bucky tries. He wants to throw up; he feels dizzy. "We're partners."
"Yeah, you keep saying that, but I don't think it means what you want it to mean. Anyway, he's me, so he's probably also really into you," and now he's risen from the table and is leaning into Bucky's space, all the confidence of a boy too dumb to know he's in a room with one of the most dangerous men on earth.
Bucky could snap him into two. Break him into so many pieces he couldn't be put together again. But that's not what he really wants, that's a deflection, and Sam's coming closer as he continues to speak, his voice lowering: "Because, I'm really into you despite how old you are, and I don't think a me down the line is going to change their tastes that much. But also, I'm not him, not yet, so maybe you could be into me too, and it'll be different."
There's an awful logic to what he's saying, but Bucky doesn't want to hear it. He also doesn't want Sam, not this Sam, to close the distance between them and kiss him. Bucky moans, rises to push the kid up onto the table before he can stop himself. And for a moment, he sees himself fucking Sam, just then and there, dragging his hips up, or maybe just going down on him and making him whimper, twist in Bucky's arms.
But he can't do it. Not just because Sam is eighteen, but because Sam is Sam, and Bucky - Bucky knows. He breaks away, but gently this time.
"So it's him?" Sam's blinking lazily at him.
"Don't sound so disappointed. He's you."
"Is he?"
Bucky puts his hand to Sam's face, traces the line of his cheek with the tips of his fingers as Sam closes his eyes. "You become him, and he's -"
Everything.
Bucky can't say the words out loud. But he sees Sam, rising up in the air in the suit for the first time, saving people's lives. Just a man: no super serum, no magic powers.
"I can't," he says, instead of finishing what he wanted to say. "I'm not that guy."
"Yeah, I know."
ix. and i'll go on and i'll lead you home and i'll become what you became to me
"Hey, so, we've figured it out." Scott's voice is brimming with cheer. "Meet us where the deaging happened. Tomorrow morning should be good."
*
Sam just nods, when Bucky tells him.
"Hey," Bucky says. "You want to go for a ride?"
He brings Sam back to the monument, and they just walk in silence for a while.
Sam has his hands tucked into his coat pockets. "Will I remember this, you think?"
"I don't know," Bucky replies. He'd tried to ask Scott, gotten a convoluted answer that basically amounted to him not knowing either.
"I wanna remember you," he says. "I want to remember this." He stares up at the brightening sky, a smile on his face.
"I'll remember you," Bucky says, heart caught in his throat.
"You should tell him. Me." And now he's transferred his gaze to Bucky.
"It's - it's complicated," Bucky says.
"Adults always say that, and it's really just because they don't want to deal with stuff."
"That's not true," but he can't argue when Sam snorts, because it is true.
"Don't be stupid, that's all."
Bucky can only shrug. "You could stay," he says, in a rush. "Just live like this. Finish high school, go to college. Start over. Have a life that's not all -" he waves his hand around vaguely. "Just be a normal guy. Or maybe you could be Captain America twenty years from now, who knows." And maybe the world would deserve him then, Bucky thinks.
"Yeah, I could," Sam replies. "But I didn't just Wikipedia you, you know. I read a lot. The world's a mess. It needs a Captain America now, not twenty years from now."
"It doesn't have to be you," Bucky says, lying somewhat desperately.
"Yeah it does."
It's Bucky that kisses him then, tries to commit the kiss to memory. The softness of his lips, the way his thin frame leans into Bucky. His hands on Bucky's face.
Bucky remembers every moment of being the Winter Soldier, as clear as a summer's day: he can surely remember this.
*
Scott looks remarkably cheerful when he shows up, but that fades away soon enough as he glances from Bucky to Sam, and then back to Bucky again. Bucky can't pretend to muster any kind of enthusiasm for the entire matter, even as Scott goes, "Hey, who died here? I mean, this is a happy occasion, right?"
"Sure," Bucky says, dull and tired. "Can we just get this over with?"
Sam has withdrawn into himself, looks vulnerable and small, and Bucky takes one of his hands in both of his. "Hey," he says, squeezing. "Are you all right, Sam?"
A nod. Scared, but brave.
Always brave, his Sam.
They're both his now, in one way or another.
Bucky loves them both.
Tell him.
What's the worst that could happen? A broken heart, perhaps. But Bucky's heart is already breaking now, for what they're both losing.
He shakes himself, clears his head to say: "It'll be okay, I promise." Even as his voice cracks on the words. "You ready?"
"Yes, sir."
"Bucky. It's Bucky. But you can call me Buck."
"Okay, sure. I'm ready, Buck."
Sam disappears, in an explosion of white.
x. and maybe, you're gonna be the one that saves me