Chapter Text
Throughout the many years—well, not many years, Sam isn’t that old—of his life, Sam has met quite a few people and befriended most. Except those who tried to kill him. Minus the one, that is.
Anyway, Sam considers himself to be a likable guy. Handsome, funny, charming, but most importantly, he likes people. Even the ones he doesn’t like, he does. And people tend to hang around a guy who sees the best in people without even trying. Or especially one who does try? Semantics.
All this is to say, he has plenty of friends. Best friends, in fact. And he remembers his first like it was yesterday, even though Cass and AJ would act like it was a million years ago because Uncle Sam is so old and how is he even breathing and did you have a pet dinosaur, Uncle Sam?
Someone taught those boys sarcasm, and he’s going to hunt down whoever it was and...maybe gain some self-awareness and accept the karma for corrupting innocent children with his own assholish ways.
So, he would tell the story of how he met his first best friend to Cass and AJ by beginning with “A million years ago” and craft an elaborate story about how they had to band together in order to slay a rampaging dinosaur, just to see AJ roll his eyes and Cass hold his stomach, giggling on the floor. In reality, however, their introduction to one another was rather simple. Maybe even boring.
He hates to admit this, but once upon a time, Little Sam Wilson was a picky eater. He tolerated mac ‘n’ cheese—not even the gooey, five-cheesed, bacon-crumbled deliciousness that was his mother’s homemade macaroni and cheese but Kraft—and that was about it. Though it wasn’t nutritious and he couldn’t eat it for every meal, Samuel, so he would get stuck with a tuna sandwich or some other healthy, non-mac ‘n’ cheese concoction for his school lunch. Much to his chagrin.
Little Sam may have been a tincy tiny bit dramatic.
And stubborn. He would eat a bite, maybe two, until he gave up. Arms crossed and bottom lip jutting out in a pout as the other kids sitting around him would munch munch munch on their respective meals. One of those meals caught his eye, Kraft’s mac ‘n’ cheese, and he drooled with envy.
The kid, who the coveted cheesy lunch belonged to, must have noticed his fervent staring because, with dimpled hands, he held out his bowl and asked, “You want to trade?”
And trade Little Sam did. For weeks. Until his mom, with powers of foresight she apparently neglected to tell anybody she had, found out and grounded him for a month. But that solidified a friendship between him and the selfless mac ‘n’ cheese lender.
Carl Hanson.
Carl, who took the saying sharing is caring to heart and made it his entire personality. His giving tendencies went beyond mealtime; he shared his pencil if Sam forgot his, shared his time if Sam needed help figuring out how to tell said time, and shared his heart if Sam scraped his knee during recess with words of comfort.
That’s just who he was, someone who loved to share.
Bucky is not that person.
“It’s my turn to hold the damn cat.”
“Who the hell said you get a turn?”
Sam, with crossed arms and a pout that would make Little Sam proud, hovers over Bucky’s prone form, laying on the carpeted floor of the living room with the coveted kitten snoozing peacefully on his chest. Cass and AJ follow the kitten’s example, snoring in a heap of twisted limbs and uncomfortable positions on the couch. He should rally them up for bed soon...after he finally gets to pet the cat that holds a partiality to Bucky he’ll never understand.
“I say so,” Sam argues with quick precision and smarts.
“And who gave you authority?” Bucky argues with his tinny cyborg brain and dumbassery.
“It’s my damn house.”
“It’s Sarah’s house.” Which is something Sarah would say. Dammit, those two must be spending time together behind his back.
Grunting as he lowers himself into a seat next to Bucky, Sam figures that he can snatch her up while she’s sleeping if he gets close enough. “I own half of it.”
“You maybe own a corner. In the bathroom. ‘Cause you’re full of shit.”
Selecting to ignore that last comment, Sam says, “And you definitely own none of it.”
Bucky pitches his voice high and mocking. “’Make yourself at home, Bucky. Mi casa es su casa, Bucky.’” He returns to his usual, annoying tone with a shake of his head. “So, you meant none of that.”
“I do not sound like that,” Sam says, reaching a hand towards the napping animal.
Bucky slaps his hand away. “Like a petulant, little fucking liar? I hit you spot on, pal.”
Sam sighs. Long and deep. “I meant what I said. Though I’m starting to regret it.” He gestures to Bucky’s, well, everything. “You ever heard of, oh I don’t know, manners?”
“Those weren’t invented until the 1970s, I’m afraid.”
“Well, that explains the staring problem.”
“Not this again.” Bucky rolls his eyes. Actually rolls his eyes. Like a child. And Sam is the petulant one? Yeah, right. “Now you’re never holding my cat.” Just to prove Sam’s point even further.
“Fuck you, man.”
A proud smile makes its way onto Bucky’s lips as he scratches the kitten between her ears, who is seemingly unbothered by the cool metal. Taking in the scene in front of him, Sam’s sporting a grin of his own before he knows it. Carefree smiles aren’t exactly a thing that happens often with Bucky. Not since Sam has known him, at least. He wonders, briefly, if his parents or friends from the 1930s would say the same. But according to the only one Sam knew, James Buchanan Barnes was the definition of carefree. Definitely not this version of the man, with a suspicious glare and an ever-present shield of paranoia.
Sam can’t exactly blame him, but still, he has to lock away the questions that linger on his tongue throughout the day—the how are you feelings and the do you want to talk about anythings—because Bucky hates those questions and any others that fall under a similar category. And Sam hates his answers—the I’m fines and the you don’t have to worry about mes—like he didn’t admit to the man that he was suicidal a few days ago.
Sam’s smile wavers with the thought.
With a sigh, he flops on his back next to Bucky. He listens to a soft purr, coming from a pest who won’t let him near her, and to the low thrum of the TV, still playing whatever cartoon AJ and Cass are obsessed with before they’ll inevitably move onto the next hot new thing. Screw manners, this shit is weirdly comfortable. Bucky has the right idea.
One right idea amidst a brain filled with absolutely heinous ideas. Which Sam doesn’t know how to get in there and rewire so Bucky isn’t a fucking idiot anymore. He wishes it were easy, that Sam could just shake him by the shoulders and tell him not to do anything stupid, let the people who love him in, he’s not alone anymore, in a way that the emotionally constipated Robocop will understand.
It was so much easier with Carl. Figuring out how to exactly say “I love you” in his language only took watching how he told it to others: gifts. Little Sam once gave him a rock that was shaped kind of funny, and Carl acted as if he was just offered a treasure chest filled with gold.
Bucky probably likes stuff. What guy raised in the Great Depression, where stuff was hard to come by, wouldn’t?
Lost in thought, Sam almost misses the quiet snores coming from his right. Turning his head, he finds Bucky with his eyes closed and mouth slightly agape, a protective hand cradling his asshole cat. Sam huffs, reaching behind him to grab two blankets that drape across the chair, laying one on top of Bucky’s lower half and keeping the other for himself. Screw his back and neck and shoulder and...entire body. He’ll let Sarah decide what to do with them when she gets back, but for now, this is fine.
“Watcha looking for, dear?” Mrs. Jackson, the owner of the local antique shop, asks.
Sam squints his eyes towards the display of porcelain bunny trinkets, wearing human clothing and engaging in strangely domestic activities, such as washing the dishes and picking flowers. He can’t explain why, but it's vaguely unsettling.
He picks up a set of bunnies playing checkers, inspecting their grey fur and tiny glasses. “I’m trying to get Bucky something. Don’t you think this one kind of looks like him?” He points to the one who’s losing.
Mrs. Jackson cackles, her laugh lines mingling with the other wrinkles that crease her face. “Oh, Samual, goodness me. I don’t know much about the boy, but I don’t think he would appreciate bunny knick-knacks.”
Sam places the old pair of bunnies back on the shelf, frowning. “No, I don’t think so either.”
“Well, then, what does he like?”
“Knives.”
“There’s a pretty set of kitchen knives—"
Sam interrupts her good-intentioned but ill-advised recommendation by saying, “I would prefer not to encourage that particular hobby today.” And to stay away from sharp objects in general.
Mrs. Jackson purses her lips, repositioning the checker-playing scene. “Oh. I see.”
Defenses leap their way onto Sam’s tongue—he wouldn’t hurt anybody, he’s not dangerous—but an image of rain blending with blood as hazy eyes stare at a grave makes him bite the inside of his cheek.
Instead of addressing her concern, he changes the subject with a frustrated groan. “You know that age-old question? ‘What to give a man who has everything?’”
A quirk of her thin eyebrow. “He has everything?”
“No, absolutely nothing. You should see his apartment.”
After buying cat food—which took way longer than it should since Bucky insisted on Googling every single brand until he was satisfied with his choice—they went back to Bucky’s apartment and, well, pathetic may be a bit mean, but Sam can’t think of a better word to describe the barren state of Bucky’s ‘living’ corridors. Sam didn’t allow himself to be horrified in the moment, shoving down his worries in favor of focusing on Bucky’s proud look as he introduced his scraggly kitten. The brat promptly hissed at him and burrowed herself in Bucky’s jacket. Then Bucky had the audacity to laugh at him.
He chuckles a little at the thought. That is, before he remembers the three pieces of furniture and the lack of character in a place that’s supposed to be home. Then he finally lets himself feel that horrified feeling.
With another dejected groan, he turns pleading eyes to Mrs. Jackson. “That’s why this should be so much easier than what it is.”
She rolls her eyes, belittling the very real crisis Sam has found himself in. To further downplay his dilemma, she states, “You’re overthinking this, sweetie. If his apartment is truly empty as you say, then start there.”
“What do you mean?”
“A lamp! A picture frame! Art! Jeez, you would think Captain America would be smarter than this,” she mumbles, pacing back to the front of the store as the bell signals the arrival of a new customer.
Huh. Art. Bucky did suspiciously know a shit ton about art during their time in Madripoor. Might be a good place to start.
“Thanks, Mrs. Jackson!” he calls to her back, and she gives a lazy wave in response without turning around.
“It’s a painting. Of fruit,” Bucky says in what Sam hopes to be awe and wonderment.
Sam repositions himself on the couch, turning to face Bucky more fully. “Yep. It’s your painting of fruit.”
“My painting of fruit,” Bucky repeats with, again, what must be absolute astonishment.
“To take back to your place,” Sam needlessly explains because there’s no chance of keeping Bucky away from this masterpiece now that he’s laid eyes upon such craftsmanship.
“Oh. Thanks.” Another obvious display of gratitude...or it would be, if Bucky were Carl. But Bucky is not Carl. Bucky is Bucky.
“You don’t like it.”
“No. I do. I love art. And I love fruit. Put those things together and you, uh, you get something that I really love.”
How was this guy ever perceived as a menacing assassin?
“Bucky,” he says, eyes wide, “your lying skills are offensively bad.”
He winces. “Yeah, never been my strong suit.”
Though it’s at his expense, Sam grins at the admission. After another dead-end search for the elusive Winter Soldier, Steve opened up about Bucky’s tendency to exaggerate a lie far beyond the line of believability. Once, Bucky crafted an elaborate tale of saving a girl from a fire to explain why he and Steve were late for dinner. Steve laughed long and loud at the recollection of Mrs. Barne’s half-amused and half-exasperated expression as she let Bucky continue his falsehood, looking at Steve ever so often with a raised brow as he cringed from behind Bucky.
Sam shakes the thought from his mind. “Okay. So, what’s wrong with it? Too, uh, colorful?”
Bucky gives him a sideways glance. “No. It’s...I don’t really know. It’s, I think it might be, like, what if I need to run again? I don’t want to leave anything behind.”
“Uh...you’re worried? About needing to go on the run?”
“No. I mean...no, it’s...I don’t know. It’s strange.”
Sam lifts a pointed eyebrow. “Stranger than a surgeon becoming one of the most powerful magicians in the world?”
Bucky sets the painting down, resting it against the chair next to the couch, giving him an excuse to turn away from Sam. “I just think that, if I were to ever leave, I would feel bad...about the painting losing its owner.”
Sam bites the inside of his cheek at the implication of those words, the fact that Bucky doesn’t want to be tied down to anything, and forces himself to nod, like this is perfectly normal and not at all disturbing and horrifying.
Bucky sighs. “I told you it was weird.”
“No. I mean, yeah, kind of,” Sam relents. He’s a better liar than Bucky by far, but Bucky is unnaturally perceptive. Or paranoid. “Is this...what about before the war?”
“Before, like, the war-war?”
“The very one.”
“Um, well, Steve and I couldn’t really afford décor or anything. But he would sketch and bring some of his pieces from school, so we didn’t really need to buy anything to spruce up the place. And my mom would crochet us blankets and...yeah. I guess this is new.”
“Okay.” Okay. “Well, why don’t I hold onto it. In case you change your mind.”
Please change your mind.
Bucky just shrugs, a crease forming in the middle of his brow. “It is a nice painting. Though I couldn’t tell you why. Steve would go on an hour-long rant, pointing out complementary colors and symmetry and other things I only sort of understand.” He snorts, and the crease slowly fades. “He once took me to an art museum as a hangover cure.”
“Really?” he asks, laughing, though he doesn’t doubt for a second Steve would use his best friend's misery as an excuse to do what he wanted.
A nod.
“Did it work?”
Another snort. “God, no. I nearly turned a Vango into a Jackson Pollock with my vomit.”
“An abstract painter? Wow, Buck, you were ahead of your time.”
“An underappreciated artist of my day, truly.”
Sam props up the painting on his nightstand, refusing to hide it away under his bed. Somehow, that feels too much like giving up. With a dejected sigh, he flops on his bed, arms splayed on either side.
Maybe it’s not just stuff. Maybe it needs to be sentimental or meaningful in some way. Hell, Carl’s offer of Kraft’s mac ‘n’ cheese felt so special only because Sam was about to die from withdrawal. Yes, it was that dire.
One idea and four popping joints later, Sam begrudgingly makes it back on his feet and heads to his closet. He pushes clothes around, lifts the plastic tote previously scrunched in the corner onto his bed, and hopes against all hope that Sarah didn’t throw anything out. With a bit of hesitation, he opens the lid.
Yes. Sam pumps his arms in triumphant victory before trekking downstairs, the box in hand.
“Buck,” he shouts, slamming the tote onto the coffee table, “come to the living room!”
“I’m making your nephews dinner!” Bucky calls back from the kitchen.
Impatient, Sam yells, “They can learn a little patience! Now, get your ass in here!”
Some rustling, an exasperated sigh, and unnecessarily loud stomps finally reveal Bucky’s form in the doorway. “What?”
Sam waves a hand down at the box. “I had some clothes of Steve's in my room.”
A sardonic lift of his brow. “Didn’t realize you guys were so close.”
Sam wills himself not to smack the upside of his head, a classic Mama Wilson move. He huffs instead, “Shut up. Man thought all of my residencies were motels for stowaways and criminals. Left a lot of his shit here.”
“And you...kept it?”
“I’m not weird,” Sam defends, but realizes that’s not exactly a concrete defense, so he continues, “I grew up poor. Not in me to throw perfectly good clothes away.”
A shrug. “Yeah, that’s not something I would get. Since I grew up in the 1930s, which was known for its wealth and lavish lifestyle.”
“Always a competition with you,” Sam grumbles under his breath.
Bucky finally looks inside the tote. “So, you want to sell these for an outrageous price on eBay? ‘Clothes owned and worn by Steve Rogers, former Captain America.’ Could start an insane bidding war.”
“How do you know about eBay?”
“The Winter Soldier was well informed about all potential resources, eBay, Etsy, Wayfair...”
“Winter Soldier do a lot of home decorating?”
“Everybody needs a hobby.”
“Uh-huh, okay, asshole. I was trying to give these to you.”
Bucky stops rummaging through the clothes to glare at Sam. “Why?”
“Because...they’re...Steve’s?”
“And what am I supposed to do with ‘em?”
“Well, while you’re here, you can wear them?”
“Wear them? Like, outside?”
“Yeah?” Sam narrows his eyes at Bucky’s affronted expression. Does he think Steve’s clothes are, like, sacred or something?
Bucky holds the flannel as far away from him as possible. “Sam. These clothes should die with Steve. In fact, they should’ve been burned right alongside him.”
Huh. That wasn’t what he was expecting.
“Steve wasn’t cremated,” he says for lack of literally anything else to say
“Still. Flannel was made to be worn by lumberjacks for a reason, Samuel, only the wilderness was meant to see this.”
“It’s not that bad,” Sam says, holding up a blue flannel to his chest.
“Whose feelings are you trying to spare?”
“Lumberjacks’, apparently.”
“You know, Steve always had a bad fashion sense. He would complain and complain how no girl would go out with him because of his physique, but really? It was the fact that he dressed up like a school boy and was awkward as hell. Peggy was just the first girl he, one, actually managed to talk to and, two, who found that shit endearing. God, he was helpless.”
Well, this is such a contrast from how Steve talked about Bucky. Shit like ‘When I had nothing, I had Bucky’ and ‘He’s my best friend’ were sickeningly common phrases that oozed from the captain’s lips. And, somehow, the little stories that Steve would impart about James Buchanan Barnes made Sam like the kid even before he had any other interactions with him aside from missing steering wheels and missing wings. He couldn’t help it with how much affection and enthusiasm in which Steve spoke about his best friend.
It's jarring, a little. But mostly, it’s hilarious.
Sam’s laughing before he even realizes it. “Maybe. But at least Steve knew other colors existed.” He stares pointedly at the black shirt, black pants, and black boots Bucky is sporting. “Hate to tell you this, but if you’re about to leave for a My Chemical Romance concert, they split up, like, ten years ago.”
Bucky blinks.
“Wait. You know about Etsy, but you don’t know about MCR? What about Nirvana? Jimmy Eat World?”
“Jimmy’s doing what?”
Lifting his chin, Sam chastises, “Man, you don’t have the right to wear all black.”
“Fine! Fine.” Bucky shrugs on a red flannel. “Now I look stupid.”
“Did that all on your own, Buck.”
“At least it actually fits me.”
“Yeah, Steve wasn’t exactly known for modesty.”
Bucky twists and turns. Checking his mobility, the paranoid freak. “Serum inflated his head more than it did his muscles.”
Sam tries to suppress his smirk. “I don’t know, now that I’m getting a better look, it seems a bit...baggy. Like a child wearing his father’s clothes.”
“Shut the fuck up, Wilson.”
Sam lets the smug smile completely envelop his face, and Bucky throws a too-small t-shirt for an extra-large super soldier at his face in retaliation.
As Sam watches Bucky’s expression morph into one of disgust at the outfits as if they’ve personally offended him, he realizes he shouldn’t be surprised that Bucky has such strong feelings about fashion. Especially since in every photo in any history book, he either looks like a teenage girl pursing her lips for a selfie or acting like he’s posing for the cover of Vogue instead of at war, risking his life. It was so, for lack of a better word, goofy.
Sam, not someone known to keep his thoughts to himself, confronted Steve about the excessive posing, and before Sam could worry about the possibility that he massively overstepped, Steve looked almost relieved that he wasn’t the only one who noticed. He dove into a probable explanation, saying how it most likely had something to do with the fact that Bucky’s mom always cared about the way she presented herself. No matter the situation, her hair was always done up to perfection with a smile adorning her lips because, according to Mama Barnes, “The way people perceive you reflects who you are to the world.”
After the lengthy theory, Steve shrugged and admitted, The other part of me just thinks he liked the way he looked. And there was something strangely innocent about thinking how the man who tried to kill him once spent hours in front of a mirror, getting his hair just right for school, church, a date, or no other reason than the fact he wanted to.
Steve must have had his hands full.
Sam certainly does. But as he looks on as Bucky throws an orange flannel—seriously, Steve, orange?—over his stupid, grumpy kitten, lifting it up with a mock surprised expression on his face, and flopping the garment back onto the cat in a weird amalgamation of peekaboo, he can’t say he’s complaining.