Southern Surrender

The sun hung heavy above Washington D.C., painting the city in the golden haze of late June, its heat rising in shimmering waves off the sidewalks and turning even the shade into a sweaty compromise. The air was thick with humidity, clinging to skin like a second shirt, and the occasional breeze that swept down the wide avenues brought little relief. The kind of day where even tourists moved slower, ice cream melted faster, and tempers frayed more easily—but not for Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes.

For them, it was a good day.

They moved in easy tandem, walking side by side along a row of eclectic antique shops tucked between modern cafes and old bookstores near Eastern Market. Bucky had abandoned his jacket somewhere around the third block, slinging it over one shoulder while his metal arm gleamed faintly in the sun. Sam was dressed in a worn cotton tee and khaki shorts, sunglasses perched on his nose, occasionally glancing into shop windows with mild curiosity and the sharp eye of someone who knew how to pick a decent gift.

"You know she’s going to pretend to hate whatever we get her, right?" Sam asked as he pushed open the creaky glass door to a cluttered antique store whose front window displayed a collection of porcelain dolls and rusted lanterns.

"Yeah, but the key is to give her something so weird she has to keep it out of spite," Bucky replied, stepping inside after him. The cool blast of air conditioning was almost spiritual.

The bell over the door jingled overhead, and a woman from behind the counter gave them a distracted wave as she flipped through a vintage magazine.

Sam chuckled, eyeing a shelf of peculiar taxidermy creatures. "You mean like this possum with a monocle?"

Bucky leaned in, squinting. "Actually... that might work."

It had been almost exactly a year since the end of the Slade operation, since the depot and the smoke and the underground rooms that still sometimes visited Bucky in his dreams. But now, his nights were quieter. The nightmares came less frequently, dulled at the edges, and when they did arrive, they no longer brought the sense of falling into a void with no return. Not when he could wake up to a warm hand on his chest and a voice grounding him back into the present. Not when he had Sam.

They’d moved in together six months after Slade’s death, after the mission reports were filed and the bruises faded and Torres had returned from his post-op debriefings with a shiny new rank and even shinier wings. Yelena had announced, with all the drama of a royal decree, that she was “retiring,” which apparently meant purchasing a fixer-upper cottage outside of Southern Pines, North Carolina, near an equestrian center and several suspiciously well-stocked weapons caches. The housewarming invite, hand-written and vaguely threatening, had arrived the week before.

‘You bring cheap wine, and I’ll stab you with the corkscrew. Choose wisely. –Y’

Hence, the shopping.

"She’s going to mock us no matter what," Bucky said, running a hand through his damp hair as he inspected a shelf full of ornate glass bottles. "Might as well lean in."

Sam picked up a strange brass figurine shaped like a goat with wings. "This feels cursed. Perfect."

"No way she’s putting that on a shelf without it watching her sleep."

They shared a look, the kind that came from too many missions and too many mornings spent half-asleep in the same kitchen. It was a look that said, ‘we have been through hell together, and now we choose peace and antiques.’

"What about one of these vintage tea sets?" Sam asked, gesturing toward a display near the back.

Bucky arched an eyebrow. "You want to give Yelena fine china? The same woman who once used a coffee mug to knock out a HYDRA agent? Really?"

"She’s domestic now," Sam said, mock-serious. "She has a herb garden."

"She grows Foxtail mixed in with her basil so she can poison people more efficiently."

They both laughed, low and easy, the kind of laughter that settled in the chest and loosened things that had been wound too tight for too long.

They wandered further into the shop, past tall cabinets filled with tarnished silverware and worn hardcovers. Bucky paused near a framed map of the Carolinas, fingers tracing the borderlines lightly, thoughtfully.

"Southern Pines," he murmured. "Never thought she’d choose somewhere like that."

"Yeah," Sam said, stepping up beside him. "Quiet. Off the grid. Kind of place you can hear yourself think."

"Kind of place you can heal, too."

Sam looked at him then, not saying anything at first, just taking in the relaxed set of Bucky’s shoulders, the way he stood without that constant coil of tension in his spine. The change hadn’t been instant. It had come in small steps. Learning how to exist without a mission, how to enjoy stillness, how to laugh without guilt. How to wake up without needing a reason to keep breathing.

Sam bumped his shoulder. "You doing okay today?"

Bucky looked at him, mouth twitching. "You mean aside from being melted into the sidewalk every five minutes? Yeah. I’m good."

"You’re wearing sunscreen, right?"

Bucky rolled his eyes. "Don’t start with that again, Samuel."

"I’m just saying—"

"I survived the Battle of the Bulge. I think I can handle June in D.C."

"Sunburns are the real enemy."

“I’m aware. Your falcon is the one with something against the sun.”

They exited the shop with a carefully wrapped bronze fox figurine wearing a crown (deemed appropriately ridiculous yet aesthetically tolerable) and two antique books about 19th century espionage that Bucky swore she’d appreciate.

Outside, the heat wrapped around them again, stifling and immediate. Bucky exhaled slowly, then reached out and tugged Sam's shirt away from his damp back.

"We need ice cream or I’m going to turn feral, Wilson."

"Already ahead of you. Next block has a place with the BEST homemade cream."

"Have I told you lately you’re the most wonderful person in the world?"

Sam grinned. "Every morning. Usually right before you steal my side of the bed."

Their laughter lingered as they turned the corner, shoulders brushing, their pace unhurried beneath the sweltering sun. D.C. pulsed with a lazy sort of heat, the kind that soaked into the concrete and made everything feel a little slower, a little softer around the edges. But Bucky didn’t mind. Not today. Not when Sam’s hand occasionally grazed his, warm and deliberate, or when they caught each other’s eye with a shared smirk like the whole world had faded away and left just the two of them.

The ice cream shop came into view like a beacon of hope, a cheerful little corner store painted in bright pastels, its awning fluttering gently in the breeze. The windows fogged with condensation, promising merciful air conditioning and sweet relief. Bucky sighed as the door swung open, letting the cool air wrap around them.

Inside, it smelled like vanilla and sugar and fresh waffle cones. The line was short, a few patrons lingering near the window enjoying their cones. Sam nudged Bucky toward the display case, grinning as he scanned the options.

"Okay," Sam said, rubbing his hands together. "Moment of truth. What’s your pick?"

"You know what I want," Bucky replied without missing a beat. "Coffee chip. Always."

Sam groaned. "You are the most BORING person alive. There are twenty flavors, and you go with coffee chip every time. You DO realize it isn’t the depression anymore, right? Sugar isn’t rationed-"

"It’s a classic, Sammy-"

"It’s basic."

Bucky shrugged, leaning into him slightly. "Says the guy who gets pistachio like it’s some kind of rebellion."

"Pistachio is elite. You just don’t have taste."

"I have IMPECCABLE taste. I’m dating you, aren’t I?"

Sam laughed, bumping his shoulder with Bucky’s. "That was smooth. I’ll give you that."

They lingered in front of the display case, indecisive and teasing, pointing out the most ridiculous flavors—"Cereal Milk Explosion," "Midnight Marshmallow Madness"—and debating whether or not Yelena would approve of a gift card to a place like this.

Bucky leaned in a little closer, letting the tips of his fingers brush against Sam’s wrist as they debated. He didn’t say anything, but the softness in his gaze said enough. He was happy. Truly happy. Despite the heat. Despite the sweat on the back of his neck. Despite everything he’d once thought he couldn’t have.

They were next in line, Sam about to step forward to order, when a voice behind them broke through the soft, lazy murmur of the shop.

"Figures. A couple of queers."

The words were low, but unmistakable—laced with disdain and amusement, tossed out like bait. Bucky stiffened, the mood instantly soured like milk left out too long. He didn’t turn, but he saw Sam glance subtly toward the man reflected in the glass.

The guy was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a sleeveless camo shirt that revealed a pair of poorly inked tattoos on his biceps—one of a Confederate flag, the other some poorly rendered eagle clenching a rifle. He held a phone loosely in one hand, angled just slightly in their direction, his smirk smug, his stance aggressive.

Bucky rolled his shoulders, tension already rising beneath his skin.

Sam pressed a hand lightly against his arm. "Not here. Not now."

They turned back to the counter. Bucky tried to ignore the slow boil settling in his gut, the familiar prickling heat at the back of his neck that used to come right before a fight. He inhaled through his nose. Focused on the cold case. On Sam.

"Two scoops of coffee chip," he said to the clerk, voice calm but tight.

Sam ordered his pistachio without looking back.

The man behind them didn’t get the message.

"What, not even gonna say hi? C'mon, let the internet see what Captain America gets up to these days. That’s right, folks. Your hero, prancing around with his little boyfriend."

Bucky turned halfway before Sam’s hand gripped his wrist, firm.

"Let it go," Sam murmured, just loud enough for him to hear. "He's not worth it."

But Bucky could FEEL the man staring. Hear the low chuckle as he recorded, waiting for a reaction. The temptation to shut it down, to crush the phone or maybe the man holding it, rose like a wave. But Sam’s grip remained steady, grounding.

The guy finally laughed, louder this time, and turned on his heel, strutting out the door with a dramatic flourish and a muttered, "Disgusting."

The door shut behind him with a sharp jingle of the bell.

Silence lingered.

The clerk behind the counter cleared his throat. "Sorry about that. On the house, if you want it."

Sam smiled, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Appreciate it. But we’re good."

They took their cones, thanked the clerk, and stepped back out into the heat.

For a moment, they stood on the sidewalk, the bright afternoon sun seeming just a little too harsh, the buzz of the city a little too loud.

Bucky didn’t say anything. He licked at his ice cream, gaze fixed somewhere just over the horizon. Sam reached over, brushing a speck of waffle cone from Bucky’s cheek.

"Hey."

Bucky met his eyes.

"Still a good day."

Bucky nodded slowly. "Still a good day."

They walked on, side by side again, shoulders brushing. No words needed. Just the quiet, enduring comfort of presence, and the knowledge that even on days like this, even with the world pressing against them, they had each other.

-------------------------

Later that evening, the air in their apartment buzzed softly with the lull of summer—the distant hum of city life outside the windows, the slow rhythm of a fan turning overhead, and the clinking of water as Bucky set down a glass on the nightstand. The windows were open just a crack, letting in the faint scent of asphalt and honeysuckle, and the soft chorus of cicadas drifted in like a lullaby.

Their apartment had become a reflection of their life together, a careful blend of vintage charm and practicality. Worn books lined dark wooden shelves, a mix of Bucky's old favorites and Sam's historical biographies, punctuated by framed photos that filled the space with stories: one of Sam and Bucky arm in arm at a street festival in Delacroix, smiling like idiots; another of Torres in uniform, beaming as Sam pinned his Captain insignia on; one of Yelena, smiling for once, seated astride a red horse with a white blaze and a crooked ear—a slaughter-bound rescue Bucky had bought her for her birthday, named Boss, the kind of creature only someone like Yelena could love and trust.

There were candid shots too: Bucky asleep on the couch with a book on his chest, Sam in the kitchen holding a wooden spoon like a microphone, belting lyrics at the top of his lungs while making gumbo. Their home pulsed with memories, loud and quiet, messy and beautiful.

But now, the apartment was still. Sam was brushing his teeth in the bathroom, the faucet hissing in rhythm, while Bucky sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slightly hunched, his fingers picking at a scar on his palm with distracted precision. It was an old habit, one he hadn't indulged in for a while, but tonight it crept back in, uninvited. His thoughts looped like an old reel, replaying the venom in that man’s voice, the open sneer, the phone angled to capture their discomfort. Not because he hadn’t heard worse—but because it had happened with Sam beside him. And that made it different. That made it personal.

"Buck," came Sam’s voice, muffled around toothpaste. "Stop brooding. You’re practically vibrating out there."

Bucky looked up as Sam appeared in the doorway, toothbrush still in his mouth, brows raised with casual concern. He wore an old, worn t-shirt with a tiny bleach stain near the hem and loose shorts, his feet bare against the hardwood floor. The sight of him—the familiarity of it—softened something in Bucky's chest.

"I’m not brooding," Bucky muttered.

"You’re picking at your scars. That’s your tell."

"I thought my tell was the thousand-yard stare."

Sam spit and rinsed with exaggerated drama, returning with a towel draped over one shoulder. "That too. But tonight, you’re going for the combo package."

Bucky exhaled, leaning back against the headboard. When Sam climbed into bed beside him, the motion was practiced, easy. They moved like people who had spent a long time learning each other’s rhythms.

"My back is killing me," Sam groaned, adjusting against the pillows. "Old man Falcon strikes again."

Bucky didn’t immediately respond. He stared up at the ceiling fan, watching its slow, hypnotic rotation. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he asked, "Does it ever bother you?"

Sam turned to face him, the playfulness draining from his face. "What does?"

"What people think. About us. About you. Being with me."

There was a pause, thick and full of weight, before Sam moved, reaching out to touch Bucky's jaw. He brushed his thumb across the rough stubble with a tenderness that always managed to catch Bucky off guard. Then he leaned in and kissed him—slow and purposeful, not for show, not even for comfort, but as an answer.

When he pulled back, he searched Bucky's face and spoke with quiet conviction.

"Someone will always have a problem, Buck. Doesn’t matter what we do, what we say, how we live—someone out there will always find a reason to hate it. But that’s not our burden. That’s theirs. And I’m not wasting a single second of my life trying to shrink myself to fit into someone else's comfort zone. Especially not when I’ve got this."

He paused, letting the words settle.

"You. This life. This home. That’s what I care about. The rest? They can keep their bitterness."

Bucky swallowed hard, eyes stinging with something unspoken. He gave a small, wry smile, cheeks flushing in the dim light. "You silver-tongued menace."

Sam laughed, the sound low and warm. "Yeah, yeah. You love it."

He reached for the lamp and clicked it off. The room fell into darkness, the soft hum of the fan returning as the dominant sound.

"Get some sleep, Buck," Sam murmured as he settled into the pillows. "We gotta be up early tomorrow to pick up Torres. Southern Pines waits for no one."

"Right," Bucky replied, but his voice was already distant, unfocused.

They lay together, limbs tangled beneath the sheets, Sam’s breathing evening out into the steady rhythm of sleep within minutes. But Bucky remained awake, staring into the dark, his mind refusing to quiet.

He listened to the city breathing outside, to the occasional car rolling past, to the memory of that man’s voice echoing through the cavern of his chest. He tried to push it away, tried to hold onto Sam’s words, but the unease clung to him like sweat.

Still, time passed. Minutes stretched into hours, and slowly, eventually, the weight in his chest began to lift. Sam mumbled something in his sleep, shifting to drape an arm across Bucky’s waist. And that—more than anything—was what let his eyes finally drift shut.

His sleep came slow and shallow, full of fragmented dreams and half-remembered fears. But he slept.

And for now, that was enough.

------------------

The next morning came too fast, dragging in with the gray edge of early dawn light slipping between the slats of the blinds. The hum of the city was quieter at this hour, but it still found its way inside—muffled traffic, the low drone of delivery trucks, and the occasional distant bark of a dog. Bucky stirred beneath the sheets, feeling the weight of poor sleep like lead in his bones. His limbs ached, not from battle or exertion, but from tossing and turning, his body unable to find rest no matter how tightly Sam had curled around him in the night.

He cracked open one eye and immediately regretted it.

Somewhere in the apartment, Sam was singing.

Bucky groaned and burrowed deeper under the blanket, pulling the sheet over his head like a curtain against the blinding reality of morning. He heard the creak of a suitcase zipper, the gentle rustle of clothing being folded with far more optimism than the hour warranted, and then—something soft hit him square in the face.

A sock.

"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," Sam called, his voice infuriatingly cheerful. "We got a date with the Southern Pines highway and a very loud Air Force Captain who will talk the entire drive if we let him."

Bucky groaned again, lower this time. "Let’s just leave him. He’ll be fine."

"He’ll hitchhike. And make friends with every stray animal between here and North Carolina."

"Good. Maybe he’ll get mauled by a bear."

Sam appeared in the doorway, grinning like the morning hadn’t just slapped them both with humidity and responsibility. He was already dressed in a fitted gray t-shirt and cargo pants, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

"Come on," he said, tossing another sock at Bucky. "Shower, coffee, and we’re out of here in thirty."

Bucky rolled onto his back with a theatrical sigh, blinking blearily at the ceiling. "This is cruel."

"That’s love, baby."

The morning routine unfolded with the kind of quiet efficiency that came from habit. Bucky moved slowly, his limbs heavy, eyes still gritty with sleep. He brushed his teeth beside Sam, grumbling under his breath while Sam hummed the same off-key melody from earlier. They bumped shoulders at the sink, fought over the last clean towel, and silently passed each other coffee cups in the kitchen like soldiers trading supplies.

Despite the banter, Bucky remained a beat off—quieter, slower, eyes shadowed. Sam noticed, of course. He always noticed. But he didn’t press. Not yet.

Once their bags were packed, they made their way downstairs, the heat already gathering in the air like a warning. The car was waiting in their building’s small lot, a modest SUV that Torres had affectionately named “The Falconette” and refused to let them trade in.

As Bucky loaded the bags into the trunk, Sam leaned against the hood, sipping from his travel mug and watching him.

"You sure you're good?" he asked, voice gentler now, stripped of its earlier teasing.

Bucky paused, closing the hatch with a soft thunk. He turned to face Sam, shrugging. "Didn’t sleep well. It’ll pass."

Sam nodded, eyes steady. "Alright. Just checking."

They slid into the front seats, the leather warm beneath them, and started the car. The radio buzzed to life with soft jazz, and Bucky let the rhythm lull him as they pulled onto the road.

Sam, naturally, was already humming along off-key with all the enthusiasm of a morning person in denial. His fingers tapped cheerfully on the steering wheel, syncing with the beat as he half-sang, half-mumbled the melody like he was headlining his own jazz fusion tour. The window was cracked slightly, letting in the warm morning air, and the sun had just begun to burn off the early haze that clung to the D.C. skyline.

Despite the heavy ache behind his eyes, despite the weight of poor sleep that still clung to his bones like damp wool, Bucky watched him with something warm and unspoken rising in his chest. Sam's profile was backlit by the rising sun, his smile relaxed and his brow smooth with contentment. The light caught on his skin, golden and soft, and Bucky couldn’t help but stare. Not with worry, not with any of the old ghosts knocking at the edges of his mind—just with quiet, unmistakable love.

He loved this man.

Not in the chaotic, uncertain way love had once felt to him—a storm on the horizon, something meant to be braced against. No, this was different. Steady. Certain. Sam was the sun through the window after a long night. The laughter that pulled Bucky back when the dark tried to take him. He was warmth and safety and challenge and softness all wrapped into one irritatingly beautiful package.

Sam must have felt the weight of Bucky’s gaze, because he turned his head just slightly, lips twitching into a crooked smile. "What?" he asked, casting him a quick glance. "Do I have toothpaste on my face again?"

Bucky shook his head, voice low and soft. "Just you."

Sam blinked, then laughed gently, the sound rich with affection. For a moment, neither of them said anything more. It didn’t need to be said. The morning light stretched long across the dashboard, the jazz faded into the background, and the world spun on quietly as they drove.

The car passed the city limits and into the outskirts, traffic thinning as the signs for the air force base began to appear. Bucky’s shoulders tensed almost unconsciously, the sight of the fences and the rigid lines of military buildings stirring something old and unpleasant in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t like bases. Never had.

Even now, so far removed from the war, from the draft, from the orders barked at teenage boys and the cold bunkhouses that smelled of oil and fear, the sight of the gates brought it all back. The uniforms, the hierarchy, the illusion of order masking the chaos.

He pushed it down.

They were here for Torres.

They showed their ID at the gate and were waved through, the guard giving Sam a double take before snapping a salute with recognition. Inside, the base buzzed with early activity—PT groups jogging along the perimeter, planes lined neatly on the tarmac, technicians already elbow-deep in equipment. The buildings were clean and impersonal, arranged in a grid with clinical precision.

They pulled up to a modest administrative building with wide glass doors and a small patch of overwatered grass out front. Sam shifted into park, and Bucky exhaled slowly.

Then, as if summoned by their arrival, Torres came sprinting out of the building with the unfiltered energy of someone who had consumed far too much caffeine. He was lugging what appeared to be three separate bags—a backpack, a duffel, and something suspiciously shaped like a yoga mat.

"HEY! You guys are EARLY!"

Bucky immediately reached over and locked the back doors out of pure spite.

Torres reached the car, grinning ear to ear, and yanked the handle—only to be met with the telltale clunk of refusal.

"Aw, c’mon!"

Sam didn’t even try to hide his laugh. Bucky gave a smug little shrug from the passenger seat.

"Wasn’t sure if we were actually bringing you," Bucky said casually. "Figured we’d play it by ear."

Torres leaned in against the window, dramatic. "You wound me. I came bearing snacks!"

Sam gave Bucky a look, the kind that said, ‘play nice’, and leaned over to unlock the door.

"You brought Funyuns again, didn’t you?" Bucky muttered.

"And sour gummy worms! And that weird spicy trail mix Yelena likes!"

"That explains the third bag."

Torres tossed his gear into the back seat and climbed in, immediately sprawling like he owned the place. "So. Road trip! I made a playlist. Mostly eighties power ballads."

"I’m getting out," Bucky said flatly.

Sam laughed again, the sound warm and full of mischief as he shifted into drive and eased the car off the base, the gate receding behind them. "Too late now. You're stuck with us."

Torres, undeterred by the threat of abandonment, was practically vibrating with energy in the back seat. His duffel was wedged beside him, one leg up on the door, and he already had his phone out, queuing up his road trip playlist. "Man, I’ve never been to this part of North Carolina before. This is gonna be awesome. Southern Pines! It sounds like something from a postcard. You think they got real cowboys there?"

Bucky let out a low, unimpressed sound from the passenger seat. "It’s just another military town. Sand, pines, and a lot of special forces guys with too much money and not enough supervision. And horses. Whole town's horse crazy."

Torres gasped as if Bucky had just told him Christmas was coming early. "Horses? Like—Yelena’s horse? Boss? I’m gonna ride him. I swear."

Sam barked a laugh. "You? On Boss? Did you already forget what happened the last time you got near a horse?"

"That wild beach horse came outta nowhere," Torres defended. "And I was wearing sandals. This is different. I’ve done research. Horses can sense fear, so I just have to be confident."

Bucky scoffed. "You screamed like a cartoon character and ran into the ocean."

"You’re just jealous you didn’t get the full cowboy experience," Torres said, grinning as he scrolled through his playlist. "You watch. Boss and I are gonna be best friends. I’ll be galloping around the pasture in no time."

Sam shook his head, amused. "If Boss throws you, you’re not blaming us."

Torres held up a finger. "If. And when IF survive, I expect celebratory BBQ."

Their laughter and chatter filled the car, bouncing around the cabin like sunlight off glass. It was easy, familiar, the kind of rhythm that could only come from having shared more than one battlefield and a thousand late-night meals.

But as the miles slipped by and the traffic gave way to open road, Bucky slowly began to withdraw into himself. The land outside the window began to shift, subtly at first. The tall maples and oaks gave way to pines, the soil thinning, turning into sandy earth dotted with scrub and low hills. Southern Pines wasn’t far now.

He watched the landscape change, jaw tight, one hand resting on his knee while the other tapped a slow, anxious rhythm on the window ledge. There was something gnawing at him—an unease he couldn’t place. It sat heavy in his stomach, coiled like a storm waiting to break. It wasn’t just the fatigue or the unrest of the night before. It was something else. Something darker. Fainter. Like a whisper he couldn’t quite catch.

His thoughts wandered. Was it the town? The familiarity of it all—the military history, the way it echoed the places he’d been forced into so many decades ago? Or maybe it was the idea of being around too many people again. Of pretending he was okay, when he still hadn’t figured out what that even meant. He chewed on the feeling, gnawing at the edge of it like a splinter too deep to pull.

"Hey, Buck?"

Sam's voice broke through the haze.

Bucky blinked, looking away from the window. Sam's eyes flicked toward him briefly from the driver's seat, brow furrowed with gentle concern.

"What d’you wanna do when we get into town? Besides pretend to enjoy Yelena’s overcooked welcome speech."

Bucky forced a shrug, straightening in his seat. "Food. Something fried and southern."

"Now THAT I can do," Sam said, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Like real southern," Bucky added. "None of that trendy fusion crap. I want hush puppies and collards cooked in bacon grease."

"And vinegar-based BBQ," Torres piped up from the back. "If you haven’t had Carolina vinegar pulled pork, you haven’t lived. I’m gonna eat so much I forget my own name."

"You already forget your own name," Bucky muttered, a faint smile curling at his lips despite himself.

The road stretched out ahead of them, flanked by swaying pines and the faint golden hue of summer. The landscape began to shift with an increasing clarity, each mile drawing them deeper into a stretch of the South that felt preserved in time. Open fields gave way to sandy pastures marked by faded fencing, sun-bleached barns, and towering oak trees heavy with Spanish moss. Grand old homes emerged from behind rows of weathered hedges, their porches wide and sagging, their shutters faded with age. It was beautiful in the way a photograph could be—still, distant, almost too quiet.

Torres, all energy and wonder, pressed his forehead to the window like a kid on a school trip. "Oh man, look at that one! You think that's a real plantation house? Like, with a history and ghosts and secret rooms and all that?"

Bucky didn’t answer at first. He was too focused on the road sign that loomed just up ahead: FORT LIBERTY - 10 MILES. His stomach tightened as he read it, his fingers flexing against the car door.

"Fort Bragg," he said quietly, bitterness slipping uninvited into his tone.

Torres twisted in his seat. "Wait, didn’t they change the name?"

"Doesn’t matter. Still feels the same."

And it did. More than he wanted to admit. Just the sight of the name, even in its altered form, brought a rush of memory too fast, too vivid. The suffocating weight of his uniform, heavy with sweat and expectation. The sting of sand grinding into his boots. The shouted orders. The way his body had been pushed beyond its limits day after day, molded into something sharp and expendable. Fort Bragg wasn’t just a location—it was the echo of a young man losing pieces of himself every time his boots hit that dirt.

He tried to breathe through it, but the unease that had been gnawing at the back of his mind all morning surged forward, louder now, no longer easy to ignore. It wasn’t just discomfort. It was dread. A low, pulsing tension in his gut that had nothing to do with logic and everything to do with instinct.

Sam reached over silently, his hand landing on Bucky’s thigh. The touch was grounding, deliberate. Bucky stared out the window, jaw tight, but his hand drifted over Sam’s in return, squeezing once.

"We’ll be there soon," Sam said, voice calm but steady, like he knew exactly what Bucky needed to hear.

They exited the highway onto a narrow county road. The asphalt cracked in places, the occasional sign pointing the way toward Southern Pines. As they curved down toward a small filling station tucked beside a sun-scorched field, Torres bounced in his seat.

"Snacks! I’m getting everything! You comin, Barnes? "

Bucky nearly stayed in the car. Every part of him itched to remain seated, to stare at the horizon until the feeling passed. But it wasn’t passing.

"Yeah," he muttered. "I’ll go."

Sam gave a slight nod, staying behind to pump gas, while Bucky followed Torres into the gas station. The air inside was stale and cold, the kind of industrial chill that seeped through your shirt and clung to your skin. A ceiling fan creaked overhead. It smelled like old carpet and fried food.

Torres made a beeline for the snack aisle, already filling a plastic basket with absurd enthusiasm.

"Funyuns. Sour apple gummies. She likes the jalapeño kettle chips too, right? God, I hope so. If I get this wrong, she'll put glue in my shampoo again."

Bucky wandered behind him, slower, scanning the space not because he wanted to but because he had to. His eyes flicked across the windows, the corners of the store, the way the security mirror above the counter distorted his reflection. Every sound felt louder than it should. Every movement pinged his nerves.

It was the way his senses sharpened that unnerved him most. The soft hum of the refrigerator. The buzz of a fly against the glass. The subtle creak of the employee door swinging shut behind the counter. None of it should have mattered. But it did.

He hated this.

He hadn’t felt like this in months.

Torres, blissfully oblivious, was now chatting with the cashier—a woman in equestrian gear, clearly on her way to or from a nearby stable. Her riding boots were scuffed, her collared shirt crisp and tucked. She looked surprised by Torres’s enthusiasm, but indulged him with a smile as he dumped his snacks onto the counter.

"You ride? That’s awesome! Do you know Boss? Big red horse? Looks like he could eat a car? Lives with a Russian who probably knows six ways to kill a man with a bridle?"

She blinked, laughed. "Can’t say I do, but there’s a lot of big red horses around here."

Bucky stood a few paces back, eyes fixed on the cooler door. He could see himself in the reflection now. Not the Soldier. But close. There was tension in his shoulders, in the way he shifted his weight to his heels. His vibranium fingers curled and uncurled. He didn’t know what he was waiting for, only that something felt off.

He walked outside without saying much, the heat slamming into him like a wall. Sam was just finishing up with the gas, wiping his hands on a rag.

"Find enough junk food?" Sam asked, glancing at the armload of bags Torres was stuffing into the back seat.

"Too much," Bucky muttered.

Sam turned toward him, quiet for a beat. "You good?"

Bucky opened his mouth to say yes, but it didn’t come. So instead, he gave the smallest of nods.

Torres kept chatting as they climbed back into the car, talking about horse tack and how many carrots it was acceptable to feed a horse in one sitting.

As they drove on, the town came into view. The sign read: WELCOME TO SOUTHERN PINES: HORSE COUNTRY USA.

Bucky saw it, and the unease twisted tighter, coiling in his stomach like something alive.

He didn’t know what it was yet.

But something was wrong.

He could feel it in his bones.