It starts like this:
Sam and Bucky are lying prone in the mud somewhere off the south tip of Singapore thanks to Rhodes’ tip that the group they’ve been tracking is making their big push tonight. It’s not a bad place, if you didn’t mind the humid air sitting hot and heavy in your lungs after making you work for every breath or the interminable droning from insects that keep clipping Sam’s nose with their wings or the fact that somewhere in the valley below, there is a group of people smuggling some knock-off version of the super soldier serum. Again. Originality seems to be a thing of the past.
Sam shifts, trying to redistribute his weight and give his arms a break. The mud creeps higher up his elbows as he moves; it’s practically a second skin by now. He wonders, inanely, if the Wakandan technicians who designed his suit accounted for things like mud so deep and viscous that it seems sentient at times.
He takes a break from monitoring the valley to swipe a hand across his forehead. He’s pretty sure his hand comes away with more dirt than it had previously and imagines one oddly clean spot on his forehead standing out like a beacon for any enemy that might glance their way.
Rhodes is gonna owe them big-time for this one.
He looks over at Bucky, gazing intently at the valley below. In the scant moonlight filtering through the trees, Bucky’s eyes seem to glow almost silver. This is one of those times when Sam can understand how the man came by his moniker in Wakanda.
Bucky, being Bucky, knows he’s being watched. His eyes shift to Sam. “What?”
“Nothing,” Sam says.
Bucky gives a disbelieving hum but doesn’t push it. Whatever else he may be, Sam appreciates that about him.
Another drop of sweat rolls down his temple. Sam doesn’t bother wiping it this time. This whole island is miserably humid – arguably rivaling midsummer Delacroix - and if he tries to wipe his face every time new beads of sweat spring up, he’ll miss his cue when the shooting starts and he’ll never live it down. Bucky already has plenty of ammunition at his disposal; Sam doesn’t intend to help him find things to rib him about.
Confident that Bucky can handle a solo watch for a few minutes, Sam eases himself up and rolls his neck. He grimaces when it pops alarmingly with the motion. Captain America or no, he isn’t immune to the stiffness that set in after the first twenty minutes of lying flat on his stomach.
Not at all in a hurry to resume that position, Sam takes in their surroundings. He can’t see much; the trees and undergrowth grow thick here. Everything pretty much just looks like dark, misshapen blobs set against an inky backdrop. He can pick out a few pinpricks of light through the foliage, though. Grievances with the climate aside, the sky seems to be stunningly clear. If they were in an open area Sam imagines they would see all manner of constellations.
He drops his gaze a little closer to home in time to see Bucky watching him. Sam doesn’t point out that no one has eyes on the valley now; instead he merely says, “What?”
“Nothing,” Bucky says immediately, and it’s about as convincing as AJ and Cass when they’re giving Sam their best puppy dog eyes, imploring him to let them play that game they love because please, Uncle Sam, we’ve done our homework and everything.
“Uh-huh,” Sam replies. Just because Bucky isn’t inclined to push it when Sam gives a noncommittal response doesn’t mean Sam is going to let him off that easily. Ignoring the way his joint protest, Sam lowers himself back into the mud. “What’s up?”
Bucky’s shoulder lifts in a shrug. “Just thinking.”
“Really? It’s gonna be that kind of night?” Sam teases, partly to give Bucky a hard time and partly to take his mind off the unpleasant sensation of mud seeping into the creases of his body.
Bucky doesn’t reply right away. Sam can almost guarantee he’s making some sort of face, because what else would an appropriate response from a one-hundred-and-six-year-old supersoldier?
“Just appreciating the irony,” Bucky says, like that clears things up. He correctly interprets Sam’s silence as confusion and adds, “Eighty years and halfway around the world and here I am on my ass in the mud. Again.”
Sam snorts. “Old habits die hard.”
“I could be worse,” Bucky points out, and he’s definitely smirking in that way of his, when the corner of his mouth quirks upwards almost imperceptibly. It’s not the disarming, easy smile he pulls out for the old ladies in the grocery store – which is not nearly as charming as he thinks it is – or the teeth-baring, bordering-on-a-snarl grin he gets sometimes when the adrenaline is pumping and they’re lucky shot away from being sidelined for good. It’s that crooked, there one second and gone the next smirk that never fails to make something in Sam’s chest loosen.
“Yeah, you could have a stash of questionably legal weapons under your bed. Or refuse to listen to music unless it came out during the Jurassic period. Or think that fuck o’clock in the morning is a reasonable time to get up,” Sam says, really warming up now. “Or - ”
“Are you done?” Bucky interrupts.
“I got a whole list,” Sam says, unrepentant. “I keep it on the backburner just in case.”
“Really, Samuel?” Bucky manages to sound both long-suffering and lofty at the same time. Seeing as he spends most of his time being as difficult as possible just to see Sam cycle through the full range of human emotions, Sam isn’t sure why he sounds put-upon.
“I can’t help that you’re a walking goldmine for that kind of thing.”
He hears the huff and grins to himself. In Sam’s defense, he makes fun of plenty of other people; he just happens to spend a lot of time in close quarters with Bucky, who is not exactly like other people.
“ Anyways, ” Bucky continues pointedly, “I just think it’s kinda ironic that I’ve spent a good deal of my life lying in the mud waiting for the bad guys to poke their heads out. ‘Course, whether or not they were actually the bad guys is open to interpretation,” he muses.
Sam shakes his head. Even now he’s not sure he knows the half of what all has happened in Bucky’s life since a German foot patrol found him half-dead somewhere in the Alps. Given what he does know, he’s still not sure he wants to hear the rest.
“At least it doesn’t snow here,” Sam says. He’ll leave the ball in Bucky’s court for this one.
“Nah, just a fuck-ton of mosquitoes.” Bucky doesn’t say anything more. Sam assumes that’s as much as they’re going to broach the subject for the time being and doesn’t inquire further.
Instead he says lightly, “I don’t wanna hear you complain about mosquitoes, part of you is literally made of metal.”
“Plenty of me isn’t,” Bucky returns. He sounds good-natured still, but he’s distracted now. Sam can hear it in his voice, the vague undertone he gets when some deep-rooted memory snags his attention.
Silence stretches between them. Sam squints down at the valley. There hasn’t been much activity for a while; their targets are probably asleep. Sam can’t help envying them. He and Bucky trade off when they can, but sleep is hard to come by in the field. It reminds him of Afghanistan in that respect.
He glances sidelong at Bucky. There’s a slight furrow between his brows now, and his smirk has morphed into a distracted frown. Remembering, or trying to. Sam wonders briefly which one is worse.
“Penny for your thoughts?” he asks, trying to bring him back to earth gently.
Bucky blinks, his frown easing as he’s brought out of his reverie. “What?”
Sam nudges him. “What are you thinking about?”
“The war, mostly.” Bucky gives his head a little shake like he’s trying to clear it. “This is how I spent a good amount of it.”
He waves a vague hand towards himself, indicating his position on his belly and the rifle resting snug against his shoulder. In the meager light, looking at his profile, it’s disturbingly easy for Sam to imagine Bucky as he must’ve looked nearly a century ago: all coiled tension and grim focus, prostrate in the dirt and leaves and snow, sniper rifle propped against his body in just the same way.
Sam doesn’t know why it’s hitting him so hard all of the sudden. Maybe it’s the stress and exhaustion catching up to him at last. Whatever the reason, he can’t quite ignore the sudden ache sitting heavy somewhere in his chest.
Bucky is watching him with a knowing look. Out of all his annoying qualities, his uncanny ability to guess what Sam is thinking nine times out of ten is usually somewhere near the top. Some days it sits squarely in first place. Today, though, Sam’s feeling magnanimous, so he lets it drop a bit lower. Magnanimous, and a little sad.
He clears his throat. “Bucky - ”
“Don’t, Sam - ”
“I - you don’t even know what I was gonna say.” Sam feigns offense, mostly because he himself has no idea what he was about to say. And, okay, he’s a little miffed when he sees Bucky raise an eyebrow like he’s perfectly aware of this. “Asshole,” he grumbles.
“Keep your shit together, Wilson.” Bucky’s tone is a little too forced to be considered lighthearted. “We’re on a mission, in case you forgot.”
“I know we’re on a mission. Asshole,” Sam says again.
“Then don’t lose your head,” Bucky says, like it’s that simple.
It really, really isn’t, and Sam has to bite down on a spike of anger. It barrels right through the ache in his chest and coils there, hot and pulsing. He closes his eyes and blows out a long, slow breath.
When he opens his eyes again, Bucky looks defiant, like he’s daring Sam to say something about it. Once upon a time, he probably would have. There would be an argument, most likely, and they would both say things that hit a little too close to home, and it would all end in an icy silence. Icy, because Bucky’s too experienced to fight hot, and Sam… well, nothing is quite as effective as the truth when it comes to fighting dirty.
Still, he can’t quite bring himself to be sorry when he mutters with more heat than is strictly necessary, “You’re a pain in the ass.”
Bucky takes insults well. Normally this is one of his better qualities, but Sam is feeling decidedly less magnanimous right now, so he admits this only grudgingly. And only to himself.
Despite appearances, this push-pull dynamic is exactly what makes them a good team. It also makes Sam want to smack Bucky upside the head on a regular basis. If he weren’t concerned about scrambling Bucky’s brain even more than it already is, he probably would’ve done it a long time ago. God knows Bucky deserves it sometimes.
Bucky’s eyebrow lifts again. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Would it be possible for you to shut up for once in your life?”
He also has an incurable habit of doing the exact opposite of what Sam says. “You know, you looked like Steve just now.”
It’s so unexpected that the half-formed retort forming in Sam’s mind fizzles out. He manages a nonplussed, “What?”
“You looked like Steve,” Bucky repeats. “After Bucharest, and - yeah. He would look at me like that.”
“Like what?” Sam says even though he has a pretty good guess of where this is going. If Bucky wants to be difficult, two can play that game.
Bucky looks thoughtful, like he’s mulling something over. “Not sad, exactly. Well, maybe sometimes. More - I dunno, I would catch him looking at me like you did just now. Apologetic. Remorseful, whatever you wanna call it.”
Sam doesn’t find this an entirely inappropriate reaction, considering… well, considering everything.
“He must’ve apologized a hundred times before we even got to Wakanda.” Bucky’s gaze is unfocused again. Sam’s seen that look before - and not just on Bucky. He knows he himself looked much the same when he first returned to Delacroix after his tour. You didn’t get through life without acquiring some ghosts along the way.
“I told him it wasn’t his fault. I don’t think he ever really believed me, though. I think he figured I was just saying that to make him feel better.” Sam catches the glint of gold when Bucky flexes his left hand. “He got himself convinced that no matter what he did, he would never be able to wash his hands of it, you know?”
Yeah, that sounds like Steve Rogers, all right. Anyone who spent five minutes with him knew he didn’t do things by halves - and Sam spent a lot longer than that in close quarters with the man.
“Yeah,” Sam says, mostly so Bucky knows he’s still listening.
“So when he looked at me like that, I - I kinda hated it, to be honest. It was like he couldn’t see past all the regret. And I… I knew things couldn’t go back to the way they used to be. But I figured Steve, of all people…” Bucky trails off. Then he adds quietly, “He was my best friend.”
Sam grins. “Y’know, I think I figured that out for myself, strangely enough.”
Bucky wrinkles his nose in an expression Sam usually classifies as a tier-two indicator of irritation. Sam thinks he’s more qualified than anyone to comment on the matter, seeing as he’s often on the receiving end of such looks - which happens to be something he feels no small amount of pride over.
He wonders if Bucky’s waiting for a proper response. Moments like this - when Bucky drops the aloof facade and actually talks - aren’t exactly a regular occurrence. And Sam’s willing to bet that these moments don’t involve just anyone, either.
But Bucky doesn’t need Sam to hold his hand. Just as well, because Sam doesn’t intend to do any hand-holding. They’re both grown-ass men. So after a moment’s consideration Sam says simply, “The world’s all kinds of up-side down.”
Bucky snorts at that. “Preaching to the choir, Samuel.”
“Isn’t that the deal when you get the shield? You get to comment on the state of the world and make rousing speeches?”
“Your idea of rousing needs some work.”
“This coming from you?” Sam gapes at Bucky for comedic effect.
“You’ll swallow a bug like that,” responds the ever-immovable supersoldier.
“Like you wouldn’t laugh,” Sam returns, then closes his mouth, because Bucky unfortunately has a point.
“I absolutely would.”
“You know, Steve didn’t warn me about this ,” Sam grumbles. “When he gave me the shield he never said you were a package deal.”
Bucky does laugh this time. “Can’t back out now, pal. You’re in too deep.”
“Don’t remind me.” But Sam smiles as he says it, and even in the pressing darkness he sees Bucky smile in return. He’ll probably deny it if Sam points it out - God forbid he has emotions. “I think it could’ve turned out worse, all things considered.”
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “It could’ve.”