Sam sets his bags down with a thud.
The apartment is more or less how he left it: neat and empty. It feels too small, after everything that’s happened, like the weight of the past few weeks have built up into a physical mass. He shakes the feeling off and walks into the kitchen, opening the neglected fridge. There’s a case of beer, a jar of hardened peanut butter, and a sad-looking tub of pesto sauce. Stupid to assume there’d be any food, after an entire month of living off Sarah’s generosity. He recalls their parting conversation.
I can’t stay here and intrude on your life.
I know. I’ve just missed you so much. The boys, too.
If I don’t leave now, you’ll never get rid of me. And I still have shit to figure out.
I know, I know…
He’d been so sure, standing at the end of the driveway, shield strapped into the passenger seat of the truck. But now, the night stretching out before him, he wishes he were back with his sister, in the warm familiarity of their childhood home.
Sam shuts the door of the refrigerator and settles for a glass of water. He’ll buy real food tomorrow. Maybe even unpack. He wonders where he’s going to put that new suit, then chuckles to himself. What an odd problem to have. Settling into the couch, Sam takes out his phone, and scrolls through the last few text messages from Sarah. All articles about him, being the new Captain America, all glowing praise and excitement. It feels nice, to be appreciated in this expansive, generous way, but also dangerous. Sam’s been around enough to see the tide turn.
It’s just a matter of time.
He texts Sarah, Thanks, Miss you. Back safe.
Next, he taps through to his last conversation with Bucky. The little white window is full of Sam’s stray observations, a catalogue of every inane thing he’d ever thought might draw Bucky out. Sam’s most recent text is from over seven months ago, about what arrangements to make for Steve’s memorial service.
Flowers? Sam had said.
And then Bucky’s tiny grey read right underneath.
That was the infuriating thing about Bucky. He saw every single text message. Probably didn’t know how to toggle that function off on his phone (old man). Sam thinks about the last time they’d seen each other, at Sarah’s party. After, he’d disappeared again, fading into the bustle of New York City with a sad smile and a promise to be in touch.
Yeah, right.
Leaning his head back on the couch, Sam types without thinking. His text stream with Bucky is like a journal, at this point. A non-judgmental listener. It would actually be kind of nice, if Sam wasn’t positive Bucky was just passive-aggressively ignoring him.
He writes: Just got back to DC. Weird to be back. What are you up to?
He deletes that last part. Too friendly. Even though they are friends. Or. Well. It’s complicated. Sam takes a sip of water and tries not to work himself up into a whole thing about this question, about what they are now. Things had been left kind of open-ended, like maybe Sam wouldn’t see Bucky around for a while. Bucky had a way of doing that, of slipping back into the grit without looking back.
Things are different now, though.
Sam remembered his eyes, reflecting the gold on the horizon. Still sad, but less like an open, bloodied wound, and more like Sam’s kind of sad. Quiet and penned in and painfully optimistic. Except, when he’d turned his head to look at him, it had all disappeared. And Sam saw a loyalty and trust so deep and boundless, he couldn’t help but return the feeling.
Which had been terrifying.
Not so long ago, they’d tried fairly earnestly to kill each other. Sam thinks back to that time, and wonders if he genuinely could have done it. He’d told Steve, they needed to stop him, expressed doubts about the possibility of deprogramming. And yet, if it had come down to it, just them two, and Sam had had an opportunity, would he have killed him?
Sam doesn’t know.
>> Just got back to DC. Weird to be back.
He squints down at his phone, and thumbs the send button. Before he can see whether or not Bucky is reading his texts, he stands and walks to the bathroom.
After showering, he grabs his phone off the couch, and is startled to see Bucky’s name flash up in a notification.
So. Things really are different, now.
Sam drapes the towel around his neck, and sits down again, holding the phone a little away from his face so it doesn’t automatically unlock. He’s not sure exactly what to expect. Bucky’s not really a conversational person.
“It’s just a text,” Sam says, aloud to himself.
He shifts the phone so the text shows, and frowns.
Okay.
Bucky says:
>> only been there a handful of times but it was nice. how are you doing with everything?
Well.
Sam shifts so that he’s stretched out on the couch, feet pushing against the opposite arm rest, pillow tucked behind his head. He types out, If you mean the being cap thing, I don’t expect to get used to it overnight. I don’t even know where to store this suit. Do I just hang it up in the closet?
He sends it, waits. His phone buzzes fifteen seconds later.
Bucky: what’d you do with the falcon one?
Sam texts, Kept it in a duffel. Nothing really special. Feels weird to just shove it in a bag though.
Bucky responds again, can’t say for certain but i think it was designed to stand. i don’t know how to do that though. didn’t come with an instruction manual.
Sam: Not like you’d read it.
There’s a beat, then Bucky writes: really, though, are you doing okay?
Sam is doing okay. He knows he’s overwhelmed, and confused, and doesn’t want to speak on the phone to a breathless reporter ever again. Mostly, he’s just exhausted. He wants to live normally for a while, be less needed. Except, of course, that will never be true again. Someone will always need him, now. The knowledge of this washes over him and he fidgets unconsciously, trying to carry, to adjust.
He’s okay, though. Really.
His phone buzzes. It’s another text: i’m here. i’m going to respond, now, promise. you need me, after all.
Sam reads the text over and over, vision blurry. Of course he would phrase it like a prick. But Sam is picking up on the subtext, and it’s almost too much, the idea that Bucky is sitting somewhere in Brooklyn promising things to Sam, in that scary, solemn way he gets when he’s being honest.
Allowing Sam to need him.
I know, Sam says. Then, he types out, when were you in DC?
He laughs when Bucky replies, you don’t want to know when or why.
Sam writes, without hesitation, Yeah I do.
Somehow, two hours go by, until Sam falls asleep with his phone on his chest.
He wakes up to it blaring an alarm sound, which he used for morning runs at Sarah’s. Fumbling around, he switches it off, and sits up on the couch. There’s one unread notification from Bucky, and for a second he panics, thinking something’s wrong. Then, he remembers their entire conversation from the night before. Sam scrubs a hand over his face, trying not to read too much into it.
It’s hard not to, though.
They never talk like this, sincere and invested and long. Sam’s pretty sure he’s never heard Bucky talk more than he did last night, just texting. Probably something about the slight delay and lack of immediacy that makes it easier for Bucky. If Sam’s being honest, for him, too.
It’s a better pace. For now.
Sam stretches, cracking his neck, sore from sleeping at an awkward angle. Morning light touches into his kitchen, and he unlocks his phone as he moves towards his bedroom to change into clothes for a jog.
>> night cap. :)
Despite himself, a slow smile stretches across Sam’s face.