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For the first time in a long time, things feel calm.
Well. As calm as they can be in the heart of New York. With the events of last week still lingering in the streets and in the minds of the people who wander up and down the block, with still a murmur of excitement that the Flag Smasher’s left behind in their wake.
There’s a whole cleanup team mulling the streets, and Bucky keeps his head down as he passes them, hauling broken off metal and sweeping glass off the floor.
His apartment is still as empty as it was when he’d left it those few weeks ago when he’d upped and left at the sight of John Walker’s fresh face in the suit of his once best friend. How long ago that seemed, with John no longer kicking around with the shield, and instead was safely tucked away up in Louisiana where it rightly belonged.
That’s where he’s heading now – not Louisiana. But there’s a bakery up here, and he’s been told that if he’s coming back up to see the Wilson’s, he’s not to come empty handed.
Sam had sent him a simple text.
Cookout on Saturday @ Sarah’s. Bring ur own beer and grub of ur choice :)
It takes Bucky a little while to understand the ‘internet talk’, and even longer to think of what to bring. Whilst he’s quite up to date on all the new restaurants in the area, and the food in this century is definitely a huge step up to what he remembers eating back in the 40s, he can’t really bring boiled stew to a cookout.
And he can’t bring his favourite sushi restaurant up to Louisiana, and he’s sure that they have enough fish up there to feed the entire state. So he has to figure it out himself.
And that’s how he ends up in the bakery.
He’s not much of a chef; he never was, much to his embarrassment he’s always left all the cooking and creative kitchen adventures to his mother and his sister back in the days before the war, and as he pounds the pavement with his hands in his pockets, head down still, he kind of wishes he’d maybe just spent one afternoon with the pair of them. Maybe he would have remembered his mother’s delicious apple pie recipe that was surely lost to time.
The door jingles as he pushes it open with his human hand, and he gives the woman behind the counter a small smile and a nod.
And as he stares down at the display of what must be at least ten different types of cakes, Bucky is starting to think that attempting to bake the stupid thing himself might have actually been a lot easier.
*
Louisiana feels calm. Despite the loud voices, the laughter and the sound of crashing ocean waves, Bucky feels at peace here.
The cake has been pretty much devoured by both AJ and Cass, and the last of the shrimp still sits, untouched on his plate, unable to take another bite after indulging himself in the thousands of plates of food that had been shared around all afternoon.
The beer on his tongue is warm yet soothing, and as he sits on the wall of the dock, looking down at the rolling waves beneath his feet, Bucky has a slight urge to just jump straight in.
“So,” Sam’s voice floats up beside him as he takes a seat on the wall next to him, taking a swig of his own drink, licking his lips as he turns his head to look at Bucky. “What’s going on in that cyborg mind of yours?” He grins.
This time, Bucky lets out a small chuckle. He sips at his drink, and looks at the water, rippling in an unsteady rhythm across the horizon. He sniffs.
“For once, not all that much,” Bucky shrugs. “I’m kind of enjoying the quiet.”
Sam smiles, and it’s genuine, and he shifts comfortably, his shoulder lightly brushes against the flesh of Bucky’s.
“You’ll find that here,” Sam says with a breath, bringing the bottle to his lips before pausing. “I guess you can take the city out of the boy after all, huh?”
Bucky chuckles softly. “Guess so,” he shrugs, and Sam laughs into his drink, it whistling through the bottle before he takes another sip. “Though, this right here,” he gestures towards the sea with his metal arm. “It reminds me of home.”
Sam pulls the beer away from his mouth, and his brows furrow into a curious frown, and Bucky turns to meet his eyes with his own, lips curling at his expression.
“I used to work the docks,” Bucky fills in for him, a little tilt of his head. “Before the war.”
Sam’s expression relaxes and he looks rather amused. “Cyborg had a life, hm?”
Bucky tries to be offended but he just laughs softly, and looks down at the waves that roll in beneath him, water rippling with the reflection with the sinking sun and he scoffs another laugh.
“I did,” he says quietly. He looks back up at Sam. “I was good, y’know. How else d’you think your boat got fixed?”
He’s taking another mouthful of his drink when Sam shoots him an incredulous look.
“Woah,” his voice is low, and once again, Bucky finds himself smiling around the rim of his bottle. “Don’t go taking all the credit, guy. I helped too.”
Bucky lips his lips and scrunches up his nose. “Kinda,” he teases, and Sam just nudges his elbow with his, making them both go a little wobbly.
There’s a comfortable silence between them as they sit on the wall, watching the ocean breath in and out over the landscape before them; the sun slipping further and further down, leaving smudges of yellow, oranges and pinks in its wake as the sky turns a velvety dark blue.
“So would you go back?” Sam asks suddenly, and Bucky looks at him.
“Back where?”
Sam takes a drink. Sniffs. “The docks,” he says like it’s simple. “Back to work?”
Bucky blinks at him, and then laughs, rolling his eyes. “No way. I’m too old.”
Sam snorts a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re the only 106 man I know that can lift a car with one hand. Actually, you’re the only 106 man I know, period.”
Bucky quirks his brows. “More reason for me to retire,” he tells him. “I think I’ve lifted enough things and worked long enough for a break.”
Sam looks pleased to hear that, and it makes Bucky feel at ease. Like he really does mean he deserves to rest for a while.
“Enjoy it, man,” Sam raises his bottle to his, and the clink together, and for the first time, Bucky realises that maybe Sam has enjoyed this cookout a little too much, unsure of what number this beer is.
Then again, he supposes he deserves a break too.
“So what does retirement look like for Bucky Barnes?” Sam asks him. There’s only a little bit left of his drink but he seems to be savouring it for now, even though he could get up and grab another, apparent that Sam doesn’t want to move just yet.
Bucky sniffs, and the air feels fresher than ever. He tilts his head to think, realising that he’s not really entirely sure of the answer.
“Dunno,” he says quietly as he mulls it over. “Maybe turn into a real old man. Get myself a comfy chair, spend my days reading.”
Sam laughs, then. “Oh. You should get a cat then.”
Bucky smirks. “A cat?”
Sam shifts in his seat, clearly excited about this newfound idea. “Yeah!” He exclaims. “You’re basically a cat in human form, you’d suit a cat.”
Bucky laughs, and turns the bottle in his hands around. “Right,” he nods, mostly to appease Sam’s enthusiasm. “Like a ratty old rescued stray?”
Sam nods, looking so deadly serious that it’s amusing. “Please do.”
Bucky looks at Sam, and can’t help but give an airy laugh. “If it’ll make you happy…”
“And you’ll need a record player,” Sam then adds, once again nudging his side with his elbow.
“What for?” Bucky asks. “I thought you all had music in your phones now?”
Sam shakes his head in dismissal. “Nah. Spotify will catch you up on what you’ve missed, but records are where it’s at, the only real way to listen to music, y’know?”
A smile forms around Bucky’s lips. He doesn’t know what a
Spotify
is but he’s glad that records still exist, because he does indeed know what Sam is talking about.
“And I’m gonna guess you’re gonna tell me that I need a Marvin Gaye record?” Bucky squints his eyes at him and Sam nods again.
“Absolutely,” he says, waving his bottle in his face.
Bucky runs his tongue across his bottom lip.
“Okay then,” he tries, sitting up a little straighter. “Glenn Miller, Kalamazoo,” he tells him, and Sam’s smile widens as he listens. “Great song, used to take all the girls dancing to that one,” he grins.
Sam snorts. “You. Dancing?”
Bucky frowns. “I danced. Trust me. Play that record and any girl will wanna go dancing with you.”
Sam laughs and shakes his head. “Sorry to break it to you, pal, but swing dancing isn’t really first date material anymore.”
Bucky quirks his brows and brings his beer to his lips. “I’m an old fashioned guy.” He pauses to look to Sam. “Does Sarah dance?”
Sam’s smile drops off his face and Bucky drinks to stop himself from laughing out loud.
“Fishes,” Sam warns him. “Fishes, Bucky.”
Bucky licks his lips. “Maybe that’s on the retirement plans,” he tells him, and actually considers scooting out of the way in case Sam really does try to push him into the water.
“Dancing,” he reiterates. “Maybe I need to go dancing again.”
“In an old folks home, sure,” Sam mutters into his drink.
The sounds of the rolling waves fill in their silence as they crash softly against the wall, little specks of salt water splash upwards, leaving small wet marks on Bucky’s shoes before they roll away back into the chaos of the ocean.
Bucky goes to speak, but his voice feels a little wobbly, so he clears his throat, and tries again.
“I’m looking forward to it though,” he says softly.
Sam looks at him, raising his brows. “What? Dancing or being fish food?”
Bucky ignores his comments and just looks back towards the water where the line between the ocean and the sky begins to blur.
“The rest of my life,” Bucky tells him, and he lets out a heavy breath, like it’d been sitting on his lungs for the longest time. “The old man chair. The music. The cat, maybe.”
Sam smiles at him, his deep brown eyes sparkle with something. Bucky is unsure but it feels welcoming.
“You’ve got time,” Sam tells him. “Time to catch up. Only problem you’ll have is figuring out where to start.”
Bucky hums, when suddenly the dog tags around his neck feel heavy where the cool of the metal is pressed into his bare skin.
He holds the beer with his metal hand, reaching into the front of his shirt with the other, pulling the small accessory out, fumbling it between his fingers.
“I think I have an idea where I’ll start,” Bucky runs his thumb over the indented lines. “My sister. Perhaps I’ll start with her.”
Sam swallows, his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he furrows his brow as he tries to get a look at the tag.
“She alive?” He asks quietly.
Bucky sighs, purses his lips and drops the tags where it hangs limply around his neck again. “Dunno,” he answers. “But it’s worth a try. Maybe find out where my folks are buried, leave some flowers. Apologise. Make my peace, y’know?”
He stares into his bottle. The swishing of the last of the liquid is something similar to the ocean beneath his feet. Sam’s shoulder presses against his, and neither make the effort to move away.
“No matter what,” Sam starts, voice low and sincere enough that Bucky is a little afraid to look up and into his eyes as he speaks. “You have family here, yeah? Dr Raynor was wrong about having nobody left.” Bucky keeps his gaze locked downwards.
“You have a family, wherever you go.”
Then, there’s a gentle yet firm hand on his shoulder, and Sam’s fingers are tightening around the flesh of his shoulder through his shirt. It feels comforting and grounding.
“Plus, if you need some intel help, you know who’s got the skills to find who you’re looking for,” Sam then adds, his grip going a little lax, and Bucky looks up to see him smirk.
“I’m not asking Redwing to help set up a family reunion,” he deadpans and Sam gives his shoulder another quick squeeze before his hand falls away completely as he laughs loudly.
“Man. You literally had him reborn and you’re still bullying him?” He says through a laugh. “Old man hating on technology.”
Bucky takes the last mouthful of his beer, slipping warmly down his throat. “Like I said, I’m old fashioned.”
Then, he looks at Sam, and takes a breath so easy, he momentarily forgets all the pain and anguish that had settled deep inside him for so many years.
“Thanks, Sam,” he whispers, and he hesitates for only a split second before placing his own hand on his shoulder. “Seriously, for everything.”
Sam smiles back. “Anytime, man. Anytime.”
And as the ocean rolls, in and out, in and out beneath where his feet swing, beside Sam’s, crossed at the ankles, and the breeze is warm when it brushes past his face, Bucky tips his head back, closes his eyes, feeling the last of the sun’s rays for another day, kissed against his skin, and Bucky soaks in the warmth, with Sam’s side still pressed against his as they sit together, and he truly feels at peace with the world.