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The sky is mellow and golden-white, against the dark outline of the docks. The air bristles deliciously with the smell of spices and barbecue, the chatter of a merry crowd, and the cry of faraway gulls. Lanterns glimmer faintly along the piers, all the way to the freshly-painted boat, standing proud on the Louisiana waters and shimmering in the dusklight.
Leaning against a wooden pole, Bucky is content to watch AJ and Cass play around a makeshift fire, tossing Sam’s shield around like a frisbee. Most of the neighbors (Bucky has yet to learn their names) have gathered around Sarah, eager for second helpings, while some sit with a bottle, chatting or humming to the Trouble Man soundtrack that Sam is playing. (Bucky’s quite sure it’s a desperate attempt to update his Spotify playlist.)
But he cannot spot Sam in the crowd.
That insufferable-
There’s a tap on Bucky’s shoulder. He turns and oh, it’s Sam, with a smug and knowing smile on his face. “You were late,” Sam announces, pleasantly.
He’s insufferable and boy does he know it.
“Yeah, I took a detour to the cake shop.”
Bucky unconsciously leans closer and Sam’s arm comfortably settles around his back. It’s warm and cozy and Bucky likes it enough that for a few moments he blissfully tunes out and Sam has to repeat himself.
“The kids want you for the game night tomorrow. AJ has decreed that you have to play a half-orc barbarian.”
Bucky’s expression falls. “Why can’t I be an elf?”
Sam laughs. “I didn’t make the rules.” He lets go of Bucky and folding his arms, he says, “But I get to be a wizard, with a pointy hat.”
“Well, Gandalf didn’t have orcs in the Company.” Then, in a small voice, he asks, “Am I going to be a bad guy?”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure AJ will give you a redemption arc, in that case.”
Just then, one of the neighbors (Carlos, Bucky thinks, remembering Sam’s threat) interrupts them with a bottle each. Bucky mumbles thanks, twists the cap off, and takes a sip.
“Just how much can you drink?” Sam curiously asks.
Bucky can down the whole bottle right away, but he doesn’t want to make a bad impression on Sam’s family. “Depends, I guess. Never quite tested it.”
“Hmm. Perhaps we need a drinking game to find out.”
Bucky laughs. “When?” he asks, with the barest hint of flirtation in his voice.
Sam’s grin is endearing and mischievous, or at least that’s how Bucky thinks of it. “Maybe once the kids are asleep.”
Bucky tips his bottle to Sam. “Here, beneath the stars?”
Sam raises his eyebrows and grins lightheartedly. “Why not?”
It’s all so easy for him.
Bucky flashes a wide smile. “It’s a date.”
It’s a joke , Bucky thinks even as the words slip out of his mouth, and Sam nods in response.
Surely, Sam’s just playing along, humoring him. They’re co-workers and friends and nothing more. Friends who help each other out, occasionally stay the night and maybe once in a while, go dancing. Surely, nothing more.
Surely.
Sam steers him back to the crowd where everyone’s drunk and merry and Bucky hasn’t seen so many happy people in one place in so long, and he hasn’t been so happy since -
And AJ and Cass have grabbed onto his arms, and Sarah’s inviting him for dinner, and Sam is taking pictures with a camera, and he’s making faces at them and giving the thumbs-up, and the flash is almost blinding his gaze and...
Isn’t this what friends do, after all?
*
The sky slowly deepens into purple, and Sarah’s lanterns glitter brightly in the dark.
Around the campfire, people are telling stories and playing cards. Even Bucky is sharing anecdotes about Steve from the 1940s, and for once it doesn’t hurt to talk about the past. Plates of grilled prawns and meatballs are being passed around, as Sarah talks about all the mischief Sam was up to as a kid and how he’d hide in the boat when his folks got angry, and every now and then, someone is thumping Sam on the back, congratulating him for becoming Captain America.
They exchange looks throughout, a silent nod, a tilt of the head, a warm smile.
*
The party continued well past midnight. The lanterns sway in the balmy breeze, now almost out of light, and it’s just the two of them sitting by the docks, empty beer bottles strewn all around.
“Everyone’s saying wonderful things about you,” Bucky says, finishing his last bottle and placing it in a crate.
Sam, who has had no intention of competing with Bucky, stopped drinking a while ago. A dark look passes over his eyes. “I keep thinking about Karli.”
They haven’t talked about Karli since that day. None of the neighbors at the cookout brought up the Flag Smashers and after Zemo got the last laugh (bombing the prisoners in the truck) the news has been silent, too. Sure, the GRC still makes the headlines with the latest changes in their policy, but Bucky knows that it’s not enough to ease Sam’s conscience.
With a restful sigh, he says, “Sam, you did what was right.”
Sam looks at Bucky in the eye. “She didn’t have to die.”
Yes , Bucky thinks. He hadn’t been there when it happened, but Sam had filled him in on the details later. “It was an accident. I’m sure Sharon regrets it as much as you.”
“I wish I could’ve done more.”
Of course, Sam.
Bucky isn’t Sam, and he doesn’t know the right words to console his only friend, but he tries, nonetheless. “But you did a lot. You talked to the GRC. You convinced them of their mistakes. You …put Isiah Bradley’s name back in the history books. So many people who would’ve lost their homes, now owe their lives to you.”
Like I owe my life to you.
“But it isn’t enough.” There’s a restless edge to Sam’s voice now, something that wasn’t there through the whole afternoon and evening when he’d been his cheerful and hospitable self, making small talk with everyone. “Karli knew that.”
Bucky looks away, biting his lips. “You can’t…you can’t fight for everyone and win .” It’s unfair but that’s the truth, the way he sees it.
“Then I don’t deserve that shield.”
No. The world doesn’t deserve you.
Bucky is aghast. He moves closer to Sam, rests his hand on his knee. “No, Sam, that’s not it. You’re…you’re exactly what the world needs, right now.”
You’re perfect, just the way you are. Why can’t you see it, you insufferable idiot?
Sam seems to be lost in thought, his eyes on some faraway ship, glinting on the horizon. “You really think so, Buck?”
It’s one of those moments, Bucky thinks, when they’re close, so close to that feeling that has been sitting in Bucky’s chest since he met Sam. He knows the word for that feeling, knows how simple and complicated and sad and hopeful it is, and he doesn’t dare say it aloud.
So, he tries to say the other things, the other words that he knows to be good and true, as he looks at Sam’s face, the light in his eyes, the curve of his lips, the creases in his shirt. And he hopes to high heaven that Sam will not notice the catch in his voice when he says, “Yes. You’re someone who’ll do the right thing no matter what, who’ll try to see and understand both sides. You made them realize why Karli’s cause mattered so much. You fixed things-”
Sam shakes his head. “Isn’t that what a decent person should do?”
But the world isn’t full of decent people.
“I suppose, yeah, but not everyone’s that good, and not everyone can make things right. And yeah, sure, you’ll lose some battles on the way. But you’re going to win some too, and keep winning.”
“That’s the plan, huh?”
“I’m sure that’s what they teach at Superhero High.”
A soft laugh escapes Sam’s lips, but then he is quiet. Bucky’s heart aches, like a bird testing its wings to fly, inside a cage.
Bucky wraps his metal arm around Sam’s shoulder, pleading to look at him and when Sam does, he swallows. “Sam, when you gave that speech, I…I was so proud, I...”
He doesn’t know the right words, and even if he did, he cannot bring himself to say it. That in this moment, he doesn’t care if the rest of the world burns because Sam means the whole world to him, and that’s all he wants, all he’s ever wanted, but Sam can never be this selfish. Sam who the world needs right now. Sam who always knows the right words and can save people and takes a stand even when no one does-
“Bucky, hey.”
Sam’s voice, warm and comforting, breaks through the torrent of Bucky’s tears, rustling against his ears. His head is on Sam’s shoulder and his cheeks are wet, and Sam’s voice sends tendrils of hope and electricity across Bucky’s body, down to his fingertips, as he whispers, “Hey, thanks for always having my back.”
Bucky lifts his head up and looks into Sam’s shining eyes. “You too, Cap.”
Perhaps in a parallel life, where there are no aliens, robots, or wizards and wars are something that happen only in history books, they can have a life together, here in Louisiana, on a boat they helped to paint and repair. Misty mornings when they’d fish or fry pancakes or go sailing. Lantern-lit evenings when they’d go drinking at a pub downtown or just stay at home, dancing or talking. Windy nights asleep on a couch, curled around each other, with a black-and-white film silently playing on the television, and the sound of waves hitting the shore.
That’s the world without borders that Karli dreamed of and died fighting for, the world Sam fights for each day and Bucky fights with him. The world where his dreams and longings are also possible.
But he can never say that aloud.
And he doesn’t need to, because sometimes if one was very lucky, miracles happened in this world too, for Sam’s lips are suddenly upon his, soft and warm and feather-light but certain. Bucky is surprised, wondrously and feverishly, and he pulls Sam close, metal fingers tracing lines on his back. He presses his lips harder, breathing in Sam’s scents (the musky powder, the salty tang of the sea, the smell of safety and home and forever) and Sam won’t let go, his fingers curling in Bucky’s hair. He can taste the tears trailing between them and feel their hearts beating at an even rhythm.
They let go, eventually, and the sky is slowly lightening up. Blushing, Bucky says, “Thought you’d never make the move, Samuel.”
Sam looks offended. “How could I? You kept flirting with my sister.”
“Touché. Gentleman’s honor?”
Sam grins, his fingers trailing from Bucky’s cheek to his neck and chest, sending little goosebumps all over his skin and beneath. “I suppose I can be a bit of a rogue too.”
Bucky’s fingers nervously fidget with Sam’s shirt. He slides his hands under, feels the contours of Sam’s steady back. “Oh really?”
“Only, sometimes,” Sam replies, kissing his eyes, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and that feeling in Bucky’s chest slowly uncoils, and a wave of peace washes over him.
“That’s good enough for me,” he says with a smirk, pulling Sam close longingly, for another deep kiss beneath the stars.