Archive of Our Own

Sam turns away from the projected hologram of actively sprouting timelines and grins, kind of manically, at Doctor Strange. “Is this when I say Avengers assemble?” 

Thousands of alternate realities are no laughing matter, but Bucky can’t exactly blame Sam for being hysterical. They’ve never seen anything quite as disturbing as the creeping vein of some or other new reality, branching from what Strange calls the Sacred Timeline. Their timeline.

Still, he glares Sam’s way but lets Dr. Strange answer instead. 

“Let's not call in the cavalry just yet, Mr. Wilson,” he says and zooms in on another new and budding branch.

Sam considers that and visibly shivers at the thought, then turns to Bucky, “You think in one of these you don’t flirt with my sister?” 

Bucky groans, rolls his eyes at Sam, who is now happily satisfied with getting under his skin, “Can we focus here? Is that, you know, something you do?” 

“The reason,” Strange says, raising his voice to interrupt, “that I called you in, gentlemen is because we have identified a branch containing versions of yourselves that are potentially dangerous.” This news shuts them both up; Bucky thinks, well, he’s never not been dangerous, but Sam? That doesn’t seem right. Strange blows up a hologram to their left with green specs of pulsing energy. “This is cosmic energy, not currently identified in any of our databases, which materialized in a suburban town just outside of Texas. A week ago, two new residents moved in, and this anomaly started shortly after.” 

“The other us?” Sam asks, a little wide-eyed. “You want us to surveil ourselves?”

“We thought it’d be helpful,” Strange says with a secret smile that he quickly turns away from them, “You know yourselves best, not true?” 

Sam stares at him for a second, then throws his hands up, “I guess?!” And then he’s turning to Bucky with a huge, dorky grin on his face, “That’s a meme. Torres showed me. Like you're confused and then—” 

“I get it.” Bucky holds his hand up, bites back his amusement. Sam is not cute. “You need to stop hanging out with Torres.” 

Sam still grins stupidly and grabs Bucky’s neck, shakes him with a playful roughness, “Aw,” he chides, looking at Bucky, “So grumpy.” And then he looks away and shoots up, “Alright, Doc, How do we do this? You fling us through a portal, give us a map? What?”

“Fling?” Bucky grimaces, getting up, “Hold on now.”

“No one is being flung, Mr. Wilson. I have a few things to sort out before you can commence the journey. In the meantime, get ready, plan for a two-week stay, and here is a prune gun in case you need to put the Variants down.”

Strange hands them each a pistol with glowing orange bullets. He proceeds to fire at a book, and it fizzles out of existence before their eyes. “Only in dire circumstances, of course. If the timeline is in danger.”

And well, that’s not something Bucky ever considered he’d have to do. Taking himself out of the game is one thing. Killing Sam, though. That’s something that still haunts him; years later, the idea of getting so close multiple times makes his chest hurt in a particular and horrible way.

He ripped that steering wheel out and left Sam to the fate of a deadly crash; he broke one of those beautiful wings that enamors him now so that Sam would fall to his death. That time when Zemo messed with his head, and he tossed Sam’s unenhanced body across the room like you would a ragdoll...

It ate at him for years, even after therapy, even after forgiving the Winter Soldier for his misdeeds. It still eats at him every time Sam smiles or plays with A.J and Cass or hugs Sarah. Each time he remembers how close he’d gotten to live in a world without Sam, all at his own hands. 

Yeah. He’s not sure he’s got it in him to put Sam Wilson down. Whichever version of him it might be. 

Beside him, Sam sucks in a deep breath, “Well, this got real grim real fast, huh?” 

Bucky can only pull his face in agreement. 

A few days later, they’re on their way to Texas, where Strange will open the portal to this new reality and let them through.

They meet at the airport early that morning, share a quietly sleepy breakfast at a café and stroll over to the boarding gates long before the flight’s due. 

They have a quick argument along the way because Sam won’t let Bucky carry his bags, which results in a very immature wrestling bout. Still, Bucky eventually gets custody of the heaviest of Sam’s bags and lugs it the rest of the way. 

“You’re a pain in my ass,” Sam says absently, checking the ticket for their seats. By now, that’s endearing; it’s their way of being affectionate.

“You make me want to yeet myself off a train again,” Bucky says back, opening the overhead storage and stuffing their luggage inside.

Sam snorts, looks at him, and grins, “That was dark.”

“I know,” Bucky chuckles too and stands aside to let Sam in first. Sam likes to see the sky move outside; he’ll stare at it for hours. Bucky likes when Sam’s peaceful like that. 

“Also, yeet?” Sam sits down, waits for Bucky to join him, “Who’s hanging out with Torres now, huh?”

“That was Cass, actually.”

“Oh, makes sense.” 

They look at each other then, in an all too familiar way, long and too sincerely. Bucky’s always doing this, always marveling at Sam, like he’s a bag of tricks, and something newly wonderful will pop out at any second. Each time he notices something different, a dimple, a crease, his lashes curling, the lighter specks of brown in his eyes. And it’s always hard to stop looking; it’s hard to turn away. Bucky blames it on decades of deprivation, of not being allowed to look at or have anything beautiful. 

He holds it dear now, shamelessly sometimes, because Sam is one of the only specks of sunlight he’s ever known.

“Uhm,” Bucky diverts when he realizes he’s been staring, blinks away, “What do you think they’re like?” 

Sam clears his throat, looks out the window, “Us?”

“Yeah. The other you. Maybe he’s a pilot.” He thinks of Sam in uniform and how stunning he’d be in a double breasted coat and one of those caps. He already turns heads in the Cap suit. Bucky has seen how everyone gawks at him, even Torres, even Sharon.

“Ooh, nice, I like that. I would have been one, you know.” 

“And then what? You got actual wings?”

“Pretty much. The Exo-7 project took over my whole life until—” He goes quiet then, gets that same look on his face similar to the one he gets every time he thinks about Steve leaving. Only this is a different kind of mourning, devastating. Bucky knows about Riley, knows the ache his absence has in Sam’s life. 

“Sorry,” Bucky whispers, fiddles with his fingers in his lap, and waits for Sam to decide the route this conversation’s going to take. 

“Well,” Sam says, his smile only halfway genuine now, tight, “Never really stopped taking over my life, huh?”

“Your hard-on for Captain America took over your life,” Bucky says, leaning his head back against the seat. Sam bursts out laughing. Bucky watches the grave expression bleed from his face and make way for the bright, happy look again. And maybe making Sam smile is Bucky’s only real hobby, but hell, it's a good one.

“Fuck you.” Sam elbows him, shakes his head, but the smile stays. 

“You can’t handle this,” Bucky jokes. He’s on a roll with making Sam laugh now, why stop? And it’s worth it; the incredulous guffaw Sam lets out makes the woman one row ahead turn and glare at them. 

“You’re right; we need to hang out with more people our age. Jesus.” Sam looks at him, then rests his head against the seat too, and after a beat, “What about Other Bucky? What’s he gonna be about? Old man pestering his grandkids? How old are you again?” 

Bucky groans, “Kids? Jesus. Maybe just one. But he's probably some hermit with no friends and bad taste in music.” 

That pleases Sam. He hums, “Fighting Marvin Gaye even in another dimension.” Then with a shift in his tone, softer and somehow tender, he adds, “You think we know each other? You think we’re friends?” 

“It'd be stupid if we ain't.” Only once Bucky's spoken does he realize how incredibly honest and vulnerable and true that had been. “I mean, Sharon said we're like those two for one specials at the corner Bodega.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam agrees quickly, swallowing, “Like a Po' boy without the French bread.” 

“You’re the bread.” 

“You’re the fuckin’ shrimp, though.” 

Bucky snorts, nudges Sam’s hand, but they don’t speak again for a long while. Sam eventually falls asleep, and his head slips from the headrest and onto Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky sits still and lets him sleep, asks the stewardess for a blanket that he drapes over Sam’s legs. 

And, when Sam sighs deeply content and nuzzles into his arm, he wonders if his alternate self is just as good at pretending that what he feels for Sam is nothing.

The town is really the picture of suburbia. Endless monotonous houses and perfectly trimmed hedges, lollipop trees, and picket fences. Not even a rubber skid mark on the clean tar road. Definitely not Louisiana, much less New York. 

They stand at the edge of the woods with their luggage, where Strange’s circle lets them through and stare out ahead. Their new home, for the next two weeks, is somewhere in this labyrinth of beige houses. 

“Well then, we better get going.” Sam turns to him and eyes the leather jacket and boots, “We look suspicious out here.”

“Sorry, I forgot to pack Chinos.” 

“Oh, I got so many Chinos, you can borrow some.”

They start looking for Garden Avenue, slowly making their way by every street. 

“And check shirts? You inherited all Steve’s old ones, didn’t you?” 

“Got a comb too, some pomade. I'll give you a nice side part, huh?” 

“Here!” Bucky calls after Sam, “Welcome home, partner.”

It's a cute house if there is such a thing. It's neat with a freshly painted red roof, wooden blinds in the windows, a mailbox with someone's fake initials on it to avoid suspicion—a perfectly green lawn out front and a swing on the porch. 

They slip in quickly because Alternate Sam and Bucky are just across the street, and Strange said it’s best they not be seen or discovered, at least until they have all the info they need. Which is basically: is your alternate self evil? 

The inside is perfect too—comfortable lounge and fancy kitchen, gorgeously spacious main bedroom that they’ll fight about later. 

Sam sets up their surveillance inside, and Bucky unpacks their weapons, stashing handguns between the couch cushions, under the counter, and beside the door. He hangs Sam’s wing pack in the closet by the entrance, then boils some water for coffee. 

“We can rig their house when it’s dark,” Bucky says, handing Sam a steaming cup too, “Couple of bugs, a few eyes in the windows, and we’re good.” 

“You know I ain’t no spy, Buck, I'll leave that to you.” 

Bucky hums, “Aren’t you curious?” he says after a beat of silence. Sam sips on his coffee, arches a brow. “Don’t you wanna see what you look like? Who we are over here?” 

Sam pulls a folder from his bag, “Thomas and James,” he reads from it, “Last names: redacted. Late thirties to early forties, both in good health. Thomas is supposedly an optometrist and works at Sunnyside Center, James is a history teacher at Crescent High.”

Bucky snatches the folder, shuts it, “Jesus, so those are fake names for sure. You know what I mean, come on.” He downs his coffee, steals Sam’s half-finished mug away, and stuffs a trucker cap and a pair of shades in his hands instead. 

“Man, we just got here.”

He fits his own cap onto his head and puts a glove on before dragging Sam out the door.

“So whose house is this? Mine or yours?” 

“You mean Thomas or James? I don’t know, man. Probably Thomas. You couldn't keep a law that tidy if your life depended on it.”

“So, where’s my place then?” Bucky asks, stepping carefully over the little rock garden and peeks into the lounge window.

“In the city,” Sam says thoughtfully, “Not a stitch of furniture in sight.” 

“I’ve been working on it, alright? Got a blender the other day.” 

“Can you sit on a blender, Bucky?” Sam beckons him over to the kitchen window instead. “They’re both in here.”

Two familiar postures stand at the kitchen island with their backs to the window. Bucky, or James rather, is slightly taller than Thomas and Thomas has a beard, thick and full. James’s hair really is combed into a neat side path, kind of how he wore it in the war. It’s certainly not a fluffy mess the way Bucky’s is now. 

And they’re both in fucking Chinos.

It’s them, but it’s not. They’re too casual, too relaxed, and James doesn’t seem to be missing his left arm. 

“Oh my God,” Sam whispers to him, “This is surreal. Are you seeing this? You don’t have a metal arm.” 

“And you don’t have that scar under your eye. You’ve got a beard.” 

When James steps away to get something from the fridge, it occurs to Bucky that they’re cooking together. Thomas is stirring a pot of pasta sauce, then lifting the spoon to his nose to smell. James comes back with a pack of bacon, cuts it up into bits, drops it in a pan to fry, and sprinkles something over it. 

Thomas is waiting for him to turn around again, and when he does, he holds the wooden spoon up to James’ lips and lets him taste. 

Something twists inside of Bucky. This is so softly domestic; for a moment it feels as though he’s looking at something he shouldn’t, something far too intimate and sweet for his eyes. But it is him. Kind of. Those are his eyes, so he doesn’t understand this nagging urge to stop intruding until it’s too late. 

“Oh,” Sam says, “Oh, wait, they’re—”

And then James leans down and kisses Thomas square on the mouth.

It’s simple and familiar, something that clearly happens multiple times every day, and their bodies fold into it out of habit. James smiles, and Thomas gives him another peck before they continue cooking as if everything is normal.

And for them, it is. This is their life, and here they love each other. Here, they are married. Bucky now sees the golden bands on their left fingers, the wedding portrait in the hallway, the way their bodies know how to exist around each other. 

But for him and Sam, it’s a splash of freezing water right in the face. They’re both still staring at the couple inside. Bucky doesn’t dare look at Sam right now.

“You were saying?” he chokes out, staring ahead. 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Sam nodding, “They’re uh… together. That’s a thing.”

“Very much.” Bucky confirms, still stiff with shock, “They don’t look dangerous at all.” 

“Well,” Sam shrugs like he only partly agrees, “Doesn’t mean they ain't.” 

This has Bucky’s head snapping to his co-worker. “They’re wearing Chinos, Sam, and golf shirts.” 

“And you’re wearing pink boxers, Bucky. Your jeans are really tight; they show when you bend down, so now what?” 

“Why are you looking?” Bucky sneers back, “Wait, are you saying I’m dangerous?”

He doesn’t know why they’re fighting now. He’s sure Thomas and James don't fight like this. He’s also confident that has everything to do with why he and Sam are going at it. There’s something so unsettling about this whole situation.

“Dangerously annoying, yeah.” 

They both sag against the wall, blow out a frustrated breath and shove against each other until they’re flat on their asses and hidden behind a perfectly trimmed shrub. 

“They’re not pink,” Bucky says, and Sam scoffs at him, “It’s dusty rose.” 

Sam’s fiddling with his fingers, “Oh shut up. This is weird. It’s weird, right?” 

“That we’re married? No.” 

“How’s it not weird,” Sam asks, sincere, now looking at Bucky.

Because, Bucky thinks, he’d have done the same thing. He’d have married Sam Wilson instantly and without a doubt had he not been who he is, had they not been who they are and live the kind of lives they do. If they could have had this white picket fence life, he’d be the first in line. If he had the guts — 

Of course, he doesn’t say that. “Look, it doesn’t change anything for us, right? We have a mission to complete, gather intel, report back, make sure they ain’t serial killers.” 

“Yeah,” Sam says. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s not weird.” 

“Yeah,” Bucky echoes, “They do kind of look like serial killers.”

It’s not weird, but it doesn’t mean Bucky’s not thinking about it. That blissful married life, what it would be like waking up next to Sam every morning. He certainly has no hard time picturing it: a sunny bedroom, thick, lush sheets, their warm bodies curled up together. 

It’s actually too easy to imagine sliding up behind Sam and wrapping his arms around his middle, squeezing tight and kissing him. But, perhaps because it’s not the first time, he’s thought about it. 

So when they’re setting up that night, much later, and he’s planting bugs outside Thomas and James' bedroom window, he can’t help but peek inside again. 

There’s soft music playing, something old that he can’t quite place right now, but it’s slow and romantic and makes Bucky feel just a little lonely. He startles himself out of it when Thomas and James come stumbling into the room, kissing again. 

Fervently this time, hungry and grabbing at each other. Their mouths are open and wanting, their hands all over the other's body. He shouldn't look, but he can’t look away, can’t divert his eyes. He’s stuck on the easy sway of their bodies, the sure push and pull of their actions. 

Thomas knows James’ next move; they catch each other, play off each other. They’re completely in sync. When Thomas reaches to touch, James leans his body into it. When James bares his neck, Thomas kisses his pulse point.

And then Bucky realizes they’re not so different from him and Sam at all. 

This is them in a fight, having each other’s back, knowing when the other is about to strike or shoot—that easy back and forth. Sam’s there when Bucky launches himself off a rooftop. Bucky’s got Sam’s back when he turns away from an enemy.

“Wow,” Sam says beside him in the shadows when Thomas lowers James onto their bed and flips him over onto his stomach, “I top?” 

“Weird, right?” Bucky says without thinking, then blushes red hot when Sam snorts. “Shh!”

Sam’s smiling though, eyes alive in the bright moonlight, beautiful. “You were thinking about it too.” 

“Is it wrong to watch them?” Bucky says, transfixed, watching a version of himself so happy and about to have yet another piece of what he never will.

“Well, they are us, right?” Sam reasons, “Maybe don't watch the whole thing. Just until—”

Thomas kisses the top of James’ spine, runs his hand down and over the curve of his ass, and James curls his fist into the sheets. 

“Uhm, just…” 

“Yeah,” Bucky whispers, but they don’t move.

James arches back against Thomas and lifts his hips so his husband can slide his pants down. Thomas’ touch is so tender that Sam and Bucky both see James shudder beneath his fingertips. 

“That’s—”

Bucky swallows, “Intense.” He’s sweating. 

“We should go,” Sam says, fixed to the spot. 

Just then, Thomas flips James around again, "I wanna see you," he says and kisses James, open-mouthed and dirty.

Sam taps Bucky’s arm, "What'd he say? Can you hear them?" 

Bucky feels dizzy and hot, can't produce quite enough saliva to wet his throat, "Uh, you want to see me. I mean him. He wants to see me. James. Fuck."

Their bodies start moving then, a rhythmic ripple, only a thin stretch of material between them, rubbing and stroking and open gasping mouths. Thomas puts his back into it, smiles when James goes stupid with pleasure beneath him, and kisses him so passionately and unmistakably in love that Bucky has to look away now.  

He reels back, away from the window, and finds himself breathless under the streetlight. Sam comes out from behind the shrub a moment later. 

"Well shit," he laughs nervously, "You hungry?" 

He thinks, yeah, fuck, he's starving. But it is something hopeless and insatiable inside of him. Something that wonders what it would feel like doing what they just did in there. What his body would feel like submerged in Sam’s. 

What it would feel like being so shamelessly in love.

"Yeah," he answers, astonished, and realizes belatedly that he already is.

They follow Thomas and James around the next day. Bucky’s not sure what they’re looking for exactly because these guys are the epitome of boring and ordinary. 

They’re at the farmer’s market, for God’s sake. They’re buying scallions and carrots and fresh spices. James fawned over a chicken coop earlier, and Thomas ever so sweetly said, “No sweetheart, we got no place for chickens,” and James said, “Maybe one day when we retire on the ranch, huh?” and both Sam and Bucky looked at each other and burst out laughing. 

“Would you let me get chickens?” Bucky asks, following closely behind the other versions of themselves.

Sam laughs, biting into a peach he bought, “Do you want chickens?” 

“No,” Bucky says, thoughtful. He’s quiet for a beat. “But if we were married and I wanted chickens?” Maybe he’s pushing it, making it weird, but it doesn’t hurt imagining that kind of life.

Ahead of them, Thomas and James share a quick kiss then split up to continue shopping.

Sam gives a slight shrug, ducks his head, but Bucky sees him smiling. “Yeah. If we were married, I’d let you get chickens if you wanted to.”

“Nice,” Bucky says and smiles with his face turned up toward the sun. 

“I’d give you anything you wanted,” Sam adds in a grumble that doesn't escape Bucky's super hearing then swiftly turns down the fresh fruit aisle to follow Thomas. 

He leaves Bucky gaping after him, barely able to inhale because this just makes it worse. Imagining life with Sam like this, a quiet little suburban town, farmer’s markets on Sundays and holding hands in the sunshine is getting harder to dismiss. 

It’s getting harder coming up with answers to ‘why not?’

He keeps on James’ track, watches him pick out plums at the end of the aisle, and stops to pick out a few for himself. Perhaps this time, he’ll actually get to eat them. But he watches James, so relaxed and without burden. His shoulders are loose, his jaw isn’t knotted, and he’s not skittishly watching his back the way Bucky always does. Or he's real good at hiding it.

“We gotta go,” Sam loud-whispers beside him, suddenly hurried and tugging Bucky by his sleeve, “Thomas just got a call. They’re meeting someone at their place. Sounds serious. Come on— are you buying plums?”

“I like plums!” Bucky says, a bit bewildered but jogging alongside Sam.

“Oh shit!” 

Before Bucky sees what the problem is, Sam’s yanking him to the side, into a narrow little passage and away from the crowd of people. 

“What the fuck?”

They’re pressed together tightly in the confined space, chest to chest and nose to nose. So goddamn close, Bucky smells the sweet peach on Sam’s lips, sees how his lashes flick up and down when he blinks, and if he listens closely, he can hear the rapid thump of Sam's heart. 

Sweet Jesus. 

And then Sam blinks up at him, his pupils blown wide. “They turned around, shh.” 

Bucky grips onto his composure and forces himself to stay steady. Don't think about how close you are right now, don’t look at his mouth, don’t feel the warmth of his body. Don’t touch him. Especially don’t think about how easy it would be to lean down and kiss him.

“Did they see us?” he says shakily instead.

Sam inhales, his eyes twitch down to Bucky's mouth, “I don’t know.”

If Bucky stands still any longer, he’ll combust, so he leans sideways, chest shifting against Sam’s, and checks if they’re in the clear. 

“They’re gone,” he says, leaning back in. 

Sam looks at him and nods slowly, licks his lips like his mouth’s dry, like it’s hard to move his tongue. Bucky wonders if he feels it too and if he’s also been wondering about this life, about them together. Wonders if Sam’s been watching Thomas and imagining what it’d feel like being in his shoes. And if he did, he must have then wondered what it’d be like to kiss Bucky. 

He must be thinking about it now too. The way he looks at Bucky can’t be a coincidence.

“Hey! You kids can’t be getting fresh outside my store! Get outta here!” 

“Shit!” This time it’s Bucky grabbing Sam’s arm and running off. Sam laughs and Bucky turns to look at him, sees his face so alive and childlike, his eyes glinting with joy as they run, and laughs too.

They stumble through the front door of their safe house and sag against it breathlessly as their laughter slowly dwindles. Bucky’s heart beats like he’s seventeen and spinning a girl around on the dancefloor, watching her skirt twirl and feeling her hands around his neck. 

He had missed this feeling, this rush. He’s happy it’s back.

They tap into the bugs to find out whatever’s happening over at the other two’s place, but the lines aren’t any good. There’s only static and three indiscernible voices, so they agree to head over there instead. 

James is in the kitchen, and a map is laid open on the island where they’d been making dinner the day before. He’s obviously concerned about whatever he’s looking at and drawing lines on the map with a red marker from one point to another. 

But Thomas is talking to someone in the next room. His expression is soft, though, and he laughs at something the other person said and hands over an opened beer bottle. 

Then James calls them both over. The other man walks into the kitchen from the lounge, takes the beer, and Sam lets out a shocking and sharp gasp beside him.

“Sam?” Bucky says quietly, but Sam is frozen and staring, his mouth open, tears welling up in his eyes. 

“Riley…” he says like a rasp, broken and wet in his throat as if it cuts its way to the surface.

“Jesus.” Bucky looks at the man, tall and blonde and shoulders just like Sam’s, alive and well, breathing right before them. 

Sam’s face twists, his chin wobbles, and then the tears come spilling hot and fast, “Oh God,” he cries, “Oh God, it’s him.”

“Sam, come on, let's go,” Bucky whispers, turning to Sam now and placing a tender hand on his bare arm. “I’m sorry,” he says and doesn’t know what for.

“No, wait,” Sam whispers back and lays his hand over Bucky’s. His voice is wondrous now as he watches Riley move and smile and laugh inside, “God, I ain’t seen you in years, Goose,” he says even though Riley can’t hear him. He laughs then, a bittersweet chuckle, and looks at Bucky with those brown eyes spilling silver streaks of tears down his cheeks, “Forgot what he looked like smiling, you know?” 

Bucky’s heart shatters, looking at him, “Yeah, sweetheart, yeah, I know.” He doesn’t exactly remember Rebecca or his mother's smile either. No amount of imagining ever brings it back.

Bucky sticks one of the sound-enhancing disks against the windowpane and watches Sam crumble at the sound of Riley's voice. He closes his eyes, laughs, and squeezes Bucky’s hand. Tears drip on the knee of Bucky’s jeans as Sam cries silently, listening to Thomas call Riley 'Goose' too.

Later they’re back at the safehouse, and Sam heads off to shower without eating. His movements are lethargic and overly careful, his eyes are still swollen, and Bucky doesn’t know how to make it better. 

Instead, he takes a bath in the guest bathroom, cleans himself up, and comes back to find Sam curled up shirtless on his bed. Bucky lost last night’s argument and ended up in the guest room. But it ain’t so bad now.

“When I came back,” Sam says, not looking at Bucky, “after my last tour, after losing him, I was alone in D.C.” His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, “Was like a never ending nightmare, not having anyone. I don’t wanna—” he stops abruptly and swallows back tears.

“Okay,” Bucky tells him, gets in bed behind him but doesn’t touch, “I’m here.” 

“Okay,” Sam says ruggedly. Instinctively Bucky reaches out and places a comforting hand on Sam’s side, and to his quiet surprise, Sam tugs his arm closer and holds onto it, curls around it like it’s a feather pillow.

Bucky shifts closer, so it’s not such a stretch, and Sam doesn’t seem to mind at all. His body curves into the heat, and his breaths are deep and slow now. Bucky dares to maneuver his right arm underneath Sam’s neck, so he’s completely encased in Bucky’s arms.

“It was his call sign,” Sam murmurs, fingers shifting against Bucky’s.

“Hm?”

“Goose. Was Riley’s call sign in the Air Force before the EX-O project. It’s an 80’s movie; Mine was Maverick.”

“Leah made me watch it, yeah.” He smiles, “Maverick’s white.”

Sam shakes with a silent, tired laugh, “I never said I liked it.” 

Bucky wakes up to an empty bed, but the sheets are still warm. He definitely feels a few things about that, about knowing Sam stayed and probably hadn’t left his arms until daylight. 

He finds Sam at the dining room table, a steaming cup of coffee beside him and his laptop open with a handful of wires connecting the bugs from the Variants' house to his hard drive. Sam looks calm, seems well-rested if a little puffy around the eyes this early in the day, has a soft bathrobe on too, but his chest is bare underneath. 

Bucky pours his own cup and sits down with Sam. He looks up with a small smile at Bucky’s arrival, “Think they got a signal blocker. Can’t hear a goddamn thing except what we heard last night.” 

“Which ain’t much.” 

“Yeah. All I got is this,” he taps his touchpad and plays an audio.

“—in a day or so...all coming together nicely—”

“—high-tech weapons this shit’s not even on the market—” 

“ —gotta have the portal open in time.... won’t even see it coming—”

There’s laughter too, bottles clinking together, static garbling, and Thomas calling James ‘Buck,’ which comes as such a surreal shock that Bucky has an out-of-body experience for a brief moment. 

“So they're definitely not good guys, right?” Bucky says, “Why the fake names and all this talk about portals?”

Sam sighs, “Yeah, Buck, listen. Riley, I don’t think I can—” he takes a breath, “I don’t think I can take him down if it comes to it. I don’t have it in me to see him, uhm, you know, go again.”  

“No, I know,” Bucky says immediately, “I know. We’ll find another way. Bring him back with us if we gotta.” 

This seems to stun Sam. He blinks, lips parting, but he doesn’t bring himself to speak. They both know the consequences of altering the Sacred Timeline and bringing a Variant into existence among them. But they were fugitives twice before, once more won’t hurt, hell they might even get away with it. The holy trifecta and all.

Sam just looks at Bucky, frowning, and his head tilts sideways, “You’d do that for him?” 

Bucky swallows, “I’d do it for you.”

It looks like Sam chokes on a breath, but he nods, “Alright. Yeah.”

There’s a whistle outside just then. Bucky and Sam both rush to the window and peek through the blinds. Lord behold. 

Sam frowns, turns to Bucky, “Who is that?” 

Another man walks up the Wilson's driveway, carrying a huge, long duffle that could only contain weapons. Huge weapons, that's clear. But no one alive right now knows this man; they’ve only ever seen pictures. But Bucky would know that scrawny ass anywhere, that skinny neck and head too big for his body. 

“Rogers,” he says, can’t help but laugh, “This motherfucker.” 

Sam’s amused, watching Steve greet Thomas then James with a hug, “I’ll be damned,” he says, slapping Bucky’s arm with a huge grin on his face, “The gang’s back together!” 

“We definitely can’t kill them.”

“No, we can’t.” 

So they spend the day trying to figure out how they can keep these idiots and their own universe safe if they are indeed some threat to the Sacred Timeline. Now that the worlds are open, Strange’s goal is to keep the worst of the other dimensions from bleeding through to theirs. 

It’s nearly impossible to save the Variants and themselves without meeting in this alternate reality. The consequence of grabbing Steve and Riley and integrating them into the Sacred Timeline instead is a dangerous gamble. 

But it’s a risk they’ll take. Bucky’s not willing to let Sam suffer through Riley’s death a second time, and neither of them is willing to put Steve down. They know Thomas and James won’t let their friends go either, not without a fight.

The solution comes at the price of their Variant’s lives, what Bucky had feared since the start. 

It is what it is, though: the Variants have to go before Riley and Steve do. 

“How are we doing this? We each zap ourselves?” Sam asks when they’re cleaning their weapons later that evening, “Figure that’s easier than taking each other out, you know.” 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s—” He frowns, breathes in deep, and clicks his rifle back together, “I don’t wanna do that either, but.” 

“I know. Any idea how we get Riley and Steve out of there without us knowing?” 

Bucky rolls his neck. He sits back and chugs a sip of beer, “Once we’re out of the way, they're left wide open. I got tranquilizer darts in the safe. Just gotta wait for the right moment.”

Sam nods. “Are we selfish? Doing this?” 

He doesn’t answer that one; he knows they are. They should let go and find a way to move on. They should be putting any dangerous Variants down, but he thinks the emptiness of loss has left far too big a cleft in their hearts, and so, maybe they deserve to be selfish. 

And Sam sighs because he knows too.

They sleep in their uniforms so that they’re ready no matter what. Sam’s wings are on the couch beside him, Bucky’s guns are strapped to his back.

Shuri had sent Sam a helmet a while back, a mix of his smart goggles and T’challa’s mask, so his face will stay hidden in this dimension, and Bucky brought his horrid lower face shield along in case he needed to kick ass anonymously. 

They’re ready enough that it makes no sense getting into bed all geared up; they sleep on the couch instead with the T.V playing cooking channel reruns. Bucky misses the closeness of Sam’s body, though, how comfortable and warm it had been sleeping next to him. 

Around midnight, an explosion rips Bucky from an uncomfortable but peaceful sleep.

It rattles their little house, scares them shitless and on their feet while their brains try to catch up to the abrupt awakening. They scramble for their weapons, sliding them into place like with automatic grace. Sam’s already got his helmet and wings on and waits for Bucky by the door. 

Bucky grabs the tranquilizers meant for Riley and Steve and sticks them in his back pocket before they head out. 

Above them, the sky is glowing green and electric. “What the fuck is that?” Sam says as they make their way around the outskirts of suburbia toward the fight. 

“Whatever it is, it ain’t good. Stay close.” 

There are gunshots and static crackling up ahead. Sam shoots him a glance, “Remember, try not to be seen by, uh, yourself. Just zap him and get out.”

“What if he kicks my ass?” 

Sam laughs, “Then you’re more like your best friend than we realize.”

They sneak closer to the action, weapons drawn, “Your best friend.”

“Hm,” Sam says and gives Bucky a look, something soft and sincere, “Debatable.” Bucky feels a weird warmth creep up his spine and settle at the base of his skull. He doesn’t think anyone’s called him their friend since Steve, and he certainly didn’t think Sam felt like that. 

“Alright, Wilson,” he says, biting back a smile as hard as he can, “Let’s do this.” 

They barge into the fight, and Sam takes flight, Bucky covers him from below, and they’re about as ready to kick ass as they can be but not quite as prepared for the sight before them.

The other thems are there, sure. But Bucky had been expecting unsurmountable evil. Bad guys. A version of themselves trying to break into the Sacred Timeline, perhaps trying to alter their reality or wage war against Earth.

Instead, they find a different team of Avengers altogether. They're seemingly the good guys here because they’re fighting some multi-handed man and alien spawns near a big black portal.

They’re not just suburban husbands after all, far from it, Bucky realizes. Sam is without a doubt the Falcon, and gloriously so. His wings seem real, bright red and feathered, and they’re just as large as their metal counterparts. 

His outfit, less so.

“They let me wear spandex here?” Sam says, amazed and awed as he watches himself spin and twirl in the air in the skin-tight red and white uniform, “How come I can’t wear this back home?” he adds, now appalled and looking at Bucky. 

Bucky snorts, admires the deep V neckline of the suit, and wonders the exact same thing. It’s a goddamn sin that there is a universe wherein Sam Wilson just walks around like that. 

“Shit,” he says, laughing, “For everyone’s safety probably.” 

“That looks good, though, right? Look at me.” 

I am. Bucky thinks. I’m always goddamn looking at you, Sam.

“Hey!” James suddenly calls from the midst of battle, ducking a flying green ray, “You folks from outta town?” So much for not being seen. At least they don’t have to zap their Variants anymore.

Contrary to what Bucky thought before, James is very much the Winter Soldier. He must have worn a disguise sleeve before because his left arm is standard Soviet issue with the ever familiar star as bright as Sam’s suit. But he wears a thin, skin-like black mask around his eyes, and there is only iridescent white light behind it. His uniform's still the same leather and straps as always.

“Uh,” Sam looks at Bucky; Bucky shrugs, “Yeah! Y'all need some help?” 

James admires their suits, “Well, it sure doesn’t look like you’re here to watch, pal.” 

“Who’re these guys?” Thomas shouts as he descends from the fray and lands next to James. His one wing spans protectively in front of James for a moment, and Bucky's heart clenches. 

James reloads his weapons for him, plucks some debris from the red feathers, and wipes a soot stain off Thomas’ cheek.

Both Sam and Bucky stare at the absolute tender devotion in each movement. Bucky sees, knows, that look though, that worried admiration, and he knows the feeling too: being in complete awe of Sam but at the same time filled with worry for him. 

“I’m Captain Murtaugh,” Sam says, pointing to Bucky, “My partner, uh Sergeant Riggs.” 

“Another 80’s movie, really?” Bucky hisses at him through his teeth, “You really ain’t a spy, huh?” 

"What?" Sam hisses back, “Maybe they haven’t seen Lethal Weapon over here.” 

Thomas looks at them funny for a second, “Okay,” he finally says just when there’s a roar from the multi-armed guy’s portal, “Hey, nice suit, man, dig the wings.” 

With that, he makes a flashy show of spreading his own wings wide and launching up into the sky with a tornado-like spin.

“Man, the things I’d do with spandex,” Sam says wistfully, watching himself go.

“We got a sniper up on the roof,” James points left to where Riley is perched on the ledge with a rifle, “Two guys fighting on the east border—” One looks a lot like Torres but in an ugly green suit and with massive red bird-like eyes, and another person in a giant metal suit. “We need to keep ‘em busy until the power unit arrives.” 

“Got it,” Bucky tells him, staring a little at the soldier before him, the same and yet so different. “We got you covered.” 

James salutes them, and then he’s off after Thomas. There’s not much time to wait around and absorb what they’ve just seen, so they head into the fight to cover the town from the west. 

A little while later, they’re cornered behind a house, fighting off slimy alien spawns.

Sam, understandably, is distracted. He keeps glancing over at the roof from where Riley is sniping, warding off whatever comes near him. 

“How many of these fuckin’ things are there?” Sam calls over to Bucky, looks at the rooftop again, “goddamn!” 

“Duck!” Bucky calls back, shoots one that crawls over the wall above Sam’s head. “Okay, listen,” Bucky says, putting his fist through another creature’s head.

“What?”

“Let’s go, come on.” He grabs Sam and yanks him into the street, tosses a grenade toward the spawns giving chase behind them, “Fly now! Go!” 

It’s almost automatic the way Sam slips an arm around him and instantly takes flight before the grenade goes off. “Where to?” he says, close to Bucky’s ear now, and looks at him.

Bucky can’t see anything behind the helmet, but still, he wonders what it’ll be like to push forward and press his lips against the vibranium plate. 

“Buck?” Sam says, a laugh in his voice. 

“Uh, rooftop, over there.” Bucky points to Riley on the ledge of the Bank’s roof.

Sam goes rigid for a moment. But, even faceless like this, Bucky knows his expression. 

“You don’t... We don’t have to, Buck. We gotta help these folks—” 

“Yeah, we’re gonna help. I'm a sniper too.” He says, cocking his rifle one-handed, “You need this, alright? You always needed more time with him. Ain’t always you get a chance like this.”

He’s quiet for a beat, looking at Bucky from behind the mask, then he nods, “Thanks, Buck.”

Sam lands them just as Riley retreats to reload his rifle. He looks up, startled at first and then just surprised.

“Hey?” he says, curious, “Y’all don’t look like extraterrestrials.” 

“Looked like you could use some help,” Sam says, His voice small and thin as he approaches and kneels beside Riley. 

Bucky takes Riley’s place on the ledge and starts taking out approaching spawns, fires a few at the multi-armed man too, and sees in the distance how the Torres bird guy and the giant metal man kill off a bunch more. 

Behind him, Sam reaches for Riley’s second rifle and loads it up for him, and covers the back ledge. 

“How’s it going, man?” Sam says to Riley behind Bucky.

“Yeah, kinda wild, how about you?” Riley laughs, “Do I know you?” 

Sam is slow to answer, and Bucky hears his heart thunder in his chest, “Nah,” he says then, so quietly it breaks Bucky’s heart in two, “I’m uh— you’re pretty good with that thing.” He nods to Riley’s weapon.

“Served in the military for a few years,” Riley says, aims and shoots a spawn hurtling toward James down below. “You got some neat wings man, what are those? Metal?” 

“Yeah, vibranium, from Africa,” Sam says, shoots down two spawns that lunge off a rooftop toward Thomas. 

Sam tosses a grenade into a herd of aliens, and Riley smiles at him, “Have you met my buddy, Thomas? He’s got wings too.”

“Just a few minutes ago. He’s got real ones, though?” 

“Yeah, weird, right? Wish I had wings, too, sometimes. Seems so easy. So free.” Riley looks through his scope again, takes out a few more aliens.

Bucky hears the soft aborted noise Sam makes. The last time Sam saw his partner, his wings had gone up in flames and left nothing but ashes for him to find. He wonders if every time Sam puts his wing pack on, he remembers that day. 

“Uhm,” Sam looks down and swallows, “Where’s your family? They safe?” 

Riley nods, “My wife’s in Cali for business.”

“You’re married?” Sam says with that same glow of happiness in his voice from before.

“Five years in June—Oh shit, man!” The portal has widened and let through an army of spawns on the ground, and the multi-armed man has somehow grown twice his size. The town has gone dead and black beneath his feet, and it seems to be spreading, “We gotta get down there!”

“Okay, yeah,” Sam takes Riley’s wrist while Bucky waits for him, awkwardly watching them, “Hey, man, it was good seeing—uh, meeting—you. You take care now, Goose.”

And then Sam turns abruptly, shoulders tight, grabs Bucky around the middle, and spreads his wings.

“Hey! How’d you know that name!” Riley calls out after them.

Sam only salutes him as they take off into the star-scattered night sky and laughs wetly and choked up when Riley salutes back. 

“Goodbye, Ri,” he says quietly behind the helmet, and Bucky squeezes him tight.

Absolute chaos has broken out on the ground.

The multi-armed man seems to feed on some kind of energy that is accelerated by the gunfight. He’s growing by the second, and there’s no sign of the power unit James had been talking about. 

The earth has started lifting beneath their feet and glows with the same green currents that run through the sky. It vibrates like an earthquake and cracks open every sidewalk as far as they go. This must be the energy Strange had picked up and mistaken for their Variants, Bucky thinks. 

The spawns become too many and surround them shortly after they land again. Riley snipes a few, but it’s futile. Sam can’t stay in the air with Bucky’s weight for too long, and he refuses to leave him surrounded by these things. 

“Some help over here!” Sam shouts over to Thomas and James at the portal as they fight off attack after attack of sharp teeth and long claws. “This is not how I wanna go, man! Can they get through the suit?”

“Nothing can get through that suit,” Bucky tells Sam, pressing his back against Sam’s now, “I made sure of it.” He remembers Ayo’s face when he rambled off his specifications for Sam’s protection to her. It was like she already knew what Bucky had only just recently realized.

James turns, looks at them, curses in a thick Brooklyn accent, and then lets out a long, deafening whistle in the opposite direction.

In the distance, the giant suit of armor turns around and comes stomping toward them. “Hey, fellas,” says a familiar voice, and then the armor reaches down, knocks the spawns out of the way, and gently scoops them up in its colossal metal palm.

“Hey, thanks, man,” says Sam, holding on to the armor's thumb as it starts walking to safer ground. 

The helmet cracks open then, and Steve Rogers grins back at them.

“Son of a bitch,” Bucky laughs, on his knees and looking up at a tiny Steve encased in the massive metal suit.

Sam looks at him, nodding, and for a while, they just stare at their friend that they had lost, now alive and young and vibrantly full of life before them. Bucky knows they won’t go through with their plan now that they know Thomas and James are harmless. But for a second he still wants to, knows Sam does too. 

Selfishly he still wants to steal Steve and Riley away from here and have their second chance at a lifetime of friendship both he and Sam were robbed of. Just a clean break where they can have breakfast with their best friends, see a movie, get drunk, and make up for an eternity of lost time.

But here, when and wherever this place is, Thomas has both Riley and Steve. Here, Sam never suffered that loss, never lived in a world where Steve left them.

He wouldn’t take it away from Sam, not in any universe. 

“Careful now,” Steve tells them when he sets them down, “I could use some help bringing in the power unit? You boys think you can keep some aliens off us?” 

“Sure thing, pal,” Bucky says, still smiling up in awe at the small blonde in the suit.

“Where’d you want us?” Sam asks, head tilted up in amusement too.

Steve winks, closes the helmet again, “On my left.”

Sam laughs, bends down with his hands on his knees, “This is nuts.” Then, he looks at Bucky, “This is nuts, right?” 

“Sure is something,” Bucky says. He smiles too behind his mask. He’s heard the story of how Sam and Steve met a million times, especially when Sam’s had a few Bourbons. He hopes this, too, is somehow some kind of closure for Sam. Some kind of second chance the way it is for Bucky too.

“On his left. I can’t.” Sam laughs again, teary and awed. 

From the border of trees, where Sam and Bucky had first come into town, comes a squad of guys in a van that looks a lot like that ugly time machine of Lang’s.

The inside of the van emits some kind of energy as it rolls toward the portal. It seems to be absorbing the green currents from beneath the cracked ground. 

Bucky looks at Sam, whispers, “Should we even ask questions?” 

“Nah. Pretty sure we won’t believe the answer anyway.” 

Bucky nods, shoots a spawn that runs toward Sam, and gets another that comes from the side. “This is really badass and all, Sam, but what’s the plan here?” 

“Always with the plans.” Sam looks up at Steve, “Hey, what are they gonna do?” 

“Absorb his energy, push him back through, and shut the portal! We gotta make sure they’re not interrupted.”

“Alright,” Bucky calls out when they get to the portal. The van then blasts its energy at the multi-armed man and blows him back a few steps with the force of it. “We’ll cover over here.” 

A spawn jumps Sam and bites down on his arm, but nothing penetrates just as Bucky promised. Sam grabs the thing, throws it off, and shoots it. 

“Welcome back,” James says and winks at Sam, grinning, “That suit’s pretty durable, huh?” Then he looks at Bucky, “Thomas is behind the portal. You think you could help him set up a transformer?” 

Bucky’s not about to be jealous of himself from another realm trying to spend time with Sam. He’s not; that’s just ridiculous. But James is too goddamn bossy for his own good. Bucky shoots Sam a worried look, but Sam nods for him to go. 

Behind the portal, a spawn pack, probably fifty or so, has closed in on Thomas. He’s handling it pretty well though, they hardly get close, but Bucky’s not giving up the chance to show off anyway. 

His left arm is hardly visible in the dark of night, so he uses it to rip some aliens apart, feels Thomas’ eyes on him, watching the way Sam does too sometimes, and lets it spur him on. 

By the time he reaches Thomas, he has killed them all. Thomas just watches him, rapt, head tilted to the side as Bucky approaches and wipes alien blood from his cheek. He realizes then that his mask had come off during the fight, and his face is left bare for Thomas to see.

Thomas regards him carefully, a small smile on his lips now, “You’re never gonna let anything happen to me, huh?” 

Bucky swallows, shakes his head and stops in front of Thomas, “You know I won’t.” 

“No matter what world you’re from,” Thomas adds, a plain stated fact. 

He knows. 

Bucky opens his mouth to lie, but Thomas cuts him off. 

“You’re not my husband,” he says.

“No,” Bucky agrees. 

“Yet, you’re my husband.” 

“I’m James Barnes,” he says, heart pounding, “You’re Sam Wilson, ain’t it?” 

Thomas smiles, quick and sharp in the moonlight, then grabs Bucky by his Kevlar and kisses him.

It lasts only a second, a brief and wonderful second, not even enough time for any tongue, but Bucky trembles as their lips touch. He brings his hand up to Thomas’ face and closes his eyes so that nothing distracts him from this and the soft caress of Sam’s lips will stay with him always. Who knows if the Sacred Timeline has any such plans for them. With all his luck, the answer is no, so he savors this. He holds Thomas close to his body and commits to memory how it feels.

Thomas’ hand curls into his hair as he pulls away and smiles. His eyes blink open slowly, beautifully, just like Bucky had imagined they would after kissing Sam.

“James and I always talked about what we'd do if we met the other versions of us," says Thomas, smirking, "That was pretty high on the list."

"Sounds like us, yeah," Bucky laughs, in awe, feeling a little hot in the cheeks, "So you've known?"

"You think yours is the only timeline aware of the other universes?" Thomas smiles, "You gonna help me with this thing or what?” He says, nodding to the transformer.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, but when he turns to help, he sees Sam standing by the edge of the portal facing them. He must have seen everything then. There’s no way to tell what he’s thinking, though, because the helmet covers his face.

There’s a crack and an abrupt explosion on the other side just then, and someone screams “Now!” and then Sam’s off again, wings spread wide as he flies away. 

“Fuck.” Bucky whispers to himself. This is a goddamn mess. What an idiot Sam must think he is, breaking all the rules of time and space like this. 

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Thomas says to him as they gear up the transformer.

Bucky looks at him, sighs, and shakes his head, “No, he doesn’t.” 

The transformer powers up, and they step away. A bright light follows, and for a moment, the night sky turns white above them as the portal dissolves back into space. 

“We’re inevitable, though,” Thomas says to him, and then with a small smile, “I’ve seen it.” 

Bucky doesn’t get to ask what he means; happy cheers and celebratory claps resound as the town’s people come out of their houses to thank the Avengers.

Thomas returns to his husband’s arms. 

Bucky places the black mask on his face again, no need for everyone to know who he is. No need for more questions. Perhaps also a convenient way to hide from Sam’s questioning glances.

Just then, another portal opens, this time a familiar, bright orange one.

Still, the Avengers aim their weapons at it and Dr. Strange who pops through. 

Strange holds his hands up, “Not here for trouble, folks, just picking up our men.” 

The rest lower their guns and stare as Sam and Bucky depart through the portal. 

Thomas waves, “Thanks for helping!” he calls out.

“Any time!” Sam says to himself. 

James, with his glowing white eyes, salutes Bucky too, and behind them, Steve and Riley wave. 

“Hopefully not any time soon.” Strange ads stiffly and swirls his hands around.

“Hey!” Riley shouts as the portal closes, “Ain’t you that surgeon on T.V? Doctor Stephen who does the nose jobs?” and Thomas punches him in the arm.

And just like that they’re back in New York, in their own timeline. There’s a mill of people at the control center of the new Avengers compound, a buzz of voices all at once, rushing about and hunching over monitors.

Sam takes the helmet off, turns to Bucky, and he looks worried, or is that anger, or perhaps pity for the fool that Bucky is. 

“Buck—” 

“Captain Wilson! We need you at the airbase, stat,” some army official says and drags Sam away by his arm. Not a moment of reprieve. 

Sam does look back at Bucky, though, clearly annoyed at the interruption, but he soon disappears into the crowd of people. 

Bucky whips around, suddenly furious about nothing and everything, and glares at Strange. 

“Did you know?” he says, breathing deeply, “When you sent us in there, to them, did you know they were—" he circles a finger in the air, "—together?” 

Strange sighs like he’d been expecting this, “Yes, Mr. Barnes. I knew.” 

Bucky doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s not mad, really, not surprised either. Strange is all-powerful, all-knowing, and he hardly had an agenda by sending them there to see what they saw. He thinks about what Thomas said, “We’re inevitable… I’ve seen it.”  

“In how many of these timelines, all these different universes, are we—you know— with each other? Like that.” Bucky asks him, shaking with anticipation. Afraid, to be honest, to know the truth as 'inevitable' as it may be.

Strange looks at him, unwavering, and says, “All of them.” 

“Even this one? The Sacred one?” 

“All of them, Mister Barnes.” Strange nods. His smile’s a little nervous but steady still.

Bucky breathes out hard and ruggedly like air is stuck in his throat.

“Okay.” He nods too, “Alright. Yeah. Uhm—”

Strange beckons him closer and then swirls his hand so that a bright orange circle starts forming right there in the middle of the compound. “Come see for yourself,” he says to Bucky’s surprise. 

On the other side, there are two young kids, Bucky minus a few decades and Sam no older than sixteen, holding hands near an old oak tree. Bucky’s leaning against his motorbike in torn jeans and a leather jacket, and Sam’s wearing thick-rimmed glasses and a letterman. Their initials, B.B & S.W, are carved into the tree's trunk, and when Bucky finishes carving the heart around it with his pocket knife, Sam smiles at him, and they kiss.  

Strange opens another circle. Beyond it, Bucky’s wearing the stars and stripes, and Sam has a metal arm. Bucky flinches away from it, never ever wanting to know a reality in which Sam suffers like that. He'd rather live the last 90 years over and over than see Sam go through that. Mercifully, Strange closes the portal and opens another. 

This one is so similar to them. Bucky is the Winter Soldier, Sam is The Falcon, but they’re comic book characters, and when they talk, tiny white speech bubbles appear above their heads. It makes Bucky laugh and drains some of the tension he’d been gathering in his shoulders. Strange smiles too and flips over to another portal as if it’s a T.V channel.

There’s a version of them in space, another in a high-tech future, timelines where they are kings and gangsters and boxers, and rock stars. In some, Bucky has long hair and tattoos, and Sam has piercings and a mohawk. There’s a universe where they’re wolves and vampires and even one where Bucky, Sam, and Steve are all three married.

But in each one, miraculously, they find each other. They love each other— every time.

The last one Strange shows him is of him and Sam years and years from now. They’re old and wrinkled and frail, sitting on the porch of Sam’s Louisiana family home, holding hands. 

Sam turns his head to Bucky, and he smiles, “Why’s your chair so close to mine?” says Old Sam.

Old Bucky grumbles happily, shifts even closer, and Old Sam sighs, “You ain’t ever moving your damn seat up, are you?” 

“You started it,” Old Bucky tells him with worlds of warmth in his eyes.

“You’re a damn fool,” Old Sam says. He smiles, his knobbly hand tightening around Bucky’s, and his golden wedding band glints in the afternoon sun.

“I’m your husband, Samuel.” 

Strange closes the last portal and turns to Bucky, “Like I said, Mister Barnes: all of them.” 

Bucky drags his hands over his face; his head rings with what he had just witnessed. He knows now that whatever’s about to happen between them after Sam saw him and Thomas kiss will only be a nudge in the right direction. A direction they’re bound to go. 

Still, he’s nervous. 

“Good luck,” Strange says with a knowing, and somehow comforting, smirk. 

“Thanks, Doc.”

We need to talk. Sam texts him the next night. 

Bucky panics a little, despite knowing this can only go one way. They’re inevitable, Thomas said, but Sam might not be ready. Sam might take a few more years to come around. And Bucky would wait, God he’d wait forever to have a moment like that again, like when he kissed Thomas. He’d wait his whole life to feel Sam’s lips again. 

Yeah. When? Bucky texts back with trembling fingers. 

There’s a film festival at our dock this weekend. Wanna come over?

And that’s good, he thinks, Sam’s not about to invite Bucky over to his family home just to break his heart. Plus, there’s something about being with Sam in Louisiana that just feels like home to him. 

It’s firefly season. Sam adds when Bucky doesn’t respond immediately, as if he needs any motivation at all to go see Sam.

I’ll be there. I’ll bring that raisin salad you love.

Boy, are you trying to die?

Bucky laughs and sends Sam a wink emoji. He starts packing for his trip, books a ticket, cleans his apartment, and gets rid of perishables in the fridge. His last stay got extended by a week or two, so he knows better than to think he’ll be back soon. 

He’s on a flight at six that afternoon, and on the way, he goes over a hundred different scenarios of how this could go down. Does he just come out and say it straight up, that he wants to have Sam all to himself, that he wants what Thomas and James have, wants to carve their initials into a tree like those two teenagers did.

Or does he shut up and follow Sam’s lead. He already knows whatever Sam wants is the end of it, and he’ll accept it, and all-round, this seems like the safest option. But can he risk Sam never knowing how he feels? Can he risk Sam walking away from this and not knowing Bucky would give the world for him?

Alternatively, he could just leave it all up to fate and let the universe do its thing. Act like he always does, treat Sam the way he did before he knew what it felt like kissing him. Does he leave it all up to chance and the magic of Louisiana? 

It’s too overwhelming to think about, so he orders a few Bourbons instead. 

He arrives in Delacroix a little buzzed and fuzzy around the edges. But Sam’s waiting for him in the driveway when the Uber drops him off, beer in hand and a soft smile on his face. 

“You tipsy?” Sam asks, coming in for a hug. He smells like wood smoke and the firepit down by the docks. 

“No, dad,” Bucky says with his arm around Sam’s back. If he holds on a little longer, the alcohol is entirely to blame. 

Sam pulls back again, still smiling, “Nah, it’s cool. Carlos just passed out on the rowboat.” 

As they start walking toward the docks, Sam keeps his arm around Bucky’s shoulder. Another good sign, unless Sam’s buzzed too, but at least things aren’t weird after that last mission. 

“Serum won’t let me pass out, but this feels nice.”

“Yeah.” Sam looks at him, nods, “You look nice, chilled. You should get drunk more often.” 

“I’m always nice,” Bucky says. His head swims a little now, but it might have nothing to do with the alcohol and more to do with Sam’s arm around him and the way the dock lights sparkle in his eyes. 

“I don’t know, that one time you said you wish I talked less. That’s harsh, man.”

Bucky shakes his head, “I’m also a liar. I love it when you talk and talk and talk—”

Sam laughs and shakes Bucky’s shoulder, then pushes him away playfully, “Man, shut up. You wanna go watch the movie screening by the lake? Sarah made hot dogs and chili relish.” 

 Down by the docks, they’ve set up a big screen projector, and rows of lawn chairs, cooler boxes filled with drinks, a candy floss stand just beside them, and endless strings of fairy lights above their heads. 

After greeting Sarah and the kids, Bucky follows Sam down to a seat near the end. Sam hands him a hot dog with a generous serving of relish, pops a beer for him too before the movie starts.

It’s an old classic, some kind of love story that makes Bucky feel a little nostalgic as the liquor buzz starts wearing off. About halfway through, Sam leans sideways, pulls his legs up under him, and rests his head on Bucky’s shoulder like he did in the plane on the way to Texas. 

And Bucky, without thinking, shifts his hand against Sam’s just a fraction. He's 99% sure that he’s not reading it wrong. Sam’s fingers shift back, hooks around his and he thinks fuck it. He slips his hand into Sam’s, like actual hand-holding, just like old Sam and Bucky in that universe Strange showed him. Just like the two teenagers in love under the old oak tree. 

It takes a lot of effort to stay still and not completely freak out. This is probably the most romantic thing he's done since he's been himself again. He wants to scream or giggle or maybe both and that's... new. 

He doesn’t say anything though; he just smiles. And against his shoulder, he feels Sam’s cheek bulge with a smile too. 

Later, when everyone’s gone home, and they’ve cleaned up the docks and packed away all the leftover food, Sam’s watching the news on the couch in his room. Bucky joins him and hands him a warm cup of tea he just made. 

It’s late already, everyone is asleep, and inside Sam’s room, only the bedside lamp is on. Sam looks peaceful and sleepy in the dim light, relaxed, and he grins lazily when Bucky sits down next to him. 

“James told me something,” Sam finally says after a while of silence, “He said there’s more of us. A hundred different timelines.” 

Bucky nods, sinks into the couch and gets comfortable. This is The Talk. 

“Yeah. Strange showed me.” 

“Yeah?” 

“We’re, uh, you know. Together in all those lives. Like Thomas and James.”

“Uh-huh. He told me something else too,” Sam says, his head tipping to Bucky, and he smiles. 

Bucky returns his gaze, waits expectantly for Sam to continue, “And what’s that?”

“Said we better pull our heads out our asses soon.” 

Bucky snorts out loud, and it spurs Sam into laughing too, kind of uncontrollably chuckling now. But then Bucky clears his throat, knowing that this is it, and the laughter dwindles quietly. 

Sam nervously bites down on his lip, all serious suddenly, and swallows, and for a change, Bucky stops thinking about it and instead dives right in. 

He pushes up, swings his one leg over Sam’s lap and straddles him, takes Sam’s face between his hands.

“That guy's an asshole,” he says, “but, honey, I agree.” 

And then, at the same time that Sam pushes up into his touch, smiles, and closes his eyes, Bucky leans down and kisses him. 

He remembers Thomas’ kiss, the sweetness of it, the gentle touch and tentative curiosity. How it made his spine tingle and his ears fill with nervous static.

But this is nothing like that. This totally consumes him. It rips him apart; this is wild and a little desperate but most of all relieved. And for a second, all that matters is this. It burns inside, makes his chest feel impossibly heavy with the weight of it.

Sam’s hand runs up underneath his shirt, a warm touch to his cool skin, and Bucky arches into it, and a small sound escapes him.

He pulls Sam closer, holds him there as he opens his mouth to let Sam in, and thinks he could stay here forever, never do another goddamn thing in his life ever again. 

Sam leans away to breathe just then but doesn’t part far from Bucky. His hand is still in Bucky’s neck, the other one still resting warm against his back.

Against his lips, he feels every quick breath that escapes Sam’s lips, feels the impossible rapid beat of his heart, and then fingers digging into the meat of his ass. 

“Got a flight to catch again? Hotel to book?” Sam says, grinning.

Bucky bites back a smile, “Nah, even packed an overnight bag, sweetheart.”

“You're a fast learner,” Sam laughs and then, with an effortless motion, he picks Bucky up and kicks the door shut. Sam carries him over to the bed, lays him down, and crawls up to meet his eyes again.

Bucky lets his hands ride up along Sam’s sides and kisses him again. 

And this time, they don’t stop there.