Title: there's a science to walking through windows
Fandom: Avengers (MCU)
Pairing: Sam Wilson/James "Bucky" Barnes
Rating: PG-13
Length: 1300~
Content notes: Post-Endgame so. Spoilers. All around.
Author notes: For the Shelter prompt.
Summary: He had been complaining about his shoulder for half an hour, so in the end James had groaned, pulled over, stared at him for a few excruciatingly long seconds and said “happy now?”.

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Sam comes back after a few minutes with a brown bag that looks too heavy for his bruised shoulder. They don’t speak for a while, not until he sits on the hood of the car and hands him a beer. “So what do you want me to call you, then?” he’s avoiding James’ glance, but he asks this with the same casual demeanor they’re doing everything else lately, like they’re friends, not just reluctant allies, thrown together by whatever crisis they’re in at the moment.

He had been complaining about his shoulder for half an hour, so in the end James had groaned, pulled over, stared at him for a few excruciatingly long seconds and said “happy now?”. He had just looked smug, and yes, happy, which was something he was still getting used to.

He knows as soon as he takes the beer they’ll be spending the night in one of the motels they passed by.

“What do you mean?” it’s deep night and freezing– Must be freezing. His mind goes over it in a step-by-step process; can in his hand, fidgeting around before finally settling on closing up his jacket until the zipper digs into his throat. Sam looks at him with an expression that’s just– begging– please and drinks, one long gulp. They’re definitely not getting to the city tonight. The shield is safe and sound in the trunk, the wings tucked underneath a blanket on the backseat, and James is going with the flow, same as the past few years. He sighs. “Now that Steve’s gone?”

It seems weird to think of it like that. He’s there. James has seen so many versions of Steve that he can’t quite mesh them together in his mind, that he has trouble thinking he is but at the same time isn’t. And that’s not fair, that he’s not willing to give him something that he’s constantly asking for himself.

Sam nods and his whole body tenses up, so he shakes his shoulders. That makes a few strands of hair fall out from the small, disheveled bun he’d put them in before they left the funeral. He drinks quickly and effortlessly.

“Bucky’s fine,” he lies.

Sam’s head falls back, he’s stretching, almost lying on top of the hood beside him, arching his neck to look at him. It makes a cracking sound, and James breathes in– slowly, steady, beer against his lips.

He will drive to the nearest motel, he will get into the shitty bed, close his eyes while his heartbeat pounds faster than he can actually feel, he will think everything’s fine, Buck like a mantra, something he would have said to himself years ago, back when he was another person entirely.

“Whatever you say, man,” and shakes his head, his laugh sounds hollow, low and just– fucking scandalous in the empty gas station they’ve parked in. He licks his lips after the next sip of beer.

James bows his head and then mutters: “you know–” There are things he thinks he might be able to say, now that they’ve inherited one another, now that they’re back from those five years that weren’t. These days James wakes up, sometimes, soaked in sweat, throat burning, with a prickling sensation on his right arm, and he’s not sure what he’s remembering, or when. He didn’t miss that.

“What, Bucky”, it feels weird in Sam’s voice, teasing, tired, drunk with an emotion that he’s not sure he could actually contain. Or even process.

He still doesn’t know what he would have done, if Steve had offered him the shield.

There’s a motel about two miles away, so he puts the almost empty beer down on the hood of the car.

How would he have done this, a million years ago? He would have been smooth. He would have been suave, charming. He feels like a bulldozer when he lays both his hands on Sam’s hips and presses them together against the car. He doesn’t go further than that.

Sam doesn’t look surprised, but he also doesn’t look responsive. He sets down his own beer, gives him one long, exasperated sigh. “I’m not sure what’s the right move here,” he tells James, and then cups his jaw with one hand, all dry and rough skin, it feels warm when it shouldn’t, maybe he’s just out of balance. He stays very still, “I’m not asking for a candlelight dinner,” he feels compelled to say, almost urgently.

The thing is: it’s freezing, but then again he’s always fucking freezing. When Sam makes him tilt his head and brushes his thumb against his lips, James lets them part. His posture softens somewhat, he feels himself yielding, tugging at Sam’s jacket and closing his eyes.

Sam lets his hand fall to his chest, tapping gently against his jacket for a second, before pushing away. “Look,” he starts and then trails off. So James takes the hint, just shuffles backwards a couple of steps, jaw clenched and not meeting his gaze.

He would have said you’re no fun.

There is an echo somewhere in there, in his mind. The echo would have said, you’re no fun. Or he would have put a gun to his head, right under his chin, he would have held the back of his neck and fired just once and not said anything at all.

He doesn’t want to start fidgeting, so he keeps both hands in his pockets and lowers his head. “Yeah, I know, bad idea,” he mumbles.

Sam chuckles, “the worst–”

“Well, you don’t have to be an asshole about it,” even if there’s no bite to it. He wants to say, besides, I don’t even like you. Which is– a lie. They’re partners in crime. Sort of. This is it. It. This is what is left.

“See? I kind of have to, because–” and then he looks at James that way, biting his lip and head cocked, shaking all over. And fuck. Just– fuck.

They’re awfully awkward for two people who’ve been to hell and back. Literally. James is not sure what to call those five years that weren’t. Tuesday, maybe.

They had the chance to talk when the fight was over. Steve had been really fucking quiet when they took Tony’s body away. Afterwards. They were too tired to fix the world, but too wired up to sleep, so Strange opened up a couple of portals that took them to Wakanda. He was hit with a sudden wave of familiarity– still bleeding, still carrying over the exhaustion of days– years, he felt his shoulders loosen up and caught himself thinking ah, yes, this was nice, this small space they’d given him for a while, where he was not expected to be anything, nobody asked anything of him. And then, of course, he’d died again.

“Maybe it won’t stick,” he commented drily. Steve stared at him, he hadn’t even taken a shower, haven’t gotten around to getting that uniform off. “Jesus Christ, Buck.”

“Come on, it’s not the first time that happens”, James added, waving around. He was always chipper when Steve was around. Laughter came, if not naturally, easily. And Steve’s lips trembled, as if trying for a smile.

“Maybe I need some time away,” he had said. The fucker.

Sam had not been there, so they had not talked.

Neither of them had mentioned Natasha, so James had not asked.

Maybe they’ll come back.

He had.

Sam straightens his posture, clears his throat. “More beer?” he offers, sounding raw and desperate, full of pent-up anger and exhaustion and restraint. They adjust their position against the car, fitting together in a way that feels both clumsy and comfortable. James is bulkier, but somehow Sam stands taller. James looks at him and thinks again, for his sake, hey, maybe they’ll come back, but what he says is: “Sure.”