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tisfan · 7 years

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All American Road Trip

Chapter One: Get out the Map | Chapter Two: (A Very Little) Leg Room | Chapter Three: (You’re) Gonna Sing the Words Wrong | Chapter Four: You Make Me Live

Chapter Five: Count Only Blue Cars

You're a diamond in the rough A brilliant ball of clay You could be a work of art If you just go all the way Now what would it take to break I believe that you can bend Not only do you have to fight But you have got to win

-- Kung Fu Fighting, Cee-Lo Green

Somewhere around Illinois, Steve was about ready to shove both his best friends out of the tiny car and make them walk a few miles. Buck and Sam bickered. It was never anything serious -- the merits of bacon over sausage as a breakfast protien. (bacon) Whether or not pineapple belonged on pizza. (no) Whether or not Natasha dyed her hair red or if it was naturally that color. (A gentleman didn’t speculate on a woman’s dress size, hair color, or age.)

And Steve couldn’t seem to help letting himself get drawn into their petty little disagreements. They didn’t agree on anything and it was driving Steve mad.

The argument of choice on that particular day started when Sam was reading out loud. They’d stopped at a book store two days ago and Sam had picked up a handful of things from random display tables. “Get an assortment,” Sam had said, “an’ we’ll see what we all wanna read more of, right?”

That day’s book, Beautiful Creatures, was a teenage romance, which Steve was actually rather enjoying. He’d never read anything like it before, and Steve found the burgeoning love affair to be kinda cute.

And then Buck had pointed out a factual error in the book. “Jubal Early ain’t buried in South Carolina,” Buck said, crossing his arms over his massive chest and glaring into the front seat like Sam, the book, and the world in general had personally offended him about the location of some obscure Civil War general’s gravesite.

Sam actually turned around in the passenger seat to raise an eyebrow in Bucky’s direction. “I don’t see what that’s got t’ do with anything.”

“It’s wrong.”

“We’re readin’ a book about a teenage witch and a magic library, and you’re bitchin’ about historical accuracy?” Sam sighed, turned back around. He licked his finger (ug, gross) and attempted to pick up where he’d left off.

Buck reached around the seat, snatched the book out of his hand -- Steve had a brief flashback to the first time they’d met the Winter Soldier, who’d indulged in a little Jesus Take the Wheel moment (okay, that wasn’t Steve’s joke, but when the whole thing had been over and done, he could admit that Sam was kinda funny. A little bit.) -- and then tossed the book out the window.

Steve slammed on the brakes, sending all of them jolting forward.

“Bucky, what the hell?”

Buck shrugged, unconcerned. “The book was wrong.”

More below the cut, or read the whole thing at A03 [x]

“It’s a made up book, not fifth grade flippin’ Civics class,” Sam protested.

Were they really doing this? Three grown men, squabbling like idiots, about a teenage romance novel?

A car behind them laid on the horn and Steve reluctantly pulled off to the side of the road. Yes, apparently they were going to squabble like idiots about a teenage romance novel, because Steve was deeply curious about what was going to happen. “Go get the book, Buck.”

Buck stared, like Steve had just asked him to throw a tank into a clock tower, or something.

“Stevie, it’s prob’ly three miles back at this point!” Buck protested.

“So you’d better get started.”

Even Sam was giving Steve the stink eye by that point. Steve shut the car down, tucked the keys in his pocket, and put his No, You Move expression on. Of course he chose to do that with the two people least likely to take him seriously.

Buck stared a little longer; almost like watching a computer reboot. “Fine,” he huffed. He jerked the door open hard enough that Steve worried that he might rip it off. A few minutes later, he was out of sight, jogging along the side of the road.

“What th’ hell was that about?” Sam got out of the car to watch Buck run off. He leaned against the car near the driver’s side window and while Steve could hear him, Sam probably wouldn’t be able to hear Steve if he didn’t roll the window down. Steve got out of the car. The plastic handle crackled under his hand and Steve had to remember to loosen up his grip.

“Acceptable behavior,” Steve said, shrugging one shoulder.

“Your murder hobo is doing his best to fit back into a life with us, back at th’ Tower. But he’s still feral, Steve. I don’t think you’re goan be able to civilize him all the way.”

“That’s no reason not to try,” Steve said. Bucky -- his Bucky, not this wild creature that Buck had become -- would have wanted that. Wouldn’t he?

He’s never going to be the man he was before.

Well, neither am I.

Sam was just looking at him, expectantly.

“Is there some compulsion of yours that you not only have to be right, you want to hear people say it?” Steve growsed.

Sam chuckled, that gap between his teeth in evidence. “I live on it, Rogers,” he said. “Just want to make sure you’re not setting your sights too high. I don’t think I can live through broken-hearted Captain America for much longer.”

Steve sighed. “Why don’t you take the shield for a while, Sam? It’s getting a little heavy for me.” That was the truth, and nothing but. He’d been carrying the shield for so long, he wasn’t sure what he wanted anymore. Even when Tony had cast his last words at him -- you don’t deserve it -- Steve wasn’t sad to let it go. He was frankly relieved. It was a burden and a responsibility and Tony might even have been right. Steve didn’t deserve it; he didn’t deserve the honor, he didn’t deserve all the shit that came with it.

Maybe Tony could stand wearing a mask all the time, being a public persona that had nothing to do with the very human person underneath, but Steve was sick to death of it.

“I already got a superhero gig, Cap,” Sam said. “Got back into the game for you. Don’t want to be you.”

“Yeah, I’m not too eager to continue to be me, either,” Steve admitted. “Might be nice to just be Steve Rogers for a while.”

Buck came back up; somewhere in there he’d moved out of his jog, which was about as fast as a normal human’s flat out sprint, and he’d sped up until he was moving about as far as a car. He had the book in one hand and a scowl on his face.

“Here.” He shoved the book directly into the center of Steve’s chest. It wasn’t until Steve curled his fingers around it that he realized it was covered in mud. Steve took a deep breath. He already knew he couldn’t take Buck in a straight-up fight when the stakes mattered. And it was probably best not to tempt the Winter Soldier instincts to come out by punching Buck in the face.

But oh, god, Steve wanted to.

He opened his eyes. Buck was smirking.

An honest-to-god, wicked little grin. The sort he used to use when he was getting his flirt on with a pretty dame. The one he saved up, during the war, for special moments with his captain.

Any desire to punch Buck was overridden with the intense need to kiss him stupid. If Sam hadn’t been standing right there, Steve might have. There was a sparkle in Buck’s eyes that hadn’t been there before.

The one that said I know you want me, you little shit.

***

He said, "Tell me all your thoughts on God And tell me am I very far?" Must have been late afternoon On our way the sun broke free of the clouds We count only blue cars, skip the cracks in the street And ask many questions like children often do --Counting Blue Cars, Dishwalla

Trying to play road games with two super soldiers who had eyesight at ridiculous levels was harder than it looked. Sam was 20/20 -- that was a requirement for the Falcon program, same as being a jet pilot. Truth, Sam had gotten the lasik surgery a few years back, because age did its thing without a care for the state of superheros trying to save the world.

And he knew what the numbers meant; twenty was considered “ideally, what you can see at twenty feet clearly” and then the other number indicated what that actually was. So, for someone who was a little nearsighted, like Sam had been pre-surgery, he had to be 20 feet close to see something that ideally could have been seen at 30 feet. Sam had a buddy at the VA one time whose vision was 20/1000, which meant that guy had to be twenty feet away from something that most people could see at a thousand. Like buildings.

But Steve and Barnes had something 20/-100 vision, meaning they saw things before shit even happened. Through hills and trees and around freaking corners, man. So unfair.

Which meant the alphabet game went fast, even after Sam outlawed license plates as an acceptable medium.

It also slowed their trip down some, as Sam absolutely demanded evidence. Barnes had called a V on a gas station that turned out to be two streets north of their current route, that he could barely glimpse reflected off the fucking bank building. Sam had to squint, and use a pair of binoculars that he insisted Steve buy from the local sporting goods shop before he’d believe that.

They’d tried moving on to I Spy, but Barnes refused to pick anything beyond “the back of y’all’s stupid heads, because that’s all I c’n see from here.”

Finally -- finally -- Sam hit on something that worked out. Both Steve and Barnes were unusually creative. Maybe it shouldn’t have been surprising, since they were both tactical specialists practically before Sam’s gramma was born, but Sam found himself surprised by the degree of thinking outside the box the two of them were capable of.

“Fortunately…” Sam said, thinking, “this’ll be the first time I’ve seen the Grand Canyon.”

“Unfortunately, it’s been invaded by aliens,” Steve said.

“What are you doin’, man, projecting?”

“It’s the way the world is, these days,” Steve responded with a shrug.

“Well, fortunately, I got experience shootin’ aliens,” Barnes took his turn. The scary thing is, that was probably true.

“Well, unfortunately,” Sam said, rolling his eyes expressively, “you didn’t pack your guns.”

“Fortunately,” Steve said, “I have Stark on speed dial, and he can just drone us in some.”

“Unfortunately, Stark don’t like you anymore, Stevie,” Barnes piped up.

“Fortunately, SHIELD managed to haul its head out of its collective ass and can give us some backup,” Sam said on his turn.

“Unfortunately, they’re still bound by the Slokovia accords, and I’m not sure we’ll get an acceptable use of force before the aliens have burned down most of the midwest.” That was sarcastic enough to qualify for a license to kill.

“Ow, Steve,” Sam said, pressing his hand to his chest. “That’s painful, man.”

“Fortunately, no one interesting lives in the midwest,” Barnes said, leaning back and linking his hands behind his neck. “So, it ain’t like we’re losing anything important.”

“Unfortunately, SHIELD’s current secure facility for storing weapons of unspeakable power is in Nebraska, so the aliens are actually after that, which is why they’re in the midwest to start with,” Sam said.

“Fortunately, the aliens are also looking for a good time, so we’ll just drop Sam off and everything’ll be fine.”

Barnes scoffed from the backseat. “Unfortunately,” he said, pointedly, “the aliens have good taste, and so Wilson isn’t on their list.”

“Oh, now you’re just gettin’ nasty,” Sam said. “Fortunately, we’ve got pretty-boy, all American grade A beef riding with us, so if my pretty face doesn’t do it for ‘em, Cap can take his shirt off. That’ll get anyone to stop an’ stare.”

“Are we still playing a game, or flirting like emotionally damaged fourth graders?” Steve wondered.

Barnes scowled. “Unfortunately, Steve’s already got a stick up his ass, so they’re not going to be able to do any probing work.”

“One, it’s not your turn,” Steve said, faintly horrified “and two, I fail to see how that’s unfortunate, Buck, really.”

“That’s ‘cause you ain’t gotta deal with the stick,” Barnes muttered, slumping back in his seat.

“When was the last time we ate anything?” Steve asked.

Sam had to think about it. “Um, maybe three hours ago?”

“We’re going to get ice cream,” Steve said, decisively. “You two are acting like cranky toddlers and I’m fed up with both of you.”

“Heh,” Barnes said. “Tell ya what, jerk. You sit in th’ back for a while an’ let one of us drive. See how cranky you get.”

“Flip you for it,” Sam challenged.

“I’m drivin,” Barnes said. “Or I will flip you, an’ I ain’t talkin’ about a coin toss.”

Sam could feel his sap rising, the part of himself that followed Cap into battle without a care for what they were doing. The kind of thing that kept him going with the Avengers. The part of himself that wanted to kick ass and chew bubblegum, and he’d left bubblegum behind a long time ago.

And then Steve’s hand came down on Sam’s knee. “Just… just let him drive this time, okay?”

Steve’s hand was on Sam’s knee. Not a pat on the shoulder or the occasional arm slung around Sam’s shoulder that he was used to. That was… flirting.

Cap was absolutely to blame for all of Sam’s poor life choices. But Steve flirting with him? That was a whole new realm of disastrous decision-making.

“Okay,” Sam said. He wondered if Steve would take it at all amiss if Sam put his hand over Steve’s.

***

Tomorrow we can drive around this town And let the cops chase us around The past is gone but something might be found To take its place... Hey jealousy And you can trust me not to think And not to sleep around If you don't expect too much from me You might not be let down --Hey Jealousy, Gin Blossoms

There was no possible way Wilson wasn’t doing that on purpose.

Wilson was fucking fellating that damn ice cream cone. He’d gotten vanilla, claiming that it was his favorite flavor and he was doing obscene goddamn things to it.

That could not be accidental.

Which meant he was trying to make a move on Steve.

Wilson was turned halfway in the passenger seat, talking with Steve and making love with that goddamn dessert.

Wilson stuck that pink tongue of his all the way out and slowly turned the cone in his hand, smoothing out the sides. Then he deep-throated it, hollowing in his cheeks and pulling back, letting the very top of the ice cream curl up and stretch a bit. He licked the top. Dripped some ice cream down the back of his hand and took his time licking the creamy residue off his skin.

He didn’t really need to keep his eyes on the road; he was a goddamn supersoldier and his reactions were damn fast; he barely flicked his gaze to the road ahead before watching Steve in the rearview mirror.

Hard to tell, with Steve, sometimes. Did he even notice that people were flirting with him? Back during the War, he hadn’t quite mastered the art. He turned red and spluttered whenever Carter had been around, and while he hadn’t been adverse to a little messing around in dark corners, Steve had never quite made a confession.

That had been a hard shadow living in, watching Steve fall in love with Carter.

And he sure as hell wasn’t going to do it a second time.

“Hey Sam.” Steve leaned forward, blue eyes intent and just a tiny bit amused. “You’ve… uh, got ice cream…” He ran his finger down the side of his mouth.

Ug. Steve. That is absolutely not an accident!

Sam had some sort of mystical sixth sense; he knew exactly where the ice cream smutz was, like a glistening pearl on his chin. Because he wiped his entire chin and it was still fucking there.

That’s a trap, Steve.

Steve licked his thumb and reached out.

Oh hell no.

Flick. He checked the road ahead.

Flick. He checked the following distance of the car behind them.

Slammed on the brakes.

Wilson and Steve, who were too busy paying attention to each other, like this was some sort of fucking blind date, jerked forward.

He’d timed it just right; Wilson’s ice cream was all over his chin, his throat, and down the front of his previously immaculate polo.

Hit the accelerator just as Wilson was dabbing at his shirt, which smeared more of the remains of his dessert on his hands and into his lap.

Score.

“Wh--”

“Buck, what the hell?”

“Road debris,” he said, gesturing with one hand toward the road behind them. “Wasn’t sure what it was.”

The look Wilson threw at him was utter and complete loathing. Wilson knew, knew for certain, that there was no road debris. Knew that he’d absolutely been flirt-blocked.

He’d have done a victory fist pump if he didn’t think Steve would be upset if Wilson threw an actual punch. There was no way that Wilson could actually cause an injury to anyone but himself, but it would upset Steve.

“You are a dick, Barnes,” Wilson said. He dug around in the glove box and found some napkins.

He was still debating internally if it would be more annoying and smug-ass of him to deny everything, or admit anything, when Steve put a hand on the back of his neck.

Warm, fingers gentle and comforting, the touch was everything that he’d been missing for decades. Better than a simple clap on the shoulder with a half-dozen layers between himself and Steve’s skin.

Every nerve in his body concentrated on that one patch of skin where Steve’s fingers rested.

He inhaled, barely audible, or it should have been with the engine purring and the road noise and Wilson’s continued rant about the size, shape, and pustulant growths…

Flick.

He glanced up in the rearview and caught Steve’s gaze. Steve’s blue eyes were soft, the pupils wide with sudden feeling.

Smiling, he turned back to the road.

Just in time to swerve around a piece of actual road debris.

“Fuck!”

The car shimmied ungracefully from one side of the lane to the other. A soft, but distinct sound, like a bullet moving through a silencer.

Thup. thup. thup.

He took a deep breath, let it out. Brought the car to an ungainly stop on the side of the road. “We’ve got a flat,” he said. “Hope there’s a spare.”

“What was that?”

“Road debris.”

“Really, Barnes? Really?”

Wilson got the full force of his puppy-eyed pout. Steve had frequently been susceptible. Dames had always melted under it.

Wilson squinched his mouth up to the side, tipped his head, and looked disgusted. “You. Are a dick.”

#All caps #steve x bucky x sam #steve rogers #bucky barnes #sam wilson #road trip from hell #all american road trip #fic #emotionally damaged fourth graders

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