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ussgallifrey · 3 years

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Mountain of the Sun [1]

✦ Summary: Sam has the shield at long last, Bucky has been seeing a new therapist, and you… you have a van and a desire to just get away from it all.

✦ Pairing: SamBucky x Non-Binary (AFAB) Reader

✦ Warnings: Anxiety, brief implications of body dysphoria, brief mentions of chest binders, language, minor spoilers for TFATWS, post-TFATWS.

✦ Word Count: 7.5k

✦ Playlist: Here

There's something to be said about the ethereal feeling that comes with driving at night. How the blurring headlights mix with the stars. The way it stirs your soul and makes you feel something deeply sated in your bones.

What that exact thing is, however, you're not entirely sure. As you're currently downing the remnants of your second energy drink so you can move on to your gas station coffee and complimentary, slightly stale, chocolate frosted sprinkle doughnut.

It's nearing seven in the morning now and the tops of the trees are bathed in the golden rays of an earthy June sunrise. The windshield is appropriately covered in deceased mosquitoes that the wipers just can't quite reach to properly swipe away, so you know you're heading in the right direction at least.

The road has been relatively clear of other travelers thanks to the time of day and you managed to find a radio station that was actually in range to play a few miles back. The morning hosts are talking up some local story about a water skiing cat named Prince Reggie.

With the weather turning out to be pleasantly warm and the gentle thrum of the tires on the pavement, it was shaping up to be a good day. The coffee, however, is seriously lacking in all things taste.

You had made it all the way down to Charlotte, North Carolina after a late start, a deflated tire, and a series of last-minute snack runs. This was followed by an even later start yesterday afternoon when you decided there was nothing wrong with driving straight through the night to Louisiana.

Eleven hours now, a racing heart, and a body running mostly off of sugar and caffeine. You were doing great.

There's an ongoing list in your head as you travel further south, you see, of the many reasons why this is an act of insanity. It's followed by an accompanying list of why this is pure genius. They're both neck and neck at the moment, so the trophy is still up for grabs.

Hell, you know that reasonably this all seems like the final piece of the mental breakdown train. Spur of the moment body piercing, followed by the gender crisis, an almost tattoo, a drunken Tinder hook-up with someone who couldn't even remember your name while sober, and a cross-country road trip in a van you bought off a sketchy bidding website; check, check, and check.

Okay, so maybe things weren't going great. Maybe this was a cry for help. But who was judging at this point? Right?

Any higher being who gave a damn was probably just watching you and going we fucked it up, didn't we? We went around and fucked up a perfectly good human again.

Shoving the rest of the doughnut into the back of your mouth, you head onto the empty off-ramp.

Now, next to your should I just go to therapy or nah mental list, there was the actually kind of important - but still untitled as of yet - list. This one was composed on a physical piece of paper, written in metallic blue glitter ink, and it was slowly getting crossed off in red pen.

You were three Avengers down: Tony and Natasha were gone and Steve was full MIA after returning the stones.

Thor and the Guardians were somewhere in Europe or space, maybe, you think? And of course, the Royal family was back in Wakanda. Scott and Clint had families waiting for them. Parker was a literal child living with his aunt and returning to school, so he was good there.

Danvers was a beautiful woman of mystery and therefore stood no chance of being understood by the likes of you, so her name was also crossed off.

Bruce was a strange tall green thing now and you weren't touching that whole Hulk/human hybrid concept with a ten-foot pole. He was nice enough, sure. But like Tony had said to him, the band had split. Thanos destroyed the Beatles and that was that.

Strange was still, well, strange. And kind of a dick, actually. But he was safe and alive back in New York. Not exactly friend material though.

Wanda. Oh gosh, Wanda.

The two of you had stood for a long while after Tony's body was carried away from the torched earth - watching the smoldering remains of the compound you had both called home at one point. Nothing survived the destruction.

She didn't say much of anything then, or even after the funeral. But that vacant look in her eyes said enough. She went MIA after a week and you exhausted your search after three months. If she didn't want to be found, then there was nothing more to it. She knew where to find you if she really wanted.

With her name crossed out, however, that only left you with two people: Barnes and Wilson.

That last time you saw the super-soldier, prior to the battle upstate, was when he had his hands around your neck in federal custody in an attempt to X you out from existence.

And Sam, hell, you saw him from time to time when he was on the run with Steve and Nat. They told you Barnes was doing fine in Wakanda and no Tony hadn't reached out yet. Then they would loot your fridge for real food and maybe take a shower before jumping on the quinjet and going off-grid again.

It was because of Sam, however, that you even had a reason to be driving like this in the first place. Because after Tony's funeral, when it seemed like everyone gave their condolences to the grieving Starks and faded back into their own realities at an alarming rate, he found you by the waterfront.

Wanda had just walked away after a shared moment of quietly existing when he had come over to check on things. Had slipped a scrap of paper into your hands with an address and phone number after a quiet conversation that veered along the lines of purposefully careful small talk. Apparently, he offered this out to a few others in the group too.

But you had folded that paper up and shoved it into your pocket for a rainy day. And you had gone through the moments of trying to carve out a new life for yourself for a few months. It stayed in your wallet until a little less than a week ago when the crazy ideas started setting in.

The van, a converted church bus (according to the listing), putters at the four-way stop, just outside of the village limits. You lick the leftover frosting from your index finger.

The seller had been a slightly distraught man with a giant red beard named Preston. He had just bought it and fixed it up after living in a daze of am I really staying at his corporate job when life has been turned upside down for the last four years. Finally decided to go live his true self after the Blip by quitting his job on the spot. And then, surprise, everyone was brought back and his wife was alive and now he didn't want to travel across the western hemisphere in a Ford E350 that he called Merle.

But that turned out alright for you. Now you had the chance to live out your existential crisis in peace.

A faded metal sign greets you as you manage to roll the beast - you were calling her Hildegard, currently - forward. You decide to stop singing along to the classic rock station on your radio as you drive down the main street after catching the attention of a few locals.

The sailors say, "Brandy, you're a fine girl" (you're a fine girl) // "What a good wife you would be" (such a fine girl) // "But my life, my lover, my lady is the sea."

According to Google Maps, the address was the last drive at the end of a gravel road with a No Outlet sign peeking out from behind a wall of tall weedy grass. And the white-painted mailbox's house number confirms you're in the right place.

The turning radius is actually shit, but you try not to fault her - she's a big girl, after all. Just like you try not to fault the anxious uptick in your racing heart - not directly caused by coffee and energy drinks, thanks.

Towering trees line the dirt path, and with the driver's side window rolled down (hand crank, of course), you can hear the insistent buzzing of more mosquitoes. And the air that whips through the opening seems far more humid than what you would like for this early in the day.

Those thoughts are quickly disrupted by a sharp clang and bang in the distance. You turn the stereo's volume dial down low to see better.

The driveway finally gives way to an open clearing that must constitute as a front yard.

Switching into park, you pull the cluttered keychain into your center console. A cursory glance at your reflection in the rearview mirror and a reluctant good as we're gonna get after that drive before you get the nerve to hop out. The door slamming behind you draws the attention of the two men a few yards away.

Everyone takes a moment to stare at each other before Bucky calls out your last name with obvious confusion. Sam grabs the flying boomerang of a shield and tucks it against his side before smiling wide.

"The hell are you doing here?" his voice booms.

You laugh, striding forward and away from the safety of the van. The unknown was always nerve-wracking. But so was getting removed from existence and being replanted into it, so all things considered talking to two ex-teammates wasn't that awful on the scale of things that made you go ick.

"You gave me your address, remember?"

Bucky wipes his sweaty brow with the bottom of his gray tank. When you take another look at him, you realize the man is actually barefoot.

Blinking at the shocking paleness of his feet against the rich green grass, you barely even hear him playfully say, "Hey, no autographs, all right?"

Sam brushes past him with a good-natured chuckle, "Pay the living fossil no attention."

He pulls you into a tight, one-armed hug. A little too tight and too sweaty for your comfort - particularly around the chest area, but who could deny him when he was smiling like that?

"So," he holds the shield just right - he's really stepped into the role, hasn't he?

"What're you doing my way?"

You give a little scoff, plucking at a loose thread on the hem of your shirt, "I'm on an adventure. But I should be asking Barnes the same thing, right? Aren't you supposed to be under full-time surveillance in Brooklyn, Sergeant?"

Bucky finally walks over, sweat still beading up on his new, shorter, haircut. You can't decide if it's the right look for him or not.

"It's good to see you too, kid."

They both seem to be taking a moment to appraise your appearance. It's stellar after a full twenty-plus hour drive and a mix of chaotic sleep and quick caffeine fixes. The humidity's really doing wonders for your hair and underarm sweat too.

"You hungry?" Sam asks after a beat.

Ignoring the three new mosquito bites on your right arm, you nod eagerly.

"Good, we were just finishing," Bucky makes to grab for the water bottle at the trunk of a nearby tree when Sam clicks his tongue disapprovingly.

"Like hell we are. Got another three sets, Buck," he has his arms crossed and everything. But you're more caught up on the fact that he just called him Buck.

Bucky shrugs his head towards you, "Yeah, and you got a guest. Be hostly and feed 'em."

The other man shoots him a look before tilting his head in your direction with a warm smile.

Sam's got a beige hand towel tossed over his left shoulder as he scrubs at the plates in the sink. The house is just full of life, that's the best way to put it.

A line of shoes by the door and pictures and knick-knacks galore. Kids' drawings and a record cabinet in the living room. Nautical-themed decor everywhere you look. It's a little jarring, to be honest. Considering where you were living up until three days ago in a threadbare studio in Hell's Kitchen.

It's good though. Between the baseball game playing on the slightly staticky radio and the quiet chatter of two younger boys just down the hall, it's nice.

Bucky points at the piercing on your nose, mouth full of a raspberry scone.

"That's new."

You nod, scooping up the last bite of syrup-drenched pancakes with your fork, "It is."

"It hurt?" he's got a smudge of the red fruit filling on the corner of his lip that he's completely oblivious to.

A shrug, "Not too bad."

He hums in reply and shoves the rest of the pastry into his mouth. Licking his fingers absentmindedly as he peruses the local newspaper. He makes it all the way to page three before he rests his arms on the table and looks back at you.

"What exactly is that thing out there?"

You can see the aquamarine paint of your van just through the kitchen window.

"My van."

His eyebrows kind of scrunch and raise up at the same time, as if trying to entertain the idea, "That's new too?"

With a smirk, you reply, "Her name's Hildegard and she's a beautiful woman."

Sam snorts over at the sink.

Bucky cranes his neck to look out the kitchen window, tilting back on his chair legs, "That thing's a tank."

"A majestic tank," you add, stealing the newspaper from under his hands. The Ask Alice section is of particular interest.

Dear Alice, my husband claims he is of Asgardian descent and has been trying to do "feats of strength like his brother Thor." He keeps throwing his back out and insisting it's fine. Help. What should I do? It's just embarrassing at this point.

"Has a bed, a kitchen, and everything," you continue as you glance up from the advice column.

Bucky drops his chair back down on all four legs and squints real hard, "Are you living in that thing?"

You bristle at his annoying stupidity and coolly counter, "Are you really couch surfing with Captain America?"

Sam bends over in a silent laugh, managing to turn off the sink, but still needing the counter to support him while he gathers his composure. After a long moment, he walks over and plops down into the high-back chair next to yours - tossing the damp dish towel onto the other man's head.

Bucky, unfazed, tilts his head back enough to where the towel is covering everything but his mouth, "You need money? Need Mr. America to make things better? A freedom fund or something?"

Sam kicks him under the table and Bucky just laughs in defeat, snatching the towel off his head and stalking over to the counter for a banana.

You eye Sam with a heavy breath of frustration. He, in return, drops his large hand on top of yours. It's warm and comforting and all-encompassing of a distant memory where things were far more normal.

"Come on. Tell Cap how much you need," his sudden shit-eating grin makes you groan and want to clobber him at the same time.

Pulling your hand away, you futilely kick the leg of his chair - it doesn't even budge for your annoyance, "I hate you both. I don't even know why I came here."

"Admit it, you missed this," Sam says with a teasing smile.

You shake your head, dropping your face into your hands, "I must be a masochist."

Bucky chokes on his banana.

The couch is surprisingly comfortable. Bucky was even kind enough to fluff his favorite yellow throw pillow for you to nap on. The crash was inevitable after eleven hours on the road, you knew that much.

But even then, you don't stir until well into the heated amber afternoon. You try to act surprised by that fact.

The house is too loud. With all the things still in it, but now without the familiar sounds from the morning. There's a puttering fan, rotating in the corner of the room. A pink crocheted blanket had been draped on you at some point. And it's not lost upon you that the curtains in the room have been drawn shut as well.

But the perpetrators are nowhere to be found. Sam's nephews must be out too because there's not even a sound coming from upstairs. It's just your unsteady breathing and the rotating fan puttering away.

Your skin crawls with the heat of a closed room on a summer day. The tassels of the blanket tickle your exposed knee as you sit up, enjoying the crack and roll of your shoulders as you stretch.

But the silence just drags on.

When things are this quiet and you're left alone with your own thoughts, you really just want to claw your own skin or run far away. See: leaving New York in a camper van because the feels were hitting too hard in your lonely apartment.

That's why you find yourself gasping for air on the front porch only a minute later. At least you can breathe deeper without your binder on.

The summer air has cooled off from the humidity of the morning and there's enough of a breeze to rustle the trees and cool your heated skin. You're thankful you had the foresight to shuck off your button-up shirt before you passed out as the wind rolling off the lake feels amazing on your bare arms.

It doesn't take you long to spot them from your position on the porch steps.

They're holding back some obvious gibs when you walk down to the dock where they're fishing. Probably some choice words about oversleeping and caffeine addiction just waiting on the tips of their tongues.

You take a seat on the blue cooler behind them.

You're not entirely sure when this happened. This being their obvious friendship.

Probably somewhere between the government taking the shield and Sam taking it back for himself. You caught some glimpses on the news and a few candid shots on Twitter to get a basic picture of the situation. The Walker/Wilson discourse was still burning hot online. You tried your best to scour for the facts and not the obvious propaganda/blatant racism.

They're quietly bickering about something to do with Bucky's cast line. Sam keeps telling him to hush up cause he's gonna scare away the fish. And Bucky just keeps retorting the fact that he knows what he's doing, thanks.

It's funny to see it though. Even as they argue, Sam keeps his ribbing tighter than he used to, a little gentler and softer style of teasing. And Bucky keeps glancing Sam's way as if he's waiting for things to fall apart again.

You feel like an intruder.

Drawing your arms across your chest, now feeling the difference in the way your shirt sits against your torso, "I'll be out of your hair by tonight, Sam."

He laughs, gives a nonchalant alright. Then whips his head back towards you after the words hit him. Rod dropped down at his side and eyes wide.

"Yeah? Where you gonna go?"

Bucky's turned around now too. You squeeze yourself tighter. Even outside you can feel things getting too close and you're not actually referring to the blood-sucking insects for once.

"Not sure yet. But if you wanna tell me where the nearest gas station is, I'll get going."

Sam blindly shoves his rod into Bucky's vibranium hand and crosses over to you, crouching down to your level.

"Yeah, that's not what's gonna be happening. You're staying for dinner and breakfast in the mornin'. And like hell I'm gonna let you drive out of here before I look over that beast in my drive."

Bucky mimics behind him, "Her name is Hildegard and she's a beautiful woman."

Sam catches the glimpse of mischief in your eyes and knowingly ducks to the side as you send a wave of white energy at Bucky, knocking him backwards into the water with a shocked holler. He bobs up after a moment, hair plastered to his forehead, sputtering out lake water, and swearing like a true soldier.

Sam claps you on the shoulder with a barking laugh, barely dodging the arm that flies onto the dock as Bucky attempts to drag him down into the water with him.

Sarah just rolled her eyes when the two of them appeared on the back porch, soaking wet. Throwing them towels through the door before locking it back up.

She refused to allow them in until she had her food safely tucked away in the oven for dinner - because Sam doesn't know how to do it right she had said. Apparently, their momma's mac and cheese recipe was sacred and Sam always had the habit of fucking it up.

The kitchen was lively again - once they air-dried on the back porch and were allowed back in, but Bucky found the head chef annoying as hell and had relocated himself to the Mario Kart game in the living room with Sam's nephews. From the sounds of it, he was either winning by a large margin or losing very badly to the preteens.

Sarah had made a brief reappearance as she grabbed a drink from the kitchen - said something gruff to her brother about the way he was minding the food and his lack of seasoning. To which Sam told her to do her casserole and leave the damn chicken to him.

She gave him a good punch in the arm for that before heading to the back office to go over the day's work reports.

The prep time is speeding by as the lake reflects the brilliant pinks and purples of sunset. The anxiety that had been building up in your body since the crash nap has started to dissipate as Sam's soft humming soothes your mind.

Despite your assigned task, you can still feel him lingering over your shoulder with a watchful eye.

"If this isn't to your standards, I'll just get out of here like Bucky," you suggest with a slight bite to your tone.

Sam takes a warning step closer, breath warm against your bare neck, "Shut it. You got it going just fine."

He returns to the oiled skillet on the stove, giving his tongs a few test clicks, as you dredge another chicken thigh through the seasoned flour mixture.

"Yeah, well your invasion of my personal bubble was making me think otherwise."

He makes a strained chuckle, "If I didn't want you here, you'd know."

You turn your head in time to catch the warm look in his eyes that he's directing your way.

"Long as you need," he adds after a beat of time.

You let that settle in your mind for a while. The open gesture you didn't know you were so desperately craving after eight months of near isolation.

The rest of the prepping goes well enough, except for Bucky sneaking out to stick his finger in the cornbread batter while Sam had his back turned. But the two hours of working in a hot kitchen is made worth it when you all sit down and tuck into pure heaven.

You have to bite back a moan as you help yourself to another serving of macaroni, "This is amazing, Sarah."

Sam's brows raise quickly. Grabbing a breaded drumstick from the serving plate he points it at you before adding it to your plate, "Yeah, well you should be eating this because it's delicious."

Bucky's dutifully eating his collards when he conspiratorially leans over towards you and mock whispers, "Someone's jealous."

"Someone's gonna get their fancy arm messed with is what's up."

The boys laugh and Sarah doesn't do much to dissuade them from it. Somehow, you end up with another thigh on your plate, but all of your cornbread has mysteriously migrated over to a certain super soldier's plate in the meantime.

Afterwards, you're on leftover duty - stuffing the last bits of food into old Country Crock butter dishes. Bucky was forced into dish duty but has been taking great joy in splashing Cass - who is on drying duty - while his older brother is trying to put everything back in the cupboards as fast as possible.

"So," he calls over the chaos of the younger boys. "Was this on your adventure itinerary?"

You give a quiet laugh as you seal the lid on the leftover casserole.

"Sure was," doing the careful balancing act as you walk to the fridge with five containers stacked in your hands. It takes some finagling, but you get your pinky around the handle and manage to get the door open without dropping anything.

"I always wanted to see superheroes perform great acts of domesticity," you say with your head in the fridge.

He's got a plate held just out of reach from Cass, who's not interested in playing his stupid you want it? come on and jump for it game, "Huh, if you stick around you might catch Sam doing laundry later."

"Oh," you close the fridge and rest against the door. "A dream come true!"

Bucky smiles, wide and true and - most importantly - genuine. There's a flicker of something in his eyes, but it's gone just as fast as it appeared. It leaves you wondering, later in the shower, just when James Barnes got his personality back online.

You're still musing the change from the soldier on the battlefield eight months prior when you walk out onto the back porch - drying your hair with an old cotton T-shirt. The lanterns emit a golden hue on the patio seating, while the lights from the dock across the lake and the stars in the purple midnight sky dance and flicker off the water.

"Finally got that driving grime off, huh?" Sam's nursing a beer in one of the seats.

You can just make out the outline of Bucky down by the dock, near a grove of lightning bugs.

Draping the damp shirt over your shoulders, you take a seat in the chair next to him, "Feel like a new person - thanks, by the way."

He waves his hand in a no big deal motion before taking another drink.

With a flick of your wrist, the misty white energy you're able to conjure floats through the air, down the opposite side of the table where the cooler rests. You nab the returning beer from the air, taking a refreshing sip after you pry the cap off on the table edge.

Sam watches with an amused expression. With a humming question from you, he just shakes his head.

" 'm literally right here. You could've just asked for one."

With a smirk now playing on your lips, you set the bottle down. Condensation already beading up along the sides in the summer night air.

"What's the point of having powers if I only ever use them to beat up baddies? I mean, you never think about taking the wings out when you need to go to the store?"

He knocks his head back in a laugh, "No, I don't think about using my suit to transport my ass to the Walmart."

"Pssh," you chastise. "Gotta start thinking outside the box, Sammy."

"Don't call me Sammy," he points an annoyed finger at you that only has a tiny ounce of real anger behind it.

Your hands go up in a show of defeat and he has the audacity to smile at it.

A pleasant moment stretches languidly between you as he finishes his drink and you ultimately find yourself watching Bucky skip rocks along the shoreline. It's a moment you want to sink your teeth into and really savor the feeling of.

To just sit and be with friends again, it's proving to be calming and upsetting all at once.

The table used to be larger and far more crowded. There was pizza and bickering over who ordered what. Steve would try to delegate and Thor would have snuck off with a whole box of Meat Lovers Supreme for himself. Tony would be trying to ridicule whoever got the pineapple and anchovy atrocity. It seems like a lifetime ago when things were that kind of stable.

"You gonna talk about it?"

Sam, with his knowing brown eyes, watches and observes and reads you like a book.

So, you do the only thing you can do. You steady yourself with a breath and lean forward on the plastic tabletop.

"Not sure how you were handling all this… post-Blip stuff. But, I don't know. I just got this urge to go do something a few weeks ago. You get removed from existence and you get a new appreciation for life, I guess."

He hums softly, "I was just a stop along the way?"

Squinting at his interpretation, you shake your head, "More like a starting point. You know, you two are the last ones on my list that I could get a hold of? Everyone else just… ping, ping," you mimic tiny explosions with your hands.

"They have their own lives to go back to living and the original crew is basically no more. Compound's under new management - " Sam snorts at that, " - and I was just feeling…" don't say lonely, don't say lonely, "... nostalgic."

By now, Bucky's started to wander back up to the house, though his face is still shadowed by the limited natural light from the stars.

"I don't know, Sam. New York just felt - " you rub your forehead with the palm of your hand as a headache decides to start forming for your troubles.

" - it felt too big and too small. Everyone was gone and I think I was just existing up until a week ago. And I just wanted to get back to living."

Bucky approaches, hesitating at the edge of the patio for a moment before Sam beckons him over with the jerk of his head.

"I want to see the world and do normal touristy things. Get lost and end up at a weird-ass landmark. Eat the greasy diner food. Camp out under the stars. Just more than sitting around waiting for the next big thing to come knocking. Cause if I stayed up there any longer, I was gonna lose it."

The super soldier drums his fingers on the table for a moment, having only caught the tail end of your confessional.

"Where you heading after this?"

You give a hapless shrug, "West."

He nods, though his face looks entirely uncertain.

"And is this a finding yourself solo personal journey trip or…?"

His lips curl up into a smile when you tilt your head back to laugh.

Finally removing the T-shirt from where it had been resting on your shoulders, you shuck it over into the empty chair between you and Bucky. The air feels cool along your skin now and you almost wish you had grabbed an overshirt from your bag.

"I mean, I'm not planning to grab any hitchhikers, but I'm open to some travel buddies.

Sam smirks, "Someone's gotta keep you from blowing that thing up."

The shocked gasp you make only furthers to spur them on.

"What?" he admonishes, "I heard that engine run. You either got old oil, the wrong oil, or no oil in it. Not to mention," he's now leaning forward and pointing at you with each listing.

"Your back tires aren't the same as the front ones. Your exhaust pipe is hanging on by a thread. And I bet you anything that the AC ain't working either."

Bucky gives a low whistle.

Leaning back in your chair, you cross your arms, "Well damn, Samuel. Give me the number for a mechanic already."

"Like hell, I will."

He stands abruptly, his chair screeches as it's pushed back along the woodgrain of the porch. And then he's walking, in the dark, to where your van is parked.

"C'mon," he calls.

Bucky shrugs, offering you a lopsided smile, before following after him.

You keep the swear on the tip of your tongue to yourself as you shoot a beam of white light their way, illuminating the path for them.

It's almost one in the morning and Sam's got his arms covered in grease. Bucky's taken great joy in exploring the interior of the van. Poking and prodding at every little thing: the bobblehead on the dashboard and the beads hanging from the rearview mirror, a collection of crystals on a tiny shelf, the three potted succulents over the counter.

He digs through your pile of snacks on the passenger seat and grabs the unopened bag of gummy worms for himself to snack on as Sam tells you to start the engine again.

By the time your personal mechanic has moved under the van to explore a possible hole in the lines and pipes, Bucky has plopped himself down on your bed. He's finished browsing through your small collection of books now, having exhausted himself with perusing your belongings.

You had dropped down the mosquito nets at the open doors - held on by magnets so the little bloodsuckers weren't getting in - and turned on the fairy lights along the top of the cab for some ambiance.

"This is nice," he murmurs, head resting on the single decorative throw pillow.

Perched on the small kitchenette counter next to him, you give a genuine, "Thanks."

After all the teasing they had given you about the van, it was nice to finally hear a bit of praise on something you were actually proud of. He lifts his head enough to catch your expression, his blue eyes soften.

"She's a beautiful woman."

That makes you snort with laughter, slightly drunk on beer and exhaustion. You can hear Sam tapping on something beneath you, followed by a sharp swear, and the general buzz of bugs congregating by the glowing white orbs in the lawn.

Bucky, after tossing the empty bag of candy up into the tiny sink, scooches over on the bed, messing up the blue and gold striped blanket you had bought at a flea market in Virginia.

He extends his right arm out to you, "C'mere."

And after a moment, "I mean, it's… it's your bed and all. You look tired, kid."

Your mouth quirks up into a little smirk as you catch the faint blush on his cheeks.

"Damn right it is," you affirm before plopping down next to him, face down.

You can still smell the detergent you had used on the bedding. But it's mixed with something musky and masculine. Shampoo or deodorant or sweat, you're not sure.

When you manage to pick your head up, you're met with the dark treeline through the open back doors, though the gentle golden twinkle of your battery-powered interior lights makes it swirl and shift. Your head feels heavy as you rub your face against the blanket, head nudging something solid and warm off to your side.

"Should come with me," you find yourself saying. "Both of you. I like you guys. It'd be fun."

You feel more than hear Bucky's laugh as it reverberates through the mattress, "That so?"

Humming in agreement as your eyes fail to open, "Be like that family. The singing one on tv, with that one song."

Bucky rolls to face you, probably catching on to the fact that you're seconds from sleep. But he keeps going, "We're gonna be singing?"

You're lazily humming the theme song or maybe it's that one hit about thinking about loving someone.

"The Partridge Family, right?" Sam's voice is like honey as it drips down your body. He's close but somehow so far away.

"The what?" Bucky asks softly, a smile clear in his voice.

You can hear Sam's feet on the floorboards because that one spot by the sink always creaks.

"Doesn't matter, c'mon and shut it. Sleeping Beauty's almost out."

You shake your head against the blanket, welcoming the warmth that's there radiating on your right side.

" 'm not, jus' sleepy."

Someone teases you with a gentle sure you are.

Things get really hazy after that point. You can hear them talk in low tones about air filters and new carburetors and how bad the oil in the engine was. Something even softer yet about bags and a break and it wouldn't be a bad idea if we just…

But you're still wrapped up in something comfortable and warm and it doesn't take much at all to finally push you over the edge into a deep dreamless sleep.

When you wake to the gentle rays of the morning sunrise streaming in through the windshield, you find that there's a body radiating pure warmth curled up along your back. You can smell the motor oil and faint tinge of Irish Spring soap. Sam sleeps facing away from you, his arms curled around one of your pillows, breathing slow and easy.

After lifting your head up and shaking out the tired brain fog from your mind as you stretch, you also catch the sleeping super soldier sitting in the rotated driver's seat with his feet kicked up onto the fold-away table, snoring softly. His boots are haphazardly thrown on the floor next to Sam's, joined by an open tool bag and a pile of grease-covered rags.

You shuffle to the edge of the bed, sparring Sam a final longing look before shuffling across the floorboards and hopping out onto the cool dew-covered grass without waking either of them up.

The house is quietly buzzing to life with a wafting aroma of fresh coffee and something sweet lingering in the air.

"Morning," Sarah greets gently. Her back is turned as she loads up a cooler with food.

"Good morning," you offer back with a stifled yawn.

She turns her head to give you a once over before pulling a clean mug from the cupboard - moving her things over on the counter to give you access to the coffee pot, which you are seriously grateful for.

That's how the guys find you, not even twenty minutes later. Nursing the purple mug with a baby photo of Sam printed on it, and getting along way too well with his sister for his liking.

After Bucky stopped snickering and Sarah grabbed the boys and headed into work, Sam rolled his eyes and snatched away the mug and tossed it in the sink. It took you a solid minute to stop laughing as he tried his best to act unfazed.

Later that morning, after Sam directed you to the local auto shop where he picked out new tires and talked to the mechanic for nearly an hour about the guy's family, and only after he gave the van his official seal of approval, did you return to the house.

The doughnuts you had grabbed on the way weren't anything in comparison to the breakfast Sam had whipped up the day before. But his easy smiles and gentle quips were just as nice.

He pointed out different stores and houses and a grove of trees that him and his sister used to play in. Having to circle the lake to get back, he convinced you to stop by the dock where the family business is up and running.

Sarah and the boys are hard at work as he glides over and easily picks up some crates to load the boat. You find yourself helping AJ with the buckets of ice, having to haul them across the dock from the interior storage building for the cold tables.

"... might be good for you, after all this," Sarah says to her brother, walking back to the boat.

Sam's got his hands in his pockets, face nearly unreadable in the morning light, "That's what he kept saying last night too."

"Well, if you got Barnes tellin' you to do something…" their conversation trails off when they enter the cabin.

About an hour later, Sam's striding over to you - wiping his hands off on a rag. You've been helping with the cash box in their absence.

"Didn't mean to get you stuck working."

Lulling your head to the side, you offer him an easy smile, "I don't mind. It's a good change of pace."

"Yeah," he leans back against the plastic table. The sleeves on his white button-down are rolled up to his elbows.

"Slower pace is good sometimes."

You find yourself nodding in agreement, "Can't spend every day chasing bad guys."

He's quiet for a moment, gaze focused on the bright blue water of the lake. And then he slaps your shoulder with the back of his hand, a smile back in place.

"C'mon, before Buck tries to steal my wings again."

You blink.

"Wait, what'd you mean again?"

Chasing after him, back to the van, he grabs the driver's seat for himself. You don't mind too much as you hop into the passenger's side and toss him your giant keychain.

Holding it up by the Kirby squeeze ball, he gives you a long hard look.

"The hell is this?"

You offer him the look he deserves for such a dumb question.

"My keys," you spell it out for him.

He has to shuffle through them before he finds one with the Ford logo, "For what? Every room of the compound?"

"Hmm," you shake your head with a small laugh, "something like that."

Sam has the wisdom to say nothing further, kicking the old girl into drive and heading back to the house.

Bucky's lounged out on the front porch steps, working through something in a journal, when you pull up to the house. He tucks it into the duffle bag behind him and walks over just as you both get out.

"Sounds better," he offers.

Sam grins, "We got a hell of a deal with it."

"Superhero discount," you tease as you join them by the driver's side door.

"New tires, good oil, and a new air filter. We're in business."

You catch the slip of the tongue there with the we're instead of the you're and you try not to get too hung up on the idea of it.

"So," Bucky rocks back on the heels of his boots, "you heading out?"

They both look to you, faces pinched and torn between indifference and distraught.

"Well, if I'm bugging you too much then yeah, I'll get going," the teasing tone falls flat.

Bucky rolls his eyes with an easy laugh, " 's not what I meant and you know it."

"In that case," you shuffle your sneakers on the grass as you work yourself up to say goodbye. "Then yes. I wanna get on the road before nightfall."

Sam gives Bucky a look before stuffing his hands into his jean pockets, "Still looking for some company?"

Blinking, you stare at him - trying to find the joke in his features, "You serious?"

"Could use a break," Bucky smoothes.

You look between the two of them, unsure, and not wanting to get your hopes up, "You're for real?"

They nod, humming in affirmation. Sam has his arms full of you in a hot second of bubbling joy as you fawn over the two of them for agreeing to something that was actually crazy.

"Yeah, well, someone's gotta keep an eye on you two," Bucky teases as he grabs the two duffle bags from the porch steps.

He had packed. He had packed bags for the two of them because they wanted to hop in that van and go somewhere with you. It almost made you want to cry. You missed this.

Sam returns with a solid lock box and a circular leather bag that you have a pretty good idea of what it's containing.

"You never know," he shrugs as he passes them along to Bucky in the cab.

He's got the bags stored in the empty space under the bed, but seems hesitant to put the shield too far out of reach.

You can't believe your luck here. Hopping up into the driver's seat, you start the engine and your baby purrs.

"This is going to be amazing," you announce, nearly shaking with excitement.

Bucky clicks into the third seat, just behind yours, after shoving the shield into the space between his seat and the small shelving unit, "Or the worst idea ever."

Sam laughs, having claimed the passenger seat for himself.

"Maybe a break ain't such a bad idea, Buck."

"Yeah, Buck," you tease as you kick her into drive and turn in the small circle of the drive.

"Live a little!" you say to him over your shoulder, cranking the radio up as you head down the driveway at a speed that's much faster than necessary.

Your backseat driver gruffly swears in another language as Sam starts belly laughing next to you. The sun is shining and the breeze is perfect as you pull out onto the main road.

Sooner or later, love is gonna get ya // Sooner or later, girl, you got to give in // Sooner or later, love is gonna let ya // Sooner or later, love is gonna win.

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