#DD did a lovely job of building that world and fleshing that out

[pastafossa]

Not an ask or a request - just wanted to send some love your way. I’m on my third reread of TRT and I’m so excited for new stuff but I’m also loving everything you’ve written so far. Thank you for giving us a window into characters and a world that lives off the page. Hope you are having a wonderful spring.

Love from NYC!!

Thank you so, so much anon! 😭 I'm so happy you're enjoying it. I love widening the world, delving into all the chaos and adventures going on in this universe just outside of the canon narrative POV. There's just so much to explore, and I don't think I'll ever get tired of it. I'm just as eager to get back into it, and I feel like I'm getting there, but the patience is still VERY much appreciated. Things were rough for a bit, but spring is definitely feeling like an improvement. <3

Much love back from my cold little city!

[kilapsaww]

Confessions of an armchair journalist

MY THIRD article for the day involves a scuffle between President Rodrigo Duterte and Vice President Leni Robredo. The chief executive is insisting to have the latter take charge of his anti-drug campaign. The veep, backed by her vocal supporters, takes time to accept the random offer. If her retaliation was quicker and had read something like, “Bring it on,” there would be less room for the DDS to call her “duwag,” “tamad,” “Leni lugaw,” et cetera. I weave together the statements of the two highest officials of the land while munching on some stale pan de sal at my office in Mandaluyong.

I could call it a day except I am running late to a story conference for my other job. I prepared more than five story proposals just in case my executive producer comes in late again: Brexit delays, Trump’s looming impeachment, the Hong Kong turmoil, the simultaneous unrests in Chile, Lebanon, and Bolivia, and the deadly earthquakes that jolted parts of the Philippines just so I could squeeze in my corner of the world to the weekly global newscast I produce for.

I should be going home after securing my story assignments for the show, but I have so far pleased only three out of four bosses. That’s how my Wednesdays go: I cry a river of digital content while producing a morning talk show, scour for raw news clips from the Associated Press’s video bank, and then play a virtual tug-of-war on Viber with my anchor for a radio show that airs on Saturdays. Sometimes I wonder how I get things done and still manage to sleep, and then I remember I am just in the comforts of a dim-lit, airconditioned, rumored-to-be-close-to-bankruptcy office.

The jobs I juggle as a fresh graduate are a stark contrast from what I envisioned. While close to a thousand students belted the university hymn on our graduation day, I was busy daydreaming of seeing my byline on any of the three major dailies in the country. I have always wanted to become a print journalist. It was probably an inherited interest from my father, who unfortunately died too early to stop me from walking the same dangerous path he did. But I had constantly convinced myself that the mole on my right foot meant the Lord had pre-assigned me to scrape the field for exclusive stories, except my mother would say it only symbolized my being “layas.”

I left the office just before the sun flirted with the gigantic “M” that points to McDonald’s. My condo unit is just roughly 100 steps from the fast food chain. I got myself some burger and fries before proceeding to the dilapidated building I call home.

“Wahaha di mo kc kaya LENI LUGAW.. BBM is real vp..”

“Kapag hindi effective ang war on drugs ibig sabihin di ito umepekto XD di b Leni Lugaw?”

“Tatay digong we love u here from Saudi.. ”

My article this morning has so far lured some two hundred comments, most of them written by seemingly the same person. I would educate all of them about ad hominem, or at least how to type like a human being, but that would be beyond my pay grade. I devoured my evil combination of a meal and then browsed further into the deepest parts of my company’s Facebook page. By deepest I mean the troll department, or the comment section, or the wrestling ring where Duterte devotees, the dilawans, and those neither make the most of their internet connections defending their political patron saints. I scanned the whole thing, made faces, then decided to call it a day.

***

I came unusually early for the feature talk show I write for the next day. It was one of the few episodes we tackled something newsy, hence close to my heart. We had a former Agriculture secretary clashing with the department’s current spokesman. I have been writing about rice farmers’ plight under the heavily-criticized rice liberalization law for months now. After the hour-long banter, my anchor proceeded to pooling his staff together to talk about the story outlook for the week. No praise, or at least mention, of this morning’s newsy episode. I do not think my anchor is journalist enough.

But neither am I.

Early into college, I encountered the term “armchair journalism” from my news writing professor, who was probably the most grumpy and aggressive person to introduce the term to aspiring newsmen like me. He passionately bashed the practice, saying journalists should not be labeled one sans direct interaction with sources, or the scorching heat in the field, or the slim chance of exhausting an exclusive off pressers in this era of pack journalism. It was among the few lectures that stuck to me after graduation, precisely because I had vowed to dodge it the best way I could. Except here I am now—writing hundreds of stories without meeting my sources in flesh.

Do not get me wrong, I am all for the upgraded accessibility and convenience courtesy of the fast-changing media landscape. Plus, my current job definitely puts food on the table. But although I am always just a bold decision away from taking on a fieldwork, I dread the lack of financial safety net that everyone—literally everyone in the print industry I am friends with right now—has been warning me about. After all, journalism is public service. What matters most is how it drives a society into acting on pressing issues.

I dressed up the last few paragraphs of my article on the Duterte-initiated drug war’s new czar, pacified my radio anchor who kept insisting his Tokyo car show tour was newsy, updated my LinkedIn profile, then took the last sip of my Starbucks staple.

[a-splash-of-stucky]

A Messed Up Place | Twelve

Pairings: Bucky x Reader

Summary: The voice of reason pays Bucky a visit.

Warnings: Language…and that’s basically it!

Notes: Of all the chapter summaries I’ve ever made, this one is my personal favourite :DD

Written for @hellomissmabel’s challenge. I’ve reviewed my plan for this story, and I think I’m going to write an extra fluffy chapter for AMUP, making it 15 chapters total, not including the prologue and epilogue. This chapter and the next one are rather dialogue-heavy, so apologies if that’s not what you enjoy :/

AMUP Masterlist

Bucky leans back against the kitchen counter and takes a swig of his coffee, grimacing as the overly bitter liquid swirls down his throat. He’d run out of sugar a couple of days ago, and hasn’t been bothered enough to go down to the corner store to pick up more. Bucky sighs as he glances around the small space, noting the dirty dishes that have piled up on the side and the overflowing bin that is just begging to be emptied.

Bucky’s not at the compound. In fact, he hasn’t been there in two months. Bucky’s staying at a little hideaway in Brooklyn which Steve had bought way back when Bucky first returned to the States, having finished his self-imposed mission of hunting down every last HYDRA rat and razing the remnants of that vile organisation to the ground.

He’d arrived here barely three hours after he’d had that talk — more of a screaming match, really — with you. After storming out of the lounge area, Bucky had gone straight to his room, kicked the door shut and crammed some essentials into a backpack. He’d snuck out of his room, then exited the building via one of the service entrances. Bucky had chosen to walk all the way to the city, not wanting to take one of Stark’s cars for fear of being tracked.

The Brooklyn apartment was a place just for Steve and Bucky, a place to escape when things at the compound got too intense; when Stark got too jovial, when Natasha got too inquisitive, when Wilson got too annoying. Sure, it’s more of a broom cupboard than it is an apartment, but it’s got a bed that he can just about squeeze into, a functioning bathroom, a not-too-shabby kitchen and a living area that houses a second-hand TV, a ratty couch and an armchair that smells vaguely of mothballs. Though it’s not a five-star hotel, it’s got it’s own charms.

In truth, Bucky had promised himself that he was only going to stay away for two nights, max, before going back to face the music. But, when day three rolled around, Bucky found that he couldn’t muster up the courage he needed in order to return. So, two nights became three, three nights became seven, a week became two and before he’d realised it, Bucky finds that he’s been here for over eight weeks. And as more time passes, the harder it becomes to make himself leave.

He’s kept himself busy, all this while. Bucky goes on the odd mission every now and then to keep his mind occupied and his skills sharp. They’re always small jobs that reach his ears via his own intelligence network, which he’d built up over his many decades in the field. Though he may no longer be the fearsome Winter Soldier -- in mind, anyway -- he’s managed to retain the respect and trust within his community that that title had bestowed upon him.  

Still, no matter how hard he may try to take his mind off the problem, the feeling that he’s let you down, in some way, continuously plagues him. Truthfully, there had been no reason for Bucky to leave. The only real reason he can think of is his cowardliness. He’d promised to stick around and have another talk with you, but that talk has yet to happen.

Bucky is fairly certain that no one on the team knows that he’s here. Well, maybe Natasha, but then again, he’d be suspicious and slightly worried if the opposite were true. Bucky’s gotten himself a new phone, changed his number, kept a low profile for the last couple of months. He’s basically dropped off the grid. He never intended to severe all contact when he first left the compound, it just sort of…happened. Bucky doesn’t want to completely prevent you from being able to find him, it’s just…he’s not quite ready to be found, yet.

It’s not that Bucky doesn’t want to talk to you, that’s not the issue at all. Bucky’s afraid. He’s afraid of what you might say, how your opinions of him might have changed now that you’ve had some time to think things through, stewed in your own thoughts for a while. Bucky doesn’t know how you’ll react. Bucky doesn’t know how he’ll react to you. There are a lot of uncertainties present in the situation, and if there’s one thing that Bucky hates, it’s dealing with uncertainty.

So of course, he’s chosen to not deal with any of those uncertainties by walking away from the problem in its entirety.

Bucky knows it’s cowardly, he knows that this course of action solves absolutely nothing, that it’s probably making the problem worse, but he can’t fucking make himself do anything about it. Avoiding the issue is the exact reason why the two of you are in this situation in the first place; it seems that Bucky hasn’t learnt from his past mistakes. History is cruelly repeating itself. As much progress as the two of you have made by uncovering all the secrets you’d hidden from each other, Bucky still feels like he’s back at square one.

His uncertainty is made even worse by the fact that Bucky doesn’t know whether or not you’ve decided to keep the baby. There’s not a single peep about that in the news — he presumes that the PR team are hard at work keeping those ravenous reporters at bay.

He does, however, have a strong gut feeling that you’ve had an abortion. Bucky’s got no proof for his hypothesis, but feels that now that you know the full story — that the child inside you is most likely his — why would you want to carry the pregnancy to full term? Why would you want to birth a child whose father is a monster like himself?

It’s those kinds of thoughts that haunt his every minute, asleep or awake. 

Bucky finishes off his coffee and dumps his mug into the sink. He leans his palms on the edge of the counter and looks out through the grimy window, over the rooftops of the buildings in the distance. 

How did we get here? he wonders dejectedly.

The two of you have ended up in a messed up place. It’s lonely and horrible and downright depressing, far more miserable than either of you should ever have to be.

Bucky’s had a lot of time to think, these past few weeks. He’s been spending a lot of time reflecting on his feelings for you. Bucky realises how blinded he was, how infatuated he was with the idea of love, with his image of you. You were the first person to show him kindness besides Steve, so of course his heart would form some sort of bond. He loved the perception of you he held in his mind — and when that perception proved to be false, his feelings for you underwent significant changes. 

He’s come to the conclusion that he hates you, in some capacity, but at the same time, loves you. It’s confusing, so utterly confusing, having these two emotions juxtaposing each other so drastically; it’s a never-ending battle in his mind. Sure, it’s probably unhealthy of him to still love you, despite all you’ve done to him, but—well, chocolates are also unhealthy, no? You’re his chocolate — his only vice. 

Nonetheless, Bucky’s got a clearer head on his shoulders, now. It’s as if someone has removed the blindfold from over his eyes. He still has feelings for you, in some manner, but you are no longer his anchor in this world — no, he grounds himself. 

The sound of the keys jingling by the front door interrupts his thoughts.

Bucky tenses, immediately cursing himself for not thinking to change the locks when he’d first moved in. He’s got no time to dwell on who it might be, though, because he can already hear the door creaking open. Bucky dives for cover behind the fridge, which is angled such that he’ll be able to see the intruder as they step into the hallway, before they have eyes on him. His flesh hand sneaks into the gap between the fridge and the wall, prying free the knife he’d wedged in there. He holds it in his hand, familiarising himself with its weight.

All fears are set aside when he hears a familiar booming voice calling “Barnes? You in here?”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Bucky swears, breathing a sigh of relief as he tucks the knife into his boot. He emerges from behind the fridge just as Sam saunters into the living room. “The fuck you doin’ here, Wilson? And how in hell d’you have a key?”

Sam whirls around, a brief smile appearing on his face when he sees Bucky. His brows knit together in confusion at Bucky’s question. “Uhh…Steve gave me one? I used to crash in here every now and then, ‘fore I moved into the compound officially.” As he speaks, Sam pulls off his bomber jacket and takes off his cap and sunglasses, dumping them on the coffee table.

Bucky scrunches up his nose in disdain. “So you knew I was here all this while, then?”

“What? Nah, man. Natasha figured it out first.”

“How?” Bucky presses.

Sam shrugs. “Hell if I know. I asked her the same thing and she just gave me that look, y’know? That creepy smile?” He shudders at the memory. “Anyway, she found out and told me, and we both thought it’d be best to leave you alone, at least for a little bit, see if you’d come back on your own.”

“Which I have not done,” Bucky says curtly, “And for good reason.”

“Oh really?” Sam asks, arching an eyebrow in amusement. “Do tell.”

Bucky huffs. “I needed some space,” he mumbles.

“Bullshit,” Sam scoffs, “Biggest lie I’ve ever seen.”

Sam’s tone sets Bucky on edge, his upper lip curling back into a snarl. “Yeah? Well why the fuck are you here, Wilson?”

“Can’t a man drop by to say hi to a friend?” Sam asks, spreading his arms wide in a placating gesture.

“No,” Bucky replies, “We ain’t friends, Wilson.”

“True,” Sam admits, nodding slowly, “You did rip the steering wheel—,”

“I said I was sorry!” Bucky interrupts, throwing his hands up in frustration. For Sam’s sake, Bucky ignores the eye roll that Sam throws in his direction. “At least a hundred times, I might add.”

“I forgive you, but I ain’t forgettin’ about it. And I’ll be dead ‘fore I let you forget, either.”

“Whatever,” Bucky grumbles, “Still haven’t answered my question, Wilson — what are you doing here?”

Sam sighs, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “I’m checking up on you, that’s what,” he replies.

“You—what?”

Sam quirks an eyebrow as he gives Bucky an appraising once-over. “Barnes, I dunno if you’ve noticed, but you look like shit.” He pauses, shakes his head, then elaborates, “No, that’s me being nice — you look like a pile of shit that’s been exposed to the elements for two days, then got dragged through an even bigger pile of shit and rolled over by a tank, or something. What, no hot water in this place? Forget how to do the laundry? Don’t got time to buy food for yourself?”

Bucky frowns, glancing down at himself as Sam speaks. His tattered t-shit and threadbare sweats are a  sharp contrast to Wilson’s crisp and clean look, he has to admit. Bucky’s grown his hair out, to the point where the tips are just brushing his shoulders. He knows that his hair’s a lot shaggier, somewhat stringy and gross looking. Self-care just hasn’t been on the top of his list of priorities, as of late.

“Well fuck you, Wilson,” Bucky mutters, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

Sam flashes him a gentle smile. “I’m checking up on you because it’s what Steve would’ve wanted me to do—,”

“So you’re only here because of him, then,” Bucky snaps angrily.

“Hold up, lemme finish!” Sam protests, “I was gonna say because I kinda like you, Barnes. In a weird, ‘admire you from a distance’, kinda way.”

Bucky blinks slowly, astonished by Sam’s confession. “W-well, I guess I could say the same about you,” he says begrudgingly.

“But…there’s something I’d like to talk to you about,” Sam says softly, casting his eyes downwards.

Immediately, Bucky’s protective walls are back up. He tenses in anticipation, bracing himself for some bad news. “What?” he grits out.

“Look, I—I think this is the kinda thing that you need to sit down for,” Sam suggests.

“Fine. Sit,” Bucky growls, gesturing for Sam to take the lone armchair. Bucky plops himself in the middle of the couch, situating himself directly opposite the other man.

“Gee, not gonna offer me a drink or something?” Sam remarks dryly, as he gingerly sits down in the proffered chair. At Bucky’s murderous glare, he hastily tacks on, “Alright, alright, no need ta’ be so touchy.”

“Wilson,” Bucky warns, “If you don’t fucking get on with it, I’m gonna throw you out of the goddamn window.”

“Okay, okay, fine,” Sam sighs, clasping his hands in his lap. “It’s about Y/N.”

Bucky clenches his hand into fists, baring his teeth in a grimace as he moves to get off the couch. “Yeah, about that window—,”

“Barnes, you sit your ass down and listen to what I got to say,” Sam says sharply, holding out one hand. “Five minutes, that’s all I’m asking for.”

With much reluctance, Bucky slumps against the back of the couch, sighing tiredly. “Fine. I’m giving you three,” he concedes.

Sam shakes his head in disbelief, clears his throat, then starts explaining. “The day we discovered that you’d left, Y/N…was upset. Like, really, really upset — locked herself up in her room, wouldn’t come out to talk to anyone for three days straight, not even Wanda.” He pauses, sparing a glance in Bucky’s direction, “And you know how close those two are. So, the rest of us…kinda thought that those two things had to be connected, somehow. Too much of a coincidence, otherwise.”

Bucky wants to shift uncomfortably in his seat, not happy with where this seems to be going. He doesn’t like what Sam’s implying, but until he’s heard more of the story, Bucky’s unwilling to let his emotions show.

“Anyway,” Sam continues, “She wasn’t eating, during that time, and that’s when Helen told us that Y/N was pregnant. She was getting concerned for Y/N’s health, you see.”

“Wait, you guys didn’t know that she was pregnant?” Bucky asks, brows knitting together, perplexed. “I thought she would’ve told at least Nat or Wanda or something.”

“Nope,” Sam replies, shaking his head. “Didn’t tell any of us. Hold up—you knew that she was pregnant?”

Bucky flounders under Sam’s astonished expression, unsure of how to respond. “I uh—yeah. Yeah, she told me.”

“Okay,” Sam says, drawing out the two syllables questioningly. “Anyway, um, so Helen went and talked to her, and that’s when Y/N finally came out and told us all that she’s pregnant with Steve’s kid.”

“Steve’s?” Bucky echoes, stunned.

“Steve’s, yeah,” Sam confirms, nodding confidently. “Who…who else’s would it be?” he asks, confused.

“Uhh—no one’s, no, nothing,” Bucky stammers, “I, uh—continue.” Bucky’s mind is whirling from this revelation. Why haven’t you told anyone the truth? Why would you be saving Bucky’s face like that?

“Right, so…she told us all that she was pregnant, and that she wanted to keep the baby—,”

“What?” Bucky squawks. He winces at his lack of restraint — he’s supposed to be a master at espionage, for fuck’s sake, he should be better at concealing his emotions than this.

“Yeah, she’s like…what? Four months pregnant now?”

“Oh,” Bucky squeaks, keeping his gaze downcast so that Sam can’t see the guilt in his eyes. Holy shit you’re four months pregnant and Bucky hasn’t been there to support you.

Crap. He’s already a terrible father.

Bucky sighs, raking his fingers through his unkempt hair. “But…Wilson, that doesn’t answer my question: why’re you here?” Bucky repeats.

“I’m gettin’ to that part of the story now,” Sam grumbles. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees as he looks driectly at Bucky. “She just hasn’t been the same since you’ve left.”

“It—it could just be because Steve’s gone,” Bucky points out, throat going dry at the way Sam’s looking at him.

Sam shrugs, tipping his head in acknowledgement. “Well, yeah, sure, but you guys…you guys used to be tight, once upon a time. And then—she got with Steve and the two of you sorta drifted apart, but we could — or at least, I could — tell that that you still kinda cared for her.”

“I do,” Bucky admits, voice quiet.

“The why’d you leave?” Sam asks, the briefest hint of anger entering his tone.

Bucky bristles in response. “What does me leaving having anything to do with her?” he snaps, “I just needed some space, after Steve passed—,”

“What you need is people lookin’ out for you, Barnes,” Sam interrupts, holding a hand up to halt Bucky in his tracks. “Supportin’ you, helping you through this. You can’t do this alone, Bucky. You..don’t need to do this alone,” Sam adds, voice softening with the last statement.

Bucky pushes aside the slight heartache that has flared up in his chest. “This isn’t about me,” he says gruffly.

“You’re right,” Sam agrees, “This is about Y/N, and she needs you right now.”

“But—she’s got the rest of you guys to look out for her, why does she need me?” Bucky asks, confusion and frustration tinging his voice.

“Because you, for whatever reason, are caught up in all this,” Sam explains, waving his hand in concentric circles. “Whatever’s got Y/N so upset has something to do with you, or at least with you leaving.”

“No it doesn’t,” Bucky says sullenly, expression twisting into a scowl.

“Barnes,” Sam sighs.

“What?”

“You know something.”

Bucky bites his tongue, unwilling to respond to that.

“You do,” Sam pushes, leaning even further forward, “What Bucky? What d’you know? Talk to me, please.”

“I—can’t,” Bucky murmurs, a hot flush rising to his cheeks as he thinks back to the long and complicated and distinctly not fairytale-like story of you and him, recalls how fucked up and twisted it is.

“Why?” Sam asks.

“Because…Y/N. Her—,” he cuts himself off, turning away to look out of the window, taking a moment to tamp down the shame and guilt whirling around inside him.

“Her what? Dignity? Privacy? Is that what you’re worried about?” Sam offers. “You know that what you tell me stays between you and me, right? It stays within these four walls. You want me to strip butt naked? ‘Cause I will, just to show you I ain’t wired up or nothin’.”

Bucky winces at the unpleasant mental image. The tension in his shoulders does dissipate a little, however. “Thanks for the offer, but no thanks,” he mutters.

“Look, no one knows I came here, I swear on my life,” Sam tells him, “I’m just…concerned for her, concerned for you, and I just…I wanna help.”

Still Bucky says nothing, too ashamed to admit all the things that have happened between the two of you. He  picks at the knee of his sweatpants, twisting a thread which has come free around his finger.

“Bucky,” Sam says, voice barely louder than a murmur, “I literally don’t care what you could say to me. I’ve seen some pretty fucked up shit in my life, alright? I won’t judge, I promise you. I will listen, for as long as you want me to, and not judge.”

Bucky closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath. His pulse is roaring in his ears and his mouth feels unnaturally dry. Telling Sam can’t be any worse than telling you, can it? He swallows nervously, clears his throat, then slowly cracks open his eyes to find Sam staring back at him, a patient smile on his lips.

And so Bucky tells.

He tells Sam everything.

Bucky tells him about the friends with benefits relationship going on between you and Bucky, all the rules you’d put into place. How you’d started dating Steve and how gutted Bucky had felt on the back of that. How Bucky later found out that you’d done that with the intent of making him jealous. He tells Sam of the night he’d gotten drunk off Asgardian mead and admitted his feelings for you to Steve. Sam learns about the mission in Malaysia, and all the consequences of that one night of passion.

Sam listens to it all, not once interrupting him. His face betrays no emotion whatsoever.

Bucky tells Sam of the emotional agony he was in. He tells Sam of the turmoil inside his head after Steve’s death, after you’d told him about your pregnancy. His story ends with the last talk he’d had with you, the night that Bucky had fled from the compound.

When he’s done, Bucky sits back in his couch, feeling slightly winded, a little dizzy, but a whole lot better. It’s as if a weight has been lifted from his chest. He feels infinitesimally lighter, like there’s less of a burden on his shoulders.

Sam hums, nodding his head slowly as he digests Bucky’s story. “Wow,” he breathes, “That’s…wow.”

Bucky snorts. “Was hoping for something more profound than that, Wilson.”

Sam chuckles briefly, before he catches Bucky’s eyes and sobers up. “Okay, so here’s the part where we have a deep discussion about everything you’ve just told me,” Sam says, “You think you’re up for that?”

“No,” Bucky admits, “But let’s do it anyway.

“Alright, first question then. Why’d you leave?” he asks quietly.

“Are you—for real?” Bucky sputters, “You’re really asking me that question?” Of all the questions to start off with, why on earth did he have to choose that one?

Sam cocks his head to the side. “Yes, of course.”

Bucky swallows, tips his head back to look at the peeling ceiling as he considers his answer. “I—I left because…I was scared. ‘Cause I am scared,” he replies.

“Of what?” Sam presses.

“Of…what happens next,” Bucky sighs, “That argument — I know that the truth was gonna come out at some point, it had to. I could’ve tried to bottle it up inside me forever but…I wouldn’t have been successful. The pressure would’ve given way, soon enough.”

“Doesn’t answer the question, Barnes, you’re deflecting.”

“Okay fine,” Bucky snaps, “I’m scared ‘cause I don’t know what’s going on inside her head. I—she lied to Steve, Wilson, she—she played us both. Okay, okay, I admit, that sounds kinda evil, which is not how I meant it, but that’s…that’s what happened! And the thing is, it worked! For a while, at least to some extent, she got away with it.”

A moment of silence passes as Sam takes that in. “So…you’re scared she’s gonna lie to you?” he asks.

Bucky takes a moment to chew over the question, examining it inside his head. “No…I don’t think so. I don’t think she’d do it again. I think she’s as tired of the lies as I am.”

“Then what?”

Bucky growls under his breath in frustration. “Fuck if I know, Wilson,” he grumbles, “I don’t know why I left. I—maybe it’s because I’m scared that she won’t want me, anymore. Maybe I’m scared that I’m not good enough for her, now that she knows the truth—,”

“You’re scared of her rejection?” Sam clarifies.

“…Or maybe, I’m scared of rejecting her,” Bucky breathes, pieces of the puzzle clicking into place as his own understanding begins to solidify. “Now that I…now that I know who she is, what she’s capable of, maybe I’m scared that I won’t want her anymore.”

Sam makes a thoughtful humming noise in the back of his throat. “Sounds to me like you’re scared of the unknown,” he comments, “You’re scared that the future you have planned out in you head is not the one that’s gonna play out in reality.”

Bucky nods slowly, mulling over that suggestion. “I…yeah. I think that’s it. Fear of the unknown.”

He looks up when Sam exhales loudly, watching as he leans back in his armchair and crosses his legs at the knee. “Hate to break it to you, Barnes,” Sam drawls, “But that’s just kinda the way life works. You can plan out your future all you want, but in the end, you’re still gonna end up taking a lot of risks.”

“But that’s the thing,” Bucky whines, “I don’t know if this is a risk worth taking. What do I do, Sam? How do I make things better?”

Wilson raises his eyebrows, a little smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Look man, I’m not gonna tell you what to do—,”

“Aw, c’mon—,”

“—but I am gonna tell you what I think about all this.”

Bucky blinks owlishly, thrown by the sudden turn of events. “Yeah. Okay, yes — please do, I need to listen to a voice that’s not coming from inside my head, for once.”

Sam laughs softly, “Yeah. I’ll bet you do.”

He’s silent for a minute, shifting in his seat as he plans out what he wants to say. “‘Kay, here’s what I think,” he begins, “From what you’ve told me, I can tell that you’re feelings a whole lot of emotions. I’m reading anger, I’m reading jealousy, fear, sadness. But the thing that keep coming up, over and over? The emotion that’s overwhelmingly obvious? Guilt.”

Sam’s tone gentles as he cocks his head to the side. “You feeling guilty, Bucky?”

“Well…” Bucky swallows, rubs his palms up and down his thighs nervously as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip. “Well, yeah. I do, kind of. I…hurt her.”

Sam narrows his eyes in suspicion. “You don’t sound too sure about that.”

Bucky gnaws listlessly on his bottom lip, wracking his brain for an answer. Wilson’s right. Bucky does feel guilty for hurting you, for dragging you through hell, but that’s not the full picture. That’s only the surface issue; what bothers Bucky is something hurting him on a deeper level. “I hurt her…but—but I got hurt too,” Bucky murmurs, after a while, “But…I guess I feel kinda guilty for blaming her?”

“And there we go,” Sam says, clapping his hands together. “That’s what I’m seeing, what’s glaringly clear to me — you hurt her, she hurt you. But, at the same time, you’re hurt and she’s hurt. As far as I can see, you’re both victims and perpetrators in this case.” He sits up a little straighter in his chair, puffing his chest out authoritatively, “But what you gotta realise is that it’s not a matter of tryna outcompete each other to see who can hurt the other person worse, or tryna to out-do each other and see who can shoulder more pain.”

“Look, both of you were idiots, but both of you ‘fessed up to your sins, at the end of the day. And that’s what matters,” Sam says, slapping his palm on the armrest for emphasis. “What matters is that in the end, you both came clean and laid all your cards on the table.”

It really is nice, being able to talk to an unbiased third party about all this. Bucky’s mind feels instantly cleared, as if Sam has plucked out the mess inside his head and arranged into neat, ordered piles. “So what now?” Bucky asks.

“What d’you mean, what now?”

“Where do we go from here?” Bucky clarifies, “I mean, I know we need to move forward, but…I guess I’m asking for directions. Which way is forward?”

“That’s something you two need to decide for yourselves,” Sam replies smoothly.

Bucky groans, dragging his flesh hand down his face out of frustration.

“Look, I’m not her—,” Sam points out.

“Thank god,” Bucky mutters darkly.

“—soI I can’t pretend to know what she’s thinking,” he explains. “If you wanna know what she’s thinking—,”

“—I gotta go talk to her myself,” Bucky finishes, sighing in resignation.

“Exactly,” says Sam, nodding encouragingly. “S’the only way you’ll know for certain.”

“Wilson, I—,”

“Alright, listen up,” Sam says, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward once again. He clasps his hands in front of him. “Listen—y’know, good foundations are the key to a good building, right?”

“…yeah,” Bucky says hesitantly, dragging the syllable out. His brows are furrowed in confusion at Sam’s unexpected change of topic. “Wilson, how is—,”

“Shut up, I just came up with a good analogy!” Sam cries, holding both palms out towards Bucky to silence him. “Alright, good foundations are the key to a solid building, and the way I see it, y’all need to rebuild from the bottom.”

Sam starts gesturing animatedly with his hands, sketching out a skyscraper in the air using his index finger. “Your building — which represents your relationship, or whatever the hell it is you had together — used to have shitty foundations. Like, real fucking crap, Barnes. Tower could’ve been knocked over by a strong breeze. Those old foundations couldn’t have held up a shack, let alone hold up the weight of all the secrets you two were piling on it. But now, that entire facade has been knocked to the ground. Flattened. Completely,” Sam says, making huge flourishes with both hands.

“So you gotta start from the bottom, again. You’ve gotta rebuild this, make it into whatever you and her want it to be,” he continues. “I’m not gonna tell you what that is, but…you’ve got a chance at a fresh start, Barnes,” Sam says, the corners of his lips upturning into a smile. “I think you’d be crazy to not take it.”

There is a lull in the conversation as Bucky’s brain digests what Sam’s just said.

“Damn, Wilson, that was fucking awesome,” Sam mutters under his breath, quietly fist-pumping the air.

“Careful, flying chicken,” Bucky chuckles, “Any higher and you’ll get too close to the sun. Your wings might melt.”

Wilson rolls his eyes sarcastically. “My wings happen to be made of something more resilient than wax, Barnes,” Sam retorts. “But thanks for your concern, anyway.”

“No problem,” Bucky says solemnly.

Sam snorts, shaking his head in amusement as he leans back in his chair and steeples his fingers under his chin. “But yeah, that’s the way I see it,” he says, “You’ve got a clean slate. You’ve both laid all your cards on the table and now you can either choose to push them aside and start a new game, or continue staring at the terrible hands that life has dealt you.”

“D’you want my opinion?” Sam asks.

“Not particularly,” Bucky answers.

“Good, ‘cause here it is: I’m not saying that you need to forgive her right now, if ever. I’m not saying that she’s gonna forgive you, right now or at all, in fact. I’m certainly not telling either of you to forget that any of this ever happened. What I am saying is for you to both accept what’s happened and…move forward, wherever forward may be.”

“S’easier said than done,” Bucky groans, crossing his arms over his chest and slouching further into the couch cushions.

“True,” Sam concedes, “But it ain’t ever gonna get done if you just sit there and do nothing about it. Look, you said you’d talk to her, and I think that’s what you need to do.” He pauses, then adds, “And actually talk to her this time, don’t just shout at each other and throw around insults. Listen to what she’s got to say, and if she cares for you as much as she says she does, she’ll do the same for you.”

Bucky swallows, looks towards Sam as he combs his fingers through his hair. “And what if she doesn’t?” he asks quietly.

“Doesn’t what? Care, or listen?”

“Both.”

Sam stills, tipping his head forward as he considers the question. “Well then, I guess you’d better decide whether that’s a love worth fighting for. Communication’s the key in a good relationship, ain’t that what they say?”

“Yeah, I guess,” Bucky sighs.

“Like I said: I ain’t gonna tell you what to do, Barnes. You’re a grown ass man, you can make your own decisions.”

“Fucking hell,” Bucky grumbles, “That’s really useful, Wilson. Real useful.” He decides to get more comfortable by twisting his body so that he’s lying on his back on top of the lumpy couch cushions.

“Buuuuuut,” Sam drawls, “I can pass on some potentially useful information.”

Bucky’s ears perk up and he lifts his head up inquisitively, at that. “What?” he asks.

“Tony, Bruce and Pepper are all staying in the tower this weekend. Clint’s taking Natasha back to his farm, and I’m taking Wanda to visit my mom’s place, ‘cause they love each other,” Sam reveals, checking each person off on his fingers.

Bucky arches an eyebrow in surprise. “You’re leaving Y/N alone in the compound?”

“Well, I offered her a ride, and so did Clint, but she turned us down,” Sam explains. “Said she just wanted some time alone.”

Well then, Bucky muses. Aloud, he replies, “Yeah. Uhh—thanks, Wilson. I’ll…I’ll think about it.”

Sam nods curtly, slapping his hands on his knees one last time before rising out of his chair. “You do that. But don’t think too much,” he adds, “God knows you’ve done too much thinking already. I can practically see the steam comin’ outta your ears, old man. Gonna give yourself a heart attack if you think any harder.”

“Real funny,” Bucky snarks, but there’s no heat to his tone. “I think it’s time you head on out, Wilson.”

“I think so too,” Sam agrees, giving Bucky a half-hearted wave as he shrugs into his jacket and puts on his cap and sunglasses.  

“Sam?” Bucky calls, just as the man in question starts walking over to the door.

Sam whirls around. “Yeah?”

“Thanks,” Bucky says, a small smile curling on his lips.

The smile he receives in return is a genuine one, encouraging and optimistic, all at the same time. “You’ll be okay, Barnes,” Sam says.

Bucky closes his eyes and listens to the sounds of Sam’s retreating footsteps with a stupid grin on his face and a lightness in his heart that hasn’t been there for a long while. For the first time in goodness-knows-how-long, Bucky actually knows what he needs to do.

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Kudos to you if you spotted the reference to the fic title within this chapter. Congratulations also if you know which Sebastian Stan/Anthony Mackie video I was thinking of when Bucky made the flying chicken joke.