#i honestly could not tell you it's three thousand words of pure vibes and ZERO plot

[firstelevens]

from the prompt list: 21 and Sam/Bucky ✨

21. you come and pick me up, no headlights

For a second, when Sam wakes up, he can’t remember where he is. He’s the kind of disoriented that only comes from sleeping deeply and for way longer than you’re supposed to, a little over-warm under the covers and still fuzzy on the details of the room around him.

It comes to him in pieces: the bed is perfectly firm and the sheets are comfortable the way hotel bedcovers never are. The room is cool and dark, and the pillow beside his carries the familiar scent of too-fancy haircare products. Sam presses his face into it for a moment, not quite ready to be awake but not tired enough to go back to sleep.

He’s back in Delacroix, he realizes belatedly. He’s back in his own house, in his own bed, after a mission that felt like it had gone on forever and didn’t feel finished even after he’d signed the last piece of paperwork. Being home is always a relief, but never more so than when a mission reminds him of all the things that he still can’t do, even as Captain America.

Memories of last night slowly filter in the more he wakes up: flying in on the quinjet with aching shoulders and a worrying tightness in his knee, and dreading the hour long drive to a house that would be empty, thanks to Thunderbolts business taking Bucky from Louisiana before Sam had left for his own mission.

When they’d touched down, Sam had barely managed to avoid stumbling off the jet, shield and wingpack in one hand and duffel in the other. As he picked out the shape of his truck in the distance, he spared a second to be grateful for Carlos, who’d offered to drop it off earlier so Sam wouldn’t have to wait on a ride after he landed.

He’d almost made it to the driver’s side door before getting the shock of his life, nearly dropping his bags as the supposedly-empty truck started up with a growl. Sam had been tired enough to think of that one Stephen King book and wonder if this wasn’t revenge for the new cars he had test driven last week, but the headlights weren’t on, and he seemed to remember something about those being kind of important for an evil car.

It was in the middle of that slightly delirious train of thought that the door had opened to reveal Bucky, who was out of the cab and already loading Sam’s bags into the bed of the truck before Sam had fully processed what was happening. He’d gone without protest when Bucky had chivvied him into the passenger seat, fully intent on asking when Bucky had gotten home and instead immediately knocking out once the engine started up.

Sam can’t quite remember getting home or making it into bed—there was a bath in there, maybe, and a cup of tea when he’d refused food—but he knows enough to be sure that he’d fallen asleep with Bucky’s arms around him, his face tucked against Sam’s shoulder blade. 

The other side of the bed is cold now, but Sam can hear Bucky making a ruckus down in the kitchen, utensils clinking as he talks animatedly to…someone. If they’re answering him, Sam can’t make out the voice. It’s a phone call, probably.

He drags himself out of bed, rolling his shoulders as he stands and noting with surprise that yesterday’s aches haven’t lingered as much as he expected them to. He puts a little pressure on his knee just to test it, braced for the twinges of pain that he’d felt for the entire quinjet ride, but at worst, it’s just a little stiff, and even that dissipates with some stretching.

Absently, Sam rubs at the spot on his lower back that always hurts after a long day with the wings on and finds that that feels better, too. He’s confused until he spots the little jar of muscle salve that Bucky always grabs when they’re in Wakanda, some kind of superpowered Tiger Balm that he usually rations between visits in case his shoulder flares up. Sam makes a note to tell Shuri that they’re running low so that Bucky doesn’t have to go without.

He just needs coffee, he decides, and starts making his way to the kitchen to find some. When Sam gets to the landing, he stops for a second. He just means to listen to the sounds of home for a second: birds chirping outside and Alpine playing with whatever her latest bell-and-sparkly-tinsel toy is and Bucky clattering around the kitchen, fussing with the newest recipe that he’s been taught by the circle of parish grandmas, all of whom are technically younger than him. (Sam would be hard pressed to admit it, but watching Bucky and Miss Irene and Miss Letty commiserate over how terrible powdered eggs were back in the forties ranks among the top ten cutest things he’s ever seen.)

It’s Bucky’s voice that stops Sam in his tracks, carrying out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Over the years, Sam has heard the Brooklyn accent peek through from time to time, rearing its head when Bucky’s tired or he’s spent a couple days around someone who hits their vowels the same way. In all that time, he can’t think of a moment when he’s heard it this thick, sweet and almost crooning.

He’s so distracted by the accent that Sam doesn’t even think about who Bucky might be addressing, transfixed by how much younger he sounds, how much lighter his words are.

“Did you do that all by yourself?” he’s asking. “You’re so smart, bubs. I didn’t realize we had a prodigy on our hands.”

Sam frowns, trying to figure out who Bucky could possibly be talking to. The most obvious choice would be Alpine, except she’s curled up in the sun at the foot of the stairs, and while both Sam and Bucky tend to baby her, he’s not sure either of them would shower her with praise for doing the exact thing that she spends roughly fifty percent of her time doing.

(Okay, maybe they both would do that, but Alpine is out here with Sam and not in the kitchen with Bucky, so this can’t be about her.)

As if in direct answer to Sam’s unspoken question, a baby’s laugh sounds from the kitchen, giggles rising in pitch until Bucky is shushing them, and now Sam is only more confused.

Where on earth did Bucky get a baby? Does it have to do with the Thunderbolts? Is that why he came home earlier than expected from his mission? That makes sense, honestly. Sam’s met Val; if there were a choice between leaving a baby with her or a literal tiger, he might seriously consider the tiger. 

“Take it easy, huh?” Bucky says, as the baby coos at him. “We can’t have you tiring yourself out, can we? How’re you gonna charm everyone at the park today if you’re napping?”

There’s a pause for the babble that the baby offers in response, and Bucky hums thoughtfully at the end of it.

“That’s a good point; you probably could charm them all even if you were sleeping,” he says. “Like I told your Ma, you’re too cute for your own good. You gotta learn to use that power responsibly.”

The baby babbles again, punctuated by another shriek of laughter. Sam stops spinning out baby acquisition scenarios to appreciate how adorable it is that Bucky is talking to this literal infant like they’re having a full blown conversation.

“Come on, kiddo,” says Bucky. “I thought we had a deal. You don’t wake up Sam while he sleeps off this mission and I play peekaboo with you until my arms fall asleep.”

“Bah!” is the baby’s emphatic response, and Sam’s not sure what that’s supposed to mean, but Bucky is.

“Oh, yes we did. We shook on it.”

A gurgle, and then another laugh.

Bucky lets out a dramatic sigh. “Okay, fine, I shook on it and you just tried to eat my left hand. Still. That’s a gentleman’s agreement.”

Sam muffles a laugh behind his hand, and the sound is apparently enough to disrupt Alpine’s time in the sun. She casts an imperious look back at him before curling up in her spot again, having sufficiently expressed her distaste. Sam wonders if her mood has anything to do with the fact that Bucky’s attention has been claimed by a different adorable someone, and confirms his theory by sitting down on the stairs and waiting her out as he listens to the conversation in the kitchen.

The step squeaks under him, but he’s pretty sure he gets some cover from the baby yelling, “Buh!” and clapping excitedly.

Alpine startles at the noise and gives Sam a look like, Are you seeing this right now? He shrugs at her in a way that he hopes is commiserating, and she responds with a flat stare that she unquestionably picked up from Bucky.

From the kitchen, Sam hears Bucky say, warm and encouraging, “Yeah, that is a bird. You want to go look at the birdfeeder?”

The baby makes another noise that must be a yes. Alpine, now probably offended by the baby and the talk of birds, has begun a stately prowl up the stairs. Sam avoids looking at her as she makes her way up, but immediately offers chin scratches when she settles in his lap.

There’s a running commentary on the birds at the feeder now, finally giving Bucky a use for all the bird facts he picked up while helping Cass with that project on local ecosystems last month. 

“That’s a goldfinch,” he’s explaining, and the baby lets out a soft ooh at whatever the bird is doing. “Uh-huh, he’s real pretty, right?”

Alpine curls up more comfortably in Sam’s lap, and he rests his head against the railing and lets Bucky’s voice wash over him, comforting the way it always is, even when they’re arguing over something stupid.

“You see that one over there on the railing? All showy with the blue and white? That’s a blue jay. Sam likes those, but there’s this red finch that’s his favorite.” He pauses for what Sam assumes is more baby babble. “You, too, huh? Yeah, I guess they’re nice. Not my favorite, though.”

The baby must make an inquisitive noise, because then Bucky’s humming thoughtfully.

“I’m trusting you not to tell anyone, okay? This is top secret stuff.” The baby gurgles and that seems like reassurance enough, because Bucky goes on to say, “All these years and my favorite bird is still Sam.”

Sam snorts and shakes his head. At some point, that joke is going to get old, he’s sure, but as far as Bucky’s concerned, it hasn’t happened yet.

“I know, I know,” Bucky’s saying. “But the first time I saw him fly, he literally knocked me off my feet. That sort of thing tends to leave an impression.”

More cooing from the baby.

“Yeah, okay, so I’m a little biased,” says Bucky, and punctuates it by blowing a raspberry that sends delighted giggles carrying through the house. “But you’ve never seen him fly. He’s nice to look at all the time, but when he’s up in the air? It’s like he was born to be up there. There’s nothing better.”

It’s quiet for a moment, Sam’s heart too full to even think of a quippy response.

“He really is beautiful,” Bucky says, completely sincere, and the part of Sam that hasn’t completely turned to mush feels a little bit guilty for eavesdropping on Bucky like this. The feeling immediately dissipates when Bucky adds, a little bit louder, “It almost makes up for how bad he is at sneaking around his own house.”

Sam looks down at Alpine. “This is your fault,” he tells her as she looks up at him. “I was just trying to figure out if your dad had stolen a baby. I would’ve been like a ghost if I hadn’t sat down to pet you.”

There’s a snort from Bucky, who appears in the doorway to the kitchen with a curly-haired baby on his hip. “Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.”

“I will,” says Sam. In his lap, Alpine perks up as soon as she hears Bucky’s voice, then rears back at the sight of the baby. They watch her hop off of Sam and flounce her way into the family room, probably in search of Fig. “So are you gonna explain where this baby came from or…?”

“I’m not sure I have time for an entire birds and the bees talk right now,” Bucky says, blinking at Sam as innocently as possible. “I’d offer to give you the highlights but I think Jordan’s a little young to hear all that.”

“You’re not as funny as you think you are,” says Sam, as he takes the last couple of steps moves towards the kitchen. He smiles at the baby, holding a finger out for him to grip. “Hi, Jordan. You have fun birdwatching with Bucky?”

Jordan looks at Sam, wide-eyed at the sound of his own name, and grabs onto Sam’s hand before turning to Bucky with a beatific if gummy smile.

“Did you say hi to Sam?” Bucky asks, tickling Jordan’s stomach and making him giggle. “Did you tell him you like blue jays, too?”

There’s something about the way that Bucky moves with a baby in his arms, swaying and bouncing just the right amount, alert but not tense. He’s confident anytime they’re out in the field, and time in Delacroix has helped him shake off the shyness and hesitation that colored his earliest visits here, but there’s an element of this that goes beyond that. It seems instinctive, somehow.

Sam has the mildly embarrassing thought that he could watch it for a while and not get bored, and decides not to test how obvious this inclination is by coming up with a distraction. “I’m starving,” he says. “Have you eaten yet?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Got a little distracted when Miss Letty showed up with this one,” he says. “And he keeps touching my left hand, so I didn’t want the metal heating up near the stove.”

“If I make breakfast, you think you and your co-pilot over there can handle putting on some coffee for us? Is there a stroller or something that we can put him in?”

“Don’t worry about it,” says Bucky, waving a dismissive hand. “I’ve had plenty of practice.”

“Juggling a kid and making breakfast?” asks Sam, as he pulls eggs and milk out of the fridge. “Who are you, June Cleaver?”

“You know I don’t know who that is.”

Sam just shrugs, letting Bucky have the out if he wants it, and gets a mixing bowl from the cabinet so he can start making pancake batter. After a few moments of working in relative silence—Jordan is still as chatty as ever, and Bucky keeps up his end of the conversation—the coffee maker starts burbling, and Sam feels Bucky come up to stand beside him, his chin resting on Sam’s shoulder as he peers into the mixing bowl.

It’s like waiting Alpine out on the stairs earlier. Sam keeps working, measuring out his flour and whisking in baking powder and salt. Bucky nudges the carton of eggs over before Sam has to reach for them, and he just hums in acknowledgment when Sam thanks him.

“Evie went through a phase,” is what he finally says, when the batter is nearly done. “Right after Rose was born, when she wasn’t the baby of the family anymore. Any time she saw Ma holding the new baby, she’d want to be held, too. I got real good at juggling a two year old in one arm and whatever I needed to get done in the other. Then Ma went back to work, and I would sit up with Rosie when her colic got bad, walk her around the apartment until she calmed down enough to sleep.”

Sam can picture it perfectly: teenaged Bucky, still growing into the dashing good looks that were memorialized in all the textbooks, but with the same sense of duty that would keep him at Steve’s side years later, soothing tears and finishing fights in the same afternoon. There are so many skills that Bucky carries that Sam has watched him struggle with, not knowing whether HYDRA put them there or why he might have needed them. He can’t help but feel relieved that Bucky also gets to keep this, too, this muscle memory that belongs wholly to the person he was before tragedy could touch him.

It’s rare for Bucky to talk about his childhood at all, between the gaps in his memory and the grief over what he’s lost. As a rule, Sam tries not to make a big deal out of it when it happens, so in spite of how full his heart feels, he just leans into Bucky’s warmth, pressing a kiss to his cheek before he can pull away.

“Sounds like they were lucky to have you,” Sam murmurs.

“Yeah, maybe,” says Bucky, sniffing a little. “I guess so.”

“They were,” says Sam, more firmly this time. “Trust me. I know the feeling.”

He has the sense that Bucky’s about to argue, but then Jordan cuts him off with another well-timed, “Bah!”

“See?” Sam says, pointing at Jordan. “You have to listen to us. You’re outnumbered.”

Bucky lets out a gusty sigh, looking down at Jordan, who just coos at him. “I can’t believe you’d betray me like this.”

“He saw a better deal and he took it,” says Sam. “Sorry, baby.”

“Fine,” grouses Bucky. “I’m conceding, but I’m gonna be persnickety about it.”

“You can be as persnickety as you want, as long as you know I’m right,” says Sam, carrying the bowl of batter to the stove.

“In that case, if I tell you that you’re right again, will you add those pralines we bought to the pancakes?”

“I’m above flattery, Barnes,” he says, but now he’s thinking about brown sugar and pecan caramelizing against the pan and it sounds delicious. “But yeah, maybe.”

Bucky sets a coffee mug on the counter in front of him and steals a kiss. “Chocolate chips, too?”

“Don’t push it,” says Sam, but he’s already turning to grab the Toll House bag from the pantry, and he can’t even be that annoyed about it when Bucky crows about his victory.

It’s good to be home, he thinks, and throws a chocolate chip at Bucky’s head for good measure.