SAM WILSON (MCU)

That was a lot of blood.

Things were a bit of a blur after that realization hit him, and after what felt like a few seconds he was stumbling across a familiar tiled floor. He was glancing behind him, eyes struggling to focus as they followed the path of blood droplets back to the elevator where he came from. He blinked, hard, brows furrowing together before he opened he opened his eyes again with a groan.

Bucky knew where he was. Getting himself here hadn't even been a conscious thought— as soon as he found himself flat on his back on the pavement, ears ringing and nose broken and stomach slashed open, he knew he had to get himself somewhere.. not here. There were unanswered calls and texts from Val and the team waiting for him, practically burning a hole in his pocket, but he ignored them all and limped his way through the streets towards the only safe landing his rattled brain could think of.

"Shit.. I'm making a fuckin' mess.." He sucked in a sharp breath, keeping one arm wrapped over the gash on his abdomen as he started fumbling around for the key. Not his key, just the key. The one that he knew he shouldn't be using. The one that he desperately hoped Sam hadn't moved.

All he needed to do was rest for a bit. Clean himself up. Maybe slap on a bandage or two. He would be fine. Sam wouldn't have a clue. They could stay at arm's length, avoid any awkwardness. Bucky would be out before Captain America had any idea that he had been there. That would be best for the both of them.

It was late in the night — too late, actually. He should have been back in his apartment in comfortable clothes with the television droning in the background. He was too high strung at the moment to pay any attention to it, but at least the soft chatter broke up the silence of living alone. If there was one thing that Sam had learned, it was that being alone with his thoughts wasn't always a good thing. There were a myriad of problems to fixate on. They seemed to be stacking on top of one another at an alarming rate, and as he lay awake at night watching his ceiling fan cut slow rotations through the night, he knew that something had to give.

It was with a sigh that Sam switched his monitor to the camera that guarded the entryway to the building. He was expecting some stupid teenager there on a dare or, if he was unlucky, some low level thug. It felt bold to come in through the front, but overall, IQ's were on the decline. His headquarters wasn't entirely secret, and people were getting bolder. Why not attempt the front door?

Whatever annoyance Sam had growing died when he made out a familiar face in the grainy black and white image. He'd recognize that hair anywhere, even without the glint of the metal arm registering in the darkness. Although he'd later come to regret it, the first thought that crossed Sam's head was to turn the camera off. Pretend Bucky wasn't there. Things had been tense between them — to say the least — and where there was once easy camaraderie and affection now there was terse silence and unspoken words. It was easier to be angry than face how betrayed Sam felt.

Still, something felt wrong. Bucky knew where the key was, and Sam hadn't moved it. Why was he just standing out there, form haggard and dragged down? Why would he show at Sam's door now, after months of hurt and awkwardness? He had a way to let himself in, but he hadn't. It was those questions that pulled Sam from his desk chair and towards the door, a feeling growing in his gut that something was wrong.

When he opened the door, it was quick instincts that led to his arms quickly moving to support his friend's frame. Bucky had been leaning against the door, it seemed, and Sam steadied him with strong hands. It took only a second to take in the pale face, the line of sweat on the brow. The blood.

"Jesus Christ, Buck."

The words were a quiet hiss born out of concern, not anger. In that moment, it didn't matter that Sam was hurt. It didn't matter that Bucky had hurt him. Something had clearly gone wrong and Bucky had come to Sam's place. Sam would never leave him out in the cold. Wordlessly, Sam slung Bucky's non-vibranium arm around his shoulder. He managed to carry the bulk of the injured man's weight as he led them into the building.

There was a couch that Sam sometimes crashed on when he couldn't bring himself to return home to his empty apartment. He deposited Bucky onto it (gently, of course) before turning to grab the emergency kit that he kept there at all times. Gauze, needles, scissors, bandages. It was all there. Sam just needed to see what he was working with here.

He wanted to crack a joke. Make a snide comment. Nothing would have made Sam happier than for the two of them to slip into their signature banter, but the concern was overwhelming. Sam had spent a decent amount of time with super soldiers, and it took a lot to wound them with any severity.

"I just don't get how you can have the 'Avengers' without Captain America. That's like having a football team and no quarter back -- or basketball with no Lebron."

Bucky let out a sigh of relief, the tension in his shoulders visibly falling away when Sam brought up the bar. That's when he let go of his arm, less desperate to keep him close now that they were going somewhere else to talk.

"Yeah, I know the one." He tried to swallow the lump in his throat as he nodded, exhaling through his nose and taking a small step back. "Give me uh.. uh, half an hour. Thirty minutes. I'll be there." He needed to get out of this damn uniform, and make sure that his people weren't going to cause any more problems while he was gone. He needed to make sure they were all okay.

Bucky started backing away, tilting his head as he pointed at Sam with the smallest hint of a smile. "Drinks are on me tonight." That felt like the least he could do, considering the circumstances. There was a sense of urgency that quickly overcame him, and there was almost a skip to his step as he jaunted back and away to get everything settled and situated before he left for the bar.

He had to take a moment once he got there, his feet stilling a few feet from the entrance. People passed him on the sidewalk as he stared at the door, but after someone opened it from the inside and left Bucky forced himself to take a deep breath. He tucked a few loose strands of hair behind his ears, pushed the sleeves of his shirt up to his elbows, and then he finally went in.

Like Bucky, Sam needed to change. He loved being Cap, but he didn't need the eyes on him. The shield tended to attract attention. He felt more at home dressed in civilian clothes. Even if it was impossible to ever be off duty, it felt good to take off the kevlar and slip into something breathable.

"—With that Avengers salary? Yeah, you're buying the drinks." Sam snorted as he took a step back. "I'll you soon."

By the time Bucky got the bar, Sam had ordered. The alcohol sat neglected in front of him. He felt like he needed a drink, but he was hesitant to imbibe. When was the world going to fall apart? It felt like at any minute. Sam wasn't Steve, Bucky, or Walker. He had no serum. He had to stay alert and aware at all times. Training, sweating, bleeding. He would work his body into peak physical shape to keep up as his body aged and worked against him.

Well that went horribly. Bucky hadn't really expected that meeting to go well, but he had hoped that something good would have come out of it. Looking back, that was oddly optimistic of him. And truthfully he was glad that things didn't turn out worse.

There were still a few conversations happening in the room as they all began to disband— he could hear Yelena and Alexei mumbling about something that he knew he would have to deal with later, but that wasn't his focus at the moment. Bucky completely ignored Val, waiting for her to give up and leave the room while he kept an eye on who he really wanted to talk to.

As soon as Sam was standing, so was Bucky. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if he should simply let his friend go. Their last talk didn't exactly go as planned, and it was entirely possible that Bucky would screw things up even more by trying to make them better. He was good at that— it often felt like for every step forward he took, he inadvertently threw himself a step or two back. But he also had a hard time letting things go, and that stubbornness often got the best of him.

Bucky's feet were moving before he made the conscious decision to do anything, and he was heading straight for Sam. He wove his way around the crowd as they all made their way to the elevator, parting the small sea of people at a diagonal.

Sam Wilson: veteran, human, Captain America. Once upon a time, he had been just another guy in Louisiana doing his best. Then, he had been an airman trying to do good. He became the Falcon because he felt called to help people, to make something of himself. His transition to Captain America was complicated, but he felt compelled to rise to the challenge. Now, he laid awake at night wondering if this really was all an ego trip. Was he just mad because someone else had gotten what he thought should be his? As the sun rose and shone through his blinds, he had decided no. He wanted the Avengers to be real. To be good. The team that Steve, Nat, and the others had sacrificed so much to create deserved to be more than some cheap government imitation.

The firm grip on his arm slowed Sam to a stop. It was loose enough that he could break free if he wanted to, but Bucky was his friend. His best friend, even if he didn't want to admit it at times. They had come a long ways over the years, which is why it felt absurd to be in a goddamn legal battle over a name of all things. No, not over a name. Over a legacy.

"I'll catch up with you, Cap." Sam murmured to Carol when the blonde turned to look over her shoulder with a raised brow. They had the space thing to deal with, but they weren't breathing a word of that around the New Avengers. Sam would need to figure out how Yelena knew about it later. Without comment, Carol left.

As the people filtered away into the night, Sam pursed his lips and took a second to take his friend in. The hair looked good, but Bucky seemed tired. There was a weight pressing down against his shoulders. How had it only been a few months since they had stood in Joaquin's hospital room? He had been terrified then; terrified of losing the bright eyed kid who followed him into battle, terrified of letting the world down, terrified of failing. Bucky had known just what to say. Now, Sam was speechless.

Sam Wilson