Chapter Text
Sam drags his hand down his face, hoping that when his vision clears the sight in front of him will have changed.
No such luck.
“Eighteen,” he repeats for the third time. The map spread across their kitchen table mock him with its red circles. “You have eighteen caches of supplies hidden around the world.”
By now Bucky’s own patience is waning; his tone is flat as he repeats the same thing he’s been explaining for the past ten minutes. He makes a vague gesture across the paper-covered table and says, “Yes Sam. Eight in North America, two in Central America, five in Europe, two in Africa, and one in China.”
Sam laughs somewhat hysterically. “What, nothing in Antarctica?”
Bucky scoffs at the absurdity of the notion, then appears to actually consider the idea.
“It’d be hard to get to, I supposed, but that could have benefits.”
Sam doesn’t so much sit as collapse into the kitchen chair. It creaks ominously under his weight but seems resigned to soldier on; he knows the feeling.
With a smile that curves half his mouth and lightens his whole demeaner, Bucky continues, “Then again, I do like dogs. Maybe I could get a dogsled, lean into the whole ‘White Wolf’ thing...”
Sam lets out a noise that causes Bucky to laugh out loud.
“I’m kidding!” he assures as he pulls out the chair across from Sam and settles into it with far more grace than Sam did. “You know how I feel about the cold.”
And Sam does know. After decades stationed in Siberia – not to mention cryogenically frozen on and off for seventy plus years – Bucky likes snow and cold just about as much as one might expect. Even though his knockoff super-soldier serum prevents him from being as vulnerable to extreme temperatures as most mere mortals, Sam has learned that it takes him hours, sometimes days, to warm back up after prolonged exposure to the cold.
As a result, whenever possible these days, Bucky goes to extreme lengths to stay warm. Living in Louisiana certainly helps with that.
Bucky shivers dramatically, probably re-considering the "Iditarod-ing across Antarctica" thing and Sam’s is reminded of the shithole apartment Bucky rented in Brooklyn prior to moving south.
The day he had officially moved out so he could officially relocate to Sam’s Delacroix apartment, Sam had literally given him the sweatshirt off his back because he couldn’t stand his partner’s shivering for another minute. It had been single digits outside and barely warmer in the unit and Bucky had suffered.
Only then did Bucky confess that he’d actually never gotten around to connecting the heat in the apartment. For the almost-year he lived (more like squatted) there, he’d had no heat, despite the fact that New York winters frequently dipped into single-digit temperatures.
Sam had initially been shocked to discover that Bucky had simply tolerated the discomfort, but now that Bucky’s mental health has improved he can recognize that the situation was less "I didn’t have time to arranging for heat" and more "I’m still atoning for my past and therefore don’t deserve creature comforts."
These days though, it seems that Bucky has finally realized – and addressed – that he hates the cold and deserves to avoid it if at all possible.
The number of fuzzy blankets scattered around their apartment, and then house once they had upgraded, quickly crept into the double digits. Sam still isn’t sure of the exact number – Bucky seems to bring home a new blanket just about every other week – but he does know there are more than enough blankets to create a cozy (and sometimes too warm) nest on the living room floor for sleepovers with the boys.
White Wolf, my ass. Aren’t wolves supposed to like the cold?
Bucky pulls Sam back from his reminiscing.
“It if makes you feel any better,” he says as he picks up and successfully lobs the sharpies one by one across the kitchen and into the lopsided (and obviously homemade) ‘MY Uncle iS Captain America!!’ mug on the counter. Sam gauges the distance – probably about seven feet – and tries not to let himself be impressed by his partner’s impressive casual precision. “I don’t have any stashes in Australia either.”
With that confession, Bucky begins to haphazardly fold up the map.
“That’s only because you couldn’t get there unrecognized, isn’t it?” Sam taunts.
He’s rewarded with another mischievous grin.
“Somehow Sydney didn’t make my itinerary when I was running for my life.”
“Shame,” Sam responds deadpan. He’s heard Australia is a beautiful place. “Actually, wait a minute...You managed to stash something on every continent –”
“Except Australia and Antarctica,” Bucky interrupts.
“Except Australia and Antarctica,” he agrees, “in the two years I was chasing your ass with Steve?”
The former Hydra asset pauses with the map folded into messy rectangles and makes a so-so gesture with his free hand.
“Kind of. I set up the ones in Europe, Asia, and Africa, but I didn’t get a chance to update them ‘til after I got Zemo back to the Wakandans.”
“Huh.” Sam muses. “That’s what you were doing after everything with Walker in Latvia. I thought you were just blowing me off!”
“Well,” Bucky admits, using the edge of the map to scratch the side of his neck. “I suppose I was, but I was also re-supplying the stashes.”
That makes a weird kind of sense. When there is work to be done, Bucky isn’t one to sit still and Bucky also isn’t typically one to waste opportunities. With how closely his passport and ID are no doubt monitored, it was probably easier to traverse Eurasia and Africa when he was already in the area, rather than needing to cross the Atlantic from NYC.
Sam begins to wonder how many of his old identities, aside from the Winter Soldier, Bucky still has in his back pocket, or more accurately, in his hidden supply stashes.
“Tell me about the American hoards,” Sam requests.
Bucky initially makes a face at Sam’s wording choice, no doubt imagining Smaug’s hoard in The Hobbit (just as Sam intended him to) but he continues with a somewhat guilty shrug. “Six months is a long time, Sam. And I wasn’t just sitting on my ass in New York after, you know, the Snap.”
Sam is immediately drawn back to the half-year period between returning from the Blip and Bucky confronting him in the hanger about the shield.
“No,” Sam agrees sullenly. “You spent that time ignoring me.”
Bucky rises from the table then and drops the crumpled, marked-up map into the stainless-steel trash can they keep next to the stove.
“Sam...” he warns.
They’ve been over this and he’s apologized for his radio silence and for his hostility about Sam’s handling of the shield.
“Okay, okay,” Sam agrees easily. He doesn’t actually want to poke at that old wound either, especially since their resolution of that particular hurt had been thorough and cathartic. It was less a wound these days than an old scar.
Brow furrowing, he watches as Bucky rifles through the junk drawer.
“What are you doing, man?”
Apparently finding what he’s searching for, Bucky pulls a box of matches out and lights one with an experienced flick.
“Jesus Christ!” Sam exclaims, jumping to his feet. “What are you doing?!”
Bucky’s scoff is condescending. “Destroying the maps,” he explains as if Sam is slow. “I drew all over these, birdbrain. Anyone who finds them will know where our stashes are.”
He moves the lit match closer to the garbage can.
“No shit, Sherlock,” Sam proclaims before darting between his partner and the burning match to grab the bin. He catches Bucky’s eye and uses the can to gesture towards the backdoor. “And we will burn this shit outside.”
The match burns down to Bucky’s metal fingertips and goes out.
“Oh.”
With the same accuracy as he threw the markers, Bucky flicks the used match towards the sink. It lands precisely in a coffee mug full of soapy water.
Sam ignores the (second) impressive feat and instead takes a split second to ponder the absolute shit show that is his partner.
Sometimes Bucky is a tactical genius who strategizes and plans for every eventuality, going so far as to stash weapons and supplies all around the world. Other times, he is a clueless moron ready to light a fire right in their kitchen. And he didn’t even take out the half-full plastic bag first!
This is the man you choose? He hears in his head, Riley’s voice sounding amused and mocking at the same time. He’s a dumbass for sure, but that only makes him more perfect for you.
Sam smiles as he imagines Riley’s approval. Then he does the responsible thing and removes the plastic garbage bag before putting the maps back in the can.
God help me, Ri. He thinks. I keep choosing him every day.
He can imagine Riley’s wide, white-toothed smile with almost perfect clarity.
Mind settled now, he makes no effort to be graceful as he exists the backdoor; the screen door slams behind him, bouncing once before latching. Even without enhanced senses, he hears Bucky grumbling when he has to open the door again to follow his partner out to their back yard.
Sam sets the can a safe distance from the house in a patch that is more dirt than grass and makes a "have at it" gesture at his crazy yet brilliant partner.
Without fanfare, Bucky tosses a second lit match and the paper is crinkling and burning within moments.
The acrid scent of smoke is just beginning to reach his nostrils when he says, “Before, you said ‘our’ caches. Emphasis on ‘our.’”
The flames, already devouring the map and its confidential information, reflect distractingly in Bucky’s blue eyes.
“Yeah, so?”
“So…what exactly should I expect to find in these stockpiles?”
“Weapons, obviously,” Bucky answers easily. “Guns, knives, grenades, extra ammo. Some body armor.” He throws Sam a smile that Sam knows all too well. “Maybe some liberated Stark tech. And Pym tech.” He stretches out the ‘a’ in the word ‘and.’
Sam shakes his head and tries not to imagine exactly what Bucky may have "liberated." Knowing Stark and Pym, it could be anything from nanosuits to AI drones or time-travel-portal-opening gadgets.
Best not to think about it right now, lest his mind run away with the possibilities. It can be a question for later.
“What else?” he asks.
“Cash, IDs. Incriminating documentation that could bring multiple first-world governments to their knees. You know, typical go-bag stuff.”
Sam can’t fight a laugh by this point. “Your definition of a go-bag is vastly different than mine.”
Bucky answers Sam’s laugh with his own and pockets the matchbook. Moving around the still-smoldering trashcan to Sam’s side, Sam watches as his bare feet stir up dust in their mostly dirt lawn.
“I uh. One of the other things I did,” he says. “When I was re-supplying, was to put in extra supplies. You know,” he says as if Sam should know. “I put in enough stuff – including fake IDs – for two people.” He stresses the number two.
Then he turns his whole body to face Sam and Sam can smell his aftershave even over the scent of burning secrets.
“In every cache, there’s enough gear and supplies and shit for both of us.”
Sam gapes but can’t pull his eyes away from Bucky’s; they’re magnetic and he’s helpless to escape their pull.
“You did that even before…even before you came to Louisiana? Before you gave me the suit?” He shakes his head as if that will make things clearer. “That’s even before the GRC battle and the cookout!”
A flush paints Bucky’s cheeks with a lovely shade of pink.
“Well,” he answers softly. “Yeah. I did.”
Suddenly, the surprise of finding an arsenal in his attic and discovering that his partner has supply caches all around the world seems insignificant. He knows it is significant and may come in handy (or even lifesaving) one day, but that knowledge doesn’t settle in Sam’s gut the same way as this does.
What it comes down to is that Bucky planned for Sam to be with him, no matter where he was. He planned to have the necessities to care for both of them, no matter the situation.
When Bucky planned his future, he automatically assumed Sam would be in it.
“‘Where you go, I go’,” Bucky quotes, throwing Sam’s own words back at him. “That’s what you said, isn’t it?” He takes a deep breath. “It’s the same for me.”
Sam’s face shows surprise for a moment before softening into something fond. He graces Bucky with a gentle smile.
Offhandedly, he notices that the fire has gone out and the maps have burned to ash, any secrets they may have contained safely destroyed. It’s just the two of them against the world now; no one else will know their secrets.
“Ok yeah,” he says lightly, clasping Bucky’s shoulder affectionately. “Where you go, I go.”