They go see the Eiffel Tower, because of course they do. It’s different from how Steve remembers it. Closed, for one. Granted, the last time he’d seen it they’d been running away from Nazis and toward… different Nazis. And the time after that had just been a flyby to punch some robots.
“Pretty impressive,” Sam volunteers, gesturing at the tower. They’re on the bridge now, surrounded by tourists; Sam’s taken about six thousand photos.
Steve sighs. “Yeah. Shame about that new wall, though. I wanted to walk under it and see the bottom.”
“I’m right here,” Bucky says, strolling up with a very tiny paper cup in one hand and a pair of neon pink sunglasses in the other, wearing two different hoodies. “Open for business any time you like.”
“Not wearing that you’re not,” Steve says, while Sam groans and mutters something about how he never should have pointed to a “buy a bottom get a top half off” sign and laughed.
“Oh?” Bucky says. “Is there something at all wrong with my outfit? Sweetie?"
“Yeah, wearing a shirt as pants is just - wait, let me take that again. What the hell happened to your pants, Buck?”
Bucky takes a pointed slurp of his minuscule cappuccino. Sam sighs. “We’re gonna get deported again.”
“Eh,” Natasha says, from behind them.
Steve turns. “Being deported is a serious problem. For many Americans.”
Natasha shrugs. “I mean, yeah, but if you want to go tricking the American government into losing files, that’s like -”
“It's maybe an afternoon,” Bucky says.
“Like into the evening if we stop for dinner.”
“You know what’s more fun than getting un-deported? Not getting deported in the first place,” Sam says.
Natasha has the same thoughtful expression a cat probably has when they’re deciding if they’re on the wrong side of a door. “They won’t deport us,” Steve says, perhaps more confidently than he feels. “We’re Captains America. And this unrelated blonde woman who is never photographed with us.”
“Except one time someone thought I was Terrence Howard. And the other 15 times I was Uncredited Stranger. Or a fan.”
“Bad branding,” Natasha says.
“No action figure,” Bucky says.
“Racism,” Steve says.
“You might have a point,” Sam admits.
“And I can go brunette and be fine, and Bucky here just needs a shave, a haircut and a different weird arm,” Natasha says.
“Glasses,” Bucky ventures, to nobody in particular.
“You don't want an action figure,” Steve tells Sam. “That'll just be more, better racism.”
Sam considers this. “No, I think I definitely want an action figure.”
“We can do that instead,” Natasha says. “That's more like a week, though.”
“Really?” Bucky says, ignoring Steve’s “Instead of hacking the government?”
“Well, prototype runs,” Natasha says.
“Huh,” Bucky says.
“Which government? Ours? The French?”
“Two, three weeks, I know some factories that'll run you anything,” Natasha says. "Like, anything."
Bucky looks at Steve speculatively. “Absolutely not,” Steve says, distracted from his concerns by this new and bigger threat.
“Can it be a more like... fun action figure, though,” Sam says. “Right now I'm all tactical.”
“Yeah, don’t worry, we'll make sure your pants are removable,” Natasha says.
“That's a flaw the all the Steve ones have, too,” Bucky says gravely.
Sam recoils. “What? No! I need a good gift for my nephew!”
“You want to give him yourself?” Steve asks. “A little plastic you?”
‘You signed our rent check last month as Captain America,” Bucky points out, which was a mistake anyone could make if they had a job that involved autographing your alter ego’s name for three hours straight at child hospitals. At this point it was a natural reflex of being handed paper. He’d signed someone else’s parking violation.
“It’s a perfectly fine gift,” Natasha says. “Your nephew will love it. He's like... 8 months old last week? That’s 4 months until his birthday.”
“I need you to not remember more things about my nephew than I do,” Sam says seriously.
“Sorry, I mean he's like... what? 9 months old?”
“He’s 8 months. Thank you.”
“I’m a little more concerned with how you want to be able to take its pants off,” Steve says. "Also, please never again tell me about how you spend your time pantsing little plastic versions of me.”
“You expect me to get an action figure of you and not take its pants off?” Bucky says. “Mattel leased your license in the 80’s. I can get Captain AmeriKen or Barbie’s New American Dream.”
“I expect you to stay away from children's toys altogether, Steve says severely.
“Ageist,” Natasha says, lazily.
“It’s a mark of quality,” Bucky says back to Steve, just as severely. “The new ones are all molded plastic, his face is melty, it's bad.”
“His? You mean mine?”
“Though there’s this recent one where he's shoving his tits out, and that's fun,” Bucky remarks, apparently to everyone.
“He has a spreadsheet,” Natasha says.
“I have a spreadsheet,” Bucky confirms.
“I need to go,” Sam says, at the same time Steve says, “I need to leave.” They fistbump.
“So shopping?” Natasha says, taking Bucky's exquisitely European cup and slurping.
“That took way too long,” Bucky says.
“Yeah, where did your pants go?” Natasha says. Sam and Steve simultaneously turn around and start walking.
“Eh,” Bucky says.
“That's travel for you,” Bucky says sagely, the weight of deep wisdom in his words. “Hazards of tourism. Gives as much as it takes.”
“Did you or did you not grab the wrong suitcase.”
There’s a loud answering slurp from Bucky. Sam and Steve walk faster.