Chapter Text
“You want any help getting sorted?”
It’s maybe a risky question, offering his help unpacking. Depends on the interpretation, really, and Bucky has been interpreting things pretty accurately so far, but Sam still half-wishes he’d taken a moment to find a better way to maybe invite himself to spend some time with Bucky.
The last thing Sam wants is to offer up an insult, like he’s assuming Bucky’s going to be useless when he’s down an arm. Hell, the man had hauled Sam and both packs across the ice and set up what fire there was fuel enough for with one arm possibly literally tied behind his back. It’d be a shock if he couldn’t unpack his own gear without help.
But Bucky’s usual post-op behavior includes peeling off from the others and hiding out in his rooms doing who knows what for at least an hour, and Sam… kind of doesn’t want them to go their separate ways this time. It wasn’t a long flight, but he’s kind of looking forward to some more alone-together time now that there’s no threat of freezing to death.
Thankfully, Bucky’s lips pull up at one side to let him know the offer didn’t come off wrong. It’s a tired sort of half-smile, but genuine enough.
“Yeah, actually,” he says. “Could really use a hand.” Bucky winks like he’s just been clever, and his smile evens out into a full grin when Sam rolls his eyes.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t make a joke as lousy as that one,” Sam says as he falls in beside him, “and hold out for the real joke to come.”
Bucky bumps him with his right shoulder and turns off toward the elevator to head up to the 92nd floor, where his suite of rooms is tucked away on its own. “Bet you can hold out for a while, too, what with your extra hand and all.”
“That doesn’t count as a real joke,” Sam complains. “That’s just another version of the first terrible and unoriginal joke. Come on, Barnes, I know you’ve got better.”
“Tch. You should cut me some slack. Being ‘armless isn’t something I’m used to—it’s not the like the murder cyborg thing, Sammy. I don’t have as many handy one-liners for this.”
“Okay, you’re going to have to stop with the horrible hand and arm puns if you want this fledgling relationship to survive.”
“So I’m killing it, is what I’m hearing.” Bucky elbows the wall panel and nods for Sam to go ahead of him as the elevator opens.
Sam grins and leans against the back wall. “Sure, but not in the good way.”
“Ninety-two, JARVIS,” Bucky says as the doors slide shut behind him. “If you would.”
“Certainly, Agent Barnes.”
Bucky yawns something that might be a thank you and ignores the rest of the roomy elevator car to squeeze into the corner between Sam and the side wall so he can tip his head to rest on Sam’s shoulder. “Thanks, JARVIS,” he says again, more clearly.
“Of course.”
Sam knocks his foot against Bucky’s as the elevator begins its downright sedate climb to the 92nd floor. “Don’t go falling asleep in here. I’m not hauling your ass back out when we finally get there next year.”
It’s not actually going to take a year, but it’s just one of the things about sharing a Tower elevator with Bucky. Unless it’s an emergency, you aren’t going anywhere fast. He’s a speed demon on a motorcycle, pilots a quinjet like he’s chasing the wind, but an elevator? Molasses slow.
Actually, same with Steve, now that Sam thinks about it. If Stark’s in with you, JARVIS will zip the car somewhere fast enough to leave your stomach behind, but the super soldiers could probably walk up all those stairs and get there faster than JARVIS will take them.
Leaning here with Bucky pressed tight against his flank, this is the first time Sam hasn’t felt slightly impatient on the journey, mostly because of the company and the fact that he can actually let that company know how much he likes it for a change.
“‘M not gonna fall asleep in the elevator,” Bucky grumbles. “I’ll fall asleep on my sofa. Preferably wrapped around you.”
“Well count me in,” Sam says. “Feel like I could sleep for days now that I don’t have somewhere to be.”
“You do have somewhere to be, though. My sofa.”
Sam snorts. “It still covered in books?”
“Uh,” Bucky starts, then pauses. “Shit, I don’t even remember. If there’s books, I’ll kick ‘em off.”
Sam laughs and stands up straight as the elevator slows even further to a full stop. “Or you can stack them neatly somewhere. I’ll even help,” he adds, tugging Bucky forward to get him started. “Since I’ve got two hands, and all.”
“Ass,” Bucky mumbles as he follows.
There are books on the sofa when Sam slips past Bucky into the sitting room. Looks like a couple of pastel bodice-rippers, a big coffee table art book of stars, and a stack of Nat Geo and Good Housekeeping magazines that slumped over while Bucky was out.
“Well, never let it be said you aren’t eclectic,” Sam says as Bucky disappears into his bedroom to dump his pack.
He traces the cover of one of the romance novels. A tawny-feathered bird man with a ripped up tunic is apparently seducing a half-naked woman on a forest cliff at sunset. There’s a whole pack of wolves howling below the cliff, and some kind of covered wagon in the distance.
Moon of Silver, Sun of Gold: Eclipse of Passion. Not a great title, but the cover art doesn’t seem to be hinting that the contents are any better, so it probably fits. He still doesn’t know why or how Bucky can read these things.
“Thought you were gonna help stack them up,” Bucky says from behind him. “‘Cause of hands.”
Sam rolls his eyes again and does gather up the books to put off to the side. “What’s this one about?” he asks with a nod toward the book he’d been inspecting.
“Hm? Oh, that’s— ‘kay, so Pierre is a harpy driven from his colony by a terrible secret that I won’t spoil for you. And he and Marguerite are deeply in love despite her pack’s protests that werewolves and harpies can never, you know.” He makes a suggestive gesture and adds an eyebrow wiggle.
Before this past mission, Sam would have asked if it was likely to end happily. If Pierre and Marguerite were able to “you know” several times in great detail during the course of the novel.
But while he does still kind of want to have that bit of banter and explore some of the places it might lead now that they’ve cleared the air, so to speak, he’s suddenly got a much more pressing question.
“Are those real?” he asks. “Harpies? Werewolves?”
Sam straightens up the magazines in their new pile so they won’t fall over. “Hell, are books like that accurate, if they are real?”
Do vampires exist, and do they get fatal indigestion around garlic, or do they sparkle in the sunlight? What about Sasquatch? Elves? There’s suddenly so much Sam needs to know.
“Uh.”
Bucky frowns, like maybe werewolves are a secret only werewolves ought to be sharing with normal humans. And hell, maybe they are. Maybe there are all kinds of magical beings out there and they all keep their own secrets.
“Okay, so,” Bucky starts, and then sinks into the sofa at one end. “Werewolves, yes, do currently exist. I’ve yet to read a book or see a movie or whatever that’s accurate. Harpies… did exist? But I think they’re all dead now. I could be wrong.”
Sam studies him with a frown. He’s saying it all nonchalant, but “I think an entire species of magical bird people is extinct” is not the sort of thing a magical seal person is going to actually be nonchalant about.
“This is like some gritty urban fantasy novel where all the magical people are slowly being killed off by humans and iron, isn’t it?” Sam has seen those sorts of movies. Hell, even in the Lord of the Rings, there are sad elf conga lines through the forest as they just up and leave the world to men. And hobbits.
Bucky blinks up at him.
“Magic isn’t a wonderful world of new things to explore,” Sam continues, hoping he’s wrong. “It’s a museum of dead people, isn’t it. Isn’t it?”
Bucky shakes his head, but his right hand makes a wobbly see-saw. “Ehh. Depends. If they’re small enough to hide or able to pass as human or some commonplace animal, then they’re probably doing just fine. But you’re not going to see any centaurs galloping down the street or sphynxes running around.”
Sam considers that for a moment. So that would leave, what, shapeshifters, elves, vampires, selkies—obviously—probably mermaids just because the ocean is big and mysterious. There’s probably lots of other things out there he doesn’t even know to think about.
“Well,” he says, “that’s at least not quite as ‘Great Iron Age Extinction Event’ as it could be. Glad there’s still some mystery to the world.”
“There’s lots of mystery, sure. Like me.” Bucky waggles his remaining hand at him from where his right arm is slung over the back of the sofa. “Come on and sit already, gorgeous. Keep the mysterious selkie company. Take a load off. You’ve got to be tired.”
“Well, only as long as you’re sweet talking me, Barnes.” Sam settles in beside him, leaning into his side. “Better keep that up or I’ll go sit somewhere else, though. Your chair over there is pretty comfy.”
“Rude.” Bucky lets his hand drop to Sam’s shoulder, his thumb lightly stroking the side of Sam’s neck. “You got a real mouth on you, Wilson. Mm. The things I want that mouth of yours to do.”
That’s an invitation if there ever was one. And if Bucky didn’t sound borderline sleepy saying it, Sam would rsvp to that party with an emphatic “yes,” despite being tired himself.
But, hell, Sam’s as exhausted as Bucky sounds. Arctic cold and near-drowning and all the rest, while there was definitely a hell of a bright spot in the mix, takes a lot out of a guy. And probably ripping off your arm, turning into a magic seal, and hauling a waterlogged colleague across the ice does, too.
And lying is surprisingly tiring, as it turns out, especially to colleagues in a mission debriefing.
Sam’s usual post-mission debrief doesn’t tend to include bald-faced lying about the circumstances of a mission failure, but when the truth is you fell through the ice and only survived via the ancient selkie art of rescue spooning in a poacher’s shack, you just gotta lie.
After all, you can’t go around telling people your brand new boyfriend turns into a magical seal.
“…rain check?” Sam murmurs.
Bucky laughs softly at his side. “Later on, I’m gonna cash that check so hard, Sammy-doll, you have no idea.”
“I don’t know,” Sam says, tipping his head back to rest on Bucky’s bicep. “Feel like I got a little preview. Betting I’ve got at least some idea.”
“Mmm. Coming soon,” Bucky rumbles in a low announcer’s voice, “in a bedroom near you…”
Sam grins and digs a finger into Bucky’s side. There’s not even a hint of give. No one would look at him and think of a blubber-lined seal. “Dork.”
“Told you, I prefer selkie,” he says, his answering grin audible.
“So where does all the…” Sam shrugs, using the movement to burrow even closer. “Blubber? Pudge? Bulk? Where does it go when you look human? Where is it right now? Because your pelt is soft and warm, but it’s not like there’s a fat layer in there.”
Bucky hums to himself again. “Get ready for the first in a long string of answers you’re going to hate.”
“Lay it on me.”
“Magic,” Bucky announces. “Pocket dimensions. Mystical non-Euclidean physics. Take your pick.”
Great. That’s going to be the answer to everything, he can just tell. And the worst thing about that is it’s probably not even a cop out.
“So you’re not actually a Tetris grandmaster, like you said? Selkies aren’t naturally gifted in the ancient art of furry origami?” Sam adds a scandalized tone to his voice. “It was all a lie?”
“I do actually have the high score in that group Tetris app Stark pushed to all our phones, so it wasn’t all a lie, doll.”
Sam snorts. As if it wasn’t all a joke, anyway, while they were packing back up after their clothes dried. Except apparently the Tetris. It occurs to Sam that he doesn’t actually know when Bucky’s joking about this new subject. Not with absolute certainty. He hopes there’s plenty of time to learn the new tells.
“I can see hammerspace, maybe,” Sam says. “You know, for getting a thick pelt big enough to cover two grown men to fit in a pack alongside all the other gear.” He never played D&D himself, but he knows the concept behind a bag of holding.
But hammerspace falls just a little short when solving the case of the missing pudge. With the pelt all spread out, there hadn’t been blubber anywhere—not on the pelt, not on the man.
Sam gives Bucky another poke. “It just doesn’t quite logically explain how a guy with as little body fat as you’ve got equals a seal with all the rippling, jiggling squish that entails.”
“Well there’s your problem. ‘Logic,’ ha! He thinks there’s logic behind it.”
“Well you said rules. Different rules apply to you. Something like that. Rules imply logic.”
Bucky scoffs, but it’s somehow a bitter scoff. “Rules imply rules lawyers and legal bullshit and loopholes and people getting screwed over by the more powerful people those rules were made to actually serve.”
“The fisherman’s wife thing,” Sam suggests softly. He burrows his left arm between Bucky and the back of the sofa, curling his hand at Bucky’s hip.
It’s hard to see a village fisherman in the distant past as a “more powerful person” with magic laws made on their behalf, but Sam knows he’s seeing only a small part of the picture, and through fogged glass, what with the inevitable mistranslations through the years and cultural shifts.
“Oh, man.” Bucky huffs softly. “That’s like you take one of those fancy-ass waste-of-space ice sculptures, like a melting swan at the worst kind of fundraising gala. And you put it on top of the tip of an iceberg. And you stand back and look at it and declare the story told.”
He shifts a bit, just until he can kiss Sam’s temple. “Not you, as in Sam. Just, you know, the ‘you’ that goes with the ‘them’ when ‘they say’ stuff.”
“Yeah, no, I got that. Generalized ‘you.’” Sam gives Bucky’s hip a squeeze. “M’not feeling attacked. Truth is, I hardly even know what a selkie is. Thought it was a kind of mermaid with shitty marriage prospects, until a few days ago. Mythology wasn’t a big interest of mine growing up.”
“A mermaid,” Bucky repeats, like it’s the best thing he’s heard in a year. “Oh, I like that. I’m going to have Steve draw me like a mermaid,” he says. “Might swipe one of Nat’s bras for a photo reference. Wear some of Darcy’s nipple pasties. I’m sure she’s got some. She seems like the type.”
Sam shakes his head. “Well, I mean, you have the hair for it.”
“I do have the hair for it.” He yawns. “Got great hair. Best in the Tower when Thor’s off-world. Selkie hair. Passed down through genera—”
“Oh shut up, you dork.”