I wish you would write a story where Captain America would try to steal James Barnes from Sam Wilson in your Make a Thing Go Right Universe.
THIS IS MAYBE NOT WHAT YOU WERE ASKING FOR but
Natasha asks, just once, as Steve parks. In the early morning light she looks very pale, under the layer of soot and grime that’s covering them both. She asks, “Are you sure?”
Steve’s hands are still on the wheel. He squeezes a little. It’s cheap feeling against his palms, like plastic. “I don’t want to - ” he says, and chokes on it. He tries again. “I thought it was coincidence, up on the rooftop. But now -”
She nods, slow and watchful. She watched him all the way through Jersey, like a spooked animal, but she got steadier once they were off the turnpike. He’s glad, selfishly. He knows she’s rattled but he needs her for this. She’ll do what she has to, if he - if -
She’s never been to this house. He never brought her here. It’s quiet, and still - ordinary looking. The car’s in the driveway. The lights are off. There are lawn chairs out back, a cheap Weber grill. An overflowing ashtray, tucked under a broke down wooden chair next to the back door. He’s never seen any sign of an alarm, but it’s possible. Anything’s possible.
The back door’s one of those sliding glass ones. It doesn’t lock properly, never really has, and Steve lifts it up a little in its frame, gives it a shake and slides it open. He peers around the corner - there’s only one set of keys hanging up at the front door. Good. That’ll make this easier.
There’s a soft sound from up the stairs. Behind him, he can feel Natasha exhale, almost silently. Footsteps. Bare feet shuffling over the thin carpet, heavier on one side. Steve’s whole body is wound tight, wound all the way up. He hasn't felt this hot since 1944.
Steve uses his bare hands. One strike to the sternum as the target - groggy and rubbing sleep out of his eyes - rounds the corner into the kitchen, sending him staggering backwards. Use that momentum to knock him down all the way, skidding into the hall, the rug bunching up under his shoulders. They’re grappling dirty on the floor, and he’s twisting like an eel under Steve, trying to break Steve’s hold. Gets one knee up, barely missing Steve’s balls, gets enough leverage with his foot on Steve’s thigh to work the other one out and kick Steve right in the chin. His neck snaps up; it hurts. His grip loosens enough that the target wiggles loose and goes scrambling towards the living room. Almost manages it but Steve’s on him, one hand fisted in that long hair to slam his face into the wood floor. Does it again, harder, and the body under his goes abruptly limp.
“Tell me it wasn’t you,” Steve says, too loud, the words scraping themselves out of his throat. Soft hair tangled around his fingers, his other hand braced against the hard curve of the metal shoulder. “James! Tell me it wasn’t you.”
“Steve,” Natasha says, and Steve lurches to his feet, shoves himself off James’ prone body. He gags, hard enough that it doubles him over, and for a second he’s sure he’s gonna be sick. On the floor, James groans. He’s bleeding. He’s got one bleary eye cracked open, just a sliver of that bright blue that all the Barnes kids had, and he’s grinding his forehead and one shoulder into the floor, trying to flip himself over. Steve gags again. He’d had hours in the car to imagine how they’d done it - actors, forged records, edited photos, plastic surgery - they’d had Bucky’s letters, they’d had them, no one could have known - but seeing James now is like seeing him for the first time all over again, struck dumb and aching by the sight of him just the way Steve had been that day in Stark’s lab.
They look just alike. It’s a - it’s a sick joke. It’s a horror.
James hadn’t even tried to use the arm against Steve.
The front door opens. He hears Natasha draw her gun on Sam, hears Sam shout James’ name. Steve doesn’t even turn around. He keeps his eye on James, that metal arm tucked awkwardly underneath him, his long hair bloody and matted against his face where Steve split his lip and forehead open for him. He watches James’ shoulders jerk with effort as he shoves himself the last few feet towards the couch and comes back up with a pistol they must have hidden underneath it. He watches James aim the gun at his face.
God, Steve had wanted him. Even when he’d known he wasn’t - that Bucky was - it had made Steve dizzy to be around him.
He sits down on the couch. Falls down, more or less. There’s a scuffle behind him, as Sam goes for the Natasha’s gun, ending with a couple heavy thuds. Not a problem.
“What the hell is going on, Steve!” Sam shouts, and Steve feels a stab of pity: if Sam didn’t know either. On the floor, James has both shoulders braced against the wood, eyes huge, pupils dilated. Waiting for Steve to make a move. The pistol doesn’t waver at all, in his hands.
“Tell me it wasn’t you,” Steve says to him. His hands are useless and heavy between his knees. “Tell me you’re real. James, tell me you’re real.”
"I wish you would write a fic where ...”
