Chapter Text
JUST IN: PRESIDENT RILEY A. SIMMONS WINS SECOND TERM
Sam watches the message float across the bottom of the giant TV screen in the Oval Office.
Outside the White House, supporters have gathered in the thousands, cheering the freshly released results. Their happy chants resound and carry into the room, mixing with the staff’s merriment.
Monica’s husband scoops her up and kisses her cheek. “Congratulations, Lady Vice,” he says, his own smile a broad, white, pearly display.
Beside them, Romanoff, Rogers, and a few more security agents embrace and exchange handshakes. Secretary Rhodes pops a bottle of champagne and pours it abundantly into a tray of flutes. The dining staff file in with platters of entrees: crab cakes, short ribs, sushi, pastries, more than anyone can ever eat. Entertainment staff swiftly fill the room with blue balloons and golden streamers, and upbeat music.
But Sam’s husband is nowhere to be found.
He’d been dreading this moment since the first few state results rolled in, and Sam suspected he might run and hide before they even announced his second term. They’d been tiptoeing on a very narrow edge for about two weeks. The house has been an endless vacuum of tension. Every conversation has been about the election, every meal just another meeting about numbers.
“He’s out there,” Bucky says from behind Sam, pointing over his shoulder to the courtyard.
Sam turns to find Bucky grinning, his eyes alight. “AirPods in, right? Playing mini golf. Don’t even know he won.”
“You know it. Hey, congratulations.” Bucky opens his arms and pulls Sam toward him, squeezing tight around his ribs in a sweet, familiar embrace.
The Service assigned James Barnes as Sam’s security when Riley first took to Office. They met in this very spot a little over four years ago and just stared at each other, all bug-eyed and unsure, while Riley and Monica met with their own security teams. Sam had no idea what to say, couldn’t read James’ expression for shit. All he knew was that James was tall and handsome and real scary looking, but he had no clue what to say to the man or how to start up any kind of conversation.
And then James cleared his throat, squared his jaw, and said, very seriously, “Please change the goddamn drapes in this office.”
And Sam blinked at him, then at the drapes—an awful shade of blue, like dirty denim, with beige pinstripes going only halfway down—and erupted in a cackle that resounded down the hall outside.
“Did Mrs. Pierce know you were hating on her décor, or is that just between us?” Sam asked and inched a little closer to James.
“Oh, she knew. We didn’t agree on much. Except for her safety,” James said, and moved even closer to Sam.
Then Sam extended his hand, and James took it. His grip was so warm and so strong and sure, and despite the high, ascending energy throughout the White House, James’ presence somehow tethered Sam.
“Sam Wilson.”
“I know. James Barnes. It’s an honor, sir. Welcome to the White House.”
“James?” Sam said, still clutching his hand.
“Yes, sir?”
“If you ever call me sir again, we gon’ have a situation. Call me Sam.”
James laughed quietly, a subtle rush of air passing his lips as he bowed his head. He gave Sam’s hand another shake.
“Yeah, alright, Sam. Call me Bucky then.”
“Bucky, huh?”
“Don’t ask questions about that,” he said with a playful wink, finally letting his hand fall from Sam’s.
“Alright, deal, Bucky,” Sam said, a new friendship forged amidst scurrying staff and unfamiliar faces.
And four years later, standing in the same spot, next to the marble bust of an old, dead president, that friendship is still going strong. There are very few people Sam trusts so entirely with his life and the lives of those he loves as much as he does Bucky. Sam might even go as far as saying that in this isolated life of his, as the spouse of the nation’s president, Bucky and Monica are his only real friends.
“Thanks, Buck. Be right back,” Sam says and comes away from the embrace. He leaves Bucky to it and goes to find his husband. But Bucky follows Sam to the courtyard outside the office, just a few steps behind him as always.
Riley’s aiming and calculating his swing, his back turned to the rowdy indoors, utterly unaware of their victory. He’s in slacks, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his blonde hair a little wind-swept.
“Hey, honey,” Sam says, but Riley doesn’t hear him on account of the AirPods. Sam places his hand on Riley’s shoulder, and Riley stops mid-swing and turns. He doesn’t seem surprised exactly, but perhaps startled, as if he had truly zoned out and forgotten about the election for a moment. He removes the earbuds.
“Well, hey sugar,” he says, his drawly accent thick the way it gets when he’s in his own head. He leans forward and kisses Sam’s cheek. “Oh Lord, wait—” He glances over Sam’s shoulder at the raucous celebration inside his office, Monica grinning that gorgeous smile at them and waving. Riley’s eyes go big, and he takes Sam by the shoulders. “We won? We did it?”
When Sam nods, Riley yanks him into an embrace, hard and tight with all that cowboy strength of his. “We did it, honey!” Sam laughs into his neck and wraps his arms around his husband’s back.
“Damn, I wasn’t prepared, sugar.”
“Congratulations, Ri.”
“Riley!” Monica calls out, beckoning him inside.
“Let me go deal with this.” He gives Sam a quick, chaste kiss and then rushes off to join his vice president.
When Sam turns around, Bucky’s standing there with a plate of snacks and a flute of orange juice.
“They said lunch is only at two now. You didn’t have breakfast.”
And now that Sam’s paying attention, his stomach feels hollow and cold, not from nerves anymore but from actual starvation.
“I know you didn’t put no olives on this plate,” Sam says. He takes the plate and picks out four ripe green olives stuffed with some slimy red business.
Bucky gives an ever-suffering sigh. He holds out his hand for Sam to pile the rejected olives on. “I took my chances. These were hand-stuffed, though, Wilson. Made right here in the presidential kitchen.”
“Buddy, the last ones you tried making me eat were from Osteria Francescana, straight from the motherland herself, and I ain’t eat that shit.”
“I know. I just like hearing you say Osteria Francescana.”
“This is the shit I gotta live with. Y’all see this?” Sam says to the garden statues, and beside him, Bucky snorts. He looks away to hide that he’s laughing at Sam’s lame joke, but the apples of his cheeks plump up with a smile.
“Alright, okay. You win this one.” He’s quiet for a beat, and the sounds from inside the office steam out to them. Another bottle of champagne pops, a happy cheer follows. “You ready for four more years?”
“No,” Sam says, then laughs. Bucky laughs too. “But we doing it.” He nudges Bucky with his elbow.
There is a tiny, very minuscule part of Sam that had hoped the first term was Riley’s last. He misses his husband. He misses the time they spent just the two of them. He misses having Riley all to himself. And maybe he’s selfish. Maybe that makes him an asshole—wishing to deprive the country of a good leader.
Sam knew what he was signing up for when he fell in love with a senator running for Office, with this lavish life. He knew what the job demanded. He knew the hours, the stress, the milling, and the perpetual buzz. Living his life constantly surrounded by everything, by an entire nation.
But he had always dreamed of a quiet life. A place in the country with the man he loves, acres of greenery and trees, and flowers around them. A long winding road they could drive down on a warm Sunday afternoon. A big old farmhouse with a wraparound porch and a French kitchen. Some horses and a stable, and a little creek covered by a blanket of mist in the mornings.
He doesn’t hate this life, but he sometimes yearns for the one he dreamed of.
“Cutting the ribbon to your school in a few weeks,” Bucky says. “Pretty cool way to kick off your second term. You do good shit, Wilson.”
“Yeah, I do good shit. You coming?”
“Always.”
“It’s your job, right?”
“It’s what I want to do.”
They look at each other for a moment, smile, then break away. Sam feels the tinge of worry in his shoulders subside.
Bucky is a constant. Bucky is an anchor in Sam’s life, a reminder of normalcy. When it’s too much, too loud, too many people, Bucky takes him away from it. Bucky doesn’t treat him like the first gentleman. He never has. He treats Sam like any other guy, just someone he cooks pasta with late at night in the staff kitchen and shares his good books with.
Sam puts the empty plate down and holds his hand out to Bucky. “Shall we mingle, Mr. Barnes?”
But Bucky gets up and walks ahead. “Can’t. I got all these goddamn olives in my hand!”
And Sam cackles so loud it echoes through the courtyard.
They finally serve lunch just after two. The entrees have worn off by then, and Sam is back to starving. The critical staff proceeds to the dining hall from Riley’s office, and it takes even longer to get there since everyone and their mother stop Riley and Sam on the way to congratulate them.
Bucky hangs back with Riley’s guard, and Sam just knows he’s taking great delight in Sam’s anguish of having to cheek-kiss countless strangers. When the entourage proceeds, Sam falls back, so he’s alongside Bucky and Agent Rogers.
“What are we reading this week?” Sam says.
“Heaven in Red. Got a copy for Lady Vice, too.”
Sometimes when things are quiet, and when Riley’s away, and they aren’t traveling from city to city campaigning, Sam, Bucky, and Monica like to get some sweet delicacies flown in from a little bakery in New York, sit out in the garden under the Magnolia tree, and read together.
They were busy setting a date for the following week when the results rolled in.
“I’m busy with The Fury Detail,” Rogers says. “Second read.”
Bucky nudges Sam. Rogers is excellent at his job, has a real prestigious resume, but he’s a little stuck up. Very serious, very focused, and doesn’t know how to have one goddamn lick of fun. It’s all about the job.
“Hey, if you ever wanna be cool, Rogers, we got a seat under the Magnolia for you.” Bucky says.
Rogers rolls his eyes. “Yeah, really, Buck? Sounds so exclusive, don’t know if I got the nads for it.”
Sam laughs. “Don’t be jealous, now.”
Just then, Monica turns around to look at them, gives Sam a questioning thumbs up, and grins a bright one when he confirms.
Rogers stumbles over absolutely nothing and suddenly forgets all about ribbing Sam and Bucky’s book club. “Jesus Christ,” he says, staring at her. Monica’s all kinds of gorgeous; Sam gets it. Thick, curly hair, long lashes, dressed immaculately in tailored suits.
Bucky snorts. “That’s still a thing, huh, buddy?”
Rogers drags his gaze away from Monica long enough to glare at Bucky. He doesn’t call Bucky whatever profanity he’s thinking. Instead, he nods at Sam, mumbles a parting “Sir.” and weaves his way to Riley in the front.
“Now that’s tragic, ain’t it?” Sam says quietly. “Pining for a married woman like that. Nothing good will ever come of it.”
Bucky is uncharacteristically quiet, walking beside Sam, deep in thought. No snarky quip, no playful sympathy for Rogers’ plight.
“Hey, you good?”
He shakes his head in a sudden presence. “Uh, yeah. Yeah. We’re here.”
Sam frowns at him, but they swiftly enter the dining hall and take their places. Sam sits at the head of the table with Riley. Beside them are Monica, her husband, and Defence Secretary Rhodes, Speaker Van Dyne, and a few of Riley’s advisors.
The Service agents excuse themselves and stand guard near the door. Riley clinks a fork to his glass, makes a toast, after which they finally eat.
During the meal, Riley places his hand on Sam’s thigh under the table, but he’s engrossed in political talks. Sam’s never really been one for politics, which is a joke considering he married a doctor of Political Science. But his mama always said opposites attract.
Sam is a builder. An engineer. He doesn’t know a thing about economics, but he can build a goddamn house. And that’s what he’s been doing since he left college. Got his degree and set out to develop sustainable housing in his hometown. He still does it, scaled up to building schools and theaters and shelters, has his own company now that helps, and a foreperson—his sister’s husband Cassius—that runs the show while Sam’s off being the first gentleman.
But every once in a while, Sam and Riley visit home, and Sam finally gets his hands dirty again. He gets to slap some wet cement on a dry brick wall and make a goddamn building. Gets to plaster a roof, put up a fence, pave a driveway, or lay a counter. The White House only allows so many structural changes to the grounds. He’s tried.
“I know you’re thinking about cement right now,” Monica says. “You got that Bob The Builder look on your face.”
“How you gonna do me like that?”
She side-eyes him. “Am I lying?”
“You know I am. Thinking of that gutted lot near my mama’s place. You know the one. I can do something with that.”
“Heard the town’s in need of child care facilities. We can check it out? Send Parker to do some scouting?”
“Yeah. Can’t take it up too high, though. Just put it on stilts for the floods and do a flat layout. Leave room at the bottom for a sandpit. Have him check what dimensions we’re working with.”
“Alright.” Monica smiles, a soft, fond curl of her lips. “Will be good getting your name behind that. Will be good for you too, starting a new project. Maybe head out after the inauguration.”
“Yeah, I’ll check schedules with Barnes, too.”
“Mhm. Darius would wanna come out with y’all.”
“No,” Sam whispers so Monica’s husband doesn’t hear. “Darius can stay here with Rogers. Let them read The Fury Detail together. You come.”
Monica sputters out a laugh, then reins it in and whispers back. “Are you saying my husband’s boring?”
Sam makes a face at her. “Are you saying he ain’t?”
Both of them struggle to contain a bout of laughter. Near the door, against the wall, Bucky ducks his head and hides what is, very obviously, also a smile.
Riley, stirred their way by the slight commotion, turns to Sam, smiles, and kisses his cheek. The house photographer spots the intimate moment and asks for a picture. Riley scoots closer, lays his arm around the back of Sam’s chair, and poses for the photo.
“You look real good in that suit, sugar,” Riley murmurs. Sam turns his head to his husband and smiles, a little surprised if he’s honest. The camera shutters again, capturing the moment just as they make eye contact.
“Thanks, honey. You ain’t so bad yourself.”
Riley laughs and kisses Sam again, on the lips this time. He takes hold of Sam’s hand, presses his mouth to the back of it.
“Mr. President.” Riley’s assistant shows up beside them with a phone. “I got Senator Stark on the line. The opposing party wishes to congratulate you.”
Riley takes the call but doesn’t let go of Sam’s hand, which feels nice for a change, and when Sam looks back at the line of agents near the door, Bucky is gazing off to the side and frowning. Which is not exactly out of character for him—he’s got a line in between his eyes so deep the Escobar millions could be buried there—but there’s something off about him today.
Earlier, Bucky had asked if Sam was ready for another term. Sam didn’t think to ask him the same question.
It’s not a party in the Oval Office. Sam wouldn’t call it that, but there’s some champagne making the rounds. It’s gone dark outside, the fairy lights in the courtyard are burning, Riley and Rhodes are at his desk going over some stuff, Rogers, Romanoff, and Bucky sit around the coffee table talking about their own business, and Sam’s flipping through old records with Monica.
“Oh! Remember this one!” she says, beaming as their song comes on. An old jam from way back in their college days when they were just fresh-faced kids doing everything but studying.
“Now we gotta dance,” Sam says. He holds his hand out, takes hers, gives her a spin, and twirls her around the floor. She gives a happy yelp and grabs onto his arms for purchase.
The good tunes keep coming, and they keep dancing, keep singing along, laughing because they know every goddamn word, every high note, and the low ones too. And god, she’s a feminine girl, but that voice goes deep. Makes Sam cackle out loud.
She lets out a loud snort, slaps his arm, and sets him off again. Just inside the sliding glass doors, Bucky looks up from his conversation with Romanoff. Sam nods at him; he nods back. The frown’s gone now. He’s not smiling exactly, but it’s something close, something about the set of his eyes.
Monica puts her shoes back on. “Uh-uh, I gotta get home. You are too much.”
“Mr. Fun Bag is waiting, huh?” Sam says and Monica snorts.
Bucky’s still watching them. He leans back in his chair, balancing a glass of water on his knee, head cocked sideways just a little.
“Don’t stop on my account,” Bucky says. “Lady Vice is about to fly off into space the way you’re swinging her. I’m here for it!” He raises his glass to them.
An inexplicable relief floods Sam that he’s back to his regular shit talking. “She always wanted to be an astronaut, though.”
“You might need to get a new dance partner. Romanoff’s giving me the stink eye,” Monica says, waving at Agent Romanoff, who is already swinging the car keys around her finger. “You know she keeps a tight house.” Monica leans over and kisses Sam’s cheek. He kisses hers in return.
Then she says, “Hey, Barnes, you dance?”
And Sam’s neck flushes hot for no goddamn reason. Champagne does that to him sometimes. He loosens his tie and shakes off his jacket.
“What?” Bucky says, then takes a gulp of water. Goes for another one, but the glass is empty.
“Goodnight y’all. Mr. President, your husband is waiting for you.”
“Good night, Lady Vice,” Riley says, giving her a quick salute and getting up to join Sam. “And congratulations, again.”
“Congratulations to you, Mr. President.” she grins and then she and Romanoff are gone.
Smooth and easy, Riley slides his hand into Sam’s and pulls him closer. He nuzzles his face into Sam’s neck, his warmth seeping into Sam, his arms a relaxing comfort to lean into. They start swaying to the music, a slower song now than the one Sam and Monica goofed off to, something sweet and romantic, a little nostalgic.
His voice is a warm vibration against Sam’s skin when he speaks. “I couldn’t have done this without you, sugar. Thanks for sticking by me.”
“We said for better or worse, ain’t it?” Sam smiles and wraps his arm around his husband. “This is the better part.”
“Hells yeah. Got some busy times ahead of us, some more travelin’. I know you ain’t so hot for that.”
“I know what I’m in for. I know what this is.”
Riley steps back, twirls Sam under his arm, and then back toward him. “Got a surprise for you after the inauguration. Now, don’t ask me what it is, and don’t go trying to find out from Rogers. We’ll just call it a very late wedding present.”
“Oh Lord, the romance,” Sam says. He smiles at Riley, and Riley kisses him, then presses his cheek tight against Sam’s and dances with him to the end of the song.
When Sam glances back inside Bucky’s sitting in Romanoff’s spot, his back turned to the garden where they’ve been dancing.
“Riley!” Secretary Rhodes calls from Riley’s desk a few moments later, beckoning him back inside. “This might be what we’re looking for.”
“Excuse me, sugar. Duty calls.”
Sam stares at his back as he strides inside. Has a wild urge to just down the champagne and dance anyway, by himself, dance until his feet hurt and drink until his head spins and Bucky—or someone has to carry him off to bed.
He picks up the bottle, about to bring it to his lips, but a hand swoops in and takes it away.
“Hey, you know how to do the Lindy Hop?” Bucky says. He places the bottle on the garden table and holds his hand out to Sam.
“I do not.” He places his hand in Bucky’s. He’s got a prosthesis on the left—some obscure accident that ripped his arm clean off—it’s made of metal but somehow always warm. “The real question is: how do you?”
With his free hand, he flips through some records and changes the song. He shrugs. “My ma grew up in the forties. She liked dancing. You ready?”
“Yeah, let’s go. Long as you don’t swing me through your legs or nothing.”
Bucky smiles. “Well, there goes that plan, huh? Alright, watch my feet—”
And then he shows Sam every step to that ridiculous dance, and half the time, Sam’s laughing because he’s never seen James Barnes move that way. On top of that, because of the champagne, Sam’s coordination is slightly off, and he doesn’t remember most of the steps, but he’s having a ball trying.
When the song ends, Bucky leans down, hands on his knees, chest heaving and the slightest shimmer of sweat beading along his hairline, and looks up at Sam. He grins, blue eyes narrowed with it, the delicate lines creasing in the corners.
Sam’s trying to catch his breath, trying to steady himself, but something almost painful comes to life inside him, tips him off his axis. And that something is on fire, burns through him like lava. Uncomfortable and terrifying and good.
Bucky comes upright and takes off his suit jacket. “You’re a natural. Gave me a run for my money there.”
Sam looks at his husband, and swallows. Feels his heart thudding in his chest, fixing to bounce right out, his neck and back sweat-damp.
“Goddamn,” he says, closing his eyes for a second. “Your mama knew what she was doing.”
“Right?” Bucky says. He unbuttons his sleeves and rolls them up to his elbows. “God, I’m too old for this shit, though.”
“Yeah,” Sam says, gaze returning to Bucky, mind scrambling for something else to say. “Yeah, plus we need more space.” And then, “For next time.”
For a swift moment, Bucky’s eyes widen, his chest expands with a deep breath, and Sam finds himself mimicking it.
“Yeah,” Bucky says, a slow smile crawling onto his lips that Sam watches with rapt attention. “Next time.”
It’s late when the alert comes in. Bucky hears about it over the comms: FOREIGN OBJECT DETECTED ON THE NORTH LAWN.
It happens often enough: a kid’s ball hopping over the fence, an exploded firecracker flying astray, a plastic bag swept in by the wind.
But this is a singular, white paper airplane. Perfectly folded and built to carry with the late-night breeze. It landed nose facing the White House.
Bucky watches on his mobile monitor from the hallway outside the Residence as Rumlow and Rollins approach it, guns drawn, bathed in night vision green. Which seems silly given it’s a paper plane, but 'overly careful' has never been in the Secret Service vocabulary.
Beside him, Natasha switches the view on her monitor to the fence camera. “No wires or other connections spotted. Proceed with contact, Rumlow. Maintain caution.”
“Copy,” Rumlow says and moves in. He tips the wing of the plane with his rifle and flips it over. “Negative for hidden devices.”
Nat releases a breath and looks at Bucky, then at Steve. “A note then?”
Rollins picks it up. “Confirmed. There’s writing on the inside.”
Steve frowns. Just like foreign objects on the White House lawns, threats to the presidency aren’t surprising, especially after an election or re-election like this one. It’s the mode of delivery that’s got some hairs standing on end.
“Rollins, what’s it say?” Steve asks, already backing down the hallway to the president’s sleeping quarters.
Rollins folds open the wing flaps of the plane, looks at Rumlow, then reads it.
“Cut off one head, and another will take its place. That’s what it says.”
“The hell does that mean?” Bucky says.
“Doesn’t matter,” Natasha says. “Rumlow, Rollins, take that to forensics immediately. Check the ground’s footage of when it came in. Barton, Stevens, Carter, I want you covering the perimeter. Barnes and Rogers sweep the Residence, do not alarm the president. Set up a double guard line for the night.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bucky says, following Steve into the suite, trying to remember where he’s heard that saying before.