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There’s nothing quite like a New Orleans Saints tailgate at Champions Square—the crush of people decked out in black and gold, speakers blaring out fast beats in sonic competition with the pre-game concerts, and vendors cooking up bomb-ass food all while large-screen TVs loom up above.
Sam isn’t a diehard Saints fan, but he does know their stats well enough to throw down when someone disses his team, and he’s not going to turn down joining Carlos and Tommy to tailgate at a home game when he is, in fact, at home for once.
After donning his wings again to take down modern-day fascist terrorists—his checking in with anyone, blood family or not, had dropped off the wayside.
In his defense, the Black Widow sending you on missions with the drop of a hat’s notice to go clear out HYDRA bases with Captain America is a bit time-consuming—not that his titi was at all impressed by the name-dropping and had summoned his ass back to Delacroix for family time.
It’s good to be back, especially since he timed it to catch Cass’s one-year birthday. Cass, a year old already! And A.J. is almost three. How is that possible? It feels like just yesterday Sarah was sharing the news that she was pregnant for the first time, and now she has two beautiful baby boys that Sam gets to spoil rotten as the fun uncle.
And sometimes fun uncles have to make sure their sisters get some relaxation in, which is why Sam arranged for Mrs. Hudson to watch the kids so he can take Sarah out tailgating and watch the game.
Because while Sam isn’t the biggest Saints fan, Sarah is. They’ll party at the Square for a bit before heading to the Superdome for the decent, if somewhat overpriced, seats he scored them.
Seeing Sarah let loose in her BREES 9 jersey, watching her stress melt away with sips of her beer and twirls of the black and yellow feather boa she won from the local news station’s giveaway earlier, is exactly what Sam planned for.
It’s a good day—the weather isn’t too overbearingly swampy, Sam has eaten exclusively fresh hot beignets (to figure out which ones are the best) washed down with some ice-cold beers, and the Saints are predicted to crush their opponents later during the game. That’s all to say that Sam isn’t expecting trouble of any kind in the middle of New Orleans. Though maybe trouble isn’t quite the best word for hooking up with the Winter Soldier as drunken Saints fans party all around them.
Here’s how it goes down. Sam is minding his own business, having just finished beer number four and beignet number none-of-your-concern when he hears his fucking jam start playing.
Look. He can’t hear Single Ladies and not start dancing. It’s just not possible. Who can resist Beyoncé?
Sam throws down and gets caught up in the beat, in the crowd of dancers, all the way until he’s opposite some kind of Home Depot mascot competing to show off the best moves. Well, competing is a strong word for Sam having fresh moves and the orange bucket suit guy being able to move.
Home Depot Bucket waves him off, clearly not interested in dancing against Sam even though he had been, well, at least bopping to the rhythm, if nothing else, with the others in the crowd.
“Oh, come on man, I scare you off?” Sam does a body roll with extra hip thrust. “Get back here, let me see what you can do.”
It’s not much, what the guy can do. He—Sam assumes there is a he under the bucket outfit—sort of shuffles to the beat, does that thing white people do where they just jump up and down because they’ve got no flow in their limbs.
Sam shows off a bit—does some of his best stuff—because why not? He doesn’t ever get out to a club these days and is a bit lacking for options between Steve and Natasha. Steve has even less rhythm than this chump encumbered by a giant orange bucket suit, and Natasha’s dance repertoire is entirely complex ballet moves with a distressingly high chance of Sam’s neck ending up between her thighs—in the death by suffocation kind of way, not the fun times kind of way.
He rides the high of the adrenaline and his heart beats to the thrumming bass line of the song and then the next. Fellow Saints fans start to give them room, forming a loose circle and cheering them on. He loses time between the cheer of the crowd and the thrill of seeing Home Depot Bucket start to learn some of Sam’s easier moves. Yeah, that’s right, he should pick up some pointers from Sam. The poor guy didn’t even know how to do a basic pop & lock until now—Sam is clearly doing him a favor.
Finally, Home Depot Bucket taps out, probably sweating buckets in his claustrophobic suit. There’s a round of applause for them both as Home Depot Bucket disappears behind a tent.
It’s been a blast of a time being able to let loose, and Sam probably suckered a minimum wage worker into entirely too much physical movement for when it’s 90F and humid outside while being fully enclosed in hot plastic, so of course he buys the guy a beer. It’s the least he can do.
With two bottles of beer in hand, Sam goes over to where the guy disappeared and lifts the tent flap to find him with the top half of his bucket outfit gone.
Now listen. Sam obviously knew that there was someone in the suit, that it wasn’t a robot or an anthropomorphic bucket—which could exist given how aliens are real. He just didn’t strongly consider who might be in the suit.
A critical mistake, because standing in front of him, wearing half the Home Depot bucket suit, is Bucky Barnes.
James Buchanan Barnes. Sergeant Barnes of the Howling Commandos. The Winter Soldier—who honestly looks more like a Summer Soldier given that he’s drenched in so much sweat his hair is sopping wet.
Sam stares. What else is he supposed to do when he is armed with only his everyday carry knife and encounters—at a goddamned tailgate for a Saints game in the heart of New Orleans—the brainwashed assassin he’s partly been trying to track down for the last few months.
He considers for a moment if he’s hallucinating, but all he feels is the remnants of adrenaline in his veins from dancing earlier and the burned-off buzz of his beers. Sam closes his eyes slowly because maybe he’s lightheaded from eating only airy puffs of fried goodness topped with powdered sugar all day. When he opens his eyes though, the guy in the garishly orange mascot suit is still Bucky Barnes.
Bucky Barnes stares back because he clearly wasn’t expecting the guy who challenged him to a dance battle—who happens to be the same guy who tried to stop him from helping execute HYDRA’s world domination via mass-murder plan and got kicked off a helicarrier for his troubles—to have interrupted him with the bucket suit’s top off.
Well. This explains why he hadn’t wanted to dance with Sam, if nothing else.
“I bought you a beer. It’s ice cold.” Sam holds out the drink. Droplets of condensation slide down and off the bottle. What else can he do or say in what is possibly the most awkward and surreal moment of his adult life? “You’re probably not supposed to drink on the job but I’m guessing your super soldier metabolism would burn off the alcohol.”
It can’t really be called a guess when Sam has read the reports on how many calories The Asset requires and what mind-altering substances work on him, but calling it a guess is simply basic manners.
There’s an excruciatingly long pause in which Barnes’s gaze slowly travels up and down Sam’s form—a threat assessment. Sam can feel droplets of sweat form on his brow and start to drip down his face out of both nervousness and the heat of the day. And all the while, he can’t help thinking that he hopes Bucky Barnes likes what he sees.
Finally, Barnes nods in agreement and slips his hands out of the bucket suit’s full-length gloves to accept the beer. Then, in a distressing display of casual strength, he flicks the bottle cap off with the top of his thumbnail. Thumbnail as in the nail of his thumb on his flesh hand. This probably wouldn’t be impressive if Bucky did this with his metal hand—probably. Sam wonders what else Bucky can do with his hands.
“You need help with that?” Barnes points down at the unopened beer in Sam’s other hand.
Sam wordlessly holds out his own bottle and tips it towards Barnes, who again flicks away the cap with an easy movement.
“Cheers,” Barnes says, clinking their bottles together.
Some part of Sam’s brain is thinking that they shouldn’t litter bottlecaps on the ground. It’s drowned out by the part of Sam’s brain latching onto the lines of Barnes’s throat, the upward tilt of his head to drink, the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows down the beer.
Is it hot in this tent or is Sam completely and inappropriately thirsting after Bucky Barnes?
Both. It’s both. Sam is fucked. Metaphorically and physically, if he’s got a say in the matter.
Cheers to that.