"One last time," Sam grunted as he hurtled towards the edge of the building. He opened his wings as his feet forgot the feeling of solid earth beneath him. He swung his arm, directing Cap's – his – shield towards the target beneath him. The vibranium shield accelerated as it approached its target. Sam folded his wings and dove towards the ground surface. A satisfying crunch sounded when the shield separated the metal head from the rest of the dummy. The shield ricocheted off the metal and careened left.

"Nope, nope, bring it back, come back to me," Sam soared towards the shield. He increased his speed at the shield approached a warehouse. "Don't do it, don't do it!"

The shield showed no signs of slowing. Sam cursed and added one more thrust of power to his jets. His arm stretched out, begging for the shield to submit to him. One foot. Half a foot. Two inches.

Sam grasped the edge of the shield and pulled upward, his wings grazing the edge of the metal warehouse. He ascended into the sky, gingerly grasping the shield.

"You're getting a time out."

"You or the shield?" Peter's voice called from the radio. The kid had been helping Sam with some testing to get him familiar with pairing the shield with his pararescue technology. So far, Sam had successfully managed to destroy two buildings, wreck a wing, and bury the shield so deep into a tarmac that they had to get two cranes to unearth it. In other words, it was training was going great.

"The shield," Sam groaned, landing by the dummy. Peter Parker appeared a few moments later, carrying a tablet. He was laughing at himself.

"Mr. Wilson, your face when you thought the shield was going to break into the warehouse-"

"Yeah, yeah," Sam dropped the shield on the ground and examined the dummy. "Delete it."

"No way, this is scientific progress," Peter swiped his finger on the screen. "I have to send it to Director Fury."

"No, don't send it to Fury," Sam swiped the tablet from Peter.

"Too late," Peter shrugged. "He said that any updates go straight to him."

"I thought you didn't listen to Director Fury."

"Yeah, well, he promised to let me use some of Stark's old tech," Peter scratched his ear.

"Mhmm," Sam crossed his arms.

Peter tapped the decapitated dummy on the shoulder and swung his arm around awkwardly. "That's enough testing for today. I'll see you back here on Monday, I've got a big project due tomorrow."

Sam picked up the shield and attached it to his back. "Good luck with that."

"Thanks, Mr. Wilson."

"It's Sam."

"Right, thanks Sam," Peter waved as Sam walked towards his vehicle. He withdrew the keys from his pocket and unlocked the doors, placing the shield in the passenger side. He got in the car, turned over the engine and began driving home.

Driving home stretched into an hour as Sam rolled up to his home. Ever since the Avengers compound had been obliterated by Thanos, most of those who had called the compound home had been forced to find alternative living locations. Sam was one of the lucky few who had a place to call home outside of the compound.

The car rolled up the driveway and came to a stop. Sam grabbed the shield and his duffle bag and walked up to the steps to his front door, unlocking it and stepping inside. He tossed the duffle bag on the floor and carried the shield to the edge of the island in the kitchen. His mind swam with thoughts of the training session. He was improving, but the shield was unpredictable. Somehow Steve always had seemed to know where it would land – but he had been in possession of the shield since the Second World War. There had to be some sort of code or balance point he hadn't discovered yet.

He took a swig of orange juice and set the juice container on the counter. Steve. His best friend now lived in a seniors' home about a half hour away. Sam often visited him whenever time allowed, but it was never as frequent as he would like. It was odd. They would talk about the same events, but for Sam, they had just happened. Tony and Nat's sacrifice, the invasion of earth, the infinity stones – that had all happened a few months ago. Steve had a nostalgic glaze overcome his eyes whenever the topic arose. It was a bittersweet memory for him. Part of Sam wanted to hate his friend for that – but he couldn't. He likely would have done the same.

Goosebumps raised on Sam's arm. The air inside the house was cool. He darted to the thermometer. It read 75F, which was three degrees cooler than what Sam normally set it for. His eyes inched across the room, his body keenly aware of the weight he was putting on each leg. His suit was still in the car, but the shield was close by.

He swiped the shield and silently mounted it on his arm. Cautiously, he tiptoed down the hallway. His bedroom door was open a crack. The hardwood floors seemed to groan louder under the stress of the situation. Sam quickened his steps and gingerly touched the rough surface of the wooden door. Eyeing the window through the crack, he could see that it was open. Someone was in his room.

He kicked open the door and spotted a shadowy figure obscured by the setting sun. Sam charged him, yelling as he slammed the shield into the person's chest. He was met with a metal arm, grasping his left arm and clutching the shield with his right. Sam flinched and dropped down, kicking the intruder's legs. The figure grunted and released his arm. Sam yanked on the curtain rod, causing it to crash on the intruder's head.

"Is this how you normally greet your friends?" A familiar voice grunted as the figure caught the curtain rod in his hand. He tossed the shield and curtain rod aside and stretched out his gloved hand towards Sam.

Sam blinked twice and then swatted away the hand before standing. "You know you could have used the front door, Barnes. That's what normal people do."

Bucky cracked a sheepish smile. "Sorry about that. I still don't have the greatest reputation here. Didn't want to be seen waiting around your house in midday."

"So, you thought that breaking into my house in midday was the better option," Sam closed the window and reattached the curtain rod. "Yeah, must have drawn no attention at all."

"I said I'm sorry," Bucky insisted. "Look, I need a place to crash for the night. Can I sleep on your couch?"

"Homeless shelter is down the road Barnes."

Bucky followed Sam down the hallway and into the kitchen. "Where do you think I have been staying for the last few months."

Sam picked up the orange juice container and put it back in the fridge. "Romania. New York. Brooklyn. Queens. I don't know. Soon as the funeral was over, and the tears were shed, they were all gone. Just like that. I have barely seen anyone since then that knew what took place at the compound."

Bucky held an expressionless face. "Do you want an apology?"

"No," Sam sighed, leaning against the counter. "Just some peace."

"So I can't stay here."

Sam crossed his arms and studied the senior citizen. His hair was still long, but his beard had been sloppily shaved so parts of it were patchy. His face was weathered with grief and fatigue, evidenced by the dark circles etched underneath his eyes. His clothes were worn, his shoes were coated in grime, and the stench which came off of his was repulsive.

"Guess you haven't been having the easiest time adjusting either," Sam noted.

Bucky looked down at himself. "Yeah. I guess you could say that."

Sam nodded contently. "One night, on one condition."

"What's that?"

"Take a freakin shower."