(A/N: It is with greatest effrontery I post this chapter.

I am white, and have lived a life of privilege that has blinded me to most, if not all, of what our Black brothers and sisters face on a daily basis. It has only been the past decade I've been made aware of my life of micro-aggressions, blind prejudice, and conservative-fueled racism hidden behind a clueless woman bleating, "I don't see color!" To any POC reading this, I apologize for my ignorance and self-absorption. I'm actively working to be a better person and ally.

Happy MLK Day. Let us never forget the ultimate sacrifice he made 4 April 1968.

Le Rouret)

7.

Mama dozed placidly in her hospital bed at the SHIELD hospital annex, hooked up to an IV with several bags dripping softly into her: fluids to rehydrate, antibiotics for her bladder infection, Ativan to keep her calm so that she didn't pick at her cannulation. Upon hearing, on top of everything else, that Mama had a bladder infection which exacerbated her psychotic moods, Mary had a complete meltdown and was given her own private dose of Ativan. Dr. Cho had wheeled her out of Mama's room, smiling at Sam, and Sam smiled back, then yawned behind his hand. God, he was tired.

Sarah was asleep in the neighboring bed, and Tyree snored lightly in the big recliner in the corner. The TV was dark, and the monitors silent; all the beeping, Sam had been told by the nurse, was sent directly to the nurses' station so that patients could rest undisturbed. It was a wonderful idea and Sam wished all hospitals were equipped like that.

Sam hunched over Mama's form, elbow on the bed, head resting on his hand. His skin felt greasy and gritty, and he could smell himself over the medical scent of urine and alcohol and Lysol. Mama snored; Sarah snored; Tyree snored. The room was quiet, and Sam closed his eyes.

He jerked awake when his chin slipped off his palm. A pile of clean clothes had magically appeared in front of him in the split second he'd dozed off. Oddly, Sarah had disappeared just as magically. He checked the clock. He had been sleeping for half an hour. He checked Mama's IVs, not knowing what he was looking at, gave his nephew an indulgent smile, and walked with the clothes into the private bathroom.

The shower was simply too tempting. He scrubbed himself clean with the harsh medical soap, dried off with the stiff towels, and pulled on the clean clothes. Where they had come from, he had no idea, nor did he care. They were possibly one of the sets of clothes he kept at Mama's. There were a couple of holes in the worn tee shirt armpits, and he needed new underwear, but at least it was cleaner than what he'd been wearing. He dumped his smelly, soiled clothes in the hamper and found a plastic-wrapped, prepasted toothbrush. He brushed his teeth. The toothpaste was like mint-flavored sand and scraped his gums, but at least his teeth no longer felt like week-old sweatsocks.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Sam Wilson was a good-looking man, and he knew it – not out of vanity, but a conclusion drawn by empirical data, others' opinions and his own senses. But right now, he looked old, drawn, worn out, and very, very sad. He rubbed his hand over his stubbled cheek. There was a cheap and unreliable looking razor on the sink. He decided not to risk it and exited the bathroom.

Mama was looking at him. She stared blankly, her face expressionless, a hairsbreadth away from hostility. Sam swallowed heavily. "Mama?" he said.

She broke into a wide smile. "Samuel," she said warmly.

Would Sam ever stop crying? He'd been holding it in for two years; he supposed he had a lot of excess tears that needed to come out. Tyree snorted awake and blinked owlishly at them. "Uncle Sam?" he said, and yawned widely. "Where's Auntie?"

"Don't know," said Sam, wiping his face. He glanced down at Tyree's letter jacket, rolled into a makeshift pillow. "Hey. Congratulations, man."

"Oh." Tyree turned away and made a big deal of unwrapping it and shaking it out. "It ain't nothin'."

"Hell it isn't," said Sam. "Lettering your sophomore year? Don't know anyone in the family done that." He stepped around Mama's bed and clapped his shoulder. "We're all real proud of you. Aren't we, Mama?"

"Hm?" Mama smiled sweetly at them, her eyes drooping shut and her mouth opening a little. "Yes, honey," she breathed softly, and snored. Sam couldn't help himself; he chuckled.

"At least Grammie remembers you," grumbled Tyree, rubbing his eyes. "She keeps calling me 'Rick.' I don't even know anyone named Rick."

"Probably one of her friends from school, a long time ago," said Sam. He rubbed his eyes too. "God," he added, blinking hard. "I am gonna sleep for ten days."

"Yeah." Tyree watched him, eyes wide. "Hey. Uncle Sam."

"Hm?" Sam wandered over to the window, looking out at the gravel roof top with its enormous HVAC unit and scattering of pigeons. The DC skyline loomed in the distance, hazy with smog. He remembered Maria talking about the Foundation, the help they would receive for Mama's care, and the relief washed warm down his chest to his belly. Finally, a break. It was about damn time something good happened.

"Was your friend gonna assassinate Martin Luther King?"

Sam jerked around, heart stuttering. Tyree looked cautious and a little angry.

"Was he?"

Sam let out a heavy breath. "Well. Yeah, I guess that's what he was told to do," he said slowly. Tyree was glaring now, hands in fists.

"And you're still friends with him?" he demanded.

"Look, man," Sam began, pinching the bridge of his nose; a headache was starting to threaten at the edge of his vision.

"No!" said Tyree. "You look! Martin Luther King, Uncle Sam! King himself! And your friend was gonna kill him!"

"He was – "

"There ain't no excuse!" spat Tyree. "And you're still friends with him! That's a … a betrayal!"

Sam flinched, growing angry himself. "Bucky Barnes was a soldier, like me," he said, his voice rising. "You got no idea, Tyree, what it's like to kill someone, no idea at all, so -"

"I'm not talking about killing people in a war!" protested Tyree. "He was gonna shoot Martin Luther King! And you are friends with him!"

Sam could have said, "We're not friends," but he wasn't sure whether that was true or not, not anymore. Sure, Bucky had shot at him, and destroyed his car, and gotten glitter up his nose and in his ears, but he had also bought Sam's favorite beer, and turned Steve's teeth blue, and found Mama. "It's complicated," he said, knowing that wasn't going to calm Tyree down.

"I know he was a soldier and shot Nazis, and then he was an assassin and shot innocent people," said Tyree angrily. "But just because he's friends with Captain America, that don't excuse trying to assassinate Martin Luther King!"

"I know it doesn't," said Sam, tired and desperate. "I can't explain it to you, Tyree, 'cause you're a kid -"

"I'm old enough to know injustice when I see it," said Tyree, his voice shaking. "I see it every day; you know it."

"You think I don't?" snapped Sam. "Justice is the whole thing, Tyree, justice for someone who was forced to do things he never would've done otherwise!"

"So that excuses it?" demanded Tyree. "It's okay to let him retire to some nice home in Florida when he spent years going around, killing people? When our own folk sometimes don't even have decent places to live, or good schools to go to? Think, Uncle Sam! If he was gonna shoot Martin Luther King, how many more Black men did he shoot?"

"The Winter Soldier shot a lot of people, Black and white," said a voice at the door. Tyree looked, his eyes popping out of his head, and Sam grimaced. Fury. Of course.

"Shot you," agreed Sam dryly. "Shot Steve. Shot Nat. Shot at me. Shot a hell of a lot of people."

"All over the world," agreed Fury equably. He was in a dark hooded sweatshirt, eyes occluded by reflective glasses, which he removed to stare with his one good eye down at Tyree. Sam's nephew gulped audibly and cringed back into the easy chair.

"Tyree, this is Director Fury," said Sam with a sigh. "Fury, my nephew, Tyree Simon."

Tyree leaped to his feet and stumbled forward to shake Fury's hand. "Uh," he said, all the wind taken out of his sails. Fury frowned down at him, gave Tyree's hand a couple of pumps, and turned away.

"How you doing, Wilson?" he asked. He sat down next to Mama's bed and gazed at her, face unreadable.

"Tired," said Sam. He thought about the Foundation again and added with a little grin: "Relieved."

"I bet," nodded Fury. He leaned back in the chair and folded his hands on his lap, staring out the window. The sun was making its way to the west, and the smog around the city ignited orange. "Hill debriefed Barnes," he said to the window. "His story matches what we found in our archives."

"So he was gonna kill Martin Luther King?" asked Tyree, an echo of his aggressiveness coming back into his voice.

"That was apparently Hydra's plan, yes," said Fury calmly. "Take out King, Lewis, Farmer, Young, Wilkins, and Randolph the night of the 26th of August 1963. They had located each man's safe house, and the strategy involved the Winter Soldier slipping into each home and quietly strangling them in their sleep." Fury glanced at Sam, but he was pretty sure Fury was talking to Tyree instead. Sam was pretty sure Fury had heard the preceding conversation. "No Big Six, no March on Washington." Fury spread his hands. "Chaos. Riots. Unrest. Demoralize the movement and the people, and set the Civil Rights Movement back at least five years. We're not sure, but there are rumors that Hydra had moles in the FBI – KKK and White supremacist sympathizers – ready to stir up even more turmoil, pin the assassinations on Black men inside the Big Six's circle. A solid plan," Fury said, shaking his head. "Would probably have worked. Think about it."

"I'm thinking," said Sam. He didn't want to, but the phantom vision of that alternate timeline gave him chills. Tyree was apparently thinking about it too, because his mouth dropped open and he stared up at Fury with bulging eyes.

"So he failed?" he whispered. "Uncle Sam's friend failed?"

"Failed?" Fury frowned down at Tyree. "I don't think you quite know who the Winter Soldier is, young man. He didn't fail. He was ordered to kill six men. And he did." A smile slid across Fury's face. "All six of his handlers, strangled in their sleep. Apparently it took Hydra a week and half to find him, bring him back in. And at that point, I don't think I need to tell you, he was … punished for his actions."

Sam closed his eyes. He had seen the old YouTube video of the Winter Soldier, strapped into the chair, screaming. He had never identified that stripped, brutal, broken creature with Bucky before seeing him in the Morningside RiteAid.

"Punished?" said Tyree in a small voice.

"You think he wanted to kill?" demanded Fury. "Have you met the man? Antique cars, computer games, and tequila. Last thing Bucky Barnes wants is chaos." He huffed a laugh. "Interferes with his golf game."

Tyree thought about this, only half-convinced. "So why did he change his mind?" he demanded sullenly.

"He didn't 'change his mind;' his mind wasn't his own to begin with, not back then," retorted Fury darkly. "He saw someone. Someone we had sent to stay with Dr. King. Someone meant to protect him. Gabe Jones. Sergeant Barnes' old friend, one of the Howling Commandos." Fury turned back to the window, watching the sun blaze crimson through the smog around DC. "Barnes said, and I quote: 'Once I saw Gabe, I knew I couldn't do it, that it was evil.' He didn't remember who Gabe Jones was … only knew that he recognized him somehow as a good man, and if a good man was watching over his mark, his mark was a good man, and it would be wrong to kill him. His memory goes a little sideways after that, but we do have documented evidence that Hydra lost six in that little ratty house in Morningside … and our Big Six survived to march on Washington."

"So," said Sam, summing up not for himself, but for Tyree, "Barnes actually stopped six assassinations that night."

"All the evidence points that way," said Fury.

"But," protested Tyree. God, he was just like his mother. "But my uncle's friend – Bucky – the Soldier – he shot you, sir! And you just gonna -" He waved his hands, unable to articulate his thoughts. "You just gonna let him go on living in Florida, drinking and playing golf? Man should be in jail, even I know that!" His hands balled into fists. "My friend Li'l Gold gets caught with a joint, and gets two years in juvie. Some white dude kills a bunch of people, gets his own house! That ain't fair! And you, you and SHIELD – you're part of the problem!"

"Lemme ask you a question," said Fury, looking angry. "You slip on a pile of dog shit on your lawn. Who you get mad at? The shit? The dog? Or the asshole neighbor who didn't clean up after his pet?"

"All three," said Tyree breathlessly. Fury nodded slowly.

"You keep that anger," he said. "Keep it, use it. But use it right, son. Don't kick the dog, don't cuss out the shit. You get up in that neighbor's face, make him clean up the shit he caused. Maybe the neighbor doesn't know his dog shit there. Maybe he did, maybe he told him to. Maybe he felt bad about it, maybe he thought he had the right to let his dog shit wherever. Doesn't matter. Get in his face. Make him clean it up. Might take you your whole life. You might not feel like you make any difference. But whatever you do, Tyree, you hang onto that anger, you keep your neighbors accountable. Make Dr. King proud."

Tyree swallowed heavily. "Yes, sir," he whispered.

Sam let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The sudden silence made the ambient noise of the hospital seem very loud, the soft speech of doctors and nurses, the squeak of rubber shoes on linoleum, the soft drip-drip-drip of the IV. Mama stirred, her slack mouth quirking into a smile, and with her eyes still closed, she started to hum the Judge Judy theme. Fury typed something into his phone, juggled it lightly between his hands, and looked out the window again. Shadows moved across the roof top, casting the HVAC unit in shadow, and somewhere in the distance, a contrail caught the light of the setting sun, glowing like a streak of strafing fire. Sam remembered one of the men in his unit, a big, dumb tech from Illinois, that had called him "boy" and worse until Riley bloodied his nose. He wondered if Bucky had done the same for Gabe, back when it was more acceptable for white men to treat their Black peers like that.

"Your friend's name Martel? Martel Anthony? Goes by Li'l Gold?"

Tyree's head shot up. He stared wide-eyed at Fury, who was frowning down at his phone.

"Uh," he said. "Yes. Yes, sir."

"New lawyer'll get him out of juvie today," said Fury. "Go call his daddy, let him know." He slipped his phone back into his pocket. "Wilson, Barnes is gonna be in lock-down for a little while 'til Dr. Cho can figure out what's goin' on in that jacked up brain of his. See if you can keep Cap out of trouble, hear?"

"That's never easy," said Sam tiredly.

"Don't I know it," grumbled Fury. He turned around, glanced disinterestedly at Tyree, and shook Sam's hand. "I'm gone," he said, his mind obviously elsewhere. "Hill's getting you and your mother fixed up, so no more shenanigans like this, understand?"

Sam shook his head, unable to stop the smile. "Yes, sir," he said wryly.

"See you round." Fury put his glasses back on and crossed the room, pausing at the door to glance back at Tyree. "Congratulations on the letter," he said, and left.

XXXXXXXXXXXX

"I guess I can count this as a case visit," said Maria.

She looked eighty-nine per cent normal, dressed in jeans and a soft tee shirt, her hair hanging loose around her shoulders. The hot, sticky Maryland wind ruffled her hair, and the sun flashed off her sunglasses. But Sam knew better, knew she was wearing an ankle holster and had a butterfly knife in her pocket. She was like a panther, breath-takingly gorgeous and anus-puckeringly terrifying. He wondered if she had picked it up from Nat, or had come by it naturally.

Sarah and Mary were still at the hospital with Mama. Tyree had gone home, looking older than his 16 years, even muttering reluctantly to Steve that he hoped his friend got better. Steve, unaware of the history lesson he'd gotten from Fury, had simply smiled and thanked him, telling Tyree he was happy they had met, and extending an open invitation to visit them in Sarasota. Sam thought about what Mrs. Schumacher would make of his nephew, and smirked, thinking of that yenta she'd wanted to call on Sam's behalf. Maybe next time, he'd let her arrange something for him.

Sam stood next to Clint, facing Steve and Maria. The QuinJet on the tarmac gleamed in the sun behind them, and College Park Airport bustled anonymously in the distance, past the hangars dedicated to the SHIELD annex.

"How often you have to visit these assholes, anyway?" asked Sam.

"Twice a year," sighed Maria. "Not that I think it's doing any good."

"Quit bitching," said Steve cheerfully. "You get sunshine, the beach, and all the seafood you can eat. I'd say we're worth the effort."

"You would," she retorted, but Sam noticed she was smiling a little. Her phone trilled. She pulled it out of her pocket, glanced at it, and looked up at Steve. "All right, Rogers, the psychiatrist Dr. Cho recommended is ready for us," she said crisply. "Wilson, I'll see you at the hospital later. Barton, keep out of trouble, and tell Laura thanks for the shortbread."

"You bet, Hill," said Clint, shaking her hand. "And you tell Bucky to get better fast. He owes me a round of golf."

"He owes you more than that," said Steve, making a face. Clint barked out a laugh.

"He owes a lot of people," he said. "Hill for fixing his monkeyshines, you for putting up with his shit, Sam for putting up with both of you dumbasses."

"Fury for understanding him," said Sam thoughtfully to his feet.

"Fury got a fully restored '68 DeVille out of it," said Clint, waving a dismissive hand. He winked at Sam, who looked up at him in surprise. "Just you wait 'til your next birthday. Bucky's been eyeing a '66 convertible Impala SS for sale at the local classic car lot. Needs some work, but he thinks it'll be an adequate replacement for your old sedan."

Sam's heart swelled, and he couldn't stop the grin, thinking about what all of Sarah's trendy and beautiful friends would think of him driving a car like that. "Blue's my favorite color," he said hopefully.

"I'll pass that right along," said Clint. He shouldered his backpack and turned to Steve. "I'll water your plants," he said, shaking Steve's hand. He was flying back down to Sarasota to pick up his things and Sam's, and had promised to ship Sam's duffel back up to his apartment in DC. Steve smirked.

"They're all artificial," he said. "Surprised a sharp guy like you never noticed."

"That's what you think," grinned Clint. "That big ficus in the entryway? Real. Bucky snuck it in there last year, waters it when you're not looking."

Steve raised his eyebrows and looked at Maria, who shrugged. "Got it on tape," she said brusquely.

Steve sighed. "That asshole," he said, but his voice was fond. "Thanks, Clint. Take care, and give my love to Laura and the kids."

"Will do."

"Pick it up, Rogers," snapped Maria, striding across the flight deck, the hot DC wind whipping her dark, shining hair. Steve rolled his eyes, gave Clint and Sam a mock-salute, and followed, jogging to keep up with her brisk walk. The distant whine and rattle of the planes taxiing around them drowned out their conversation, but it looked lively, and friendlier than Sam would've guessed.

"He's gotta learn to let go eventually," said Clint, making a face. "Bucky'll be fine. Steve futzes over him too much."

"He's just worried," said Sam defensively. "Can't blame him. Memory issues are a bitch."

Clint leveled a serious look at him. "They are," he agreed. "At least Bucky will probably recover, Dr. Cho says at least about eighty per cent. There's no cure for Alzheimer's, though. I'm afraid there's no happy ending for your family with your mother." He looked away. "I'm so sorry," he added, and sounded like he meant it.

Sam knew it, and also knew he didn't want to admit it. Some part of him had always expected a cure, or for her to get better, despite the bleak prognoses. He stared up at the smoggy sky, watching jets and small aircraft come and go, thinking about renewing his pilot's license. College Park Airport brought back so many good memories, him and his father in Daddy's old Cessna, Mama holding Sarah's hand while Mary waved and grinned, watching Samuel take his first flight. Mary had been so proud of him, and Sarah so frightened, crying when her big brother sailed off into the sky. Mama had told him at dinner that evening that Sarah thought Samuel wasn't coming back, that her brother and Daddy were flying off into the clouds where it was clean and safe and beautiful, and would never return. And Samuel had promised her, over Mama's sweet potato pie, that he would always be there, always take care of them.

"What happened to Laura's grandma?" he asked.

Clint heaved a sigh; he looked sad. "In hospice," he said thickly. "Hasn't been able to get out of bed in a year. Can't talk anymore, has no idea who or where she is. Can't even feed herself. The LPNs keep her clean and comfortable, but it's just a waiting game at this point. Could be a month, could be three years."

Sam considered this, his mind shying away from Mama reaching that point, though he knew empirically it was likely. "Doc says Mama needs twenty four-seven care," he said slowly. "That we'll wear ourselves out trying to do it on our own. We need nurses. She said two twelve-hour shifts."

"So Mama doesn't need a lockdown unit in a nursing home yet?" asked Clint, staring at the sky.

"Not yet," said Sam. "I mean," he added, because he knew he had to be honest with Clint, "I'm not ready. Me and Mary and Sarah, we're not ready for that."

"I get it," said Clint, smiling. "Well." He shifted the backpack on his shoulders. The pilot of the waiting QuinJet was starting to look restless. "Guess I better be going. You got anything at Steve's besides your clothes and tools?"

"My phone charger's in his kitchen, I think," said Sam. "And my kit's in the guest bath." Clint nodded, and Sam added, "Thanks, man. For getting my stuff. And …" Sam rubbed the back of his neck. No wonder Bucky liked Clint so much. "Just … thanks."

"My pleasure, Sam," said Clint seriously. "You need anything, just text me. I mean, that, too. Got it?"

"Got it," promised Sam.

Clint strode across the tarmac and clambered into the QuinJet, shoed the waiting SHIELD pilot out of the way, and slipped behind the console. He donned the headset and waved, and Sam walked back to the hangar. He stood at the entrance and watched the jet roar to life, tilt up, and leap from the concrete like a charging knight on a destrier. Sam itched to follow, wishing for the millionth time he hadn't given up his wings. But Mama had needed him, and he knew it had been the right decision at the time. As for any future decisions … he guessed eventually he would have to let Mama go, but like he'd told Clint, he wasn't ready just yet.

He had read a Yelp review about a privately owned bakery in Morningside that was supposed to make the best sweet potato pies in Maryland. Sam Wilson took a deep breath, turned around, and made his way back to the parking garage. If he hurried, he could make it back to the hospital in time for Judge Judy.

*fin*