A/N: Post Season One of Falcon and Winter Soldier. Popped into my mind and thought I'd run with it. Hope you enjoy!

Sanity Check

.•*´¨`*•.

"So you gonna finally live your life now? Try to find something that gives you purpose?"

"Figured I'd get a job as a mechanic, you know, because I put your boat back together."

"Whoa, hey now," Sam's voice cut out briefly over the phone, but his feigned offense never failed to translate whether they were next to each other or miles apart. "You better not be lying on that resume. I'll call up your manager and we'll have a heart to heart about your so-called mechanic skills."

"That's low. Isn't Captain America above such pettiness?" Bucky leaned against the small kitchen countertop in his studio apartment. "You really are America's little apple pie now."

Sam snorted. "You know damn well Captain America will go to any lengths at exposing the truth. And the truth is I'm just as good as you. In fact, you're lousy with tools. Never putting them back. Showing off your juice head strength. I mean you're really just cheating, so actually I'm better than you. This..." Sam grunted, and Bucky could just picture that shameless attention hog striking a flexed pose, "...is all natural, baby. No super juice required."

Bucky found himself smiling nonetheless. That overstuffed peacock always found a way to make the impossible possible and cheer up the usual gloom. "So what's a guy have to do around here to get called up to fight the next crisis?" he asked. "I think it's only natural that I be at the top of your contact list, since I've got extensive training working with your predecessor."

Sam hedged with a distinct hum - the kind he used when transitioning from a relaxed, personal cadence to a measured political response. "Give it time, Buck. A black man has to ingratiate himself with the nation before we can ask the masses to accept an assassin as Captain America's right-hand man."

"Okay, first of all, pardoned assassin," Bucky corrected, "And second, did you just admit I was important to you?"

"To America and keeping her safe. Not to me," Same backpedaled hard, but his tone still remained jovial as always. "Remember, I'm a symbol of the country now, not just a tall, dark, and handsome bachelor."

His humility never ceased to impress.

"Besides, we're just coworkers" he added, though it came across more like an afterthought.

"Does 'just a coworker' call to check up on a washed up, burnt out former super soldier to see if he's still alive?"

Sam huffed defensively while reaching for a quick reply, which felt like a small victory all on its own, considering how difficult it was to catch him off guard and even harder to keep him on his toes. Still, a fast response came. "It's been a few months. I just wanted to make sure you weren't lying in a ditch somewhere. Besides, I know that cyborg brain of yours will concoct all kinds of trouble if you ain't working towards something. The Devil makes work of idle hands and all that."

"Well the Devil's certainly made work of my hands before," Bucky conceded and opened the fridge. Unfortunately, and unsurprisingly, he'd have to forage elsewhere. "But I can assure you I'm not in that line of work anymore, no matter how well qualified I would be."

"There's no shame in admitting the temptation," Sam needled in that supportive veteran timbre. "Not from killing innocent people or anything, but because you're just good at what you know how to do best."

"I promise I won't become a hitman, Sam."

"Promise?"

"Yes, mother."

A chuckle resonated over the phone. "Alright then. I gotta go, but you stay out of trouble 'til I get back. Go outside or make some plans for God's sake."

"I have plenty going on," Bucky crossed his arms.

"Oh really?" Sam sounded smug. "Ten to one you still ain't got no furniture in that cramped apartment you call a living space, no TV or entertainment system to hook up to that cyborg brain when it starts to twitch, and all you do is make sad trips to an empty fridge when you can't sleep, which is always."

Bucky closed the fridge door, thoroughly offended and grasping for a rejoinder. "That's…" and failing.

"Uh huh. Quit staring at the fridge and get takeout." He sounded suspiciously pleased, and after another second Bucky recognized the suggestive undercurrent all too well.

"Sam-"

"Don't you start. You always walk by there anyway. Stop twisting yourself into a pretzel, Buck. Don't be a chicken. Cross the road."

After a long, pensive, and appropriately brooding moment, Bucky sighed into an acceding grumble. "Fine."

"You know I'm right," Sam pressed.

"I said I'll go." Bucky snatched a coat from the closet. "Don't you need to go save a puppy on national TV or something?"

"It's not my fault I'm so photogenic. We gotta give the people what they want," Sam laughed. "But on this side of the stars and stripes, I tell them when it's wheels up. One of the perks of command. And Buck," he paused, this time sounding casually serious. "Take care, okay? I'll call you when I'm back."

Bucky sucked in a breath and felt a twinge of trepidation. He still wasn't used to being sidelined when important people went off to fight battles without him. Probably because, throughout in his entire life, it had never happened before. There was always another war. Another fight. Another conflict. Being shelved was definitely worse than being right in the thick of it, bullets whizzing by and all. He'd certainly take it over his current situation and this pathetic attempt at reintegrating into civilization. More alarming was the creeping sensation that he actually cared about Sam riding off into battle without backup. But whatever reservations he had, hashing it out now over the phone was not the time.

"You too, Sam. Stay safe."

"Hey Buck?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't forget the sweet and spicy sauce packets."

Bucky rolled his eyes and hung up.