Sam drove, palms damp against the wheel. Bucky sat in back, metal hand resting on his stomach, muscle going in his jaw as he glared out the window.
No one said anything for going on three hours.
Sam was starting to get how Steve had been so messed up about the guy. This was a different kind of worry. Not like hoping a friend who was going through shit would come through it okay. Not like being mildly concerned he was going to get killed, and you were going to get killed, and everyone was just going to fucking die.
No, this was terror. This was where you ended up when he'd disappeared a year ago, and you'd started to think you wouldn't find him. Then you got a lead, and turned out he was alive, but they'd done something to him. Something new.
Bucky broke the silence, an opening shot. "You're not the father."
"Yeah, I got that," Sam shot back, going on instinct that said acting awkward about this would be the kiss of death, and stopping to think about his acquaintance with certain parts of Bucky's anatomy would be about as bad. "Seeing as I can fucking count."
"You got a problem with it?"
"What makes you think I got a problem?"
"I'm just saying, you don't have to be involved."
Bucky glared at him, combative. Sam couldn't get this wrong.
"Oh, I'm gonna be involved, all right," he said, equally combative. "I'm gonna go to every fucking birthday party, I'm gonna fucking babysit, and I'm gonna throw you a fucking baby shower whether you fucking like it or not."
"Oh, yeah?"
"Yeah."
Bucky didn't relax, not exactly. But something seemed to have cleared. "Thanks, Sam."
"You know I've got your back, Buck."
"Ugh, don't call me--"