The air outside was thick as soup, so humid that Sam's skin felt wet the second he stepped out back. He spotted Bucky sitting on the edge of the porch, looking up at the waxing moon high overhead, holding a beer bottle loosely between his fingers.

Sam had asked him what he was thinking about, once. Bucky hadn't answered, but his mouth had gone flat and tight.

So this time Sam sits beside him and bumps their shoulders together, a companionable nudge. "You good?"

Bucky leans into him, and maybe it's Sam's imagination, but it looks like there's a hint of a smile on his face. "Yeah. I'm good."