#38 from the TS eras tour prompt list for sambucky, if you feel so inclined ♠️♥️♣️♦️
the BBC Musketeers Sambucky AU LIVES, y'all
38. clandestine meetings and longing stares
Bucky has never much been one for ballrooms. He’s only ever spent time in them in his capacity as a soldier, trotted out with the other Musketeers when the Crown wants to show off their own special regiment to visiting dignitaries. He imagines a ballroom would be stuffy enough without the cape and dress regalia that those appearances demand, and the crowds only make it worse.
He’s never liked this particular ballroom either. All those windows make for beautiful light, and they certainly show off the splendor of the gardens, but all that the sniper in him can see is a hundred thousand sightlines, few of them obscured by anything that would serve as a real obstacle.
He must have gone over his list of complaints a hundred times with Steve, and a hundred times again with Sam, but neither of them seemed to keep it in mind when they decided to pursue a suspected spy during a royal ball. It’s only the three of them, along with Torres, but in an attempt to be less conspicuous, they’ve rid themselves of their pauldrons. They still have their muskets, of course, and no shortage of knives besides, but Bucky worked hard to be able to wear the Musketeer crest on his shoulder, and it feels wrong to be without it.
Out of habit, he scans the room and finds the others again. Joaquín is dancing with a young woman whose mother is the premier source for gossip in the court, but it’s difficult to tell just who is plying the other for information at the moment. He’ll have to trust that Sam was right when he chose to bring Joaquín along.
He finds Sam next, charming the small Ottoman delegation that arrived earlier this week, undoubtedly impressing them with his command of languages. Everything about his posture is relaxed, and the diplomats around him all stand at ease, but Bucky can see the way his eyes cut to the windows and doors every so often, sweeping over the room and landing on the key players they’d identified earlier today.
Sam’s guard isn’t down, and he’s clearly taken to heart Bucky’s warnings about the windows as a vulnerability, and yet Bucky can’t help but watch him just a little bit longer. They’re soldiers and they’ve looked out for each other for years, but he’s not sure where soldiering comes into it when he finds himself glaring just a little bit in the direction of anyone who stops to admire Sam for too long.
“Make that face any longer and you’ll get stuck that way,” quips a voice from beside him, quiet but amused.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Rogers,” says Bucky, settling the same glare on his best friend. “This is just my face.”
Steve snorts. “That might work better on someone who hasn’t known you your whole life. I’m not a cadet; you can’t glower me into submission.”
“You’ll forgive me if I try anyway,” Bucky says, his voice flat. “Aren’t you supposed to be watching Her Majesty?”
He furrows his eyebrows. “No, I’m covering the Spanish delegation.”
“I know your assignment,” says Bucky. “I’m just wondering why you aren’t where you usually are when you’re told to be literally anywhere else.”
This time, it’s Steve’s turn to glare.
Grinning, Bucky pats him on the cheek. “Make that face any longer and you’ll get stuck like that.”
Which is, of course, when those windows that Bucky hates so much get blown in by a musket shot, directly lined up with where the Queen was standing not half a moment ago. Bucky looks up just in time to see Torres push his way through the nearest door, in pursuit of the gunman with a spate of palace guards.
Steve starts to move towards where the Queen was, but Bucky catches his arm and pushes him backwards, widening his eyes in warning. “Go check the other windows and start moving people out of here,” he says. When Steve opens his mouth to argue, he softens his tone and adds, “I have her.”
It still seems to cost Steve something to walk away, but he sets his jaw and does it anyway, calling out orders to the remaining palace guards.
Bucky turns and pushes his way through the crowd that’s formed near the thrones, relieved to see Sam and a lady-in-waiting helping Queen Margaret to her feet. She seems steady, if a little bit shaken, but then the lady-in-waiting gasps, pointing at the Queen’s gown.
“Your Majesty, you’re bleeding!”
The lady-in-waiting seems hysterical, but the Queen has always been made of sterner stuff. She frowns down at her skirts, where a dark red stain mars the cream and gold fabric.
“It’s not me,” she says, then immediately turns, wide-eyed, to Sam. “Captain Wilson! You said you were unharmed.”
Bucky turns to look at Sam again and realizes that there’s a singe through his sleeve, the white of his undershirt peeking through but stained with blood.
Before he can say anything, Sam is rushing to reassure the Queen. “It’s just a graze, Your Majesty. Hardly worth thinking about. I’m only sorry that it ruined your gown.”
“I don’t care about the gown, Captain. I care that you’ve been hurt, and in protecting me, no less,” says the Queen. Bucky’s always liked her. She turns to one of the courtiers standing around uselessly. “Fetch the physician, please. Wake him if you have to; I want the Captain’s injury tended to at once.”
If Bucky knows the Queen, she’ll want to keep apprised of how Sam’s injury is, which means she’ll be in and out of her apartments with the shooter still on the loose. “That won’t be necessary, Your Majesty,” he says. “He’ll be in very capable hands at the garrison.”
Sam shoots him a grateful look and Bucky knows he was worried about the same thing.
“Are you certain?” asks the Queen.
“My sister trained to be a seamstress before she took up nursing injured Musketeers,” says Bucky. “The only concern about her stitches is that they won’t leave a big scar for Sam to boast about.”
The Queen smiles a little bit at his words and seems placated. “Then you should escort him back to the garrison so she can see to him as soon as possible.”
“Others can do that, Your Majesty,” says Bucky. “I think the King would much rather see you safely escorted up to your apartments, if you’ll allow the guards and I to do that.”
The Queen only nods. If she’s at all fazed by Bucky’s contradiction, she doesn’t bat an eyelash, motioning for him and the guards to take up their places flanking her. When they pass Steve at the doors, he gives Bucky the slightest nod. Bucky nods back and keeps moving.
He doesn’t relax when the halls of the palace are clear, nor when a sweep of the Queen’s apartments reveals that the Musketeers who stood guard did their jobs and kept the rooms safe. He doesn’t relax once the Queen is safely ensconced inside and the guards downstairs give him word that Torres apprehended the shooter.
He doesn’t relax until he’s stabled his horse at the garrison and hurried up the steps to the Captain’s quarters, bursting through the door without bothering to knock and finding Sam seated by the fire, bare chested as Rebecca finishes dressing the wound on his arm.
Neither one of them seem fazed by Bucky’s admittedly dramatic entrance. His sister doesn’t even spare him a glance until she’s tucked away the end of the bandage, straightening up and leaving her supplies where they are.
“He cut his hand on glass, too,” she says. “I’ve already taken out the shards, but I trust you can clean and dress it.”
Bucky nods, stepping aside so his sister can slip out the door and latching it shut behind her.
Without turning to look at Bucky, Sam asks, “Should I even ask you where Steve is?”
“Considering how little you’d want to hear the answer, I think it would be best if you didn’t,” says Bucky. He crosses over to Sam’s chair, pulling up a nearby stool and moving Sam’s injured hand into his lap.
“Does he realize how dangerous this is?” asks Sam, sounding exhausted. He doesn’t even flinch as Bucky dabs at the cut with a brandy-soaked strip of muslin.
“Of course he does,” Bucky says. “When has that ever stopped him from doing anything?”
“There’s a difference between swinging at the biggest man on the battlefield and sneaking into the Queen’s apartments late at night. The first earns you a Royal commendation. The second gets you executed for treason.”
“The King’s mistresses go in and out of his chambers whenever they want,” says Bucky, just to be contrary. He knows that they’re not even comparable, as expectations go.
Sam sighs. “But she’s alright? The Queen?”
“Shaken but just fine,” says Bucky, as he begins to bandage Sam’s hand. “We did a sweep of her rooms before we took her inside.”
“Good.”
“But we did have to make a detour to bring the prince from his nursery into the Queen’s apartments.”
The curse that Sam lets out would appall both of his churchgoing parents.
“It made sense to have him somewhere safe,” says Bucky. “And I know there are guards at the doors of the nursery, but you know that no one will protect that child the way that Steve will.”
“If anyone finds out what Steve is doing–”
“They won’t.”
“But if they do–”
“Sam,” says Bucky, his voice firm, “the woman he loves almost died today. I’m not sure I can blame him for wanting to be sure that she’s alright.”
“Really?” asks Sam, raising his eyebrows. “Because you’re usually the first to do it.”
“I know,” murmurs Bucky, carefully tying off the dressing on Sam’s hand.
“I mean, I at least expected a plan to tie Steve up and put him on a ship bound for Corsica, or a list of all the ways we could get charged with treason.”
“Sorry to disappoint.”
Bucky is pulling his hand away from the dressing when Sam turns his hand over and catches Bucky’s fingers with his own. For a moment, it seems impossible to lift his gaze from where their hands are tangled together.
“Bucky.”
“I can’t, is all,” says Bucky, absently tracing a scar on Sam’s wrist with his free hand. “Not today.”
“Okay,” says Sam, turning his arm so Bucky’s fingers can trail over the rest of the scar. “Not today, then.”
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