I do not own Captain America: Civil War.

I do own a car. It has been on a trip.

Road Trip

"So we're going to steal a VW Bug?"

The tone of Sam Wilson's voice was calm, collected. Cool.

Much like the man himself.

And frankly, slightly questioning.

But Steve Rogers, so intent on his mission, barely spared him a glance.

"No, we're going to borrow a VW Bug."

The aerial soldier otherwise known as Falcon raised a doubtful eyebrow.

Captain America seemed to have a panache for selective ethics.

Especially considering there was no time scheduled between driving to the airport, inevitably confronting Tony Stark's super posse at some point, and flying off to the tundra of Siberia to return the German engineering to its rightful owner.

Sam smirked.

Glanced over in amusement at Bucky Barnes.

Caught his brooding eye.

And mouthed emphatically, 'stealing'.

The corner of the morose man's mouth twitched.

Then Sam remembered the guy, under the influence of HYDRA mind control, had tried to kill him. Multiple times.

Oh, right, I hate him.

And turned away.

"Okay, it's gonna be a long drive to the airport. If anybody needs to go, go now."

The usually taciturn former Winter Soldier felt another smile forming on his usually grim face.

As much as he could remember, this was the most he had even considered smiling since he fell from the train and down into the snow.

At least I think.

And so it felt quite natural to look at the one familiar thing in the entire world to him.

And give it grief.

"Really?"

Steve valiantly tried to ignore the mirth bubbling up in Bucky Barnes' wintery blue eyes.

"Thanks, Dad."

Sigh.

Still, it was nice to see his friend regaining a touch of his former self.

"Yeah. And don't forget to wash your hands either."

There, that's better.

The three men were muscled. Tall. Handsome.

And the girls were definitely noticing. Huddling together.

Whispering. Giggling.

Bucky thought he vaguely remembered what that was like.

Steve was still uncomfortable with the effect he had on women.

Only Sam was in his element.

Tossing out an easy grin. And a cool eye.

"Ladies. How you doing?"

The girls giggled and Sam strolled on.

Steve suppressed a grin.

As Bucky tried not to stare.

"Steve, what-"

Steve returned the murmur.

"Lip ring."

Bucky blinked.

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"On purpose?"

"Yeah."

"Ouch."

Sam was apparently not deaf.

"I don't know, man . Metal arm, metal lips. Could be hot."

Bucky look mildly horrified.

"You could at least have something to talk about."

Uhhhh . . .

"Shotgun!"

Both Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes instantly alerted even more so than before.

Scanning the horizon, the buildings, people.

And watched in bewilderment as Sam Wilson strolled casually toward the recently stolen, um, absconded, er, acquired vehicle.

Glancing back at them with a smirk.

"Come on, old men!"

Steve hesitantly advanced.

"But you said-"

Sam reversed position, walking backward, now openly grinning.

"Yeah. Shotgun. Steve's driving. First one to say 'shotgun' in sight of the car gets passenger."

Then he turned back toward the yellow vehicle .

Bucky turned to Steve.

"Is that real?"

Steve gave a little shrug.

"I have no idea."

Bucky shook his head in bemusement.

"This world is strange."

Steve nodded in agreement.

"Yeah."

"Radio?"

They hadn't been driving too long.

But Sam Wilson was a man with music in his soul.

Steve shrugged congenially.

"Anything but Lady Gaga."

There was a beat of silence before Bucky piped up quietly.

"Lady . . . Gaga?"

Steve glanced in the rear view mirror at his fellow nanogenarian crammed in the backseat.

"Don't ask. I'll fill you in later."

Then he sank back into his own thoughts once more, leaving the other man out of time to himself.

Mouthing the syllables over and over.

Trying to get them to make sense.

So Steve was ahead of them talking to a pretty blonde Bucky was relatively certain Steve was going to kiss.

Sam was in the front seat with almost ample leg room and all the air circulation.

While he . . .

I've got a mechanical arm. I could shove you through the dashboard into the engine block.

. . . sat with his legs steadily growing numb with the pressure of Sam Wilson's seat pressing against his outstretched tibias.

Where for the past few hours, with every bump in the road, his head had been in danger of banging the ceiling.

Still . . .

I could fling you and your seat out of this sunroof thing.

. . . he was trying to be nice.

"Can you move your seat up?"

"No."

Sigh.

I hope this was fun to read! It was fun for me to write.

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