(August Catch-All) The Things We Do

[unclesam]

CHARACTERS: Sam Wilson & You (Open + Closed Starters)
LOCATION: Various aboard the station
DATE: Immediately post mission + the days after.
CONTENT: Catch-all prompts for post mission feelings
WARNINGS: Will be added to Top Levels

[ Top Levels in comments:
Infirmary: angsty hurt people after returning from the mission
Mess Hall: the evening post mission, after the food delivery, alcohol is on the table
Simulation Room: the day after the mission, sam disappears and can be found zoned out in the simulation room
Training Room: hot dude working up a sweat while training, various days post mission
Lab and Tech Storage: redwing is the best boi, fight me (and Sam)
TBA: maybe closed starters for Bucky/Natasha?

If you'd like a closed starter or have a different kind of thread idea for which none of these setups work, feel free to hit me at inkcharm, Discord inkcharm#4573 or send me a PM. ]

Comments

Open: Infirmary.

[unclesam]

✪ So Others May Live. Post-Mission.

[ CWs: angst, references to past trauma, references to medical procedures, discussions of wounds, blood ]

[ Heading to the infirmary isn't immediately a selfless act. Quite frankly, Sam feels like shit. Despite Finn and Bucky trying their best to help, sleep had been elusive at best in Yuryeong, and he hasn't quite yet gotten to catch up on it after the cure. Add to that the mental strain of the hallucinations and the physical horrors of his spine repeatedly growing out of his back, massive, heavy bone wings included, while he submitted himself as a guinea pig for the cure research... and then the battle, of course.

End of the day, Sam might be extremely capable, but he is just a dude in a fancy jetpack, and the fighting has taken its toll on his body.

Still, while others enter the infirmary, he prioritizes them, and anyone who comes in gets an offer of help. Sam's a trained pararescue - patching people up after combat is practically second nature, and if the help is accepted, the routine becomes obvious in how he handles the equipment, and the people who could use a hand. Smiles, too, says he's lucky that he just got a few scratches on his face from doing a completely calculated crash into a tree. Facefirst, judging by the bruising along his cheekbone. Sam's good at keeping spirits up and acting unbothered while helping others out.

He won't actually tend to himself until other people are not longer around, and he believes himself to be alone. Sam peels off the top part of the suit with shaking hands and hitched breath - underneath is a nasty electric burn on his chest, dark and ugly bruising on his back and arms. Sam sits on one of the examination tables in the infirmary and presses a cool cloth over the burn with a supressed grunt, just audible enough to be heard by any passerby. ]

---

CW| Hairline Fractures

[morethan084]

[The first thing Daisy upon arriving back on the station was take a long shower, and while those were usually relaxing, taking off her clothes was extremely painful due to her arms.

She manages to get changed into the a clean pair of clothes, but didn’t brush her wet hair out because she couldn’t stand the pain anymore. The adrenaline having finally worn off, she heads to the infirmary to see what kind of supplies they had. She slows to a stop when she spots Sam, smiling tiredly in his direction. The smile fades when she spots the bruise on his cheek and scratches on his face.]

You okay? That looks painful.

[The sleeves of her shirt are pushed up as much as she could manage, exposing the bruises all up and down her arms. She already knows what’s wrong, hairline fractures. Daisy starts looking through cabinets, hoping to find bone healing pills like SHIELD had.]

[unclesam]

[ Sam doesn't immediately look up - still a little in the habit from Yuryeong, still expecting to see people dead and dying with charred skin and broken, smashed bones and heads. It's over, of course. So after reaching up and running his finger along the bruising with a thoughtful hum, Sam glances up, and immediately frowns. ]

You gonna roll in here with your arms lookin' like that and tell me my face looks hurt, Marigold?

[ Amusement wars with exasperation, but Sam beckons her closer. ]

C'mere. Lemme take care of that.

[nothinglasts]

[ Natasha's pretty banged up and she's got a few cuts, but she's also used to nursing herself and by the time she comes to the infirmary, she's washed and bandaged what she could. Right now, she just wants something for the pain and maybe some spare bandages to swap to after her next shower. ]

You didn't break anything, did you?

[ She may not have Sam's skills, but enough time in the field has left her with priorities when it comes to triage. Broken bones, damaged organs and shrapnel in need of removal are the first thing she wants to eliminate. Beyond that, it's mostly down to disinfecting and resting up and she knows it.

Of course they've both had worse than this, physically, but not everything is about that. That's something she hadn't understood when she'd been younger. Sometimes the emotional scars of a mission never heal, even if no one can see them. ]

[unclesam]

[ Neither of them carries their true scars on their skin, that much is right. And even though he knows Natasha is one of the few people he doesn't have to hide anything from, much less physical pain, to do so is second nature. To downplay this helps to downplay the hurts that no one can see. ]

Nothing's bruised as bad as my ego.

[ It's a joke, and not a good one, not with the electrical burn clearly visible. Sam sits up a little regardless, wincing, and gestures with the hand not holding the cold pack to the burn. ​]

Hey... c'mere. Lemme look at that. I don't trust that you used those 5 years to learn how to die a bandage any better than you used to.

[ Despite the quip, Sam's voice is soft, though, tone almost but not quite a plea. He's not been able to look at her in Yuryeong, hallucinations turning her into a mockery of Riley's death. He wants to see for himself now that she's real, she's here, she'll be just fine.

He didn't lose her again. ]

Open: Mess Hall

[unclesam]

✪ Heres's to Us, Fill The Glass. Evening after the mission.

[ CWs: alcohol, potential discussions of death ]

[ Sam's out of his combat armor and back in normal clothing, which makes the bruising on his arms and face, as well as the scratches on his forehead and cheek stand out a little more. He's humming something under his breath and has some things set out on a table in front of him - bourbon, milk, cream, simple syrup, vanilla, nutmeg, absinthe, rye whiskey, two kinds of bitters, orange peel, several glasses, ice... When someone approaches, he glances up, face open with a small smile, though something mildly troubled in his eyes. The following offer will only go out to people of clear drinking age: ]

Alright, pick your poison. Milk Punch or Sazerac? Could raise a glass.

[ He'll leave it to the other person to signal whether it'll be a somber toast or something more joyful and life affirming. ]

---

[scarcastically]

[ erik gives a little snort. ]

That barely constitutes as poison, Wilson. Pick somethin' harder.

[unclesam]

Ain't inviting you to my luxury billion-star bar if you gonna slander french quarter drinks, man. [ Sam flashes a quick grin, though. ] I mean, I got harder. Only thing is we'd have to carry you out on a stretcher.

[ Did someone ask for Asgardian Ale for Bucky?

Very possible. He's still astonished that it worked. ]

[winscenario]

[ Jim raises his brow at the offer, surprised yet not bothered by the approach. He actually came here hoping for something to eat, but a decent drink actually sounds much better right now. Especially one with a kick to it. ]

Any chance at a neat bourbon instead?

[ Cocktails always make him feel like he's celebrating something, and he's certainly not in a mood to celebrate. ]

[unclesam]

[ It's nutritious, too, isn't it? In a manner of speaking. Vaguely. Theoretically.

Best not think about it too much. ]

Alright, fair enough. Drink's a drink, end of the day.

[ And Sam's in a mood to dull just the very edges, just a little. Besides... he's homesick. ]

I'll join you in that. If you're in the mood for company?

[spoilers]

[ The mission had worn everyone thin, but it would take knowing River well to see what effect it may or may not have had on her. Her smile is warm and untroubled, lighting her eyes with faint amusement. ]

Sazerac.

[unclesam]

[ They're two of a kind there - Sam might not be able to affect being unbothered quite as smoothly as River, but he's always been good at seeming friendly and open even when he's closed himself off. ]

Good choice. You good with strong?

Open: Simulation Room

[unclesam]

✪ You Put Up Your Defences When You Leave. Day after the mission.

[ CWs: references to panic attacks, poor coping mechanisms, references to past trauma, war, ptsd and grief. ]

[ Sam isn't to be found on the morning after the mission. Redwing, his gear, his shield are all still sitting in the room he shares with Natasha and Bucky, but of the man there is no trace. And indeed, he doesn't seem to be anywhere on the station, either. The solution can be found when the simulation room unlocks itself after three hours of having been solidly locked - a security measure. If anyone steps inside - either looking for Sam, or for any other reason whatsoever - they'll find themselves in a simulation currently running.

The setting is a T shaped pier jutting out into the water in Delacroix, Louisiana. The pier is home to a fishing business, faded signs declaring it 'Wilson Family Seafood'. The Louisiana air is hot and thick with humidity, but a gentle breeze blows in from the water and further inland through the cypress trees. The sun is setting, bathing the pier in rich golden hues. There's music, faded into the background - people seem to be having a cookout; rather a crawfish boil for those familiar with the region. The mood is good, laughter is in the air, overlapping the sound of children playing and the faint cacophony of cicadas in concert. The focus of the simulation is the boat anchored to the pier though, a small and old fishing boat that's recently gotten some loving work and a fresh coat of paint. The name declares it the Paul & Darlene. Sam's sitting perched on the bow of the boat, shoulders slumped and unaware of the company, though there's an unmistakable tension in his body that he can't quite seem to shake, and his gaze seems far away without actually going to the distant, wide horizon. ]

---

[callada]

[It wasn't Sam he was looking for, but it's Sam he finds when Rosinante pokes his head into the simulation room. He has the slightest limp still from the sharp blow of that energy whip around his ankle, but he counts himself lucky that that's the worst he got. Far worse was done to others. He did far worse himself, not that he's especially proud of it.

He's immediately drawn into the scene inside the room, an odd mix of comforting and familiar inside the entirely alien setting. For a moment, Rosinante takes it all in - the gentle rock of waves under the pier, the cheerful little community around him - then heads toward the shape hunched over on the bow. He sets foot on board and clears his throat to announce himself, as if the fishing boat hadn't swayed just a little extra under his weight.]

"Paul and Darlene," huh? Nice boat. She yours?

[unclesam]

[ He genuinely hasn't even noticed the passage of time, and looks perplexed when Rosinante approaches, as if it takes him a moment to reconcile the setting with the man's presence. Sam's mind was far away for a while there, drifting in a haze of physical pain - he took a few hard falls, body littered with scrapes and bruises, and there's a nasty electric burn on his shoulder from their shared chase, and that energy blast that took out Sam's jetpack and sent him careening into a tree.

Sam's ego is just as bruised from that, honestly.

More than anything, though, his mind's preoccupied with the non-physical wound the mission has reopened so viciously via the transformation and hallucinations.

So for a good long moment, Sam just stares at Rosinante as if he can't decide whether the setting is real and Rosinante isn't or vice versa - or if perhaps he's just entirely lost the plot. In the end, Sam sits up a little, wincing, when simulation and reality click back into the proper slot in his mind. ​]


Half of it, technically. She's been in the family business a while now.

[starer]

[His plans for the day had started out a little differently when he'd woken up that morning. (Well, night, technically. For the fifth time. Perhaps sixth. Between the nightmares and the bone deep ache of badly healed injuries, lying in bed for more than a few minutes had quickly become a chore.)

The conversation with Viveca had started off well. He'd found out about the medicine. Had been given the code to the cabinet so he could head off alone to reset his bones rather than rely on another machine. But it's when the request for a soundproof room had been aired that all of his plans were thrown to the wayside. And all for the very same reason he's been on high alert for the past few months.

Sam.

He'd known from the moment that they'd all started to change, that he needed to keep an eye on the other man. That ultimately, it didn't matter what happened to him, as long as Sam was alright. Unfortunately, that was something beyond his control during their mission. Even their brief reprieve, those hours spent trying to get some rest amongst all the chaos, wasn't anywhere near enough to negate some of the damage done. Seeing Sam being made to suffer like that...

So naturally, he heads to the simulation room, only detouring long enough to pull on a jacket first. A shield to hide his own injuries in favor of keeping the focus on Sam. If an AI is showing concern over the guy, then Bucky knows that Sam's struggling a lot more than he wants to let on.

(He should've stayed in the room. Shouldn't have slipped out so early. Maybe Sam would've come to him if he was there...)

Despite the three hour lock, Viveca steps in to override it for him. Allows him to slip in to the simulation without putting an end to it. And the sight that greets him, well-

It leaves him feeling.

Homesick.

(This isn't his home. He has no right to feel that way.)

For a long while, Bucky does nothing more than look around, taking in the sights and sounds. The smells. It's Delacroix. Sam's Delacroix. With the heat beating down on him, lessened by the gentle breeze rolling in from the water's edge, Bucky finds it difficult to ruin that just yet. Impossible to break the peace and calm of the moment.

So minutes pass, the song ends, another starts. And as it quietly echoes in from further down the dock, Bucky finally makes his way towards the boat. Towards the man, more specifically, hiding out on its bow. He may not have a beer with him to offer up, but that doesn't keep him from knocking against the gunwale of the boat with metal knuckles.]

[unclesam]

[ The sound pulls Sam from the way everything inside of him has been slipping down and away, as if he'd been caught in a gentle undercurrent intent on spiriting him away. He turns and raises his head, and for a moment his gaze simply lingers on Bucky with a lack of comprehension. It's not that Bucky is a sight that doesn't belong in this picture - he does, he belongs here so naturally and beautifully that it hurts Sam to remind himself that right now, it's not real, they're not here, they're not where they should be. Rather, for a moment Sam can't quite determine whether Bucky's conjured up by the simulation without Sam's active input, or if it's the real man standing in front of him.

For a moment, his eyes catch on Bucky's chest level, and he can't look up further. Freezes, eyes glazed over a little, staring at Bucky's chest and starting at nothing at all. Then he forces his eyes to track further up, to find Bucky's face, and there's a hitched intake of breath - it's just him. No charred skin, no cracked bones. The only person unmarred by the nightmare of his hallucinations. It's just Bucky.

It's Bucky.

When did three hours pass? Has he been in here this long already? Shit...

It flushes through him like cold water, shocks him painfully back into the moment. The thought that he might have lost time. He remembers coming home after Riley's death, and being unable to get out of bed. He doesn't remember those weeks, just that they happened. Must have - the calendar progressed, and Sarah can recount that time. Sam can't, not really. Days blurring into weeks blurring into a month. Losing time, his mind slipping away in a treacherously harmless looking undercurrent.

Sam came in here intending to place himself back in the night sky over Afghanistan. After days of seeing everyone but Bucky charred and broken, part of him wanted to layer the real hurt over the hurtful reminders.

Instead, selfishly, Sam's avoided his failure, his grief. Ran from it, and towards... this.

Towards happiness. Guilt claws at him. His skin feels numb, like he's falling to ash and dust all over again, and he feels like he's not sitting right within his own body. He knows it's because his PTSD has been triggered hard, because he's caught in half a flash back. Sam also knows that this is healthier than his original intent. Doesn't mean he's not caught halfways between keeping it together and falling apart.

And so, Bucky finds him. And for a long moment, Sam just looks at him, keeps his face carefully calm, nothing but his eyes betraying that something's off inside of him.

Sam opens his mouth. Closes it again.

He hasn't spoken to Bucky in days now. Has been with him, and listened to him from the merciful, suffocating darkness behind a blind fold. The only semblance of peace and relief he'd found in Yuryeong. And now...

Sam pushes himself to his feet and moves forwards, lets the gentle motion of the deck carry him towards Bucky. ]

I need you to trust me.

[ Sam steps closer, into arm's reach of Bucky. There's still something slightly far away in his eyes, but the distant, haunted look slowly bleeds into something more present, more focused on the man in front of him rather than the ghosts of Sam's own past. ]

I'm gonna touch you.

[ No joke in his voice, no cheek. Just an echo of what Bucky had said to him when offering the blindfold, when making himself a safe haven for Sam. This, Sam realizes dimly, is a safe haven, too. Delacroix. The boat. Bucky.

Just this. It's enough. ]

Open: Training Room

[unclesam]

✪ By My Side On The Frontline. Daily post mission.

[ CWs: violence for the sake of training, also CW for Sam being a snack, I don't make the rules ]

[ To Sam's credit, he almost waits long enough for his wounds to have had chance to recover before he hits the training room again, and once there, it seems very little holds him back, be it fading bruises, scrapes, burns, or other kinds of pain plaguing his sleep.

On various days, he can be found keeping himself in shape - mostly he's practicing throws with his shield, a variety of acrobatic martial arts maneuvers, or even using his wingsuit in the limited space to practice recklessly fast, nimble maneuvers in the air. Sam puts in the work - tirelessly so. He's a man who knows he needs to put in twice as much effort, and so he does - and then some. And hey, if anyone's in need of a sparring partner, he's happy to provide. Sam's a talk, muscular man, but surprisingly nimble, and his fighting style is much more based in martial arts and acrobatics than brute force. ]

---

i'm sorry i had to

[skelepun]

[ Training Room? Sans could think of a few more appropriate names for it. Draining, straining, complaining... the list went on and on, particularly when you were a skeleton who avoided exercise at every opportunity. Why mess with perfection, right?

The place did have some things going for it, though. Amenities included fresh towels, stacks of unattended mats, and the rotating cast of entertainment. Said entertainment was usually too preoccupied torturing themselves to bother with a dozing skeleton in the corner. Perfect place to get away from the rat race and catch a few z's.

It was during one of those naps that a series of metallic clangs reverberate loud and long enough to pull Sans from sleep. Blinking blearily, it takes a moment for Sans to register exactly who was responsible. After all, Sam looked... different, since last they spoke.

Welp. The people working out didn't usually bother him, sure, but who said he had to return the favor? ]

Hey, cool sled. [ He pipes up, bones creaking as he stretches his arms up over his head with a yawn. ] Y'know you're supposed to sit in it, right?

stunning tbh

[unclesam]

[ Sam isn't a super soldier. He can't just catch the shield on the rebound like it's nothing, always in motion with the momentum of the shield. His work with it is fluid, and there's a joy in that for him. A struggle turned into poetry of motion. Sam's always prided himself on what he could accomplish physically, body built strong and agile, because how else do you keep yourself airborne as he does?

At the words, he comes to a slow stop, catching the shield and turning with the motion to face Sans. Eyebrows going up. Sans does... not look different than the last time he saw him, and for a moment that throws Sam more than the continued fact of talking to a... well. Full on skeleton.

His life's so weird these days. ]

And here I thought I was training for ultimate frisbee. You saying I should change gears?

im sorry why is she like this

[retributioning]

[ one of the times sam is deeply concentrated into throwing his shield and catching it again, renfri wanders into the room, bored enough to consider doing some training... but as she spots sam, she sticks to the shadows that cling to the side of the room, watching him for a moment —

and then picks up a spear on the side of the room and promptly throws it at him with just a shout of, ]

Block this, Star-Shield!

[ apparently, she has all the faith in him being able to catch the shield and turn fast enough... ]

[unclesam]

[ It's lucky, honestly, that his years of serving in the air force coupled with his time as an avenger have sharpened his reflexes - gotta be fast and flexible in the sky when you wanna dodge rpg fire. Not much warning time for anything that might hit your while spinning mid-air, either.

So at the shout, Sam is half-turned before the voice and words even fully register, catching the shield and bringing it up as he moves with the momentum to let it turn him around.

The spear strikes the center of the shield with a strange sound - metal, definitely, but oddly melodious. Same knocks it sideways with his motion - and stares at Renfri, baffled.. ]

The hell...?

Open: Lab and Tech Storage

[unclesam]

✪ White Crippled Wings. A few days post mission.

[ CWs: none, but I'm gonna try to make you, the player, fall in love with a non-sentient fictional drone, so good luck. ]

I love you, but what the hell.

[ A sigh. The statement isn't heated, but rather exasperated. If someone follows the voice, they'll find Sam sitting at one of the work stations, staring incredulously at Redwing. ]

Right. Get back down here. You got no right to be pulling left, buddy, so what gives?

[ Using some of the tools at hand, Sam opens Redwing's chassis up, connects a small device with the drone's innards, running some diagnostics. ]

See, the problem ain't Junior, and it sure as shit ain't Buckabee. You just tryna embarrass me in front of the bionic staring machine?

[ The drone, being an inanimate object, gives no indication of feeling inclined to answer. It doesn't stop Sam from fussing over Redwing as if he's a pet who mildly misbehaved. ]

Yeah, yeah. Pout all you want...

---

[bijective]

[Right then, back at it once more…

Hermann enters the lab hearing the subtle clangs of metal and banter from what he assumes from one individual to another. Curiosity gets the best of him as he directs his wheelchair towards Sam’s workstation.

Once Hermann is somewhat close, situated a few feet behind Sam, he slightly cranes his neck to gander at the bird-like device.]

The little ones do tend to show the most attitude.

[Well, "little" for Hermann would be robots over 100ft, but it’s all relative at this stage.]

[bossily]

[There's just something about a boy talking to his machines that makes her smile. She's here to work on her hydroponics idea, but can't find any of her science type friends to help out. So she stands back and watches Sam instead, intrigued by the way he addresses the drone.

It's precious, really.]

Does he do tricks too? Or just embarrass you like a naughty dog?

[She lightly teases, arms crossed over her chest as she pushes off the wall to approach.]