(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: 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.

[callada]

Fishing?

[Obviously, but he smiles gently at Sam as he walks closer while inspecting the boat. Well cared for, clearly. It's a surprise to think that someone with a laser-firing robot and a cool power suit would have anything to do with a simple fishing business, but people are full of apparent contradictions until you get to know them. It's actually sort of comforting, seeing this when he would have expected a world full of slick metal castles and flying machines. Or, what was it Ed had spoken of? Cars. Trains.

He finds himself a seat so he can enjoy the sight of the waves.]

After what we all just did, I wouldn't have taken you for a fisherman.

[unclesam]

Nothing beats a humble origin.

[ Sam returns the gentle smile. Something wistful tinges the edges of the expression, but mostly it's genuine amusement, a sort of warm and cozy nostalgia for his own roots. ]

Seafood business been the first thing my family ever owned. Been ours for a couple generations now. [ He hesitates, briefly, weighs remaining closed off against sharing this place with a stranger who's proven himself a damn good ally. Ah, what the hell. ] My sister and I spent half our childhood on this boat.

[ He raps his knuckles against the bow. Hand uncurling he then runs his fingertips along it. The boat had been in a sorry state of things, and it still gives him an immense sense of peace to know they were able to fix it back up again. That his sister changed her mind on selling it. That he didn't have to paint over his parents' names on the hull. ]

But yeah, no... the family business never been my calling, I suppose.

[ It's a mild way of putting it. When his father died, Sarah was old enough to take over, and Sam had run off to join the air force, lured by the promises of steady pay to help foot his mother's rising medical bills. And from there, he'd soared ever higher, even at his lowest moments. ]

[callada]

[The way the man talks about his childhood, his family, is genuinely heartwarming. It's only a few words, but the tone is all there, as is the love in his gestures, the affection for this little boat that ties him to his upbringing. He finds himself longing, ever so slightly, for a past he never had. One where normal kids are raised by normal parents, doing things like hauling up shrimp and shining silver mackerel out of a warm bay and cooking crab and lobster with their neighbors.

Some experiences are truly worlds apart.]

You say humble, but I'd call it grounding. That's the sort of thing that keeps a person's head rooted in the things that matter. Everything we're doing now, like back in Gyeongje, makes sure people get to live those lives the way they're supposed to.

[There's a brief pause where he has a draw from his cigarette, then:]

So, what's your calling? How does a kid from a fishing family end up with wings and lasers?

[unclesam]

[ The air becomes rich, for a moment, with the sound of a couple children shrieking and laughing. Something around Sam's eyes that still looks haunted softens ever so slightly.

Still, at the question, Sam shifts in mild discomfort. Here's a man who looks like he's happier not talking about himself. So he shrugs, and wraps the truth - the grief, the loss, the pain - in something smaller, almost dismissive of his long and hard road through life. ]

Ran away to join the army. Trained to become pararescue - means people you send into the field to fix other people up, or drop them behind enemy lines to rescue soldiers who can't get back out. Can be deployed or natural disasters, too, but I was deployed on two combat tours. The wings were experimental tech. Project was shelved, I left the army. Years later I took the wings back and joined some super heroes in saving the world a little bit.

[ Sam shrugs, smiles a little, and doesn't quite succeed in not still looking haunted by several things he's left out of the story. ]

That's about it, really. So what's your story?

[callada]

[Is the "super heroes" thing supposed to be tongue in cheek? The rest sounds so earnest. It's hard to know what to make of that one line.

The rest, though, he nods along with, truly impressed. Pararescue - that sort of thing takes a lot of bravery, and a real depth of honor and selflessness.

These are good people. He keeps finding that to be true of every one of them he's worked with so far and learned about. Up to this point Rosinante has sidestepped questions about what he does both out of habit and caution, because in his line of work honesty gets you killed. But things are different here, aren't they? Maybe it's time to tell a few simple truths. Sam especially seems trustworthy.

He focuses on the cigarette smoke and water.]

My parents died when I was young. I was taken in by a Marine officer who had been visiting the island when he found me wandering. I didn't really know what to do with my life, I guess, except join up as soon as I was old enough. I figured, he'd saved my life, the least I could do was pay it forward. Mostly now I take assignments where pirates are causing long-term trouble, doing things like black market trade in guns, drugs, or whatever, and try to work out who's criminal and who's innocent. Round up the former, protect the latter. I just want to make those areas safer so kids can have normal lives without getting sucked into drug rings or slaver networks.

[The short, simplified version of it, but for the first time since arriving he didn't actually make any of it up. Feels weird. But, well, good.]

[unclesam]

[ Rosinante isn't from the same world Sam is - that much is pretty damn easy to assume just by visual cues alone. So he can't know how different it hits - to sit here, on a fishing boat in the depths of Louisiana, where the bayou is teeming with long lost slave graves, talking to a black man whose family had been dragged here via a port less than an hour's drive away kicking and screaming generations ago, and never left, and mention almost casually that he's busting slaver networks.

Sam takes a breath, and releases it, a little too sharp. Good isn't something you are, it's something you do. ]

So you're a good man. And a hero to boot.

[ He says it lightly, but not without a genuine warmth to it. Sam swallows. ]

Slavery a common thing where you from?

[callada]

[The reaction is subtle, but Rosinante notices. He can't understand, though, of course. Not really. Slavery is despicable and something he hates deeply, and so that Sam should pick up on that as the most detestable among the things he listed doesn't surprise him, but only because it is awful to treat people as property. People should be upset about that.

And yet too many in his own world either willingly participate, or turn a blind eye.]

Unfortunately. The fishmen tend to get it the worst. People look down on them because they're not human. Mermaids don't fare any better, since they're popular with the wealthy. Like having an aquarium, but...

[But, you know, people instead of fish, and it is so deeply fucked up that he loses the stomach to continue with that thought out loud, and shudders instead, eyes narrowing.]

Humans do it to each other too, though. And I - you know, I'm not much of a hero. Feels like the work's unending, like I'm hardly ever able to make a dent.

[unclesam]

[ Sam almost wants to laugh. Are humans just... like that, then, in other worlds as well as his own? It's a chilling thought, that all of it isn't just a product of his Earth's specific circumstances, but part of human nature. To chain what they deem 'other', and want to own in one twisted way or another. ​]

We just got humans... [ He thinks briefly to the people Daisy referred to as Inhumans, and tries not to shudder at the naming. ] Different skin color, though. My great-great-grandparents were born into slavery. Lived to see it abolished. Last generation born into it.

[ Sam gestures towards the dock, points at the sign that proudly declares this 'Wilson Family Seafood'. Most of the people milling about there, adult and children, have dark skin like Sam. They're clearly not all one family - but they're one people, descended from those who were stolen, those who were born into it, those who saw it abolished and toiled to make something of what this country proudly called 'freedom'. There are implications there. ]

First thing we ever owned.

[ And it hurts, to think about how little time passed. To remember, vaguely, his great-grandfather, already old and wizened when Sam was a little boy. To think that Sam as a child talked to a man whose own parents were born in chains, who himself was lucky to be born just late enough.

Sam's eyes linger up there. On children, laughing and playing. ]

Seems like hardly a dent to you. Makes all the difference to every single one person, and everyone after them.

[callada]

[Rosinante follows Sam's gesture, eyes slowly widening as the weight of all he says sinks in.

In the absence of non-humans to subjugate, humanity picks on its own - he knows this. Skin color is arbitrary, but it would always be something arbitrary anyway, wouldn't it? There's no good reason to enslave anyone. He can't help but wonder who, in Sam's world, are the equivalents to his own kin, his ancestors as well as not-so-distant family, who perch at the top of their castles and manors and declare all else below them?

And then decides never to ask, because those people don't matter. Slavery abolished, for good, that matters.]

How did it change? Your world's heroes - how did they manage to end it?

[unclesam]

Ain't as easy as all that.

[ Would be simpler, wouldn't it, if slavery had just been a bad thing some bad people did, instead of something that the entire western world profited from, something that America was built on. Just something you needed a few heroes to roll up for. Defeat the bad guys, free the enslaved.

He rubs the palms of his hands against one another. ]

Global problem, honestly. Slave trade was a massive market. The trade was outlawed first, country by country. There were shifts of morality in some populations. Elsewhere there were slave uprisings that managed to stick and influenced revolutions. Then some places you had freed slaves advocating for abolishment. And... not to be jaded, but I guess it also simply became less economically and politically viable.

[ Sam's an optimist when it comes to people - not so much when it comes to institutions and governments. ]

Whole system was baked into the foundations of this country, so there was never gonna be a fast or easy fix. We had our heroes, though. And a civil war.

[ It matters. The generational trauma will never be forgotten, and things are still... but perhaps they can focus on the good of it, for Rosinante's sake. There are worlds out there that for all their flaws managed to take the steps not quite yet seen where Rosinante's from. Means his work ain't meaningless, not for the people he frees, and also not in the large picture. Those deeds won't be forgotten either way. ]

[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. ]

[starer]

[While he may not know the details behind just what Sam's thinking about right now, he still knows him. Still understand that the lack of an expression on his face is far more telling than a smile or a frown ever would be. That the empty look, the pain, the attempt at hiding it all by throwing up that barrier is all the proof he needs that Viveca was right to warn him. To let him in here early.

Sam is hurting, and Bucky just up and left him to deal with it alone.

(He has his own demons to face, of course. But it's nothing he hasn't already spent a lifetime living with. And Sam is more important than any of that.)

So when Sam moves closer, Bucky follows suit. Closes the gap enough that he can't tell where the heat of a Delacroix afternoon ends and the warmth of Sam's body begins. Close enough that no matter how painful it may be to see the expression hidden behind Sam's eyes, he's unable to look away.

He's failed Sam yet again, all because of his own selfish needs.

When the silence is broken between them again, Bucky's expression softens a little, his response of-]

Always.

[-spoken in the wake of the first request. He trusts Sam more than anybody else he knows. More than himself, for all that the thought is worth. If it hadn't been for Sam, Bucky would have long since lost himself. Would have withdrawn entirely. Become barely more than a husk of himself. He was already well on his way there in those days before Walker had claimed the shield for himself. Before then, even. Back in those months spent trying to hide from everybody. When he'd had to spend extra time covering his tracks as he'd made his way across Europe trying to find himself. When Sam had been hot on his heels, even if he hadn't always realized it at the time.

Ten years, and Sam had been there for every moment of it.

And he wants to give it all up.]

I ain't going anywhere.

[It's a promise he needs to find a way to stick to. No matter what it takes. He can't lose this.]

[unclesam]

[ I ain't going anywhere.

It hit Sam's chest hard, knocks a few things loose and sideways that he's allowed to get wedged shut in there. And this close, there's no hiding the way his eyes snap to Bucky's, the way they immediately shine too bright with years of grief, of surviving and moving on while others die or leave or are otherwise lost to him. Grief has dug deep trenches into Sam's heart, and every time he just fills them up with love again until they overflow, until he doesn't know where to put the emotion, because he's got so few people left who well and truly know him, and love him back anyway.

And he never, ever gets to say good-bye to any of them.

He's glad Bucky found him, just like he's glad weeks ago Bucky came down to Delacroix with that case from Wakanda. Inserted himself when Sam needed someone to show up for him. And perhaps it's because they're here, where Sam can pretend for a moment that they're home instead of in space, that for once in his life Sam doesn't close himself off completely, doesn't hide behind a quip or a smile where it's safe. Just swallows hard, takes a breath that shudders slightly in his chest, stares at Bucky, slowly blurring behind tears Sam's still refusing to let fall, clinging on to that last shred of control he has over his grief.

And then he moves in, wraps his arms tight around Bucky, and pulls the man into a hug.

It's not that they've not touched before. Hands patting against shoulders and backs and waists, clasping in silent promises. He remembers Bucky's chin on his shoulder at the cookout when he pulled the man in for a brief hug at his arrival. That's a thing they do now.

It's just that this isn't something they've done before - just hug. Not in greeting, not in parting, just do it for the hell of it, arms tight, breaths falling into sync, and just holding someone and being held in return. And Sam's not going to let go until Bucky's had enough - not for a while at least. He needs it, and he figures, if he does, then maybe Bucky does as well.

Sam didn't mean to disappear on Bucky after all the guy's done for him back during the mission to make it all more bearable. And he could kick himself, but he can't undo that. He can just be here, now, and not push Bucky away even when his gut instinct is to shield himself and hide everything Bucky can likely see so clearly in this entire situation.

He could tell Bucky, he thinks. About Riley. Tell him more than he ever told Steve even, perhaps. Turn 'I lost my wingman' into a more than an anecdotal reference of his grief. Tell him that his hallucinations made everyone look like they'd suffered Riley's death, too.

Sam grips into the hug a little harder. Holds onto Bucky like a lifeline.

And instead, he says: ]

I was gonna ask you to come stay here. Break your lease in Brooklyn. Come home instead.

[starer]

[He looks like he's going to cry.

Sam looks like he's going to cry, and all Bucky can think is that it's his fault. That he's to blame for that look on his face. For being the one to cause the other man pain. It's the absolute last thing he wants to do, and it takes all he has to keep himself from making a retreat. From getting out of there before he makes things any worse.

But then the hug comes and Bucky--

For the longest time, he doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Can't. Its been a long time since anybody sought him out for any kind of comfort. A long time since he was offered up anything more than a squeezed shoulder or a pat on the back. And he has no idea what to do with it. How to respond.

How to make it clear that his lack of a response isn't a rejection. Not when that's the complete opposite of what he wants right now.

It isn't until Sam speaks again that Bucky finally takes a shuddering breath. That his arms move to grab ahold of the other man in turn. His hands end up twisted in the back of Sam's shirt, just shy of tearing the fabric with the roughness of that grip.

The offer is too much. More than he deserves. (Everything he wants.) Sam is too good of a person to allow a person like him in to his life like that. Those visits to Delacroix, the time he spent around Sarah and the boys. After everything Bucky has put Sam through, he should have turned him away a long time ago. And yet for some, crazy reason, he never did. He even welcomed Bucky into his life.

And now-]

Take it back.

[The offer. Sam needs to take it back before Bucky accepts it. Needs to retract the promise of a future for him in Delacroix, of a place to finally start building a life for himself, because Bucky knows he doesn't deserve it. How could he, when all he's done is hurt those around him? There's a reason he was brought to this station, and it doesn't end with the two of them heading back together.]

You've gotta take it back, Sam. Please.

[His voice is quiet, barely more than a whisper. Muffled slightly by the way he's given in to press his forehead to Sam's shoulder. By the way he's finally giving up the fight and sinking in to the hug.]

[unclesam]

[ For the longest time, Sam had genuinely assumed Bucky was touch averse. After everything he'd been though, who could blame the man? Being a prisoner of war, being torture, being made a weapong without bodily autonomy. He's just a man underneath all that trauma and serum, just some guy from Brooklyn who was drafted into the army, and whose life went to true and utter shit after that. Who could blame him for not being big on touch, right?

So for a while, Sam thinks that this is about to turn really awkward. That he's gonna hang on to Bucky for dear life and realize too late he pushed too far, reached for too much, for things Bucky's not willing to share. Sam's been good before, about letting Bucky come to him, careful to let Bucky set the pace and boundaries of physical touch, and he's about to kick himself for screwing up and overstepping when Bucky finally moves, pulls him in and holds on so tight Sam's not sure if his shirt is gonna survive the encounter, with a desperation Sam's hardly prepared for but feels to the very bone.

Oh. You really, badly need this, don't you.

Maybe he got it wrong.

Maybe Bucky is starved for it rather than averse to it.

Maybe Bucky needs this as badly as Sam, and maybe even more.

When Bucky begs him to take the offer back despite how he's sinking into the hug, Sam shifts more into it, too, one hand rubbing small, soothing circles between his shoulder blades, the other curled tight into the fabric of Bucky's shirt. Barely enough room between them for air, and yet Sam would pull Bucky further in if only he could.

Sam shakes his head a little, eyes squeezed shut, every part of him wrapped up in this moment. ]

You're good here, Buck, so damn good. And you gotta know that you belong. Door's never gonna be closed to you.

[ He's not taking it back. He can't.

But... ]

You're leaving, aren't you? With the orbs.

[ He's had the suspicion since he asked about Bucky's regret, and got nothing real from him. Something deep down inside of him has known ever since that this might be it, their shared time on this station, that he might go home to all of this without Bucky.

Sam doesn't know the shape and detail of it. Assumes, vaguely, that maybe Bucky wishes he'd gone with Steve after Thanos was defeated, or that he'd never fallen off the train to become the Winter Soldier, or that he could go back to Wakanda, where he'd been at peace. And who is Sam to deny Bucky of all people his choice, to tell him no, to tell him he can't or he shouldn't, to call him a dumbass and tell him to sabotage his own wish just because Sam wants to keep him? It'd be selfish, it'd be cruel. If anyone's earned the right to choose for himself, to have his autonomy respected, it's Bucky Barnes. ]

It's okay.

[ Maybe it is. Sam's not, but maybe that just needs to be okay for now, too.

What is one more loss? ]

[starer]

I'm not worth it.

[The words are a quiet admission, his guilt rearing its head all over again. After everything that Sam has done for him, for Natasha, for Steve- Here Bucky is, trying to throw all of that away. To toss aside all the time and effort, the patience, that Sam has afforded him over the years. To erase all the work that Sam put in to building their friendship.

Sam made him human, and now Bucky wants to undo all of it.

The fact that Sam's practically given him his blessing honestly makes him feel sick.

So he ends up loosening his hold. Ends up stepping away and dropping the grip that he'd found comfort in only seconds before. How can he keep taking from Sam when his sole reason for being here is to undo all that they've built between them?]

I've killed...so many people. Coming here-

[He looks away, hands curling in to fists as he tries to find the words he needs. After three months on this station though, he still hasn't gotten any closer to that. Still hasn't found a way to ease Sam in to the fact that-]

Can't become Hydra's weapon if I'm already dead.

[So no, he's not there to just switch which arm he lost.]

[unclesam]

[ His fingertips feel numb. Sam thinks he can feel the breeze from Wakanda on his skin, about to carry him off and scatter him like dust. He can feel the way the world has dropped away from him, same as it did when Riley fell, close to as it did when he heard about Natasha and when he realized Steve had left without a good-bye.

He reaches out, curls both hands around Bucky's clenched fists. One flesh, one vibranium, and Sam doesn't shy away from either. On the Winter Soldier, the metal arm was a weapon. On Bucky, Sam just sees a prosthetic. He knows it's now how Bucky feels about himself, though. ]

You're more than the worst thing you did.

[ Sam squeezes lightly, fingers rubbing along wrists and knuckles, trying to coax Bucky into relaxing his hands. They're standing close, and even with Bucky's gaze turned away, Sam's eyes stay on him, brown eyes turned amber in the simulated, setting sun. ]

And you're more than the worst thing done to you as well.

[ Two things can be true. Bucky's hands can have killed countless people, and Bucky himself can be blameless. Being brainwashed and being completely removed from the experience are two different things, though.

Over the docks, children's laughter drifts and echoes from the cookout, layered with the music. Sam remembers seeing Bucky talk to Sarah with several children dangling off his arm like monkey bars. ]

You're worth more than what you got, Buck.

[ He's losing him. ]

Wherever you need to go. I'll help you reach whatever peace you need, even if I wish it were here. But I know you know this ain't it. That it's just gonna be someone else if it ain't you. And I don't think you want that, not really.

[ Someone who might be worse, who might kill more, take to the role better, fight back less hard. Someone who might kill Steve. Or else someone who might deserve it no more than Bucky ever did. It's cruel and unfair - but Sam knows Bucky isn't looking to save himself here. Just hasn't considered that his death doesn't do anyone any good either.. ]

[starer]

[He wants to pull away. To release himself from Sam's hold, because he doesn't deserve the level of care and understanding that comes with the touch. The forgiving. If Sam knew even half of the secrets that Bucky was keeping to himself, half the murders, he would have never let him anywhere near his family. And he wouldn't be stood here right now, doing all he can to talk him down from the proverbial ledge.

This isn't why he came here. Why he bypassed the medbay in favor of the simulation room. Viveca had brought up Sam because she was worried about him. And here he is, once again, getting in the way of what matters.

So he finally pulls away again. Slips his hands free and takes a purposeful step backwards. Puts more space between them to make it clear that that conversation is over. And if it wasn't already obvious, the smirk that slips on to his face is likely all the evidence Sam needs that Bucky is putting an end to that topic entirely.]

You gonna tell me why Viveca was the one who had to tell me to talk to you?

[Never mind that it's also on Bucky for not keeping a closer eye on Sam in the first place. For not keeping track of all those obvious tells that Sam is getting closer and closer to the edge. That he's once again taken on the weight of the world and refuses to give up some of the burden.]

You don't want to talk to me, fine. But you've got Romanoff here too. You really think you can ghost her for long?

[unclesam]

[ Sam watches Bucky step back with a sigh. It doesn't come as much of a surprise, truth be told, that Bucky needs to retreat. And while Sam doesn't want to let it go, he also knows that sometimes he has to let Bucky pull back, because sometimes to push would be to push the man way. It's why for months, he texted, made sure Bucky knew there was an open there, when part of Sam had wanted to drop in on the man and push back into his life.

It worked out, even if it had been like pulling teeth.

So Sam lets Bucky pull back, and answers the smirk with a flat, unimpressed look that promises the topic's done - for now. But he won't just let it slide completely. Won't let Bucky slide completely. ]

'cause I was gonna lock myself in the worst day of my life. Relieve it a couple times, see if I could change the outcome if I'd just been better.

[ He crosses his arms, eyes trailing over to the horizon. ]

Saw Tasha in the infirmary, actually. She caught me when everyone else was patched up. And don't worry, price of admission for making sure she's okay was having her make sure I actually took care of myself, too. I'm... fine. Just... 'came here to do something royally stupid and unhealthy, and didn't end up doing it. That's all. Chose this instead, 'cause... this is good. This is ours.

[ His arms tighten. Sam clenches his jaw, swallows, and then his posture sags, the defensiveness seeping away at least a little. ]

I didn't know how to ask you to come here with me just for my sake.

[starer]

[The worst day of his life. As much as he knows that Steve leaving had hit him hard, he knows that isn't it. Even Karli's death, the very reason that Sam's here isn't enough. It's something more personal than that. Something closer to Sam's heart. His parents deaths, perhaps. His aunt. But then there's the conversation from before, and the answer is obvious-]

Riley.

[His smirk fades, replaced with something far kinder. More understanding. Regrets have filled the majority of his post-Hydra days. So he knows what it feels like to wish he could change the past. To protect at least one more person. But Sam is better than that. Always has been. Always will be. He throws himself in to harms way, doing anything he can to protect the people around him. He's taken beatings, has bled for the cause. And still, he continues fighting.

Continues hurting. Suffering. Because he'd sooner keep those problems to himself than ask for help.

...he really does have a type when it comes to best friends.]

Next time you decide you need this, you tell me.

[Because he doesn't need to ask. If Sam needs the company, then Bucky will drop whatever he's doing to be there.]

You're not alone, Sam.

[unclesam]

[ It's the same expression that Sam had when Bucky apologized to him over the shield. A furrow between his brows, that shaky intake of breath and slow exhale on slumping shoulders. Some things you need to hear, but they still pull at you hard. Sam... hadn't quite realized how badly he needed to hear someone tell him this lately. It's something he's known, on some level - he's got his sister, he's got the community in Delacroix, and he knows he's got Bucky - and Natasha, here and now.

Still hits different to be told he's not alone, especially when that's something he tries very hard to be. Alone in shouldering the weight of the whole damn world if he must.

But he's really not, isn't he? Maybe it's time he starts letting himself count on the fact that he's got Bucky - and that opening up to him won't be seen as burdening him. That Bucky has planted himself in Sam's corner not out of obligation but because it's where he wants to be, and would stop anything else to have Sam's back just the same as Sam would for him. ​]

Thank you.

[ Because he is grateful to hear it - and perhaps, needed that reminder a little bit.

He holds his hand out, offers it to Bucky just like they clasped hands after their tough love heart to heart back in Delacroix, before Bucky had to leave to deal with the rest of his list, and Sam had to invest time in training with the shield. ]

You keep finding me when I need it. Promise I'll make that a bit easier on you in the future. You gonna allow me to do the same for you?