[Because the fact that Sam's reached out rather than waiting until they were both back in the room? That means he's underplaying the importance of whatever it is that he needs.]
[ He can't yet bring himself to put into words, even in text, that this isn't something he can do over the network, or where they have to be infinitely more careful. Here, on a rooftop, Sam doesn't have to worry quite as much. Redwing has a perimeter for them, keeps watch, will make sure nothing and no one gets close enough to overhear.
While he waits, Sam just focuses on breathing. On not losing it. He has to keep it together - after all, he's lived through worse and survived, hasn't he? He can do it again. Can pick himself off and be strong for his team. They need him.
He can do this. Doesn't mean he wants to.
When Bucky arrives, Sam's sitting on a stack of palettes, wringing his hands between his knees, shoulders slumped slightly forward. He doesn't quite glance up, but angles his face towards Bucky on approach anyway. He's not crying - but his eyes are bright with wetness, rimmed slightly red.
For any measure of Sam Wilson showing vulnerability - he looks well and truly devasted. ]
[While his estimate may have started at twenty minutes, it ultimately ends up being just ten. With each step, his thoughts had started to race, the reasons behind Sam's message getting increasingly more worrying the closer he got. So a walk had become a jog soon enough. The need to see Sam in person completely overriding the logic of subtlety when he ultimately breaks in to a (human) run. And when he reaches the club and is left with the option of heading inside or using a fire escape, the secluded alleyway wins out.
(Redwing's out. He can hear it, even if he can't see it right now. And the fact that he can't, that the drone isn't in his face pestering him, leaves a heavy pit in his stomach.)
When he makes it to the roof, Bucky's eyes are immediately on Sam. For all that he may have said he's not hurt, the pain on his face is impossible to ignore. So he wastes no time in crossing the roof. No time in taking up a position right in front of the man, a hand immediately reaching to curl around Sam's shoulder. One small point of contact because he needs to know what's going on before he offers up anything more than that.]
[ In many ways, it's a quiet confession of how he's doing, and a quiet sign of where the two of them are at - the fact that Sam doesn't even bother pretending, doesn't layer jokes and teases over everything, doesn't try to lighten anything the way he would with anyone else. Here, with Bucky, he's just honesty in his pain - and lets Bucky see it instead of smoothly hiding it like he's usually so prone to doing.
His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Sam swallows, battling the urge to cover his vulnerabilities again. He feels exposed in ways he doesn't usually, not even now that they're sleeping in the same bed, curled up close enough to whisper in each other's ear.
He's good at this, usually, and that's a problem right now, because the instinct to pull that mask back on, to swallow his pain and explain the situation as if he wasn't breaking over it, is so very strong. A force of habit, learned through 40 years of losing nearly every family member, every partner, every loved one, until Sam Wilson has become someone who loves people so fiercly and still keeps them at arm's length, still keeps the truly vulnerable parts of himself hidden and to himself. Others will get his convictions and his smiles and his warmth, will see him frustrated and angry, but the rush of rage, the true extent of grief, it's hidden. He offers of small plots of land in his chest and lets few people see towards the horizons of who he actually is.
It would be so easy. Sam didn't cry at the Smithsonian until Rhodey was gone, leaving him to contemplate the loss of Steve on his own. He didn't cry until Bucky was gone, leaving him to wipe the blood off the shield and grieve all over again. It's what he does, what he's learned to do. Even in all his pain and anger at Bucky's behaviour before they reconciled, Sam had reeled most of it in, hidden it behind sharp barbs and a closed off expression.
It doesn't feel genuine to who they are to each other anymore to hold that back. And who does Sam have left except Bucky, and even him on borrowed time?
So he reaches out, lightly curls his fingers in the fabric of Bucky's jacket and holds on. Quiet for a moment. Then: ]
Natasha's gone.
[ And he looks at Bucky, feels lost and unmoored and doesn't pretend otherwise. Doesn't quiet the way his breath hitches. He's lost her in the worst way once, sandwiched in between learning he'd been dead for five years, and losing Steve. Rationally Sam knows that his brain is preparing for the next big blow as a result.
'Natasha's gone', he says. Back home - and not back to a life to live, but back home to where she dies, because the universe decreed she had to sacrifice herself to save the world. She died again. Sam lost her - again.
And he just hope that Bucky will get it - that Sam's already had to mourn her once, and now has to do it all over again, that Sam just came off of his trauma over Riley being pushed and pushed and pushed, that Steve being here is great but also reminds Sam of being left behind, that this is just another loss, and Sam's had too carry many of those on his own. He's trying not to do that now - he said 'I need you here', and he meant it. Because Sam can bear this again on his own, knows he's strong enough for it - but knows Bucky's there for him when Sam needs him to be. And for once, Sam reaches out. ]
[He still remembers those days inbetween. Where the battle had ended and those who survived it were left to pick up the pieces. (Again, for some.) Everything had been so much quieter in the days that followed. The sacrifices made were all still too fresh in the minds of those he found himself surrounded by. The silence had almost been deafening at times. The pain all too apparent, no matter how much people tried to hide it.
So naturally, that meant he'd spent those days by Steve's side. He'd been there to watch as the man tried to tuck those feelings away. To attempt live up to some kind of standard that he never should have been held against and try to bury it all. Because that's what the world expected from him.
So he'd seen Sam follow suit. Had watched the man try to hide it all away too. They're both as bad as each other. Both as willing to ignore their own feelings in favor of supporting those around them. And Bucky hadn't been in any kind of a position to help either of them, back then. He'd barely known Natasha. And Tony-
Well, that's a whole other complicated mess.
But right now, with those words left hanging in the air, with that look on Sam's face, he isn't about to make the same decision twice. Not when he can actually be there for him in the way he avoided back then. Not when Sam is trusting him with this in the first place.
There's no apology given. No words of condolence uttered, because he knows how futile they are. Instead, he simply steps in closer. Lets his hand slip from Sam's shoulder to the side of his neck, his thumb brushing the space behind his ear as he finally speaks.]
Whatever you need. I'm here.
[Because Sam reached out. Has asked him to be here. And while it's an action that hits him hard, the fact that Sam is willing to let his guard down like this, it's something he'll have to work through later. Will think on when he isn't face to face with a best friend who is so clearly in pain.
Sam takes precedence here. He always will. So whatever it takes, he's going to be there for him. It's the least he can do for the man whose already given him (and the world) so much. For the friend who has become family, and the only home he knows.
Whatever he needs. Whatever it takes. He won't let him down again.]
[ It takes a moment to find a path through the warring instincts inside of him, the rolling turmoil of needing to keep up appearances against the unshakable knowledge that he needs this space in which he can just not be okay for a moment or two. And what's the harm in cracking open a little? Bucky's seen a few levels of Sam at his worst already. And Bucky is leaving anyway - isn't he?
Sam doesn't want to think about it. Pushes the thought away resolutely, just focuses on the gently brush of Bucky's thumb behind his ear, the way his hand rests on the side of Sam's neck, where Bucky can surely feel the shuddering, shattered glass pulse of Sam's heart. He swallows, hard, lower lip trembling on a sharp intake of breath as he feels something inside of him relax into the touch. Something tingles at the back of his head, like white noise, like rain on darkened windows, like the gentle rocking of a docked boat.
Sam doesn't know if Bucky tugs him closer or if he's the one who takes that small little step forwards, isn't sure who between the two of them closes that last bit of distance. All he knows in that weird, hazy swirl of familiar, horrible grief is that he ends up with his face tucked against Bucky's neck, the warmth of a hand on his neck a steadfast anchor so he doesn't just get pulled away by the undertow of his own emotions. His arms are locked around Bucky, fisted tight in the fabric of his coat. He's not sobbing, but he thinks he's crying, and has to fight the urge to swallow his tears, because this isn't something Sam Wilson does - he's the strong one, the one who comforts his friends and kicks ass for them. He doesn't put his turmoil out like this, doesn't allow people close like this anymore.
Whatever he needs? ]
Just you.
[ That will be enough. Bucky is enough. And there's a relief in that Sam hasn't allowed himself to feel in a long time, perhaps in years. It doesn't come easily, to let this happen, and part of him balks from it. Part of him bargains with itself - he can take this moment, this comfort, so that he can be strong for the others he needs to break this tragedy to.
He's taking this moment to be weak so he can be strong later, but he doesn't let himself be alone, because they agreed, didn't they. And there's no boat here, just a roof top. There's no familiarity, just each other.
It's not quite true, and Sam knows it. Knows that he can only let go of his walls because it's Bucky specifically, and somehow the man has slipped past every defense Sam has ever erected. Somehow, Sam feels like he opened the door he always keeps shot quite willingly. ]
I don't know how to do this again.
[ A quiet confession, barely more than a whisper on a breath that puffs against Bucky's throat. And he means all of it - losing another partner, losing Natasha specifically a second time, recover from that blow within hours rather than days or weeks or months.
Sam squeezes his eyes shut, ignores the hot streak of tears on his cheeks and focuses on the feel of Bucky's hand cradling his head. It's all he needs, right now. He can't afford to lose a month like he did with Riley, or a week like he did with Steve and Natasha, or even just a day. Can't afford to be reckless like he was after his mother and father, can't afford to give himself the slack. All he can allow is for Bucky to afford him that slack, just for a moment, just for now. ]
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no subject
[Because the fact that Sam's reached out rather than waiting until they were both back in the room? That means he's underplaying the importance of whatever it is that he needs.]
no subject
While he waits, Sam just focuses on breathing. On not losing it. He has to keep it together - after all, he's lived through worse and survived, hasn't he? He can do it again. Can pick himself off and be strong for his team. They need him.
He can do this. Doesn't mean he wants to.
When Bucky arrives, Sam's sitting on a stack of palettes, wringing his hands between his knees, shoulders slumped slightly forward. He doesn't quite glance up, but angles his face towards Bucky on approach anyway. He's not crying - but his eyes are bright with wetness, rimmed slightly red.
For any measure of Sam Wilson showing vulnerability - he looks well and truly devasted. ]
Buck...
no subject
(Redwing's out. He can hear it, even if he can't see it right now. And the fact that he can't, that the drone isn't in his face pestering him, leaves a heavy pit in his stomach.)
When he makes it to the roof, Bucky's eyes are immediately on Sam. For all that he may have said he's not hurt, the pain on his face is impossible to ignore. So he wastes no time in crossing the roof. No time in taking up a position right in front of the man, a hand immediately reaching to curl around Sam's shoulder. One small point of contact because he needs to know what's going on before he offers up anything more than that.]
What happened?
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His mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Sam swallows, battling the urge to cover his vulnerabilities again. He feels exposed in ways he doesn't usually, not even now that they're sleeping in the same bed, curled up close enough to whisper in each other's ear.
He's good at this, usually, and that's a problem right now, because the instinct to pull that mask back on, to swallow his pain and explain the situation as if he wasn't breaking over it, is so very strong. A force of habit, learned through 40 years of losing nearly every family member, every partner, every loved one, until Sam Wilson has become someone who loves people so fiercly and still keeps them at arm's length, still keeps the truly vulnerable parts of himself hidden and to himself. Others will get his convictions and his smiles and his warmth, will see him frustrated and angry, but the rush of rage, the true extent of grief, it's hidden. He offers of small plots of land in his chest and lets few people see towards the horizons of who he actually is.
It would be so easy. Sam didn't cry at the Smithsonian until Rhodey was gone, leaving him to contemplate the loss of Steve on his own. He didn't cry until Bucky was gone, leaving him to wipe the blood off the shield and grieve all over again. It's what he does, what he's learned to do. Even in all his pain and anger at Bucky's behaviour before they reconciled, Sam had reeled most of it in, hidden it behind sharp barbs and a closed off expression.
It doesn't feel genuine to who they are to each other anymore to hold that back. And who does Sam have left except Bucky, and even him on borrowed time?
So he reaches out, lightly curls his fingers in the fabric of Bucky's jacket and holds on. Quiet for a moment. Then: ]
Natasha's gone.
[ And he looks at Bucky, feels lost and unmoored and doesn't pretend otherwise. Doesn't quiet the way his breath hitches. He's lost her in the worst way once, sandwiched in between learning he'd been dead for five years, and losing Steve. Rationally Sam knows that his brain is preparing for the next big blow as a result.
'Natasha's gone', he says. Back home - and not back to a life to live, but back home to where she dies, because the universe decreed she had to sacrifice herself to save the world. She died again. Sam lost her - again.
And he just hope that Bucky will get it - that Sam's already had to mourn her once, and now has to do it all over again, that Sam just came off of his trauma over Riley being pushed and pushed and pushed, that Steve being here is great but also reminds Sam of being left behind, that this is just another loss, and Sam's had too carry many of those on his own. He's trying not to do that now - he said 'I need you here', and he meant it. Because Sam can bear this again on his own, knows he's strong enough for it - but knows Bucky's there for him when Sam needs him to be. And for once, Sam reaches out. ]
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So naturally, that meant he'd spent those days by Steve's side. He'd been there to watch as the man tried to tuck those feelings away. To attempt live up to some kind of standard that he never should have been held against and try to bury it all. Because that's what the world expected from him.
So he'd seen Sam follow suit. Had watched the man try to hide it all away too. They're both as bad as each other. Both as willing to ignore their own feelings in favor of supporting those around them. And Bucky hadn't been in any kind of a position to help either of them, back then. He'd barely known Natasha. And Tony-
Well, that's a whole other complicated mess.
But right now, with those words left hanging in the air, with that look on Sam's face, he isn't about to make the same decision twice. Not when he can actually be there for him in the way he avoided back then. Not when Sam is trusting him with this in the first place.
There's no apology given. No words of condolence uttered, because he knows how futile they are. Instead, he simply steps in closer. Lets his hand slip from Sam's shoulder to the side of his neck, his thumb brushing the space behind his ear as he finally speaks.]
Whatever you need. I'm here.
[Because Sam reached out. Has asked him to be here. And while it's an action that hits him hard, the fact that Sam is willing to let his guard down like this, it's something he'll have to work through later. Will think on when he isn't face to face with a best friend who is so clearly in pain.
Sam takes precedence here. He always will. So whatever it takes, he's going to be there for him. It's the least he can do for the man whose already given him (and the world) so much. For the friend who has become family, and the only home he knows.
Whatever he needs. Whatever it takes. He won't let him down again.]
no subject
Sam doesn't want to think about it. Pushes the thought away resolutely, just focuses on the gently brush of Bucky's thumb behind his ear, the way his hand rests on the side of Sam's neck, where Bucky can surely feel the shuddering, shattered glass pulse of Sam's heart. He swallows, hard, lower lip trembling on a sharp intake of breath as he feels something inside of him relax into the touch. Something tingles at the back of his head, like white noise, like rain on darkened windows, like the gentle rocking of a docked boat.
Sam doesn't know if Bucky tugs him closer or if he's the one who takes that small little step forwards, isn't sure who between the two of them closes that last bit of distance. All he knows in that weird, hazy swirl of familiar, horrible grief is that he ends up with his face tucked against Bucky's neck, the warmth of a hand on his neck a steadfast anchor so he doesn't just get pulled away by the undertow of his own emotions. His arms are locked around Bucky, fisted tight in the fabric of his coat. He's not sobbing, but he thinks he's crying, and has to fight the urge to swallow his tears, because this isn't something Sam Wilson does - he's the strong one, the one who comforts his friends and kicks ass for them. He doesn't put his turmoil out like this, doesn't allow people close like this anymore.
Whatever he needs? ]
Just you.
[ That will be enough. Bucky is enough. And there's a relief in that Sam hasn't allowed himself to feel in a long time, perhaps in years. It doesn't come easily, to let this happen, and part of him balks from it. Part of him bargains with itself - he can take this moment, this comfort, so that he can be strong for the others he needs to break this tragedy to.
He's taking this moment to be weak so he can be strong later, but he doesn't let himself be alone, because they agreed, didn't they. And there's no boat here, just a roof top. There's no familiarity, just each other.
It's not quite true, and Sam knows it. Knows that he can only let go of his walls because it's Bucky specifically, and somehow the man has slipped past every defense Sam has ever erected. Somehow, Sam feels like he opened the door he always keeps shot quite willingly. ]
I don't know how to do this again.
[ A quiet confession, barely more than a whisper on a breath that puffs against Bucky's throat. And he means all of it - losing another partner, losing Natasha specifically a second time, recover from that blow within hours rather than days or weeks or months.
Sam squeezes his eyes shut, ignores the hot streak of tears on his cheeks and focuses on the feel of Bucky's hand cradling his head. It's all he needs, right now. He can't afford to lose a month like he did with Riley, or a week like he did with Steve and Natasha, or even just a day. Can't afford to be reckless like he was after his mother and father, can't afford to give himself the slack. All he can allow is for Bucky to afford him that slack, just for a moment, just for now. ]