Chapter Text
There’s a soft knock at Sam’s door. He doesn’t turn over but grunts a “come in.”
The door opens, but it stays silent. Sam glances over his shoulder, then shifts on his bed to sit up a little.
Sarah watches him silently, her gaze unreadable.
“What?”
“It’s almost noon, Sam,” she states, crossing her arms and leaning against the door frame.
Exhaustion pulls at Sam’s face. He doesn’t feel like trying to flash a smile.
“So?”
“So, it’s nearly noon on a Saturday. Why the hell are you still in bed?”
Sam sighs heavily, the weight on his chest keeping him pinned to his pillows.
“I’m just tired. It’s been a long week.” He stares at his shelves across from his bed. Eyes roaming over a few framed photographs, old books he’d loved and wanted to read again but hadn’t gotten the chance to.
“Well I need you to go down to the boat today and clean it up. I’m taking a tour out Monday morning. I gotta go to the boy’s camp today to pick them up. I won’t be back until late.”
Sam runs a hand over his face, rubbing his eyes.
“Sam?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Sarah straightens, dropping her hands to her sides. “Okay,” she repeats. “Good. Thank you.”
“Of course,” Sam responds flatly, attempting a little smile.
The unreadable expression in Sarah’s face becomes a little more readable. Sam looks away. She huffs a sad breath out her nose then leaves, not bothering to close his door. Sam rolls his eyes in irritation.
So, it was time to get up.
Here he goes.
It takes a monumental effort to roll out of his bed, wincing as stiff joints stack on top of each other when he stands up. His back is still definitely messed up and it twinges when he takes off his pajama shirt, then it screams in pain when he attempts to bend over to pick up a different shirt.
He steadies himself against his dresser, heaving a breath. The wood is gritty with dust under his fingers. It’s been a while since he’d been able to stay in Delacroix. Duty calls and all that.
He lifts his head. The picture frames on his shelves catch his eye.
His collection has grown a lot more recently. Sam didn’t really have many friends after Riley and starting therapy and counseling.
But now, instead of just a picture of him and Riley and then Sarah and the boys, he has him and Joaquin. The photo is silly, a Snapchat filter Joaquin had found, giving them both puppy ears and noses.
There’s one he’d finally put up of his parents, too. Them on the beach, holding hands and walking.
There’s also one of him and Bucky. Not a selfie, like some of the others.
It’s a picture Sarah had given him more recently. They were out on the boat, eating during the cookout Sam had received for accepting the shield.
They were both laughing, shoulders brushing.
Sam stares a little forlornly at the photo.
“I’m leaving, Sam!” Sarah calls through the house. Sam’s stomach drops as he’s startled from his daze.
“Wait,” he says, suddenly realizing he’s faced with a day by himself now. In the quiet house. Or out on the boat. “Sarah, wait.”
He finds the energy to bound down the hallway to the foyer where Sarah is waiting, bemused.
“Yes?” Her expression is expectant.
Sam swallows. He knows what she wants to hear. He’s not sure if he wants to say it.
“You’re gonna be gone till when?”
“At least nine p.m.”
He nods, pursing his lips. “Right.”
Sarah softens momentarily. “Sammy.”
Sam is horrified to find tears pricking his eyes. He glances away quickly, ducking his head.
Sarah crosses to him, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Look at me, man.”
Sam does, blinking away his moment of weakness.
“You gotta tell me what’s going on, alright? I’m worried about my kid brother. Cuz even though he’s all grown up, he still gets that same look on his face when he’s hurt but doesn’t want to bug anybody.” Sarah’s eyes search his thoroughly.
Sam’s lips part to try to explain. To try and explain the weight that isn’t just on his shoulders but weighs down his chest to the point where he sometimes can’t breathe and has to sit down and remind himself to count to four. How can he explain the exhaustion in his mind, pulling at the very marrow of his bones?
Or the terrible ache he feels from the inside out because even if he’s Captain America and he can save so many people, there’s still the ones he can’t. And their crying is omnipresent in his dreams every night. How could she understand? Sam knows she can’t but she could try.
He holds his tongue, straightens up against the ache in his spine.
“I’m fine, Sarah,” he says as convincingly as he can. Trying to put a little energy in his voice. “I’m just really burnt out.” That was a shallow way to put it.
Sarah’s jaw flexes and she shakes her head once. Then she looks at Sam again, less soul-searching in her gaze, and pats his shoulder hard.
“Okay. Whatever, Sam. We can talk when I get home, maybe. Please don’t forget to fill up the tank.”
Sam feels hollow inside as he waves Sarah out of the house, shutting the door as she gets in the car. He’s as fed up with him as she is.
Maybe a day alone would be good. He could move slowly and methodically and find some peace in cleaning the boat. Finally find some rest.
——
By the time Sam actually gets some food in him, brushes his teeth, does the bare minimum to look human, it becomes very clear he will not be finding rest.
It’s not that the boat is a mess. Sarah cleans up often. But when Sam climbs down to the lower level and finds a spill of oil, it’s a different kind of mess.
“Aw, shit,” he groans when confronted by the black spill. By the engine, too. It had taken so much to get it running again. All his hard work better not have been ruined.
Sam starts to kneel down to peer around for the source of the leak but his back can’t take it.
He slumps against the outer casing of the engine with what definitely was not a whimper of pain, trying to sit in a somewhat comfortable position.
He rests his forehead against one palm, squeezing his eyes shut. Everything just has to be against him today, doesn’t it?
He’d just wanted to actually do something that felt good and useful. To help out Sarah in a pathetic thank-you for dealing with him.
Sam’s chest tightens with that weight again.
——
Sam had completely overworked himself toward the end of last week. A hostage case Wednesday, two press conferences after, a visit to a children’s hospital (Sam couldn’t get the image of a weak, pale little boy beaming up at him, then the same face being displayed on an obituary two days later), then there was the whole burning building thing.
Trying to carry as many people as he could at once, descending from the twenty-story building and then shooting up to repeat. The strain on his wings then the added strain to his back.
Then a last-minute scramble to try and save a middle-aged man.
His wife’s and child’s sobbing at the side of his charred body.
Smoke fills Sam’s lungs and he gasps, managing to stumble to his feet. Was the boat on fire?
He launches up the stairs, falling against a stack of crates. The world flashes white then black as Sam’s back hits the wood.
His vision clears. The boat isn’t on fire. There’s no smoke.
Sam coughs experimentally, then, feeling embarrassed, forces himself to count his breaths.
His heart calms. But his stomach still churns and the dark cloud of exhaustion isn’t just hanging over him anymore, it’s swamping him.
He drags himself to his feet, into the cabin and plops down on the captain’s chair, forearms braced against the wheel, forehead resting on them.
He clenches one fist around the worn metal of the steering wheel. The smart side of his brain— the side that went to school and got a counseling license and fought in wars— was reminding him that yes, as a matter of fact, he’d fought in wars. He has PTSD. And that’s okay. Well, not okay, but there’s nothing wrong with him.
The smart side of his brain is flashing the red lights that say “woah, slow your roll.” A stop sign that actually reads “warning signs of depression” pops up.
The lizard side of Sam’s brain blows right past the sign, going fifteen over the speed limit.
Suddenly Sam remembers something Steve said to him. A long time ago. Sam grits his teeth hard as Steve’s face appears, his voice echoing in his mind.
While they’d been on the run from the government, Sam had found Steve curled up on his bed, looking like he’d been crushed by three tons of heartache and lost time.
Sitting gently on the bed, Sam had gotten him to open up.
After talking for a little, they fell silent. Then Steve tipped his head and smiled sadly at Sam, saying, “There’s no stopping, in this line of work. You just go and go and go until you can’t anymore. There is no ‘401k’ or retirement plan. It’s just this until you’re dead.”
At Sam’s broken expression, Steve hastily backtracked.
“At least for me. I know how it sounds, but that’s just how it is.”
Steve had been right. That is just how it is. For Sam, too.
And at that very moment, alone on his dead parent’s boat, friendless, Sam almost wishes that time had come sooner.
Then the smart side of his brain catches up and whacks the lizard over the head with the stop sign.
Sam’s throat tightens and he leans back in the seat, eyes unseeing on photos of himself as a child and Sarah and his nephews and his parents.
All people that loved him. Most of them that still needed him.
Sam needs to pull himself together.
He needs help.
That train of thought brings tears of frustration bubbling to the surface.
A strangled cry makes its way out of Sam’s chest as he presses his palms into his eyes, the tears falling free.
He knows the best step he can take right now is reaching out.
Sam’s mind immediately falls on him. On Bucky.
A surge of relief fills Sam as he thinks of Bucky here with him.
Then the smart side of Sam’s brain chimes in again, not so helpfully. Bucky’s busy. He’s a congressman now, for whatever shitty reason. He doesn’t have time for Sam’s little breakdown.
So he shouldn’t call Bucky. He really shouldn’t.
The phone rings three times before he picks up.
“Hey,” Bucky greets, sounding honestly happy.
Sam’s chest loosens. “Hey, man. What’re you up to?”
Papers rustle.
“Working?” Sam guesses.
Bucky snorts. “I’m supposed to be. But you wanna know who I keep getting distracted by? Hang on.”
Bemused, Sam holds the phone to his ear. A ringtone plays and then he answers a FaceTime.
Bucky already has the camera turned around and Sam is surprised to find himself looking at Joaquin, sitting in the seat opposite Bucky’s desk eating a bowl of cereal. To be clear, Sam isn’t surprised Joaquin’s eating cereal. More that he’s in Bucky’s office in congress with a plastic blue bowl that has milk dangerously close to spilling when the kid leans forward.
“Hi, Sam!” Joaquin waves aggressively, looking very pleased to be bothering Bucky.
Bucky turns the camera back around. Sam wants to quip that he’s so proud the man finally learned how technology works, but his voice catches when he’s confronted by Bucky’s blue eyes. They’re bright
Bucky grins a little at Sam, just a flash of white teeth.
“So, what are you doing?” He squints at the camera. “Are you on the boat? Please don’t tell me it’s broken again.”
Sam’s automatically reciprocating smile slips. Bucky’s mouth also pulls into a frown at the reaction.
“Well…”
“What is it this time?”
Sam shakes his head. “I’m not sure. There’s an oil spill down by the engine.”
Bucky’s eyes drift away from Sam, as if trying to imagine the scene.
“The brake line?” Joaquin pipes in.
Bucky glances at him over the phone. “Boats don’t work like that, kid.” He looks back at Sam. “Is it leaking from the engine or the lines near it?”
It’s Sam’s turn to glance away. “I didn’t really check.”
Bucky scoffs. “Come on, Samuel. You expect me to believe that? I’m surprised you aren’t trying to fix it at this very moment.”
Sam straightens in his seat, wincing as his back muscles pull. “I’m kind of…”
“Are you hurt?” Bucky’s gaze skewers Sam through the phone. Joaquin appears, standing behind Bucky and leaning in.
Sam sighs. He could do without the kid being there, honestly. “A little. It’s not bad. It’s just hard to get around.”
“What happened?” Joaquin asks, spooning Cinnamon Toast Crunch into his mouth. Sam tries to convey his disapproving frown at Joaquin’s idea of lunch to him.
“Just overworked myself a little. Strained my back.”
Sam can tell Bucky’s glare is just for him.
“Why haven’t you been taking care of yourself, Samuel?”
“I have been,” Sam protests. “I’m just… busy, y’know?”
“Self-care is literally essential regardless,” Joaquin says wisely.
“Still doing your skincare routine every night?” Sam asks dryly.
Joaquin’s face flushes a bit. “Well, that’s part of self-care!”
Bucky is worryingly silent. He’s studying Sam through the screen. Sam wants to turn off his camera. He still feels raw from the last few minutes. He isn’t sure how clear that is in his face.
He needs to hang up. Sam clears his throat.
“Well, I should go. Joaquin, stop bothering Bucky—“
“What? Hang on, Sam—“
“And I’m gonna go get to work on the boat, alright? I’ll see you guys later.”
Bucky’s and Joaquin’s protests are cut off as Sam hits the red button.
Literally only a millisecond of silence passes until his phone is ringing again. Sam hesitates. He doesn’t want to listen to anyone’s lectures about him taking care of himself.
Of course he answers.
“Sam, what the hell?”
At least Sam doesn’t have to look at Bucky’s face this time. He sighs into the receiver.
“Sorry.”
He hears Bucky shoo Joaquin away.
“What’s really going on with you, right now?”
Sam bites his lip. Everything he’d wanted to tell Sarah earlier is right there, on the tip of his tongue.
And Bucky would understand.
Sam takes a deep breath and mentally hypes himself up.
“Are you busy, this weekend?”
“Not anymore.”
Sam’s chest tightens with affection this time.
“You sure?”
“Of course I am. I can be there in the morning.”
The relief that hits Sam feels like jumping into the bayou on a hot, muggy day. The cool water closing over his head, washing away the icky feelings and leaving him refreshed.
“Anything I can bring?”
Just your smile and that face you make when you’re really listening, Sam thinks.
“No. We’ve got everything we need here to fix the boat. I just… can’t really do it on my own.”
The silence that follows is a tremor to Sam’s bones.
“Fix the boat. Right,” Bucky says, muttering a little as if talking to himself. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll be there in the morning. Don’t go trying to fix anything until I get there, alright?”
Sam smiles. “I’ll have to restrain myself. The next thirteen hours might just kill me.”
“Me too,” Bucky mutters, and Sam blinks bemusedly.
“Drive safe.”
“Never.”
Even if it’s a lame response that Sam has definitely heard before, it manages to draw a little chuckle out of him.
“Bye.”
“See you.”
Sam hangs up first.
The silence is a little more bearable, now.
——
When Sarah gets home, Sam is half-asleep on the couch watching TV.
AJ and Cass charge in, dirty and stinky from camp but grinning as they pile next to Sam, showing him pinecone pets and woven bracelets and keychains.
Sam feels his chest lighten a little bit again as he inspects a pinecone hedgehog with the air of Santa Claus presented with a toy made by an incompetent elf.
“This isn’t what a hedgehog looks like! Where are its ears?”
“Right there! They’re just painted on,” Cass points and AJ rolls his eyes. Sarah locks the door behind her, smiling at the scene. Then she looks around at the house.
“It’s not burned down… wait, Sam, did you clean?”
Mock-offended by her surprise, Sam crosses his arms childishly. “I did. And I did a great job, I think you’ll find.”
“Did you finish up the boat that fast?”
Sam drops his goofy attitude. He’d mopped up some of the oil spill, at least. Even though now his back is killing him and the two Tylenols haven’t helped.
“Well… not so much.” He blinks at Sarah apologetically as she glares at him.
“What does that mean?”
AJ and Cass have scrambled away now, presumably to unpack their things while whispering “Uncle Sam’s in trouble!”
Sam sighs. “There’s an issue. Something’s leaking oil down by the engine.”
Sarah groans, lifting her hands to her face in her frustration. “Not again. Everything was going so well.”
“It’ll be fine by Monday, Sarah. Bucky’s coming over to help, too.”
Sam tries to say this casually, but he knows his excitement slips out, especially when Sarah’s head pops up.
“You asked him to come?”
“Kind of.”
Sarah gives Sam a loooooong look. Then she simply smiles, then starts to head down the hall towards the boys.
“Good,” she says over her shoulder. “I can tell you’ve been missing him.”
“I have not!” Sam calls after her, shaking his head at her disbelieving “mm-hmm!”
Sam sits back against the couch again, adjusting the pillow behind him. He might have to sleep on the couch tonight, his bed is too soft for his back right now.
Bucky will be here tomorrow. Sam wants to text and ask what time but he wouldn’t want to pester Bucky.
Sam feels a little ridiculous when he realizes there’s a smile plastered to his face. He’s giddy knowing Bucky will be here. Except that’s not really something he wants to unpack right now.
Sam lets the next episode of The Office start, letting the show draw him back in. Sarah joins him after a while, tucking her feet up and opening her phone.
“Thanks for cleaning up the house.”
Sam shrugs. “I felt bad about the boat.”
Sarah gives him a sideways glance. “As long as it’s done by Monday, you won’t hear me complaining. I’m glad Bucky’s coming over.”
“Me too,” Sam admits. “Maybe I’ve missed him a little.”
Sarah scoffs. “A little? Man, you looked pretty depressed earlier.”
Sam winces. “Yeah,” he says noncommittally.
Nothing slips by Sarah. She fully turns to face him.
“Sam.”
Sam continues to stare straight ahead at the TV, no longer seeing it. “Yeah?”
“You would tell me if you’re depressed, right?”
The guilt causes Sam’s shoulders to slump. Sarah takes a quick breath, then puts a hand on the back of Sam’s neck.
“Sammy, come on. It’s just us. Tell me what’s going on.”
Sam nods. He knows she won’t drop it if he stays silent, and his smart brain knows he needs support.
“Yeah. I’ve been feeling kinda down lately.”
“Mhm?”
She sounds just like their mom.
Sam’s throat burns. “Work has been a lot recently. It’s hard. I’m… I feel like my PTSD is getting worse.”
Sarah squeezes the back of his neck.
“Sometimes things are really heavy. And I’m no Steve Rogers. It’s hard to carry.” Sam has to clear his throat a couple times. “Sometimes it feels like I’m not strong enough.” His voice fails and it comes out as a whisper.
Sarah scoots close, laying her arm around Sam’s shoulders and resting their heads together. Sam puts his hand on her knee.
“You’re more than enough, Sam,” she says softly. “But I can see why it might not always feel like that.”
Sam can’t help leaning into her, a warmth spreading in his chest.
“Is there something that started this? You feeling this way?”
Sam hesitates. Sarah’s voice is so soft and gentle but Sam can’t bring himself to describe the screams and cries that haunt his nights.
“This whole hero-business just isn’t all cupcakes and rainbows,” Sam says. “Sorry. I know that’s not what you want to hear. But I just want to forget about a lot of it.”
Sarah nods, her braids rubbing against Sam’s cheek.
“Okay. I won’t push. But I do think that if you want to forget whatever it is, you might have to let it out instead of shoving it away, back into your brain.”
Sam squeezes Sarah’s knee. “Listen to you! When did my big sister get to be so wise?”
“She always been this wise, you just got a new set of ears.”
——
Sam sleeps on the couch. Sarah tells him goodnight, gives him a side-hug from their position on the couch, and turns off the lights.
Sam turns off the TV, finding a pillow and blanket. The ones Bucky uses when he comes by, Sam’s brain chimes in. For a second Sam wonders if they’ll smell like Bucky’s shampoo, a warm cologne-y scent that Sarah had found for him.
No, they washed the pillow case and the blanket recently. Keeping them ready for Bucky’s next visit. Because ever since the first night he’d spent, it was never a question of if he came around. Just a when.
Sam falls asleep imagining he can see Bucky pulling up to the house, slowing on his bike, swinging one leg off. His boots crunch on the dirt. He leans against the bike, that partial-grin ghosting across his face.
As Sam is drifting, his imagination starts to run away from him a little. And all of a sudden he’s crashing into Bucky’s arms, conscious of Bucky’s hands laying flat on his back, then Bucky’s voice in his ear, his stubble scraping Sam’s neck.
And suddenly they’re kissing.
Sam blinks awake after a few seconds, startled. He stares up at the ceiling, sticky dredges of his sort-of-dream lingering on his lips.
Sam tries to shake it off. He really does. Laughs at his mind a little.
Both the lizard side and the smart side of his brain shake their heads at him and roll their eyes.