#sam: threads

Sam wasn’t sure if it was the exhaustion catching up with him or the eerie quiet that always seemed to come right after things went down. He could still smell smoke on the air, taste metal in his mouth. His wings were retracted, armor scorched from the last blast he’d taken while trying to pull people out of the rubble. He’d done what he could. It hadn’t been enough.

He crouched beside one of the victims. Just a young guy, barely breathing. The medics were still a block away, and Sam’s hands hovered uselessly, bloody and shaking.

That’s when he saw Maeve moving through the wreckage. Sam stood slowly, wary but drawn in despite himself. He didn’t know who she was. He hadn’t seen her before on any team, any mission.

❝I’m not gonna say thank you for taking that hit for me. Mostly ‘cause I’m still pissed you thought I couldn’t handle it myself.❞

Sam stood in the doorway, arms crossed, a half-smirk playing on his face. He watched Bucky silently for a moment, taking in the way the other man sat, slightly hunched like he hadn’t fully unclenched either. ❝You ever think about slowing down? Maybe letting someone else jump in front of the bullets for once.❞ His tone was light, teasing even, but underneath it, concern flickered sharp and real.

He stepped inside, dropping his pack with a thud. ❝I brought food. And before you get all 'grumpy old man' on me, yeah, I remembered your order. You’re welcome.❞

He pause, then a glanced over his shoulder at Bucky.

Sam stepped out, surrounded by silent guards. He didn’t need the escort, but protocol was protocol. He glanced over his shoulder letting them know to step back, before he addressed Ross.

He sighed softly. ❝I didn’t expect to be in this position, and I’m sure you didn’t either. But here we are. The world is changing, and we both know that things have been moving pretty fast lately. You’ve been around long enough to understand how it goes.❞

Sam landed lightly on the rooftop, wings folding as he got his footing. He took off his goggles, squinting through the wind as he spotted her, spider-suit standing out against the grey of the hazy city.

The warm breeze carried the scent of saltwater and the sun was setting over the dock. Sam sat on the edge nursing a beer, waiting for Bucky to join him. He heard the sound of boots on the wooden dock and a slight smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

He nodded to the untouched beer he'd left out for Bucky. ❝Thought you might need a drink after all that socializing. Told you the people here were nice.❞

Sam was trying not to stare at Bucky, but mostly he was failing. Sam was always acutely aware of other people, but he hadn't taken the time to fully understand Bucky.

Yeah, Sam had seen Bucky as The Winter Soldier, ruthless and deadly. He understood that Bucky had done that were outside of his own control. Sam just hadn't really considered the way that Bucky had been treated. He understood the combat part, but not the way that Bucky had actually been handled — as if he were just that weapon, a thing.

For so long, Sam had been unwilling to budge on the way that he felt toward Bucky. He had seen how much pain Bucky had put Steve through, all the things that followed as consequences of helping Bucky.

Steve was no longer a factor.

He was up-close and personal with Bucky now. No middleman. No obligations. Just them.

And now, he could really see all the pain that Bucky had been dealt. But having to pretend to be The Winter Soldier and be back in that mindset (which Sam knew was damaging to people with PTSD), with Zemo just seeing how many of his buttons he could push? Seeing it all had tugged at a part of Sam that he hadn't expected.

He knew that Bucky could take care of himself, but he shouldn't have to. Not alone.