[ closed ]

[falcony]

Who: sam wilson & steve rogers
When: after nat's disappearance
Where: mag's in, sam and steve's room
What: grief changes shape, but it never ends.
Warnings: discussions of death, endgame, general mcu-related traumas.

Comments

[falcony]

[ it's been a few hours, now, since sam learned of nat going home and he's pretty sure he hasn't stopped moving. he knows himself well enough to know it's avoidance, that by double checking and then triple checking, by heading into the horizon and then talking to others in thorne, that sending a message to wanda just to make sure she's okay, is all just his way of avoiding the topic. his way to ignore, temporarily, the growing black hole in his chest.

he touched base with steve earlier in the day - hell, it might have been steve who told him. sam's not even sure anymore. either way, it had been brief - a quick exchange of information and then the acknowledgment that they would see each other later, talk later.

it is now later, the sun having gone down over the city and mag's tavern main hall is bustling. sam hasn't been home for all that long, back just long enough to take a shower and grab a bottle of whiskey from the bar downstairs. things with mag have, as expected, escalated to this degree. he knows he has access to anything in the bar and she knows he'll come to her in the morning to let her know what he took, how to pay it back, what gets added to his tab.

sam knows better than to run from this for long, so he plans the rest of the evening to be set away. to process. to work through the feeling he's been ignoring behind his ribcage. he also recognizes, pretty quickly, how there is a sizable part of him that is so, so grateful to know he's not going to be alone tonight to do it. that of everyone, anyone really, that he could share a bit of this weight with - it's steve.

he's not exactly sure where steve has busied himself for the day, but sam is already settled on the couch - elbows on his knees, hand on the back of his own neck - when steve steps into the main area of their shared apartment. sam looks up and sees him, huffing a tired, pained laugh as he gestures to the bottle. ]

I know it won't do much for you, but it's here.

[assembles]

[ Even amongst all of the panic of creatures coming through the rifts, Steve and Natasha have a standing appointment in the Horizon for a check-in once a week, and it's not something that he ever misses if he can help it. Neither does she, and so when he appeared in his recreated apartment in his domain and found it completely empty, that was the first sign something was really wrong.

He assumed she got caught up in some monster fight, the sort of Avenger work that would make her late to a meeting, but the messages he mentally sent out to her remained unanswered. Steve knows Nat wouldn't fail to respond even when she was in the middle of a fight. She would have had to be incapacitated somehow, and that isn't like her either.

That's when he went to check her domain, only to find no trace of it. The final nail in the coffin, both proverbial and literal, and it had hit him like a two-by-four to the head.

He checked in with Sam earlier, a quick confirmation of Natasha's disappearance exchanged before both of them rushed off to patrol the rift locations and do their jobs. Now wasn't the time to let their personal grief get in the way, and Steve is practiced at shoving those feelings aside when he has a crisis to focus on.

It's after dark by the time he makes it back to the inn, and his patrols today had been pretty uneventful despite his best efforts to contribute to quelling the monster attacks. He should eat, but he speeds past the crowded tavern area and up to the second floor as quick as he can. He doesn't begrudge people wanting to take their minds off the current threat, but he doesn't want to be around it.

When he steps into the apartment, Steve finds Sam waiting for him, a bottle of whiskey already retrieved. Steve can already see how the news of Natasha leaving has settled down hard onto Sam's shoulders. It wasn't enough to have to mourn her and Tony the once; they've been made to do it two times now, with each of them. ]

I should have grabbed a few bottles of that fey wine while I could.

[ His words come out quiet and drained as he shrugs his shoulders and moves to join Sam on the couch. He nods to the bottle. ]

Don't hold back on my account, though.

[falcony]

[ this isn't the first friend the two of them have lost, and sam knows it won't be the last. but it feels worse somehow, being here and checking in with each other and knowing. steve had to tell sam before, back when he came back from the snap and had to learn about all of it, and getting his message today feels...it's not better, exactly. but sam feels less like he has to be caught up and steve has had time to process or put away.

it's part of the reason why sam needs this - this evening, this time, this little apartment the two of them have been sharing for months and a bottle of whiskey that really only sam will feel. because before, nat's death had been something that had to be quicker. a small group of them at an unmarked grave with a hole in their chests that wouldn't ever go away. tony had the funeral, the collection of people, the public grief. and then...and then steve, who'd gone in his own way that very same day. sam has tried not to dwell on it, has tried to process and tried to grieve and tried to move on, but he can recognize just how difficult that is given the whole...abraxas of it all.

but that's not what this is about, or at least, not entirely. this is about nat, sam has decided. because while there is always something going on, and always will, steve doesn't have any infinity stones to run off to in order to save time and space as they know it. they can sit, and they can not be alone, and they can grieve her. ]

We need to ask around, see if there's any way we can get it shipped in or something. They liked us well enough by the end...I think. [ those last words are admitted with a huff of a laugh, mostly to acknowledge that sam's not really sure if they did or not, by the end. he'd gotten a little plastered himself. it'd been a good night.

steve moves to settle next to sam on the couch, and sam just sort of...allows himself the comfort of it. of the familiar weight at his side. of having steve here when sam feels a bit like his stomach has fallen out from his gut. he's done this whole song and dance too many times already alone, or not alone, but with newly forged friendships. with people who weren't there the first time. now, with steve here, sam feels...a bit like he can let down his guard with it. ]

You don't have to tell me twice. [ he says, reaching for the lowball glass on the small table and taking a slow drink, sitting back and letting out a quiet sigh. ] How'd it all go today with your patrols?

[assembles]

[ No, this isn't the first person either of them have lost, and it won't be the last. Steve's all too aware of that. Despite that, he's never been all that good at sitting with his grief. He'd done it with Peggy, after Bucky fell from the train. That hadn't been so different from this moment, as she'd insisted she would get drunk on his behalf if that might make him feel better.

At least then, he'd had Hydra to serve as the outlet for his anger and his grief. I won't stop until all of them are dead or captured, he'd promised Peggy, and she'd understood.

Nat leaving, though — it just feels so random. As random as Tony leaving had been. And this hollow feeling in his chest? There's nothing he can do about it except try to focus on the next task at hand. In that way, he's almost relieved that there are monsters running amok, terrible as that sounds in his own head. But it gives him something to do.

Of course, a busy day will eventually come to an end, and at least he and Sam have each other in this moment. He shrugs at Sam's comment about the fey, not quite able to work up a response to it. He hadn't spent his time there forging connections, though others may have put more work into that. Sam probably had. It had been more of an offhanded comment than anything, but he won't lie and say it wouldn't be nice to be drunk right now.

He watches as Sam pours himself a drink before reaching forward to do the same, if only so that Sam doesn't have to feel like he's drinking alone. He swirls the whiskey slowly in the glass before he takes a long drink. ]

Nothing too interesting to report. Nothing like when Geralt and I took down that massive robot yesterday, anyway. [ He pauses, remembering the one encounter he had as he tilts his gaze up toward the ceiling. ] There was a kid, a Summoned, setting up traps on the Red Path. He almost got eaten by this massive bug thing that was burrowing through the sand. I distracted it, but not before it got sucked into one of the rifts.

[ It's annoying, feeling like his job is always undone, but there's not much to be done about it. ]

[falcony]

[ it's a familiar fight, at this point - where sam can recognize that he can't keep pushing his own grief and his own emotions away just because he has someone else to focus on, up against the innate urge of his to watch for steve's reaction. they're both similar in that way, wanting to find the next fight, the next path, something to keep moving and keep dedicating themselves towards so they don't have to wallow. and, as sam has learned, focusing on someone else's processing is a fantastic way to avoid your own.

they've both gone through this already. they went through it back home, and then again here, with both nat and with tony. tony had been hard, but it had also been a moment that sam realized he could actually be there for steve. there hadn't been any time, back home, and the time sam thought he might have had after was taken entirely off-course. which isn't really fair to be too wrapped up about, knowing that steve is here. knowing that steve doesn't know why he did what he did. knowing-

sam's thoughts have followed this circular pattern pretty much all day. grieving, knowing he's grieving, worried about steve, worried if he's worried for the right reasons, then grieving all over again. part of him wonders if it isn't fair, just how comforted he is by the fact steve is here with him, that he doesn't have to face this suite, this apartment, this city alone with that dark, heavy feeling in his chest, but-

( sam refuses to think about what he'll do when steve disappears. if steve disappears. he doesn't want to sit on this couch and grieve him a third (fourth?) time. he doesn't know if he can. )

he keeps his eyes on his glass, nods along with steve's updates. the frustration is one he gets, not knowing if anything they're doing is worth the effort. not knowing if anything is actually getting fixed. there's a kind of huff of an almost-laugh at the mention of the robot dinosaur - because sure, you know, that's just how it goes around here, isn't it? a giant robot. ]

Until we can figure out where these rifts are coming from, there's no good way to get them to stop showing up. At this point, I'm just glad one hasn't shown up in the middle of the city. [ a beat, and then sam just sort of closes his eyes, because if something happens....

a sigh, and then he takes a very long drink from his cup, emptying the whiskey and setting his glass down to pour himself another. it just feels like one of those nights. ]

[assembles]

[ No, Steve has never been very good at wallowing. He'll usually let himself have a moment or two, though, whether that's alone or with friends. At Peggy's funeral, Natasha had found him after, pushing past any fissures between them to give him a tight hug. And at Natasha's funeral? Well, it hadn't been much, but that's apparently how she preferred it. He and the rest of the Avengers had worked through it together.

Any family? someone had asked, and Steve had been the one to say us.

As Steve explains his day, almost on autopilot, he can see Sam nod along but can tell that his thoughts are somewhere else entirely. And he doesn't even blame him, because for as many people as they've lost and grieved over the years, it's never easy. It's something they weather because there's no other choice.

Steve could explain about the robot dinosaurs, about how they're from Aloy's version of Earth, but he doesn't have the energy to do that right now. ]

Yeah, that's a fair point. It'd be a hell of a lot worse if these things were tearing through the city streets. We just need them to stay in one place long enough to deal with them.

[ Steve watches, then, as Sam drains the rest of his glass like it's nothing. He lets out a low whistle, knowing how it must burn going down, and then reaches out to give Sam a hard thump on the shoulder. ]

We'll figure it out. [ He lets out a small, derisive laugh and shakes his head. ] It's not like this is the first time we've had to field something like this.

[falcony]

[ what sam struggles with the most, he's found, is a feeling of this time slipping through his fingers. he knows that each person who comes here - tony, steve, nat - that he's also lost back home, offers a kind of second chance. tony he hadn't really needed, but over the months realized he didn't mind. nat had been a breath of fresh air, like some part of him he'd been completely and entirely compartmentalizing had been pried open. he felt younger, felt more open, felt whole in a way he hadn't realized he'd been missing. and steve-

the whiskey does burn, and it's an all-consuming sort of feeling. the sort of thing sam can't really ignore, and can easily turn his attention back to, when he feels himself start slipping.

steve keeps talking, and it's nice. nice that steve's voice fill the room, nice that he can just go straight into autopilot and report on it all, and sam doesn't really have to focus. or, rather, he doesn't have to worry about the details. if steve was there, he's going to know what sam would need to know. he's going to know what they'll need to do. it takes a weight off of sam's shoulders that he's so used to having it almost feels unbalancing.

sam refills his glass, watches it for another couple of moments, and it isn't until steve thumps him - hard - on the shoulder that sam realizes he's zoned out. he blinks, once, and then huffs a kind of laugh. ] Sorry. [ and then sam is leaning back into the couch, letting out a sigh that he feels has been building for months, and even if it doesn't fix anything, it feels better to have it slipping out. ]

You're right- I just wish it was one of those things where it felt easier the more times we did it. [ sam may or may not be talking about the monsters coming through the rift. ]

[assembles]

[ Sam doesn't need to apologize, and Steve gives a quick shake of his head to signal that. It's fair for him to be drifting off right now, between the monsters at their gates and the loss of a good friend. While Steve would like to claim that it's too much for anyone to have to deal with all at once, the truth is they've done so before.

And they probably will again. Because no matter where they go or what they do or how they try to distance themselves, the two of them are soldiers. And when you're a soldier, losing people is part of the job.

What they're actually talking about here is becoming kind of blurred. Steve heaves out a breath and leans forward to pour a little whiskey for himself, just for the taste and feel of it, and maybe also to make sure that Sam doesn't overdo it.

He swirls the amber liquid around in his glass a few times, then takes a sip. ]

I don't know. Maybe it's good that it never gets easy.

[ And it should be pretty obvious what he's talking about now. If it still hurts, it means they haven't gone numb. He glances down to the floor between his knees. ]

It's supposed to hurt, right? If it doesn't...

[ It means they've lost something. A part of themselves that they're never supposed to lose. They just have to patch up these wounds and keep pushing, even if the ache of the resulting scar is always there. ]

[falcony]

[ steve shakes his head and sam knows he didn't need to apologize. it'd be the same exchange of gestures if it were in reverse. but sam still feels like he needs to say it, feels like it's more important for him than it's needed for steve.

and maybe that's the issue - sam would be fine if it were just the monsters. would be okay if it were just the mission, just the task at hand. but it isn't, it never is, and he should know better than to think it will be. he's been here long enough, been doing this for long enough, and there's this voice in the back of his head that can't quite escape the fear that he's not getting better. that none of this is getting better.

maybe its good that it never gets easy steve says, now that he's poured himself a whiskey of his own, and sam can't help the way he has to laugh at that. the sound isn't dark, necessarily, but there isn't any real humor in it. if anything, it feels heavy, tired, and a bit like he's given in to those feelings for the night.

( just the night, though. just the right now. they've got more work tomorrow and they both know this place, this feeling, can be dangerous if it lingers for too long. ) ]

In my training, back at the VA, that's what they tell us. Feeling this- [ with his free hand, sam smacks his own chest once, probably harder than he needs to, right at his heart. ] -this means you're still here. You're still alive. Grief and loss and all that never really leaves, so it's more about figuring out how to keep soldiering on with it. Being numb is dangerous. [ another huff, a shake of his head as he takes another sip.

steve's eyes are on the ground, the floor between his knees, and sam's are up to the ceiling, feeling the back of his couch somewhere behind his head. ]

Pretty sure none of my trainers, or those old men writing all our manuals, took this into consideration. [ he gestures to the room with his glass, the amber liquid swirling with the movement.

the part of sam that hasn't totally lost control pulls him back for a moment, keeps him from really explaining what he means. how there's no manual for losing someone, for grieving someone, for getting back on your feet and keeping yourself going, and then seeing them again.

( sam knows that steve's gone through this - knows that steve's lost bucky twice, lost sam too, just for them all to come back again. first it was bucky to hydra, then it was buck and sam to the snap. not for the first time, sam just sort of looks at the side of steve's head, wonders just how it is he keeps all that tucked away. what he did, what he does, how it is he's still soldiering on. )

but it's more than that, isn't it? because there's an aspect here that sam can't ignore. some part of him that can't quite forget that if he does go home, when he gets back home, natasha won't be there. steve probably won't, either. not unless they can figure out the time bit of it all, not unless steve wants to go. but then brings up the whole multiverse part of it, doesn't it? that it means there's a universe somewhere that steve hasn't taken the stones back. a sam somewhere that might find steve standing back on that platform, where their whole lives might be different.

sam lets the feeling wash over him, and then slip right back out again. the months and months he'd spent wondering why and how and what happened and then push him back to the acceptance of it all.

he lets out another breath, rubs his free hand over his face, and then lets his hand fall off to the side in a fist - a bump, if you will, that lands on steve's shoulder. sam knows that the whiskey has settled, knows that his inhibitions are down, and how that's part of the reason he just needs the contact. ]

I'm glad you're here. [ sam says before he can think better of it. ] I don't know if I've said it enough, but- I am. I missed having you at my six.

[assembles]

[ While Steve never went through any sort of similar training after the Snap, he did read up on everything he could find. There wasn't infrastructure or resources to put toward formal training in how to talk to people with PTSD and how to manage it, but he was decent at self-study, and he'd wanted to help somehow, when his shield and his super-soldier abilities wouldn't amount to much in the aftermath of Thanos' destruction.

So he isn't surprised by what Sam has to say. Seeking out that numb feeling is dangerous. It leads to substance abuse, to self-medicating in all the wrong ways, and it sends people who are already suffering down a deeper, darker hole.

So it does come down to coping mechanisms, to find ways to take time for yourself before you continue on, and even this drink shared together is a step in the right direction. It doesn't change the fact that Natasha is gone and they may never see her again, but this sort of pain is easier to bear when you're not doing it alone. ]

Yeah. [ He scoffs and shakes his head. ] I don't think they ever thought some warlord from space would delete half the population either, but we figure out how to translate what we can, I guess. [ There isn't always going to be an easy lesson or manual for how to deal with the curveballs life throws at them.

Then it seems like Sam goes somewhere else for a moment, dwelling on something that he can't quite seem to put into words, and Steve wonders if he should push it. At this point he doesn't think there's anything they need to keep from each other, but he also doesn't want to make him uncomfortable when it's already a rough night. Then Sam's warm hand settles on his shoulder, and Steve takes a moment to look at it, allowing the words to sink in.

Despite the fact that Steve has been here for a while now, and so Sam saying this feels oddly delayed, he thinks he gets it. He glances up to meet his gaze and nods. Because Steve, or some version of Steve, was here before — and yet, the previous time, he was gone just as soon as he came. The fact that he's been here long enough to really support Sam here is what this is in reference to, he knows. ]

Believe me, me too. [ His own mirthless laugh is chased out of him at that, because god, it had been five years, and he couldn't begin to recall all the times he wished he'd had Sam around for his support or input. ] And I'd like to promise you that I'm gonna stay here as long as it takes, to find a way back for anyone who wants it, to get to the bottom of all this... [ He'd like to be able to pledge to it, and know that it was a promise he could keep. But he frowns, his hand lifting up to clap over Sam's as he heaves out a sigh. ]

If I had any control at all over that, you can bet your ass I would stick this out until the end.

[ Whatever that may be. And he knows it isn't all that comforting of a sentiment, but it's the best he can offer. ]