[ 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]

[ 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. ]