[ And it's that which almost does Sam in. And it shows perhaps, in the sharp intake of breath, in the way his eyes fog over wet. He doesn't cry, just swallows wet and heavy, and that must be familiar to Steve. Sam doesn't open up to people easily, but they've lived in each other's pockets for two years. PTSD haunts them all, and there were nights when Sam woke up with Riley's name stuck in his throat. He wears his grief in dark and private moments.
That grief has grown, and Sam's drowning in it like quicksand.
Natasha died on a faraway planet to bring them all back. No body, no funeral, nothing. Sam just went from seeing her every day for two years, living with her, working with her, trusting her, to her being gone. They laid Tony Stark to rest, there are memorials for him, tributes and documentaries, and Natasha's name is on nobody's lips. Sam sees her falling sometimes, when he dreams of Riley. RPG fire in the nightsky over the desert, like fireworks that Sam and Riley were weaving through, except then Riley went up in flames and smokes, and the last thing Sam ever heard from him was this soft 'Sam, I...' before he fell, burning and dying, Icarus made reality, and there wasn't enough left to scrape off the red rocks to send back home. So sometimes in his dreams, it's Natasha instead, and he fails to catch her all the same.
Sam could lay Steve to rest, at least, in his own way. Put the shield down with his armor in the museum, like a flag draped over a coffin, an attempt to honor and remember and pay tribute. Sam can't blame Steve for not seeing all the ways in which Sam was falling apart over losing both his closest friends and partners in one fell swoop, his life otherwise in shambles after two years as a fugitive and then five years dead. Sam's always been good at hiding his pain.
Except right now, for just a moment, the reminder that Bucky is here and yet Sam still lost him, too... it hits him hard out of nowhere. The last thing Sam remembers is the sunset over Delacroix, and the presence of his best friend, of his partner, a balm on all his aches that he pretends he doesn't have, because finally he's not quite as alone in the crowd anymore... except here, the last thing Bucky remembers is both of them yelling at each other in the world's most unprofessional therapy session - but what was Sam gonna do, leave Bucky alone with a woman who's friendly with Walker, who feels comfortable calling Bucky an asset? Hell no. Last thing Bucky remembers about where they're at is promising each other they'd part ways after this mission. It's not beyond rebuilding - but it's a loss all the same, and it hurts in ways Sam can't begin to explain to Steve. The burden of the present rests once again on Sam's shoulders alone.
And he cannot explain any of this to Steve, because Natasha doesn't want Steve to know, and Natasha's wishes deserve to be respected. So Sam has a gag order on the details of his grief.
For a moment, he feels checked out and foggy, just trying not to choke on the things that sit in his throat, half-formed thoughts and names and explanation.
And then Sam clears his throat, tries to push it all back into a box inside his chest, and just says: ]
But he's here. And so are you, and Wanda, and Tasha.
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[ And it's that which almost does Sam in. And it shows perhaps, in the sharp intake of breath, in the way his eyes fog over wet. He doesn't cry, just swallows wet and heavy, and that must be familiar to Steve. Sam doesn't open up to people easily, but they've lived in each other's pockets for two years. PTSD haunts them all, and there were nights when Sam woke up with Riley's name stuck in his throat. He wears his grief in dark and private moments.
That grief has grown, and Sam's drowning in it like quicksand.
Natasha died on a faraway planet to bring them all back. No body, no funeral, nothing. Sam just went from seeing her every day for two years, living with her, working with her, trusting her, to her being gone. They laid Tony Stark to rest, there are memorials for him, tributes and documentaries, and Natasha's name is on nobody's lips. Sam sees her falling sometimes, when he dreams of Riley. RPG fire in the nightsky over the desert, like fireworks that Sam and Riley were weaving through, except then Riley went up in flames and smokes, and the last thing Sam ever heard from him was this soft 'Sam, I...' before he fell, burning and dying, Icarus made reality, and there wasn't enough left to scrape off the red rocks to send back home. So sometimes in his dreams, it's Natasha instead, and he fails to catch her all the same.
Sam could lay Steve to rest, at least, in his own way. Put the shield down with his armor in the museum, like a flag draped over a coffin, an attempt to honor and remember and pay tribute. Sam can't blame Steve for not seeing all the ways in which Sam was falling apart over losing both his closest friends and partners in one fell swoop, his life otherwise in shambles after two years as a fugitive and then five years dead. Sam's always been good at hiding his pain.
Except right now, for just a moment, the reminder that Bucky is here and yet Sam still lost him, too... it hits him hard out of nowhere. The last thing Sam remembers is the sunset over Delacroix, and the presence of his best friend, of his partner, a balm on all his aches that he pretends he doesn't have, because finally he's not quite as alone in the crowd anymore... except here, the last thing Bucky remembers is both of them yelling at each other in the world's most unprofessional therapy session - but what was Sam gonna do, leave Bucky alone with a woman who's friendly with Walker, who feels comfortable calling Bucky an asset? Hell no. Last thing Bucky remembers about where they're at is promising each other they'd part ways after this mission. It's not beyond rebuilding - but it's a loss all the same, and it hurts in ways Sam can't begin to explain to Steve. The burden of the present rests once again on Sam's shoulders alone.
And he cannot explain any of this to Steve, because Natasha doesn't want Steve to know, and Natasha's wishes deserve to be respected. So Sam has a gag order on the details of his grief.
For a moment, he feels checked out and foggy, just trying not to choke on the things that sit in his throat, half-formed thoughts and names and explanation.
And then Sam clears his throat, tries to push it all back into a box inside his chest, and just says: ]
But he's here. And so are you, and Wanda, and Tasha.