Sam punches the bag with all his strength, channels all his anger into strikes that roughly correspond to some poor guy’s spleen and kidneys. Not just some poor guy. Cheyenne’s husband. Sam has never met the guy, but he’s heard more than enough. The trouble is he can’t make Cheyenne leave the guy and he can’t swoop down like some avenging angel and beat the crap out of the asshole. All he can do is tell Cheyenne that she deserves more and that she shouldn’t put herself in dangerous situations (weren’t her three tours in Afghanistan enough danger for one lifetime?) and he can punch this goddamn punching bag until his arms ache and the sweat has turned his t-shirt sheer.
But god, what’s the point of being a superhero when you can’t save people like Cheyenne from their worthless, piece-of-shit husbands? Or Heidi, who’s gonna drink herself into the grave instead of talking about her nightmares with a clinical therapist? She meets with Sam every couple weeks just to let him know she’s alive, but damn, she doesn’t look it. She looks like lukewarm death in mascara. And he can’t save Ricky, Ken, or Deon either. Because wings and fists can’t solve every problem and his pretty words in their group meetings can do only so much.
And so he lays it all out here.
Eventually he comes to the end of his strength, if not his anger, and he leans against the swinging bag, trying to catch his breath. His lips are dry, his chest achey, and his arms don’t feel like his own. Sam’s not much of a crier – his psych classes can’t quite undo three decades of boys-don’t-cry indoctrination, and crying’s never made him feel better anyway – but his eyes feel hot and shimmery. He focuses on his breaths to preempt a spiral. It’s an easy trick, but it’s effective. Just to focus on this most basic function. Air in; air out.
I am alive. Inhale. Breath equals life. Exhale. Life is precious. Inhale. My breath is precious. Exhale. I am precious. Inhale. I am alive. Exhale.
These are the words his therapist Shira gave him when he’d been on the verge of throwing himself off of a very tall building, sans wings. That was after Riley. Up there, that night when Riley – it had felt like Riley was attached to Sam’s heart with a grappling hook and when he plummeted down into enemy territory, he’d pulled Sam’s heart down with him. Snatched it right out of his chest.
Sam had had to relearn how to live after that. And the first step was to breathe.
He’s not suicidal these days, but the words still work. They center him, remind him to breathe when he’s so tense he can hardly let the air in.
Breathe, just breathe.
***
“We never got properly acquainted after D.C.,” Fury says, dropping on to the bench beside Sam.
Sam wipes his neck with a towel and gulps down some water. “I thought you were still in Berlin,” he says. “Chasing those rats and all.”
Fury shrugs. “Never pays to be where people expect you.”
“Right,” Sam says. He reaches for the first aid kit and fishes out some gauze for his hand. “Steve’s not here, if that’s who you’re looking for. He’s back home – back at my apartment.”
“I’m not here for Steve. Wasn’t even here for you, but I saw you in here looking like you needed a friend, so.”
Sam snorts. “Director Nicolas Fury wants to be my friend.”
“I’m not a director of anything these days. And my friends just call me Nick.”
Sam peers at Fury for a moment, then extends his bandaged hand. “Hi, Nick.”
“What seems to be the problem, Sam?”
“The punching bag did me wrong,” he kids, staring at the blood on the gauze.
***
“What happened to your hand?” Steve asks when Sam gets home. And then to Fury, who’s standing in the doorway, “I thought you were in Berlin.”
“That’s because I wanted you to think that,” Fury says drily.
Steve frowns. “Sam, is your hand okay?”
“Yeah,” Sam says, “the punching bag might’ve got in some good licks of its own.”
“Do you need ice? Fury, do you want anything to drink?”
“I can get the ice,” Sam says.
“I wouldn’t say no to gin,” Fury adds, looking around Sam’s living room like he expects ninjas to jump from behind the picture frames at any moment to attack.
“Don’t be silly, Sam. Sit. And all we have is vodka. Natasha.”
“Vodka works.”
Sam ignores Steve and joins him in the kitchen.
“You brought Fury home. To your apartment.”
“Is that a problem?” Sam asks. He wraps some cubes of ice in a towel and places them on his knuckles.
“Just – unexpected. He’s not supposed to be in the country. You’re hurt and late. Are you okay?”
Sam smiles. “I’ve had worse scrapes, Steve. You were there for most of them.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “I mean, are you okay? You.”
“Bad day at work, that’s all.”
Steve’s brows draw together into a skeptical squiggle.
Sam leans against the counter. “I’m fine, Steve.”
Steve strokes Sam’s wrist and his fingers are cold from handling the ice in Fury’s drink. “If you still need to talk,” he offers.
“Thanks,” Sam says and he means it, feels cocooned by Steve’s obvious concern. “But I really am good now.”
***
“The guy has me strapped to the chair and he won’t shut up. I even interrupt him to ask if he’ll shoot me before he finishes the speech.”
“You didn’t!” Sam laughs.
“I did. Asked him to heed a man’s dying wish. This was a whole new brand of evil – goes on and on.”
“How’d you escape?” Steve asks.
“This part of the story’s best left to Hill,” Fury admits. “She took out the whole room with 6 bullets and a pocket knife.”
“Wow,” Sam says, knocking back the last of his vodka tonic, feeling the heat blur his edges. He twines his fingers with Steve’s, wants to feel their weight. “That’s why you left Berlin in such a hurry?”
“I could go a long time before I hear another monologue auf Deutsch.”
Sam smiles. “Sounds like you had better luck than Steve and me.”
“No sign of Bucky then?”
Steve sighs. “Signs aplenty. But no actual Bucky.”
Fury closes his eyes. “Can’t say I wouldn’t like to have a word or two with your friend for all the bullets he put in my chest, but it might be better if he stays gone.”
Steve tenses. “You know something, Fury?”
Fury sips his drink. “I know people are scared. And your friend’s probably scared too, if HYDRA didn’t program that out of him. There’s a lot to be said for being a ghost.”
“I wouldn’t know,” Steve says and he sounds just this side of bitter.
“I like to think your friend’s on a beach somewhere, maybe has himself a girlfriend, reading People magazine to catch up on pop culture.” Fury sets his glass on its coaster. “Maybe he doesn’t remember all the things he did for HYDRA. Maybe he wants to keep it that way.”
Sam has said something like this to Steve before – that Bucky might want to stay gone and they can’t bring him in against his will, and Steve finally listened to reason. Doesn’t mean he likes it. Sam can feel him straining against Fury’s words.
“Looks like you’re adjusting to the fall of SHIELD,” Fury says, nodding at Sam and Steve’s fingers intertwined.
Steve relaxes a modicum. “We, uh, yeah – ”
“It’s been a pleasant surprise for us,” Sam says, taking over while Steve’s brain short circuits.
Fury leans forward. “I accepted your dinner invitation because I thought you were alone, Sam. Seemed like only someone pretty damn lonely could be that mad at a punching bag.”
Steve squeezes Sam’s fingers. “He doesn’t show it, but Sam carries the weight of the world around with him.”
Sam rolls his eyes. “That’s the most hypocritical thing you’ve ever said.”
“You literally carry me around.”
Fury clears his throat as Sam opens his mouth to retort. “We could argue all night about who has a hero complex of the two of you. But I’ve got to get going. Hill and I are heading out again. Is Natasha still in Toronto?”
“Last I heard,” Steve says.
Fury nods. “There’s probably some HYDRA up there needs seeing to.” He unfolds from the loveseat.
***
“I didn’t figure Fury for the social call kind of guy,” Sam says when Steve comes into the bedroom from brushing his teeth.
Steve shrugs. “I wouldn’t know. Only time he ever came to my apartment, he took a couple slugs to the chest and faked his own death.”
Sam whistles. “So this was a step down from that.”
Steve doesn’t smile. “What do you think he meant tonight – when he called you – when he said you looked lonely? Are you lonely, Sam?”
Sam waves his hand. “I’m fine. I had a bad day. Took it out in the gym.”
Steve pushes a hand through his hair. “Fury’s trained to notice stuff like this, Sam.”
“And Fury’s infallible? Has never read a situation wrong? Dude, I’m a VA counselor with a great boyfriend and a lot of family and friends to hang out with.”
“Don’t do that,” Steve says, resting his hands on his hips. “Don’t pretend you don’t have shit. We all have shit.”
Sam frowns and picks at the weave of the blanket on the bed. “I’m not lonely, Steve. I was just mad.”
“You gonna tell me why or stew in it alone at the gym?"
Sam throws a half-hearted glare at Steve, who’s got a stubborn glint in his eye.
“I wasn’t stewing. And handling things alone is a perfectly vali – ”
“Don’t pull that crap with me, Sam. We’ve both been to therapy and I’m not an idiot.”
Sam is really, really regretting inviting Fury over.
***
“So you’re not lonely,” Rhodey says, swirling the whiskey in the bottom of his glass. He and Sam are sitting at the bar in one of Rhodey’s favorite jazz clubs the next night, working up a buzz before they go to the Wizards game.
“No, I’m fine,” Sam insists.
Rhodey shrugs. “But you and Steve are in a fight now.”
"Fucking Fury,” Sam mutters. He brings his beer bottle to his lips, but sets it down without drinking. “I’m allowed to handle my shit the way I want to handle my shit. That doesn’t mean I need a diagnosis.”
Rhodey jiggles his knee. “I’ve got Tony and Hill, my sister, some close work friends, and sometimes I could still go against a punching bag for a few hours.”
Sam eyes Rhodey suspiciously. “Did Steve put you up to this?”
“You invited me here, Sam. Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine. Let’s talk about something else.”
Rhodey peers at Sam, his dark eyes probing and searching. Sam looks down the neck of his beer bottle to avoid his gaze.
***
The next morning, Natasha calls him up. She saw Fury in Toronto, and she’s back in DC early, wants to spar first thing. And apparently, Steve’s filled her in on their fight.
Which is all a bunch of bullshit and just Steve’s way of staying in crisis mode, because he can’t function without a problem to fix. But when Sam said that, Steve had acted like he’d thrown a grenade at him and now there’s a No Man’s Land of silence in the apartment.
And Sam really regrets inviting Fury over.
And he half-wants to say whatever it is Steve wants him to say so they can move on, but he’s not broken anymore and he won’t pretend he is, so Steve can make him a project in lieu of finding Bucky. No thanks, no way.
“You don’t like that you’re the patient again,” Natasha says knowledgeably, throwing punches that connect more often than Sam would like. “It makes you feel like you’ve failed at healing from the last time you were on the couch.”
“That’s psychobabble bullshit,” Sam says, trying for an uppercut that Natasha dodges and returns with a kick aimed for Sam’s head. He catches her ankle and throws her to the mat. She tangles their feet and brings him down, too.
“You don’t want to need help,” she continues, “because that implies that you’re not as ‘moved on’ as you thought.” She rolls over and puts him in a chokehold. “And that scares you, because you were in a dark place before. So dark you don’t want me or Steve or Rhodey or any of your friends to know about it.”
Sam elbows Natasha in the side and scrambles out of her reach. “You are way off the mark.”
Natasha stands up and stretches her arms above her head, waiting for Sam to get to his feet. “You feel vulnerable with the lens is focused on you. So you lashed out at Steve, you lashed out at Rhodey.”
“I did not lash out at them.”
“And now you’re having this self-fulfilling prophecy of loneliness.”
Sam stays on the mat, stares at his hands. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not lonely. I’m pissed.”
“Pissed that you’re lonely, even though your life’s so great?”
Sam scowls. “Fuck you. You don’t know everything, Natasha.”
“Great, then tell me. Tell me what could possibly be wrong in your perfect little life other than a profound inability to be vulnerable with the people who love you. Face it, Sam. You talk the talk of an emotionally mature guy, but you’re just as stunted as the rest of--”
“I can’t save anyone,” he blurts out.
“What?”
“I was mad the other day because I realized that I can’t save anyone. And I can’t say that to Steve because he fucking died to save the world and it’s still fucked up, so my problem is laughably small in the face of that. And Rhodey is so fucking pragmatic that he’d just rattle off my goddamn service record, but – ” He stares at his palms, “I can’t save anyone, not really, not when it counts.”
Nat drops to the floor and pats Sam’s knee. “Tell that to Steve. Let Steve commiserate with you. That’s what relationships are, Sam. I shouldn’t have to use advanced interrogation techniques to get you to admit that you’re having an ‘inconvenient’ feeling.”
“Nat – ”
“Steve is in. He is 100% in, head first, no chute for you.”
“That’s his style,” Sam says wryly.
“He’s not going to change his mind about you, so you might as well throw yourself out of the plane too.”
“Bad metaphor, Nat. I will pretty reliably go splat if I do that.”
Natasha squeezes Sam’s shoulder. “Most of my life, I’ve believed that love is for children, but you and Steve – I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like such a disaster when it’s you two.” She swats his arm playfully. “So get your shit together.”
***
“How was your day?” Steve asks carefully when Sam arrives home. Steve’s tone is formal and stilted.
Sam swallows his first instinct to say fine and be done with it. He sets his keys in the basket on the counter and looks Steve full in the face and says against all his habits and disposition: “Terrible. I had a really shitty day.
And Steve’s eyes widen and his lips part and before the sympathy, there’s a trace of stunned joy. “Tell me about it,” he invites, reaching out to touch Sam’s wrist.
***
Sam doesn’t believe in fate or kismet or meant-to-be, but sometimes he entertains the notion that he and Steve were made for each other – especially in moments like this when they fit together like puzzle pieces, Sam snuggled into the hot, solid curve of Steve’s body, Steve’s arm a heavy weight on his waist, his slow exhales brushing across Sam’s shoulder.
Sam’s lids are heavy, he is pleasantly drowsy, sleep beckons like waves on the shore, ebbing ever closer. Sam had explained the awfulness of his day – meeting with Heidi, trying and failing to convince Mike to stay on his meds a little longer, all the stupid paperwork that has piled up in his office like a blizzard of forms, memos, and receipts. Steve is attentive, tilts his head, frowns, reaches out to touch Sam. And it’s funny. None of the problems go away. Steve doesn’t have any clever solutions or a new perspective to offer. But Sam feels less … less alone. And when Sam comes to the end of his complaints, Steve smiles and says, “Thank you, Sam” with so much sincerity and love, Sam’s chest goes tight.
And Steve brushes a kiss on his forehead and rubs his back, and then takes his hand and guides him to the bedroom. And he lavishes Sam with attention until Sam cries out and comes, and then he holds Sam and drifts off to sleep. And it’s almost like he’s waiting in the waves, telling Sam to come on in, the water’s fine. So that, even as Sam drifts off to sleep, he is not alone.