The air was brisk when Sam stepped out of his door into the early morning light, turning and locking the door behind him. Steve had already gone ahead, not needing a cup of coffee to wake himself up. It must be nice being a super-soldier. He jogged in place for a moment to get the blood flowing. Rubbing his hands together, he quickly glanced at his surroundings and then took off at a jog toward the park.
He’d been living with Steve since the Triskelion incident with the helicarriers, his friend needing someone to look out for him. It had been a shock when the Winter Soldier was revealed as none other than Steve’s once best friend, lover, and soulmate, Bucky Barnes. The whole situation was fucked. Steve had loved him, mourned him, and then gained him back—only for Bucky to disappear into the wind. It was no wonder Steve wasn’t sleeping.
Sam adjusted the leather strap that concealed his soulmark—a strange circle with a triangle that had a line through it. Some people were lucky enough to be born with names, but the rest of the unlucky bastards on the planet were born with symbols—both types of marks warmed and tingled when near your match, skin to skin contact completing the bond. A fully formed bond could be a couple of things—sometimes as simple as a homing beacon to the other, or as complicated as sharing thoughts. Idly, he wondered if one person was gifted, would the other gain some of their abilities. He’d have to ask Steve.
He had no idea what his meant—he'd looked it up once in high school, but there were no documents on the weird symbol. Sure, that didn’t always mean anything—it could be something specific to his soulmate, but usually they were more than a just circle and a few lines. He wondered what mark his soulmate bore. He thought back to the dove his mother had for his father, a mark of peace, perfect for a man of the cloth. His father’s mark a simple blackbird, communication and clarification, suiting her ability to calm people with just a couple of words.
It didn’t take long before he found himself on the trails of Prospect Park. There weren’t many people yet as it was early still. He jogged along the route that he and Steve usually took, up and over the bridge and then around the perimeter, heading north toward the Army Plaza. He kept his pace at an even keel—he’d given up trying to match Cap long ago.
After a few minutes of running, he heard Steve call from behind him, “On your left,” and he rolled his eyes. Steve was coming around to pass him. It was how it usually went. They never really ran together, except for when Steve was cooling down, and he’d jog along backward beside him. Those were the times Sam had to keep from tripping the cocky bastard.
He shook his head and shouted after him as he passed by, “No one likes a show-off.”
Steve turned, jogging in place, letting Sam catch up. “Sorry, want me to slow down?”
Slowing to a stop, Sam huffed, putting his hands on his hips as he caught his breath. “Nah, and you’re not sorry either. I live with you, remember? I know what a little shit you can be.”
Steve laughed. “Can’t deny that. I always—” His phone rang, cutting him off. He pulled it out and exchanged a few short words with someone. “I’ve gotta go. Nat’s got a lead on Bucky.”
“Need me to come?”
Putting his phone away, Steve shook his head. “It could be nothing. Let me check it out first. You gonna finish your run?”
Sam nodded. “Yeah, if you need a hand, don’t hesitate. Oh, and we need milk—I used the last this morning.”
Steve rolled his eyes. “I’ll see what I can do.”
With a nod, Steve took off, leaving him alone with his thoughts. It wasn’t until that moment that he noticed it. It was so faint and unremarkable that he almost hadn’t registered it at all—passing it off as irritation from his cuff.
He could feel his mark.
The feeling was hard to describe. It didn’t quite tickle, but it didn’t hurt either. It was prickly and reminded him of the feeling of a limb falling asleep, but limited just to the skin. It didn’t seem to feel warm, but he wondered if it was because they were still too far apart.
His steps faltered, and he froze, first just staring at the ground. Cautiously he twisted so he could observe the immediate area. He looked around him, eyes searching—somewhere nearby was his soulmate. No one else seemed to be looking around or touching their marks. There was a group of women down the path talking, but they weren’t bothered. His hand went to his cuff, and he gave it squeeze, twisting it against his wrist. The feeling was still there. He wasn’t imagining it. He was afraid to move. What if went the wrong way and lost the little connection they had?
He prided himself on keeping his cool under stress, on knowing the answers or being able to find them, but he didn’t know what to do here. The wrong decision, and he might never meet his soulmate.
He sucked in a fortifying breath and exhaled slowly, barely noticing the warm cloud that it made in the cool air. He’d heard that the marks would act up the closer you got to your partner. His mark wasn’t bothering him too badly, so maybe he wasn’t that close to her—him. Didn’t really matter which.
With that in mind, Sam started into a slow jog—his eyes sweeping the gravel path, very conscious of his arm tingling pleasantly. His shoulders relaxed slightly as he went, the tingling turned more into a gentle burn. He was definitely getting closer.
A smile tugging at his lips, Sam looked around a little more desperately, then—there! On a bench, the older wooden kind, a man was slouched in the seat. He was bundled up against the cold, a scarf wrapped neatly around his neck, covering half his face. It was gold and red, looking well worn and loved. He seemed to be around twenty to twenty-three, messy black hair pooling around his ears. Curiously, poking out from under his flopping bangs was a scar, the ends jagged and resembling lighting. Thin, round glasses were perched at the end of his nose as he stared down at a flock of pigeons gathered in front of him. The man didn’t seem bothered by them—in fact, he had a small bag resting beside him.
Sam stared at him, blinking because, oh my god —he was hot. He swallowed and resisted the urge to rub the back of his neck. He tried not to think of how he was in jogging shorts and a sweaty athletic sweater.
Cautiously, Sam started towards the man when his eyes flicked up from the birds, glancing around before landing on him, stopping Sam cold. His eyes were a vivid emerald and held a hollowness that had Sam’s gut sinking. It was a look that came from seeing death—from seeing war. He stared at Sam for perhaps a minute before looking back down, showing no intention of moving.
Sam felt a pang of hurt. Either he was wrong, and this wasn't his soulmate, or he was being rejected. He didn't like either option. He took a step towards him, thinking maybe to chat with the man but paused. Looking him over again, Sam recognized something else. The way he was slouching, yet still looking far too alert, was begging for people to leave him alone—he’d seen enough vets sit the same way. They were the ones that came because someone else had forced them, the ones that were defensive and would run if pushed.
If he approached the man now, he would likely bolt. Sam didn’t want that. If this man was his soulmate, he didn’t want to stress him out. He’d need to put the ball in his court—let him decide when he was ready.
Forcing down a lump in his throat, Sam started jogging again, calmly passing the man by—his mark flaring until it was almost painful. He ignored it and kept on.
Sam was lying on the couch in their small apartment toying with his cuff when Steve came home. He glanced over the back of the sofa to see the man kicking off his shoes and setting a bag of groceries on the table. “Did you remember the milk?” His voice was scratchy and sounding a little lost—to him at least. Sam cringed and glanced over at his friend.
The other man didn’t respond, just proceeded to put away the few things he’d purchased. His shoulders were tight, and the corners of his mouth turned down. Sam didn’t need to be a therapist to read the tension in his body language—things hadn’t gone well.
Sighing, he pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the kitchen. He leaned against the table, hands in his pockets, watching Steve. He wanted to tell him about his day, that he’d found his soulmate, but it seemed wrong given the circumstances. Steve was still processing everything that had happened with Bucky, so instead, he cleared his throat. “Wanna talk about it?”
Steve glanced at him and then looked away, shaking his head. “No, not really.”
He nodded, toying with his cuff, remembering the warmth from earlier, then the stinging pain as he'd passed him by. “You’ll find him—or he’ll find you. Him pulling you out of the river? He hasn’t forgotten—not everything.”
Steve’s Adam apple bobbed. “Yeah, I can hope, right? I found him once.”
He squeezed his wrist over his cuff, his gaze locked on the worn leather. “Hope’s a good thing. Don’t ever give it up.” He wasn’t sure who he was reassuring—Steve or himself.
“What’s her name?” Steve asked, making Sam look up. The man smirked at his startled look and teased, “I’ve never seen you touch your cuff before—not like that. Did you find her?”
Sam dropped his hands, sucking in a breath. “It’s a him, actually, and I have no idea. We didn’t really get a chance to talk, and I wasn’t lucky enough to be born with a name.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Sam scrubbed a hand over his face. “I could have gone up to him, but he needs time. I’ve seen guys like him too many times. He’s been through it.”
Steve nodded. “What are you gonna do now?”
“Hope he comes back—same as you.”
Sam jogged down the street, heading toward the park. A day had turned into two, and two into three, and he hadn't seen his soulmate again. Every morning he would leave at the same time, follow the same route, but his mark never warmed, and the bench remained empty.
He was beginning to question his gamble not to approach him when he'd had the chance, fearing that he’d lost him. He had no idea if he’d ever come across his soulmate again. He was muttering curses under his breath when his mark began to prickle and warm. His gaze snapped to his wrist, and he looked up frantically. If he recognized the area right, he was half a mile from where he’d seen him. Sure enough, when he rounded the corner, was the man he'd been waiting with bated breath to see. He was sitting alone, on the same bench as last time—staring blankly down at a flock of pigeons.
Sam slowed to a walk, taking in the man sitting in the chilly morning air. He looked similar to last time he’d seen him, except the scarf was gone. Instead, there was a knit hat on his head. It was red and gold like his scarf had been, the yarn big and chunky. It looked homemade and a touch too big. He hoped it meant that someone out there cared for him—enough to make him a gift like that.
The mark on his wrist burned, all but begging him to close the distance and complete the bond. A simple touch would confirm and seal it—no more searching, no more burning mark. The man had to be feeling the same, but he didn't show it. His face stayed unreadable.
Giving the man plenty of time to object, he slowly closed the distance to the bench, watching as the man tucked the bag of birdseed into his pocket. For a moment, he thought he might be moving to leave, but he didn’t get up, though his gaze stayed in front of him on the pond. A twig snapped beneath Sam’s foot, and the man jumped, his right hand twitching like he wanted to reach for a weapon. Sam heaved an internal sigh. He didn’t know where or when, but between the way he watched his surroundings, the hypervigilance, the instinct to reach for a weapon, and just being tied to him, it all pointed to this man having been seen more than your average person did.
After a second, the man’s shoulders relaxed and Sam took that as his cue to close the distance. When he was a few steps away, a pair of brilliant green eyes looked up to meet his. So much emotion swirled in them. He could get lost in their depth. A crease formed between the man’s brows and he sighed before looking away. Sam couldn’t help but feel a little rejected that time.
He pursed his lips, turning and taking a seat beside the man. He could see the man shift out of the corner of his eye. He knew this was risky. Whatever life his soulmate has led, it had left him wary. He kept his gaze on the water in front of them. “Name’s Sam, may I have yours?”
The man's breathing hitched and he sat a tad straighter, making Sam's gut twist. Did he say something wrong?
A few moments of silence passed, then the man relaxed with a huffed sigh. “What does it look like?” His voice was pleasant, tired, and more than a little resigned, but it was his British accent that drew him in.
Sam blinked and turned to face him, taken aback to see those emerald eyes staring directly at him. “Umm … what?”
The man raised a brow, and Sam noticed the hit of the scar peeking out from under the lip of his hat. It was white and slightly faded, but the bottom cut through his right brow. “Your mark. What does it look like?”
“Weird shapes,” Sam said and tugged off his cuff, twisting his wrist so that the man could see it.
The man gently reached out, almost touching the mark before withdrawing sharply and looking back to the water. The lines of his face hardened, the little wrinkles by his eyes looking deeper and aging him in seconds. He leaned back, resting against the bench, and muttered darkly, “It figures the Hallows would mark everything in my life.”
Sam looked down at his mark, the skin around the black lines reddened by his proximity to his soulmate. “I don't see anything hallowed about this.”
The man huffed a laugh, his lips twitched upwards before falling again. “You're definitely a Muggle.”
“A what now? Is that an insult?” he asked, relaxing a little when he got a mild head shake.
“No. Just a descriptive term.”
Sam narrowed his eyes at him, but his lips were curling upwards into a smile. “I feel like I should be insulted, and you still haven't given me your name,” he added—pointing his finger at him.
The man blinked and cocked his head. His jaw worked slowly from side to side, lightly grinding his teeth. Finally, he offered in a much smaller voice, “... Harry.”
Sam nodded, a small smile pulling on his lips. “Nice to meet you, Harry.” He motioned to Harry’s wrist. “So, I showed you mine—only seems fair you’d show me yours.”
Harry chuckled, tugging on his sleeve then pulling a cuff similar to his own free. He raised his wrist and turned it so Sam could see. There on the pale skin of his wrist was what he knew could only be a falcon, wings stretched in flight. Sam smirked when he saw it. It figured he’d keep with tradition. His parents both had birds, too. He wanted to reach out and touch it, but he held himself back. His own mark burned.
Like he could read his mind, Harry pulled his hand away. “You don’t want someone like me for a soulmate.”
Sam scoffed, raising his brows. “No offense, but you don’t know what I want.”
Harry slipped his cuff back on, adjusting his sleeve, pulling it down far enough that only his fingers poked out. He looked to be considering his next words, eyes on the pond in front of them. He chewed on his lip lightly before speaking—his voice soft but also hard, a bitter twist staining it. “That mark you have—it’s part of me. The Deathly Hallows. It’s the mark of death.”
Sam felt a sick weight settle in his stomach and absently rubbed at his mark. He wondered what that meant. Why would his soulmate be represented by death? He’d seen some awful things, but this had him worried. “I don’t understand.”
“Do you believe in fairytales?” Harry asked, looking over at him, his expression tight.
He scrunched up his brow. “I don’t know. It’s a bit of a weird question, but I’ve seen some strange shit the last few years, so sure, why not?”
Harry hummed. “Let me tell you a story then. It begins with a boy who lived in a cupboard …”
Sam sat and listened as Harry told him of magic and heroes, of evil and war. He listened, feeling anger build in him as Harry told him of Voldemort—an evil megalomaniac hell-bent on the purity of blood. So much death and suffering was woven through his tale—ending the day Harry had walked to greet death to save those he loved, the day he mastered death. He understood his mark now.
“—and then he fell to the ground. The battle was over, but there had been so much loss—too much.” Harry’s voice was thick with emotion. “I tried to stay in Britain after, but I couldn’t—the memories too vivid. Leaving didn’t help, though. Whenever I close my eyes, I still see them. The people we lost.”
Sam reached over, his hand held hesitantly over Harry’s. He looked to him, waiting for Harry to meet his gaze. The man blinked, eyes a sea of emotion as he looked to where Sam’s hand a few inches above his. He held still, keeping his palm hovering over Harry’s hand— letting him decide. Slowly, Harry rotated his hand so that it was face up and lifted it. He was about to touch him but then hesitated, jerking away. Sam didn’t move, holding steady. After a few minutes, and a couple grumbled curses, Harry touched his hand to Sam’s.
The moment their skin touched a shock cut through him, and he heard Harry gasp beside him. To his surprise, he suddenly felt a flurry of emotions that weren't his own. So many dark and painful emotions flowed through the bond, self-hatred and regret, sadness and pain—even hints of anger. Sam’s heart broke for the man, and he gave Harry’s hand a squeeze. Knowing Harry could feel his emotions, he did his best to radiate comfort and understanding.
Empathic bonds were rare. Sam hadn't even considered that he'd share one with Harry. The pain and loneliness coming through the connection was almost overwhelming, but underneath it shimmered a sliver of something warm. It was surrounded by the prickly edges of wariness, though, and hard to parse out. Concentrating, he was able to single out the feeling beneath the shadows. It felt like hope—a small, flickering flame lighting the darkness. Hope was something he could work with.
Harry's hand was warm beneath his, and he curled his fingers around it, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "I used to see them, too. Everywhere I looked. People I couldn't save. I was a soldier once—pararescue. After I lost my wingman, I couldn't do it anymore." Harry turned his hand, lacing his fingers with his own. Sam smiled. "I'm a therapist now—and occasionally the Falcon."
Harry brows scrunched, and he looked at him curiously. "Like my soulmark?"
Sam chuckled. "Yeah, kinda. I've been known to put on a pair of mechanical wings and fly headfirst into danger. Helped save the world a few months back."
"Gryffindor then," Harry said. "I guess there's a reason fate matched us up."
"I think we'll be okay. I've got practice dealing with self-sacrificing types. Remind me to introduce you to my friend Steve sometime."
Harry’s lip twitched, snorting slightly. Then his smile fell. "It won't be easy." Harry looked at him, his eyes piercing. "I'm a bit of a mess—nightmares, flashbacks, the whole package."
He could feel Harry's fear of rejection and the glimmer of hope for acceptance behind it. "I can help you—if you let me."
Harry's eyes searched his face before looking back out to the water. A feeling of something lighter rippled through the darker emotions that seemed to seep from him. "I think maybe it's time I tried to find some peace."
Sam adjusted his grip on Harry's hand, trying to keep his emotions calm and comforting. "I think that sounds like a good idea."