At 6:00 a.m., Nat knocks on my door and, as usual, picks me up for our morning run. She notices right away that something is wrong. Whether it's the dark circles under my eyes, my forced smile, or my silence, something gives me away. But she gives me the time to speak up on my own. We're very similar in this regard—pressing someone to talk when they're not ready doesn't help. I haven't been able to bring myself to tell her that the person I keep seeing in my dreams is Bucky Barnes. It seems so incredibly ridiculous. Maybe one day I'll tell her. Instead, I ask her what she knows about Bucky, trying to be casual. "Why are you asking about him now?" she asks, confused. I simply reply that I went to the exhibit with Steve yesterday and would like to learn more. She doesn't believe me, as we both know, but she doesn't press the issue.
Unfortunately, she can't tell me much more than I've already found out, except that Bucky had a wife; Nat didn't know her name. I perk up at this point, since there's no mention of a woman by his side anywhere, but then I think it's probably just due to the subordinate role of women back then and a simple housewife wasn't worth mentioning. Still, it's odd that the wife of a Howling Commando isn't even mentioned in passing.
"It's been way too quiet around here for days," Nat suddenly says, pulling me out of my thoughts. Judging by her expression, that was her plan all along. I decide to push it out of my mind for the rest of the morning and enjoy the cool morning air.
Nat was right—it has been way too quiet here for days, with no sudden missions, and I can't train 24/7. It's the complete opposite of what I need right now. Since we returned, I've been pacing back and forth in my room so much that I could have crossed the entire headquarters several times over. I just can't sit still today. Well then, let's go on a tour. I quickly put on my shoes and briefly consider driving, but then decide that walking might do me good, as if I haven't already done that extensively for the past four hours.
Thirty minutes later, I arrive at the Veterans' Center and walk through the open door at the entrance. From afar, I hear Sam's voice echoing down the hall and head in the direction of the voices. "The problem is, I think it's getting worse. A police officer stopped me last week; he thought I was drunk," a woman from the group says, sounding dejected. I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms. All these people here have been victims of attacks and carry the trauma with them long afterward. I know that feeling all too well. "I avoided a plastic bag because I thought it was a bomb," the woman continues.
I can almost feel her suffering in her voice; it's just one of many obstacles in each of their paths. "Some experiences you leave behind, others you bring back. We want to figure out the best way to deal with them. Do we carry them with us all the time or eventually leave them behind?" Sam speaks to them. This job suits him so well. He has a knack for people, and they feel understood by him, as he himself has faced nothing less in battle. He helped me a lot in the early days at S.H.I.E.L.D. He doesn't know much about my dreams, but he knows most of what happened from 2011 to 2013, before Natasha found me, and I'm incredibly grateful to him for that. "It's up to you," he concludes the session and bids farewell to his patients.
Afterward, he comes over to me. "Well, hello, what brings you here?" he asks with a smile. "Not much is going on at work today—nothing escalated or exploded suddenly—so I thought I'd visit you here," I reply. Sam's eyebrows rise to his hairline. What did I say wrong now? "You're the only person I know who wishes for drama," he says, looking me in the eye. Yeah, he's probably right, and I should be concerned about that, but well, one can't think about everything. "I heard the last few minutes. Pretty tough," he adds. I glance briefly at the entrance from which the group has just left and then back at Sam. He looks at me with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "Yes, we all have the same problems. Guilt. Regret. We all carry that with us," he responds, sounding quite somber. "Do you have these feelings too?" I ask him before I can hold back.Sam is momentarily lost in thought, then nods slightly. "My wingman, Ryli. On a standard parachute rescue mission, nothing we hadn't done a thousand times before, until a rocket-propelled grenade took Ryli out of the sky." He had to watch his comrade and good friend die and couldn't do anything. I can't even imagine that kind of pain.
"Oh, Sam, I'm so sorry," I say and pull him into a hug. I wonder if these images will haunt him for the rest of his life. "I couldn't do anything, as if I was just there to watch," he whispers through clenched teeth in my ear. It's not his fault. "You couldn't have done anything. Don't blame yourself," I try to say as gently as possible. Sam takes a deep breath, and we release each other. "After that, it was hard to find a reason to stay over there, you know." The pain in his voice is unmistakable. He brought this experience with him, and it's something that can't easily be shaken off. "And how are you now?" I ask him, hoping for a positive answer.
He closes his eyes, thinks for a moment, and then grins. "The number of people who give me orders has at least drastically decreased. So I can't complain," he responds. That's not quite what I meant, but at least it's something. "And how's it going at S.H.I.E.L.D.?" he asks me, and I smile. "I can't really complain. The training almost kills me some days, and the drama can be quite stressful, but otherwise, it's not too bad. I definitely don't want to leave. I've hidden from who I am and what I'm capable of for too long to start doing that again. I wouldn't even know what to do all day if I didn't have this life," I answer honestly. I can hardly go a day without action, as you can tell. "You're doing fine," Sam replies, and I nod. Then another question comes to mind. I briefly consider how to phrase it best. "Can I ask you for advice?" I ask him, slightly unsure. "I'll give you advice if I can," he responds, looking at me. How should I approach this now? "Suppose you're in a situation you don't quite understand and can't find an explanation for. What should you do?" I see from his expression that he'd love to know what situation I'm referring to, but he also realizes that I'm neither willing nor able to talk about it right now.He presses his lips into a thin line and carefully considers his response. "I see two options. Either you accept it and leave it at that, or you keep searching until you find the answers you're looking for. It all depends on what brings you peace of mind," he says. He's right. In that moment, I know I want answers—answers to questions I haven't even asked yet. "Thank you," I say, smiling genuinely. "Does your workday still leave room for a visit to The Hill Cafe? Maybe a coffee and something to eat will be a temporary solution to your problem," Sam asks, and I grin. "As long as it's on you, always." He rolls his eyes, and we head out.
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So here's a little insight into the friendship between Sam and Elora. As you might notice, I'm a big fan of cozy friendships. How do you find the two of them together?
And a little info for the next chapter: he's fast, strong, and has a metal arm ;)See you soon <3
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Who the hell am I (english version)
Fiksi PenggemarUPDATES EVERY DAY AT 5 PM! She remembers nothing. Where did she come from? What happened? How did she get here? Where is her family? In short: she doesn't know. For two years, Elora has wandered, never staying in one place for long. Always searching...
