Traceur

•04•

Levi's POV
I shift in my seat. Counseling...something I've never thought I'd need.

To be honest, I would've never even considered going to a counseling session. I wanted to be strong, independent, and thought that seeking help for my mentality would be defined as weak.

It isn't.

There are so many broken people here, who have gone through so many different things. We're all veterans, all from different battles and wars. Most of us aren't seventeen- an age that attracts quite a few looks, to be honest- but we're all accepted as a group here.

My panic attacks kept springing up, admittedly enough. Worse and worse every time I had them. So, I joined the VA, and let me tell you, these guys have some damn good advice.

"...the thing is, I think it's getting worse," a woman says from near the front-left corner. "A cop pulled me over last week, he thought I was drunk I swerved to miss a plastic bag. I thought it was an IED."

The corners of my mouth turn down in sympathy as Sam starts what I assume is goanna be an uplifting speech.

"Some stuff you leave there, other stuff you bring back. It's our job to figure out how to carry it. Is it goanna be in a big suitcase, or a little man-purse? It's up to you."

...

Time passes, and nearly everyone has shared a small shard of of their traumatic backstory. I'm fifth to last, but that doesn't make me any more anxious as I try to figure out which part of my past I'm going to share.

"Levi," Sam calls, and my eyes dart up to meet his. He smiles, waving his hand for me to start. I clear my throat, and everyone turns to looks at me. Obviously, they're interested in why a young teenager is here.

"I've...I've done some things I'm not proud of. Too much blood on my hands I can't wash off. Every night, I have to relive each and every scenario again and...and I can't wake up."  I swallow the lump in my throat. Why did I share that?

"Some of us go through things too early," Sam consoles me. "Even if you're middle-aged, in your twenties, or too young to buy the alcohol that would numb your experiences, every age is too early for what you all have gone through. I know that a lot of you are old enough to feel as though you have to be independent, but sometimes, we just need to take a step back from that toughened exterior and let somebody else in."

I bite my lip. Sam's advice, although simple, isn't something that is easy to do. Letting people in has never been my forte, especially since nobody can relate to the things I've gone through.

I feel people's eyes on me, curious yet sympathetic, some pitying. I don't want pity. I don't want any of this. But sometimes, we need the things that we don't actually want at all.

...

The session ends, and I'm the first to leave, uncomfortable with the amount of people around me. Another reason, though, is because I can tell Steve is right outside the door, either waiting for Sam or me to leave the counseling room and have a nice conversation with him.

Honestly, after that mission, the anger in his eyes and betrayal on his face...I'm not certain I want to see him right now.

"I'll see you next week," Sam smiles, clapping me on the shoulder. I hug him gently, and he returns it without hesitation.

"You can always talk to me," he comforts, rubbing my back before letting me go. I smirk at him before leaving, blending in with the crowd perfectly.

Over the last two years, I've dyed my hair multiple colors. In the Battle of New York, I had it black. Last year, when I went on a mission that had me on crutches throughout three of the four seasons, my hair was chopped short and purple. But now, it's just it's natural color; fox-red and curling around my shoulders.

Steve intercepts Sam, a scene I watch as I look over my shoulder hesitantly. I can hear them from here, and thankfully, Sam makes no mention of my appearances in his sessions; something that I've been doing under the lie that I'm hanging out with a friend. And for that, I'm grateful.

Steve doesn't need to know that I was ever here.

...

Steve's POV.
"Look who it is.  The running man," Sam greets, smiling at me. I smile back, leaning against the wall casually.

"Caught the last few minutes. It's pretty intense," I mention, noticing the shadows flickering across Sam's face. They were only there for a moment, but I know that he's had his own experiences out on the field that he's needed therapy for. And from the few stories I've heard near the end, I think he's the best person to hear advice from.

"Yeah, brother, we've all got the same problems," he sighs. "Guilt, regret."

"You lose someone?" I ask, then instantly feel like smacking myself upside my head.

You idiot! You don't say those kinds of things, Rogers!

"My wingman, Riley. Flying a night mission. Standard PJ rescue op, nothing we hadn't done a thousand times before, till an RPG knocked Riley's dumb ass out of the sky. Nothing I could do. It's like I was up there just to watch."

"I'm sorry," I offer, because really, what else can you say? Besides those emotional tidbits Sam poured out for everyone, and although I'm a decent artist, I've never been good at wording things.

"After that," Sam continues, "I had a really hard time finding a reason for being over there, you know?"

"But you're happy now," I make sure, "back in the real world?"

Sam smiles, shrugging. "Hey, the number of people giving me orders is down to about...zero."  He chuckles. "So hell yeah. You thinking about getting out?"

"No," I reply, then rethink the question. "I don't know. To be honest, I don't know what I'd do with myself if I did."

"Ultimate fighting?" Sam tries, and I laugh. "It's a great idea off the top of my head," he defends, laughing along with me. "But seriously, you could do whatever you want to do. What makes you happy?"

I think about that. Drawing makes me happy. I could be an artist. So does baking. But then again, I like going on missions with Natasha and Levi. Hearing the two of them make quirky comebacks to the soldiers, watching as they flip around with ease...whenever I'm living on the moment- usually slamming a soldier in the face with my shield- I enjoy it, because I'm doing something I was made to do, with the people I care about.

Instead of pouring out my feelings, I simply reply, "I don't know." Because when what makes you happy includes bashing people in the face with an oversized Frisbee (as Levi calls my shield), people start to think of you a little bit differently.

...
Next chapter gon' be hella emotional.