I'm Here | ✓

41 - Ghosts

Steve and I must've gone to bed earlier than usual, because it's only 9:27 P.M. when the phone rings. I stretch my arm over Steve and grab it, but by the time I hold it up to my ear, it stopped ringing. Did I tap the wrong thing? Steve rolls over but doesn't seem to wake up, so I tap in his passcode and flip through recent calls.

At the top of the list reads "Sam Wilson," but it's red. It wasn't ringing that long. How did I miss his call? Steve is still fast asleep beside me, legs all tucked into his chest, so I carefully get out of bed and creep to the living room.

I prop myself up on the back of the couch and tap Sam's name, calling him back. I hold the phone to my ear, but it's barely a beat before he answers.

I open my mouth but he cuts me off before I even say anything. "Listen, can you come pick me up?" His words are slurred and heavy. I shake my head a little bit; he did get drunk. "If you don't wanna, that's fine, I just need a lil help..." he continues with a hint of shame in his voice, and I feel bad.

"Hey, it's Bucky, but I can come pick you up." I chew on my lip for a moment before continuing. "I don't know where you live though. Do you just wanna come back to the apartment?"

"Ohhh, hey, Bucky. Yeah, that'd be nice."

I scan the apartment for Steve's keys and spot them on a little hook by the door. "Which bar are you at?"

"Ummmm..." There's a long pause, so I get up and slip Steve's keys into my pocket. "It's just down the block from you guys... east, I think. It's got a big green light in the front window. Oh. It changes colors too. That's neat." Sam sniffs, and I wonder if he's actually okay.

"Alright, I'll be there in a few minutes." I hang up and scratch Steve a note on a spare piece of paper, leaving it on the table. As I exit the apartment, I wonder what happened to Sam. He's reasonable enough to not get drunk alone at a bar without a ride home. He's lucky I picked up; with the way Steve was sleeping, he might've been left there all night.

I turn east and drive for a little bit before I hear obnoxious laughter spilling out of a bar on the corner. It doesn't have a light in the front, but I realize Sam was completely out of it when I spot a traffic light dangling above the car. With a sigh, I pull into a parking lot and wander in, instantly overpowered with the smell of alcohol. Fortunately, it's dark and I don't attract much attention when I glance around for Sam. After a minute or two, I spot him hunched over in the corner, shaking. I weave through the crowds and kneel down in front of him, not sure how to do this.

"Hey, Sam," I say, resting my right hand on his shoulder. He looks up at me, and I realize he's been crying. "Woah, buddy, you okay?" I ask, and he nods tentatively at first before shaking his head.

"I need to talk, man," he says, his words punctuated with hiccups.

"Did you pay?"

"Mm-hm."

"Alright, man, let's get you to the car." I loop an arm under his and nod to the bartender on the way out. He stumbles into the passenger seat and I buckle the seatbelt for him as he wheezes for breath.

I slip into the driver's side and glance over at him. No matter how much we get on each other's nerves, he's saved my ass a lot of times, especially considering I attacked him more than once. So I grip the steering wheel and pull out of the parking space, watching as he wipes the tears off his face.

"You're not okay." I say. It's a statement, a fact, and Sam nods. "What happened?"

He gasps for air before answering. "I saw Riley."

"Who's Riley?" Is this some sort of pop culture reference I don't understand?

"My - my wingman," he chokes out. I remember Steve telling me that Sam was an Air Force pararescueman. I put two and two together; Sam wasn't the mechanic to make his wings. Riley was the other one testing them. He must've gone down on a mission. He was more than a partner to Sam; he was a friend.

"Survivors guilt." I nod. I know a hell of a lot about that, despite being the one constantly dying.

Sam coughs and tugs weakly at the seatbelt strap. "I saw - I saw him at the - the bar. I mean, it wasn't him, but it - I would've sworn..."

"Hey man, you're alright." I don't know how to handle this. I don't know his triggers. He's not Steve, but he's seen things and he needs help.

"It was my fault." His hands are shaking. He's just staring at them, defeated and angry.

"It wasn't your fault." Maybe it was, I don't know, but you caused his death isn't the exact thing to help people get through trauma. That's what they told me under Hydra right after I found out Steve died, is that I caused it. But not everything's a miracle, and Sam found that out the hard way. I'll have to ask Steve. Am I a miracle or a tragedy? Maybe I'm both.

"I should've practiced more, let the 'copters go in - "

"Sam."

He clenches his hands into tight fists. "What?"

"Tell me about him. Tell me about Riley."

He waves me off. "Stop."

"Trust me." I have no idea what I'm doing.

It takes a moment, but finally, Sam speaks. "He was so goddamn reckless. Always wanted to do the fun thing over the right thing, but he ended up on a good path. When we had the opportunity to test out the Falcon, he took it, and I wanted to do something memorable, so I did it too. His momma made the best turkey stuffing I'd ever had." At that, Sam starts to break down again.

"Alright, we're at my apartment. I'll have Steve check you out when we get in there, okay?" Sam nods feebly and I help him out of the car. He follows me into the elevator unsteadily and it's an uncomfortable ride up, but only because I'm worried about him. I don't know what to say to make him feel better, but Steve probably understands way better than I do.

I'm not sure if Steve's awake when I knock on the apartment door, but Sam flinches when I do it hard, so I try for a couple of soft raps with my left hand. Fortunately, I hear Steve's footsteps on the other side and the door opens, though he looks far calmer than last time I left. He glances between me and broken Sam, almost limp, my left arm being about the only thing holding him up. Steve nods and helps me bring Sam in, resting him on the couch.

I lean in to whisper in Steve's ear. "He thought he saw his friend Riley at the bar. I think it's a survivor's guilt situation. He called drunk, so I figured I'd give him a ride."

Steve nods. I imagine he knows more about this than I do, considering he was the one who unofficially hired Sam.

To fight you, my mind whispers.

It was the Winter Soldier. He was trying to save me, I whisper back. The real me. Or at least whatever was left.

Steve perches on the edge of the coffee table so he can look Sam in the eyes. I hear the two of them murmuring back and forth. Sam visibly relaxes after a few minutes, although he's still crying. Steve just has that effect on people. I can try, but the metal arm and known history as a super-assassin makes it kind of difficult to get through to most people.

We've all got our demons, our ghosts. Most people have others that they lost; Sam had Riley, Steve had... well, pretty much everyone, but I can barely remember who I was. I'm my own demon.

I go and make a cup of tea for Sam in a weak attempt to contribute, but eventually I realize I'm not really helping, so I go wait in the bedroom. It looks like Sam's going to be staying here tonight. That's fine. He'll be alright in the morning, even though he might wake up with a wicked hangover.

I fall asleep to the sound of Steve's soft voice in the living room. Other people need him too, and I don't mind.