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sizeofyourbaggage and uso_3
Apr. 28th, 2015 02:46 pmtookthewheelHe was weeks in from the cold.
It should feel like an achievement. The months before were a haze of violence, like so much of what came before them. For Hydra, for himself... fighting tooth and nail for freedom and a stolen past until finally Steve was there, pulling him in, fetching him home. You don't have to fight alone anymore, Buck. and he'd closed his eyes and let himself be led, too tired and bloodied to refuse it anymore.
He knew, he remembered.
Sam Wilson's house was located in the suburbs of Washington DC. Located far away from the still ruins of the Triskellion and any other reminders of the captivity he'd escaped. A normal house on a normal street, with a green lawn and neighbours to either side. It was safe. He was safe. You're safe.
Safe didn't make it easier, didn't stop him from patrolling the floors every couple hours through the night when he couldn't sleep or looking for snipers in the reflections of mirrors and windows. Didn't stop him from sleeping on the floor more often than the bed.
What it did was mean he wasn't alone. There were others to keep an eye out for danger, others to talk to when the nightmares kept him at night. There was Steve and there was Sam, with three meals (and more if he wanted them) every day and hot water to wash in. It might have taken time but he was slowly getting used to those things.
Early on, when James was new in the house, Sam had given him a notebook. It was for him to write down his thoughts in, thoughts or memories, that is. Things he wanted to remember or talk about. By now he's filled it about halfway in stilted, stiff handwriting. Dates and locations, sometimes pieces of names as he tries to put his life together.
1956 is the latest number he scratches down in pencil, it feels like an ominous one. Any of them past 1945 are ominous.
It should feel like an achievement. The months before were a haze of violence, like so much of what came before them. For Hydra, for himself... fighting tooth and nail for freedom and a stolen past until finally Steve was there, pulling him in, fetching him home. You don't have to fight alone anymore, Buck. and he'd closed his eyes and let himself be led, too tired and bloodied to refuse it anymore.
He knew, he remembered.
Sam Wilson's house was located in the suburbs of Washington DC. Located far away from the still ruins of the Triskellion and any other reminders of the captivity he'd escaped. A normal house on a normal street, with a green lawn and neighbours to either side. It was safe. He was safe. You're safe.
Safe didn't make it easier, didn't stop him from patrolling the floors every couple hours through the night when he couldn't sleep or looking for snipers in the reflections of mirrors and windows. Didn't stop him from sleeping on the floor more often than the bed.
What it did was mean he wasn't alone. There were others to keep an eye out for danger, others to talk to when the nightmares kept him at night. There was Steve and there was Sam, with three meals (and more if he wanted them) every day and hot water to wash in. It might have taken time but he was slowly getting used to those things.
Early on, when James was new in the house, Sam had given him a notebook. It was for him to write down his thoughts in, thoughts or memories, that is. Things he wanted to remember or talk about. By now he's filled it about halfway in stilted, stiff handwriting. Dates and locations, sometimes pieces of names as he tries to put his life together.
1956 is the latest number he scratches down in pencil, it feels like an ominous one. Any of them past 1945 are ominous.
