The Fic I Want to Read (That Someone Needs to Write)
Okay, so here's the thing I feel like's missing in the early days of Winter Soldier fic: counselor!Sam.
What I really want is for Bucky to suddenly surface in Sam's life, just following him around.
The point is, he's figured out Sam's a veteran's counselor - or, at least, that he's a guy who talks to fellows who've been in the service, and maybe that's not a perfect definition of The Winter Soldier, but the guy inside, those bits of Bucky left hidden in the shadows? Yeah, okay, that doesn't sound unlike him. Plus, he's not just random - Sam's a good fighter with strong friends/allies and he knows who Bucky is. He's not Steve, which is good right now, because Steve's... well. Even the name hurts somehow.
Bucky - or whoever he is, it varies from day to day, depends on how he wakes up from wherever/whenever he manages sleep, what happened 5 minutes ago - anyway, Bucky isn't ready for that. It's too much, too big, too something vast and all encompassing. Some days it's like there's a hard shell between his two selves and he's scrabbling at it, trying to get a finger hold, dig his nails in, keep from falling, 'cause if he falls then he's going to freeze solid again and waking up is always hell. Other days it's like it's paper thin and the other side is a flood that's going to break through any moment, leave him drowning with no safe harbor.
There are no good days.
He's had a couple of good minutes and that's what keeps his feet moving. That and something else, that part where it's not his decision to lay down and stop. He doesn't get to make that call. Steve could, but he can't face Steve yet.
Sam's... safe. As much as anyone can be. Sam knows enough to be wary, but This-Ghost-who-was-Bucky ain't exactly worried about hurting his feelings. So he starts being more obvious about watching him, the kind of watching Sam knows about, showing himself to the mark. He doesn't actually talk to Sam, because that would be sane, he just... follows him around a lot.
Sam is, initially, freaked out. There's a frantic message to a number Natasha left with him and impatient waiting until she returns it - he does have the sense not to call Steve first - and Natasha convinces him to wait. She's the one who says, "Maybe, maybe..."
Sam points out he's wildly under qualified to psychiatrically treat The Winter Soldier, jfc. Natasha laughs - the kind of laugh that doesn't really sound all that funny - and asks if he thinks that really matters? And if anyone actually is? Which sucks for Sam, at least for a moment, because he knows full well that sometimes it's about the person that's there, not the person that's technically qualified, and it's about who someone will talk to, not who they maybe should talk to. It's just so far above his pay grade it's not even funny and this is the guy who- yeah. If Barnes is here, then it's probably Sam or no one, at least for now, and he has no idea where to even start. Writing a whole new manual on the fly.
So Sam starts... ignoring Barnes. Pointedly. He consciously relaxes when the hairs on the back of his neck stand up again while going about his daily business. He's a bit worried about over looking an actual threat, especially considering some of his recent activities, which leads him to entertaining the speculation of whether or not Barnes will consider Sam his territory for the moment and neutralize any potential attackers, dismantle them - possibly literally - out of revenge if it's Hydra, or just watch to see what happens. Then Sam really wishes getting drunk was a responsible option at the moment.
After a bit - a week? two? - he buys an extra coffee and sits down on the far side of the bench across the street, offers it to the slouched over figure in jeans and a green hoodie. He has a small range of clothes, but a couple of hoodies are what show up the most. His left hand is either in a pocket - the hoodies seem useful for that - or in leather gloves. It's summer, so the gloves are particularly conspicuous if anyone's paying attention, but, then, so's a shiny metal hand. There's a hesitation and then, then, Barnes takes the coffee.
It's a hot drink on a hot day, but Sam's thought about this a lot over the last few weeks. He'd seen most of the file, knows they froze him for long stretches, knows he froze in the mountains in the first place. Steve does okay, but he'd confessed at one point that he gets cold easy, or maybe just feels it easy even if he isn't going to get frostbite, dreams he's still in the ice and wakes up cold. Barnes is always wearing layers regardless of the heat shimmering off the sidewalks, and the gloves are for hiding his hand, but he's never sweating either, not the times Sam's looked close enough to tell. Could be nothing, but most people - civilians and soldiers - drink coffee, so it has that going for it, and, hell, Barnes might not even get the symbolism, but sometimes you make gestures to set your own way of mind as much as for them to be recognized. So, hot coffee in the blazing sun on a summer day. There's still a studied ease to Barnes' posture, but the way he curls both hands around the cup tells Sam he maybe got something right.
Everything is a potential metaphorical minefield. Barnes has decades of programming and re-programming, has lived several decades in another time when a lot of words meant something else entirely, was deployed on missions probably no one really knows the extent of amidst numerous cultures in a laundry list of countries, and it's all rattling around inside his skull. Sam takes a deep breath, accepts this isn't going to go perfectly, and starts talking. He talks at Bucky/Barnes/James 2 to 3 times a day for several weeks. He takes to carrying energy bars around, a couple bottles of water, and it's the city so coffee is never far away. He navigates hopefully neutral topics and gets mostly positive results. In this case, positive equates to Barnes staying and listening, focusing on the one sided conversation with his body even if his eyes are watching everything else. Negative results are either suddenly standing and leaving or mentally shutting down as communicated entirely by body language.
Barnes disappeared for 2 days once after standing and leaving in the middle of a conversation. As near as Sam could tell, it had been a statement related to hot dogs. Probably not usually a major trigger for him, but when you already had someone at the outer edge of their envelope and old memories probably resurfacing, you never knew what you were going to trip over. That had been tough - Sam'd realized at that point that facing Steve after failing at this was something he really, really didn't want to do. It was going to be bad enough explaining why Sam hadn't left word yet that he knew where Barnes was and Steve could stop worrying and/or looking. That, at least, he could reason was for the best. Failing Barnes outright didn't feel like an option. (What the fuck had he gotten himself into?)
After that, after Barnes comes back, looking a bit more ragged but surprisingly present around the eyes, he does a mental nosedive off the edge - look, ma, no wings! - and starts dropping references to Steve into the conversation. No questions, never any questions, just parcels bits out at the rate of one a day or so. He doesn't really talk to Steve now, the guy's off doing his own thing (looking for who Sam has in front of him), and he didn't know him long during the whole SHIELD/Hydra take down (battle conditions don't leave a lot of room for heart to heart talks), but he's just making offhand references to the guy for the moment, core things about his character that Sam noticed, and only at the rate of one a day or so.
The day Barnes actually says something back, Sam nearly jumps out of his skin but thinks he managed to conceal it well enough, dial it back to just a twitch.
"He was always that way," Barnes says, and sounds like he actually knows. Sam nods, says, "Yeah, that doesn't surprise me," and keeps talking, just the way he has been.
[[Personally, I would hate me if I left it there, even though this isn't a fic, barely an idea for one. So there a dozen ways, or more, this next part could go. I'll tack on one of them.]]
Eventually, it's Barnes who says, "Call him."
It's January and they've miraculously graduated to more or less actual conversations, inside now that the snow's flying outside and the world's gone cold. Barnes is sitting at Sam's kitchen table with a now requisite cup of coffee cupped in his hands and the remains of breakfast still between them. He'd started sleeping on the couch round November after Sam'd resigned himself to the fact that it was probably the safest place for everyone. He assumed Barnes had been sleeping rough the first few months somewhere quiet and abandoned, but that wasn't going to keep working. James Buchanan Barnes was a human being underneath it all, but the deadly layers on top were just transparent most of the time, not totally gone. This day is a weekend, an otherwise unremarkable conversation over pancakes. Barnes' still gets a surprised stillness when Sam puts a stack of of at least 6 in front of him and more on the platter between by the time he's done cooking; Sam has suspicions about how fast Barnes' metabolism actually burns.
Barnes hasn't been saying much this morning until the non-sequitur of, "Call him." There's only one person Barnes could be talking about and Sam's not green enough a therapist to ask, "Could you repeat that?"
He does consider handing over his cell phone, the appropriate number highlighted and ready to call, but Barnes is still careful with his words, precise in his meanings, so Sam does the calling himself, leaves Steve a voice mail.
"There's someone here who would like to see you," he says, "An old friend of yours."
[[I OPENED THIS POSTING INTERFACE TO WRITE A COUPLE OF PARAGRAPHS. I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. SEND HELP.]]
Crossposted to Dreamwidth where there are
comments. Comment here or there. ♥ Blue :)
What I really want is for Bucky to suddenly surface in Sam's life, just following him around.
The point is, he's figured out Sam's a veteran's counselor - or, at least, that he's a guy who talks to fellows who've been in the service, and maybe that's not a perfect definition of The Winter Soldier, but the guy inside, those bits of Bucky left hidden in the shadows? Yeah, okay, that doesn't sound unlike him. Plus, he's not just random - Sam's a good fighter with strong friends/allies and he knows who Bucky is. He's not Steve, which is good right now, because Steve's... well. Even the name hurts somehow.
Bucky - or whoever he is, it varies from day to day, depends on how he wakes up from wherever/whenever he manages sleep, what happened 5 minutes ago - anyway, Bucky isn't ready for that. It's too much, too big, too something vast and all encompassing. Some days it's like there's a hard shell between his two selves and he's scrabbling at it, trying to get a finger hold, dig his nails in, keep from falling, 'cause if he falls then he's going to freeze solid again and waking up is always hell. Other days it's like it's paper thin and the other side is a flood that's going to break through any moment, leave him drowning with no safe harbor.
There are no good days.
He's had a couple of good minutes and that's what keeps his feet moving. That and something else, that part where it's not his decision to lay down and stop. He doesn't get to make that call. Steve could, but he can't face Steve yet.
Sam's... safe. As much as anyone can be. Sam knows enough to be wary, but This-Ghost-who-was-Bucky ain't exactly worried about hurting his feelings. So he starts being more obvious about watching him, the kind of watching Sam knows about, showing himself to the mark. He doesn't actually talk to Sam, because that would be sane, he just... follows him around a lot.
Sam is, initially, freaked out. There's a frantic message to a number Natasha left with him and impatient waiting until she returns it - he does have the sense not to call Steve first - and Natasha convinces him to wait. She's the one who says, "Maybe, maybe..."
Sam points out he's wildly under qualified to psychiatrically treat The Winter Soldier, jfc. Natasha laughs - the kind of laugh that doesn't really sound all that funny - and asks if he thinks that really matters? And if anyone actually is? Which sucks for Sam, at least for a moment, because he knows full well that sometimes it's about the person that's there, not the person that's technically qualified, and it's about who someone will talk to, not who they maybe should talk to. It's just so far above his pay grade it's not even funny and this is the guy who- yeah. If Barnes is here, then it's probably Sam or no one, at least for now, and he has no idea where to even start. Writing a whole new manual on the fly.
So Sam starts... ignoring Barnes. Pointedly. He consciously relaxes when the hairs on the back of his neck stand up again while going about his daily business. He's a bit worried about over looking an actual threat, especially considering some of his recent activities, which leads him to entertaining the speculation of whether or not Barnes will consider Sam his territory for the moment and neutralize any potential attackers, dismantle them - possibly literally - out of revenge if it's Hydra, or just watch to see what happens. Then Sam really wishes getting drunk was a responsible option at the moment.
After a bit - a week? two? - he buys an extra coffee and sits down on the far side of the bench across the street, offers it to the slouched over figure in jeans and a green hoodie. He has a small range of clothes, but a couple of hoodies are what show up the most. His left hand is either in a pocket - the hoodies seem useful for that - or in leather gloves. It's summer, so the gloves are particularly conspicuous if anyone's paying attention, but, then, so's a shiny metal hand. There's a hesitation and then, then, Barnes takes the coffee.
It's a hot drink on a hot day, but Sam's thought about this a lot over the last few weeks. He'd seen most of the file, knows they froze him for long stretches, knows he froze in the mountains in the first place. Steve does okay, but he'd confessed at one point that he gets cold easy, or maybe just feels it easy even if he isn't going to get frostbite, dreams he's still in the ice and wakes up cold. Barnes is always wearing layers regardless of the heat shimmering off the sidewalks, and the gloves are for hiding his hand, but he's never sweating either, not the times Sam's looked close enough to tell. Could be nothing, but most people - civilians and soldiers - drink coffee, so it has that going for it, and, hell, Barnes might not even get the symbolism, but sometimes you make gestures to set your own way of mind as much as for them to be recognized. So, hot coffee in the blazing sun on a summer day. There's still a studied ease to Barnes' posture, but the way he curls both hands around the cup tells Sam he maybe got something right.
Everything is a potential metaphorical minefield. Barnes has decades of programming and re-programming, has lived several decades in another time when a lot of words meant something else entirely, was deployed on missions probably no one really knows the extent of amidst numerous cultures in a laundry list of countries, and it's all rattling around inside his skull. Sam takes a deep breath, accepts this isn't going to go perfectly, and starts talking. He talks at Bucky/Barnes/James 2 to 3 times a day for several weeks. He takes to carrying energy bars around, a couple bottles of water, and it's the city so coffee is never far away. He navigates hopefully neutral topics and gets mostly positive results. In this case, positive equates to Barnes staying and listening, focusing on the one sided conversation with his body even if his eyes are watching everything else. Negative results are either suddenly standing and leaving or mentally shutting down as communicated entirely by body language.
Barnes disappeared for 2 days once after standing and leaving in the middle of a conversation. As near as Sam could tell, it had been a statement related to hot dogs. Probably not usually a major trigger for him, but when you already had someone at the outer edge of their envelope and old memories probably resurfacing, you never knew what you were going to trip over. That had been tough - Sam'd realized at that point that facing Steve after failing at this was something he really, really didn't want to do. It was going to be bad enough explaining why Sam hadn't left word yet that he knew where Barnes was and Steve could stop worrying and/or looking. That, at least, he could reason was for the best. Failing Barnes outright didn't feel like an option. (What the fuck had he gotten himself into?)
After that, after Barnes comes back, looking a bit more ragged but surprisingly present around the eyes, he does a mental nosedive off the edge - look, ma, no wings! - and starts dropping references to Steve into the conversation. No questions, never any questions, just parcels bits out at the rate of one a day or so. He doesn't really talk to Steve now, the guy's off doing his own thing (looking for who Sam has in front of him), and he didn't know him long during the whole SHIELD/Hydra take down (battle conditions don't leave a lot of room for heart to heart talks), but he's just making offhand references to the guy for the moment, core things about his character that Sam noticed, and only at the rate of one a day or so.
The day Barnes actually says something back, Sam nearly jumps out of his skin but thinks he managed to conceal it well enough, dial it back to just a twitch.
"He was always that way," Barnes says, and sounds like he actually knows. Sam nods, says, "Yeah, that doesn't surprise me," and keeps talking, just the way he has been.
[[Personally, I would hate me if I left it there, even though this isn't a fic, barely an idea for one. So there a dozen ways, or more, this next part could go. I'll tack on one of them.]]
Eventually, it's Barnes who says, "Call him."
It's January and they've miraculously graduated to more or less actual conversations, inside now that the snow's flying outside and the world's gone cold. Barnes is sitting at Sam's kitchen table with a now requisite cup of coffee cupped in his hands and the remains of breakfast still between them. He'd started sleeping on the couch round November after Sam'd resigned himself to the fact that it was probably the safest place for everyone. He assumed Barnes had been sleeping rough the first few months somewhere quiet and abandoned, but that wasn't going to keep working. James Buchanan Barnes was a human being underneath it all, but the deadly layers on top were just transparent most of the time, not totally gone. This day is a weekend, an otherwise unremarkable conversation over pancakes. Barnes' still gets a surprised stillness when Sam puts a stack of of at least 6 in front of him and more on the platter between by the time he's done cooking; Sam has suspicions about how fast Barnes' metabolism actually burns.
Barnes hasn't been saying much this morning until the non-sequitur of, "Call him." There's only one person Barnes could be talking about and Sam's not green enough a therapist to ask, "Could you repeat that?"
He does consider handing over his cell phone, the appropriate number highlighted and ready to call, but Barnes is still careful with his words, precise in his meanings, so Sam does the calling himself, leaves Steve a voice mail.
"There's someone here who would like to see you," he says, "An old friend of yours."
[[I OPENED THIS POSTING INTERFACE TO WRITE A COUPLE OF PARAGRAPHS. I DON'T KNOW WHAT HAPPENED. SEND HELP.]]
Crossposted to Dreamwidth where there are
comments. Comment here or there. ♥ Blue :)