so i'll keep going till we've run out of road

[sizeofyourbaggage]

Who| Sam Wilson and YOU (prompts for specific characters in the comments)
What| Back from the arena and fresh from a canon update, Sam’s dragging people into blind spots and trying hard not to lose it over Steve and Jet
Where| The Speakeasy, various Capitol blindspots
When| After the end of arena 14
Warnings/Notes| Discussion of death, PTSD, will update as needed


It’s likely a surprise to no one that Sam isn’t doing so great right about now. With both Steve and Jet not coming back from the arena, Kurloz stuck as an Avox, and Albert and Bucky unreachable in District 13, the number of people left that Sam’s started to think of as part of his family is… not all that high. He’s working real damn hard at not letting himself end up the way he had when he lost Riley, but there are times when it’s a close call.

Playing along with the Capitol and getting sponsorships and ad campaigns gives him something to do with his time, gets him the money he needs to survive now, and hopefully takes some suspicion off of him, that he’s willing to follow what the Capitol says - but it doesn’t exactly do a lot to take his mind of off things. And he’s got a lot of things on his mind, especially with whatever the hell this is that’d gone down between when he died in the arena and when he woke up here with an extra year or so’s worth of memories. For the most part, when he’s not working, he sticks close to what’s left of his team, because he knows it’s a bad idea to let himself be alone right now.

Still, every once in a while he can be found alone in the Speakeasy, nursing a drink and people watching.

Comments

[cognitived]

Believe him, Clint knows. He knows exactly how Sam feels, about District 13, about the Capitol, about the need to fight. Clint is restless with the need to fight, to go to ground, missions in his blood. But he's a sniper. He's waiting for the perfect shot, patient and careful and hidden from sight.

Clint hasn't been a soldier in decades, he's had it mostly scrubbed from his bones. But he gets it.

So Sam turns and just looks at him, and Clint bears the weight of his gaze without complaint. He matches Sam's look, calm and steady, pretending like he isn't two seconds from falling apart at any given moment. He's not alright, he really isn't, and there's no way he can hide that from Sam. No way he'd really, truly, try. Not here, not now, when Sam knows him so well already. Still, he's readying to counter, just in case.

But all protests he might make, all of it dwindles away at those few, quiet, words. Clint sighs, rubbing ruefully at his jaw, ducking his head a bit in acknowledgement. Yeah, yeah, he gets it. He does.

"I know." He murmurs, gaze flicking away and then back. And he does know. He knows exactly what Sam went through, losing Jet, losing Steve. He was there, he held Sam through those nights because he could, because he wanted to, because he was goddamn afraid of what Sam would do.

He knows.

There's a huff of laughter, half-bitter, self-deprecating. Clint isn't called Hawkeye simply because it's catchy. He doesn't miss a single thing, especially not this close. So yeah, he sees the way Sam's jaw twitches, the way his shoulders set and his brow furrows. He sees the way Sam forces himself to relax, the tiny fractures hidden behind his little smile.

"You don't have to remind me, man." He teases, or tries to. It falls short of the mark, maybe the first shot he's missed in a long while. Instead, Clint rubs at the nape of his neck, rueful. "Someone was always going to have to stay behind, Sam. And far as infiltration goes, I'm most qualified."

"Besides," He smirks, something humorless in his gaze, "who else is going to watch over Stark?"

[sizeofyourbaggage]

It's getting too hard for them to try to pretend with each other, these days, when they're alone like this. They put on a show together so much for the cameras, but they've gotten too damn good at reading each other to be able to hide from each other. And maybe that's partly why, that they had to learn to pick up real damn quick what was for the cameras and what was real, how to make sure they were always on the same page with shit without tipping anyone else off.

But mostly it just means that Sam knows that neither of them are all right. If Terezi's right, if Sam ends up in thirteen and Clint is stuck here, neither of them are going to be all right. Oh, they'll manage, of course they will. They'll survive and they'll do their jobs and they'll keep going because it's what they do, but there'll be a part of Sam that's missing until Clint's out of the Capitol.

And with the way Clint's looking at him, with the way he murmurs I know, he thinks maybe it might be the same for Clint.

He quirks the barest hint of a smile, even when Clint's joke falls flat, but it fades at the next comment.

"As far as infiltration goes," he has to agree, even if it's reluctant. There's a quiet chuckle, equally humorless, as Sam shakes his head. "Cupid, you go trying to put looking after Tony on your shoulders and you're gonna get so weighted down I'll never be able to take you flying with me. Don't you go trying to take on that responsibility all on your own, you hear? He needs at least five of us. Or Pepper."

He manages teasing a little bit better, for all that he's serious, but then he ruins it by running his mouth before he thinks. "You're not gonna be staying behind for long. Doesn't matter what I gotta do, I promise I'll always find a way to get to you."