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Notes: This is written in my Pacific Rim AU for the MCU and also was written for Tori who dropped the prompts in my inbox. That I am only now getting around to working on. Because I am really fucking slow.
Title: staring out (into the night)
Fandom: MCU
Pairing: Sam/Bucky
Prompt: 18. first/last
Words: 838 words
staring out (into the night)
The first drift hits Sam like a jaeger punch to the solar plexus. He knows the theory behind not bringing anything to the Drift, but that isn’t what this is. Bucky’s there and Sam would say he’s holding back but that’s not quite it either; it’s like a desolate landscape where everything is carefully locked away. Sam lets it wash over him, accepts it, and waits for Bucky to do the same.
(It hits Bucky just as hard, maybe harder. It feels like all the air has been crushed out of his lungs, but then Sam is rushing in like cool water and soothing the hurt. Sam is warmth and light and comfort and home; he washes over Bucky in a soothing way, gentling his edges but yet their focus is razor-sharp and perfectly honed. They’re one.)
After the drift, when they come back, Bucky’s always in Sam’s space. His shoulder presses up against Sam and it sends shocks through his system. It’s never uncomfortable. Sam knows.
For months, there are no other jaeger crews besides them. Bucky crawls into Sam’s bed and night and wraps himself around Sam’s side, curled against him tightly and not letting go. But Sam holds on just as tightly and he doesn’t mind waking up in a tangle of limbs. Bucky is safe, warm, and an ever-present hum in his mind.
(They don’t chase the RABIT. Sam’s a calming influence, he chases away the horrors lurking in Bucky’s memories and keeps the ghosts at bay. Bucky can’t put it quite into words. Sam is warmth and safe. He knows. He understands. There is no need for words between them. And Bucky knows how difficult he can be, but Sam is always there and never wants to be anywhere else.
He knows he’s fucked up. He’ll never be the same again, but Sam knows all of this and accepts him anyway. Sam never knew him before. Sam only knows him now; knows all of who he is now. And Sam accepts that.)
Their last drift before they left the Shatterdome in Vladivostok, Sam could feel Bucky’s fear. It’s not something that Bucky affords himself often, but it’s there. Sam reaches out in the drift, wraps himself around Bucky and refuses to let go. They’ve come this far together, no way he’s gonna let Bucky face this alone. The drift is warmth and safety and numerable things that Sam doesn’t yet have a name for. He wouldn’t give any of it up.
Sam presses up against Bucky’s left side, bumping up against the metal arm and trailing his fingers down the back of that hand. He smiles when Bucky looks at him, “Let’s do this.” Together. I’m with you.
When Bucky takes his hand and squeezes it, Sam leans against him. Their Ghosts are like wisps, fluttering around them and brushing up against each other. Sam can still feel the fear, fading quickly to nerves, and the strength that slowly comes in to replace it. Bucky’s slowly been letting down those walls of his and letting Sam in – just like how Sam has let Bucky in. There’s warmth and strength there and a sense of home that hasn’t been there for a long time.
For Sam, they could be anywhere in the world, and he would feel at home so long as Bucky was at his side.
(Sam is like the missing piece that helps to mend that void inside of him. He’s not going to be the reason, but his acceptance and his warmth is helping Bucky to slowly pull himself back together again. Sam is what he needs. He could never ask for a better co-pilot.
They’re not untested. It’s been three years. Three glorious years of fighting with Sam. They haven’t been beaten and Bucky knows they won’t be. He won’t go down. Not without a fight. Not without Sam. He’d willingly go down if it meant he could save Sam.)
Don’t think things like that. We go, we got together.
(Bucky smiles and leans against Sam, holds his hand tightly. Not alone. He isn’t alone in his own head and that’s fine. Sam’s voice is the only one he needs right now. He’s confronting a past he’d forgotten, that he’d thought was gone but it’s not. Sam is new, Sam is his present and future and part of the new past he’s forged for himself.
He’s not the same Bucky he was before. He’ll never be that man again. The memories come back in bursts, never complete; he doesn’t want them to, he isn’t him anymore. That man is dead and gone; he’s buried him deep in the ground of Siberia.
Sam’s warm against his side, not at all afraid of his arm. They’re both aware that Bucky could easily snap his neck but he doesn’t. Sam’s as much a part of Bucky as his arms. Or his liver. He can hear Sam’s laugh in his head and it makes him laugh too – the pilot stares at them and Bucky doesn’t care.)
I can face anything so long as you’re here with me.
FIN.
Title: staring out (into the night)
Fandom: MCU
Pairing: Sam/Bucky
Prompt: 18. first/last
Words: 838 words
The first drift hits Sam like a jaeger punch to the solar plexus. He knows the theory behind not bringing anything to the Drift, but that isn’t what this is. Bucky’s there and Sam would say he’s holding back but that’s not quite it either; it’s like a desolate landscape where everything is carefully locked away. Sam lets it wash over him, accepts it, and waits for Bucky to do the same.
(It hits Bucky just as hard, maybe harder. It feels like all the air has been crushed out of his lungs, but then Sam is rushing in like cool water and soothing the hurt. Sam is warmth and light and comfort and home; he washes over Bucky in a soothing way, gentling his edges but yet their focus is razor-sharp and perfectly honed. They’re one.)
After the drift, when they come back, Bucky’s always in Sam’s space. His shoulder presses up against Sam and it sends shocks through his system. It’s never uncomfortable. Sam knows.
For months, there are no other jaeger crews besides them. Bucky crawls into Sam’s bed and night and wraps himself around Sam’s side, curled against him tightly and not letting go. But Sam holds on just as tightly and he doesn’t mind waking up in a tangle of limbs. Bucky is safe, warm, and an ever-present hum in his mind.
(They don’t chase the RABIT. Sam’s a calming influence, he chases away the horrors lurking in Bucky’s memories and keeps the ghosts at bay. Bucky can’t put it quite into words. Sam is warmth and safe. He knows. He understands. There is no need for words between them. And Bucky knows how difficult he can be, but Sam is always there and never wants to be anywhere else.
He knows he’s fucked up. He’ll never be the same again, but Sam knows all of this and accepts him anyway. Sam never knew him before. Sam only knows him now; knows all of who he is now. And Sam accepts that.)
Their last drift before they left the Shatterdome in Vladivostok, Sam could feel Bucky’s fear. It’s not something that Bucky affords himself often, but it’s there. Sam reaches out in the drift, wraps himself around Bucky and refuses to let go. They’ve come this far together, no way he’s gonna let Bucky face this alone. The drift is warmth and safety and numerable things that Sam doesn’t yet have a name for. He wouldn’t give any of it up.
Sam presses up against Bucky’s left side, bumping up against the metal arm and trailing his fingers down the back of that hand. He smiles when Bucky looks at him, “Let’s do this.” Together. I’m with you.
When Bucky takes his hand and squeezes it, Sam leans against him. Their Ghosts are like wisps, fluttering around them and brushing up against each other. Sam can still feel the fear, fading quickly to nerves, and the strength that slowly comes in to replace it. Bucky’s slowly been letting down those walls of his and letting Sam in – just like how Sam has let Bucky in. There’s warmth and strength there and a sense of home that hasn’t been there for a long time.
For Sam, they could be anywhere in the world, and he would feel at home so long as Bucky was at his side.
(Sam is like the missing piece that helps to mend that void inside of him. He’s not going to be the reason, but his acceptance and his warmth is helping Bucky to slowly pull himself back together again. Sam is what he needs. He could never ask for a better co-pilot.
They’re not untested. It’s been three years. Three glorious years of fighting with Sam. They haven’t been beaten and Bucky knows they won’t be. He won’t go down. Not without a fight. Not without Sam. He’d willingly go down if it meant he could save Sam.)
Don’t think things like that. We go, we got together.
(Bucky smiles and leans against Sam, holds his hand tightly. Not alone. He isn’t alone in his own head and that’s fine. Sam’s voice is the only one he needs right now. He’s confronting a past he’d forgotten, that he’d thought was gone but it’s not. Sam is new, Sam is his present and future and part of the new past he’s forged for himself.
He’s not the same Bucky he was before. He’ll never be that man again. The memories come back in bursts, never complete; he doesn’t want them to, he isn’t him anymore. That man is dead and gone; he’s buried him deep in the ground of Siberia.
Sam’s warm against his side, not at all afraid of his arm. They’re both aware that Bucky could easily snap his neck but he doesn’t. Sam’s as much a part of Bucky as his arms. Or his liver. He can hear Sam’s laugh in his head and it makes him laugh too – the pilot stares at them and Bucky doesn’t care.)
I can face anything so long as you’re here with me.
FIN.