Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sam couldn’t move. He just couldn’t.

He didn’t know why.

Nothing was stopping Sam. There was no curse on Sam. There was no technology attached to Sam’s wrist or anything freezing him in place. There was nothing that explained it. And in Sam’s mind, he knew he should move.

Sam needed to finish the paperwork.

Sam needed to send that email.

Sam needed to work on that speech.

Sam knew there had been at least a dozen calls to his office that he hadn’t answered.

Sam sat there, though.

In his office.

Alone.

Unable to even lift his finger as he stared into the brain fog and desperately tried to finish his work, finish his work, pick up the pen, type a letter.

But it was no use.

Sam was stuck on an infinite loop.

As if Sam’s brain was running on fumes but it wouldn’t stop, it wouldn’t turn off.

Sam was stuck glaring at his own hands resting on the desk, unable to do anything else. Mad at himself for this invisible constraint. Guilty that time kept ticking, his mind was screaming at him to keep going, going, going, yet here he was.

Sitting there.

With nothing to show for it.

Sam hadn’t heard the door open. Maybe it had opened eons ago. Months. Days. Hours. Minutes. Maybe seconds ago. And of course Sam’s brain and body couldn’t pick up on this in its cavalcade of betrayal, not in its frustrating disconnect.

“Sam?”

And Sam didn’t know if that was the first time Bucky called for Sam. Sam wasn’t sure if he knew the person in his office was Bucky before Bucky spoke up. And it didn’t really stop what was happening in Sam’s mind. Like gunk in gears yet the cogs obstinately kept trying to turn.

Sam’s inaction didn’t seem to stop him from going along with the gentle guidance of hands. Worried, shaking hands that seemed scared to even move this Sam, this broken Sam staring into the abyss. Like moving Sam would hurt him.

But the hands were gentle, tender even despite the fears laced in every tremor as Bucky helped Sam out of his office chair and onto the couch.

The blinds were closed.

Had Sam done that earlier? Or had Sam just stared out into the Avengers’ hallway until someone noticed something was off with Sam? Had Bucky closed those himself?

Sam was sure he hadn’t dimmed the lights. That wasn’t usually something Sam would do unless he needed a speed nap. Sam laughed at that, and Sam wasn’t sure if Bucky had been talking before this, but Sam heard Bucky say, “Okay. So, you can laugh.”

Sam laughed at that too, but it came out a little wet, a little choked up. And this didn’t make sense. There was no reason for Sam to cry right now. But there the hot tears were, streaming down his face like a faucet that burst.

Laughing.

And crying.

Mostly crying.

This wasn’t a way for Sam to conduct himself. Not with people around.

What was Sam doing?

Bucky obviously didn’t know either. He seemed as lost as Sam as he pulled Sam close to his chest, held Sam gingerly in his arms. Rubbed Sam’s back. He might have been whispering something into Sam’s hair, grown out now since Sam hadn’t had the time to go out and cut it while he took over this operation.

Sam hadn’t had the time not to do anything but work.

Sam really needed to work now.

But here Sam was being comforted about, what? Sam didn’t know. For being an even bigger waste of time? When there was so much to do, so much he was expected to do, so much, and every second he wasn’t using his time efficiently, well, what was Sam even doing with himself?

Maybe there was always a wind-down. Of thoughts. Of the spiral of never doing enough as he focused on Bucky’s heartbeat; his breathing; his small whispers. Focused on the hand on the back of Sam’s head, on the hand on his back. On how Bucky was inexplicably carrying all of Sam’s weight, holding Sam up. How his shirt was drenched in Sam’s tears and snot now.

And some broken little part of Sam wondered what he did to make someone deal with him in this state, how embarrassing this was, how he was ruining everything through a random outburst for nothing, but at least a small voice in him was starting to speak out again. That Bucky was a friend. That maybe they were…

Well.

For now, they were friends. Good friends. Who cared for each other.

Why wouldn’t Bucky want to help Sam during this breaking point?

At that realization, something gave.

Sam’s body felt as if it deflated.

Relaxed after that outburst of something long held at bay.

It was as if all Sam’s energy was gone. Not that he had much left, but all that antsy push to move, move, move until he was grinding himself into a wall had slank into rest, rest, good god, why am I so tired?

When had Sam started holding onto Bucky? His arms gripping Bucky tighter than Sam should. This wasn’t what they were. They weren’t this.

Sam hadn’t thought they would be.

It didn’t feel like a smart move.

Some stray thought compelled Sam. Asked how much trouble would it be to pull Bucky down? Give into whatever could happen between them?

But Sam didn’t give in to that. It wasn’t the right time, at least. Maybe someday. But not now.

Sam, completely exhausted, glanced up at Bucky. Bucky smiled as he helped Sam take off his shoes and jacket; draped a throw blanket; rest Sam’s head on his lap.

Sam wanted to somehow explain that. Maybe say thank you. Or apologize. Or something. But all he really did was gaze into Bucky’s eyes as he felt Bucky stroking his cheek. Smiling down at Sam like everything was okay.

Could be okay.

Sam didn’t know why he needed that. He clung to that feeling, though.

“Hey. No. It’s okay,” said Bucky, like Sam hadn’t fallen apart right in front of Bucky, “Get some rest. When was the last time you’ve had a good night's sleep?”

Sam didn’t know.

He couldn’t remember.

Sam closed his eyes, feeling safe there as Bucky hummed a song Sam didn’t know.