#aaaah i forgot how liberating dashes and commas can be when u have literally no brain in your head

[philtstone]

Sam, 46

#46 -- on the other side of the door i was gonna use this to write more of the agatha christie au but then i had this idea and it was like. supposed to be Better than this but i am writing these with vibes only and not braincells so yeehaw. basically i wrote this w the main goal of zainab reading a Concept i was too tired to explain over texts and i guess now all of you can read it too

Sam watches the angry dent appear in the middle of the cell door, shoulder-shaped enough that he has it in him to wince.

He's not too banged up, just bone-exhausted. He's pretty sure these assholes are just holding him here to say they can; it's almost insulting how little damage he's taken, given how easily he was overpowered, but that's part of the job, he guesses. Part of his non-superpowered, regular-old-dude job, pulling the rug out from under his legs fast enough that his wings don't open in time for him not to hit the floor.

Or something. Poetry and metaphor have never been his strong suit and Sam's been leaning his bruised temple against this cell door for a good seventy-two hours, and it has been seventy-two hours of dull grey monotony and the uncertainty of Bad Guys Over There In That Other Room Probably to keep him company, until like, two seconds ago, when Bucky tried to rhinoceros his way through five inches of titanium. At least the dent gives the place some character.

"Hm," comes Buck's voice, muffled from the other side of the block.

"She ain't budging, huh," says Sam.

"I'm gonna have to get creative."

Bucky's voice, which he had somehow convinced himself he was not going to hear anytime soon. It's flat and sardonic and comin' out like nothing in the world is wrong. Down-to-business, punch-our-way-through-problems, can't-crack-a-smile-at-one-of-Sam's-most-excellent-jokes Bucky Barnes materialized with a sudden whispered Sam? after seventy-two miserable hours where Sam had to reflect on his own mortality, reflect, also, on the fact that he followed this lead without telling anyone like a dumbass because Walters was concerned about press, worry about the definite human trafficking that probably is going on in places exactly like this that he was not successful at thwarting, and have little to no way of contacting his family or his professional work partner to let them know he was alive.

Sam is definitely too exhausted to cry, but he thinks maybe in another version of these events, he would have.

"Creative," says Sam, out loud. His voice sounds reedy 'cause he hasn't used it in like three days. Which is another point against these guys; Sam's got a great voice, thank you very much. Mrs. Landry from his parents' church used to say he should do choir in school.

He didn't, but like, still.

"Not your strong suit," Bucky agrees, which Sam disagrees with on principle. There's some vague grunting, and a muttered swear word. Sam wonders if Bucky's trying to pry his literal fingers under the whateverthefuckton door; it wouldn't be the first time. A gunshot sounds, coming from far away.

"Bucky --" Sam starts.

"If you're having a hard time with your memory, I'll gladly point out how me and AJ kicked your ass in Pictionary last month."

"You need leverage," says Sam.

"I know I need leverage."

"What if you punched the grate out? You can do titanium, right?"

More muffled noises, then Bucky says, "Nope. Had to give them the arm."

"What?" A very tame way of expressing Sam's actual sentiment, which is the mental equivalent of that rhino running right into him, personally.

"It's fine. Firewalled anyway."

"Firewalled?!"

"And Yelena's getting it back. With Ayo's help."

Sam pushes himself against the corner of the cell, "What the hell is that supposed to mean!"

There's a small grated window, smooth titanium also, that peaks in and out of the cell; Bucky's face appears in this now. Another two gunshots sound.

"Hi," he says,

"Bucky --"

"It's fine. Just Yelena. Is it load bearing?"

Sam gapes. "The wall?"

"The door, yes," Bucky says, a bit impatiently. Sam can't really see much of him; just a pair of thick frowny eyebrows hovering in blank space. "Yelena can bench more than most, but the expression is usually --"

"Are you seriously asking this after you tried to knock it down?"

Bucky ignores this, "Follow up question --"

"Bucky!"

"Gimme your belt, I wanna try something."

The urgency of the situation is not lost on Sam; he takes his suit's utility belt off, very strategically devoid of all its weaponry and with the vibranium glittering in its mesh weave, and shoves it through the crack between those grated bars. He watches it appear again, looped around one of the bars -- then, to the continued echoes of skirmish above them, hears a low, built-up creaking noise.

It's satisfying in the way things you've come to expect are. Life just doesn't quite feel right when Bucky can't shoulder his way through situations involving dungeon-tier bad guys and guns . Sam feels the relief well up inside his gut, and almost forgets to lift his arms up over his head at the last second.

The door warps, caves, rips away with a metal scream.

He has a self-deprecating quip on the tip of his tongue, more vinegar than he's got any right to be but also Sam is tired, worn out, pissed off with himself. It tangles up and doesn't get nowhere. Bucky is, very suddenly, in front of him. He is wide-eyed and bruised on the jaw, bloodied at the collar of his shirt like he's just got out of a scrap fight, missing his fucking arm in a way his tone didn't give for a second, and before Sam can open his mouth he is being pulled into a very rough, very sudden, bone crushing hug. 

Seventy-two hours, Sam's brain supplies belatedly. And there's been some weird shit going on recently.

Three mississippis pass in the dark of the dungeon. Sam works through his exhaustion to process, and with very minutely trembling arms hugs Bucky back.