Since Germany, Sam's been holding it together for Steve's sake. Steve needs someone to be strong right now, after everything that's happened to all of them, even if he won't admit it. But the problem is that Sam isn't doing so hot himself; between what happened to Rhodey and his time on the Raft, he's more of a mess than he's willing to let on. He hasn't been this bad since he came back to the States after his deployment, but at least he'd been with his family then, and he'd been able to hole up in his room on the worst days. Right now, he has no choice but to push through.
Even on the run, Steve's determined to help people any way he can, and that means that they regularly find themselves in the thick of a fight. It's not one of Sam's good days, and his reflexes are slower than they should be. A guy with a knife catches a glancing slash along his ribs before Sam punches him out. He barely notices it in the adrenaline surge of the fight; it's only afterwards when he realizes his shirt's wet that he looks down at the spreading dark stain, the ripped cloth.
"Fuck," Sam says, and then he faints.
When he comes to, he's back in their motel room, laid out in bed. "I've had worse shaving," he croaks weakly, on general principle. And it's really not a bad wound, all things considered - it could be a lot worse. The blade could've gone through his ribs and punctured a lung, and then he'd be eight kinds of fucked (and possibly dead) right now. But he knows Steve's gonna fuss over him like a mother hen nonetheless, and he feels goddamn stupid for getting hurt in the first place. "You know how to stitch a wound, or am I gonna have to talk you through it?" Most other places on his body, he could probably stitch himself up, but the cut is too awkwardly positioned for that to be feasible. At least they've got a better than average first aid kit, including suture tools.
Sighing, Sam lets his head fall back against the pillow, trying to ignore the surge of guilt that rises in his chest. He should've stayed in Wakanda, he thinks - but with Nat off doing her own information-gathering and Wanda, well, being Wanda, Steve's on his own, and he needs someone with him, if only to keep him from running headlong into every goddamn stupid fight he finds. (Because Sam's clearly doing a great job of that right now.)
If Sam had voiced his thought about staying in Wakanda, Steve would have agreed, albeit for different reasons. Steve should have left Wakanda on his own, even if it meant stealing away in the night and denying Sam the chance to argue his case for coming along. Steve wasn't strong enough, then, to tough it out alone, and now look what's happened. He can't seem to stop putting people in harm's way.
Enough. There will be plenty of time for kicking himself later. Right now, Sam has a wound in need of tending.
Their better-than-average first aid kit includes a supply of local anesthetic, because Steve knows what it's like to go without and doesn't wish it on anyone. When Sam comes to, Steve is laser-focused on administering the anesthesia.
"I know what I'm doing," he replies without moving his eyes from the syringe, which he holds at eye level to check for air bubbles. Satisfied, Steve turns his attention to the wound. "Little prick," he warns before the first injection, starting from the top of the slash, just a few millimeters from the actual cut. He injects a small dose of anesthetic and pushes the two-inch needle a little further, keeping parallel with the wound, until he’s deposited the anesthetic evenly. He has to repeat the process two more times to span the length of the wound, then start again from the opposite side.
When it's done, there's nothing to do but wait. In a few minutes he'll test if Sam is fully numb, but for now…
Finally, Steve looks up and meets Sam's eyes. He hates seeing Sam like this, hates hearing him sound so weak and tired. Karmically speaking, Steve has probably earned this, with the number of times that Sam has had to sit at the edge of his recovery bed. It just makes him feel worse for not having appreciated how it must have felt on the other side.
It fucking sucks.
"You scared the shit out of me," he admits. It isn't pointed or bitter; he isn't trying to guilt Sam. It's just the plain truth: he was worried. Is worried, even if Sam cracking wise about his predicament is a good sign.
"Yeah, welcome to my world," Sam responds wryly, but with good humor. He doesn't regret any of the time spent by Steve's bedside or chasing after him whenever he has some batshit idea. It's time freely given, and Steve knows as well as he does that Sam will keep doing it sure as the sun rises in the east, sure as Steve will keep getting himself into trouble no matter what size he is.
He lifts one shoulder slightly in an almost-shrug. "Shoulda been faster. I need Nat around to whip my ass back into shape." And an actual training facility, for that matter, if he's going to try to blame it on his physical condition. Running is fine for keeping in shape physically, but Sam's particular skillset involves no small amount of agility training. Natasha's good for that when it comes to fighting because she's an unenhanced human, and she doesn't have to hold back the way Steve does.
Of course, Sam also knows that his precarious mental state is taking a very physical toll on his body, that he's too old to successfully hide it the way he might have been able to a decade ago. (Aging is the fucking worst sometimes.) Admitting to physical weakness is relatively easy, especially when your best friend's stronger and faster than you could ever be. No room for ego there. But he's always been well aware that he's one of the Avengers who actually has their emotional shit relatively well together, and arguably the only one smart enough to see a therapist about any of it. He knows that he should fess up to his problems, but - and he knows it's stupid, knows it's just his brain working against him - he doesn't want Steve to view him as a liability.
(There's always that impostor syndrome lurking in the back of his head, the one that tells him he can't keep up with all these folks with powers, that Sam's normal-ass self doesn't belong with the rest of the Avengers. It tells him that he's just the fucking sidekick to Captain America, that he'll never be able to keep up with Steve. Most of the time, he's successful in telling that voice to shut the fuck up. But not always, and it doesn't go away when he does.)
"I hate it when they're holed up in buildings," Sam grumbles. Not only does it mean that he can't fight from the air, but it also means he can't use his wings in combat; even the shortened span when he uses them as shields can be cumbersome in an enclosed space. Yeah, he's damn good at fighting unaided, but that doesn't mean he doesn't like having an advantage. Might have kept him from getting hurt earlier. "How come nobody ever makes it easy for us, Steve?"
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Even on the run, Steve's determined to help people any way he can, and that means that they regularly find themselves in the thick of a fight. It's not one of Sam's good days, and his reflexes are slower than they should be. A guy with a knife catches a glancing slash along his ribs before Sam punches him out. He barely notices it in the adrenaline surge of the fight; it's only afterwards when he realizes his shirt's wet that he looks down at the spreading dark stain, the ripped cloth.
"Fuck," Sam says, and then he faints.
When he comes to, he's back in their motel room, laid out in bed. "I've had worse shaving," he croaks weakly, on general principle. And it's really not a bad wound, all things considered - it could be a lot worse. The blade could've gone through his ribs and punctured a lung, and then he'd be eight kinds of fucked (and possibly dead) right now. But he knows Steve's gonna fuss over him like a mother hen nonetheless, and he feels goddamn stupid for getting hurt in the first place. "You know how to stitch a wound, or am I gonna have to talk you through it?" Most other places on his body, he could probably stitch himself up, but the cut is too awkwardly positioned for that to be feasible. At least they've got a better than average first aid kit, including suture tools.
Sighing, Sam lets his head fall back against the pillow, trying to ignore the surge of guilt that rises in his chest. He should've stayed in Wakanda, he thinks - but with Nat off doing her own information-gathering and Wanda, well, being Wanda, Steve's on his own, and he needs someone with him, if only to keep him from running headlong into every goddamn stupid fight he finds. (Because Sam's clearly doing a great job of that right now.)
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Enough. There will be plenty of time for kicking himself later. Right now, Sam has a wound in need of tending.
Their better-than-average first aid kit includes a supply of local anesthetic, because Steve knows what it's like to go without and doesn't wish it on anyone. When Sam comes to, Steve is laser-focused on administering the anesthesia.
"I know what I'm doing," he replies without moving his eyes from the syringe, which he holds at eye level to check for air bubbles. Satisfied, Steve turns his attention to the wound. "Little prick," he warns before the first injection, starting from the top of the slash, just a few millimeters from the actual cut. He injects a small dose of anesthetic and pushes the two-inch needle a little further, keeping parallel with the wound, until he’s deposited the anesthetic evenly. He has to repeat the process two more times to span the length of the wound, then start again from the opposite side.
When it's done, there's nothing to do but wait. In a few minutes he'll test if Sam is fully numb, but for now…
Finally, Steve looks up and meets Sam's eyes. He hates seeing Sam like this, hates hearing him sound so weak and tired. Karmically speaking, Steve has probably earned this, with the number of times that Sam has had to sit at the edge of his recovery bed. It just makes him feel worse for not having appreciated how it must have felt on the other side.
It fucking sucks.
"You scared the shit out of me," he admits. It isn't pointed or bitter; he isn't trying to guilt Sam. It's just the plain truth: he was worried. Is worried, even if Sam cracking wise about his predicament is a good sign.
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He lifts one shoulder slightly in an almost-shrug. "Shoulda been faster. I need Nat around to whip my ass back into shape." And an actual training facility, for that matter, if he's going to try to blame it on his physical condition. Running is fine for keeping in shape physically, but Sam's particular skillset involves no small amount of agility training. Natasha's good for that when it comes to fighting because she's an unenhanced human, and she doesn't have to hold back the way Steve does.
Of course, Sam also knows that his precarious mental state is taking a very physical toll on his body, that he's too old to successfully hide it the way he might have been able to a decade ago. (Aging is the fucking worst sometimes.) Admitting to physical weakness is relatively easy, especially when your best friend's stronger and faster than you could ever be. No room for ego there. But he's always been well aware that he's one of the Avengers who actually has their emotional shit relatively well together, and arguably the only one smart enough to see a therapist about any of it. He knows that he should fess up to his problems, but - and he knows it's stupid, knows it's just his brain working against him - he doesn't want Steve to view him as a liability.
(There's always that impostor syndrome lurking in the back of his head, the one that tells him he can't keep up with all these folks with powers, that Sam's normal-ass self doesn't belong with the rest of the Avengers. It tells him that he's just the fucking sidekick to Captain America, that he'll never be able to keep up with Steve. Most of the time, he's successful in telling that voice to shut the fuck up. But not always, and it doesn't go away when he does.)
"I hate it when they're holed up in buildings," Sam grumbles. Not only does it mean that he can't fight from the air, but it also means he can't use his wings in combat; even the shortened span when he uses them as shields can be cumbersome in an enclosed space. Yeah, he's damn good at fighting unaided, but that doesn't mean he doesn't like having an advantage. Might have kept him from getting hurt earlier. "How come nobody ever makes it easy for us, Steve?"