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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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?"