Not the Opposite of Life, but a Part of It
| Not the Opposite of Life, but a Part of It | |
|---|---|
| Date of Cutscene: | 25 June 2021 |
| Location: | A brief roadtrip between NYC and the Playground |
| Synopsis: | Sam brings his mom flowers for her birthday and has an uncomfortable reunion with his younger brother. |
| Cast of Characters: | Sam Wilson |
The doctor on-call in the corner of the lab doubling as the Playground's infirmary runs the metal spokes of a Wartenberg wheel down the inside of Sam's right arm, and then repeats the motion on his left arm. "Feels the same?" she asks, not for the first time.
"Yeah," Sam confirms with a nod of his head, and the doctor finally sets the torture device aside on a nearby table.
From it she picks up a tablet instead, and frowns down at it. "Well, all of your scans came back normal. After the incident at the Sphere, you presented with axillary neuropathy from your shoulder dislocation, but your shoulder pain and the muscle weakness in your deltoid has resolved." She's silent for a few moments as she taps away on the screen, before she exhales and sets the tablet aside. When she turns to him, her expression is kind, sympathetic. "Agent Wilson, given we've ruled out other potential causes, the pain and paresthesia you're experiencing in your hand might be psychosomatic."
Sam's left hand flexes on his thigh, fingers stretching out wide before curling back into a fist. "That's what I figured," he says, voice level.
His lack of reaction seems to give the doctor pause, and she looks away, then back to Sam. "There are a few tests we could run," she suggests, and then carefully adds, "I know we're all in a stressful situation, but...."
"It's okay, doc," Sam cuts in. "I'm fine. And I've got somewhere I need to be, anyway."
The drive back to NYC in the car he's requisitioned from the Playground's motor pool is a nice one. It's clear skies the whole way but without the intense heat plaguing the west coast right now, so Sam rolls the windows down and finds a radio station playing smooth jazz.
A few songs later, "La Vie En Rose" by Louis Armstrong starts to play and a slow smile spreads across Sam's face. His mom's favorite song. He remembers his father sweeping her up into his arms one day, interrupting pie-making to croon the lyrics to her as they swayed together. Sam couldn't have been more than six or seven, then; Sarah was a toddler and Gideon still in diapers. Even though it's been a long time since Sam has thought of that tiny kitchen in Harlem, he can still remember with crystal clear clarity how his mother's laughter had filled up the whole room with warmth.
Sam exhales long and slow, and blinks his eyes several times as he focuses hard on the road ahead of him.
He's wearing the standard baseball-cap-and-sunglasses to keep a low profile, but he only stops once to fill up the tank and then one more time inside the city limits as he drives into Brooklyn. To be honest, Sam's not expecting anyone to pay him much mind, not here. His hands tuck into his jacket pockets as he passes under the big stone archway of Cypress Hills, the bouquet from the flower shop he's just come from tucked carefully under one arm. The path he walks is one Sam could follow with his eyes closed, even though it's been too long since he's been here.
"Hey ma," Sam says as he comes to a stop, his shoulders bunching up. "I know I missed your birthday." For a long while he cradles the flowers in his hands, before he's able to step forward and lay them on his mother's grave. He spares a glance at the matching headstone next to it, the one that reads 'Paul Wilson,' before he tilts his head back and stares up at the sky.
Sam was right. No one bothers him as he stands there for what must be at least half an hour, judging by the various ways his body complains at him for not so much as twitching a muscle. His jaw aches. "Sorry, I... honestly I don't even know where to start. After I got out, I told myself I was done taking orders, but then I met Steve--you remember me telling you about him, right?--and now I'm wrapped up in something I don't know how to get out of. It's all gone to hell."
And then he winces, a huff of laughter that's mostly humorless rushing out of him. "Yeah yeah, sorry, I know. Watch my mouth." Inside his pocket, Sam's left hand clenches against a white-hot poker of pain that drags up his nerves.
It takes a long time to explain everything that's happened. Most of the early stuff he's light on details, out of the loop, but then he gets to Puerto Vallarta and the attempted assassination HYDRA had tried to pull on him is where it all starts to spiral. Meeting back up with the SHIELD resistance stateside through Bucky, the Sphere and everyone trapped in the Framework, how everything has descended into chaos and how Sam can barely tread water. He stops to gush about Lili, Bucky's emotional support dog, because Sam's love of animals comes from his mother, and it's a nice--if brief--reprieve from all the awfulness of... everything else.
He spills it all out, talking quietly, but when he's done and the cemetery is silent around him, Sam doesn't find the same comfort he usually does after confiding in his mother. It's been so long that he can barely summon up the sound of her voice, and that makes him sigh out a shaky breath, his arms tucking tight to his side.
It's past time for him to head back. But he keeps standing there. Just for a little bit longer....
From behind him, a familiar voice calls out "Sam?"
With the way Sam's wound so tight, it's only because he recognizes the voice saying his name that he doesn't immediately start running for cover. It still makes his heartrate ratchet up until he can feel the blood pounding in his ears, but he allows himself a chance to catch his breath. Inhale-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, exhale-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four. When he turns, hand lifting to pull off his sunglasses, he's back to some surface-level pastiche of calm.
"Hey, Gideon."
His little brother--who's actually been taller than Sam since his fourteenth birthday--ducks in to wrap Sam up in a bruisingly tight embrace. "Jesus, Sam. We thought you were dead after you dropped off the radar. You weren't answering your phone!"
Sam is immediately cowed, expression drawing into a tight grimace even as he returns his brother's hug. "Yeah, I thought I was keeping you guys safe." Before Gideon can cut in, Sam steps back and shakes his head. "Don't bother, it's already been explained to me how much of a dumbass I was."
Both from Sarah and Bucky, though Sarah's had been more thorough. Also meaner. Not that Sam blames her.
He doesn't shrink beneath the up-down look Gideon gives him, but Sam is still put on edge by it. Their relationship never recovered after he left for basic, not in the way that his and Sarah's had. "You look like hell," Gideon tells him, and Sam bristles further. He can feel the tension build up in his limbs, in the clench of his stomach.
"It's been a rough couple of weeks. You and Sarah talked?" At his brother's answering nod, Sam turns his head, looks away. "Okay. Until this is settled, just... keep your head down. Pretend I don't even exist."
Gideon laughs, under his breath, nasally. "Well, that'll be easy," he says, and it takes a second or two before the implication of his words sinks in, and then at Sam's side, his hand spasms.
He doesn't rise to the bait. Instead, Sam stares down at his father's grave and tries to imagine what he'd say, if he were still alive. But Gideon doesn't let it go: "We get you back for, what, maybe a year? And then Captain America rolls up and you bail on your family again to go chase an adrenaline high. Just like when you joined the Air Force."
"You think I joined up because I was attracted to the danger?" Sam asks, voice tightly furious, and Gideon at least looks mildly dismayed, like he knows he's crossed a line there. But that's the thing about fighting with your siblings, they know exactly what to say and where to push to hurt you the most.
They share a moment of terse silence, both aware that they're standing at their parents' graveside, and how much neither of them would have wanted their sons to fight. It's enough to make both men each take a step back. "Sarah said you're gonna head down to visit next weekend?" Gideon asks.
Sam's still struggling to loosen his hand from where he's digging his nails into his palm, but he nods. "Just to get some distance. It's--a lot. We're driving down the night before, under the radar. No one in town will know we're there." He meets his brother's gaze, and tries to convince him with that alone of the truth of what he says next: "I'd never do anything to put Sarah or the boys in harm's way."
But maybe Gideon doesn't believe him. Maybe Gideon hasn't believed him in a long time, since Sam left his younger siblings to join the military as soon as he turned eighteen. "'We' huh?" he asks. "You really think you can make a promise like that when you're bringing the Winter Soldier with you? Another stray for you to fix, because Sam Wilson cares more about problems he can solve so he can feel like a big damn hero than his own family."
And that's...
Too much. Sam can't even wheeze out a response, he just stands there for several long seconds until he manages to shake his head. "Don't call him that." Inhale-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four, exhale-two-three-four, hold-two-three-four. "Bucky's a good friend, and I trust him." He can't begin to process the rest, because it's too much, too much, Gideon finding his most vulnerable point and then twisting the knife in deep after he's driven it in.
They don't say goodbye to each other when Sam leaves, though Sam doesn't even really think about it. He's too far away and too far in his own head when his brother calls out to him, too late, as Sam trails past mismatched rows of headstones leading back towards the entrance. On the drive back to the Playground, Sam leaves the windows rolled up, keeps the radio off, and does his best not to think of anything except the road stretching out in front of him.
