Logs:Where To Start

Where To Start
Dramatis Personae Sam, Steve	2019-11-16 "Some wounds, seems like it's not possible to heal at all."
Location <PRV> Sam and Steve's Apartment - Harlem
This is a third-story walkup in an aging historic building which, while not entirely crumbling, has a certain worn and shabby look, its plumbing and fixtures often in need of repair. The apartment has two small bedrooms, but makes up for it with capacious common areas. A single long space serves as living room and dining room combined, is semi-open to the kitchen, and has a surprisingly large bathroom with an antique claw-footed tub. Tall, drafty windows let out onto the fire escape from the living room and both bedrooms, and let in excellent light from the southern exposure. The sleek art deco motif that runs through the living room furniture, while not strictly matching, has clearly been worked to coordinate. The dining set, coffee and end tables have been crafted with complementary geometric patterning, ebony accents providing a dark contrast to the warmer swirls of maple burl that feature most prominently. The sofa, love seat, and chair fill out the rest of the living room, a matching set upholstered in plush burgundy. The numerous lamps do not all match, some of them clearly temporary supplement for the inadequate overhead lighting. It's very late, a chill draft seeping in through the apartment's ancient windows from the fading autumn night outside. There's been a light under Steve's door most of the night, only recently extinguished. But hardly has it been out half an hour than a muffled cry as of shock or pain come from behind the bedroom's closed door. The light is on again, and soon after Steve emerges, dressed in a white A-shirt and his most beaten-up blue jeans. Pours himself a very generous glass of Jameson's and downs half of it at once. It's not long after that Sam's bedroom door opens. He's in pajamas, dark pants and an ancient Knicks tee. He ambles into the kitchen, getting himself a glass and setting it down. His gesture between the bottle and his glass, brows raised, is clear enough to read. Steve looks up when Sam enters. Salutes him with the bottle he's just finished refilling his own glass with, then fills Sam's glass as well. "Sorry if I woke you," he says, voice still hoarse and eyes bloodshot. "Just one of those nights, you know?" "You good, I was just reading." Sam leans up against the counter, one arm folding over his chest. The other lifts his glass in thanks before he takes a mouthful. "Seem like Those Nights are getting to be kind of a pattern." "Afraid so." Steve downs a gulp of whiskey, little though the liquor has any physiological effect on him. "Don't rightly know why it's getting worse. They say time heals, you know?" "S'pose they do." Sam lowers his glass, one arm crossing over the other as his weight settles more comfortably. "Feel like the truth of that's real dependent, though. Cut might heal. A broken arm? Needs more than just time to mend it right." Steve's head shakes, short and quick. "Some wounds, seems like it's not possible to heal at all." Shakes his head again, more vehement this time. "I lost a lot of folks by going into that ice, but -- forgive me, it's -- it's not important." "You're feeling it, seems important to me." Sam's mouth twitches to one side, his finger tapping against the glass. "Think some things stay with us, no matter how long it's been. Some take extra care to learn how to live with." He takes another mouthful of his whiskey, then refolds his arms. "You got some weird life circumstances, man, but loss is loss. You're allowed to talk about it." "Wasn't but a few months ago," Steve murmurs. "And 75 years, too, but unlike the others..." His presses his free hand into his eyes. "I lost him just before that last mission" He drains the entire rest of his glass and fills it back up. "Don't know how to talk about it. Just can't stop seeing it in my dreams." "You know, there's people can help with that." Sam looks down at his glass, mouth twisting just slightly down. "Yeah, that'll leave a mark. Lost someone over in Afghanistan -- when I got out I had no idea how to start thinking about that. Don't think it did me any favors trying to keep it all under wraps, though. Not for me or for his memory." "I'm sorry," Steve says softly. "Can't wish that on anyone. Who was he? And how do you honor his memory?" He licks his lips. "Can't even imagine a way to start, when it hurts so much." "Riley. My wingman. Just a completely routine op, kinda thing we'd done a million times before. RPG knocked his ass right out the sky. You go over it in your head every day after, right? Like, if I'd just done something a little different --" Sam's head shakes. "Start playing that game and there's no winning. These days -- it still hurts. But I can think about it, talk about it -- help other people talk about it. Went into the VA cuz -- well. War leaves a lotta people trying to heal these wounds." "Wingman," Steve echoes. "I guess -- I guess Bucky was mine, too." He presses the heel of his hand into his mouth. Shakes his head. "I'm sorry. That sounds horrible." He's quiet for a moment, eyes brimming. Breathes out a tremulous breath. "I watched him fall. Over and over. Couldn't catch him." "I'm sorry." Sam studies Steve's expression. Lowers his whiskey to the counter. "I think sometimes, people think about healing all wrong. Like it's a thing that happens, done, s'all better and you move on. And it can be hard to even want to approach that like -- feels like on some level hanging on to all this pain is part of their memory. Like letting go of it means letting go of them." His hands drop to his sides, bracing against the countertop beside him. "I spent so long replaying his death over and over on loop in my head -- wasn't until I learned how to reckon with that that remembering his life came easier." "No one else saw." Steve's voice is quiet. "Could have been just me and him in the whole world, and he was staring up at me the whole time. Hard to even think about letting go of that." He drinks deep again. "How -- how did you learn that? Cuz I want to remember him for his life and not his death. How he would have wanted." "Lotta therapy," Sam answers with a soft huff of breath. "A lot of prayer. A lot of work put in to working out what a good life looks like, here on this side of everything. I had help, though. You could, too." "Done my share of praying and more," Steve admits. "Feels like it might be a bit above God's pay grade -- or at least the Blessed Virgin's." A slight hesitation. "Therapy, like your group you got at the VA?" "S'one form." Sam shrugs a shoulder. "Do one on one, too. I know some real solid people there, if you get a mind to go." Steve nods slowly. "Don't think I could really get into it with a group. Not about Bucky, anyway. Maybe some other stuff." He licks his lips. Takes a sip of his drink this time. When he speaks again it's quiet, through a deep blush, "I'd appreciate it, if you know someone who's good at this sort of thing." Sam reaches out, clapping a hand to Steve's shoulder and squeezing, briefly. "Yeah. I gotchu, man."