Work Text:
Sometimes, Sam was able to make his body so small as he hugged himself in a soothing manner. Sometimes the world got to be too much, and Sam needed to be alone in a place that felt familiar. In a place he called his home.
His old bedroom had changed since he was a teenager. Gone we’re the sporting trophies, books, and posters of his youth. Gone was any trace that young Sam Wilson had lived there. But one thing persisted; one thing remained: The patchwork quilt on his bed.
Sam’s grandmama had made it for him. It was a tradition in his family. A patchwork quilt for a special occasion. His grandmama made it with her own two hands and gifted it to him when he turned sixteen.
Some parts were from his granddaddy’s family over in Bayou la Batre. Firm patterns, sharp edges, and images of shrimping trawlers. Anyone would have thought that Sam loved the sea more than the air if they took a close look at his quilt. Still, he loved it. Still, it soothed him.
One time, Bucky found Sam curled up on his bed after a particularly hard mission. Sam had his back to the door, hugging his pillow. He didn’t even hold back the sobs, even when he knew Bucky was standing in the doorway.
Bucky’s heart sank. He moved forward and picked up Sam’s quilt from where it was folded on the nearby chair. Bucky draped it over Sam’s body before placing his hand to Sam’s shoulder and proffering a gentle squeeze.
As Bucky turned to leave, he heard Sam’s shaky voice whisper a small, pleading, “Stay.”
“Okay,” said Bucky as he closed the door, kicked off his boots, and climbed into bed behind Sam; as he settled under Sam’s old quilt. He draped his arm over Sam and took hold of his hand before whispering, “Sleep, Sammy. I’m right here with you.”