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There's a lot that Sam loves about flying. Even when he's on a mission, through his careful focus he can still appreciate how remarkable the experience is, and tonight is no exception. There's something so special about the desert night sky, the way the stars gleam and stretch on for miles upon miles set against the soft neutral sand. Tonight, he loves that the most. Well, that and Riley, but Riley's always a given.
Riley's flying not too far ahead of him, and like he read Sam's mind, he looks back at him and winks. Sam smiles.
"Hey Riles," he says. The words feel as natural as strapping on the wings and soaring into the air does, but they taste like ash coming out. At this point in the mission, moments away from getting in position to make the rescue, they aren't allowed to turn their comms off or go to a private channel. And Sam would never call Riley that with top brass listening in—
"Yeah, Sammy?"
And Sam's stomach swoops, because what are they doing?
But it doesn't matter, because they're not in the desert after all, Sam realizes. He shakes his head, doesn't know what he was thinking as he blinks and looks around Sarah's kitchen, the kitchen he grew up in. He's sitting at the table and Riley faces him, leaning back against the counter with his hands planted on the countertop and giving him a little smile. Sun is shining bright and golden in from the windows behind him, giving Riley the look of a Renaissance painting. Sam's chest aches a little at the sight, the way the light turns his blonde hair to liquid gold and beams across his toned, tanned arms.
Of course. They're on leave. He brought Riley home with him to visit his sister.
"Sammy?"
"Sorry," he gives a little laugh. Shakes his head again. "Got thinkin' on something there."
"Head always in the clouds huh, honey?" Riley teases. "Suppose that's why you're so good at flying, hey?"
He steps forward, grin widening as he comes towards Sam, a grin that Sam knows is such trouble. He stumbles though, and Sam's half out of his chair to catch him.
In the same moment, the warmth of the kitchen bleeds away to the cold of the desert. Sam realizes he doesn't catch Riley at all, lets him fall to the tiled floor and crumple.
And he knows what's about to happen. He hears himself call out, hears the whizz of the RPG—hears it just a second too late—and he doesn't look away. Sam feels the heat of the explosion, dives dives dives but it's never fast enough, it's too hot, there's more coming, there's stern commands being half-yelled in his ear, and Riley—
In the kitchen, Sam reaches him. In the kitchen, his face is unscorched but covered in blood, in deep cuts. In the kitchen, none of this makes sense but Sam knows he failed him again.
He doesn't intend to look down, look away from Riley's beautiful, marred face, but he does and—
He's back in the desert, back to having the breath completely knocked out of him as Riley burns up, spiraling down to the ground too fast for him to do…anything. And Sam has to get out of there, needs to fall back, listen to the CO in his ear, but in a split second moment he flies down low enough to see Riley in blackened pieces, horrible pink and red and black, flashes of stark white bone, all of it staining the sand in a sick splatter. Riley, with a hole blown in his torso, guts spilled out black and red, a hand too far from his body, face half gone and unrecognizable, not a wisp of blonde hair in sight. Broken wings spread around him in half-melted fragments. And the smell, oh god, the smell he'll never forget; it's seared into his nostrils, sweet and acrid.
It's still stuck in his nose as he blinks and he's in the kitchen again, hands shaking, covered in Riley's blood as he takes his face in his hands, looking away from the mangled mess of his lower half, blood staining the tiles as his organs wetly slop out of him.
"I'm sorry, baby," Sam says as he strokes Riley's cheek, runs a hand through his hair and turning it copper with blood. "I'm so sorry."
He realizes he's crying when his chest heaves with it, when he looks into Riley's kaleidoscope eyes again, hazel but every colour at once, and they stare into nothing. Somehow, Sam knows he did this, not just that he didn't catch him, but that he slashed him open, let him pour out in a sticky red mess across the floor as he cut him over and over. None of it makes sense, but all of it does because it's all on him, isn't it? He could've caught him, should've been listening closer, should've knocked him out of the way—
Clutching Riley to his chest, he sobs, the sound rough and broken even in his own ears as it echos through the room. He sobs and screams and holds Riley so close, so tightly he knows if his body was alive, heart pumping blood through him, blood staying in him as it should, he would be leaving dark bruises.
"Sam."
Pain rips through him, hot like a burning poker has been shoved into his chest, and he cries out, a horrible anguished sound.
"I'm sorry," Sam presses his face into Riley's hair, breathes in the scent of him to try and get rid of that burnt flesh smell, but all he can smell is the metallic tang of blood over the sickly char. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry—"
"Sam, sweetheart."
"I'm sorry," he sobs. He feels a hand on his shoulder, and when he pulls back from Riley, confused, he sees he's not in Sarah's kitchen after all. He's not in the desert, either, even if he can still smell Riley's scorched flesh.
Still crying, hiccuping heavy breaths, he jolts up, looks at Bucky sitting up next to him in their bed. He's shirtless, sheets pooled around his hips, and he's giving Sam this concerned look that makes Sam close his eyes.
Of course, that was a terrible idea because he sees Riley in the desert again, Riley bleeding out in his arms again. And one of them isn't even real, but it hurts all the same.
"Oh god," Sam breaks down again on the last word, opening his eyes and staring down hard through tears at the soft grey covers surrounding him. He claws at his chest, fingers catching on his t-shirt, wanting to scoop out the ache there.
"Sam," Bucky says softly. "Hey, you're okay. You had a nightmare. You're in DC. It was just a nightmare, okay?"
Sam shakes his head, not looking up at him, bringing a hand up to scrub as his face as tears continue to fall.
"Sweetheart," the sheets rustle as Bucky shifts closer to him. "Can I touch you, Sam? Is that okay?"
Letting out a shaky breath, Sam gives him a watery, "Yeah."
With careful but efficient movements, Bucky takes Sam's right wrist in his left, gently pulling it away from his face and guiding his hand to rest over his heart. He laces their fingers together, holding Sam's hand in place. Then, he presses his right hand over Sam's left, the one still knotted in his t-shirt, and places his hand over his own heart, too.
"Just breathe," he murmurs. "You're okay, Sam. I promise. It was just a nightmare. Need you to breathe with me, alright?"
Sam nods, because the feeling of his and Bucky's heartbeats under his palms is grounding him already, bringing him into the comfort of their bedroom.
Rationally, Sam knows that it was just a nightmare, and while he's never dreamed the specific situation with Riley in the kitchen before, he's dreamed about that night in the desert a million times, dreamed up a million other ways he's hurt or failed Riley, too. It's been a while since his last nightmare, especially been a while since the last one to break him like his, but he knows well enough how to come down from them. And Bucky knows, too. Knows what Sam needs when this happens, just like Sam does for him.
Figaro, it seems, does as well. Sam's so grateful for that little cat, for the unconditional love from him and the way he always knows when Sam needs extra love, as he jumps onto the bed and settles into Sam's lap, kneading the blanket over his thigh.
Bucky's eyes flick down from Sam's face to look at the cat and he smiles. The ache in Sam's chest has subsided in the last few minutes they've been silently breathing together, his heart fixedly slowing to a normal pace again, and Bucky's smile gives him a little jolt of warmth.
"Thank you," Sam says, leaning forward to press his forehead against Bucky's. He knows he's all clammy with cold sweat still, but Bucky doesn't seem to care, pushing further into Sam's space.
"'Course," he kisses Sam's nose. "I love you. I'll always be here to fight your demons, angel. Real and in your head."
"Jesus," he laughs. It's light and short, but it feels good. "You and your lines."
"You love my lines."
"You're the most annoying person I've ever met."
Bucky smiles, gives him a kiss, and untangles them. Sam doesn't know whether he wants to get up—the clock on his side table says it's 3:48 am—or try to go back to sleep, but Bucky makes the choice for him, pulling Sam down to lay against his chest. Fig complains loudly when Sam moves his legs, but walks up the both of them to settle in a tiny black and white loaf at the top of Sam's pillow.
"I swear he can make himself weigh fifty pounds when he's walking on me," Bucky complains.
Sam laughs and turns to kiss his chest right on his heart before settling his ear down over it to listen. He's regulated now, but still shaken. The image of Riley, real and imagined, is going to keep coming to him again over the next few days. The smell, at least, is gone again.
After a few moments, Bucky absently tracing patterns into Sam's shoulder, asks, "You wanna talk about it?"
Sam's instinct is to say no, to push it down, mark the nightmare in a journal and bring it up to his therapist in passing the next time he sees her, but otherwise do nothing about it. But he's been trying to stop tamping down on every hard feeling, to keep letting Bucky in. They're a couple years into this thing between them, moved in together properly the year before, but Sam still struggles with keeping himself closed off. With needing to be strong all the time about this. So he pushes past that, trying to be better for himself, and for them.
"Not really," he admits. "But it was about Riley. On that night, and…not. I know it's not my fault, but sometimes my brain doesn't get the memo. Makes up twisted shit. I hurt him, let him die in my arms, in Sarah's kitchen."
"I'm sorry, sweetheart," Bucky says when Sam doesn't continue. "Sounds awful."
"Yeah. It was."
Bucky wraps his arm a little tighter around him. "You wanna try 'n sleep, or should I get us some coffee?"
Sam thinks about this, thinks about the fact that trying to sleep sounds impossible right now, but he's so bone-tired, so exhausted from the shock to his nervous system, from crying.
"Can we stay like this?"
"We can stay however you want," Bucky kisses the top of his head. "I got you. I'm here."
"Tell me a story?" Sam asks. "Something dumb, even something I've heard before."
"Oh, I got loads of those," he says.
"Yeah, I know," Sam says dryly. "Why'd you think I asked, old man?"
"Alright," Bucky laughs, then launches into a story about his sisters that Sam's pretty sure he's heard before but loves to listen to all the same.
Eventually, he drifts back to sleep, lulled by the steady rise and fall of Bucky's chest as he inhales and exhales, the gentle vibrations against Sam's cheek as he talks, and the strong drum of his heartbeat under Sam's ear.