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Hiding things was never difficult for Sam.
Having grown up in a busy house in a busy neighbourhood, he'd gotten very used to keeping secrets.
He'd hidden girlfriends, he'd hidden math tests, he'd hidden alcohol.
But now, he was hiding scars. And not from his parents.
From Bucky.
The missions they'd been going on recently had been just a bit too much;
It started with him not being able to pull a little boy out the way of falling debris fast enough. Sam flew towards him with all the speed he had, but he just wasn't speedy enough. He watched helplessly as the boy was instantly crushed, his bones crunching and his blood splattering around him, whilst Sam was only a few feet away.
Then, when evacuating people from their burning street, he forgot a house. A whole house, with a family of four and a dog. The smoke traveled down their throats and squeezed their lungs, leaving them defenceless against the flames. There were no survivors.
The last straw was on the helicopter. Bucky was told to defend the agents on the ground, and Sam was told to defend the agents in the helicopter. He was actually doing a good job for once, deflecting bullets and giving calm orders. That was, until the propellers got shot. The helicopter was suddenly going down, down, down. Sam's ear-splitting screams and spine-shaking sobs as he watched Riley fall were brought to front of his mind, and all of a sudden he was watching his best friend die all over again.
Only, this time, he was the one falling.
His fight-or-flight instinct kicked in at the last second, and he retracted his wings and narrowly escaped the crash. His chest was tightening and black spots clouded his vision and he stumbled forward, desperate to escape the fall, to escape the memories.
The sounds of sirens brought him back.
Sam then realised that, just like before, he couldn't stop the fall. He let them all die just like Riley.
"Hey, Sam. You okay?" Bucky asked, placing a gentle yet firm hand on his shoulder.
"I-how-are they alive?" Sam stuttered. Bucky's silence told him everything.
"You did the best you could buddy." Bucky whispered, pulling him away from the scene.
After that, Sam realised that he was nothing but a plague.
Everywhere he went, he brought pain, destruction, death. His memories and haunting thoughts swarmed his mind. He didn't know what to do.
How do you escape your demons if your demons are your own mind?
He'd been in this constant battle for weeks, until he tripped over a trash bag and landed on a pile of broken glass. The pain seared up his arm as the glass pierced his skin, both shock and pain combining and smothering him. He carefully cleaned and wrapped the wound moments later, and then he realised; that pain in his arm silenced the pain in his brain.
Had he been trained in counselling? Yes. Had he seen hundreds of PTSD patients suffer from self-harm? Yes. Did it turn out well for them? No.
But did it stop their traumatic memories, and give them a few moment of glorious peace? Yes, it did.
And that was exactly what he needed.
That night was the first night he brought a razor blade to his wrist. A deep sigh of content escaped his lips as he pressed the cold metal against his clammy skin, and anticipation filled his veins. He pressed down and dragged the blade across it's width, feeling satisfied as the stinging pain travelled along with it.
He then made another cut above it. Then another, then another, until his entire forearm was littered with straight red lines.
It was the beautiful map of his escape.
This had now become his nightly ritual. He knew the dangers of it, both physically and mentally, but that was partially why he kept going. A little pain in the wrist overnight was nothing compared to the pain he'd inflicted on everyone around him.
After a week or so, the staring started. Children would point at his wrists in grocery shops and ask their parents about it, and their parents would glare at him whilst ushering the children away. Teenage boys would look at them and sneer, nudging their friends until they joined in too. Older folk would flat out ask him about them, and curse his name for "destroying the only body he had". From then on, he refused to leave the comfort of his house without a hoodie.
It made going outside sweaty and uncomfortable, especially in the July heat, but it never got unbearable.
"You've been doing that a lot." Bucky commented, pulling Sam out of his thoughts. Bucky had invited him over for lunch, and after declining 4 times before, Sam reluctantly agreed. It wasn't that he didn't want to see Bucky. In fact, it was the opposite. Sam had admittedly had feelings for the guy since he met him back in 2014. But, he was trained to notice everything around him, and the last thing Sam needed was him finding out about his cutting and be put off.
He'd think Sam was some broken freak, begging for attention.
"Doing what?" Sam asked, stabbing a piece of pasta with his fork and shovelling it into his mouth.
"Holding your wrist."
Sam's blood ran cold. "It's cramping up from the gym yesterday," He muttered dismissively. "This pasta's really good, Buck."
'Change the subject change the subject change the subject' Sam thought,
"Why haven't I seen you without a hoodie on?"
Fucking hell.
"You've seen me without one plenty of times." Sam replied, finally meeting the soldier's gaze. It was stern, and his forehead was wrinkled with concern. His deep, brown eyes searched Sam's. He was gorgeous.
"You know what I mean. It's not cold in here at all, why not take it off?" Bucky asked, reaching across the table for Sam's wrist. He jerked back and shot out of his chair, letting his fork clatter in the half-empty bowl.
'There's no hiding it now' He thought.
"Show me." Bucky ordered, slowly walking up to his (slightly shaking) friend.
"Buck, I'm just cold."
"Bullshit." He replied, not stopping his approach. Sam instinctively stumbled backwards, until he hit the table and realised Bucky had trapped him.
"I don't need to show you anything." He said, finally finding his voice and raising his chin in the air. Bucky raised an eyebrow.
"Which hand do you write with?"
"What?" Sam asked with pure confusion.
"Which. Hand." Bucky repeated, enunciating each vowel.
"My right?" Sam replied, with still no idea as to what was happening. He was too focused on not crying to try to understand.
Bucky hummed and grabbed Sam's left wrist, yanking it forward. His face softened instantly when Sam let out a hiss at the contact, yet his grip never faltered. He drew in a shaky breath and lifted the sleeve of his hoodie, revealing a countless mess of cuts, some old, some new.
"Sam." He whispered, inspecting the mangled wrist.
Sam wanted to pull away, but his bones had turned to stone. He wanted to defend himself, but his tongue was dry and fuzzy. He wanted to look away, but Bucky's eyes pinned his in place.
"Why?" Bucky asked, tearing up. "Why did you do this?" His voice sounded so broken, like he was the hurt one.
"It helps." Sam said, his tone empty and emotionless.
"With what?" Bucky whispered, not trusting himself to speak any louder.
"The thoughts, Buck. The memories. The whispers. This," He nodded to his arm. "is the only thing that shuts them up."
Sam couldn't get another word out before he was being pulled into Bucky's arms. The hug was so careful, yet so intense. The pair stayed like that for a while, with the only sounds being soft sniffles and sweet nothings.
For the first time in a while, Sam felt seen, heard and cared for. For the first time, he felt the possibility that it would get better.