Carry Me to the Grave
By Illyria13
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Not the characters or the lyrics or anything you might recognize. It belongs to far richer people, as well as kinder, because I put my characters through horrible things.
Spoilers: Ep. 3x06 "Behind the Blue Line", minor spoilers for 3x01 "One Wrong Move"
Warnings: Suicidal thoughts/actions
AN: Yet another Sam fic. I can't help it; I love the soldier type. And the sniper type. And those with horrible, angst-filled backgrounds that give me plenty of ammunition (no pun intended) for writing.
I've had the first half of this fic done for about 10 months and finally, my plot bunnies came out of hiding and gave me the rest. I hope you like it, and please let me know if you find any mistakes, or any lyrics/quotes not properly identified.
Summary: His hands are stained with the blood of those who have come before.
/
"Don't look over your shoulder
'Cause that's just the ghost of me
You're seeing in your dreams
Wait, there's no rhyme or reason
Sometimes there's no meaning
In the visions when you're sleeping
Don't wake up and believe them
You're looking at the ghost of me"
-Chris Daughtry, "Ghost of Me"
/ i. Choose your last words, this is the last time.
He feels like he's walking around in a bubble.
People talk to him and he responds, they hand him things and he takes them; they smile, and he smiles back. They touch him, too; a hand on a shoulder or on his back, like the slightest brush of skin against him. Outwardly he doesn't react, but inwardly, he flinches, his skin crawling unpleasantly and shuddering under the friendly touches. And therein lays the problem: he doesn't know what to do with a friendly touch. He doesn't know how to react to it, how to respond.
It's not that he's never had friends or never been touched before in his life, it's that it's been so long. So long since he's had friends who didn't look at him in pain or anger or disgust, so long since he's had someone reach out a comforting hand or give a reassuring pat on the back. And it's been so long since he hasn't been reminded of the blood on his hands, of the red that has stained them and his soul like a damning scarlet letter.
It's been a long time since he has touched somebody, too. He's been too afraid that the stain he carries will leech off and taint someone else. And he doesn't think he could handle that, if somebody innocent and kind and good were to be marred by him forever. It'd be another blemish on his already-scarred soul, and Sam would never be able to live with that.
But sometimes he's afraid that it is inevitable. People surround him, in his job, in his life, and avoiding touch forever is nigh impossible. So he tries to keep himself outside of the circle, looking in but not right there, observing without having to participate, in the hopes that he minimizes the contact he has with others.
He misses it sometimes. He'd never truly been a tactile child and when he'd gotten older, this hadn't changed. But sometimes, that brief warmth of skin against skin, a brush of fingers against another's, is comforting. It reminds him that he's alive, reminds him that others are too, and something tight in his chest would loosen. It is a reassurance and a reminder that in this world of pain and loss, he is not as alone as he might think.
But then there are times, in brief snapshots of moments, where it makes him hurt in unbearable ways. There is nothing more excruciating than remembering what you have lost or more agonizing than seeing the little that you have left.
It is the story of his life, missing things, having them within his grasp for a brief time before they are snatched away like they had never been.
Like his sister. Like his childhood. Like the military.
It is the latter that hurts the most, the absence its' loss has left in his soul.
A unit that's close enough to be family, of brothers and sisters-in-arms that would guard and defend you with their very lives. Of belonging, that feeling that every piece fits without leaving any space in between. Of being a solitary figure that blends into a whole, cohesive picture, because it has found a place where it no longer has to be alone.
He'd had that, all of it, for years, until a single moment had taken it all away. And what's worse is that Sam has no one to blame but himself. He'd taken the shot, he'd killed his best friend; he'd wrecked the life that he had made for himself.
The blame is entirely on him, and he welcomes it, because that guilt is what keeps him breathing.
He continues on, walking and talking and breathing, acting like a stable human being when it is the furthest thing from his mind. He keeps fighting alongside people who want nothing to do with him and tries to ignore the ache he feels deep down. But the time comes when he can no longer do it, and with the weight of his guilt and the blame of his father and his once-family of soldiers, he leaves, turning to the civilian life of a cop in the desperate hope of finding a new reason to keep living. He is no longer wanted, no longer needed, but a small part of him refuses to just lie down and die.
It is a strange thing, being torn between living and dying, but Sam is intimately familiar with it. It is a struggle, yes, but fighting is something he knows how to do well, so he does without a thought. And even though it's hard, even though it hurts, he does it. He has no other choice. He allows himself no other choice.
The minute he stops fighting is the minute he knows he's done, and he's still alive enough inside to be afraid of that.
He feels like he's walking around in a bubble, disconnected and out of touch with the rest of the world.
This new team scares him. They make him want to keep fighting, not for himself, but for them, and this is a problem.
He knows how to die. He doesn't know how to live.
And they make him want more, for himself and from the world. They introduce him to life when death is all that he knows. They give him a place in their group, a chance to step in and become more than an intruder. And they allow him to be a part of their family, allow him entrance into their lives, and refuse to let him linger in the shadows. They offer him friendship and happiness and solidarity. They lend him their strength and help him fight back against the demons that plague him, and in their presence, he feels less haunted. He feels less damaged.
They give without taking and ask for nothing in return, demand nothing except whatever he's willing to give. It is why he gives them everything he has left of himself, every splintered piece of his tainted and damned soul. He gives his loyalty, his respect and his protection; his pain, his hurt and his damage, and he finds himself just the little bit lighter. Because they accept it all without question or recrimination, take it deep into themselves, and give back to him little pieces of what he's missing. Things like hope and faith and trust.
He lets them touch him, too.
Such a little thing, touch, but for him it is one of the hardest things to allow. His team seems to understand his reluctance; they give him space, but refuse to allow him to remain separate. A bit reserved at first, but willing to accept him with open arms, this team reminds him so much of what he's lost. It frightens him in the beginning, like a tidal wave of icy terror that nearly robs him of his breath. Because he knows what will happen if he loses them- he knows how it'll feel and how much it'll hurt. And he doesn't know if he could survive that again.
But eventually, he thinks they might be safe to touch, safe if a little bit of the blood on his hands rubs off on them, because they have already been through so much and yet come out stronger than ever. Like tempered steel, he thinks, like a blazing inferno that bows to nothing but the strongest stream of water. Because everything can be defeated; the trick is to know how to stand back up, how to regain the ground that is lost.
It's everything he's needed without ever knowing that he wants it, and sometimes he thinks he might be able to heal.
He's forgotten that the problem with hope is that it can be taken away.
He feels like he's walking around in a bubble, disconnected and out of touch with the rest of the world; silently screaming for a breath of fresh air.
In an instant, this new-found life falls apart and just like before, he's scrambling to pick up the pieces.
Sam has no one to blame but himself. He'd known better than to get attached, to allow people into his heart. But he'd done it anyway and now he was paying the price.
He hates it. He hates himself. He hates that even though he's lost so much, he still knows how to hurt. And he hates that the world keeps finding new ways to take from him, even though he has so very little to give.
But most of all, he hates that the rest of his team is hurting, too.
Lou's death had hit them all hard. Sam does his best to keep it together, for their sakes, and for a while, he succeeds. He pushes the hate down, swallows his pain, and bites back on his anger, and if occasionally he nearly breaks the punching bag or goes out for a night-long run, it's okay. Because he's keeping it together, because he's fighting; because death is an inescapable part of his world, and he knows better than to try.
And it helps. His stability is a rock for the rest of his team, a shoulder for them to steady themselves on, and gradually they all get better. They grieve and they mourn and they move on, because every single one of them knows that the best thing they can do for the dead is to live for them. Ed becomes less haunted, Greg becomes less indecisive, Wordy becomes less angry and Jules becomes less frightened. Spike is the most notable change because Spike becomes less broken. He regains his smile and his laughter and Sam breathes a silent sigh of relief because for a brief while, he'd been afraid they'd lose him, too. And it becomes easier for them to accept Leah, even though she is a constant reminder of their lost teammate.
With the recovery of his team, Sam is left adrift. All that hate and anger and pain rises back up and for a moment he thinks he will drown in it. And then one morning, he wakes up and realizes that it is gone, fading into a sort of numbing daze. It is comforting, he thinks, the numbness, because he's been feeling too much his entire life and it's nice to be utterly blank. In a distant corner of his mind he knows that this is wrong, but right now, in this moment, he doesn't care. He can't care. It is breathless and weightless and empty, and for the first time in his life, he feels free.
Freedom always comes with a price.
He feels like he's walking around in a bubble, disconnected and out of touch with the rest of the world; silently screaming for a breath of fresh air, for a way not to drown in the darkness.
When he stares into the eyes of a fellow soldier and sees himself looking back, he realizes that the moment he'd been afraid of had come. It breaks something inside of him, and he doesn't realize until later that it is his will to keep fighting.
He's looking at the barrel of a gun, then, and a split second later hears the echoing of his own sniper rifle reverberating around the arena even as he thinks I didn't pull the trigger. There's a body on the ground in front of him, surrounded by a slowly growing halo of blood, and inwardly he begins screaming. Screaming like he hasn't done in nearly three years, screaming in a mindless howl of pain. It's a scream of agony and loss; the type of scream of a person who has reached the end and realizes that they have nothing to hold them back from the edge. It is the scream of someone broken, of a soul that has shattered into a pool of fragmented shards.
He's kneeling in the blood before he even recognizes that he has moved, and for a moment, the hockey arena fades into the dryness of the desert, and just like before, he's looking down upon a soldier that he has killed. Then reality sets back in and he's surrounded by his team, watching as his hands turn red.
But there's no difference between the two, past and present, and no difference in how he feels. There's an aching hole in his chest, a strangling grasp around his throat, and the world narrows down to a single pinpoint of sight. Sound is absence, unnaturally quiet even as the raging of his soul whistles in his ears. There's blood on his hands, his arms, sticky and coppery sweet, and he wipes them against his vest in an attempt to get it off. But it's still there, still staining everything he touches, and he fights against the urge to rip his skin to shreds in an attempt to get it off.
He's lost then, swallowed by his own mind and the horror that reverberates through every fiber of his being.
And then he begins to lose time.
He doesn't remember them helping him up, he doesn't remember the ride back to HQ, and he doesn't remember the words that are spoken to him, too lost is he in the sensation of slowly drowning in the red that smears his vision.
And suddenly, the numbness is gone, replaced by a hate so burning in its' intensity that Sam wonders if he's literally on fire. He directs it at Ed, at his team, but deep down, the only person that he hates is himself. He looks at his team, into their eyes (looking, looking, always looking, always searching for answers that are not there) and gives his hate a voice.
"I don't belong here."
He walks away, then, and doesn't look back, and allows the hate inside to drown him. He's not much of a swimmer, having spent most of his life in desert lands, and he finds it fitting that his death should come in drowning. It's one of the few things that he can't fight. He stands in a shower long grown cold, watches blood and bone and brain matter flow down into the drain, and feels the world around him begin to fade as the numbness returns.
His team tries to fight for him but it's not enough. He'd appreciate it, if he could feel anything, but he can't, so their efforts go wasted. They tell him he belongs, that he is wanted, that he is needed, through their actions and their voices, and he can feel their fear of losing him reflected back like a tangible force as they fight to show him that he belongs.
But it's not enough. Not enough to keep him afloat and not enough to save him, because you cannot save somebody who doesn't want to be saved. All you can do is keep them breathing, keep them going; keep them present but not actually here. There's a difference between surviving and living, and Sam is a survivor. It's all he knows how to do, but now it's no longer what he wants.
And how do you fight that? How do you fight against the desire to be done, to be ended? How do you face a person who has seen their darkest moments, and tell them that they cannot give in? The answer is you don't. You can't. Nobody has the right to tell him that his pain is not enough to give in and drown in it.
Nobody has the right to tell him that he has to keep living.
But his team keeps trying, keeps pushing, keeps fighting because fighting is something they know well, too. They put his locker back together in an attempt to put him back together, and then look at him with hopeful eyes. And that look on their faces breaks through for just a moment, breaks through his hatred and his numbness and his acceptance, and gives him a glimpse of what could be.
And in that moment (again with the moments, just enough to break somebody but not enough to put them back together), he realizes that these people represent only one possible future. He could go to them and be welcomed, be comforted and soothed with slight touches and soft words. They would take care of him, protect him, and build him back up until he was strong enough to stand on his own two feet. Through them, he could be saved, and with them, he could find a way to finally be whole.
Or he can leave them, break from everything good they offer to him and allow himself to sink down into himself; to drown in his despair and be consumed by it until there's nothing left that's recognizable as Sam.
He stands at a crossroads, stuck between what is hard and what is easy, what is tempting and what is condemning, and realizes that he has just one more thing left to lose.
And choice, free will, decision-these are all things that people take for granted until they don't have them anymore.
Sam looks at his team and knows that his choice has been made for him. Everything he has done since he came to the SRU has been for them, defined by them, and he cannot start being selfish now. He has no right to hurt them by destroying himself, even if it is the only thing he truly wants.
So he smiles at them slightly, and they smile back. He closes his locker, steps into their circle, and allows them to surround him. They touch him with their hands, comfort him with their words, and it is exactly like he'd imagined.
Only, he doesn't begin to heal. Instead, he puts on a mask and pretends to feel them there, pretends that he can feel their warmth and their comfort and their love, and through it all, remains silently broken. Because as much as his team tries, they can't put back together what was destroyed so long ago. They can't hold him together with their hands because there are too many pieces to fit. They can't heal him, and Sam finally realizes why.
His is the façade of a wounded soldier, but inside he is already dead.
Later that night, he stands in the middle of his apartment and hears the ghostly echo of a shot already-fired, feels the blood that is on his hands, and wonders how long it will take before he too is forgotten.
He feels like he's walking around in a bubble, disconnected and out of touch with the rest of the world; silently screaming for a breath of fresh air, for a way not to drown in the darkness, and desperately hoping for a chance to break free.
/
I wish I had a reason
My flaws are open season
For this I gave up trying
One good turn deserves my dying
You don't need to bother
I don't need to be
I'll keep slipping farther
But once I hold on, I won't let go till it bleeds
-Stone Sour, 'Bother'
/ ii. Cause you and I, we were born to die.
He's never been as lost as he is now.
It is both a physical and a mental feeling and honestly, he isn't sure which is worse. He feels like he's not really here, trapped inside skin that isn't his own; wandering around a city that is nearly a stranger to him and feeling like a passenger in his own body. He doesn't know what day it is, what time it is, and deep down, he knows that there is something incredibly wrong.
But that numbing haze is back even as he wonders when had it taken over again? and the small voice in the back of his mind that whispers to him of danger is not enough to break through. It's comforting here, in the dark of oblivion, and a part of him doesn't ever want to leave.
Is he dead? Is he a ghost, haunting the world that he knows because he doesn't know how to move on? Or is he stuck here, doomed even in death to never find release from his human burdens?
The thoughts are ridiculous, though, because he can still feel; still feel the wind in his face and the sun in his eyes and the screaming, agonizing pain that jolts through him in random bursts that break through the haze briefly. So he knows he's alive and he knows that he's here even if he has no clue where exactly here is. He continues on, one foot in front of the other, step by step, until he can't any longer.
He's dizzy now, the world beginning to turn around him, and he stumbles, reaching out to grab something on which to steady himself. His hand finds a tree, his fingers digging into the trunk with a strength born of desperation, and he leans against it briefly before sliding down until he hits the ground. He tilts his head back and stares into the sky, and hears his breathing heavy and loud in his ears.
The world is spinning now, spinning and spinning, turning and churning in a frightening whirlwind of noise and color. He closes his eyes against the blend of sight and sound, trying to find something in the din to latch onto, but it is a hopeless fight. He doesn't know how much time passes until the click of metal catches his attention.
His eyes open and in his hands he sees his gun, the black steel dark against his pale skin. Reverently, his fingers trace the barrel, the stock, the grip, before coming to rest on the safety, already off, making him realize that the click he'd heard had been him flicking the small switch without even knowing it.
He pulls in a breath and releases it at the same time as the hammer, cocking the gun and preparing it to be fired. And with another in and out of breath, he raises the gun to his temple.
The minute the cold metal touches the warm skin, Sam feels the first stirrings of peace.
This is what he was looking for. This is what he wants.
The world snaps into focus even as his attention narrows to the gun he is pointing at his head. The haze drifts away only to be replaced by the feelings he is suffocating under and the loss of the numbness physically hurts. He nearly doubles over, his breath heavy in his chest, before he catches himself, locking the emotions down until he can see clearly. A few moments later, his breathing returns to normal, and he tightens his hold on the gun as he readies himself to pull the trigger.
This is serenity. This is peace.
In the moment right before he pulls the trigger, a shadow crosses over him and a split second later, Sam is staring at a familiar figure.
"Sam."
Wordy looks at him across the space and Sam looks back, and in it, this slight pause of reality and connection, both men know that this will be a struggle.
For Sam, there is only one outcome; for Wordy, there is another. And neither is willing to allow the others' to pass.
There is a silence surrounding them, stillness in the air like the maddening howl of the center of a storm, and he wonders what it is the other man sees in his eyes. Is it pain? Is it loss? Despair? Or does he see nothing; see the emptiness that has drowned him and the hollow shell that was left behind?
In a way, he doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to know how hard he has fallen in the eyes of the other.
"Sam? Come on, talk to me."
But he has no voice, no words; nothing to say except screams and sobs and he can't release them. If he does, he'll never stop.
"Can you look at me? Please?"
His head shakes slightly, an involuntary movement that reverberates through his entire being. It's too much to ask for, too much for Sam to focus on. There's a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions drowning him and it's taking everything he can to simply stay present.
"Can you do something for me? Can you lower the gun? Just move it away from your head. You don't have to put it down."
He doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge the request or make eye contact, too afraid to see the pain in the older man's eyes at the silent denial.
Time moves forward and the only thing that passes between the two men is their breath in the quiet air.
And then Wordy speaks again, and his words break through all the walls Sam has built to block out the surrounding world.
"When did you break without us knowing?"
His breath catches in his throat, a sharp inhale that sends a searing pain through his chest, and he jerks his eyes back to meet Wordy's. The other man's gaze is a blend of dawning awareness and pain and in his eyes, so young yet old, so dark yet new, Sam sees everything. He sees a reflection of all his sins, a mirror of his thoughts, and the breaking knowledge that only comes through hardship and sacrifice. He sees the bond of brotherhood, the strength of those who've fought together, and the pain that can only be known when such a connection snaps. Because these people, these people are his new family; the ones who see him at the beginning of the day and the ones still standing by him at the end.
And he wants to hate them, wants to break them and shatter them and tear them apart because this is what they have done to him; this is what they do. They make him care, and in that care can only come hurt. Sometimes, he welcomes it. Sometimes, it makes him feel human and shows him that life is more than this-more than sorrow or anger or regret.
Most times, it takes all the strength he has not to break under such a burden, under the weight of all the expectations.
"Or were we the ones who broke you?"
He flinches at the words, at how closely they mirrored his thoughts. Against his will, his eyes close in a desperate attempt to hide, to protect the other from seeing the truth in them. Because it wasn't just his team, it was everything; every miserable part of the years of his life that have pushed and torn and wrecked him and brought him to this point. The problem is that they are a part of that, a part of those years, and even all the good things are not enough to overshadow the bad. Sam wishes differently, wishes that they could be enough; wishes that all the things they have taught him and all the truths they have shown him were stronger than the hole that festered inside of him.
That's the problem with life-it is give and take, want and have, and a very fine line of dancing between.
"Did we do this to you, Sam? Did we drive you to this?"
But he knows the answer-that he drove himself here, drove himself crazy with the lies and the blood and the pain; with his inability to cope with loss and his desperate desire to escape. It'd be easy to blame them, harder to forgive, but the reality is that they get neither because the fault is not at their feet.
"Did we make you think you couldn't come to us? That there was no other option but death?"
Death is all he knows. It's as familiar as a lover, as encompassing as a blanket, and so deeply entrenched in every part of his bones that he can barely even separate the two.
What is it that he'd said to Darren?
"I found a different place to go, a different person to be."
But the truth is, he's not so different. He's still lost, still damned; still a broken toy soldier left in the dark recesses of a wooden chest. He's alone and condemned and just as dead inside as he was before he'd come here. All he had done was bury the ghosts, bury the screams, and fill the remaining holes with the specters of his team. He hadn't healed. He hadn't moved on. He'd simply tried to pretend that he could be anything other than what he really was.
A killer. A murderer. A hero, and someone who gets other people killed.
People can't handle loss. They have an even more difficult time embracing it. Because to lose someone is to lose a part of themselves, and that loss raises the question as to the limits of their own survival. We honor the dead, mourn them even more, but we never accept it.
"Sam, please. Don't do this."
And what we bury is nothing more than the bones, the skeletal remains of something once living. But that isn't what haunts us. It's the loss that does. The lost possibilities, the lost what-could-have-been's; the lost chances, and the ticking away of seconds and moments and time. In death, there is only an absolute, only a harsh and cold reality that something has ended. Something that will be missed. Something that was once loved. Something that had lived and laughed and loved and owned and been a part of the world turning.
He thinks they love him, his team, love and care for him in their own way, and Sam knows that he loves them back. It's why he can do this, can remove himself from their lives before he kills them too. Once upon a time, he'd believed that they would be enough to resist the darkness that tainted him; that they were impervious to the blood that covered every inch of his skin. But he'd been wrong. He'd been wrong to think that the things he has done would never come back to haunt them, never return to touch their lives. They had. And his demons had overwhelmed him enough to ruin him further by taking the life of the man he had tried to save. The one person he should have been able to save.
But it was a lesson that he'd needed to learn, a truth he'd needed to hear. It was one of pain, of human suffering; of despair and loss and the bits of us scattered under the encroaching darkness.
"Sam?"
He opens his eyes, blurry against the blue sky, tired and aching and done with it all. His head rests against the tree behind him and a part of him knows that his time is running out.
How do you count down the seconds of a life? Because that's all a person is, seconds; brief glances and slight touches, light and fleeting under the shadow of the approaching dawn. It is the pretense of living, of loving and laughing and shining. People live for only seconds, with only the lucky few for whom those seconds become minutes. And then there are the rare ones, the exceedingly spare number that get to be more-the ones for whom a lifetime of seconds grows into hours.
He doesn't wish that for himself, could never hope to be one of those few. He does, however, want it for the others, for his teammates and friends and make-shift family. But in his job, in his life, he'd never seen anything other than too-short lives and the good cut down.
And he's tired of it. Tired of living when others do not, tired of being the one unable to save them; he tries and he tries and he tries but it's not enough. There's only so much one person can take.
He's reached his limits.
"What about us?"
And his resolve nearly shatters under the weight of the other man's words, under the pain etched into every syllable. He was doing this for them. He was.
"What about what we want? What we need?"
Or was he? Because even as he tells himself that they don't need him, they don't need the pain that he brings, everything Wordy is saying contradicts such thoughts.
"Don't do this to us. Don't do this to yourself. You don't deserve it."
A half-broken laugh is ripped from his chest, because the truth is that Sam doesn't know what he deserves. All he knows is that he can't keep living this way, can't keep living half a life. And if death isn't the way, then what is?
There's blood on his hands and a hole in his chest and a desire to simply stop breathing.
What other option is there for him?
"I get that you're hurting, that you're in pain. And I wish to God that I could take it all away. But that pain you feel? It's a good thing. It means that you're alive. And if you're feeling it, Sam, then you aren't ready to die."
The words strike a cord and stir something inside his chest that the blonde had thought was long dead. Is it true? Could it be that he didn't truly want to die?
In his life, he's been here before, standing on the precipice of tipping over and stepping back. And every time he'd pulled himself up; even at his darkest, he'd survived.
It is an epiphany, a realization that hits him then and his breath catches in his throat as he stares into the brown eyes of the other.
Sam has done the one thing he'd been afraid of doing: he's stopped fighting. And now, he doesn't know how to start again. He's not even sure he wants to.
His team wants him to. They want him to rise and fight and breathe and live and it is both selfish of them and caring, because they've lost before and lost too much and don't want to have to do it again. Moving on is a hardship because it means carrying the burden of failure, and if there's anything that Sam could understand it is the desire to never have to do that.
And sometimes, living for other people, for their happiness and their safety and their love, is enough of a starting point for a person to begin living for themselves.
That's the hardest part for him, you see. He knows how to die and he knows how others live but he doesn't know how to do it himself. And he's reached a point where he has to decide, where a choice must be made between the two. Does he jump into the abyss and consciously allow himself to fall at his own hands? In death, he may find escape but in living, he may find peace. What it comes down to is what he wants most of all and whether or not he even knows what that is.
He stands at a crossroads, yet again stuck between the easy temptation and the hard condemnation, and knows there is only one choice to make.
But can he live with it? Can his team?
The only way to find out is to try.
He lowers the gun slowly, feeling his arm shaking slightly as it comes to rest by his side. He flicks the safety on before holding it out and can practically feel the audible tension melt out of the other man. Wordy crouches in front of him and gently takes the gun from his hands, setting it aside before reaching out to the blonde.
The older man's hand lands on the side of his neck, clasping him in a firm hold that emanates the soothing warmth reflected in his words.
"Thank you. I know how hard that was."
It takes everything he has not to break further. Instead, he looks up at the other and lets down his shields completely, showing the hurt and the loss and the bone-deep agony he's been carrying inside.
"I'm tired, Wordy. I'm just…God, I'm so tired."
The words echo between them and then Wordy pulls him into an embrace, holding Sam to his shoulder like a child, as if he can protect the younger man from the world and all its' evils.
"I'm sorry I didn't see what this was doing to you. I'm sorry we let it get this far. It should never have gone this way."
All he can do is blink rapidly against the tears in his eyes, burrowing into the offered warmth and latching on to the other man's words like a drowning man does to a piece of driftwood.
"Sam, please. Let us help you. You don't have to do this alone."
And he nods. It's the only thing left for him to do.
The walk back to HQ is too short, too brief for him to regain his shattered composure. But as Wordy guides him into the conference room, their team scattered across the room in various forms of disarray, frantic and worried and concerned, he realizes that there is no need for barriers here.
He sees the way their eyes take in his appearance, disheveled and tired and worn, before switching to the man next to him and Sam knows through their reaction that they realize the significance of Wordy holding the blonde's gun.
They'd saved him before, his team, and maybe it was time to let them do it again.
Sam takes a deep breath, looks them in the eyes and asks.
"Help me?"
Wordy tightens his hold on his shoulder and says a single word that is echoed by the rest of his family.
"Always."
They surround him then, reach out to him with gentle hands and soothe him with comforting words and for the moment, he feels safe. He feels wanted. He feels loved.
He feels just the slightest bit healed, and it's the best that he's felt in a very long time.
There's a long road ahead of him, one with walls to climb and obstacles to scale, but for the moment, he feels at peace.
He's surrounded by the protective bubble of his team, connected and touched by their love; deeply breathing the fresh air, no longer standing in the darkness, and finally feeling free.
/
"If I go crazy, then will you still call me Superman?
If I'm alive and well, will you be there holding my hand?
I'll keep you by my side,
With my superhuman might
Kryptonite."
-3 Doors Down, 'Kryptonite'
/
End.
AN1: The words in bold after the 'i.' and the 'ii.' are from the Lana Del Rey song "Born to Die."
AN2: As everyone knows, reviews are nice. They make us feel better (usually) and help us to become better authors. So any feedback would be very much appreciated!