a prelude to something else
(sam x who could have been)
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
— Kindness, Naomi Shihab Nye
You watch dusk fall across the desert. The outline of Bakhmala is nothing but an indigo shadow in the distance, almost like an illusion.
"Think he'll sleep easy tonight?" Sam steps beside you, arms crossed, eyes surveying their quarry. Like this, in the encroaching darkness, you can hear Sam's slow steady breath, feel the warmth of him on your side.
"Easier than us, that's for sure," you say, "They say Khandil has a fucking waterbed over there."
Sam throws his head back and laughs, as loud as he can afford to in this vast wilderness. The sound of it rises in the air lazily, low and desert-warm. You watch his movement, trace the line of his throat with your eyes, heat churning in your gut, mouth dry not just from thirst. Your knuckles itch with apprehension, with the nearness of him, wanting.
"Wilson I swear to god if you give us away with your donkey-laugh—"
He looks at you then, the tilt of his mouth cocky, reckless. His eyes dark with—with something.
"Don't look at me like that," you say, trying to smile around the weight in your chest.
"Like what?" Sam asks, the entirety of him going still. Waiting.
The words are ready in your mind: Like you want me. But they sit, unmoving against hesitance and cowardice. For the past six months, you've deluded yourself into thinking, 'tomorrow, I'll tell him tomorrow'. But always, tomorrow comes, and you fold the confession away just as about you're to pull it out. How many tomorrows have you shelved? You're not even sure what's stopping you, because every time you feel like you're ready, Sam is there, looking at you like that.
You laugh as you pat Sam's arm, defusing the moment. Your excuse sounds light, meager, in the quiet, "Like you're about to bail."
Sam's shoulders lose their tension. He takes a deep breath, looking almost relieved, almost disappointed. Not today, his movements seemed to say. You won't ask me today. He smiles, and you smile back, helpless—your insides twisting at the brightness of him.
"Asshole," he says.
You turn away in your self-shame, frustrated at how he lets you off easy every time, already walking back to camp. Sam follows. Tomorrow you will have the courage. No harm done waiting until the next day.
Tomorrow, you think. Tomorrow, you will bring in Khandil. You will finally let Sam take you to Delacroix, after so many turned-down invitations; tomorrow you will say something. Crack yourself open for him, offer everything inside and hope that Sam Wilson will find you worthy. Enough to let you love him, enough to ask him to love you.
(This is the true cost of your tomorrows:
You will never get to ask; Sam Wilson will never get to answer. He will spend his days wondering about that night in Afghanistan, running over your words, your face, trying to look for new meanings in old memories.
And every time someone falls, he will always see you, your burning wings. The image of you will yank him from the present; he will not see any of them. Not Steve, not Rhodey, Natasha. Not even Bucky. Not in those moments where death will seem more likely than survival. This will be your eternal gift to him; imprinting on his being, that his hands will always reach out to catch the memory of you. Sam will push everything he has, heart bursting at the seams over and over, mind screaming not again, not again.
And when he does catch them, he will hold them tight to him, the rush of relief underscored with grief. His grip will be sure, strong—it is a promise that will be made to your grave. I will not lose anyone again. Because of you, Sam Wilson will love people with urgency. Like he's already preparing for absence, for loss, like he's afraid who he'll lose next tomorrow.)