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domarzioneTribe [ao3 | tumblr]
900 words | PG-ish | Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers
Sam talks of war and Steve listens
"There are a lot of them," Steve said as he watched the group members make their way down the hallway toward the exit. He hadn't come to the session, but Sam got the distinct impression that he'd spent a good deal of it nearby enough to hear most of what had been said -- which for Captain America might've been across the street, for all Sam knew. Steve didn't exactly hide his light under a bushel -- the asshole at the Reflecting Pool had been proof of that -- but sometimes, he was reticent about what he could do. Especially when he was wearing civvies and Sam didn't think that was coincidental. "I'd have thought it would have been less now. More armor, more care..."
Sam chuffed out a laugh that had nothing to do with being amused, gesturing with his shoulder for Steve to follow him into the room so he could straighten up. It was a classroom in a local high school and he made sure that they left it in better shape than they'd found it.
"The rates of PTSD diagnoses nowadays are much higher now," he said as he started re-aligning the chairs, Steve automatically joining him. "Some of it's fraud, especially after the VA lowered the standard of reportage to almost nothing and the benefits rose. But most of it... It's maybe not about what you saw when you were deployed, but what you see when you come home."
He stopped what he was doing and sat down, waiting for Steve to join him. This part, coming earlier than he'd have planned it, was too important to be conveniently unheard over the scraping of chairs or the sweeping of floors. "Going to war, no matter what your MOS, changes you. Doesn't matter if you were a fobbit or at the pointy tip of the spear or somewhere in between. But those changes, it's something that's not always easy to see until you get home.
"We're not a nation at war, haven't been in a long time. We're an army at war and that's a big difference," he went on. "A lot of guys and gals come home to communities and social networks where they're the only one who served, where everyone else went on with their lives like nothing was happening," he went on. "These soldiers don't have anyone else with whom they have shared experiences and it makes them feel isolated and alien. Especially when they're among people who expect them to be like how they used to be."
He gestured to the room around him. "We build a community in rooms like this so that there is a place to talk and a place to listen and a place to heal. So that we can be reminded that we're not broken, just a little different. That we went through a trauma and it will get better. And so that we know that we're not alone. That is why I suggested you come hang out."
He finished and sat back, waiting. This was heavier stuff than he'd have wanted to get into so early on in his relationship with Steve; it was real talk and he didn't know Steve well enough to know how that would go over. Too much truth too fast was like too much food for a starving man -- it got spit right back up and none of it absorbed. But he'd taken the risk because Steve had shown up again and that, to him, had been a sign that Steve was at least interested in what Sam had to say. Interested in answers, at least, to what was wrong with him -- the answer being "nothing," of course, but hearing it from someone you believed could make all the difference. And Sam hoped that that someone was him for reasons that had nothing to do with Steve being Captain America and everything to do with Steve being one of the loneliest and saddest men he'd ever encountered since he'd started counseling.
Steve looked thoughtful as he stared without seeing at the floor between then. He wasn't bridling and he wasn't walking away and his posture wasn't defensive, all good signs.
"Everyone's war is different," Sam went on in a more conversational tone. "Your experiences are a little weirder than most, but if you think you don't have anything in common with today's soldiers, you're wrong. You understand how hard it is to suddenly be responsible for every aspect of your life again after having Big Army do all your thinking for you. You understand that you shouldn't feel less safe sleeping alone in your nice quiet bedroom than you did sharing a tent with a dozen guys and two dozen weapons in the middle of a war zone and yet you do. You miss eating and sleeping and pissing with your team. And you'd go back to war if they'd let you because of that. Am I close?"
Steve gave him a wry smirk, but Sam could see what might've been relief in his eyes. "I guess I'm not so special after all."
Sam snorted. "You know exactly how special you are, Mister On Your Left," he retorted. "But what you need to remember are all the ways you are just like everyone else."
900 words | PG-ish | Sam Wilson, Steve Rogers
Sam talks of war and Steve listens
"There are a lot of them," Steve said as he watched the group members make their way down the hallway toward the exit. He hadn't come to the session, but Sam got the distinct impression that he'd spent a good deal of it nearby enough to hear most of what had been said -- which for Captain America might've been across the street, for all Sam knew. Steve didn't exactly hide his light under a bushel -- the asshole at the Reflecting Pool had been proof of that -- but sometimes, he was reticent about what he could do. Especially when he was wearing civvies and Sam didn't think that was coincidental. "I'd have thought it would have been less now. More armor, more care..."
Sam chuffed out a laugh that had nothing to do with being amused, gesturing with his shoulder for Steve to follow him into the room so he could straighten up. It was a classroom in a local high school and he made sure that they left it in better shape than they'd found it.
"The rates of PTSD diagnoses nowadays are much higher now," he said as he started re-aligning the chairs, Steve automatically joining him. "Some of it's fraud, especially after the VA lowered the standard of reportage to almost nothing and the benefits rose. But most of it... It's maybe not about what you saw when you were deployed, but what you see when you come home."
He stopped what he was doing and sat down, waiting for Steve to join him. This part, coming earlier than he'd have planned it, was too important to be conveniently unheard over the scraping of chairs or the sweeping of floors. "Going to war, no matter what your MOS, changes you. Doesn't matter if you were a fobbit or at the pointy tip of the spear or somewhere in between. But those changes, it's something that's not always easy to see until you get home.
"We're not a nation at war, haven't been in a long time. We're an army at war and that's a big difference," he went on. "A lot of guys and gals come home to communities and social networks where they're the only one who served, where everyone else went on with their lives like nothing was happening," he went on. "These soldiers don't have anyone else with whom they have shared experiences and it makes them feel isolated and alien. Especially when they're among people who expect them to be like how they used to be."
He gestured to the room around him. "We build a community in rooms like this so that there is a place to talk and a place to listen and a place to heal. So that we can be reminded that we're not broken, just a little different. That we went through a trauma and it will get better. And so that we know that we're not alone. That is why I suggested you come hang out."
He finished and sat back, waiting. This was heavier stuff than he'd have wanted to get into so early on in his relationship with Steve; it was real talk and he didn't know Steve well enough to know how that would go over. Too much truth too fast was like too much food for a starving man -- it got spit right back up and none of it absorbed. But he'd taken the risk because Steve had shown up again and that, to him, had been a sign that Steve was at least interested in what Sam had to say. Interested in answers, at least, to what was wrong with him -- the answer being "nothing," of course, but hearing it from someone you believed could make all the difference. And Sam hoped that that someone was him for reasons that had nothing to do with Steve being Captain America and everything to do with Steve being one of the loneliest and saddest men he'd ever encountered since he'd started counseling.
Steve looked thoughtful as he stared without seeing at the floor between then. He wasn't bridling and he wasn't walking away and his posture wasn't defensive, all good signs.
"Everyone's war is different," Sam went on in a more conversational tone. "Your experiences are a little weirder than most, but if you think you don't have anything in common with today's soldiers, you're wrong. You understand how hard it is to suddenly be responsible for every aspect of your life again after having Big Army do all your thinking for you. You understand that you shouldn't feel less safe sleeping alone in your nice quiet bedroom than you did sharing a tent with a dozen guys and two dozen weapons in the middle of a war zone and yet you do. You miss eating and sleeping and pissing with your team. And you'd go back to war if they'd let you because of that. Am I close?"
Steve gave him a wry smirk, but Sam could see what might've been relief in his eyes. "I guess I'm not so special after all."
Sam snorted. "You know exactly how special you are, Mister On Your Left," he retorted. "But what you need to remember are all the ways you are just like everyone else."
