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The first thing Sam does after Riley stops breathing is apply for a discharge.
His family is stunned. Sam gets it, of course. ‘Save the world’ is the phrase he always used as a kid when he got the inevitable ‘what do you want to do when you grow up’. Once he learned what a solider was, that had been it. That had been his dream.
His dream had never ended like this.
They give him the discharge. The pararescue team is sad to see him go, devastated by Riley’s death and his departure so soon afterwards. His CO though, a veteran of this kind of thing, takes Sam out, buys him drinks until Sam can’t see straight. He drops Sam off at his parents’ place, a quiet DC suburb, even walks him to the door. There, the man grasps his shoulders.
“Wilson. I’m going to give you one piece of advice: get help.”
And Sam, because he is a solider and he can take orders, does.
He hates it. He hates every minute of it, having to talk about Riley, repeat that his death wasn’t Sam’s fault even though that mantra cannot convince him that Sam could have done something better, done something more. It can’t wash away the look on Riley’s mother’s face as she accepted the flag, cannot stop the nightmares and flashbacks as he tries to get back to something that resembles normal.
His family supports him, endlessly and completely, lets him mope or rage. His brother, Chris, drives him to the gym, works out along side him, lets Sam work himself into the ground before dragging him home, exhausted and numb. Jordyn bakes, drives their parents insane with the number of Tupperware containers she brings over and leaves for Mama to clean.
Sidney drives him to therapy.
He can drive himself, of course, but he and Sidney have always been close: the furthest apart in age and the closest personally. She’s always had a sixth sense about his mood, his bad days. Even when they were small, when she was barely steady on her feet and she’d curl up against his side. To her, this isn’t much different and he can tell.
His damn baby sister is handling him.
It’s not the first time, it won’t be the last and he knows it. He lets her do it because he is not up to fighting her, that mulish look on her face and the grim line her mouth gets that’s always told him he’s going to get hit. She takes him for ice cream after every appointment, so he’s really not actually that upset about it.
Sid’s also the only one who can turn to him after a brutal session, after he’s raged that there’s nothing left for him, that he’s only trying to go day to day, that Riley’s death is still too fresh in his mind to even think about job hunting, finally getting back to his apartment, and says, “So do what you do best.”
He looks over at her, angry, confused, half way through a text to Chris about an afternoon at the gym. “What?”
Her eyes are earnest, the same look she gave him when she told him Mama was always going to worry and he should join the army if he wanted to join the army and says, “Save the world, Sam. That’s what you always wanted to do. So find another way to save the world.”
It still takes him months to decide on the FBI. Months of therapy, of getting back into normal routines, running along the Mall when he can get into the city, and going out with old buddies. His therapist suggests working with the veterans, that he’s uniquely qualified to help them see the other side, the clichéd light at the end of the tunnel. It works, for a while, but it’s not enough.
Which, lucky him, is when serendipity strikes.
He’s half way through his morning jog, easy as you please because he’s not in training, he’s just vain and not willing to let his post-army body become reminiscent of a couch potato. He’s not the type to run with music, he likes the hustle and bustle of the city, and the tourists wandering around. So he hears the quickened footsteps, long before the breathless voice.
“On your left.”
It’s a courtesy most people don’t give fellow runners so Sam steps a little more to the right, barely glances at the guy as he sprints past. He does take a minute to shake his head – the dude’s fast, even if Sam can’t think of any logical reason for why he’d be sprinting around the Reflecting Pool – but goes back to his even pacing.
The next day, it happens again. The day after, the same. The only reason Sam takes note on day four is because of the indignant squawk that prefaces the ‘on your left’. He watches the man race past, hears the pounding footsteps that follow.
“Rogers you’re a damn showoff!”
Well. That catches his attention, if for no other reason than the only Rogers Sam can think of is absolutely famous for dragging his unit into impossible missions and succeeding. He finds himself blinking at the sprinter’s back, almost tripping over his own feet when a man falls into step beside him.
“Sorry ‘bout him.”
Sam shrugs as he chugs along, eyes darting between Rogers as he takes the first turn and the man next to him, who seems perfectly content to keep pace with Sam. “You gonna catch up with him?”
The guy snorts. “Hell no. I hate running.” He spares Sam a glance. “Barnes.”
“Wilson.”
Barnes nods, gives him another once over. “Marines?”
Sam almost trips over his own feet, their pace slowing while he finds his footing again. There’s an awareness in Barnes’ face now.
“Sorry.”
Sam shakes his head, swallows. He’s doing well, therapy and his word with the veterans, but sometimes, all of the emotion wrapped up with the American military blindsides him. “Uh. Pararescue.”
Barnes makes an approving noise, even as his eyes track Rogers’ pace around the pond. “Army.”
It’s Sam’s turn to snort out a bit of an ironic laugh. “Barnes and Rogers. Household names.”
Barnes’ nose wrinkles in distaste. “Don’t mention it to Steve, yeah? He gets weird about it.”
It takes a minute for Sam to translate ‘weird’ into ‘tough memories’, but if anyone’s going to get on that it is one hundred percent Sam. “How many’d you lose?” he asks quietly.
Barnes’ eyes are dark, judging, so Sam keeps his face clear. “Too many. You?”
“Only takes one.”
Barnes nods, searches out Rogers again. “Got a plan?”
For after. For now. For what happens when the military’s too much.
“Nope. Sister says I should find a different way to save the world.”
“Steve says the same thing. Idealistic bastard.”
They keep pace for a few steps before Sam finally says, “You?”
Barnes shrugs. “Steve’s thinking the spooks.”
Sam shivers.
“Yeah. Plus, he’s a shit liar.”
That makes Sam laugh, an awkwardly breathy noise since he is running and whatever super-human lung capacity Rogers seems to have – Sam’s lost sight of him, maybe back around the World War II Memorial – Sam certainly does not.
A few quiet moments later, Barnes says, “The Bureau though.”
“FBI?”
Barnes shrugs, slows. Sam does the same, senses something else at play. It’s the same sixth sense that has him holding some of his vets back, giving them the one-on-one attention, the sympathetic ear.
“Neither of us are going to be ready to go back over there,” Barnes says. “We can’t.”
Sam perches his hands on his hips, lets himself huff out a few breaths. “Yeah.”
There’s one beat, then another. They spot Rogers coming towards them, his pace not even a smidgen slower than before. Barnes nudges him then. “You should come.”
“Sorry?”
“The Bureau,” Barnes goes on, nodding like he’s made a decision on Sam’s behalf. “You should come.”
Sam thinks about that for a beat, then two. Rogers slows down as he approaches and Sam looks from Barnes to Rogers. “Sounds good.”
It’s an understatement, really. What it sounds like to Sam, for the first time since he left the military, is a future.
“Hostage negotiation.” It’s what Sam’s already decided, so telling Barnes and Rogers seems a little superfluous at best. “Or, you know. SWAT.”
Rogers doesn’t seem at all surprised and the only acknowledgement he gets from Barnes is a raised eyebrow. Sam shifts. It’s not quite uncomfortable but he feels irrationally like he’s made the wrong decision. Barnes and Rogers exchange a look as Rogers continues to shovel eggs in his mouth. Sam doesn't know how to feel about the physical capabilities of the man they call Captain America.
“You going to keep up with the psychology classes?”
“I’ll need them,” is Sam’s easy response.
Rogers nods once, definitive and sharp. “Good.
Four years later, right along the time this last-minute rescue shit is getting old, he gets a phone call:
“Wilson.”
“Hey Sam.”
“Steve?”
“Yeah. Got a question for you.”
“Oh?”
“How do you feel about the BAU?”
That’s when the real chaos starts.