For @nachodiablo, Who won one of my @marveltrumpshate Auctions. This is the sixth, and finale aesthetic I’ve made for Nacho for MTH 2019!
Sam Wilson x Bucky Barnes - Star Wars AU.
Also on Ao3.
It’s the quiet that makes Sam draw up short, when he slides into the shadows and darkness of the hanger. Settling into lean against the durasteel wall, he presses his hand more firmly against his side — where his Commander’s blaster shot had skimmed him — and lets himself settle. Waiting, watching, to ensure none of his troopers had followed after him.
He goes to take a break, but finds a sob catching in his throat when the force — normally a soft, soothing lullaby of light and love and peace — twists with screams of agony and fear and pain.
His men had turned on him.
Which meant, his brothers and sisters, his family's men had turned on them as well.
Oh, he thinks, his eyes welling up with tears, that’s what he was feeling.
Their deaths.
Oh.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he presses his palm against the burning of his wound, and gives himself just a moment longer to feel the anguish and loss, before taking a breath and centering himself to release his feelings into the force.
There would be time later to properly mourn their passing, the loss of his people — of his entire culture's loss — but that time would come later. Once he was off Coruscant. When he was far away from the inner core, and this, this new Empire.
“Sam?”
Startling violently, Sam let out a hiss as he pulled at his wound, but didn’t let that stop him as he called his lightsaber to his free hand, igniting it as he moved into a defensive stance. It was only then, that he took in who was standing before him, staring like he didn’t understand what was happening.
It’s Bucky. He’s safe. He hasn’t been found by anyone he didn’t want.
“Sam?” Bucky calls, strangled and high pitch as his eyes adjust to the darkness and he sees the state the other is in. “ E chu ta !” He spits out, anger and worry twisting his face into a deep frown as he rushes forward. Gently, he presses his hand over Sam’s and lets out a low growl of anger. “Kriff, Sam, what happened to you?” he asks, as he moves his other hand up, to curl around the side of Sam’s neck, thumb pressing gently against the pulse point.
As if he needed to feel, to know, Sam's heart was still beating. Still thrumming with life.
“My, my men,” he murmurs out, words catching around the hard lump suddenly in his throat but cuts himself off. The words seemingly too much to speak into existence, even after living through what had happened. Instead, he swallows thickly, he tries to continue on haltingly. “I need to. I. I need to,” Sam cuts himself off with a low moan of pain, as he squeezes his eyes shut. He takes a moment, as long as he dares, before adding on, “Need, need to get off planet.”
Opening his eyes, he peers, pleads really, at Bucky, before quietly asking, “Will you help me?”.
Bucky stares, almost dumbfounded, before answering hoarsely, “Or course. Of course, Sam,” his tone laced with durasteel. “You don’t even need to ask. You know that.”
