hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Holy shitballs, look at us go. Welcome to Captain America fandom's resident wretched hive of scum and villainy: ROUND THREE. AKA Bad Guys Do Dirtybadwrong Things To Your Faves, AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. As usual, BLANKET NON-CON AND NSFW WARNINGS apply: just assume going in that everything in this landfill is unfit for human consumption.

Rules in brief: don't be a jerk except to fictional characters, warnings for particularly fucked-up garbage are nice but not required, thou shalt not judge the trashiness of thy neighbor's kinks unless thy neighbor is trying to pass off their rotting banana peels and half-eaten pizza crusts as a healthy romantic dinner for two, off-topic comments may be chucked out of the dumpster at management's discretion, management's discretion decrees that omegaverse, soulbond AUs, D/s-verse, non-superpowered AUs, and dark!good guys AUs are off-topic.

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Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[I said there was one more part, and in the... way too many months... it's taken me to progress on it, I gave up pretending it belonged under the number 6, so... 7a and 7b, and that's it for real, as long as 7b fits in the character counter. (but full disclosure I don't have 7b written yet.)]

Sam got Steve back—finally—when Steve got shot.

They went back to work. It didn’t get easier between the two of them, except Steve had fewer nightmares and Sam got better at pretending he wasn’t slipping, with all the practice. It stopped being a question of seconds, of minutes, before seeing Steve again sent him back a step. It was still a question of hours. But Sam went to the VA anyway; he kicked Steve out for coffee with Barnes anyway. He took solo missions. He went home to visit his mom and siblings for the weekend, now that he could back up the cavalier shit happens when you’re an Avenger attitude he’d taken with them on the phone when he’d told them about the house.

Sex was the hardest part, now, and Sam found that comforting. It felt more like how things were supposed to go. By the book. Follow these five easy steps.

Not fast enough, apparently.

“We’re not unbeatable,” Barnes told him. Steve had gone ahead and bought the Bigfoot beanbag chair, and Sam was breaking it in while Steve went to buy pizza as an apology for sneaking ugly novelty furniture into Barnes’s apartment.

“Who?” Sam was busy propping Bigfoot against the wall so its chin would stop hitting his head. The arms moved from the elbows down, and he wrapped them around his waist to see what that got him. Maybe a really inconvenient, squishy lap-desk.

“Me,” Barnes said. “And Steve.”

“You’re sure not, I just beat you to the best seat in the house.”

Barnes wadded up some of the packaging from the chair. “We can do a lot of flashy tricks, but we're not the Hulk. Natasha could beat me, if I didn’t have a gun.” He rolled the ball of packing between his hands for another second before he threw it at Sam.

Sam had found that, in conversation with Barnes, it paid to back up a few steps when he was confused. He decided the tape stuck to his shirt was meant as comeuppance for the chair joke.

“You could beat me, if I didn’t have a gun,” Barnes continued. He sounded less convinced about this. “With some more training.”

“Thanks,” Sam said.

“Natasha’s good at beating people who are stronger than she is. You’re not used to that, is all.”

“Okay,” Sam said.

He’d been wrong to think Barnes disliked him, he was pretty sure. The problem was, Barnes wasn’t very good at liking people, either. At least, it sure didn’t feel like it when he got this way as soon as Steve was out of earshot.

Barnes did, like Sam or not, get fed up with him. “I know I’m not saying it all the right way,” he snapped. "But if you’re going to stay with Steve, you have to do something about how scared you are. He can tell.”

Sam stood up. Bigfoot no longer felt like a good spot to have this conversation. “Do you really want to start this? He comes home to me psyched when you manage to look him in the eye once in a conversation, but you want to go there?”

Barnes's jaw ground sideways. "Okay," he said. "I know. I'm doing my best."

"I know you are. Wonder what that must be like."

Barnes dropped his chin, but forged ahead. "Sooner or later Steve's gotta stop pretending things are going back to the way they were. I can still be his friend but it has to be different now. He thinks we can act like nothing happened and if we do a good enough job it'll be true."

Sam looked away, at the Goodwill bookcase Barnes had started carefully filling, mostly with cookbooks and atlases. He chewed back the first four things his instincts told him to say, because they were cruel or unfair and Barnes was right and it was that simple. Sam knew that. He just couldn't act like it. "Did you ever," he started. He was pretty sure he didn't really want the answer. "You said you, uh. Knew what Rumlow was like, or something. Did he ever--"

"I'm not sure." Barnes said it fast, before Sam could even really ask, let alone follow it up with something about how he didn't have to answer if he didn't want to. "I remember seeing him with other people. I know... some guys did, with me. I just don't know if that was him too or not."

"Steve doesn't know, does he?"

Barnes's eyes widened. "Don't tell him."

"Jesus, no, I wouldn't. That's not what I meant, man." Sam just wished Steve didn't know about him, either, and that would be cruel and unfair to say, too. It wasn't really doing Barnes any favors. It'd fly in the face of what Barnes had just said, and been right about. Sam walked over to the bookcase. "You don't think Steve's buying it, huh?"

"Have you ever thought I was buying his act?"

Sam shrugged. "How many cookbooks by Vincent Price do you have?"

"How many different titles, or how many copies total?" Barnes came over to stand next to him and started pulling books out at an angle. "Talk to Natasha. Or Carter."

"You're right," Sam made himself say. He wasn't going to talk to Natasha or Carter. Barnes stopped pulling books out, six books in. "Jesus, dude."

"I like Vincent Price, what do you want?"

"I want you to make us a Vincent Price dinner, not con my man into paying for pizza. You've got this hidden talent you're holding out on us."

He'd timed it right, anyway. Steve got back and they were laughing about spaghetti in a can instead of glaring at each other about who was fucking Steve up worse. Sam called that a victory, these days.

Love this so much

Oh my God thank you!

YAYYYYYY I’m always so glad to see this updated!

Poor Sam, wishing people didn’t know...

Oh CRIPES I'm so glad, I really thought I'd have lost everyone with this wait, this is so good of you.. and <3 the Sam Wilson in Misery club...

Omg, I was so excited to see this had updated! I love how you write the dynamic between these two and Sam's voice here, it's such a painful delight to read.

<3 thank you so much! I'm... really too pleased you liked their dynamic, they're so fun to write... and Sam's voice OMG <3

Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

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