#Down in New Orleans | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

flylikeafalcon · 1 year

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Down in New Orleans // Sam & Steve

[Start date: October 9, 2020]

They were one of the last tables to leave as the restaurant was closing. Steve had most of his dinner in a doggy bag for Sam to inevitably eat later or else throw it away, but they were both pleasantly full enough of wine and seafood and bread for now. They ambled down the street in the general direction of the B&B where they were staying, past the bars and clubs that still leaked music into the autumn evening. Only once they'd turned onto a quieter side-street did Steve speak.

"Thank you," he said. If Sam hadn't been waiting for it, he might have missed it for how quiet the words were.

"Any time, man," he said. After a few more steps, he continued, "How are you feeling? Really."

Steve shrugged. Shook his head.

"Okay," he said. "But then I feel like shit for feeling okay."

Steve breathed a light laugh and added before Sam could respond, "Survivor's guilt. I know. Knowing helps. But I still..."

Steve cut himself off and looked away from Sam, across the street. Sam waited a few paces for Steve to continue; instead Steve stopped walking.

"You all right?" Sam said. Steve didn't answer. Sam followed his gaze and had to fight off a grimace. Across the street, illuminated by dark purple neon and electric candles, was a psychic shop advertising seances, crystal ball readings, tarot -- the usual tourist trap stuff.

"That," Sam said, "is a terrible idea."

Steve looked to Sam, brow furrowed.

"Do you think Stephen Strange could do it?"

"That is an even worse idea," Sam said. He set his hands on Steve's shoulders and urged him to turn away from the shop. Mercifully, Steve not only obliged but started walking again.

"Just -- imagine the possibilities here. Seriously. Best case, it doesn't work, but what are you gonna do if it does?"

Steve shook his head. His jaw was tense, his Adam's apple bobbing furiously.

"I know what you want to say," Steve finally said, his voice thick. "But it's not about hanging onto the past. He -- "

Something caught in Steve's throat, forcing a sort of creaking groan out of him. Sam knew that sound intimately: Steve was prepared to choke before he allowed himself to cry on the street. So he waited.

Steve stopped again. This time he tilted his head back as though he could leverage gravity to help him suppress what was clearly fighting its way out of him.

"I was this close" -- he raised a hand with thumb and forefinger barely separated -- "to allowing myself to believe he was my future."

Sam sighed. He genuinely hadn't expected to hear that.

"Okay. Well. We can ask Strange, but since we're in New Orleans...I know a guy who knows a guy. He's supposed to be a genuine Haitian Vodou oungan, but I've never messed with this stuff -- "

Steve was already shaking his head, now in earnest. "No," he said. His voice cracked again.

"No. You're right. I don't know which would be worse...if it didn't work, or if it did."

Sam sighed deeply again. Nodded. He reached an arm around Steve's shoulder -- a little awkwardly, given their height difference -- and prompted him to resume their walk. Steve didn't speak again until they returned to their room at the B&B.

"We talked about marriage," he said. "Sort of. We decided against it then, but I -- do I regret it? I do, but then I think he still would have asked me to -- and I couldn't have done it then. But maybe that would have been better?"

Steve started pacing between the twin beds in the room.

"Why -- why didn't he ask Rhodey? Did he think -- I think maybe he always thought I didn't truly love him. So if we can bring him back, how do we reckon with that?"

Steve stopped pacing, his back to Sam, and clenched his fists -- tightened up in general until he may as well have been stone. Then he raised his hands to his face. His shoulders shook. His back rounded, and then he was sitting on the bed, his back still to Sam, but Sam could hear him struggling and failing to steady his breathing.

"Maybe I didn't love him enough," Steve said. "If I did, he wouldn't have set up the protocol. He wouldn't have asked. I wouldn't have had to kill him. If he had asked, I wouldn't have done it. I would have found another way."

Sam sat on the bed behind Steve.

"Are you looking for my insight or looking to vent?" Sam asked.

Steve's breathing grew more erratic.

"You want to tell me to grant him the dignity of his choice," Steve choked. "That I did it because I loved him so much. I know all that, I know I can't change it -- I know. But it hurts, Sam. I miss him so much I can feel it. A knife in the ribs. All the time. And I put it there."

Sam dipped his head and said nothing.

---

The next morning, Sam and Steve were on their way to a nearby cafe for breakfast when they both heard a young voice yell, "Look! Captain America!"

Both turned, but Steve paused on his way to watch Sam for a beat. Sam shot him a quick "bitch, please" face, but it turned out the kid hadn't been talking about either of them, not directly. A child with dark hair pulled up into a pom-pom topknot was dancing by a massive chalk drawing, almost stomping on the artist in their excitement. From where Sam and Steve stood, the figures looked elongated and distorted; Sam recognized it as that 3D technique street artists use to fool the eye. The kid was seeing the original Avengers in their 2012 uniforms bursting from the sidewalk, almost as real as life.

"Mommy mommy Iron Man!" squealed another child.

The spell broke on both of them.

"Still you, though," Sam started to say, but he swore instead as they turned back around and saw someone standing directly in front of them.

"Sorry," the stranger said, and he looked like he meant it. He was almost as tall as Steve, with skunk-stripe locs pulled back in a loose tie and a musical Haitian voice.

"Oh, shit," Sam said.

Jericho Drumm laughed. "My reputation precedes me?"

"A little. Sorry. I also mentioned you to my friend here last night."

Jericho nodded sagely. "My loa told me. And I'm afraid I can't help you with your particular problem."

Sam's expression must have betrayed his thoughts – then why the fuck are you here? -- because Jericho laughed again and added, "But I know someone who can. She may be one of the few people on Earth more -- as capable as Tony Stark."

Sam looked to Steve. So did Jericho, and only then did Sam realize he’d been talking directly to Sam. Steve’s expression was almost indecipherable –almost, but only because Sam knew to look for the tightness in Steve’s jaw, the way he straightened his shoulders as though bracing himself against a physical impact. But all Steve said was, “Thank you.”

Jericho nodded once, then turned back to Sam.

“I’ll have her get in touch with you,” he said. Then, with a pointed look at Sam, he said, “Now, kisa ou bezwen?”

Sam startled. He understood Louisiana Creole better than he could speak it, and he was pretty sure Jericho was speaking that original Haitian Creole to boot. He shook his head, a little too emphatically probably, and answered, “Uh…pa gen anyen? I’m good, man.”

Jericho considered him, and for a minute there Sam thought he saw something golden flicker through Jericho’s eyes. When Jericho spoke again, Sam understood him perfectly, even though his lips definitely weren’t forming English words.

“You can only give so much of yourself before you become empty. Then who are you helping?”

Sam glanced at Steve, who shrugged. He couldn’t understand Jericho at all, Sam realized.

“It’s okay,” he said to Jericho, though he was still watching Steve, whose expression shifted to one of both confusion and admiration. Then Sam looked to Jericho.

“Did you just vodou me?”

Jericho smiled. “Only a little. So you could speak freely.”

“I appreciate it, but really, I’m fine.”

“I see.” Jericho glanced behind Sam, back to the chalk drawing of a team that no longer existed. “So you’re comfortable in his shadow?”

Sam frowned. “You got balls, man.”

“I apologize. May I offer you something else?”

Sam half-shrugged, growing exasperated. He just wanted some damn breakfast. “Sure, I guess.”

Jericho pulled a small doll from his pocket. It was featureless and made of a course black cloth. As he handed it to Sam, he said, “Tell it your wishes and concerns. And if you need me, tell it. I’ll come.”

Sam rolled the doll over in his hands. Even for having been in someone’s pocket, it felt unusually warm.

“Thanks,” he said.

When he looked up from the doll in his hand, Jericho was gone.

---

Almost as soon as Sam and Steve returned from New Orleans, Sam was notified of an incoming message from a secure source. Steve was back out the door on his way to the garage almost before Sam could ask if he wanted to join him, so Sam didn't push it and instead went to the nerve center alone.

"Sam Wilson. Designation Captain America."

The screen before him displayed two dark, handsome faces Sam didn't recognize. Weird. He'd expected either Richard Rider and his crew or Thor. The man on display was older, his expression serious; the woman was younger and was visibly trying to tone down a smirk.

"Captain America," the man said, his voice thickly accented. "My name is King T'Challa of Wakanda. This is my sister, Princess Shuri. Our friend Jericho Drumm tells me you might be in need of her services."

Sam's eyebrows raised of their own accord. That was quick.

"Uh. Yeah. Maybe. Sorry. You said...where are you?"

Shuri's smirk broadened, and even T'Challa smiled slightly.

"Perhaps," he said, "we should have this discussion in person."

---

Sam watched the sleekest, blackest jet he'd ever seen land on the helipad with almost no sound at all, and he had to admit, it was sexy as hell. He didn't hide his admiration as the king and princess of Wakanda disembarked, led by a woman in red and gold. He nodded in deference to the three of them as they approached; the king returned the gesture.

"Sam Wilson," he said. "Thank you for having us."

"Pleasure's mine," Sam said. "Come on in."

---

T'challa followed Sam into the building, through antiseptic white halls, and to a glass-walled conference room with a long, rectangular table. Sam gestured for T'Challa to take the seat at the head of the table; he had to smile as he accepted the seat. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen a table in the Wakandan council room, separating the tribes, but he humored the custom. Okoye stood to his left, between him and the door, and Shuri took the seat to his right. Sam stood for a second, and when Okoye didn't make a move for the seat to T'Challa's left, Sam carefully lowered himself into it.

"Tell us more about Mister Stark's condition," T'Challa said.

---

Sam sighed. If only he knew more than what he'd already told them: integrated nano tech, kill switch, coma.

And the DNR.

"James can tell you more than I can," Sam said. "He's next of kin. I know the nano tech was some variation of something called Extremis, and he had it for years before someone hacked it. Unfortunately, I'm not smart enough to understand how they did it or how the kill switch worked."

He looked to Shuri.

"I'm familiar with something an American think tank was working on called Extremis," she said, "but I would expect that Mister Stark improved on it before integrating with it. I would have to see his records."

Sam grimaced.

"That would also be up to Rhodes. And, uh…there's still the ethical dilemma we're up against. This whole trip may be a waste of your time if Rhodes decides to honor Tony's DNR."

---

T'Challa nodded slowly.

"I would expect Mister Stark's friend to honor his final wishes," he said. Sam's brow leapt upward in surprise.

"If Mister Rhodes will accept our assistance, we give it freely," T'Challa said, "but even if he does not, we have other interests to pursue."

T'Challa could almost feel the skepticism begin rolling off Sam in waves.

"What interests?"

"My father has passed," T'Challa said, "and now I am king. For generations, Wakanda had remained isolated, but some…very persuasive counsel has convinced me to consider opening our borders."

Shuri and Okoye exchanged smirks. It had been Nakia, of course, who had made a strong case for joining the global community.

"However," he continued, "I'm sure you can understand why I would forestall an alliance with the United States government. I believe a Wakandan alliance with the Avengers would be more beneficial…and safer."

---

Sam chewed his lip as he considered that. He sure as hell didn't blame T'Challa for not wanting to crawl into bed with the US government, but he barely knew anything about Wakanda or its interests.

He recalled the doll Jericho had given him. For some reason, Sam had kept it, even though he didn't know Jericho from Adam. He just knew, intrinsically, that he trusted what Jericho had said, and he trusted T'Challa now.

(Maybe it was a fam thing. If either of them had been white, he almost certainly would have given them a harder time.)

"I'm not saying no," Sam said, "but we've been burned before. What kind of alliance are you proposing?"

---

T'Challa smiled. Sam was not a statesman, that much was clear, but he was obviously clever and cautious. More importantly, he was transparent -- something T'Challa appreciated in foreign contacts but rarely encountered -- and concerned for his people.

"One of mutual assistance. No trade agreements or any of those tedious political things," he said, smiling. "Scientific, technological, and cultural exchange. Protection."

He watched Sam weigh the offer.

"I'll have to confer with some folks," Sam finally said.

T'Challa nodded. It was the only appropriate answer Sam could have given him.

"Of course," he said. Then he looked to Shuri.

"Perhaps you could get us in touch with Mister Rhodes? I'm sure Shuri is anxious to see this Extremis."

---

Wow. Who knew negotiating an alliance with an Afrofuturistic nation that had been in hiding for centuries would have been part of his job description.

"Yeah, sure," Sam said. He pulled his phone from his pocket and shot Rhodey a text, then rose from his seat.

"Would y'all like a tour of the facility?" He looked pointedly at Shuri, who had been actively surveying the room and everything she could see through the windows as though mentally dissecting it all. She beamed back.

"Yes!" she said, already on her feet before T'Challa could respond. The king also stood and nodded at Sam to lead the way.

Wild, thought Sam as he led his three guests out of the conference room.

#down in new orleans #a man outof time

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