Tags: High School AU, implied past traumatic event, heavily-implied emotionally abusive coach, vomiting
Sam sat on the edge of his bed, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. He’d already changed three times - soon to be four, because he’d just noticed a loose thread on the hem which would be really obvious to anyone that saw it and he wanted to make a good impression today was his first day at a new school, and it wasn’t even the start of the year when other people might be new too, so he would stick out like a sore thumb. Sam tugged at the thread, feeling it start to come loose.
“Sam? You ready, honey?” his mom called from downstairs.
“Yeah, mom,” Sam answered, not moving. “Just gimme a minute.”
“Okay,” she said, and that was the end of that, except that a few seconds later Sam’s dad walked past Sam’s open door and poked his head in.
“Everything okay? Excited for school?”
Sam made a noncommittal noise. “I guess. Feels -- weird.” And it did: he hadn’t been to school in over a year, could barely remember what it had been like, could barely remember what he’d been like, and then the entire routine of this morning had brought so many memories rushing back, but in a way that didn’t feel good or bad, particularly; mostly it just made him feel a little dizzy, the memories of Before like an after-image on the edges of his vision.
“You know,” his dad said slowly, walking into the room and sitting on the bed beside Sam, “you don’t have to do this if you don’t feel up to it. Dr Cage said--”
Sam cut him off. “I’m fine, dad, just tired. I -- didn’t sleep well last night.” At the knowing look he got in response - because at this point they both well knew that ‘didn’t sleep well’ meant ‘had another nightmare that I do not want to talk about’, he made a shooing motion with his hands.
“Okay, okay,” his dad said good-naturedly, getting up and backing out of the room, hands held up in surrender. “Have a good day at school.”
“Bye, dad,” said Sam. He checked his watch; too late now to change his shirt. He put on his scarf and jacket, slung his rucksack over one shoulder and went downstairs to where his mom was waiting, car keys in hand, scrolling through her emails on her phone.
She looked up as he walked down the stairs. “You look nice.” Sam shrugged; this was the first day in a long while he’d actually made an effort on his appearance.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he said, and together they walked out the door.
++++
It was still dark out; it was early January, after all, and it was so cold every breath was like a small ghost escaping and fading away into nothing. By the time they arrived at the school it was still only eight, which left them both more than enough time to get acquainted with the school’s layout before lessons started and they had to go to their respective classrooms.
They walked to reception, and the lady there smiled at them both and, after a few minutes of small-talk with Sam’s mom, gave them some directions and handed them a small printed map so they could get their bearings. Sam said thank you, and then he and his mom made their way down the corridor to the rest of the school. The doors they walked through led to a courtyard, one side of which was lined with stairs that led to benches and then a wide open sports field, with big lights that lit it up, stands on the other three sides, posts and lines for football and, upon closer inspection, lines for track, too.
“Who’s that?” Sam asked, nodding in the direction of the lone figure sitting on the stands on the other side of the field.
“Hm?” His mom glanced over, following Sam’s gaze, then turned back to the map. “Probably one of the coaches, I guess.”
Sam squinted, could just barely pick out the colours of the school’s sports kit.
“Yeah, I think so,” he said. “Dude’s gotta be freezing his ass off.”
“Sam,” his mom said warningly, not looking up from the map as she directed them around the corner, back into the school building.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said aloud, instinctive and absent-minded, still distracted by thoughts of the coach with no team, sitting out there on the stands in the middle of winter.
Weird, he said to himself, tuning back in to the sound of his mom laughing quietly.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing,” she replied, but she was still smiling, and after a moment she wrapped a hand around his shoulders and pulled him close. “Just glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” he said, leaning into her warmth and letting thoughts of that lone figure in the stands slip from his mind. “Now come on,” he continued, linking arms with his mom as they walked down the corridor,” which classroom’s yours?”
++++
They spent a while longer tracking down his mom’s classroom, setting up all her things, then going through Sam’s timetable and figuring out which room each class was in.
They were just crossing the courtyard next to the field - Sam glanced over; the stands across the field were empty now - when a man walked up from the row of benches on the edge of the field.
“Hi there,” he said, voice warm as he held out his hand to Sam’s mom. “Coach Pierce.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, taking his hand and shaking it. “Mrs. Wilson. I’m new here; this is my first day, actually.”
Coach Pierce nodded. “I heard. Science, was it?”
“Yeah,” Sam’s mom confirmed, turning a little to look at Sam, who until then had kind of just stood there feeling awkward. “This is my son, Sam - it’s his first day, too.”
Coach Pierce turned to him, taking him in with an evaluating glance as he proffered his hand for Sam to shake. Sam did, hoping that the flicker of disgust at how weirdly damp the guy’s hand was didn’t show on his face. The coach’s eyes went to the map in Sam’s mom’s hands. He stepped forward, pointing something out to her; she replied, and Sam tuned their teacher-y conversation out and moved away, towards the benches that lined the edge of the field. Maybe he’d sit a while, get a feel of the track he planned to be running on in a few days time.
As he was about to sit down, a flash of movement on the far edge of the field caught his eye. Sam looked closer, realised he’d been wrong before: there was someone on the field, keeping a steady pace along the outer lane of the running track. It only took Sam a few seconds to realise that whoever they were, they knew what they were doing; their form was perfect. It took a while longer for him to realise that however good they were at running, their ability to dress themselves needed some work, because it was barely above freezing and this dude - close enough now for Sam to tell - was out here in shorts and a vest.
Whereas earlier his pace had looked effortless, up close it was clear that he was badly flagging, like all his energy was going into keeping his legs moving. Now that the guy was fast approaching being within speaking distance, Sam debated whether to call out and introduce himself, but a glance at the guy’s face made it pretty clear that he wasn’t in the mood for talking, so instead Sam eased his phone out of his pocket and looked down at it so the guy wouldn’t think he was weird for staring, listening as the pulse of the guy’s footfalls skipped a beat as he passed before he continued on along the track.
When the guy was fully turned away Sam looked up from his phone and allowed himself to look a little more closely, surveying the runner’s body: tall, and lean, but with a broadness to his shoulders that suggested strength, too.
“Sam, honey,” his mom’s voice cut through his reverie. He jerked back, getting to his feet and walking back up the stairs, past Coach Pierce who was headed back towards the field. The two of them paused for a while, looking out over the field and the rest of the campus.
“He seems nice,” Sam said, when the coach was out of hearing distance.
His mom looked at her watch, then nodded towards the door leading to their classrooms: we should get going. “He’s very charming,” his mom replied, after a brief pause. “I can see why he’s a coach.”
“He’s the track coach?” Sam asked.
His mom shook her head. “Football,” she corrected.
Then why is he watching that guy run track? Sam wanted to say, but at that two things happened: his mom’s phone rang - she answered it, turning away and holding it to her ear - and Coach Pierce’s voice rang out, faint from the edge of the field, hard for Sam to hear over his mom’s voice.
“You can stop now, James.”
His mom nudged his shoulder, mouthed something along the lines of “it’s your dad; I’ll be right back” and turned around to walk to reception. Sam opened the door to head to his first class, and was just about to go inside when something made him pause. He turned, looked at the illuminated field. The runner had slowed to a limping jog, and as Sam watched he stumbled and fell to his knees. The runner raised a hand to his mouth, coughing -- Jesus, he was being sick. Sam made an aborted movement back towards the field, before remembering that Coach Pierce was on the field and would’ve seen, except that when he finally spotted him Coach Pierce was just standing there on the edge of the field, not moving.
And then the bell rang, and though what he’d seen made him feel -- weird, like it was a private moment he’d intruded on, and yet simultaneously felt like it was something he should tell another teacher about, Sam didn’t want to be late for his first class, and he wanted to maybe try and get through one day without drawing attention to himself, so after a long moment he turned away, and closed the door, and tried to forget about it.
I've been wanting to write a Sam/Bucky Football AU (starring Sam: the kid is not alright but is doing better than he was, with a side dose of Bucky: the kid is also not alright but is kind of on a downward trajectory) for a long while, but I haven't had the time or energy to commit to doing all the research that involves, so, for now: a few short scenes. Hit me up on tumblr - url is the same as on DW.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2016-01-06 10:27 pm (UTC)Fandom: Captain America (Movies)
Rating: Teen
Relationships: Sam Wilson & Bucky Barnes
Tags: High School AU, implied past traumatic event, heavily-implied emotionally abusive coach, vomiting
Sam sat on the edge of his bed, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt. He’d already changed three times - soon to be four, because he’d just noticed a loose thread on the hem which would be really obvious to anyone that saw it and he wanted to make a good impression today was his first day at a new school, and it wasn’t even the start of the year when other people might be new too, so he would stick out like a sore thumb. Sam tugged at the thread, feeling it start to come loose.
“Sam? You ready, honey?” his mom called from downstairs.
“Yeah, mom,” Sam answered, not moving. “Just gimme a minute.”
“Okay,” she said, and that was the end of that, except that a few seconds later Sam’s dad walked past Sam’s open door and poked his head in.
“Everything okay? Excited for school?”
Sam made a noncommittal noise. “I guess. Feels -- weird.” And it did: he hadn’t been to school in over a year, could barely remember what it had been like, could barely remember what he’d been like, and then the entire routine of this morning had brought so many memories rushing back, but in a way that didn’t feel good or bad, particularly; mostly it just made him feel a little dizzy, the memories of Before like an after-image on the edges of his vision.
“You know,” his dad said slowly, walking into the room and sitting on the bed beside Sam, “you don’t have to do this if you don’t feel up to it. Dr Cage said--”
Sam cut him off. “I’m fine, dad, just tired. I -- didn’t sleep well last night.” At the knowing look he got in response - because at this point they both well knew that ‘didn’t sleep well’ meant ‘had another nightmare that I do not want to talk about’, he made a shooing motion with his hands.
“Okay, okay,” his dad said good-naturedly, getting up and backing out of the room, hands held up in surrender. “Have a good day at school.”
“Bye, dad,” said Sam. He checked his watch; too late now to change his shirt. He put on his scarf and jacket, slung his rucksack over one shoulder and went downstairs to where his mom was waiting, car keys in hand, scrolling through her emails on her phone.
She looked up as he walked down the stairs. “You look nice.” Sam shrugged; this was the first day in a long while he’d actually made an effort on his appearance.
“Ready?”
“As I’ll ever be,” he said, and together they walked out the door.
++++
It was still dark out; it was early January, after all, and it was so cold every breath was like a small ghost escaping and fading away into nothing. By the time they arrived at the school it was still only eight, which left them both more than enough time to get acquainted with the school’s layout before lessons started and they had to go to their respective classrooms.
They walked to reception, and the lady there smiled at them both and, after a few minutes of small-talk with Sam’s mom, gave them some directions and handed them a small printed map so they could get their bearings. Sam said thank you, and then he and his mom made their way down the corridor to the rest of the school. The doors they walked through led to a courtyard, one side of which was lined with stairs that led to benches and then a wide open sports field, with big lights that lit it up, stands on the other three sides, posts and lines for football and, upon closer inspection, lines for track, too.
“Who’s that?” Sam asked, nodding in the direction of the lone figure sitting on the stands on the other side of the field.
“Hm?” His mom glanced over, following Sam’s gaze, then turned back to the map. “Probably one of the coaches, I guess.”
Sam squinted, could just barely pick out the colours of the school’s sports kit.
“Yeah, I think so,” he said. “Dude’s gotta be freezing his ass off.”
“Sam,” his mom said warningly, not looking up from the map as she directed them around the corner, back into the school building.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said aloud, instinctive and absent-minded, still distracted by thoughts of the coach with no team, sitting out there on the stands in the middle of winter.
Weird, he said to himself, tuning back in to the sound of his mom laughing quietly.
“What?” he said.
“Nothing,” she replied, but she was still smiling, and after a moment she wrapped a hand around his shoulders and pulled him close. “Just glad you’re here.”
“Me too,” he said, leaning into her warmth and letting thoughts of that lone figure in the stands slip from his mind. “Now come on,” he continued, linking arms with his mom as they walked down the corridor,” which classroom’s yours?”
++++
They spent a while longer tracking down his mom’s classroom, setting up all her things, then going through Sam’s timetable and figuring out which room each class was in.
They were just crossing the courtyard next to the field - Sam glanced over; the stands across the field were empty now - when a man walked up from the row of benches on the edge of the field.
“Hi there,” he said, voice warm as he held out his hand to Sam’s mom. “Coach Pierce.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said, taking his hand and shaking it. “Mrs. Wilson. I’m new here; this is my first day, actually.”
Coach Pierce nodded. “I heard. Science, was it?”
“Yeah,” Sam’s mom confirmed, turning a little to look at Sam, who until then had kind of just stood there feeling awkward. “This is my son, Sam - it’s his first day, too.”
Coach Pierce turned to him, taking him in with an evaluating glance as he proffered his hand for Sam to shake. Sam did, hoping that the flicker of disgust at how weirdly damp the guy’s hand was didn’t show on his face. The coach’s eyes went to the map in Sam’s mom’s hands. He stepped forward, pointing something out to her; she replied, and Sam tuned their teacher-y conversation out and moved away, towards the benches that lined the edge of the field. Maybe he’d sit a while, get a feel of the track he planned to be running on in a few days time.
As he was about to sit down, a flash of movement on the far edge of the field caught his eye. Sam looked closer, realised he’d been wrong before: there was someone on the field, keeping a steady pace along the outer lane of the running track. It only took Sam a few seconds to realise that whoever they were, they knew what they were doing; their form was perfect. It took a while longer for him to realise that however good they were at running, their ability to dress themselves needed some work, because it was barely above freezing and this dude - close enough now for Sam to tell - was out here in shorts and a vest.
Whereas earlier his pace had looked effortless, up close it was clear that he was badly flagging, like all his energy was going into keeping his legs moving. Now that the guy was fast approaching being within speaking distance, Sam debated whether to call out and introduce himself, but a glance at the guy’s face made it pretty clear that he wasn’t in the mood for talking, so instead Sam eased his phone out of his pocket and looked down at it so the guy wouldn’t think he was weird for staring, listening as the pulse of the guy’s footfalls skipped a beat as he passed before he continued on along the track.
When the guy was fully turned away Sam looked up from his phone and allowed himself to look a little more closely, surveying the runner’s body: tall, and lean, but with a broadness to his shoulders that suggested strength, too.
“Sam, honey,” his mom’s voice cut through his reverie. He jerked back, getting to his feet and walking back up the stairs, past Coach Pierce who was headed back towards the field. The two of them paused for a while, looking out over the field and the rest of the campus.
“He seems nice,” Sam said, when the coach was out of hearing distance.
His mom looked at her watch, then nodded towards the door leading to their classrooms: we should get going. “He’s very charming,” his mom replied, after a brief pause. “I can see why he’s a coach.”
“He’s the track coach?” Sam asked.
His mom shook her head. “Football,” she corrected.
Then why is he watching that guy run track? Sam wanted to say, but at that two things happened: his mom’s phone rang - she answered it, turning away and holding it to her ear - and Coach Pierce’s voice rang out, faint from the edge of the field, hard for Sam to hear over his mom’s voice.
“You can stop now, James.”
His mom nudged his shoulder, mouthed something along the lines of “it’s your dad; I’ll be right back” and turned around to walk to reception. Sam opened the door to head to his first class, and was just about to go inside when something made him pause. He turned, looked at the illuminated field. The runner had slowed to a limping jog, and as Sam watched he stumbled and fell to his knees. The runner raised a hand to his mouth, coughing -- Jesus, he was being sick. Sam made an aborted movement back towards the field, before remembering that Coach Pierce was on the field and would’ve seen, except that when he finally spotted him Coach Pierce was just standing there on the edge of the field, not moving.
And then the bell rang, and though what he’d seen made him feel -- weird, like it was a private moment he’d intruded on, and yet simultaneously felt like it was something he should tell another teacher about, Sam didn’t want to be late for his first class, and he wanted to maybe try and get through one day without drawing attention to himself, so after a long moment he turned away, and closed the door, and tried to forget about it.
I've been wanting to write a Sam/Bucky Football AU (starring Sam: the kid is not alright but is doing better than he was, with a side dose of Bucky: the kid is also not alright but is kind of on a downward trajectory) for a long while, but I haven't had the time or energy to commit to doing all the research that involves, so, for now: a few short scenes. Hit me up on tumblr - url is the same as on DW.