This kind of shit - sometimes it's about huge leaps forward and moments of revelation. Sometimes it's being able to look in the mirror and see hope, or waking up and remembering your name and the name of the guy sitting next to you. But most days it's eye contact and smiling over drinks, it's remembering to count to slow your breathing and having fingers laced through yours when you feel alone.

Sam learned a long time ago not to measure success by when nothing hurts and you never feel broken again, but by being able to pull your pieces together a little sooner and a little stronger, by hurting a little less and making it through the shit just a little bit easier.

If all he’s able to do is give Bucky a little semblance of peace while they ride this out, that’s more than enough. Breathe, he reminds himself, you can breathe - and it’s practiced, familiar, it’s not the first time he’s been so far underwater he had to keep telling himself he wasn’t drowning.

No. He doesn’t mean to argue, not really, but he feels the response to that so strongly that it can’t help but be shared.

He kisses Bucky again, one hand tangling in his hair while he keeps the other around his waist. He keeps treading water, wings beating steady and slow to stay in place instead of propell to the surface.

( I'm alive, and you sure as hell better be coming out of this alive. That's all that matters right now. )