sam knows that you’re feeling guilty about it. he sees it in your silence, in your eyes, the tension of your body language. he wants to comfort you, but his mind’s a little fuzzy. of course, he’s been through worse, but torture’s never easy. he leans into you as you lead him into bunker, headed straight to the infirmary from the garage.

one arm wraps around his torso, the other is splayed over his chest to keep him balanced. your lips are pressed into a stern, concerned line.

sam wishes you’d talk to him, but you haven’t said a word since you found him. you were all panicked and scared and worried, fussing over him after taking down his kidnappers. you scared the living hell out of me, you’d whispered. i got you now. let’s get you home.

now your quiet is heavy because sam knows that you think it’s your fault he was taken and injured. he knows that it isn’t. or at the very least, he’d never ever blame you.

“hey,” his voice comes out all hoarse and tired, rumbling right by your ear. “talk to me, honey. it’s not your fault, you know that.”