#sam and sarah wilson | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

neonovember · 20 days

Note

Request: Sam Wilson x younger, platonic! reader

Plot: Reader relaxing around Sam’s place in Louisiana-Bucky can be in it, reader’s relationship with him would be platonic or familial.

Louisiana Sun

steve, sam, bucky x platonic!daughter!reader, generous nods (i practically wrote a whole confession) to sarahbucky

things; dad!steve rogers moments, over protective steve, reader makes some risky decisions, bucky and same are basically your uncles, bucky is in love with sarah and louisiana by extension,

w/c; 4k (reader had to do a lot of convincing to let steve believe she wont get kidnapped in the presence of two soldiers)

You’ve never felt love like you did in Louisiana.

The sun baked grass, the humid winds kissing your shoulder. The vibrancy of colour and life that explodes on the streets, and in the caring waves of neighbours.

You taste home whenever Steve drives you up to Sam’s rickety gate, slamming the car door open to his objection and running through the winding bend of grass and willow trees. You can't wait for Steve to pull into Sam’s drive way, the bleached wooden porch calls to you in a way you can’t ignore.

So you find it exceptionally painful whenever Steve is swarmed with so much work he can’t make the drive up. And there was no way Steve would even let you take a plane ride by yourself, he says it’s cause he’d be too afraid but you think it’s because you help with the dishes.

It’s Friday evening at the Rogers, a night of pizza and Noir crime films you both adore. It’s spring break, and you've spent every waking hour with Steve cooped up at home. You don't mind it, it has made up for a lot of the father daughter time missed between missions. But god you can’t come back to school and say you spend the holidays with Captain America again.

“So..Sam called” You murmur, fainting nonchalance whilst you watch his every expression out of the corner of your eye. Gene Tirney’s whiskey voice blares from the TV screen in front of you.

“Uhm?” Steve replies with his mouth full.

“Yeah, he was wondering when I’d come down again to see ‘em. Bucky’s spending some time there too, helping out with the boat and Sarah” You reply, stretching your arms out in front of you.

“And what did you say” Steve replies after wiping away the smudges of sauce from his chin, eyes widening

“I said I’ll have to check with Corporal Rogers first” You tease

“Hey, I’m not anywhere near..”

“Dad we haven’t left this house in weeks, I’m not going to go another week locked in here” You reply

“I let you go places..remember Monday?”

“When you asked me to buy your cream of mushroom from the Bodega?!” You shriek, eyes boggling.

“Yes..?” Steve replies unsure, eyebrows furrowing

“That was a chore. For your own benefit by the way, I mean who in their right mind likes cream of mushroom?” You reply

“Ay, I’m not going to let you disrespect my taste in food for the second time today” Steve replies

“Oh please, I barely said anything about your choice of onions as a pizza topping-

“My pizza topping?? I was reconsidering dinner when you wanted pineapples. Fruit should not belong on pizza, there are rules. When I was your age we had-”

“To boil everything or else we’d get tetanus and die” You moan, rolling your eyes

“No..when I was your age I don't think pineapples even made it to New York yet” Steve murmurs, hand on his chin as if to truly consider it.

“Are you sure you're my father?” You reply, and are met with a soft cushion flying towards you.

“Work’s just been a lot lately kid. And I miss you too darn much to let you leave my sight. You know how I am, I see kids go missin’ everyday. Don’t know what I’d do if that happened to you cause I was reckless”

“You aren't getting sick of my face?”

“Never”

“You’re not being reckless Dad, I’m going to be with Sam for gods sake, and Bucky too! In Louisiana of all places! They probably mug you with bugnes as pistols” You giggle

“Don’t joke about that"

“Oh come on! You both were on a team for like eighty years, you don't trust them?”

“Of course I trust them, they’re your designated ‘if i get in a freak accident they take over’ people.

“Hey! Don’t joke about that” You quip

“I just like knowing you're near” Steve replies after chuckling

“I could just stay for a weekend! I’ll be back before you know it. Swear” You plead.

“You say that now..” Steve cocks his eyebrows, part of him knew you'd stay six months there if you could

You put on your best heartbroken pouted face whilst Steve goes through the motions of being finally convinced. His eyebrows furrow, his hand coming up to scratch at his golden locs as he considers it.

His shoulders slump, and before he can even say a gruntled “Fine..” You’re cheering, getting up to twirl around the lamp lit living room. Steve chuckles at your antics, eyes glinting with light at the sight of you jumping in happiness.

He knew he’d say yes in the end. You're his little girl, he can’t ever say no to you.

“Whilst you're up, switch out Laura for somethin’ else. We still got a checklist to get through”

“Isn’t it getting close to your bed time, senior citizen?” You giggle, reaching for the box of recorded movie tapes under the bookshelf dresser.

“Age ain't going to stop me from showing you what good cinema is” Steve barks, reaching for his glass of water gingerly.

You’re half through the Maltese Falcon, Sam Spade flickering his cigarette in flashes of black and white when Steve's phone rings.

He groans loudly, lying on his back with his legs stretched and laying on the coffee table with the bitten edges of pizza crust left over. The couch buzzes beneath your weight, somewhere deep within the crevices near spare change and ink pens it vibrates.

“You gonna get that old man?” You turn to Steve, mouth filled with cheesy saucy bread

“Easy now Rogers, and finish your mouthful”

You roll your eyes as Steve searches under the blanket stretched across you both, a sound of triumph leaves his throat when he grasps the metallic slick edges.

“Rogers” Steve grunts into the phone

“Ah Fury…Mhmm..didn’t they have Clint on that?..Right..”

You raise your eyebrows at the conversation between Steve and Fury, Steve pinches the bridge of his nose as he plops his head back against the head of the couch.

“For three weeks? Fury, you know I got Y/N to take care of. It’s why I transferred out of the field, it isn’t ‘cause I like reading” Steve murmurs, eyes cutting to you

Your eyebrows widen at that, mouthing to ‘pass the phone’ to Steve who shakes his head at you. Growing impatient, and longing to see Sam, Bucky and Sarah you make a mental note to blame them for the scolding of a century as you reach and swipe the phone from Steve's lazy grip.

“Yeah, I don’t know Fury- HEY”

“This is Steve Rogers manager speaking, yes he can and will be there for the mission”

“Y/N” Fury replies, his voice lit with a hint of humour at your antics.

You wrestle to escape Steve's reflexes, luckily you're a teenage girl who wants something so you're obviously faster. You throw the same pillow Steve had thrown at you before in his face, running behind the couch with the phone tucked between your ear and shoulder, poking your tongue out at Steve.

“Hey Fury! How’s the wife and kids” You remark

“Who told you about my wife and kids”

“Oh Fury, think those confidential documents are safe from a certain Spider?”

“Goddamit Parker..” Fury mutters

You doge a flying pillow headed your way, Steve’s face growing red with frustration at you missing every hit. Super soldier my ass.

“Where’ll Steve be stationed?”

“Prague-wait, aren’t you twelve? I hate to say it but the soldiers right, you can’t just be left alone-”

“One word Fury. Louisiana, Beignets and a bird”

“That’s three words”

“Yeah well I ain't twelve but I didn’t correct you on that did I?”

“I’m an old man, Y/N” Fury replies gruffly

“I’m pretty sure you were in the hospital hallway at my birth..” You murmured

“How did you-?!” Fury replies

You're too busy skipping zig zag across the living room to escape the pieces of pizza, cushions and cd covers flying your way to hear him. You heard it once that it helps dodge bullets, and with the horsepower behind your own fathers arm, you think it matches.

“Makes sense anyways, there isn't a Wilson and Barnes without a Rogers nearby. You guys are like goddamn pack members” Fury replies “Let Steve know to be packed and ready by Sunday”

“Bye Fury” You giggle, swiping the red button before throwing the phone immediately at Steve who lunges for it.

Running to hide behind the first thing you see, you peek out from the forked leaves of a potted plant to see a very angry and very dishevelled Steve.

“Is now a good time to say I got a 90 on my science quiz?” You reply with a gulp

You’re smart enough not to run out the car seat the second Sam’s house comes into view, despite the itchiness festering in your bones driving though Louisiana and not being able to finally set your feet down onto it.

Steve called Sam the next morning, and you had already packed a suitcase of clothes and necessities a few days prior. You always felt healed after every road trip, and tuning out blues and Leon Bridges whilst driving through the country felt like a respite in itself.

As Steve pulls into the dirt drive way, you see Sam perches on the deck waving towards you both. You squeeze your hands into fists until he switches the ignition off, and then you are too. The car door springs open and you're rushing into Sam’s arms, giggling as he twirls you around till you're dizzy and sick.

“You’re Father has been keeping you from us” Sam says, shooting an accusatory dagger towards Steve who has begun to unload your belongings.

“Hello to you too Sam” Steve shouts from behind the open boot with a gruff voice.

Bucky’s booming voice makes its appearance before he does, rounding the corner of the back yard wiping grease off his hands onto a dirty old rag.

“If it isn’t Miss Rogers! Took ya long enough” He replies, pulling you into a tight protective hug whilst Steve sets your duffel bags on the porch edge.

Sam turns to Steve, pulling him into a hug as well, his hand slapping his back with a loud umph.

“Shame you couldn’t stay over here as well” Sam says

“Fury. Clint needs some help down in Nové Město” Steve says tiredly after embracing Bucky.

“When Duty calls” You reply

“Steve answers” Bucky and Sam say in unison.

“It wasn’t me this time” Steve points at you accusingly “The drive up here made me start regretting it enough. Lay off will ya”

“It was okay? We’ve been getting some Black bear sightings along Wood Lake” Sam replies

“We were all right. At least I won’t have a nagging buzz in my ear the drive back” Steve teases,

“Hey!” You reply, playfully pushing his shoulder.

“Don’t worry Y/N, You’re ours now. You no longer have to face that tyrant” Bucky chirps, pulling his hair back into a bun.

“And this tyrant” Steve shifts, looking down at his watch “needs to start heading back”

“Already? Can’t stay for lunch, Sarah’s making her seafood boil” Sam replies

Steve audibly groans, rocking on the balls of his feet as he shakes his head at the thought of missing out on Sarah Wilson's Louisiana renowned seafood.

“She is? Oh my god that better not be a lie Sam” You reply. Sarah’s cooking was like no other, you’ve been begging her to hurry up and make the next best selling cookbook.

“Yup, she's got me on shucking duty” Bucky says, feigning exasperation that held very thinly over the clear adoration Bucky had whenever he talked about Sarah.

You look towards Steve, and he raises his eyebrows as you both communicate silently. Bucky was head over heels in love with Sarah Wilson, it was getting annoying seeing them do this dance.

“Alright, time for goodbyes Kiddo” Steve replies after stifling the smirk that tugs at his mouth whilst he watches Bucky crane his neck at the sound of Sarah coming through the door.

“Steve Grant Rogers, you better not have thought of leaving without giving me a proper hello” Sarah calls, her dark coils pulled into a high bun that has begun to uncurl and frame her face.

“Tsk, Sarah. Of course I wouldn't leave before seeing the better Wilson.

“You got that right” Sarah chuckles, pulling Steve into a hug. Sam grumbles profanities under his breath as he rolls his eyes.

“Where are the boys?”

“Staying with a friend, did ya'll know something about this ‘hoverboard’ mess that's going around?” Sarah questions, exhaustion clear in her tone from dealing with two children wanting something.

“Could probably call Tony and he’d just make one for you” Steve replies with a chuckle at Sarah’s tone.

“Great idea soldier. Knew you were gonna leave early so I packed you a little somethin’ for the road” Sarah smirks, passing the tote bag on her shoulder that even you could smell had something decadent wrapped in careful parchment.

“Sarah Wilson, the woman you are” Steve replies, grasping the bag gingerly with a sigh as he peers into the wrapped dish.

“Ya can say that again” Bucky mutters softly under his breath, his hand coming up to scratch at the nape of his neck as Sarah shifts her gaze to him.

“Okay, I’ll admit it I’m gonna miss you oldie” You say, rocking n your feet as the feeling of separation begins to settle.

“Com ‘ere kid”

You quickly run into the open arms of Steve, blinking back tears as you lean your head on his broad shoulder. Rocking back and forth in his embrace Steve caresses your back tenderly.

“I’ll be back before you know it. We might even stay a bit longer when I do come back” Steve whispers in your ear.

You lift your head “Really? You mean that?” You whisper, as you meet his gaze, searching for any sign of a lie.

“When have I ever lied?”

“Well there was that one time you said you weren't scared of spiders..” You reply before Steve quickly cuts you off

“Okay that's enough”

You giggle, before Steve squeezes you in his arms. Shaking his head as you both part and he sets you back down.

“Never gets easier saying goodbye'' Steve replies, before moving to embrace Sam and Bucky, and placing a chaste kiss on Sarah's cheek before turning back to you.

“Now, call me before bed and in the morning, okay?” Steve replies, his tone morphing into an authoritarian lilt.

“Yep, and I'll text you some photos and videos throughout” You reply sweetly, as Steve nods along with unblinking eyes.

“What are you doing”

“I’m just taking a mental note of how you look exactly as I left you, and I will notice any piercings, hair changes and god forbid tattoos-”

“Okay, okay, just take a photo while you’re at it”

Steve shuffles on his feet, moving the back to his shoulder as he pulls out his phone

“Oh you aren’t actually-” You say, before the flash of Steve's camera cuts you off midway.

“Alright, I think I’m good to go” Steve replies, before nodding your playful punch on his shoulder.

You walk Steve to the car, hugging him goodbye again before Sam and Bucky exchange some information about something confidential, top secret, and definitely one you shouldn't listen in on.

But you do.

And it’s boring anyway.

The kitchen is bustling by mid afternoon, shells of craw fish and prawns scattered on the table counter and the dirty water of shelled oysters flowing down the edge of the grassy front lawn.

The smells of cajun seasoning and buttered corn leaves you asking Sarah when it's done every five minutes till she’s banishing you from the kitchen and sending you off with a lemonade.

You move through the littered toys and figurines AJ and Cass had left in their clear hurry to spend the night at a friend's and push the screen door open with your hip. Careful to not spill your drink, you take a seat on one of the rocking chairs on the porch with a sigh.

The sounds of the nearby pier docked with ships and fisherman makes its way even down the rocky dirt roads of Sam’s place, easy against the chirps and rustles of shrikes up above the oak and willow trees around the house.

You don't come to Louisiana to escape noise, life is all around you when you pay attention to it. New York is always awake, even at night- especially at night. Louisiana has a kind of hum that’s different, it feeds your soul.

Curling your feet underneath you, the screen door opens with a wack as Bucky stumbles onto the porch. The moisture of the beer drips down his fingers as he sits down on the adjacent chair to you.

“Sarah kick you out too?” You reply with a giggle as Bucky grumbles under his breath.

“I was just askin’ if we need to make this much food for four people..” Bucky replies, shaking his head with regret as he rests it on the back of the chair.

“Ooh rookie move mister” You reply teasingly, before Bucky cuts his eyes to you

“Oh and asking the equivalent of “are we there yet” is any better” Bucky banters, taking a swing of his beer before immediately grimacing.

“How’s you get Steve to agree to leave you for three weeks” Bucky starts, bringing his feet up to rest against the porch wooden fence.

“Oh I didn’t, Fury called and I just snatched the phone and told him he’d be there” You replied

“And you’re still breathing?!” Bucky replies incredulously

“I’m shocked by myself. But what about you?”

“Me? What about me?” Bucky replies with an eyebrow raised

“Are you staying in Louisiana indefinitely? Makes it a lot easier to convince Dad to move down here too” You continue

“I..I don't know. Maybe. Helping Sam out with the boat and everything has been good. Really good in fact. The people here aren't afraid of me..or this” Bucky points to the vibranium compartments of his arm.

“I wasn’t, I knew they wouldn't be too” You muse, smiling as Bucky looks up at you.

“Thanks kid. Finally starting to feel normal again, part of the community now I suppose. It’s weird, even back in Brooklyn i never felt so..a part of something before”

“Can’t just up and leave ‘em like I would’ve before. Especially when Sam needs my help”

“And Sarah” You add, hiding the smile behind a nonchalant nod.

“Yeah..Sarah” Bucky adds, his eyes glazing over as he leans back, eyes shifting to the towering tree leaves that cover half the sky.

You watch him carefully, seeing the way his leg jitters a little at the mere mention of Sarah, how so in love he is with her and you can’t help yourself anymore.

“You love her, don't you?” You murmur, as Bucky quickly swings his head to look at you.

“Hmp?”

“Sarah?” You inquire, raising your eyebrows with a smirk.

“I see the way you look at her, the way you both look at each other, and I’m here practically every summer break. Which is never”

Bucky’s face morphs from shock to realisation, sitting upright as he scratches at his dark overgrown hair.

“You think she looks at me? I mean, in that way?” Bucky asks after a pregnant pause, his voice quiet and filled with anxious shyness. He can’t even look at you, looking out into the rounding hills of the roads and houses ahead.

“I know she does. Let it be the teenage girl who can tell who is acting like two love sick high schoolers” You grin, as Bucky’s eyes twinkle, unable to hide the adoration and love about to burst through.

“Or let that Chef who came down from Chicago swept her off her feet..what was his name again?” You tease, wiggling your eyebrows as you take a sip of your melting lemonade.

“Easy now, Rogers” Bucky replies with a bark, jaw clenching at the thought of Sarah being with anyone else.

“Foods ready!” Sam calls out from the kitchen window and Bucky helps you up from your seat, tipping out the last of his drink onto the stepped on grass before you both make your way back inside.

The thick book raised high above your face does little to block out the midday sun, you’re lying on the dock, the wooden planks warm underneath your shirt as the ends of your hair dip into the lake’s surface.

It’s a quiet hidden sort of mystical place, off the side of Sarah’s house where practically nobody but the Wilson's and by extension now you and Bucky now know about. Sarah divulged memories of spending new years here with the boys and their father years before, how it seemed likes their own little getaway.

The yellowed pages of Bucky’s first edition Hobbit flick between your fingers as you fly through the adventures of Bilbo and the fantastical realm of Erebor. You notice AJ and Cass’s squeals and laughter suddenly silent, and for the first time since you had laid down you sit upright looking across the grassy field.

The boy’s frisbee you had lost many games to earlier is dashed to the side, and as you wipe lazy exhaustion from your eyes to see Sam pull out a notebook and pen on the rug. Dusting off the dirt from the dock, you make your way through the grassy foxgloved trail towards him.

“Where did everyone go?” You question, throwing the book onto the soft cushioned floor.

“Bucky and Sarah had to take the boys home, AJ somehow ended up hurting himself on grass. And before you ask no I don’t know how”

You giggle before plopping down on some cushions, stretching your arms out with a groan.

It’s easy to talk to Sam. About school, about New York, about life, everything.The unrelenting sun helps ease the discomfort of certain things sure, but Sam has always been your person.

“Whatcha doing?” You ask, looking at Sam scribble some things into the paper

“I like to write sometimes. Not for anyone else, just for myself. Can be about how I’m feeling some days, people I remember, hell even some poetry”

“I tried the whole journal taking thing, the counselor at school said it might be good since I don't have a “conventional family dynamic”. Psycho babble for, everyone you know and love have fought aliens in space and have the capability to take down a government.

“I mean, there was that one time the Quinjet dropped you off at school” Sam chuckled

“That was one time! And that was because Tony hates traffic” You add, shaking your head at the embarrassment of disembarking from a 30 feet aircraft that works as a spaceship.

“But it must be hard, ya know? Having to share your dad with the rest of the world”.

“Hm? Sarah’s boys share you with them too”

“Yeah, but you know it's different. Parents are meant to be plain, they’re meant to live through us. Imprint all their expectations and dreams onto us”

“Well, maybe you should start seein’ things at what they ‘could’ be, instead of what they're meant to be. Sure, I don't have the kind of Dad that comes from the office at 5pm and has days off. But I get..this. You and Bucky, Sarah and a damn Asgardian King as my family. My Dad spent his whole life fighting, showed me what having immovable morals and good character makes of you. Wouldn’t trade it for the world, makes you feel a lot safer when there's an inbuilt super hero team on speed dial too”

“Damn you Rogers and your century wisdom. You spent a couple decades in the ice too?”

“Haha, don't group me with that icicle.

Birds chirp and warm wind tussles the grass you lay on.

“Oh Louisiana"

“Nothing like it ey?”

“In the entire world. Get now why Steve never allowed me to stay longer than a week”

“Why’s that?” “Cause I'd never leave. I'd probably force him to retire and build a house with his bare hands across the road from you”.

Sam chuckles.

The sound of footsteps makes its way from the trail, and Bucky appears rounding the corner, his vibranium arm glinting in the sun.

“Do I hear the familiar crinkling of Guidry’s?” You shout out excitedly as Bucky raises the familiar peach coloured paper bag in the air

“Easy with the goods, Barnes” Sam calls out, before Bucky plops down next to you, ripping open the pastry bag to unveil the perfectly powdered beignets still warm.

“Told Elijah you had come down for a visit and he gave a little extra” Bucky says, before reaching for one of the pastries dusted in snow.

“Yeah…Steve was right” You reply, after groaning at the sweet and airy taste of the most perfect fluffy pastry you have ever tasted

“Bout what?” Sam and Bucky both say in unison mouths filled and faces covered in powdered sugar

“I’m never gonna leave” You giggle, wiping the sugar from your chin.

The sun makes its disembark down the coastline, as tunes of Etta Jones, Rockettes and Hozier murmur from Sam’s faded blue speaker. You fill your stomach on sugary beignets and sweet tea, leaving sticky fingerprints on card faces through hour long games of Euchre through the afternoon light.

41 notes · View notes

rqgnarok · 9 months

Text

catalogue - sam wilson

fandom: marvel, the falcon & the winter soldier

wc: 4,368

warnings: implied smut, mentions of injuries and scars, blood and bruises. neutral pronouns, no use of (y/n).

summary: you and sam don’t get to see each other often, but when you do, there’s a ritual you insist on going through to deal with your time apart.

masterlist / ao3 / ko-fi

You’re a sight for Sam’s sore eyes.

He hasn’t seen you in over six months. It’s an occupational hazard, he knows, but it’s the worst. Being the Falcon made his personal life take a step back in his list of priorities, and becoming Captain America meant setting the list on fire and declaring Sam Wilson’s downtime practically nonexistent. As far as he’s aware, Sarah and the boys are the only exceptions to the rule.

It’s not all on him. You’re an Avenger, too, even if you’re semi-retired. Semi, because the new kids still look for guidance as much as they can and you still keep a room at the Avengers compound because of it, even if scarcely decorated.

You make your entrance by scaring the shit out of him because of course, you have to.

“Is this what you call watching your six?”

Sam puffs out a sound between a scoff and a laugh. It’s always an interesting mix of emotions with you, Sam has never felt so safe and yet unbalanced than when he’s in your presence. It creates a sort of vacuum in his belly that has him feeling like a kid with a crush, but he’ll die before he ever admits that to anyone. Especially you.

“You know you don’t have to sneak up on me every time.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you quip, raising your brows and extending a hand that Sam takes to haul himself back on his feet. You click your tongue. “Gotta say, though, it’s a little less charming now that you’re Captain America. Where does that leave national security?”

Sam rolls his eyes so hard he’s about to give himself a headache, dusting off his ass and giving you a quick once-over, taking advantage of your sudden closeness to do so freely. “Thank Jesus the world still has you, then.”

“Only half time,” you shrug, unaware that Sam knows you’ve spent more time at the Avengers compound than your own apartment lately. If he has a few eyes that check up on you when you’re there, well. It’s only cause he worries. “You and Barnes playing in the Big Leagues leaves a lot of unfinished business for little guys like us.”

“Says the little guy who’s been to space,” Sam uses the same argument he always does when you try to downplay your importance in the job you do. It’s like a script, these meetings of yours, always under the excuse of responsibility until it’s not– until the conversation flows into what Sam has been aching for since the last time he saw you.

You roll your eyes like he knew you would. You’ve been an Avenger since before they had the name for it, so if anyone deserves the semi-retirement, Sam concedes, it’s gotta be you. He won’t pretend it won’t be a big hit when you choose to walk away completely, though. Whether that’s to the business or Sam’s life, well. That’s another conversation.

He misses you. It’s hardly a crime.

“And they’ve still got us doing intel like we’re rookies,” you shrug, lessening your significance anyway. As if you weren’t up there in the cosmos chasing after freaking Thanos, but Sam won’t argue with you about this. You already spend so little time together to waste it building conflicts between you.

“Please,” Sam’s a professional, so he doesn’t make a bitchface and say girl with disbelief coating his tone, but judging from the amusement that glints in your eyes, you read through the lines with ease. “Like we’d let the children anywhere near this.”

“Okay, Dad,” you snort. “How are Torres and Barnes anyway?”

“The kid and his grandpa are fine,” he goes for annoyed but his grin is boyish and unrestrained. “Jealous they weren’t authorized to drop by. This is practically a vacation, you know.”

You shake your head, but all in good fun. “If your bosses have you thinking that then you desperately need some real downtime.”

“This is as close as it gets, these days.”

Torres had flown him all the way to Switzerland just so Sam could go and spend a few weeks in a rustic, semi-abandoned town on the outskirts of the city where an old SHIELD safehouse still stood against all odds.

Why he had to go to the other side of the world for some intel, he asked and got no answer. Now it comes to mind how he has no idea where you– his contact– have been stationed lately nor what kind of work you’ve been pulling for whoever it is you answer to these days.

You don’t tell him about it, and he’s quit on trying to ask. Whether it’s because you don’t think he’ll approve of what you’re doing or because it’s strictly classified, Sam doesn’t know.

“Blink twice if they’re holding you hostage,” you say in all seriousness, and he peels his eyes at you without blinking, getting close to your face. You laugh, pushing him away. “Alright, alright, I get it. You’re one with the nation. Let me show you these files and see what Mr. America makes of ‘em.”

The physical files you actually bring with you are minimal, and most of the data you’ve been ordered to skim through is kept in a USB you hand to Sam as soon as the coffee has kicked in. Neither of you are exactly sure what it is you’re looking for so you’re stuck in the studio of the tiny, look-at-me-wrong-and-I’ll-crumble safe house for over three whole days before you finally start gathering some worthy intel.

“I was told we’d known when we found it,” you shrug, not visibly bothered by the fact that you’ve most likely been sent on a wild goose chase. “Or if we didn’t. We might go back empty-handed after all.”

It’s not encouraging but it’s what you’ve got, even if Sam isn’t sure he’s able to be out of commission for that long. He’s realized people get antsy when Captain America isn’t seen somewhere in the world after a few days, but despite how hard he tries he’s not able to be in two places at once.

“Yet,” he tells you when you take a food break and you allow him to rant about these troubles. “Haven’t figured it out yet, but Steve kind of managed it after a few years, right?”

“Steve was superhuman,” you remind him helpfully behind your coffee cup. You’d found some old whiskey at the back of a cabinet and doused your drink with it, so you make a face when it goes down.

“You don’t think I’m super?”

“I think you’re something, alright.”

“Aw. That was almost a compliment.”

“Can’t let it get to your head, hotshot. Ego’s already too big for your body.”

It’s so fucking domestic Sam feels the ache of it in his teeth. You, sitting at the table in your tiny kitchen while he sits on the counter, each drinking your coffee how you like it as the sun sets through the window above the sink. Talking for hours until you realize you’re practically sitting in the dark as the afternoon flew by while you were taken with each other’s company.

But then you go back to looking at intel until your eyes are burning and you excuse yourself to pass out on the couch. You do it almost half an hour to the dot before Sam gives up himself, and he’s pretty sure you know enough of his tells to know when he’s getting tired and make an early escape so he doesn’t take the couch himself.

“You take the bed,” he’d offered the first night, having a little trouble not making it sound like an order. By how you’d raised your eyebrow, he’d failed by a mile. “God knows where you’re sleeping these days. It’s the least I can do after dragging you all the way out here.”

“You’re the one who keeps saying he’s on vacation,” you take your bags from his hands and drop them unceremoniously on the coffee table, marking the living room territory as yours. “And I’m sure the US government will kill me if I bring you back with a fucked up back.”

He almost suggested you could share. You have before, both out of necessity and leisure, but Sam’s sure that topic’s on the list of Things Not To Talk To You About. It might be the first one up there, in all caps and underlined with bright red.

Sam has both held you down to fuck your brains out and held your bleeding body in his hands, pressing against a gunshot wound to keep blood flow to a minimum. It’s a fucked up type of intimacy he doesn’t share with anyone else, but he’s still hesitant to bring it up. Somehow both events keep happening whether he intends for them or not.

It’s like he’s waiting for the shoe to drop, and it finally does on the fifth day of your assignment.

You ultimately get a lead from the USB. It guides you to search for a random code you insist it’s on a file you’d read through already. You make a noise of victory under your breath when you spot it across the table and when you shift to reach for it, your breath hitches.

It’s a quiet thing Sam wouldn’t be able to acknowledge if he weren’t good at his job, but he is.

“What is it?” he asks, suddenly alert, fingers twitching with the urge to hover over you worriedly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you shake your head. Whatever shadow of hesitance had fallen over you is pulled back into place, tucked away for Sam to blissfully ignore.

You both know that shit won’t fly, but Sam thinks it’s cute you try anyway.

He stares at you and you avoid his eye long enough, face buried in the file, to know you know he’s noticed. It’s a silent request to let it pass.

Tough fucking luck. Sam calls your name, admonishing.

“Sam,” you say right back at him in the same tone, still not looking at him. Sam grinds his teeth in annoyance, jaw tight.

“Are you hurt?”

You shake your head. “I’m fine. You know how it is.”

It’s not a no.

“I do know,” Sam agrees, but his mood’s a short fuse. “Are you grounded? Is that why you’re here? Because you’re hurt?”

Fucking jackpot. You exhale through your nose and tighten your jaw at the question but refuse to answer. You’re a couple of feet apart, divided by the desk filled with files and information, but somehow this is the closest he’s felt to you since you got here.

You’d been hiding something since the beginning; taking the couch when you could’ve been sharing the bed from the start, touching him less than usual so things wouldn’t go further, and moving around the house with rigid, calculated movements.

“Manning the desk,” he says with a little too much bite, and he can physically watch your hackles rise; the annoyance in your eyes when they finally meet his, the biting of your cheek to stop yourself from rising to his sudden passive-aggressive hostility. “Handing me files, giving me intel. You’re flying halfway across the world to keep yourself out of the field.”

“Sam,” you say through gritted teeth.

“You’re hurt,” he replies, not a question, nodding at your torso. It’s all suddenly painstakingly clear, the past week flashing through his mind like a movie from a different point of view. “And you’re hiding it from me, for some reason.”

“Is that all, Captain?” you ask, creating distance with the use of his new title in a way he despises and you know he does. You’re good at that, finding where it hurts and pressing methodically until the skin gives. Sam’s just not used to the trick being used on him. “Or is there something else about my person that you’ve figured out and have yet to enlighten me about?��

“Let me see,” he ignores you. It's easier than trying to match your level of cruel cleverness. He stands to cross over to your side of the desk, staring down at you expectantly with arms crossed. “Come on, show me.”

“No,” you deadpan, but the way you wrap your arms carefully around yourself shows the defensiveness underneath your nonchalance. “Sam, come on, what the hell are you doing?”

“If you’re not hurt, then show me,” he insists but doesn’t reach to touch you without your permission. It’s a line he won’t cross.

“Is that an order, sir?” you snap.

“I’m not your superior,” he replies, even though he is, technically, but not when you’re alone. Not when you’re hurt. “I’m your friend. And right now my friend is in pain, I’d like to be able to do something about it.”

“Like what?” you ask, and it’s as exhausted as it is conflictive. Thunder rumbles outside the house and inside Sam’s chest, two storms coming in. “Huh, Sam? What are you gonna do? It’s part of the damned job. Don’t tell me you’re injury-free right now.”

Sam isn’t. Both old and newer scars put a heaviness on his body he’s not supposed to carry, but he’s not the one hiding right now.

“I can hold you,” he offers and watches the way you look away, imagining the sting in your eyes as they glisten with sudden tears. You very visibly refuse to shed them, tightening your jaw and passing saliva like it’s gravel. “If you’d let me. Let’s not pretend we haven’t done it before.”

“It’s different now.”

“Why?” he wonders, brow furrowing. He does his best to relax his stance and reaches to touch your tight fists where they lay on your lap. With his fingertips barely there on your skin, the tension bleeds out of them like magic almost against your will. “Because I’m Captain America? Because you won’t tell me where you’re stationed half the time?”

“It’s–”

“Classified,” he finishes for you, unmoved. “But you’re still you, and I’m still me. As far as I’m aware, that doesn’t change a damned thing.”

You close your eyes like the words pain you, resolve crumbling right before Sam’s eyes. “I don’t wanna fight with you.”

“Then don’t,” from Sam’s perspective, it’s as simple as that. “Let me see. Let me be with you, please. The last week has been torture.”

You let out a breath of a laugh that’s a little too miserable. “You’re telling me,” you say, and the slope of your shoulders falls from its tense, defensive curve. Sam takes it as the green light it is.

You stand straighter as he kneels in front of you, his hands hovering over the hem of your shirt. He looks to you for permission and you give him a tight nod, staring at the wall instead of him, gulping down your anxieties.

Sam’s breath catches when he lifts your shirt and sees your torso, skin showered in black, blue, purple, and green bruises. “Jesus.”

“It’s worse than it looks,” you say automatically. Sam can’t see how that’s true. It looks like it hurts to even breathe, it’s unbelievable how you were able to hide it from him for so long. “Nothing’s broken, I swear.”

“What the hell happened?” he asks even if he knows you can’t– or won’t– answer. You sigh, and he watches blemished skin shake with the effort it takes.

“I’m alright,” you say instead of the answer he wants, but your voice has softened and lost all fight response. It’s the most vulnerable you’ve been with him since you arrived and it has nothing to do with showing your skin. “Hey, I’m okay. That assignment’s over for good. I’m not going back there, I promise.”

The sigh of relief Sam lets out is shaky and doesn’t relinquish all the tension he’s been carrying. The possibilities of what must’ve happened are gonna haunt him long after this mission’s over.

“I hate it,” he says, and he knows you know what he means. Not knowing where you are, spending more than half the year apart with zero contact, this unease between you that doesn’t let you be honest.

You say, tired. “I know. Sam–”

Sam isn’t touching you– not yet. He’s careful so there’s no skin-to-skin contact, and you look at him with guarded eyes when he lowers your shirt back into place, standing up and towering over you.

“What?”

You breathe air out of your nose, frustrated. “You know.”

A beat. “You sure?” he says, as plainly as he can with the tension that’s grown between you pulling him forward.

“Yes.”

He hums.

“Oh. You gonna let me touch you now, then?” he asks, still under the excuse of medical purposes only. But Sam can’t help the way his voice deepens, molten like honey. His eyes trail over skin that isn’t blemished: the curve of your neck, the lines of your arms, the slope of your fingers.

You shiver under the attention, helpless to hide such a reaction to his voice. “Mmm? Honey?”

“Fuck you,” you say automatically, already opening your legs slightly for Sam to slip in between them, reaching for your jaw. You close your eyes at the touch, sighing away whatever tension remained in you.

You’re too fucking easy, despite the fight you insisted on going through before letting yourself be touched, and something in Sam’s belly tightens at the idea of it being just for him.

Sam’s hands remain on your jaw and throat as he tilts your head up for a kiss, slow and deep, lingering. It’s not long before you open up for him, his tongue sliding into your mouth like it was always meant to be there, coaxing a whine from you while you search for steadiness and settle your hands on his belt. Not pulling, not searching for more– not yet– but keeping him close.

The storm comes and goes and the files in the studio remain forgotten. Sam finally gets you on the bed and, better yet, with him in it.

He’s a little too careful, hands cupping your ribs with extreme caution after finally getting rid of your shirt for good and laying you down against the sheets. You roll your eyes fondly and grab onto his wrists to direct him where you want him.

He doesn’t complain as he takes your directions. The man will greedily take anything you give him in calloused, expert hands as he does his best to pull sounds out of you that are music to his ears.

After it’s over, you both lay in bed, naked and breathless. You find a new scar on him and trace the ragged line of skin gently with your fingertip, touch featherlight, almost nonexistent. It’s been over half a year since you last did this, but only a couple of months since he got himself injured and stitched up by Bucky in the Brazilian jungle. “This one’s new.”

It had been a quick job, good enough considering the circumstances, which is to say Sam now has an ugly, uneven scar a couple of inches above his hipbone that saved him from bleeding out on his partner.

The memory holds no gentleness, but your fingers do. The haze of his previous orgasm leaves Sam pliant under your touch, melted against the sheets and uncaring of your scrutiny. “Barnes?”

Sam makes an affirmative noise, a valid enough question since sometimes he’s admitted to doing patchwork on himself for the sake of the mission, uncaring of how bad it hurts as long as it’s quick and efficient.

“Did it hurt?”

“Like hell,” he admits, feeling safe enough to do so in the cocoon you’ve built for yourselves. Sam runs a hand up and down your naked back as if trying to soothe the brunt of the memory. “Did the job, though. Got us out alive.”

At that, you lean to kiss the skin, only slipping a bit of tongue into it. Sam sighs, ignoring the prick of discomfort that’s trying to crawl up his spine and leaning towards the softer, more tender sentiment that takes over him whenever you get like this. It’s not easy for him to accept such gentleness, to let himself be cared for and lay there, unable to give something back.

He will, in a minute. But he knows you like him like this, and that alone pins him down in his place to let you work. It’d be hypocritical of him, he thinks as his hips twitch with renowned interest, to not let you fret after him when his own worry is what got you here in the first place.

After you’re satisfied, you trail the path Sam’s grown accustomed to, the very same you follow every time you sleep together after a terribly long amount of time:

The knife scar under his pec from when they were chasing after Bucky, still the Winter Solider, superficial enough not to have caused concern at the time. The mark from when he got his appendix out, thinking nothing of the stabbing aches to his belly until he was doubling over in his bed and waking up half his platoon as he retched in the bathroom.

The dot on his finger where Riley accidentally stabbed him with a pencil once, sleep deprived and with two shots of whiskey on him. The wound had healed with ease but the mark made a permanent home on his skin, barely visible unless you leaned in close enough to look for it.

The scab on his knee from falling off his bike when he was six. Sarah had screeched bloody murder until their parents came out of the house to see what all the fuss was about. The scar left behind by a bullet on his right shoulder during his second tour in Afghanistan.

The cut on his lip he got shaving for the first time is always last on your list. Sam has long stopped calling you out on it, how convenient it was that the cataloging of his scars always ended with a thorough, slow kiss to his mouth that usually bloomed into a second round.

He found that you got skittish when he did so, pulling back into yourself and laying tensely in bed for a couple more minutes before you started looking around for your clothes, called out.

Now Sam only cups your jaw, tugs a little so it opens your mouth and he can slip in his tongue and steal a taste of your sigh. He wants you like this for as long as possible; vulnerable, unguarded, desperate to touch him and be touched back. Safe enough to know that you never have to ask for something he wants to give you so willingly.

You always forget. The second you meet again, you have to start the whole dance over. Fish for excuses to meet each other in the middle, hoping for new scars to lengthen your time together.

Sam isn’t a masochist by any means, and he’s not an adrenaline junkie asshat who chases the danger just to have proof on his skin that he can take all the grievances life throws at him.

But. But–

“We’re alright,” you say against his mouth, body warm and seeking on top of his. He’s mindful of your injuries but can’t help himself, the urge to touch you overrules any other instinct he owns. It makes him weak, on the field, but happy off of it. “Aren’t we? We’re gonna be alright.”

“‘Course we are, honey,” his southern charm pops out and you’re both parts equally pleased and unamused, a funny expression on your face that has him laughing as he cups the back of your neck to bring you in for another kiss. “What? What’s with the face?”

“Nothin’, pumpkin,” you imitate his accent and Sam focuses his ministrations on your jaw and neck, trying to get you to break character. “We’re gonna be just fine, sugar plum. You’re sure lookin’ very pretty tonight, peach fuzz.”

Sam splutters out a laugh. “Peach fuzz?”

“That’s what you sound like!”

“See if I ever call you something nice ever again.”

“You can’t resist me,” you say seriously, though a smile keeps trying to break your facade. “You literally lasted five days before taking me to bed. That’s on being weak, Wilson.”

“Some might say it’s a world record for me, baby,” he says, poking at your face until you show teeth, happy and at ease in his arms. “The six months before that were a little bit of a stretch, too.”

Your mood dampens a little but Sam won’t let it, nudging his nose against yours to catch your attention again. “Hey. What did I just say? We’re gonna be alright. Five days, six months, five years, it’s nothing. They mean shit when I get to see you again.”

The mention of the Snap unguards you further. He’d been gone while you tried to keep your life together, ignoring the Sam-shaped void in your surroundings. The first time you got together after he came back had been tainted by the grief of losing three of the best people you’d ever known, and he’d done his own reconnaissance of your skin as he took in new scars, new hurts that had happened and healed while he was gone.

You smile again, but it’s softer, fonder, a tender tilt of the lips for the man you managed to find in this chaotic line of work that became your whole life.

In another five days, you’ll once more be on opposite ends of the world without any idea of when you’ll see each other again or what new marks you’ll have on your skin that describe your time apart. You haven’t even put a name to this– this relationship that both of you are still too hesitant to define as such, but that’s okay.

It’s okay. It’s more than enough. The path of scars will be there to take when you meet again, permanent proof that you’ve survived to find the way to each other over and over and over again. The map that leads to you, every goddamn time.

___

hi!!!

hope you like this one! i’ve been putting this fic on the back burner for almost a month now, but i’m so glad to finally have finished it! i hope to put out the tommy miller sequel for dial drunk next week before school starts :)

thank you for reading, liking, reblogging, commenting, etc.!

#sam wilson x reader #sam wilson #anthony mackie #marvel fanfic #reader insert #captain america x reader #captain america and the winter soldier #catws #bucky barnes #sebastian stan #joaquin torres #danny ramirez #falcon x reader #leo writes #sarah wilson #tfatws #the falcon and the winter soldier

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