Archive of Our Own

Some time has passed since then . Steve won’t call it the incident (because that seems too paltry, too trite a word to encompass everything that happened); he won’t call it the end either (because that is too loaded, too heavy to sit comfortably on his tongue, in his mind and in his heart). So, it’s just since then . And that’s just fine with him. For now. (He could look at it as a beginning, and he’s likely to do just that soon enough, but just not yet. Not yet .)

Steve has had to adjust--always in more ways than one--but this time it’s intel gathering. Fury’s off the grid (not that he’d trust Fury to give him what he needs, except that now he likes to think that maybe he might), Natasha’s gone (and he tries to not think about the small hole she left behind. He’d meant what he said that day, he would trust her now and no matter how much she may dispute it, there’s an underlying friendship that began and grew on that mission) and he’s unsure of just whom he can trust enough. But, he’s parsing it out because that’s just what he does.

And, it’s not been all bad. Hill is working at Stark Industries now (much to Tony’s chagrin, he knows. He’s got no hope with Pepper and Maria around), and gives leads when she can. Plus, in his new abundance of downtime (it can’t always be about the search; Steve would likely kill himself trying to find Bucky if he wasn’t told (read: forced) into slowing down sometimes), he’s gotten to know Sam better. He’s been the support that even Steve didn’t realize he needed.

When they’ve got time (which is usually every morning; Steve has trouble sleeping most nights and not just because of a soft bed, but images that flit fast through his mind, time etching itself back together, memories slotting into place about his past, and it makes him desperate sometimes in wanting to find Bucky), they still do those morning runs. (Sometimes Sam can’t sleep either. For a while his dreams had slowed, nearly stopped completely. But being airborne once more, ballistics firing in his face, singeing the hairs on his arms… it brings up the past and he doesn’t sleep as soundly anymore. But he wouldn’t trade it in for anything.) They don’t talk much about it, just pull on their shoes and take off. It’s a strange routine, but it’s theirs and it works. Sometimes Steve talks to him afterward over breakfast--usually something about Bucky or about the war--and Sam just listens. It’s rare he offers advice, he knows that’s not what Steve is looking for and knows that when he wants it, all he ask to do is ask.

The point is, though, is that they have that steady routine amidst all the questions. And for Steve, that’s a huge comfort. Every once in a while, he still chimes “On your left.” as he laps Sam on the third or fourth (sometimes more) go round. It’s kind of their thing. (And Sam knows it’s a little bit cheesy, but he’s got an inside joke with Captain America and that’s cool as hell.) Sam’s gotten over the fact he’ll never lap Steve, and that’s fine.

Except, it’s a small handful of months later when a pretty large package gets delivered by Hill, courtesy of Stark Industries. (She doesn’t look happy to be there, snaps that she’s not a courier, but offers an off-hand apology because it’s not Sam’s fault, but Stark is driving her batshit (Sam’s word, not hers). But all the same, she smiles before she goes and tells him to think about it as his “welcome to the team” gift.)

And, well, as happy as Sam would’ve been with just a postcard induction or even having it scrawled on a napkin (what? Some things are worth being sentimental over!), this is pretty damn impressive.

It’s early the next morning when Steve heads out for their usual run alone, Sam feigning sleep as Steve silently creeps out into the early morning light. He waits only five minutes, knowing Steve is already down in the city enough and will be at their usual spot soon enough, before leaping out of bed to put his new gear to the test.

The wings work like a charm (Stark somehow made them lighter and more durable, so super sleek. When he twists and turns to look at himself in the reflection of a plate glass window, he can’t help but think how sexy they look. Yeah, he’s preening, but whatever. They’re amazing, basically. If he’s smitten with them, well, that might be true.), like he knew they would. Somehow he’ll have to thank Stark, but he’ll think about that later. Sam takes off like a bullet toward the Capitol, somehow containing his childish glee at the way he slices through the air again.

It’s easy enough to spot Steve as he rounds the corner of the Reflection Pool. There’s not too many runners out yet. Sam grins, it pulls across his lips like the slash of a very devious knife, as he slows enough to bring himself closer to the ground.

“On your right!” he bellows behind a tumbling laugh and an echoing whoop.

Steve is startled enough that he jumps, losing his balance just as Sam’s hand connects with his shoulder. The following splash in the water is enough to set Sam to a split second silence, but it’s rapidly followed by hilarious laughter. Circling back, the wings are folded in and he stands on the edge, offering a hand up.

“Alright?”

For just a quick moment, Steve stares at Sam as the water drips down his face, silent and contemplative. But, he reaches out, taking the offered hand. “Yeah--” then promptly tugs him in. “You?”

Sam hits the water face first, sputters, then flails around until he rights himself, gagging and spitting in an overly dramatic sort of way. “I think it went in my mouth.” He nudges Steve before standing. “Dirty trick, Rogers.”

“Could say the same to you, Wilson.”

“Alright, alright. Truce?”

Steve looks at him, lips pursing in a thoughtful sort of way. There’s something here that he could say about how this sort of interaction breeds the sort of normalcy in his life that he needs in his life right now. But, he doesn’t. Instead, he just slings his arm around Sam’s shoulders, steering them away from the water.

“I suppose. Your treat for breakfast, though.”