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Sam unwrapped the plastic off the head of the caramel lollipop given to him by their Nursing AI, and waited out in the bleach-white hallway of their makeshift med bay—an intended ‘games room’ by the condo architect they filed with nursing beds, cabinets and medical supplies—for Clint. He sawed his teeth across the milk-sweet surface, appreciating the sound and the holistic features Tony had programmed into the AI Software.
The small government grant, pitched as a ‘test trial of what they could do’, had funded them a furnished condo with a few office supplies and the rest they made up for with whatever connections they still had or were making. Hence, the Nursing AI donated to them by Tony in place of Stephen and Sam applying what-all they remembered from Medical School. It wasn’t a blow-out start to the ‘New Avengers’, but it was there. A start. And Sam appreciated it.
"Be sure to take the prescribed pain-relievers, Captain Wilson, and rest easy on that shoulder." A voice pigeoned from the ceiling, teal blue illuminating the tiles with each word. Atlanta, their Nursing AI.
Sam smiled, chewing through the lollipop. "I will. And it’s just ‘Sam’."
"I'll be sure to remember that, Captain Wilson." The ceiling said. "Notably, I'd like to discuss your recent psychiatric results. If you have the time."
Sam stopped chewing, bowing his brows and remedying an excuse to leave, when he spotted Clint rounding the corner of the hallway. "Maybe later." He said, patting the wall and jogging over to his boyfriend.
"So, how're the ribs?" Sam asked, offering Clint the remaining half of his lollipop.
"Bad." Clint groaned, biting onto the half-eaten candy. His face was taped in Band-Aids and a stitch was sown over his left eyebrow. "Really freakin' bad. Let's watch ‘Law and Order’, tonight."
Sam skimmed the back of his neck with his hand, fitting a lopsided smile. "Actually, I wanted to talk to you about that. I don't think I--." He began.
"--Captain Wilson has three meetings tonight, plus a scheduled run-through of tomorrow's training drill.” Atlanta jumped in. “Additionally--." It continued.
"See, this is why I didn't want my ‘Notion’ uploaded to the system." Sam spoke to the ceiling.
"Apologies, Captain Wilson. Please continue."
"Nah, I think you got it all."
"I hadn't mentioned the test-flight of the new boosters Tony had suited you." Atlanta added and Sam sighed.
"Thanks, Atlanta,” He muttered, looking back at Clint who was reigning an annoyed look; lips thinned and brows flattened to a faux-neutral expression. “Look, baby, I know I said--"
"That we'd catch up on the missing seasons like three weeks ago." Clint finished.
"Yeah, but now…we have five seasons to watch through. And you love binging!" Sam argued.
“You love binging; I love getting all of Katie’s references.”
"Baby, c'mon,” Sam tucked Clint under his arm, smiling down at him. “I'll let you make me watch ‘The Sopranos’ right after we’re done. Pick whatever we’re gonna eat, too.” He said, playfully jostling Clint’s shoulder.
Clint quietly chewed the lollipop. He glimpsed the pain-relief patches under Sam’s hoodie-collar, drawing his focus up to the coal-shaded colour of his under-eyes. then he sighed. "Three seasons. We're watching three seasons of ‘The Sopranos’." He said and Sam kissed him along his hairline.
"Deal."
"Yeah, yeah,” Clint said, skin cinnamon scented from Sam’s mouth and rose-y-coloured from his tone. “You gonna be okay?" He asked.
"Yeah, just need a power nap. I'm good." Sam said with a shrug. Clint watched him a while longer, humming, unconvinced, then he trudged out of the med-bay, "Three seasons!" He called out behind him and Sam smiled.
"Captain Wilson, if I may." Atlanta said.
"Always do."
"That was sarcasm. However, I too would advise reducing some of your workload and instead spending the night with Mr. Barton. It may alleviate some of the stress--."
Sam bannered a hand up. "Nah, I'm fine, Atlanta. Thanks," He said, moving to the exit.
"You had a panic attack just last week, Captain Wilson,” Atlanta continued, stopping Sam’s gate. “And two more--."
"I said I was fine. Look, if I need help I'll come looking for you and ask. Goodnight." Sam left the Med-Bay, catching the faint sound of Atlanta’s voice—“Goodnight, Captain Wilson.”—echoing behind him. He curved his brows down to the base of his nose, annoyed, apologetic, and fidgeted with the lollipop wrapper still in his pocket. He needed sleep, fifteen minutes, and an energy drink from the communal refrigerator and then he’d come back to apologise.
Sam grunted, massaging the side of his neck. It was sore and cushioned in newly pain-relief patches, distracting him from the low-thrum of his skull, and complimented by the cut-in pain from his shoulder. He’d forgotten to take his prescribe pain-relievers. Instead, he’d drank three and a half cans of Red Bull and stood with his eyes closed in front of the fridge. It had felt like a break, at the time.
"Sam, you here?" Steve spoke from the computer screen on the desk.
Sam sat up in his wobbled desk chair. "Yeah. I'm here. EU wants a conference and T'Challa bought a new cat." He joked.
"If you have places to be, Samuel, you can say that." T'Challa said, boxed in the frame of the group Zoom call.
"I do," Sam shrugged. "But you like me here too much."
"Sam, he means you look distracted." Steve interrupted.
"I'm not. I'm good."
"You sure, Wilson?" Groaned the voice of the Assistant Secretary of National Defence, currently overseeing the New Avengers. "Because your performance in China Town last week was less than savvy."
"We got everyone out, no injuries, and minimal to none property damage. I'd call that pretty savvy, sir." Sam said.
“And I wouldn't call multiple collapsed store fronts minimal, Wilson. Nor would my boss. You know," He took a sip of coffee while Sam slid into his chair, dreading a run-on speech. "We took a real risk on you and spent a lot of money doing it. We expect results and--."
"--compliance, I know, sir and I'll get back to you when restraining a mutant running through China Town altering matter and threatening store owners becomes a cleaner affair." Sam finished. Steve punctuated a sigh and T'Challa let a sly grin cross his stoic features.
The Assistant Secretary scoffed. "Just what I expect from a bunch of pretend heroines." He said.
"As opposed to your very honest work of profiling citizens." Sam said, leant back in his seat, tipping onto its hind legs with his foot. He was smirking.
The Assistant Secretary glowered at Sam. "I'll be expecting a performance report handed in by Monday. Try not to waste any of my time." He said then ended the call on his end. T’Challa followed with a quiet chuckle, leaving Steve alone with Sam.
"Sam…" Steve began wearily, emphatic wrinkles crossing his forehead.
"What?" Sam said.
"I know he's difficult--."
"He's an asshole."
"That too,” Steve hung up a hand for Sam not to interrupt. “But he's our only funding. Your only funding. We need him on our side and if that means playing nice--."
"I am."
"—and being polite, even to an irony-deficient ass, then that’s what we need to do." Steve finished.
Sam didn't say anything, letting the silence and his poker-expression playout, Steve holding his stern-talking-to-expression to contrast, until James walked through the glass door of the small office space, a tuna salad in hand. Sam smiled and leaned into the mic. "Gotta go, lunch." He said and ended the call before Steve could contest him. It was childish, but it felt good.
"Was it his ‘be-a-team-player’ speech?" James asked, sliding the container along the glass of the table to Sam and sitting down with a cup of Starbucks, boots perched on the following chair.
Sam popped open the container of salad, divvying the black olives with his plastic fork. "Yep. I think he thinks if he changes the words around a few times I’ll suddenly get patriotic and play along.”
“Has he pursed his lips yet and told you this nation was built on comradery?” James said and Sam laughed, the friction chaffing against his chest until he held down his ribs with a hand. It hurt, but it was a good joke and he quietly wheezed the rest of his laugh. “No, not yet. But it’s coming.” He said.
James passed his half-empty, lukewarm, Starbuck’s cup to Sam who drank it with a mouth of lettuce. It was sweet and peppery, not flat with no milk, and Sam got that James had bought it for him.
"How's the team?" Sam asked; James was his Vice-Captain, the day-to-day management, while Sam sat through meetings and paperwork.
"Good. Scott cried so I know am nailing the drills." James said.
Sam laughed through his nose, "Can you please stop increasing our employee turnover rate; it's becoming a handful to print out so many 'looking for hire' posters."
James shrugged and waited for Sam to finish what was left of the Starbucks cup, let out a relaxed sigh, and then he spoke again. "How are the panic attacks?" He asked.
Sam dipped his eyes and poked through his salad. Annoyed behind a nonchalant expression. "You know I hate how direct you are?" He asked.
"Yeah, I know."
Sam ate through the rest of the salad, taking his time, then he looked up. "Good." He shrugged.
"Panic attacks don't get 'good' Sam. They get infrequent." James said.
"Mine do," Sam said, continuing before James could. "I need you to see Tony about those avian targets he's working on. Take Peter with you."
James sighed, letting the conversation continue rather than re-treading a tried intervention. “I hate Peter.” He said.
"Exactly," Sam stood up. "Team bonding, show him around Manhattan." Then he left the room, angry. His stomach latched onto the coffee and salad and he realised James’ coy-front of food was meant to slow him down a bit, have him talk and admit to some form of misstep. It was calculating, and it brushed up against Sam’s nerves.
Sam was on a white-sheeted medical table, a bandage dabbed onto the bridge of his nose by tactical robotic hands; a tool-box sized, hovering white-cuboid with metal arms prodding out version of Atlanta. He had finished the performance report, remaining two meetings, run-through James' training drill for tomorrow and tested his new boosters—flying around the compound for three hours. Then he'd walked into an open door. Eyes bleared from exhaustion. He was surprised he hadn’t crashed while flying, but he preferred this.
"Please try to be careful in the future when navigating doors, Captain Wilson." Atlanta advised, reaching into a drawer and handing Sam a butterscotch lollipop. "I would advise a meal before eating this." It said and Sam smiled at it.
"Thanks, Clint's making casserole." He said, unwrapping the head.
"Mr. Barton's cooking is quite admirable. I suggest you dine with him then turn in for today."
Sam stuck the candy in his mouth. "I will. Thanks," He said, walking out and then stopping. “I’m sorry about earlier, about yelling at you. It wasn’t cool. You were just helping.”
The laminated screen on the front face of the cuboid typed out a string of keyboard symbols: :). “It’s quiet alright, Captain Wilson. Stress causes aggravation and mild short-temperedness. I don’t take it personally.” It said.
“Thanks.” Sam said again and headed towards the office space on the other side of the condo, where his computer was. He knew he had lied to Atlanta, a few people, but he needed to organise next week’s activities and supervise a donation site to help with their funding. He couldn’t have dinner with Clint, couldn’t sit down or go to sleep or talk about his panic attacks.
Sam’s stomach curled, eating through itself, and he remembered a half-eaten packet of Lays he had left in the top cupboard, behind a box of oat-meal cereal where no one would look for it. He turned to the living area, a hall down from the staircase to the office, and spotted a Tweety-Bird sticker outside the doorway—another one just past the entrance.
"Y'know we're low on cash, right?" Sam asked, assuming James had bought and placed the stickers around the area to mess with him. Then he remembered neither James nor Peter had returned from visiting Tony’s lab in upper Manhattan. Sam followed the stickers to the couch and found the cushions torn off and built into a uneven cube; love-seats structuring the walls, blankets working as a roof and laundry patching any leftover holes.
Sam tilted his head, stepping towards the mound of furniture and peering close. He didn’t hear much inside. Then a hand reached out and pulled him in. He yelped, a blanket crashing into his face before he pulled it down. Inside was hollow save for Christmas-fairy-lights and Clint.
"Could you not pull me into weird places?!" Sam yelled.
"Weird?" Clint echoed, pulling a bowl of casserole from behind him.
"Half of the roof is loop-sided." Sam said.
"Well, that's what you can do with five large cushions and some love-seats. We really need more furniture." Clint said, passing Sam the bowl of casserole. It was a cheese and beef mixture, peppered in basil and olives with a plastic fork stuck through.
"Yeah, I'll include it in the budget." Sam said, sarcastically. "What's this?" He continued, stirring the plastic fork through the bowl.
"A casserole?"
"Thanks, I mean why are you building forts and pulling me into them?" Sam asked, chewing a forkful of casserole. It was sweet and savoury, rumbling through his body in a warm heap, and he sighed, taking another forkful.
"I don't know, why are you working yourself to death?" Clint asked. His face was blank, carefully reigned, and it irked Sam.
Sam chewed another bite, avoiding Clint's eye line. He shrugged. "I'm not."
"Right, I'm sure everyone works ninety-five hours in the week and sleeps for two." Clint said.
"Exactly," Sam took another bite of the casserole. It was good. "This is good; you made this?"
An annoyed look shot through Clint’s placidness and Sam hitched the side of his mouth, grinning. "What, I'm just saying--.” Sam began.
"—I wish you wouldn't do this to yourself so much." Clint cut-in, face convulsed to a frown.
Sam chewed and swallowed another bite, then it went silent for a while. He put down the bowl. "Look, baby, I'm fine--." He started.
"—no, Sammie, you're not. And I wish you wouldn't do that with me. The 'I'm fine, just be a good, happy boyfriend’ bullshit. It's fucking tedious!” Clint rushed, shouting. He was glaring at Sam now.
"Sorry..." Sam said, unsure where it came from. He wasn’t more or less apologetic Clint was yelling as he was frustrated he couldn’t act well enough for him not to. His bad habits were on display now.
"No, you're not." Clint muttered. It hit Sam between his ribs and the small space became dour, deflating to a suffocating bubble.
"Sorry…” Clint said after a minute. His face was red. “…that's not what I wanted to do. I'm just so fucking worried all the time, and you won't talk to me or Buck or Atlanta's Physiatrist software. I don't know what I'm supposed to do, Sammie..."
Sam laughed drily. His throat was tight. "I know, I'm sorry." He said. He didn’t want to wear Clint down like this, upset him into yelling. He didn’t want to worry him all the time.
Clint hummed, falling back into a cushion and groaning loudly. "This isn't how I wanted our night to go." He whispered.
"Yeah, me neither." Sam said.
Clint moved so half of the cushion was unattended, footing Sam’s knee to invite him down. Sam stuck another forkful of casserole in his mouth and lied down next to Clint, their feet stretching past the boarders of the fort into the open living-room and shoulders brazing against each other.
“I’m not going to sleep.” Sam said, muscles easing into the soft, woollen texture of the cushion. It felt nice.
"I know." Clint said.
Sam thumbed a lock of hair from Clint’s face, knowing how little he’d seen of him since the New Avengers. It was ironic and it tunnelled through his chest into his stomach, making him sick. He hummed through the guilt. “I’m sorry.” He said again.
"It's fine; stop saying that."
It was quiet in the condo, sprinklers jutting water out in the yard and running refrigerator filling the usual conversation between team members. It had been five minutes, and it was the longest Sam had been un-busy in five months. He let out a breath, chest stuttering into an uneasy rhythm until he counted back from ten, fiddling Clint’s hair.
“Being a leader for the first time is…hard. There, I said it. You happy?” Sam said after a minute.
“Was it that freakin’ hard?”
“Yes,” Sam said, dramatically, then his features weighed down into a slight-frown. “The media…the government’s doubting my credibility. I didn’t want my team doubting it, too.” He said, quiet. Clint’s face mimicked him, hand cupping his face and thumb stroking the bandaged-ridge of his nose.
“Admitting you're struggling doesn’t ruin your credibility, Sammie.” He said.
“Yeah, well, it feels like it.” Sam sighed, closing his eyes. Fatigue ran over his body in tidal-fashion, sinking him down into the cushion. He wasn’t sure if he could stand up again, the staircase to the office space stretching further and further in his head.
“Sammie…” Clint moved his thumb from Sam’s nose to across his cheek, stroking his under-eye. “Quit pretendin’ to be asleep and listen to me.”
Sam scrunched his nose. “Don’t lecture me.” He said, eyes still closed.
“I’m not,” Clint said, propping himself on his elbow. “Babe, the whole point of a team is that you can rely on us. That’s the whole point. You don’t gotta do everything alone...”
Sam didn’t say anything, brows stubbornly wrinkled.
“And right now, we need you to take care of yourself,” Clint continued. “For the team. Hell, for me. I can’t see you like this anymore...” He said then it went quiet again, Sam’s brows trenched at the bridge of his nose until he took a deep breath and exhaled, relaxing them into an arch.
“Okay.” Sam said, quiet, and Clint’s brows curved into a question. “Okay, ‘really’ or okay, ‘I’ll say whatever it takes to get you to stop talking’?” Clint asked.
Sam chuckled lightly. “Okay like ‘I’ll try’,” He said. “Okay, like…’I’m sorry I’ve been such a bad leader’, and thank you for being a good boyfriend.”
Clint smiled at Sam. “Okay.”