Work Text:
1
“This is a shit show,” Sam muttered to himself as he struggled to find a grip on the window. The thing wasn’t designed to be opened from the outside. But at least, in his own infinite wisdom, he had left it unlocked yesterday evening.
Eventually, he pushed it at just the right angle to slide it upwards and open. Then he scrambled off his precarious perch on the wall and half-climbed, half-fell down to the floor of his office.
What kind of weirdo breaks into his own office. What a shit show.
He glanced at the clock on the wall. Six thirty AM. That was good, he still had time to get presentable.
He began to peel the green Falcon suit off him, stripping down to his waist. He rummaged through the little storage closet for the spare shirt and suit he kept there.
He’d started the habit of keeping spare work clothes in the office ever since that time a client’s toddler decided to throw up all over his suit pants ten minutes before he had to talk to a cop about a different case (a bad enough experience at the best of times, made a hundred times worse by the looks he’d been given).
Apparently, it was also useful when living out a double life as a vigilante.
He slid on his shoes and threw a tie around his neck.
Today shouldn’t be so bad, had a kid getting out (hopefully) on parole this morning, and he’d promised his mom he’d accompany her to the hearing. Honestly, he was a decent kid, and they were a good family. Just a string of bad luck.
Hopefully, he’d have time to catch up on sleep afterwards because this was starting to get unsustainable.
He went into the little bathroom and checked himself in the mirror. Thank god he did that, because his face was half covered in blood.
He removed the tie and jacket, and started to clean up the wound on his brow while his brain hurried to think of a plausible excuse for it.
His ribs ached from when Bushmaster had hit him, and his knee was complaining about how he’d landed on it right after.
God, he hoped this hearing would be quick.
“Meow.”
Sam jumped, startled.
He leaned back away from the sink to look across at the window to his office. The window that he’d left wide open.
There was a cat. A kitten. Tiny thing with white and cream fur, and black and brown splotches.
“Meow.”
Sam felt the smile spread unbidden across his face, wincing as it made the cut on his brow sting.
“Hey there, little guy.”
2
“This is a soap opera,” Sam whispered under his breath.
“What?” Steve asked.
“Nothing.”
A fucking soap opera. And no matter how entertaining a soap can get, it did not belong in Sam’s office on a work day.
“... only for another day or so. Just so Peggy doesn’t see Sharon and piece it together.”
Privately, Sam was certain Peggy did not give a flying fuck if Steve was dating her sister, but he held back his own thoughts on the matter. He turned to his file cabinet, continuing to search for today’s paperwork.
“Look,” Sam said. “Leila said she’s cool with Peggy staying at hers as long as she wants. She likes her.”
Sam didn’t mention how Peggy’s presence was kind of crowding him out of Leila’s place.
“Now, Steve.”
“What?”
Sam cleared his throat and gestured with his arm at the office they were standing in.
“What?”
“I said you could sleep here, man, and really that’s fine, but I have work.”
“Oh!” Steve got to his feet, and frantically started to clear up his things with military precision. “I’m so sorry.”
Sam nodded, and turned back to the file cabinet.
“I’ll be off then,” Steve said from near the door. “Oh, Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m… I’m so glad we’re… partners again.” Steve gave him a painfully sincere smile. “I missed you.”
“Yeah, me too,” Sam said, hoping that his own smile met his eyes.
With that, Steve was gone. Sam checked his watch; he had five minutes before his first meeting. Figuring he had enough time to spare for it, he sat down and slumped forward, letting his head fall onto his desk.
“Meow.”
“What do you want?” Sam said, not opening his eyes. “I already fed you.”
Figaro jumped up onto his lap, squeezing himself into the gap between his legs and his torso until Sam sat back and started to stroke him.
“Feels a bit like I’m being used here, Fig.”
“Meow,” Figaro admitted, unashamed.
3
“This is a mess,” Sam said loudly, to nobody.
He was just standing in the middle of his new apartment, amid a sea of unopened boxes. The final one, the last one he lugged up the stairs - no elevator, it was out of order, because of course it was - sat next to his feet. Some childish part of him wanted to kick it.
Another, much louder, part of him wanted to collapse onto a couch. But of course that would require having one, and he didn’t yet.
He’ll call Sarah about that in the morning. See if she knows anyone throwing one out because he didn’t think he was capable of waiting until payday at this point.
This was a good idea, wasn’t it? This was good for him, right?
Not only was he finally moving out of Tork’s place - Lord knows that was a crummy placeholder - but to be on his own. That was good, right?
He’d done good work recently. He’d fought Electro. He’d proved he didn’t need Steve.
This was… This was fine.
He was still standing in the middle of his new, couch-less living room. It had that smell of new paint. Probably the landlord covering up whatever damage or mould Sam would inevitably end up dealing with. He hoped it didn’t have rats. It’s New York, you can never be certain.
Although, Redwing usually dealt with that sort of thing.
Sam walked into the kitchen area. He sighed, torn between making food (bad idea, it would require unpacking his kitchenware), or just going out and buying food (also bad, it costs money and would require walking those stairs again), or just throwing it in and going to bed.
“Meow.”
Sam blinked, was that a cat?
“Meow.” It was muffled, from outside.
He looked up. Right there in the little kitchen window.
“The fuck…”
He’d recognise that little face anywhere. Figaro.
He hurried to get the window open, and Fig delicately hopped down onto the kitchen counter.
“How did you find me?”
Sam was shocked. He hadn’t seen Figaro in years. The poor little thing had hung around his old office like he owned the place, but since they’d moved his department, he hadn’t seen the guy.
“Meow.”
This time his voice was clearer, brighter. He jumped down onto the floor - good, Sam should probably set a rule about him being on the counter - and rubbed up against Sam’s legs.
He looked the same; still pale and splotchy, still tiny and kitten-like.
Damn. Sam was going to have to go out and buy food now. The little guy was practically demanding it.
He rubbed against Sam’s shin harder.
Sam paused.
“Oh, you are not going to like Redwing.”
4
“This is Hell.”
Sam’s phone was ringing again. An unmistakable buzzing that he’d come to resent. What was it, the third time? The fourth time since he’d woken up? No. He refused to acknowledge it.
He knew who it was. Tony Fucking Stark. Again.
And no. Just no. He’d done enough. He’d helped them. He’d Avenger-ed. He’d fought Steve - or that fascist freak with Steve’s face - no. No more Captain America. He was done.
The phone stopped.
Then it started buzzing again.
“Red, could you please do something.”
Sam could tell without looking how fed up Redwing was with him, but he obeyed anyway, swooping over and picking up the phone from his bedside table. Sam could sense him carrying it across the living room and dropping it into the trash.
“Thank you,” Sam said. Honestly, he couldn’t be mad at that.
Redwing returned to his perch in Sam’s bedroom, and Sam rolled over and buried his head in his pillow. Still determined to feel sorry for himself.
“Meow.”
There was a sudden weight on his back. Figaro. He must have left a window open.
“Can’t you see I’m trying to sulk here?” Sam asked. Because yes, he was determined to wallow in this, at least for a moment or so. He’d lost a lot, and he’d kept working through it and goddamnit he was tired.
And that was it. That was the line. No more Captain America. He could figure out who he was later.
“Meow.”
Figaro started to make biscuits on his back, then walked in a little circle and laid down.
Sam was aware that this was going to become really annoying and uncomfortable very soon.
But for now, this was nice. He let himself be comforted by it, and drifted off to sleep.
5
“This isn’t that complicated,” Sam insisted.
“Well, either it is. Either it’s some astrophysics, quantum mechanics level complicated, or it’s straightforward as Hell and you’re just plain wrong,” Misty replied. “I don’t see how he’s not your cat.”
“I dunno, he just isn’t.”
Sam looked at Figaro, curled up on his lap like he owned the place.
“The way he is, how tame he is,” Sam said. “He’s such a people person. He must’ve belonged to somebody before I met him.”
“But he’s lived with you for how many years?”
“I don’t know. Who can keep track of these things?” Sam paused. “I guess he does live here now, mostly. And that’s been a few years, before that he used to hang around at my old office.”
Figaro lifted his head expectantly, so Sam scratched his chin.
They were interrupted by an awful electronic screeching from the panel by the door that told them the delivery guy was here with their dinner.
Misty kissed him on the cheek, then stood to go buzz the guy in.
“He’s one hundred percent your cat,” she said, as she walked to the door. Sam watched her walk; he liked to. “Or, at least, you're one hundred percent his person.”
“I’m not really a cat person,” Sam replied, immediately aware of how ridiculous that sounded when he was sitting on his couch, lovingly stroking Figaro.
“Oh, really?” Misty teased him. She approached the back of the couch, where he was half twisted around to face her. “T’Challa says otherwise.”
She winked.
“Do not even start with that,” Sam said, again aware of the irony. He’d been equal parts complaining and gushing about T’Challa all day.
Misty reached down and tousled his head affectionately.
Someone knocked at the door, and she turned to go answer it and get their food.
“Go and get me some wine, baby,” she said.
“Can’t I just-”
“Don’t you dare ask Redwing.”
Sam remembered the last time he’d done that, and having to mop up that $40 shiraz. Misty had never forgiven that bird.
“You heard the boss,” he said to Fig and carefully slid the cat off his lap. Figaro objected, snagging his claws in Sam’s jeans. “Stop it.”
“Meow.”
Sam eventually stood up, and headed towards the kitchen area. He glanced back, at Redwing snoozing on his perch, and at Figaro, settling down in the warm patch Sam had left behind.
It wouldn’t be home without them.