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In a different universe, at this very moment, Steve Rogers, the current Captain America, and Natasha Romanoff, the famed Black Widow, were supposed to wash up on the doorstep of Sam’s D.C. residence. There he would take them in, reveal his top-secret qualifications, and forever be dragged into the heroics and tragedies of the Avengers.
But not in this one.
10:37 AM
District of Columbia, United States of America
Sam had just finished getting prepared to face the day. It was his day off, though, so he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself, hence his late start. He was never really certain, even on the good days.
He set about tidying the same tidy shelves and dusting nonexistent dust, anything to keep his hands moving. It was these empty days that he wondered why he didn’t accept Sarah’s request to move in with her and help her with the business. Then he wouldn’t be quite as alone, he’d have a purpose, and, on his days off, he could work on his folk’s boat in the sunshine.
Then he would be reminded why he didn’t. His sister had it covered; he would just be overstepping. He can’t be around the kids yet. Sarah says that’s nonsense, but he can’t get tiny hands and concave chests out of his mind. He doesn’t quite trust himself at night. He’s so much better off here.
These traitorous thoughts swirl around his head every time he has downtime. They seek him out in the silence and follow him into every conversation. Anytime he has a moment to think for himself, he starts thinking of how alone he is. That’s why he works so hard to work through other people’s minds. It’s so much safer when it’s not his own.
He ended up dropping a glass. It was almost slow-motion how he watched that delicate sculpted basin fall, hand outstretched in a too-slow, too-late effort to save it. He could see it shattering, scattering, arranging itself like a last-ditch defense across his wood floor. He could almost see those shards turn to red-smeared white and the smell of copper filled the room. The cup bounced twice before rolling up against a chair.
Sam was still frozen, watching shards settle and bodies bounce.
He sank onto the couch a good ten minutes later with a half-frozen, half-boiling microwave burrito, and a lukewarm beer. It was time to see what the rest of the world was up to.
Simpsons. Na.
Comercial.
Raur! Eh.
Comercial.
The right! Nope.
Then the left, also nope.
Breaking News: Captain America, Fugitive at Large!
Dinosaur Train. Maybe.
Wait. Sam backed tracked.
Didn’t he just talk to Steve? Wasn’t that today? Yesterday?
Why is there no information about this online?
What happened?
Well, Sam couldn’t really care. What could he do, right? He couldn’t stop thinking about it, though. It just got him thinking about all the scapegoat vets who are just trying to live their lives and move on, who are harassed and used as examples to the public. Steve was just trying to adjust, now he’s wanted for who knows what? It just sickens Sam.
He got up to get another beer. All out.
Well, he needed eggs and was running low on bread, and it was his day off. Why not go to the store, and be productive today?
His jacket and keys were still sitting by the front door. Upon grabbing them it revealed the lone pistol he keeps here for his conscience’s sake. He stared at it for far longer than usual before deciding to take it. He strapped it around his waist not quite knowing what’s come over him.
It’s a crazy world he supposes, Captain America is under arrest after all.
He felt sillier and sillier the farther from home he got. Shooting down the highway in a half-ton car going 60 and he felt the need to have a gun around his waist. It was such a normal, safe thing to do. He was just driving down the road to get some groceries. This is the freedom dream of every teenager. It’s calm. It’s domestic. It’s safe.
But there is a man on top of that vehicle.
And then a lot of things happened very fast.
The man on top somehow ripped the steering wheel clean out of the car and threw it, which hit Sam’s car on the hood. He death-gripped his own mostly out of adrenaline, but also partially out of sympathy for the poor car.
Sam was a vigilant, blind spot-checking, ex-flying ace in the driver’s seat. That being said, Sam slammed on the brakes and was promptly rear-ended so hard his car kept speed for a solid second.
When the screeching and grinding of metal and insistent droning of horns came back into focus, Sam realized he was upside down. His second realization came with the frantic unbuckling and slamming of the door. It also came up in heaving hacking waves.
It didn’t even surprise him at this point that, when he looked up, the man from on top of the roof was standing over him. Well, not quite over him as opposed to in front of him shooting down over the railing.
It registered somewhere in Sam’s mind that shooting in a populated city was a bad thing.
Someone seemed to agree with him because the next thing he knew he was sitting across from the man whipping off his cracked goggles where someone had shot the most likely terrorist.
He was barely even looking at Sam. Sam meant nothing to this man. Despite the emotionless eyes and the many weapons on his person, Sam’s next sentence made perfect sense to the whiplashed, most likely concussed ex-pararescue. For what is Sam good for if not helping people?
“You good?”
There was the faintest flash of confusion as the man roamed those lifeless eyes over every inch of Sam. Then that gun was an inch from his face.
“Maximise witnesses,” the man mumbled as he rose in a single, graceful, effortless move that had Sam’s knees aching just watching.
The man turned to the approaching guns and shot out rapid-fire words in a foreign tongue. Sam tried his hardest to look dead. He was doing pretty good if all the men scattering had anything to say about it.
So, Sam now finds himself in the middle of a terrorist act of some sort. He has no idea what they want besides lots of people to see it. They don’t want him dead, but he’s not pushing it. Oh, and he has a gun, so the cops are so gonna somehow link him to this mess even if he sits here for the next hour or so playing dead.
The less scary gun guys were still shooting from a few feet away. That gun sat heavy in its holster.
“The world has enough heroes, Samuel,” his sister would say. “It needs more good people, and you can’t help if you’re dead.”
Well, right now, being dead isn’t helping. Not when he can actually do something to help. Sorry, Sarah.
Sam heaved himself up and positioned himself behind his flipped car. Poor car. These terrorist dudes better have good insurance.
He has the element of surprise right now. He needs to make the most of it, but he really doesn’t like not knowing where the freaky guy went. Like, did he just vaporize? Did he fall over the side? Helicopter lift? Naw, Sam would have at least heard that one. He’s not that concussed.
His first two shots hit their mark before the rest of the guys turned to find the shooter. Sam was long gone by the time returning fire was shooting into innocent vehicles. Most were abandoned at this point. Sam was slowly shaking the guilt of not checking first before drawing fire.
Fantastic idea Sam. What did he hope to gain from this? Well, they aren’t shooting at the innocents now. He needs to get to a better vantage point.
He took up camp in the bed of a pickup truck. Caught thinking that a Toyota was an awfully sad hill to die on, he realized that the gunmen were all gone.
Great, this is why we don’t play hero, Sam. Where’d they go?
They apparently propelled down the bridge. Good to know they can’t literally poof at least.
This is the part where Sarah gives him that look she picked up from Ma. That one with the hip out and the raised brows. The clicking in their tongues almost came together. The one that is telling Sam to stay where he is or so help him God.
Well, war is often a Godless place. Maybe he’s just in need of some good people doing the right thing. Maybe some good people just need a hero. Maybe God can forgive this wanna-be hero because Sarah Wilson sure won’t.
Grabbing the proper gear off of cooling bodies shouldn’t have been as natural as it was. Launching himself back into the firefight shouldn’t feel this right. Being arrested alongside the wanted Captain America and a freaky lady giving off somehow more killer vibes than the man on the bridge also shouldn’t have felt as easy as it did.
It felt like for the first time since Riley went down, he knew what to do. His hands were still behind his back. He knew the direction his life was going. He was finally right. He was sure of it, or maybe that was the concussion speaking.
One of the guys with the guns turns out to be a lady who is here to free them—well, not all of them.
“Who’s this guy?”
“Sam? What are you doing here? How are you here?”
“Man, you’d never believe me, but I’m having the time of my life right now.”
That’s the thing with fate, God, maybe even intuition. It often leads us to where we need to be. Whether that is to each other, or down the road just that little bit farther. Sam Wilson was always ready to put those wings back on and soar. He just needed a little push, and maybe some whiplash. Good people find themselves in the moment, and heroes find a way to help. This universe will be just fine. I’ve never been more sure of it.