"Everyone in me is a bird. I am beating all my wings."

- Anne Sexton

After Clint and Scott had bid everyone a heartfelt goodbye, Sam got to work on his pack.

It always needed a little maintenance, especially after Stark got his hands on the design and upgraded a few dozen (unnecessary) things without his permission. The simple carbon fiber skeleton and wings, good enough for the Air Force's best test-pilots, was evidently not enough for an Avenger.

Though Sam, like most reasonable people, enjoyed getting new gear and playing with complicated gadgets, the upgrades were not worth the amount of shit Stark gave him every time they disagreed.

"No, who would care about my opinion. I just pay for everything. I just make everyone new million-dollar toys for free. I just build them fancy human-wings so they can fly, despite the fact that the whole wing thing is ridiculous in the first place. Like, why wings? Just strap rockets on your feet. That's what I do."

After Stark had arrived at the Avenger's clubhouse in upstate New York, he had tripped his way through some pretty tense introductions with Sam. The whole conversation was a colorful blur but quite a lot was crammed within its measly minutes, including Stark making an ironic and tasteless joke about the disaster of U.S. involvement in the Middle East and Sam calling Stark a prime piece of bourgeois shit. Then Sam had marched off to work on his wings, which ultimately had been a fucking mistake, because Stark had followed him.

Sam had already managed to fix up the pack that the Winter Soldier had torn apart, bar a few adjustments to the retraction function and a couple missing sheets of carbon fiber in the actual wing part. Sam had the carbon fiber, having collected on a few favors from several engineers in the AF willing to hand off some scraps, but the measurements he had (stupidly) pulled from the blueprint were slightly dated and the sheets weren't fitting with the skeleton. The wings themselves were incredibly strong but had to be delicately put together in order to maintain the flexibility of the engineering and materials. Unfortunately, after Riley's death, the military had dropped the whole program and destroyed the latest files of research so as not to encourage such a costly endeavor again – the first time in history the US Defense Department had erred on the side of caution when their soldier's lives were at stake. Being that Sam was literally the last survivor of the Falcon program and the only person left in the world who could actually use the flight packs, all the research was deemed useless, along with all the good Sam and his team had accomplished.

They had tried to send Sam off to the Space Program after he finished up his last tour, but, to Sam, flying only meant something when it was in defiance of falling. In defiance of everything that pulls a person down. His skills were for people, bleeding out and scared, waiting for someone to swoop down from the sky to heal them, to see them, to be with them in their suffering. NASA was for those sweet idealists in the world; not for Sam, who had planted his feet in the earth and committed to it every time he took to the sky.

Sam had been so ready to use his training again and there was just nothing so singularly satisfying as rebuilding his wing pack: finding out all the little things he hadn't known before, all the jobs of the construction he'd been absent from, before he was invited into the test-flight program. All he needed were the molding tools to get the carbon fiber sheets just right. Sam had asked Hill and Hill had asked Stark if he had anything to share. Stark had taken over and basically bulldozed all of Sam's hard work in favor a machine that was more war than anything the US military had ever designed for EXO-7 Falcon.

After Sam and Stark had a shouting match that revealed precisely how disparate their worldviews were, Sam had stormed his way to the gym where Steve was training with Wanda, grabbed him by the forearm, and marched him out to the training field so Sam could vent as loudly as he wanted.

Steve had sat there for nearly an hour listening to Sam's enraged lectures about:

- the history of the EXO-7, how it was made for Pararescue,

- not made to hold as many tank missiles as physically possible,

- how maneuverability was the whole priority,

- that having so many complicated and computerized mechanisms was completely beside the point, subverting the mission, wrecking decades of research, spitting in the face of all the PJ's who had given their lives for a program that made such a big difference in the survival rates of combat soldiers on the front lines,

- and how some war profiteer literally can't take his head out of his ass long enough to understand the delicate engineering required for such an advanced project,

- a project that is absolutely not a fucking weapon.

Steve had looked some combination of infuriated and giddy by the time Sam had quieted down and collapsed on field beside him.

"Yeah," Steve had said, while Sam caught his breath. "He pisses me off, too."

Which was a goddamn understatement – Sam hadn't realized how supremely petty Steve could be until he saw Steve in the presence of one Anthony Stark. Which was probably why Steve was trying so hard not to grin at the fact that Sam hated Stark just as much, if not more.

"He tried to add a few things to my shield once," Steve continued. "That was about the only time I invoked Howard's name to get my way with him."

"What the hell did he want to add to your shield?" Sam asked bewildered.

"Something about precisely placed explosives that would rebound in just the right way, turning the whole thing into some sort of bomb enhancer."

"That's completely missing the goddamn point!" Sam had shouted. "Literally the whole point of a shield!"

And then Sam had launched into another rant about:

- the irresponsibility of over-weapon-izing tools,

- how Tony wasn't the only person who understood aeronautical engineering (yeah, thanks, Sam doesn't have that Bachelor of Science for nothing),

- and how Sam doesn't have time to continually be checking up on all the overcomplicated additions to his precious pack, making sure nothing spontaneously combusts or just stops working when he needs it most.

Steve, bless his artistic heart, just nodded along in support to all of Sam's jargon filled shouting.

"I don't really know what any of that means," Steve had said while Sam was steaming (in detail) about Tony's lack of respect for the nuanced combination of lift capabilities and turbo pulse three-dimensional movement, and how wings that require working with the atmosphere instead of against are always going to be better off, as long as you have the proper training, because the path of least resistance is literally always the best option when it comes to engineering – especially transportation engineering. "I have a fine arts degree and can't really comment, but I absolutely trust you to know what's right for your wings. Even over Tony."

Which had then started months of tension and bitter compromise, ending with Sam conceding most autonomy over the million-dollar wing pack because he couldn't afford the upkeep on his own. And Steve being the ever-loyal audience to Sam's weekly meltdowns over what Stark had most recently done to his pack.

To say that Sam was feeling vindicated about finally getting a chance to work out the kinks on his own wings was an understatement.

Steve had made sure to give them all a chance to grab their confiscated suits, weapons, and other essentials, while he had worked out a way to free Wanda from that frankly sickening contraption. Sam had been bitter enough at that point to want to just leave it all behind, the wings, the suit, the weapons, even the fight. But then just a brief vision of being able to fly like he used to, no heavy grenade launchers or unwieldy reinforcements put in place to make the wings do things they weren't designed to do, laughing in the air as the world spun underneath him, the smell of ozone and bone-chilling mist of clouds – well, it wasn't much of decision, really.

Now Sam was tinkering in an incredibly nice lab while Bucky talked with some of T'Challa's genius scientists and Wanda avoided talking with Steve, no matter how reluctant she was to leave his side.

(Everyone had been more than a little concerned when Steve had shown up sans shield. He had given a bullet point summary of what had happened in Siberia, but seemed unwilling to delve further into it until Bucky was taken care of and Steve could properly rest. Sam doubted Steve had properly rested since finding out Bucky was alive, maybe since waking up from the ice.)

So Wanda was coping with her trauma by watching out for Steve, Steve was coping with his trauma by watching out for Bucky, Clint, as the most well-adjusted one in a surprising plot twist, was heading back to his family and dragging a cheerful Scott with him, and Sam was coping by taking care of his fucking wings. Finally.

"Did Stark design these?" a somber voice echoed across the lab from behind him.

Sam flicked a glance over his shoulder before turning back to greasing a stubborn joint that wouldn't unstick. T'Challa was standing in the doorway, looking very handsome and Kingly. Though he had a ridiculous cat-shaped costume – and it was ridiculous, no matter how cool the claw thing was – T'Challa exuded an pure sort of authority. A precious and unchallenged attitude of justified entitlement that Sam would normally secretly chafe against were it not for the fact that T'Challa was black royalty. A part of his brain couldn't help but trust this guy. Such a trust may, at this point, be largely unfounded because politicians do so love to disappoint. But, hey, T'Challa was letting them crash for a few days and giving the world's oldest POW a bit of long-awaited peace, so Sam thought that his instinct was right.

"He kind of designed it," Sam muttered, but then immediately qualified it with, "Actually, that's way too generous."

"May I have a look?"

"Sure thing, cat-man," Sam said, giving up on the stubborn joint for now.

T'Challa stepped forward and gently lifted each wing, bending to examine the computer inside the pack, testing a few hinges and other machinations by pressing down or twisting with a gloved thumb.

"It appears this has suffered from two different engineering visions," he finally concluded, catching Sam's eyes and smiling slightly in a way to let him know it wasn't meant to offend.

Sam, of course, couldn't agree more. He snorted, "Yeah, well, Stark knows how to engineer weapons, so that's what he made it."

"You don't think it should be a weapon?"

"It's supposed to be a pair of wings," Sam said, feeling too tired to explain fully.

"I could maybe draw a new design for you, if you like," T'Challa offered in a very Kingly tone, a tone that was doing its best to hide the childlike fascination flashing in T'Challa eyes. "I believe I can come up with something – "

He hesitated, looking marginally uncomfortable.

"Better?" Sam finished for him, grinning in amusement. "I bet you can. Move aside top US Air Force engineers and Tony fucking Stark. Well, it's no secret that all Wakandan scientific research is decades ahead of everyone else. Aerospace engineering included."

T'Challa smirked in possibly the most subtle and diplomatic way Sam had ever seen.

He said thoughtfully, "Our academic institutions did not evolve or suffer from European enlightenment philosophy. We do not separate our scientific studies and artistic studies in the way the Western world has done since that era. Adhering to the subject-object relationship defined by European enlightenment limits both perception of nature and future discovery – because it limits vision and imagination and promotes a fiction of attainable objectivity."

T'Challa ran a finger over the deployed winglet at the tip of the wing, where Sam had once thought of carving small feathers before scrapping the idea to avoid Stark's unyielding smartass comments.

"Intuition is spoken of in Western scientific tradition as if it were magic – but the limitations and subjectivity of our human understanding should leave room for the not instantaneously explicable. I believe a little intuitionism would do your wings a bit of good. It is how you fly them, correct?"

"You given that lecture before?" Sam asked, feeling inspired in spite of himself – an experience he's had a lot since starting to hang around Steve and his blue-eyed earnestness. "It's kinda harsh, but I dig it."

"Many times," T'Challa grumbled, rolling his eyes and looking for the first time since Sam met him like a fully-flawed human person. "Scientists from around the world want to know how to build what we do but are very unwilling to shift their paradigm."

Sam would've laughed if he hadn't been so emotionally drained.

"I appreciate the offer," he said. "But these are mine and I finally get to work on them myself. I'd like a chance to do that before you completely take over."

"You misunderstand," T'Challa said. "I only want to assist you in the redesign. And perhaps learn a little about their construction."

Sam blinked, a little confused, but T'Challa only continued, "We can of course provide you with much better materials to work with, rather than these heavy…alloys." He said the word like it was a euphemism for something perverted. Not a fan of carbon fiber, I guess…

Which, if you're a genius science King of the most secluded and progressive country on earth, then engineering something as fancy as human-wings with any amount of plastic must be shameful.

"Your majesty," Sam held up a hand. "Look, you've already done far too much. Your generosity is appreciated but…"

"It will be helpful to have friends outside this country," T'Challa interrupted. "Allies such as you and your Captain that act in the interests of the many."

There was a pause.

"Well, I didn't expect that," Sam said finally.

"My father was willing to sign an accord, allying himself with the world, in one of the most official agreements in Wakandan history. I do not believe our country is ready for an official commitment such as that one and I do not believe the rest of the world is ready for our country. But I do believe we must start somewhere."

"And you think a fugitive like me is the place to do it?"

"You will not be a fugitive for long. Governments change, agendas change. And I do not ask any official promise. Just to remember the kindness you received here. Captain Rogers has already tied much of himself to the wellbeing of this country by leaving so precious a friend in our care."

Sam didn't doubt that, partly, T'Challa was being so generous out of kindness and compassion. The man clearly had his heart in the right place, fighting first for his father and then fighting to not fight for his father, in the morally upright way of people who realize how much of a choice they have. He was an admirable person, despite the cat ears.

But it also made Sam more comfortable accepting whatever T'Challa offered, knowing that there was a quid pro quo behind it. Or at least the illusion of one. Sam had enough self-awareness to know that his culture, namely the capitalistic American one, got him used to expecting a negotiation or price for services rendered, and that experience was informing his comfort levels.

And, it was worth mentioning, T'Challa was very obviously not Tony Stark.

Sam in the end had very little reluctance in accepting free-range of a Wakandan engineering lab, complete with a smidge of well-placed vibranium, to rebuild his wings. Very little reluctance, indeed.

"If I had my way," Wanda said into her tea, relishing in the sound of raindrops on the thick dining hall windows. "No one would ever have to lose their brother again."

Steve, sitting across from her, went still and sent her a very worried look.

Wanda was very grateful to T'Challa and the Wakandan people for letting her and her friends recover in their lovely country. Yet, due to the level of secrecy – and the justified mistrust Wakandans had of people that looked like Wanda and Steve – they were staying in one of the Royal research facilities, a few miles away from the city, and locked inside indefinitely.

The constant presence of scientists and lab equipment was really not helping her nerves. The good natured researchers, while clearly confused by the very pale and sad looking people bunking down the hall under the King's orders, nevertheless kept to themselves and if Wanda had enough energy, she could pretend no one else was there - that the movement of bodies and sound of happy scientists gossiping was like one of those soothing recordings from sound machines to help anxious people sleep.

Unfortunately, she had been running low on energy lately.

Right now, though, it was the early afternoon, and all the researchers were in the lab while the dining staff prepared supper. It wasn't hard to pretend it was just her and Steve and the jungle rain. The main lights had been dimmed so the room was mostly illuminated by the grey sunlight barely making it through the pearly clouds. Steve looked particularly wan next to the window, his eyes dark and the bags under them even darker. Wanda didn't really want to know what she looked like.

When Clint had left upon their immediate arrival in Wakanda, he had held her hand and said, "You're welcome to come with me. If you wanted some awesome chocolate chip cookies or to binge watch Star Wars with my daughter."

But Wanda had wanted to stay with Steve and Sam. The solidity of their professional support and personal friendship was easy to fall back on and Wanda never wanted to lose sight of all the good she could do with her power, something that Steve and Sam were particularly proficient at reminding her. She didn't want to be taken care of. She wanted control.

"I'm not losing him," Steve finally replied. "He's just…resting…for a bit."

Wanda rolled her eyes.

Suddenly, someone slapped a notebook and a handful of pencils in between them, causing Wanda's vision to flash slightly red in panic and Steve's shoulder to stiffen.

"Hope I'm not interrupting another one of your, you know…talks," Sam said, dropping into the seat next to Steve and running a hand over his shoulders. Wanda tried not to roll her eyes again as Steve immediately relaxed.

"Why do you say it like that?" Wanda asked, not sure if she should be offended. "Talks?"

Sam shrugged good-naturedly and pulled Steve's tea towards him. He took a sip while he rolled his hand in the air.

"You know," he said, making a face at the bitter tea. "Those we-both-let-the-governemnt-experiment-on-our-bodies-for-our-country-and-now-we-have-trauma-and-flirt-with-Marxism talks."

"We don't talk about that," Wanda said, slumping over her tea and frowning.

"Don't act like you don't have a club," Sam said. "I know about those secret hot cocoa parties no one else is invited to."

Wanda turned her frown to Steve, who blushed.

"You told him about cocoa nights?" she asked, putting a hand to her chest.

"I didn't mean to," Steve said. "He's sneaky."

"No, I ain't," Sam said, laughing, pushing Steve's tea back into Steve's fidgeting hands. "You volunteered that information."

"Why do you tell him everything?" Wanda complained, gesturing to Sam's smirking face.

"'Cause we're best friends, Wanda," Sam said slowly. "That's what best friends do. Not my fault you're jealous of our relationship."

Steve nudged Wanda's knee under the table as she stuck her tongue out at Sam. She nudged his knee back. No hard feelings.

Hot cocoa nights had started as a small ritual between them, when she was still trying to figure out how to live without Pietro by her side. Steve, not needing the same amount of sleep as regular humans, had found her in the kitchen one very early morning and made her hot cocoa with a mountain of whipped cream. They had sat in the kitchen until dawn, swapping stories of various protests they had gone to in their lives (Wanda very intrigued to learn about Steve's early socialist beginnings) and complained about whatever political shitstorm was brewing at the time. After a couple nights, it became a small ritual. Wanda would dump the whipped cream directly into her mouth while Steve would whisk whatever new recipe he had found. Wanda would flip through newspapers and read the most interesting stories aloud and then Steve would doodle little political cartoons, helping Wanda relearn how to laugh.

It was small and unofficial, but something that felt good to share with the Captain.

Or ex-captain now.

"What's with the notebook?" Steve asked.

Sam pulled a couple of sugar packets out of his pocket. He always seemed to have an emergency supply on him, to Wanda's endless amusement. Another thing she and Steve had in common was drinking all their tea and coffee without sweetener as the others looked on in varying degrees of horror.

Steve smiled fondly at Sam as Sam reached over and dumped the sugar into Steve's tea. Sam pulled it back to him, took a sip, and smiled fondly back.

"That's better," he said. "Thanks."

"No problem, best friend," Steve said, like an asshole. "But what's with the notebook? Are you having trouble fixing your wings?"

"No, actually," Sam said. "The opposite of having trouble, for once. I've got all the tools and materials I need to make a new set, but I also don't just want to remake what I got in the Air Force."

He picked up the notebook and folded it open to a blank, un-ruled page. He handed that to Steve along with one of the newly sharp pencils.

"I was wondering if you could help me visualize a design," Sam said, making Steve smile in that small way only reserved for him. "The only function I want is flight. The pinch of vibranium T'Challa gave me will be more than enough fancy protection, so all it needs to be is a pair of wings."

Steve took the notebook and the pencil, twisting it in his fingers like it was just a natural tool for him to have in his hand, like he really knew what to do with it. Kind of like his shield.

"Pretty sure it's more complicated than that," Steve said. "Aren't there limitations on the human body? Doesn't the pack have to accommodate that?"

"First of all," Sam said, holding up a finger. "I've already been trained to overcome those limitations, the good old fashioned way. My core is even more solid than yours, Mr. super soldier. Second of all, you just let me worry about the actual engineering part."

Steve laughed and said, "That superior core of yours sure doesn't help you run any faster."

Sam punched his arm lightly and drank more tea.

"Seriously, Sam," Steve said, settling the notebook on the table in front of him. "I can't just draw something from scratch. At least, not something that'll actually be helpful to you."

"Yeah, yeah, I thought of that, drama-queen," Sam said, reaching into his bag and pulling out a laptop. "Did a little research for some references. This file has bunch of bird pictures and flight videos and some pictures of my old wing models in action. Oh, and here's the latest blueprint."

"So, you know," Sam concluded. "Go wild."

Wanda watched a tiny spark ignite itself in Steve's eyes as he took in the project before him. She figured that Sam really did want some help with the design, but she also knew he was doing what he could to take care of Steve as Bucky slowly ran away again, but this time in full view.

If Wanda had the time or inclination to really think about it, she suspected she would be able to find an infinite number of moments where one or both of them were subtly doing things to make the other's life just that much easier. She remembered the things she and Pietro would do for each other. Nothing big in retrospect, nothing life-changing. Mostly just small reminders that someone in the world was there. That someone had their back.

She had thought she was growing into that sort of relationship with Vision. She had been grossly mistaken.

"Well, while you do that," Sam said. "I'm going to go explore a little."

"I thought we weren't allowed outside the facility?" Wanda said.

"No, you and Steve aren't," Sam replied, grinning, swinging his satchel over his shoulder and pulling out an umbrella. "I am."

Steve glared and said, "You don't have to rub it in."

"I think I am going to rub it in, actually," Sam said. "First time being black ever gave me more freedom than you, so yeah, I'm definitely going to rub it in."

He ruffled Steve's blond hair while Steve tried to push him off then saluted Wanda and walked away. Or tried to.

Steve watched him go, face weirdly blank and still, and Sam slowly came to a stop at the doorway and turned around. He marched back over to their table, rolling his eyes at himself, and wrapped his arms around Steve's shoulders while Wanda smirked pointedly into her tea. After an awkward hug, he left with another eye-roll, muttering to Wanda, "Shut-up."

"I didn't say anything," Wanda called at his retreating back, while Steve's blank look slid off his face.

Sam lifted a hand to his mouth, unconsciously attempting to hide whatever intense reaction was about to play out on his face.

"Steve," he breathed. "These are…"

Sam knew Steve could draw. Obviously.

Sam hadn't known exactly how far Steve's creativity stretched. There was technical skill and then there was the Art that was Made with that skill.

Sam did not know a lot about Art. But he knew that the ability to draw a pair of wings does not necessarily mean the ability to move an audience with your creation. Sam could hold a tune, could sing the major third below his sister, could come in on the right beat, could feel a syncopation. He'd been forced into the church choir from a very young age - of course he knew how to sing. But that didn't mean he could make souls cry and burn with the flames of life and the passion of living in the way Nina Simone could. Or incite bodies and blood in the way Marvin Gaye could.

Sam knew Steve could draw. He'd seen the small doodles on various napkins, receipts, and notes on the fridge. If drawing the schematic of a plan of attack, Steve would draw it accurately, clearly, precisely, and, most telling of all, with confidence. Sam had seen his own likeness sketched out roughly and quickly multiple times. Steve could translate what he saw in the three-dimensional world onto two-dimensional paper with ease. Sam knew he had that skill set.

What he didn't know was that Steve also had the skill to draw something so entirely new that Sam felt his heart racing, could almost hear the wind in his ears, and taste the burning sunlight on the clouds.

It was around 2 am when Sam had returned from his adventures out and about in the city, touring beautiful gardens, markets, and libraries. He had found a sort of freedom in the crowds of beautiful brown faces, like his own, that he had never before encountered. The lingering irritation he had with the depressed duo of Steve and Wanda and the traumatized POW of Bucky disappeared in his childlike wandering. The pure drama and pain of the past few days melted away. He resolved he would take his family here, show his sister the architecture and art of a city that had grown and evolved without the oppressive influence of European architecture and art.

Sam had wished he knew more about city design, civil engineering, Christian influence on architecture, European capitalist influence on markets and healthcare and landscaping and music – he wished he was a scholar that could properly pinpoint all the exact differences of this city and the ones he had grown up in. He wished he could explain in detail what exactly was so refreshingly new and open about this African city, so untouched by colonialism and arbitrary measures of wealth that make white countries so rich and other countries very much not. All he knew was that the city was fundamentally different and seeing this difference first hand strengthened and healed something inside him that had long since been broken.

(Sam had sat in a garden and cried – glad he could cry without Steve's guilty concerned looks and excessive apology baking. He could grieve just for this moment just for himself. Allow himself to sit in a bit of well-deserved self-pity.)

He had finally traversed back up the hill on the outskirts of the city, intent on getting a good night's sleep for the first time in months, when he had spied Steve still sitting in the dining hall working.

Sam almost just let it be. He didn't have the right sort of will to go over and push against Steve's stubbornness, to get the giant man off to bed. But he figured Steve was probably still working on the project Sam had assigned him so the least he could do is let Steve know there wasn't a hard deadline on the designs.

The drawings Steve had produced had stopped him in his tracks. They were unbelievably beautiful.

There were a handful of sketches that looked like the regular skilled work Sam was used to seeing from Steve – practical schematics of the wings at different angles and proportionate measurements, all different explorations of the various designs Sam wanted to experiment with when he finally started building.

The rest of the table was scattered with absolute creation. Steve only had a pencil, but somehow he had managed to produce image after image of wings, flight, Sam himself in flight, and wind. He had drawn air and color with only the monochrome of graphite. Somehow, never having known the exact experience of flight, Steve had drawn it - with love and creativity.

Sam picked up one of the sketches depicting Sam, presumably, with actual bird wings, flying up towards the sun, back to the viewer and feathers glistening in the light. Sam could almost feel the heat of the beams on his face, smell the fresh scent of sunrise – because somehow Steve had managed to make it all look like sunrise. One of the figure's hands was stretched out, his hand carefully drawn to look as a ballerina would shape her hand, fingers slightly apart and gracefully floating next to each other. The figure's index finger was delicately touching a cloud, which swirled and puffed out from the point like the condensed water was coming from his finger's careful ministrations, not the temperature of the atmosphere. It was pure peace and Sam longed to be there, in that image.

Suddenly he was crying again.

"Sam?" Steve asked, reaching out carefully with one of his stained hands, fingers shimmering from all the graphite that had rubbed onto them. He had a few stray marks on his face as well, pencil shavings clinging to his shirt, and was fidgeting with an eraser in his other hand. Sam had a brief vision of a much younger and smaller Steve attending art school and sketching his favorite places around Brooklyn.

"Is this…" Sam began, but had to stop and clear his throat. "Is this how you see me?"

He held out the drawing but indicated the rest of the images scattered across the table, small offerings that set a small and contained fire ablaze in his stomach; that told him softly how much he, Samuel Wilson, was loved.

"I mean, yes, I guess?" Steve said, earnestly and awkwardly. "Of course, yes, this is how I see you. Is that, umm, is that okay?"

Sam laughed loosely and gingerly placed the drawing back on the table.

"Yeah, man," Sam whispered, eyes still glued to the drawing. "It's okay."

He could feel Steve's eyes on his face, confused and wary and embarrassed. Sam was too tired to explain and was feeling too many things to even capture into the right words, anyway. He instead stepped up to Steve and gave him a hug.

They'd been doing that a lot lately. After a week's bout of insomnia a couple months ago, Sam had succumbed to a moment of sensory overload one day while he and Steve were walking around town. Steve had pulled Sam in, blocked his ears and eyes, and held him while Sam breathed through it. The hugging was particularly grounding for Sam, who had grown up with an affectionate mother and father, and was not the sort of person to shy away from some healthy cuddling. It got to the point that anytime Sam left Steve's side, he had to go in for quick squeeze – otherwise something just seemed a little off for the rest of the day.

Steve endured it like the awkward skinny child he still sort of was, more used to being poked at by objective nurses and doctors or punched by Nazis. (Sam tried not to let it get to his head that Steve only ever initiated contact with him and not any other avenger or acquaintance.)

Now though, Steve seemed even happy to accept the hug – possibly because it signaled an end to talking about feelings. They held each other - Sam clung to Steve's warmth, reveling in his soft T-shirt, pressing his nose the back of Steve's neck, and not caring in the slightest how long the hug went or what a third party might think of the extended duration. The past few days sat on Sam's shoulders like years, and he knew it was just as bad for Steve. For now, for just this spare moment in the dim light of an empty cafeteria, Sam and Steve could just be Sam and Steve - in spite of the ridiculous twists and turns in their life that had gotten them to this point, in spite of the caricatures they played, in spite of the thousands of things that would've torn any other duo apart, but washed against them, SamAndSteve, like water on oil. It had been far too long since it was just Sam and Steve.

Sam pulled back reluctantly, sick of the the distance that's been between them the last couple days, formulating a plan to close that gap.

"Help me gather these up," Sam said, clearing his clogged throat and doing his best not to smirk at Steve's blushing face. "I'll start working on them tomorrow."

Steve nodded and said, "T'Challa stopped by. He said Bucky is sticking to his decision and that the cryo-tube will be ready before the week is out."

"Damn," Sam muttered, straightening the pile Steve was making in the open journal. "That gives me only a few days to finish them. And us only a few days to figure out where we're going to hide."

Steve winced a little but appeared slightly relieved Sam hadn't touched the 'Bucky' topic.

"You worry about your wings," Steve said. "I'll figure out a place for us to go. I think Wanda is already set, anyway. Some old college buddies from her political-action club are willing to put her up for a while. And Natasha contacted me and said, if I understood the encryption right, she's willing to help us get whatever transport we need."

Sam let out a sigh, glad someone else was thinking and worrying about these things. He felt weirdly taken care of and, on top of the affection practically pouring out of Steve's work, he felt incredibly warm. He dropped Steve's drawings into his bag and smiled softly at Steve, who looked exhausted but entirely unwilling to go near a bed.

The rain had started up again outside, more mist than raindrops, falling delicately against the window. They watched each other in sympathy and sadness and weariness, until Sam broke the silence.

"Look man," Sam said. "Rhodey falling – well, that didn't do any favors to my mental health. I haven't slept well these past couple nights what with the prison and not knowing what happened to you and now being an outlaw…"

"Sam," Steve started, possibly to try and apologize again or stop Sam from apologizing about sending Tony to Siberia or any other number of nobly-intentioned bullshit conversation stoppers. Sam didn't let him get a thought out.

"You haven't slept well either, don't try to pretend. And don't feed me that 'I don't need as much sleep as everyone else' line. Because it's irrelevant right now," Sam said. He ran a hand over his face and took the plunge. "Look, I think you should sleep with me. You know, just sleep in the same place. I miss Riley's snoring sometimes and - it might help you, too, you know. If you want."

Steve was a bit pink but he didn't put up an argument.

"Okay," he said slowly. "Okay."

It took a small amount of strategizing and furniture moving, but Sam and Steve ended up lying together on a couple of mattresses, listening to the jungle rain, warm backs pressed to each other, breathing and sleeping well for the first time in weeks.

Building the wings was the greatest mental stimulation Sam had had in a quite a long while. It had been years since he built something from scratch and he was happy to discover it was almost like riding a bicycle. Steve's designs really came in handy as he sketched out his own blueprints, and Steve's beautiful drawings were inspiring, urging him to work harder and push through the problem solving, in spite of the tension headache and the stress of a deadline.

The hardest part by far was allocating the materials. He bought most of the materials off of a couple engineers T'Challa introduced him to, using savings that he wouldn't have the chance to access on the run, and accepted the vibranium with all the reverence it deserved. Steve had lamented that he had left the shield behind and couldn't give the vibranium to Sam (or to T'Challa as a small payment for taking care of Bucky), but Sam felt that was for the best anyway. He couldn't imagine melting down the Captain America shield. Even though Steve was done, Captain American might not be.

So Sam made do with the unbelievably generous gift, as sparing as it was, of vibranium. A little could go a long way if he used it right.

T'Challa would stop by during the next four days to 'check in,' supposedly. Sam secretly thought he was just interested in the wings, otherwise he would have sent one of his extremely intimidating Dora Milaje to keep Sam and the others in line.

"Don't you have to run a country?" Sam asked, bemused, as he watched T'Challa flipping through his blueprints and messing with the new circuitry.

"Fascinating," T'Challa said under his breath, ignoring Sam's question. "An expansion command triggered by stimulus by a human back muscles – but how – ah yes, thermal and movement, yes that makes sense, and, of course, rely on human biology, training, reflexes – only one person can match the imaging, easiest and safest technology, of course, of course - but this could be much more efficient, power doesn't have to travel through every – just a simple domino effect would be sufficient, less overheating – here, Mr. Wilson, let me show you –"

After ten minutes or so of T'Challa blowing Sam's mind with whatever genius mechanical and electrical suggestion he could come up with (the latter having been Sam's own area of weakness as he never really enjoyed the physics of it), one of his Dora Milaje would come by and practically drag their King out of the room by the ear to get him to attend to some Kingly business or other, while shooting Sam rather uncalled for dirty looks.

Steve and Wanda were not given passes to visit the labs, but Sam would have quick meals with them in the dining hall discussing his project, their future as fugitives and generally wondering things like "who knows a good lawyer."

The morning after Steve and Sam had shared a sleeping space, they had awoken grinning at each other, genuinely excited about how much sleep they had managed. As they wished to continue that pattern, especially when their stress grew perpetually during the day, the arrangement stayed.

Steve would spend most of his day cryptically communicating with Natasha, talking to Bucky's doctors, and attempting to reconnect with Bucky before he's finally put to bed. He would slump into Sam's room at the end of the day looking utterly emotionally worn out and would collapse next to Sam, pinching the bridge of his nose and grumbling in Irish Gaelic under his breath (one of Steve's more endearing habits).

Other than the one time Bucky ate his meal with Sam and Wanda, Sam hadn't seen him. They hadn't exactly connected during the whole drama with Tony (and Tony's massive manipulative ego), so Sam didn't feel any sort of regret that he wasn't trying to connect now. Especially since if they did speak to one another, half of Sam would want to yell at Bucky for avoiding his problems and the other half would be wanting to gather as much dirt on Tiny Steve as he could – neither of which would actually be conducive to a POW's mental health.

Sam, however, couldn't be faulted if Bucky just offered up that dirt willingly. Steve wasn't too thrilled to have walked into the dining hall to find Bucky regaling a guffawing Wanda and Sam with every ridiculous story he could remember about little Stevie Rogers and a mouth that was way too big for his asthma. Though Steve protested, everyone at the table could see the sad-joy lingering in his eyes as he watched Bucky act alive for the first time since they found him.

On the third day of their stay, Wanda boarded a private helicopter – courtesy of Wakandan security – that bore the very small amount of visitors out of the country after they were sworn to secrecy. Sam thought that just asking for a written promise didn't seem like the most secure way to keep people's mouths shut, but T'Challa's sister, Shuri, (who had extracted Wanda's vow) assured him that most of these visitors were scientists or thinkers of some sort, come only to teach or learn, and invited selectively based off a thorough background check. Then she had added, "And if they talk, we will know."

Her cool confidence layered on top her attitude of royal leadership leant every word she spoke complete significance. Like, if she were an American, she would be perpetually walking around speaking with her hand on the bible and another over her heart. She and the Dora Milaje kind of reminded Sam of Natasha, only with a less diluted presence of power and a considerably clearer moral backbone.

Saying goodbye to Wanda wasn't easy. Her dry wit and matter of fact tone kept Sam on his toes and made him laugh – something he had thought he might never do as he paced around the damp cell in that prison whose designers had taken too much inspiration from Harry Potter. They had been there barely over a day, but its chill and claustrophobic lighting stayed with his dreams and in the flashes of darkness when he blinked. Seeing Wanda free from the straightjacket and strange torturous device helped remind Sam that they had gotten out.

Still, it was clear that saying goodbye to Wanda was going to be hardest on Wanda. She was leaving the presence of the Avengers indefinitely, until their names were cleared, and was going to be truly alone in the world for the first time since her brother's death. And now she was leaving her adopted brother of sorts (Steve) after the betrayal of one of her closest friends in the Avengers (Vision) and being locked up by the same man who she still definitely hated (Stark) …so, yeah, she clung to Steve for longer than her normally cold demeanor would have you believe.

On the fourth day, Sam finished his wings and Bucky was put to sleep.

Sam wasn't around when Bucky laid himself down in the cryo-tube. He had hugged Steve that morning for just a bit while Steve surprised himself with a couple of tears pooling in his eyes. But Sam didn't want to be around to watch Steve being a stone and Bucky being hopeless.

Steve and T'Challa came and found him in the labs afterwards, Steve clearly not posing a security threat anymore with the way his eyes didn't leave the ground.

"I see you have finished your project," T'Challa said, his hand twitching as if instinctively looking to run his hands over any piece of complex engineering. "And Steve told me you have a safe house waiting."

"I guess so, cat-man," Sam replied, wiping his hands with a towel, sending Steve a concerned glance.

"You will need a transport out of the country then," T'Challa said, pulling out his phone and furrowing his eyebrows. He started talking to himself, "I suppose I could spare one of my bodyguard, though Steve says your transport is south of the country, which is quite far to drive or fly in secret. I could go myself, turn it into a brief Royal tour, though I should definitely speak with Okoye about it – Shuri can certainly run things from here – "

"All due respect, your royal cat-ness," Sam cut in. "But we both know you don't want to deal with this. I think we can fly ourselves out."

He nodded towards his pack lying on the table.

"Will it fly?" T'Challa asked, tempted yet wary.

"Only one way to find out," Sam said grinning.

"That is needlessly reckless," T'Challa said, but quirked his lips in a small smile as well, possibly recognizing the hint of hypocrisy.

"We'll go north," Steve said. "Travel south through the backcountry. I've been mapping out a path. And packing."

T'Challa nodded and said, "I'll see you off tomorrow, then."

"Tonight," Steve said. "We can't impose on your hospitality any longer. Okoye was pretty clear about that. And the cover of darkness will help with the subterfuge."

T'Challa didn't even bother looking embarrassed about the hint of Okoye's (possibly tactless) honesty, just nodded again and said, "I shall meet you on the rooftop at sunset. As for now, I'm late for a meeting."

While Sam packed the backpack Steve had bought him, he kept trying to catch Steve's eyes. Steve, though, kept his eyes busy, filling up water bottles, unpacking and repackaging grains and dehydrated beans, retesting the stove and fuel level, double checking the maps and checking the weather. Sam was a little taken aback by the amount of backpacking supplies Steve had managed to collect over the past few days. Slipping into the second hand army boots – it was all secondhand given that Steve only had a finite amount of cash to work with – brought back memories.

Sam wasn't looking forward to sleeping with a rock as pillow for the upcoming future, but he was just a little bit excited to be out on the road again; traveling, moving, no roof but the sky. Sam's family hadn't been able to afford extended camping trips when he was kid, and even if they did, they wouldn't have known where to start. They were city people, through and through. But Riley had taken him to the Grand Canyon for a few days of leave and the freedom, mountains, fresh air, all without the threat of bullets flying overhead or combatants staking out in hills one mile over – it was one of the better experiences of Sam's life.

Sam was also giddy like a child. He was so ready to try out his wings.

When Sam finished packing, he turned to Steve, who was sitting on the floor, and said, "Don't think I didn't notice you only gave me at most a quarter of the actual weight."

Steve rolled his eyes as he carefully folded up his map.

"Even the weight I gave was generous," he replied. "Especially considering you'll also be carrying your wings."

"Those don't actually weigh as much as you think," Sam said, crossing his arms.

"If you're pride's so hurt," Steve said, standing up and mirroring Sam's posture. "Let's arm wrestle for the biggest pack."

"Yeah, like that wouldn't hurt my manly pride any," Sam said, trying very hard not to smile.

"Depends on the kinda guy you are, I guess," Steve smirked.

Steve smirking always seemed like Steve flirting which always messed with Sam's ability to breathe, so he quickly changed the subject.

"How was Bucky?"

Steve's smirk melted off and he ran a hand through his hair. He'd died it brown recently and stopped combing it, so it had lost its usual spunk. He slumped back onto the ground and sighed a sigh that sounded like it came straight from the depths of the dusty past.

"He was satisfied," Steve said at last. "Or, maybe that's the wrong word. I don't know."

Sam slowly walked over and sat next to him, keeping his body language open in case Steve wanted to talk more. Steve leaned back against the wall, tilted his head back, and closed his eyes.

"He wasn't scared," he said softly. "He wasn't nervous or scared or confused. He seemed to think that was as good as it was going to get for now."

"Did he seem hopeful?" Sam asked, matching Steve's quiet tone.

"In a way," Steve said. "Hopeful about being hopeful, you know. Back one step of association to truly hopeful, I guess. He was sure about his choice. If not happy, he was sure about it."

Sam nodded, though Steve couldn't see him.

"And how do you feel?" Sam couldn't help asking.

"Relieved," came Steve's immediate answer. It surprised Sam, confused him. All he could see was the sad-joy in Steve's face, in the twitch of his smile and curved down eyebrows. He thought of Riley, as he always did in moments like this, imagined the complexity of letting him go instead of the simplicity of watching him go.

"I'm sorry, Steve," he said. "I know you wanted him back…"

"That's not what I wanted," Steve interrupted. "I wanted him safe. Healing. I wanted to know he was safe."

"I know that, but he's your best friend and you practically went to war against Stark for him," Sam said, feeling his understanding of the situation go off kilter.

Sam has had a lot bitter emotions about Bucky Barnes over the past few years, none of which he ever voiced aloud to Steve, or anyone really, except Natasha that one time she drank him under the table. To Sam, Steve had a list of righteous priorities and somehow, inexplicably, unjustifiably, Bucky Barnes had made it to the top of that revered list.

"Not for him," Steve said, opening his eyes and frowning at Sam. "Well, not just for him. For Wanda and me and any other enhanced out there that can't just not be enhanced. I thought you knew that?"

"I did, I do," Sam assured him. "I agreed with you – I wouldn't have followed you if I didn't. Or let you follow me. But that's not what I meant."

"What did you mean?"

"Nothing, Steve, it's nothing."

"It's clearly not nothing. What did you mean?"

"Look, I get it now, I was just a little confused – "

"Confused about what?"

"Nothing! I just thought – "

"You thought…?"

"That you were in love with him."

Steve blinked.

Then snorted and ran a hand down his face as he laughed.

"Well," he said through his chuckles. "You wouldn't be the first."

Sam rolled his eyes and asked, "So what, you aren't in love with him?"

"I love him, sure I do," Steve said, blushing. "But geez, Sam, he's practically my brother. We grew up together. He's my, he was my, adopted brother in everything but name."

"Huh," Sam said.

"Sam, I," Steve started, turning even more red and looking on the wrong edge of sick. "It's not him I'm in love with. I – I – I thought it was obvious."

A billion butterflies erupted in Sam's stomach. Steve's bright blue eyes were once again avoiding Sam's, his super-soldier hands clenched into fists, and cheeks so red they might as well be on fire.

"I'm sorry," Steve continued, apologizing for stupid things, again. "Following me into this fight hasn't done you much good. The prison and fighting the other Avengers and being a fugitive. Not that I'm trying to take your choices from you, I just figure your life would be easier without me in it. And I know I don't deserve you but some days you're the only thing I like about the future; which I get is lot to put on a guy so I understand if you would rather go separate ways, I get it, I just wanted you to know because I can't keep hiding it. At this point, it's lying, plain and simple, and I hate lying to anyone but especially to you."

He took a big unsteady breath and then finished weakly, "And now I've spoken my piece."

"Say it," Sam said quietly, ignoring all the nonsense, wanting to cut to the core of it.

"I love you," Steve whispered, closing his eyes, a couple stray tears leaking out. "I'm in love with you."

The room was silent, coated bronze with the evening sunlight streaming in large strips across the floor, igniting dust particles in the air. Sam was incandescently happy.

Steve let out a startled grunt and his hands went automatically to Sam's chest when Sam pounced. But when it clicked that Sam was kissing him, Steve's hands slid down around Sam's waist and pulled him onto his lap. He returned the kiss enthusiastically.

"I love you, too," Sam breathed as he came up for air. "God, Steve, you idiot. I love you so much."

Steve laughed wetly and kissed him again.

"I hope you both remember my generosity," T'Challa said as he shook Sam and Steve's hands, raising his eyebrows significantly.

"Keep an eye out, your majesty," Steve said. "Your country is a target now more than ever."

"Wakanda has always been a target," Shuri said. "I say, let them try."

T'Challa grinned down and nudged his sister, who did her best to act above it.

"Hope to see you again, cat-man," Sam said. "Once our names are cleared, you can visit me in Harlem anytime. You can help me feed the alley-cats."

T'Challa inclined his head diplomatically, evidently resigned to Sam's teasing.

Sam and Steve stepped back to strap on their packs and Steve's harness. Shuri had whipped up the complicated cordage in approximately thirty seconds, and Sam's arms were already thanking her. He still wouldn't be able to carry Steve for long, but the harness made the brief time he could manage that much easier.

Once they were all set, T'Challa and Shuri stepped back. The sun had recently set, the silvery dusk light lingering gently in the air, and Sam was so ready to fly his bones were shaking with it.

Before Steve hooked himself up to Sam he leant forward and whispered in Sam's ear, "Just one test flight. They won't mind."

Sam grinned so wide his face threatened to break in half. Lord, Sam loved him.

He threw his arms around Steve's neck and planted a hard kiss on his cheek then captured his mouth in thorough bruising one. Steve was having trouble cooperating with his smile.

"I love you," Sam whispered back.

Steve pressed in for a softer kiss, his fingers cradling Sam's jaw and his nose rubbing affectionately on Sam's cheek.

Sam stepped back after one final peck, saluted Steve, T'Challa, Shuri, and the two Dora Milaje who were apparently curious about Sam's wings and came to watch.

Then Sam launched himself into the air.

Flying was one of the greatest gifts ever given to Sam. It was everything he ever longed for.

Air was light and strong, clear and sweet and sour. It carried his body up over the roiling and rolling terrain of the earth. It brushed lovingly against his cheeks and neck and he could almost hold it in his arms as he sped through the blue sky, fell up through misty clouds, and emerged above it all, barely able to breathe, to meet the sun face to face.

Flying in a jet was its own thrill, absolutely. The days at Test-Flight when they just told him to go as high as he could without breaking the atmosphere – those days were his favorite. Racing sound past the stratosphere, going higher and higher, ripping through the fabric of gravity with his sheer will and audacity, going miles into the sky, into pure thin pressure-less air, straining with engineering and boldness so far up that he could make out the beginning of the stars on a normally bright day. Those days he could just barely see the universe fully expanding beyond all the needless pain and useless suffering down below. The cold, merciless, and eternal stretch of outer space called to him. The stars sang to his soul.

But for all that piloting called to his soul, the wings called to his heart. And it was beating and hot and alive.

Sam was filled with red blood. He was a part of this finite earth even when he wore the wings. He rode the wind, knew intimately his own weight and body, knew the taste of ozone and rain and cool fronts and fog. When he dived, the earth shouted his name. When he pulled up, zooming blissfully over the grass and climbing the gusts of air crashing against steep hillsides, he laughed.

Sam was a born flyer.

"Ready?" Steve called as Sam landed on the helicopter pad.

Sam pulled him into another rough kiss, feeling so alive in his body, ready for just about anything that Steve had in mind.

"Yeah, running-man," Sam said. "On your right."