James “Bucky” Barnes (Winter Soldier) and Sam Wilson (Falcon)

 ↳ ’ Ｈｏｗ ｗａｓ ｔｈｅ ｆｕｎ－ｖｅｅ？  —- ‘ ↴

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                                                                                〈 SIDEKICK THIS!  〉

  [Text] I’m not really one for redheads to be honest.

[Text] You sure you don’t want the redhead?

[Text] I thought you liked the danger?

[text] dangre is greate

[text] until yourre dead, then not so mcuh

[text] nathhsa scares me

[text] but dont tell her i sad thate

  Tony pauses for a moment, sucking on his bottom lip. He’s looking at Sam now with that same intensity, gaze dragging over him. There’s a moment where Tony hesitates before he goes back to manipulating the hologram with deft fingers.

"It’s a compliment. I’d put out for you." And Tony considers that one of the highest compliments there is. 

"Are you medicated?" This is a sensitive subject, and Tony’s features soften briefly. "For the PTSD? Because I can account for that."

Sam feels like he's getting whiplash from the conversation; even as he's reeling from the casual matter-of-fact manner of Tony's -- compliment, for want of a better word, the question catches him from the other side entirely.

    "I'm ---- no. Not any more."

He'd worked hard not to be. It wasn't easy and it wasn't simple, but it was control. That's all he'd been searching for, when he'd first set foot back on American soil. To take control of his life again.

            "--are you always like this?"

  [He’s moving gingerly, true, because even the serum won’t heal his injuries as fast as he’d like. There are stitches in his face and over his stomach, and a notable set across his ass that he’d really rather not talk about, but the thing is, he knows he’ll heal. Eventually, he’s going to have to heal, because that’s what he does. He heals, or at least, he heals the stuff that bleeds.

As for the rest of it — he’s working on it.

Still, he offers Sam a small, amused grin, wadding up his hospital gown and tossing it lightly onto the bed. He’s wearing a pair of baggy sweats and, instead of forcing him to try to muscle on one of his too-tight tees, whoever had brought him a duffel from home had thought to shove a zip-up hoodie in it.

He’s grateful, to say the least, as he zips it slowly and pulls a face.]

You always this dramatic?

[He says it with humor, but the words stick in his chest a little, and he has to remind himself to keep in the moment. He blinks a couple of times, hard, and once he’s zipped up enough to cover all his bandages, he abandons the effort.]

I’m — my place. I’d appreciate that.

[As much of it is left, anyway. How many times is his home going to get blown up, shot through, and covered in someone else’s blood, anyway?]

   I just helped save the world, I think I'm allowed a little    flair of the melodramatic.

[ Steve might be a supersoldier; he might heal like no other man and he might the strength of ten, but it's not hard to see that this whole affair has taken a toll on him that might not heal quite so fast. ]

      I can drop you there if you want, but since it's a little       more -- open plan than you might remember...

[ Sam raises an eyebrow, fixes Steve with a smile. ]

                       Sure you're not better off staying somewhere                        else until you can do some remodelling?

  [ His laughter is like a winded choke, not quite committed but an attempt nonetheless. There was weakness in his gaze as he tilts his head away from Sam, a hand lifting up to pave over the damage to the left side of his face with a languid lift of his fingertips. In time he would be able to  leave this place and carry on, to pick up the shattered pieces of what  remained of an existence that he had been so desperately trying to rebuild. ]

           ”Well, you’re just rusty, pal.                        I’m sure you’re shirt will fare better, next time.”

"Next time? Hell, I hope we at least get a week off first."

[ It's hard, seeing Steve like this. Captain America is a symbol, a legend. A superhero. Of course you know, somewhere in the back of your mind, that men like that can bleed and die and lose just like any other soldier, but you never expect to see it. Not really. ]

       "Something tells me you could do with a little R&R."

Clint snorted, giving a slight grin. “Sounds like my current level of employment, too,” he replied. He offered his hand, looking the man over. “Lemme guess—‘Falcon’?” Tasha’d told him about the guy, about the help he’d given her and Steve when everything went to shit.

"Lemme guess-- 'Hawkeye'?"

Sam echoes the man's words, then smiles and reaches out to accept the handshake, tipping his head as he does so.

   "Sam," he says. "You can call me Sam. Technically, Falcon     is the name of the suit."