Sam looking down at buckys hand, almost confused, because they aren’t the hand shaking type.
But then Sam remembers they’re in public and it clicks why Buckys going in for a handshake instead of just kissing him. They have reputations to uphold and can’t risk people knowing, not yet at least.
Hey!! I really enjoy your Sam Wilson rice so I was wondering if you could do one where him and reader have a day to themselves after Reader gets hurt in a mission so they’re kinda taking a day off from the Avenger stuff?
Also again I love your Sam Wilson fics so much! They’re so freaking good!!
Downtime
Sam Wilson x Male Reader
Summary: After getting hurt on a mission, Sam was adamant on a day of rest.
A/N: I have horrible writers block, but I'm glad you enjoy my Sam Wilson fics. Cranking out two fics today for y'all, guess all I needed was these fine men.
CW: Brief mention of injury - Fluff - Established relationship
Words: 2.8k
There was a look Sam Wilson gave you, one that conveyed, more eloquently than any shouted words, the phrase: ‘I told you so.’ He reserved it for occasions when you had willfully done something reckless, something he had explicitly warned you would end poorly or cause you injury.
This time, the look was colder, sharper, and utterly unmistakable.
It hit you the moment he saw you at the rendezvous point, your entire suit heavy and stained with the metallic, slick scent of your own blood. Bucky was all but carrying you, his hand a warm, solid anchor pressing into your ribs where a laceration was blooming purple beneath the armor. The grimace etched on your face spoke volumes about the pain you were trying—and failing—to contain.
If he wasn't so visibly concerned about your state, you knew Sam would have been berating you—a non-stop litany about how stupid it was to go in without proper backup or aerial cover, just as he had warned moments before you launched yourself into the breach. But the sheer sight of the damage seemed to choke the words in his throat. The look he gave you was far more than ‘I told you so’; it was a heavy, disappointing blade of silence that pierced deeper than any projectile had that day. In your eyes, it was a reaction that was entirely reasonable.
The hospital cleared you quickly—stitches, rest, and a few days of observation. But even with the official all-clear, Sam wouldn't let you go back on the field just yet. His insistence on downtime was absolute. He drove you back to the quiet house, helped you peel the stiff, heavy remnants of your suit off your frame, and guided you to the sofa like you were made of glass.
"Don't move," he finally said, his voice flat and low, as he knelt to adjust the sterile bandage on your side. That was the extent of his commentary on the mission. He was all quiet, efficient care now, ensuring the pain meds were on the coffee table and the couch was piled high with blankets. It wasn't often the two of you got to lounge around the house without the immediate shadow of a mission looming, but this downtime felt less like a vacation and more like a carefully imposed exile—a silent punishment he didn't need to vocalize. The weight of his disappointment was a constant, heavy presence in the room, filling the space the noise of the city usually occupied.
The antiseptic smell of the bandages and the clean cotton of the blanket were poor substitutes for the familiar weight of your armor. You shifted slightly, feeling the sharp pull of the sutures, and leaned your head back against the sofa cushions. The fabric felt cool against your overheated skin. Your eyes were half-lidded as you stared down at Sam, who was still kneeling by the coffee table, tidying the discarded medical wrappings.
"I'm sorry," you murmured. It was barely a whisper, a sound thick with genuine apology and the dull haze of pain medication.
The simple phrase had the effect of an electric shock. Sam stopped moving instantly. He slowly stood straight, his expression unreadable, and crossed his arms over his chest, his gaze steady and intensely focused on yours.
"You're sorry," he stated, the words flat and weighted with a weariness that cut deeper than your wound. "Yet you'll do it again."
It wasn't a question, of course. Sam knew you better than you knew yourself. He knew every time you apologized—whether it was for a minor breakage or a major injury—it just meant you acknowledged the immediate consequence, not that you would change the root behavior. It was the predictable cycle of your partnership, and the resignation in his posture was palpable.
A slow, self-deprecating smile touched your lips. The guilt was still there, a knot in your stomach, but so was the certainty of your nature. You started to shift your weight, intending to push yourself up into a sitting position to argue the finer points of 'necessary recklessness.'
"I don't think so, handsome."
Before you could gather the strength, Sam’s large, warm hand settled flat against your chest, applying just enough firm pressure to keep you pinned to the cushions. The action was gentle, yet completely non-negotiable. He leaned slightly over you, his eyes narrowed in mild suspicion, daring you to move again.
You let out a low, guttural groan, a sound born partly of genuine annoyance at his masterful control and partly from the sudden, jarring pain the movement had caused. You let your head drop back against the sofa, defeated.
"I have to use the bathroom, Sam. I’m not staging a breakout." You mumbled, pushing his hand away weakly.
Sam sighed, the sound a low rumble of frustration escaping his chest. He didn't move his feet, but his tension eased slightly. He knew the difference between your defiance and your basic needs.
"Fine," he relented, pulling your arms over his shoulders and moving to help lift your dead weight. "But one step out of line, and I'm strapping you down to the mattress. You're confined to quarters until I say otherwise.”
You didn't argue. There wasn't any point in it, because you knew Sam would win, especially when your ribs felt like they were arguing with every breath you took. The moment he agreed to let you move, the tension seemed to drain out of the space between you, replaced by the familiar, slightly awkward rhythm of him playing nursemaid.
Without another word, you veered off toward the bathroom, moving with a careful, measured pace. Sam followed close behind, his presence a quiet, solid anchor in the hallway. Once you were safely situated, he continued his path to the bedroom, the heavy, metallic click of the latch on the Falcon gear echoing faintly as he began to shed the pieces of his operational life.
It wasn't even two minutes later when you appeared silently in the bedroom doorway, leaning against the frame for a moment to steady yourself. Sam was already halfway out of his field uniform—the stiff, dark fabric pooled around his ankles, revealing the comfortable grey T-shirt he always wore underneath. He was focused on unlatching the final straps of his harness, his back still turned toward you.
You moved across the carpeted floor with a quiet determination, ignoring the little jolts of pain that protested the effort. Reaching him, you wrapped your arms around his torso from behind, resting your cheek against the warm, solid expanse of his back muscles. The rough fabric of his undershirt was familiar against your skin.
"If I'm stuck here," you hummed softly, your voice a playful vibration against his spine, "then maybe you'll be stuck right here with me?"
Sam froze, his hands resting on the final buckles. You felt the immediate stiffness in his shoulders—the lingering resentment from the mission still there—but beneath it, you also felt the familiar softening. He let out a deep, defeated sigh, the sound more expressive than a full sentence of exasperation.
"That is a low blow," he muttered, shaking his head slightly.
He was right. It was manipulative, borderline unfair, and you knew it. But no matter how much of a reckless, adrenaline-addicted idiot you could be, Sam wouldn't deny the fact that whenever you dropped the bravado and got sappy and earnest with him, his defenses crumbled. He might have been The Falcon, but he was putty in your hands.
He finally let the harness fall with a dull thump onto the rug, completing the shift from soldier to your boyfriend. He carefully turned within your embrace, avoiding putting pressure on your side, and wrapped his own arms securely around your shoulders, pulling you against his chest.
"You know I am," he whispered into your hair, the exhaustion in his voice finally audible. He held you tight for a long moment, the silent hug communicating everything that the earlier arguments couldn't: relief, lingering worry, and unwavering love. "Just don't make me worry like that again. Please.”
You relaxed into his embrace, savoring the feeling of his solid warmth and the subtle scent of sweat and metal that clung to him even after he’d removed his gear. When he finally pulled back just enough to look you in the eye, your expression was impish, the pain momentarily forgotten in favor of stirring up more trouble.
"No promises," you hummed, the words a gentle defiance against his plea.
A short, frustrated puff of air left Sam's lips, but before he could launch into another exasperated lecture, you carefully untangled yourself. You didn't wait for a response; there was no need to—you'd already won this round. Moving with slow, deliberate care to protect your stitches, you shed the rest of your clothes—the thin shirt and sweatpants—onto the floor with a decisive rustle, not even bothering to pick them up or find something proper to put on. The only goal now was the soft sanctuary of the bed.
You settled onto the cool sheets, immediately pulling the heavy duvet up just below your chin, savoring the luxurious weight and the immediate relief of being horizontal. Propped up slightly against the pillows, you watched Sam as he finished changing. He had peeled off the grey T-shirt you had been clinging to, revealing the powerful, defined lines of his back and shoulders, and was now sliding into a comfortable pair of dark grey sweats. The entire process was efficient and familiar, a quiet, domestic ritual you rarely got to witness immediately after a disastrous mission.
Sam finished dressing and turned to face you completely, his chest bare, his expression shifting from focused concentration to a soft, easy smile as he caught your gaze tracing the planes of his torso.
"Enjoying the view?" he asked, his voice low and teasing. There was a challenge in his eyes, but also a definite invitation.
You gave a casual, entirely unapologetic shrug, feigning indifference to annoy him. "If getting hurt means I get to see you shirtless more often," you paused, letting your eyes drop meaningfully to his chest before flicking back up to his face, "then yes, absolutely."
The attempt at flippancy was thin, but it worked. Sam's tired expression finally broke into a reluctant, full-bodied laugh—the sound rich and slightly raspy, a welcome contrast to the tense silence that had dominated the last hour. He walked over and perched on the edge of the mattress, running a gentle hand through your hair, his expression softening as he looked at the bruise already darkening beneath your skin.
"Don't even joke like that," he murmured, his tone shifting back to genuine worry. "I'd rather keep my shirt on forever than see you this busted up." He bent down and pressed a long, tender kiss to your forehead, right over the hairline. "Now, stay right there. I’m going to grab us some water.”
You watched Sam leave the room, listening to the soft sounds of him moving in the kitchen—the quiet clink of the ice dispenser, the rustle of a plastic wrapper. The silence of the bedroom, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning, felt deep and heavy, a stark contrast to the explosions and shouting that had defined your afternoon. Without the sharp focus of arguing with Sam, the dull ache in your side returned, reminding you exactly why you were confined to the softness of the bed.
A moment later, Sam returned. He moved with a practiced, easy grace, carrying a large glass of water in one hand and the bottle of prescribed medication, along with the box of crackers, in the other. He had also snagged a small, clean washcloth, which he folded neatly and tucked into the pocket of his sweats.
He set the water and the small orange bottle of pain meds on the bedside table nearest you, arranging them so they were easy to reach. The crackers he placed on the edge of the mattress, tearing open the box just enough so you could easily slide them out. As he bent over the table, his bare shoulder briefly brushed your cheek, radiating a familiar, comforting warmth.
Before sitting down, he leaned over the bed, his expression serious now as he checked the curve of your body beneath the duvet, ensuring you were comfortable. He lowered his face and pressed a slow, deliberate kiss to your forehead—not the quick peck from before, but a soft, lingering pressure that lasted just long enough to convey the depth of his relief that you were home and safe.
"Take these now," he murmured, pulling back just slightly. "The sooner they kick in, the sooner you can actually relax."
He plucked a cracker from the box and held it out to you. "Stomach first. We don't need you throwing up the good drugs."
You took the cracker, your fingers briefly brushing his. It was a mundane gesture, but in the sterile, high-stakes world you inhabited, these moments of simple, physical care were the most precious. You chewed slowly, watching him settle into the space beside you, his weight sinking the mattress slightly. He didn't turn on the TV or pick up his phone; he just sat there, completely present.
"You're not going to get any rest if you just stare at me," you pointed out gently, swallowing the dry cracker.
Sam reached over and smoothed the hair back from your brow again. "I know. But you had a rough day, and I'm not going anywhere. Just making sure you actually listen to the doctor's orders for once." He paused, his thumb gently caressing your temple. "Besides, I like the view, too. I just prefer it when you’re not actively bleeding on it."
You managed a weak smile, reaching up to take the prescribed pill from his waiting hand. As you swallowed it down with the cool water, you realized that this—the shared silence, the absolute certainty of his care, the safe bubble of their bedroom—was the only place you ever truly felt protected.
You finished the pill, the dry, bland taste of the cracker fading as the cool water went down. Sam didn't rush you. He simply watched, his gaze soft and attentive until he was certain the medication was secured. Once he was satisfied, he gently took the empty glass from your hand and set it back down on the table.
He remained seated on the edge of the mattress for a few more minutes, rubbing small, soothing circles into the sheet beside your hip, just checking in, not with words, but with presence. The silent communication was one of the many things you loved about him. Finally, with a soft sigh that sounded more content than exasperated, he carefully slid under the duvet.
He didn't sprawl out; he moved with deliberate caution, sliding in behind you to curl around your back. The cool air of the room was instantly chased away by the radiating heat of his bare torso and the strong, familiar weight of his presence. He was careful to ensure his arm wasn't resting on your injured side, instead tucking it protectively over your hip.
You felt the whisper of his breath against the back of your neck, and then he was nuzzling into the space where your neck met your shoulder—a favorite spot of his, the perfect anchor. His lips brushed your bare skin, leaving a damp trail of warmth as he settled in.
"I love you," he whispered, the words quiet and low, meant only for your ears. It wasn't a question or an argument; it was a simple, profound statement of fact, the culmination of all the worry and relief he had bottled up.
You hummed, a lazy sound of deep contentment, and instinctively leaned your back into the broad, steady curve of his chest. The pillow, the soft mattress, the heavy blanket—none of it offered the same sense of security as the immovable mass of Sam Wilson pressed against you.
The pain, which had been a constant, throbbing drumbeat beneath your skin all evening, didn't vanish, but it subtly receded, becoming a faint, distant thrum. It was a testament to the power of his presence; the emotional ease he provided seemed to distract your body from its physical distress. You felt the muscles in your back finally release their tight hold as his rhythmic breathing began to sync with your own.
You lifted a hand and reached back, blindly finding his cheek. Your fingers brushed his stubble before you settled your palm over his jaw, feeling the slight tension there that hadn't quite faded.
Maybe you could get used to this, you thought, letting your eyes drift shut. Not the getting hurt part, definitely not the throbbing, stitch-laden part. But this—the enforced quiet, the soft light of the lamp, the smell of his skin, and the uncomplicated, utter certainty of Sam Wilson holding you close. This was the reward you never asked for but always desperately needed. This was the real win. You drifted toward sleep, feeling utterly safe, utterly loved, and, for the first time all day, absolutely still.
The more discourse I see in this fandom, the more convinced I am that people don’t actually watch anything they’ve claimed to. I saw someone say that Alexei probably stole and abused hundreds of little girls—what? Regardless of your feelings on him, that’s straight up incorrect. Another thing is all this talk about Yelena’s loneliness and depression in Thunderbolts supposedly being inconsistent with Hawkeye—the same show where her very last scene is her walking off alone in tears. Then there’s the “Wilsons took in Bucky and they’re his REAL family” camp. We’ve seen Bucky interact more with the Thunderbolts on screen than Sam’s family, yet somehow the former is less valid in their minds just because they don’t like it.
If you’re going to attempt to criticize something, at least make sure they’re factually sound first. If not, it makes it every obvious that you’re just a bitter fan of a certain character (cough cough Kate, Sam, Melina, etc) who’s angry that the movie didn’t validate your headcanons.
You're not wrong nonny.
Its like how they were screeching about Bucky "siding with the woman who invaded/genocided Wakanda" a few months back
If you actually bother to watch Wakanda Forever, there's only one person who invaded Wakanda, and that was Namor, not Val.
Don't get me wrong, I have no love for Val and I am not defending her but I believe in factual accuracy, and the fact is Val didn't invade Wakanda. She may have *talked* about it, but never actually did it.
Its the same with Alexei: Black Widow clearly tells us Dreykov got him sent to a Gulag shortly after the Yelena and Nat were returned to the Red Room so its literally *impossible* that he could have done what that person said.
This is absolutely what comes of people basing their opinions on social media rage posts and what their freinds say instead of actually looking at the source material themselves.
Sam fans though take it even further: they don't just except the movie to validate their headcanons. They expect the actors to do it as well. I legit saw an X post where one said that if Sebastian had more say in the making of Thunderbolts he'd never have the team to "insult Sam" in the Post-Credit scene.
Um. No. Bucky isn't actually required to police people's speech, and Sam is a big boy. He can tolerate mean words: especially since they come from strangers and he didn't hear them.
That said, I love how Sebastian has been doing the exact opposite. Its like he's seen their posts and deliberately set out to contradict their headcanons at every turn. First he called the Thunderbolts Bucky's family in an interview (and we have receipts), then he said he liked what they did to Bucky's character and finally his coup de grace at Tokyo Comic Con.
When they were all claiming Seb hated Thunderbolts and wanted nothing to do with it, he stood there on a stage in Japan and said he loved working on it and wanted a sequel.
i haven’t fw this mcu in a long time now but their continued mishandling of Sam Wilson’s Captain America continues to piss me off. almost no promo for his Cap, they scrap the movie with Sharon Carter as the antagonist due the unwarranted vitriolic hate towards the actress for no reason and instead they make that garbage israeli propaganda movie. you can’t tell me it wasn’t sabotage as they knew that movie would be boycotted, they literally never gave him a chance. all of this while they still push Peggy Carter as literally every character. Peggy’s Cap had more visibility just being in the what if series than Sam Wilson’s ever got. even compared to Thunderbolts i feel like a barely saw any advertisement of Brave New World.
