There was a certain irony in using a flight suit when he had a set of perfectly good wings right there. Fancy wings, too - rusty red and barred, a work of art, if you asked him. Nobody did, of course, because humans couldn’t see them and other angels were thin on the ground.
Still, he’d been drawn to pararescue like a duck to water and he’d taken to it just as well, even if he did think it looked a little dorky to have a wingsuit on over his wings.
(Sometimes, with the wingsuit on, he pretends he has four gorgeous red wings, that he’s a seraph or cherub, high in the ranks above ordinary angels. Not something overly dramatic, mind - he just adds some epic commentary in his head and pretends his gear comes equipped with a flaming sword. Sometimes he makes lightsaber noises while pretending to wield that sword. A strong wind covers many sound effects made into the comm unit, thankfully.)
Pararescue satisfied some deep, primal angel instinct in him - swooping down from the skies, shoulder to shoulder with his fellow parajumpers, snatching people from the jaws of despair and death - yup, all of that just screams “Sam Wilson” to him. It does right until Riley gets shot from the skies and Sam Wilson, angel extraordinaire, can do nothing to save his wingman.
The VA pulled him in next. It’s a quieter type of saving and it’s hard work and he loves it more than he thought he ever could - there’s little action here, but there’s scores of people who need his help, who want it, who he can heal a little bit at a time while teaching them how to heal on their own. He would be happy doing this for the rest of his life, this type of slow, concerted effort that impacts so many people.
And then one day he’s out jogging - he flies before dawn, to keep his wings strong without being seen - and damned if his angel senses don’t start tingling just before some guy passed him on the left. It’s not quite the “Save me, Sam!” signal he gets from those who need rescuing and it’s not the usual “good god, they’re hot” tingling he gets from the people he sets out to woo, but it’s kind of in between and that could be interesting.
He was still parsing out his instincts when the guy passes him again. And again. And then after that. At that point, he wasn’t navel-gazing anymore - he was sprinting and swearing a little and damn but he’d overtake him if he was flying but this isn’t the time for that. When he finally dropped down to rest under a tree he’s wondering what the hell they put in that supersoldier serum that Steve Rogers’s lungs are better than an actual goddamn angel’s, made for thin air and high capacity. Mr. On-your-left slowed down to flirt and that’s it, Sam’s going for him, he’s too interesting to pass over.
…
Interesting turned out to be an understatement.
Three weeks later, Steve was introducing him to a few of the other Avengers as ‘his boyfriend’ (lord, can that man blush) and Thor himself was shaking Sam’s hand. An angel shaking hands with a god. What is his life? Other than really cool, that is. After all, his lover is a supersoldier, he’s a superhero, and he’s well on his way to being friends with a superspy-turned-superhero. Yup, pretty damn cool.
Thor’s still shaking his hand when he suddenly asked, “Are there many Midgardians with wings? It seems I have encountered a fair few.” His eyes were fixed on something over Sam’s shoulder and his wings twitched instinctively. Yup, those Asgardian eyes followed that movement. Well, that’s new.
"It’s just a suit, Thor, like Stark’s," Steve said. Sam tried to sign as subtly as he can to go along with that, thanks. Thor gave him a searching look, nodded slightly, and clapped him on the shoulder.
"Aye, so it is. Welcome, Sam, Son of Will!"
…
There’s nothing better than lazy morning cuddles, as far as Sam’s concerned. Right now it’s just past dawn and Steve is, for once, the little spoon and Sam has him wrapped in his wings as well as his arms. (And one leg. The more the merrier, right?)
Steve stretches lazily and his fingers brush against Sam’s wings. Sam bites back a groan.
"They’re pretty, Sam," Steve says, running his fingers gently from the alula to the tip of a primary feather. Sam shivers and groans out loud this time. Steve yawns and closes his eyes again and nope, he’s not going back to sleep after that bombshell. Sam pushes at his shoulder and prods at him and watches Steve fight a grin while pretending to be asleep.
"Wake up, Rogers, you’ve got some explaining to do," Sam says as he practically rolls Steve off the bed.
"Me? I’m just pointing out the obvious," Steve says, clearly having given up on sleeping. He turns and moves in for a kiss; Sam pushes him back with one finger on the center of his forehead.
"Uh-uh, Cap. You’re not kissing your way out of this one. When did it become obvious?"
"At the hospital. Do you have a halo, too?"
His boyfriend knew for weeks and said nothing? Not one word? Didn’t even complement him on his magnificent wings until just now? Boy, were they going to have a long talk about this. Later, that is.
"It’s in the wash," Sam says. Then he pulls Steve in for that kiss. It’s a lazy morning, after all, and they don’t get many of those. Might as well make the most of it.