Sam wasn’t entirely sure why he agreed to this.
Sure, helping out at a veterans’ rehab center in D.C. was familiar territory—something that made sense in his post-military, post-everything life. But the moment he walked into the sunlit lobby and saw Tony Stark of all people, sleeves rolled up, adjusting a prosthetic socket like he actually knew what he was doing, Sam had to stop and reevaluate his life choices.
"Wilson!" Tony greeted without looking up, tightening a bolt on a mechanical hand. "You’re late. Not that I’m judging. Much."
Sam ignored the jab. "Didn’t know you were on the guest list, Stark."
"Didn’t know I needed a formal invitation to help people," Tony shot back, passing the newly adjusted limb to a waiting vet—a woman in her fifties, her Air Force tattoo still sharp despite the age on her face.
She flexed the fingers experimentally, and a slow, amazed smile spread across her lips. "Damn. Feels smoother than my old one."
Tony smirked. "Better than factory models. Custom Stark upgrade—don’t ask how much it would normally cost, because the answer is ‘you can’t afford it.’ But since I like you more than most people, it’s free."
The woman gave him a playful shove on the shoulder before heading off, and Sam folded his arms, watching Tony lean back against the worktable like he belonged here.
"You actually know what you’re doing?"
Tony scoffed. "Excuse you, Wilson, I am a genius, and this is literally child’s play. Some people build bird-themed flight suits—"
Sam held up a hand. "Don’t start."
"—and some people build solutions that change lives," Tony finished smugly, waving a hand at the line of veterans waiting to be fitted with prosthetic limbs, exoskeletons, and other advanced tech.
Sam had been here before, worked with these people, seen them struggle through the slow process of rehabilitation. The government-issued prosthetics were functional, but rarely comfortable. The bureaucratic red tape meant delays, outdated models, and limited customizations.
But Tony Stark? He just bypassed all that.
Sam took a slow breath, watching as Tony moved to the next person in line, effortlessly shifting between biting humor and genuine patience. He didn’t just slap his name on donations and call it a day—he was here, rolling up his sleeves, personally fine-tuning the details.
Sam had spent a long time thinking Tony was all flash and ego, that every move he made was PR. But right now? He was watching a different side of the man entirely.
Huh.
It started as a late-night grocery run.
Sam didn’t expect to run into Tony Stark at a hole-in-the-wall bodega in Brooklyn at nearly midnight. Then again, Tony wasn’t exactly predictable.
What was predictable? The way Tony stuck out like a sore thumb, dressed in some designer leather jacket that probably cost more than the entire store’s monthly rent. He was crouched on the floor, tinkering with something near the checkout counter, while an older woman—probably the store owner—stood over him, arms crossed, watching with an equal mix of suspicion and amusement.
Sam, basket in hand, hesitated. He could turn around, pretend he didn’t see anything—
Too late. Tony looked up. "Wilson! Didn’t take you for a bodega guy."
Sam sighed and walked over. "What the hell are you doing?"
Tony held up what looked like a busted shopping cart wheel, grease staining his fingers. "Hero work. Obviously."
Sam raised an eyebrow. "Fixing a grocery cart?"
Tony grinned. "This isn’t just any grocery cart. This is Mrs. Diaz’s grocery cart, and apparently, it’s been wobbling for a month."
The older woman, presumably Mrs. Diaz, clicked her tongue. "I told you, I could’ve just bought a new one."
Tony waved her off. "And let them rob you blind charging fifty bucks for a glorified basket? Please. I got this."
Sam folded his arms, watching Tony adjust something with a small, high-tech tool that definitely didn’t belong anywhere near a grocery store. "You carry an arc welder around with you?"
Tony didn’t look up. "You don’t?"
Sam shook his head, half amused, half exasperated. "Okay, whatever, MacGyver. Carry on."
He moved toward the fridge section, grabbing a bottle of juice, when the door suddenly banged open. A guy in a ski mask rushed in, gun raised, voice shaking.
"Nobody move!"
Sam immediately assessed the situation—small space, one gun, at least three civilians in sight. He put his hands up, subtly shifting his stance, already calculating how fast he could disarm the guy.
And then, before Sam could make a move, Tony sighed.
A deep, annoyed, are-you-kidding-me sigh.
"Really?" Tony drawled, still crouched by the cart. "A stickup? In a bodega? At midnight? Have some originality, man."
The guy, momentarily thrown off, snapped the gun in Tony’s direction. "I said—shut up!"
Tony held his hands up, expression bored. "Oh no, I’m so scared." Then, tilting his head toward Sam, he muttered, "You got this, right? Because I just fixed this wheel, and I’m not about to let him scuff it up."
Sam didn’t even get a chance to respond before the guy took a step forward—
And tripped.
Hard.
Sam blinked. The guy hit the ground face-first, the gun skidding across the floor.
Tony stood up, blowing imaginary smoke off his wristwatch. "Repulsor pulse. Non-lethal. You’re welcome."
Sam sighed. "You had a repulsor in your watch?"
Tony grinned. "I like to accessorize."
Mrs. Diaz huffed and grabbed a broom, smacking the groaning thief on the shoulder. "Idiot."
Sam dragged the guy up, securing him easily. "You could’ve let me handle it, y’know."
"Where’s the fun in that?" Tony smirked. "Besides, I just saved you. That means you owe me."
Sam rolled his eyes, already reaching for his phone to call the cops. "Yeah, yeah. Put it on my tab."
If someone had told Sam a year ago that he’d be spending his Saturday afternoon at a STEM charity event in Queens, watching Tony Stark patiently teach a middle schooler how to rewire a circuit board, he would’ve laughed in their face.
Yet, here he was.
Sam leaned against a table in the middle of the community center gymnasium, arms crossed, watching Tony crouch next to a scrawny kid who couldn’t be older than thirteen. The kid, Mateo, was biting his lip in concentration, tiny hands steady as he worked on the wiring of a small robotic car.
Tony, surprisingly, wasn’t rushing him.
"Nope, not that wire," Tony said, voice casual but firm. "You cross that with the power input, and boom—tiny fireball. And as much as I’d love a dramatic explosion, Mrs. Grant over there would have my ass."
Across the room, an older woman—presumably the event coordinator—glared at Tony. "Language, Stark!"
Tony winced theatrically. "See? I’m on thin ice."
Mateo snorted but refocused, adjusting the wires carefully. "Like this?"
Tony nodded. "Exactly. Now, attach the battery, and…"
Mateo clicked the last piece into place, and the tiny car hummed to life. A second later, it zipped forward across the table.
The kid’s eyes went huge. "Holy crap, it worked!"
Tony grinned. "Of course it worked. You built it."
Mateo turned to him, equal parts ecstatic and disbelieving. "I built it?"
"Yeah, kid," Tony said, ruffling his hair. "Not bad for a first try. You keep this up, and I might have to hire you in a few years."
Mateo’s grin could’ve powered a whole city.
Sam, watching from the sidelines, felt something settle in his chest.
He’d been skeptical when he first got the invite to help out at the event, assuming Tony was just slapping his name on another charity function. But no—Tony wasn’t just here for a photo-op. He was in the thick of it, surrounded by kids, sleeves rolled up, actually teaching.
And these weren’t billionaire kids with access to top-tier education. These were bright, curious kids from underfunded schools—kids who probably never thought they’d have access to the kind of tech Tony was casually handing out.
Tony straightened and stretched, catching Sam watching him.
"You just standing there looking pretty, or are you actually gonna help?"
Sam smirked. "Didn’t wanna interrupt your Mr. Rogers moment."
Tony scoffed. "Please, if Mr. Rogers had my tech, those puppets would’ve been terrifying."
Sam chuckled, shaking his head. "You ever stop moving?"
Tony raised a brow. "You ever stop brooding?"
"Not brooding. Observing."
Tony tapped his temple. "Ah. That explains the confused expression. Too many thoughts. I get it."
Sam rolled his eyes. "I was just thinking—it’s kinda cool, what you’re doing here."
Tony’s smirk faltered for half a second before he covered it up with a casual shrug. "Yeah, well. Can’t let all this genius go to waste."
Sam didn’t call him out on the deflection. Instead, he glanced back at Mateo, who was still grinning like he’d just won the lottery.
"You made that kid’s day," Sam said. "Probably his year."
Tony was quiet for a beat, then exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah, well. Someone’s gotta do it."
And for once, there was no ego in his voice. Just quiet sincerity.
Sam watched him for a moment longer, then bumped their shoulders together lightly. "Not bad, Stark. Not bad at all."
Tony nudged him back. "High praise from the guy who calls me a pain in the ass daily."
Sam grinned. "Don’t get used to it."
Tony smirked. "Too late."
Sam had seen Tony fly into battle a hundred times before—red and gold streaking across the sky, repulsors blazing, explosions lighting up the battlefield like fireworks.
This was different.
This was bad.
Their mission had gone sideways fast. What was supposed to be a routine SHIELD extraction turned into an all-out siege, and somewhere between dodging bullets and trying not to get blown up, Sam and Tony got separated from the team.
Now, they were holed up in a half-destroyed apartment building on the outskirts of the conflict zone. Smoke billowed from burning vehicles in the street below, gunfire echoed in the distance, and civilians—mostly terrified families—were huddled in the corners of the darkened room.
And Tony?
Tony was out of the suit.
That was the part that had Sam’s stomach twisting. The Mark Whatever had taken a direct hit before they crashed here, and now Tony was in just his undersuit, kneeling beside an injured woman, hands covered in someone else’s blood.
Sam crouched next to him. "You good?"
Tony glanced up briefly, eyes sharp. "Define ‘good.’ If you mean ‘not currently bleeding out,’ then sure. If you mean ‘having a great time,’ then no, I’d rather be literally anywhere else."
Sam huffed. "You and me both, man."
The woman on the ground whimpered in pain, clutching a wound in her side. Tony tightened the makeshift bandage he’d wrapped around her midsection, his hands surprisingly steady.
"You’re gonna be fine," he told her, voice softer than Sam expected. "Just gotta keep pressure on it, okay?"
The woman nodded weakly, eyes full of fear.
Sam looked around. The civilians—maybe a dozen of them—were watching Tony like he was the only thing keeping them tethered. Which, in a way, he was.
"You could’ve made a run for it," Sam murmured, low enough that only Tony could hear. "No suit, no backup. No one would’ve blamed you for getting yourself out."
Tony exhaled, wiping his hands on his already-ruined undersuit. "Yeah, well. Guess I’m just stupid like that."
Sam studied him. "That’s not stupidity."
Tony shot him a wry look. "Don’t ruin my reputation, Wilson."
Before Sam could reply, a burst of gunfire outside had them both tensing. Sam moved to the window, peeking out cautiously.
"Looks like the extraction team’s moving in," he reported. "Five minutes, maybe less."
Tony nodded, then turned back to the civilians. "Alright, folks, showtime. We’re getting you out of here. Stick with me and Sam, and don’t stop moving until we say so. Got it?"
A few hesitant nods.
Sam turned back to Tony. "You ready?"
Tony flashed a grin, but there was something raw underneath it.
"Always."
-
Fifteen minutes later, everyone was safe, the civilians secured on SHIELD transports, and Tony was back in another borrowed suit, looking none the worse for wear.
Sam, watching him joke with the evac team like he hadn’t just put himself between a bunch of scared civilians and a literal war zone, shook his head.
"You’re something else, Stark."
Tony smirked. "I get that a lot."
Sam just huffed, but there was something new in the way he looked at Tony now. Respect. Maybe even admiration.
Sam wasn’t expecting company in the Avengers Tower kitchen at 2 a.m.
He was just looking for a quiet moment—a break from the mission debriefs, the endless meetings, the weight of being an Avenger. He wasn’t even that hungry; he just needed something to do, so he settled for stress-eating a peanut butter sandwich at the counter, staring blankly at the stainless steel fridge.
Then, from behind him—
"Wilson, buddy. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were brooding."
Sam sighed but didn’t turn around. "I’m eating, Stark."
Tony, because he was Tony, ignored this and strolled in like he owned the place. Which, okay, he did, but that wasn’t the point.
"Right, right. Totally normal to eat in complete silence like some kind of tortured antihero," Tony said, reaching into a cabinet and pulling out a protein bar. "Should I dim the lights? Play some dramatic violin music?"
Sam shook his head, a small smirk tugging at his lips. "You’re a real pain in the ass, you know that?"
Tony grinned. "It’s one of my many talents."
They lapsed into silence, Tony unwrapping his protein bar, Sam picking at the crust of his sandwich.
And then—because maybe it was just late enough, or maybe he was just tired enough—Sam muttered, "You ever just… not know how to turn it off?"
Tony glanced at him. "Turn what off?"
Sam exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face. "All of it. The missions. The losses. The feeling that if you stop moving, even for a second, it’s all gonna catch up with you?"
Tony didn’t answer right away. He just studied Sam, something unreadable in his expression. Then, finally, he leaned against the counter, voice softer than usual.
"Yeah," he said. "All the time."
Sam looked at him. Really looked at him. Tony always acted like the weight of the world was something he could joke off, but right now? He looked tired. Not just physically, but deep down.
"How do you deal with it?" Sam asked before he could stop himself.
Tony shrugged, peeling off a tiny piece of his protein bar and flicking it across the counter. "Badly. Avoidance is key. I recommend building a billion-dollar suit of armor and distracting yourself with shiny things."
Sam gave him a look.
Tony sighed, tilting his head back. "I don’t know, man. Some days it’s easier than others. Some days, you just fake it until you believe it."
Sam frowned, mulling that over.
Then—surprisingly—Tony nudged him lightly with his elbow.
"But, y’know. If you ever do figure out a better way to deal, you could always let me in on the secret."
Sam let out a quiet chuckle. "Yeah. I’ll get right on that."
They fell into another easy silence, the weight of the moment settling between them—not heavy, not unbearable. Just there.
And for the first time in a long time, Sam didn’t feel quite so alone in it.
Sam had been in bad situations before.
He had been shot at, chased down, knocked out of the sky more times than he could count. He had fallen, had the breath stolen from his lungs on impact, had hit the ground too hard and too fast, waiting for the moment when he wouldn’t get back up.
But this—this was different.
This time, he wasn’t sure if he’d make it out.
The sky above him was dark, a storm rolling in thick over the ruined battlefield. The mission had gone to hell so quickly that he still wasn’t sure how it had all fallen apart. One second, they were extracting intel from a HYDRA outpost, smooth as anything. The next, the whole compound was collapsing in on itself, fire and gunfire swallowing the sky, and Sam had been spiraling.
His wings had taken too much damage. The right thruster blew out mid-flight, sending him plummeting toward the tree line before he could course-correct. He had tried, just for a second, to believe he could regain control, but—
It was too much like before.
Too much like the day he lost Riley.
The feeling of helplessness, of gravity taking hold and refusing to let go, of the sky giving way beneath him—it had all happened too fast. The trees had rushed up to meet him, too much force, too little time.
He barely remembered the crash.
Now, he was here.
Stranded in the middle of nowhere, the remains of his EXO-7 Falcon rig smoking a few feet away, his leg screaming with pain every time he moved. He didn’t need a med scan to know something was wrong—the unnatural angle of his knee, the fire-hot pain running up his thigh, the way he could feel something loose beneath his skin.
Comms were out. He had no way of knowing if backup was coming.
And the storm clouds above promised that, even if they were, it wouldn’t be fast enough.
Sam exhaled slowly through his nose, shifting against the thick tree trunk at his back, trying to force himself to think past the pain. He had been in bad situations before.
He had made it out before.
He would make it out now.
Then, his earpiece crackled, static breaking through his thoughts.
"Wilson?"
The voice was distorted, cutting in and out, but Sam still recognized it.
"…Stark?"
"Ding ding ding." The transmission was weak, but Tony’s voice came through, sharp even through the distortion. "You’re live on the Tony Stark Emergency Broadcast Network. Which, might I add, you could have avoided if you hadn’t gone all action hero on us and crashed into the goddamn woods."
Sam let out something like a breath of relief, but it came out shaky. "Nice to hear your voice, too."
"Yeah, yeah. Flattery later. Where are you?"
Sam took a slow breath, his vision blurring at the edges. "No idea. Some forest. Near the drop point, maybe a few miles out."
Tony cursed. "Alright. Sit tight—I’m five minutes out."
Sam frowned. "Wait—five minutes? How—"
Then he heard it.
The whirr of repulsors cutting through the storm, growing louder by the second.
Sam turned his head, blinking against the rain, just in time to see the sky split open in gold and red as Tony dropped into the clearing.
For a moment, Sam just stared.
The armor gleamed even in the darkness, arcs of light dancing across the wet grass. The faceplate retracted, revealing Tony’s face—eyes sharp, mouth pressed into a tight line.
He looked pissed.
"Jesus, Sam," Tony muttered, striding toward him. "You had one job. Stay airborne."
Sam tried to huff out a laugh, but it came out more like a wince. "Sorry to disappoint."
Tony crouched next to him, scanning him with the suit’s HUD. Sam knew the moment the injuries registered—Tony’s mouth twitched, his brows pulling together.
"How bad is it?" Tony asked, voice quieter now.
Sam swallowed. "Leg’s messed up. Wings are totaled. Otherwise, I’m fine."
Tony’s eyes flicked down, scanning Sam’s leg. His jaw tightened. "Yeah, that’s a fracture, genius. Not fine."
Sam shifted, trying to sit up straighter, and immediately regretted it. A white-hot bolt of pain shot up his side, stealing the breath from his lungs.
It was too much like before.
The crash, the impact, the way he hit the ground too hard, the way he could hear Riley’s voice on the comms, could see the way his chute failed to open—
For a second, Sam wasn’t in the forest.
He was in another sky, over another battlefield, reaching out—
And failing to hold on.
"Hey," Tony’s voice cut through the spiral, sharp and real. "Sam. Look at me."
Sam blinked hard, the world tilting back into focus.
Tony was watching him carefully now, the usual sarcasm nowhere to be found.
"You good?" Tony asked, quieter.
Sam exhaled through his nose. "Yeah."
Tony didn’t look convinced, but—mercifully—he didn’t push. Instead, he shifted closer, looping an arm around Sam’s back.
"Alright," Tony said. "Let’s get you out of here."
Sam tensed. "I can walk."
Tony snorted. "Yeah? And I can go five minutes without making a bad decision, but we both know that’s a lie."
"Tony—"
"Sam." Tony’s grip tightened, steady and solid. "Let me help."
Sam opened his mouth to argue—but then he saw the look in Tony’s eyes.
This wasn’t pity. It wasn’t some flippant offer.
Tony was serious.
And Sam—Sam, who had spent so long not letting people in, not letting himself lean on anyone because the last time he did, he had to watch them fall—felt something crack in his chest.
Slowly, he exhaled. "Alright."
Tony nodded once, like he understood something Sam hadn’t even said, and together, they moved.
Sam clenched his jaw against the pain, leaning into Tony more than he wanted to, but Tony didn’t comment on it. Just held on.
The repulsers kicked in, lifting them up, carrying them out of the clearing.
And Sam, for the first time in a long time, let someone else catch him.
Later, after the medics had checked him over and his leg was wrapped in a brace, Sam found Tony loitering outside the infirmary, arms crossed like he wasn’t totally waiting for an update.
Sam leaned against the doorway, raising an eyebrow. "What, no ‘I told you so’?"
Tony scoffed. "Please. You think I’m that predictable?"
Sam smirked. "I think you care more than you let on."
Tony held his gaze for a beat—then, with a small, lopsided smile, he shrugged.
"Yeah," Tony admitted. "Guess I do."
Sam felt something settle in his chest.
Something solid.
He bumped Tony’s shoulder lightly. "Right back at you."
Tony grinned. "Well, obviously. I am very lovable."
Sam just shook his head, already regretting his life choices.
But, as he followed Tony down the hall—limping slightly, but not alone—he figured maybe, just maybe, he didn’t mind so much.