Chapter Notes: Please keep in mind that the Air Force Steve is familiar with was part of the Army (it doesn't become a separate branch of service until after he's frozen). Also, while Sam/Steve is a pairing that comes up in this fic and gets explicit later on, it is not endgame; this is a tropey love story where Sam/Riley wins out against all the odds because these losers deserve more epic romances and I am a sap.
March in New York is cold when it hits. There's no snow, but there's been a chill in the crisp air for weeks that makes Sam's lungs burn and his throat ache during his post-shift runs in Central Park. The sun is low and the lights are all on when he enters the park at 106th Street like usual, jogging past the edge of the Conservatory Garden until it intersects Park Drive as part of his warm up. Sam turns south on the wide paved path, gradually increasing speeding until he reaches his preferred six mile pace.
Running has helped a lot since he quit lying to himself. It feels good to get out of his apartment and physically exert himself without any lives on the line. His feet pound the pavement, his arms swinging in close, tight movements on either side of his chest, the greenery blurring on his periphery. Sam knows his body and what it's capable of, what it has already done in the past and what he knows it can handle in the future. He always enjoyed running, but lately he appreciates the control he has here more than ever before. There are balances that he understands on a run, like how to keep hydrated or refuel during long distance endurance training, or how to regulate his blood acidity during high intensity work outs.
His body never betrays him the way that his mind still sometimes does. Sometimes he still knocks on the empty bedroom door and expects Riley to answer. He started leaving the main room's window open and talking to the pigeons and sparrows that drop by to settle on his window sill or flutter over to his coffee table, picking at crumbs and whatever leftovers he hasn't gotten around to putting up. Sometimes he thinks they're responding to him when they chirp back, imagines that they're nodding along when they bob their heads, or that they're pacing thoughtfully and muddling over his words when they waddle back and forth across his floorboards. Sam hasn't been taking anything since he left the WTU, thought he didn't need to because those delusions were supposed to be side effects of his altitude and stabilizer meds and he hasn't needed those since he stopped being a Falcon last year.
His breath puffs out in white clouds in front of him, sweat dotting his brow as he passes the first mile mark, then the second. Sam's been ignoring reality because it hurts, talking to birds and empty rooms because it's easier, and there's no physical equivalent to that kind of logical treason.
So he runs. He focuses on the soreness of his calves and the low grade strain in his thigh muscles that tell him he should have stretched more before setting out. It doesn't put the past behind him, doesn't afford him the opportunity to escape the truth, but it's nice to have something other than Riley making his heart race these days.
Sam is panting hard as he passes the reservoir and the Met, as he turns onto the smaller path that'll take him down to the Bethesda Fountain before he begins to loop back around to the north for his return home. There aren't a lot of people out at this hour, but there isn't really any part of Central Park that's ever truly empty, and there's still some pedestrian traffic moving slowly along the two grand staircases heading back up to Terrace Drive or puttering through the lower passage to the rest of the mall. Around the fountain itself is a collection of couples and small groups spread out along the concrete lip of the surrounding pool, sitting and chatting amongst themselves under the calm gaze of the bronze angel statue raised at its center.
He's heading for the stairs when, by pure chance, he passes close enough to two men near the fountain to overhear one of them say, bitterly, with the promise of violence roughening his deep voice, "I'll get by just fine on my own, thanks, and you can tell your director that if he wanted it, he should have pried it from my cold, dead hands when he had the chance."
It's the unspoken threat of escalation that gets Sam to slow to a jog and then pause on the red bricks of the lower terrace, moving closer as he pretends to stretch out a cramp in his hamstring so that he has an excuse to be nearby. New Yorkers talk a lot of shit, so it's really a pretty small risk in the grand scheme of things, all things considered, but the guy sounds like Riley used to, when he was ready for a fight and didn't care about the consequences. Like he's been looking for an excuse to throw a punch for awhile now and he couldn't care less that his opponent is a pasty, mild-looking older guy with thinning brown hair in a well-tailored black suit if it means that he can get that brutal ferocity out that's been itching just under the speaker's skin.
A house sparrow settles on the concrete next to the man, grey-bellied and brown-backed, a tuft of black breast feathers just under its short beak. It hops closer to the man's fingers, inquisitive, as Sam watches the men. The speaker is young and blond, hair greasy and unwashed, but regulation short in the back and on the sides, a little long up top with the bangs swept to the side off his forehead. His strong, square jaw is clean-shaven and sharply set, blue eyes burning with controlled rage. He's broad shouldered and tense under the grungy lightweight jacket he's wearing, and even sitting Sam can tell that he'd be a big, fit man if he got up to his feet. Sam can't quite put his finger on it, but there's something familiar about him and his good ol' boy, All-American looks that gives away his military background.
"Or maybe it's the jump boots," the sparrow quips. Sam glances to the man's feet, and sure enough, those are black leather Corcorans. He can't tell if they're ladder-laced because the top half of the boots are covered by the man's dirty khakis, but the ankles are reinforced and the toes are capped, and Sam had spent enough time at Fort Bragg to recognize jump boots when he saw them. There's something that looks like a padded wheel case for a road bike leaning against the concrete next to the man, and he's got one hand on it protectively.
So. He's probably an Army veteran, and given the odds and the man's appearance, Sam would bet good money on the possibility of him being homeless. Sam knows that the majority of veterans aren't violent post-separation, but he might deck a guy, too, if they were being pushy with him at night in Central Park.
The older man's expression crumbles from something oddly reverent to confused and apologetic. He hesitates, then frowns and says, "I think you're being a little unreasonable, sir."
"Really," the other deadpans. He looks like he wants to drown the older guy in the basin behind him. "Because I've been told I'm a pretty reasonable fella."
"I'm sure we can sort this all out, sir, if you'd just come back with –"
"I'm not going anywhere with you, agent," the man interrupts harshly. "I don't owe you, or Fury, or the U.S. government a damn thing."
"Please, Captain Ro–"
"I'd leave the man alone, if I were you," Sam finds himself saying, and both men turn to look at him. The blond – a former Army captain? – looks startled to have someone speaking on his behalf, and the older man – an agent, apparently, but from where? – seems annoyed by the intrusion.
"Excuse me?" the agent says.
"You heard me," Sam replies, looking the agent up and then down again, obviously unimpressed with the results of his scan. The sparrow cheeps appreciatively, like it approves of Sam's methods. "And between the two of us, I don't think you stand much of a chance."
The agent sighs a deep breath out through his nose. He seems to consider making more of a scene than they're already causing, but decides against it. Several other people have started glancing their way, and a boy across the terrace has his phone out like he's about to start recording. The agent reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a plain-looking business card with some kind of government insignia in the upper left corner, offering it to the captain.
"If you change your mind, sir, the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division's door will always be open to you," he says. Sam doesn't recognize the name of the agency, and with a name that long he thinks he would have if he'd ever heard of it before. The captain continues to glare at the older man until he falters and puts the card back, turning sharply and beating a swift retreat under the man's steady gaze. When he disappears from view down the path into the park, the captain redirects his attention to Sam, though his glare loses its heat.
"New Yorkers, am I right?" Sam says rhetorically, with a shrug, and the blond snorts.
"I'd say they were never that weird, but honestly the strangeness is the only thing that's familiar anymore," he replies. Sam smiles and nods to the man's boots.
"You just get back?" Sam asks, and at the other's confused look, he gestures more broadly to his entire person. "You're military, aren't you?"
"I was," the man corrects, tone going cautious. "Army."
"Air Force," Sam says, and there's another brief flash of confusion over the captain's face before smoothing back out into blankness. "I got out, too. 'Bout a year ago now. When did you get back?"
They watch each other for a long minute after that, as he takes Sam in, assessing him for threat and motive.
"About three days ago," he finally says. Sam's brows both go up.
"You got back from a deployment three days ago, or you got out of the Army three days ago?"
"Yeah," he says, and flashes Sam a wry, humorless smile. It doesn't reach his strikingly blue eyes.
"Shit," Sam says, because he doesn't know what else to say. On further consideration, he doesn't think there's really anything else fitting to say to that. Nobody gets back and then out that quickly unless trouble was involved. He offers the man his hand to shake. "Sam Wilson."
"Rogers," the man says, relaxing and taking Sam's hand. "Steve."
His grip is strong and firm, big and warm and dry, when they shake. Sam is embarrassed to note that he thinks Rogers has nice hands, and the embarrassment is followed by a sharp stab of guilt. He's got Riley, he doesn't need to be thinking about –
Except that Sam doesn't have Riley, not anymore. He has to remind himself that there isn't anything wrong with noticing that someone else is attractive almost a year after his last partner's death. He pulls his hand back and tucks both into the pockets of his running shorts. "Well, thank you for your service, Rogers. Let me buy you a coffee?"
"I thought you already got in your charitable act for the day?" Rogers muses, heavy on the sarcasm, mouth quirking up self-deprecatingly on one side. He reaches up to run the fingers of one hand through his bangs, smoothing them down. It takes Sam a second to realize that he's being teased, and honestly he can't tell if they're flirting or not. He doesn't mean it that way, not right now, and it's been so long since he was in the game that he's out of practice anyway.
"Hey, I may be a saint, but you don't look like a charity case," Sam replies easily enough, and points east down Terrace Drive. "Oren's is on Lexington, off 71st, and they're open 'til seven. What do you say?"
". . . Yeah, okay, sure," Rogers agrees, and grabs the wheel case as he gets up to his feet. Sam was right; he is a big man, taller than Sam is and maybe even Gideon, with his torso tapering from those wide shoulders to an almost impossibly slim waist. It gives him the kind of silhouette that's hard to look away from and that Sam only sees in fitness magazines on guys who have been Photoshopped. "Lead the way."
It's about a half-mile to the coffee shop, and they make the ten minute walk mostly in a companionable silence. Sam does ask about Rogers's deployment as they're turning down Lexington. "Were you deployed to Iraq, or Afghanistan?"
"What?" Rogers seems baffled for a moment, then shakes his head. "Oh. No, neither. My unit was on the Eastern Front."
Sam doesn't think he's heard anyone refer to 'the eastern front' since his U.S. history class covered World War II. He doesn't know a lot about what's been going on over there recently, but Rogers has paratroopers boots on. The only airborne unit in USAREUR that Sam knows of is the 173rd Infantry out of Vicenza, Italy. Sam clarifies, just to be sure. "So. . . what, Europe?"
Rogers gapes at him, like he can't believe that it needs to be said, then huffs a short-lived laugh and nods. "Yeah. Europe."
And that's. . . well, that's not what Sam was expecting. He's watching Rogers scan the streets, look at the cars, hold himself and his wheel case like he might need to use either of them as a weapon at a moment's notice. Sam can tell that Rogers is a combat vet, but to his knowledge, American troops haven't been involved in much of anything in Europe outside of Kosovo back in the '90s. He holds the door open for Rogers to go first when they arrive at Oren's, and falls into step beside him as they get in line, both surveying the posted menu. It isn't busy at this hour, but it's New York and the coffee is good, so the place isn't empty, either.
They make their way up through the line, and it's just before they're about to order that Sam is able to place that initial, odd sense of familiarity. He nudges Rogers with his elbow, grinning. "Hey, anyone ever tell you that you look like Captain America?"
Rogers opens his mouth to reply, but all that comes out is a disbelieving guffaw that catches them both off-guard. He can't seem to stop it, and has to put a hand on Sam's shoulder to steady himself. Soon, he's laughing so hard there are tears in his eyes, his body shaking and his face red.
Sam chuckles along, but doesn't get the joke. The barista manning the register just watches them patiently with that neutral, customer-service smile fixed in place.
Rogers wipes at his eyes and squeezes Sam's shoulder. "Yeah," he wheezes. "Yeah, I played him in a movie once."