rodrikstark's headcanons (part 2)

tip jar (s. wilson x reader)

"you were incredible at the game last night."

"that pass you caught—"

"you flew like, three feet in the air!"

"no wonder they're starting to call you the falcon."

sam taps the eraser of his gray mechanical pencil against the corner of his book. "thank you, uh—"

you don't hear the rest of what he says, shoving a plastic cup against the lever of the ice machine, your tongue running over your teeth.

you count to three before you do anything too stupid. from your diaphragm, you belt, "order up for sam!"

he bows his head politely to the fans dressed in red and navy before arriving at the pick-up counter, the left side of his mouth slightly curved.

"here's that cup of ice water." one shove in his direction and some of the liquid sloshes onto the counter. you grab the dish rag hanging on a hook a few feet behind you.

"ah. this must be for another sam."

"mmm?" the towel compresses beneath your grip.

"i didn't order this," he clarifies.

"oh, what was it that you ordered?" you ask, tension in your smile as sam lifts the cup and you wipe the surface.

his other hand—big and gentle—covers yours. "hey, c'mere." you wrinkle your nose. "gimme a kiss?"

you busy yourself with wiping down the blenders, ignoring the undeniable warmth in his brown eyes. "that's not on the menu."

he chuckles, watching you lift the plastic shields up and down, like you don't know what do with your hands. "baby."

"i'm working."

"really?" sam makes a show of looking around, finding no one standing in line, no drink orders in the queue. "because the past few minutes i've only seen you glaring—"

"you're being mean." you frown.

"and you're being cute."

you poke at the pump on a bottle of toffee syrup, straightening it until it's parallel with the other flavors. "you think i'd be used to people flirting with you by now."

"maybe they're just really big football fans."

you look at sam now, at his wide, shrugging shoulders, and the athletic hoodie hugging them.

you know he's yours. you'll be wearing that hoodie soon enough, curling up in his lap in front of his TV. still, your jaw shifts. "she touched your arm."

"my arms are where the money is," he points out. "and i remember somebody touching my arm an awful lot when we first met at sarah's party."

your face heats thinking about that—your unabashed interest in sam, his immediate reciprocation, how close you danced together that night. "you're being mean again."

"how am i gonna make it up to you?"

you point your finger at him, towel in hand. "tell your fans to at least leave something in the tip jar if they're gonna flirt with my boyfriend right in front of me."

he laughs, full and beautiful, and when he leans across the counter you don't have a choice but to meet him halfway, tasting the coffee on his lips. "are they gone?"

you're smug. "yep."

sam sighs in relief. "i actually really need to study. practice has been kicking my ass."

"you're welcome."

"your shift ends at eight?" his nose brushes your cheek.

"yeah."

"got a couple hours before i have to make it up to you, for being so mean."

you tug at the strings of his hoodie. "i'm sure you'll think of something."