UNKNOWN GUEST

#27 Sam Wilson and Backup

I woke up groggily on a couch, the soft morning light streaming through the windows. Wait, where was I? Oh right—I had come back to headquarters last night with Uncle Clint, planned to brief Fury about the assignment, but ended up waiting in the common room. I must have fallen asleep. Shit, I was already late!

The noise from Fury's office caught my attention, making me pause. It sounded like a heated argument. I shuffled out of the room and headed towards the commotion. As I approached the door, I could hear Agent Romanoff's raised voice.

"How can you send an 18-year-old kid against 30 men?!" she was shouting, her voice sharp with frustration. "How can you do that?"

Fury, sitting behind his desk with his usual calm demeanor, sighed heavily. "Look, I repeat, Agent Romanoff, he was confident."

Romanoff scoffed, clearly not buying it. "Confident? Seriously? What if backup had been a minute late?"

Fury's tone turned sharper. "Get a hold of yourself, Agent Romanoff. Jason Roberts is also an operative of SHIELD just like you and many others. He had a task to do, and he did quite well. So keep the sentiment aside."

Her response was immediate, but it carried a note of finality. "I'm not sentimental, Director. I don't want to see some agency with a bounty on his head, just like the one that was on mine." Her voice was laced with a personal edge, reflecting her own experiences and fears.

I sighed, understanding her frustration a bit better now. Even though she didn't have a personal connection to me, her protectiveness was clearly rooted in her own experiences. She didn't want me to face the same perilous path she had walked.

Mom turned and stormed out of the office, her expression set in a determined line. As she walked past me, she didn't even spare me a glance, her mind clearly still focused on the argument she'd just had. 

"Did she see us?" Uncle Clint's voice startled me. I turned to see him right behind me. 

I sighed and nodded, "She did."

Clint shook his head, his expression a mix of concern and resignation. "Fury's going to have a hard time dealing with her for a while."

I smirked at him, "What if she finds out who recommended my name?"

Clint's eyes widened in mock horror. "You're kidding? She'll kill me instantly."

Just then, another voice boomed from behind us. "You recommended his name?"

I turned to see Captain—my dad—standing there, glaring at Uncle Clint. Uncle Clint stuttered, "Captain, it's not like—"

Dad cut him off. "Barton, I thought you were a bit more rational than Natasha. She's the risk-taker, she doesn't flinch, but you were supposed to keep things grounded."

Clint sighed, looking genuinely apologetic. "You're right. I'm sorry, Cap."

I stepped in, trying to ease the tension. "Captain, it's not a big deal. I had backup behind me. When I knocked out the leader, it sent a signal right away. So, there was nothing to worry about."

Dad nodded, though he still looked unsure. Uncle Clint seized the moment to tease. "Exactly. You and Natasha are acting like I sent your son to the frontline or something."

We both stifled a chuckle as Dad cleared his throat. "It's just... didn't feel right. I'm not... really worried."

Clint smirked, "Yeah, sure."

Dad turned and walked away, his posture still tense. Uncle Clint and I watched him go, and Clint commented with a grin, "Oh boy, they don't know you're their son and they're acting like this. Imagine what they'd do if they found out who you are."

I sighed with a small smile. "That's never gonna happen."

Clint nodded, placing a reassuring hand on my back. "Yeah, let's keep it that way."

The morning was crisp and cool as I strolled past the entrance of the service men's cemetery. My routine was interrupted when I spotted Uncle Sam in the distance. I stopped, squinting as I saw him exiting the cemetery.

"Hi, Mr. Wilson," I called out, but he only sighed, his focus seemingly on his path. Undeterred, I quickened my pace to match his, catching up easily. "Who were you visiting?"

He didn't answer, just kept moving. Trying to distract him, I threw out a challenge. "Let's see if your wings are bigger," I said with a grin, nudging him into a friendly race.

His eyes narrowed, but he couldn't resist the challenge. We both took off, pushing our limits. I let him win, of course, deciding it was best to concede. We collapsed under a small but thick tree, panting from the sprint.

Leaning against the trunk, Uncle Sam chuckled, his breath coming in short gasps. I shook my head with a smile, " You need a new set of lungs?" He just rolled his eyes. I took a seat beside him, still catching my breath. I decided to prod a little more, though. "Did you lose someone?" I asked, trying to break the silence.

He was quiet for a moment, then nodded subtly. "My pilot, Reilly."

I nodded, a sympathetic sigh escaping my lips. "I'm sorry to hear that."

The air was thick with unspoken words, and I didn't want to press him too hard. Instead, I opted for something that might lighten the mood. "You know," I began, "someone once told me that dealing with our own memories depends on us. If we carry them as a burden, they'll haunt us like a nightmare. But if we see them as motivation and gratitude, it can be like a sweet dream, a form of relief."

He remained silent, but I could tell he was listening. Encouraged, I continued. "They say that if you're grieving, helping others who are grieving can bring you peace. After all, who knows the value of a drop of water more than someone living in a desert?"

He looked at me for a moment, as if considering my words. Then, with a slow nod, he stood up. "What's your name again?" he asked, extending his hand.

"Jason," I replied, shaking his hand firmly as I stood up beside him.

He started to walk away but paused and looked back at me. "See you around, Jason."

I nodded with a smile, watching as he walked off. I had a feeling he was going to start group sessions very soon. He seemed like he needed to channel his grief into something constructive, and maybe my words had nudged him in that direction.

As usual, I found myself behind the logistic desks, immersed in the routine of organizing and tracking resources. Suddenly, a coded signal crackled through the headset, breaking the monotony.

"SHIELD headquarters. Over."

A familiar voice came through, laced with urgency and panic. "We need immediate backup. Over."

I recognized the voice instantly—Uncle Clint," Agent Barton?"

 The tension in his voice was palpable. "Jason! We need backup from the STRIKE team."

My heart skipped a beat. I glanced around quickly, assessing the situation. Mom, Dad, and Uncle Clint were on a mission around New Jersey. The urgency of Clint's message left me with a sinking feeling—who was in trouble? Mom? Dad? Or both of them?

I swiftly removed the headset and headed straight for Agent Hill's office. Bursting through the door, I found her engaged in a flurry of activity.

"Agent Hill," I said, trying to keep my voice steady, "we need a STRIKE squad as backup. Agent Barton sent the code."

She immediately sprang into action, relaying the message with practiced efficiency. "STRIKE squad from platoon C3 at the entrance in 5." Her eyes locked onto mine with a look of concern. "You've got the op location?"

I nodded, barely able to contain my anxiety.

Hill promptly keyed in a message on her comms, addressing the team. "Agent Roberts will lead the squad."

She turned back to me, her expression resolute. "Get ready."

I gave a sharp nod, and without wasting a second, I dashed out of the office. The gravity of the situation weighed heavily on me. I was determined to get to the scene as quickly as possible and provide whatever support was needed.

Mom, Dad—I'm coming.