100 Marvel One Shots✔️

Bad Habits >> Sam Wilson (The Falcon) X Reader

Title: Bad Habits

Warnings: None!

Spoilers: Yes, for Captain America: Civil War

Author's Note: this is for Ddxoxo1 who requested for some more Sam. Enjoy!

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You had a habit of loving Sam Wilson. It wasn't particularly a bad habit, nor a good one, yet, you continued it. He had no idea of the affair, and to be perfectly frank, you were relieved in some ways that it was that way. You were just a friend of Steve Rogers, the granddaughter of the Howling Commander Timothy "Dum Dum" Dugan, just a friend he learned the modern day with. But when Sam had walked through the door for Halo night (an event he made up that evening) with Clint and Nat in tow.

But that wasn't when you started having feelings for him.

Two weeks after, you were chilling in Steve's apartment. It was dinky, and you were sure there were rats but it was as much a home to Steve as it were to you. And, seemingly, Sam Wilson felt the same, who let himself in in a hurry. You had hardly looked up from the book you were reading when you realised he was in the place, and even then, you didn't question it. Avenger business meant things that were beyond you and your civilian understanding. But this time, instead of letting him just bust in, you put down the novel and followed the Falcon's footsteps to the kitchen bench.

"So, where's the fire?" You joked, seeing the look in his eyes.

Sam shook his head. "No fire. Just a pigeon." 

In his hands, was a little bird. It had brown and beige feathers, scattered with white under its belly. The pigeon's head was tucked under its wing, trying to get something out. You look to Sam, and see he's already whipped out Steve's first aid kit from below the sink. He holds the tweezers and tape like he was born with them in his big, beautiful hands. 

"So, can I trust you to hold Sparrow?" He gave you a big, Sam-smile.

You took a shaky breath out, looking between the two birds in front of you. One, an actual bird, the other, a man who could literally fly like one, and thought everything in the sky to be his second cousins. You'd heard stories of him adopting birds he found on the street, but never in these tales anyone had spoken of the fact he named them. Naming things makes you attached. 

That's why you called your attraction a bad habit. Not named. 

"Fine. But you're not keeping this one." You roll up the sleeves of the sweater you'd borrowed from Steve, and slowly, placed your hand beside Sam's on the bird. "So, what's the prognosis, doctor?"

He rolled his eyes. "Thorn in upper left wing. Extraction in t-minus three seconds. Prepare for distressed bird, ______..."

After the spat between the government and the Avengers, you didn't see much of anyone. You house sat Steve's place mostly, adopted a stray dog that had been living in the dumpster down in the alleyway. Lost your job, got a new one, painted your nails to pass time. There was no word from anyone, not even Wanda Maximoff, who had been somewhat of a helping hand in learning more about everyone when you had first approached the scene of being a close friend to the team. Not even Sam. 

Months went by, and still, your bad habit lingered. You'd check your phone for messages after the slightest separation from it, but there were no messages from any of the places you were friends with him on. No mail, no calls. Some nights, you'd stay awake, thinking of what news footage you'd seen him in overseas, and for a moment, you'd cheat yourself into thinking that he had a bad habit, like yours, but you'd sigh. And remember the lounge seat beside you was cold. 

You'd passed out in the lounge room, too tired after the day to walk another step to Steve's bed. But when you woke, there was sound you hadn't heard in what seemed like an age. A key in the lock. You jolted to attention, and grabbed the nearest thing at hand - Steve's copy of Peggy Carter's memoir and autobiography - and crept to the entrance. As soon as you saw the shadow of a figure approaching you, you swung the tome, knocking the intruder back, and onto the floor. They went down screaming bloody murder, shocking you into joining the fright of their life. 

But it wasn't until you came closer to see who you had taken down with Ms Carter's life's work that you realised just who you had taken down. 

Sam Wilson had a bloody nose, the bridge twisted in a way that you'd not seen a nose like, since baseball camp as a kid where you beat up Johnny Storm for stealing your sleeping bag. His eyes were puffy, and watched you silently. 

"Sam Wilson, you birdbrain," you whisper. 

Not three minutes later you have Sam sitting on the sofa, nursing his face with a bag of peas. It isn't as bad as it first had appeared, but now you're just nervous. Seeing Sam after so long makes you heart jump, and your pulse race, and now knowing you've hurt him - you're not in love, stop it. It's just a bad habit of caring for people. Particularly him, you chide yourself.

"I can see you didn't get up to much," is his opening line. You scoff, and he adds, "I know you're probably angry at me and Steve and everyone for dropping off the face of the earth." 

You nod. "A postcard would have been nice," you grumble. 

Sam takes a deep breath, wincing at what it does to his nose. "I know, I know. We were in Africa. I had to take care of some foreign affairs between the Avengers and a handful of governments across the world, while Steve stared at Bucky sleeping most of the day." He moves to get up, but you push him back, gently. "And all this time, you're living out of Steve's place, and got a dog...is that even a dog?" He eyes your pre-loved pooch on the mat. 

"Yes, Samuel Wilson, that is a dog. I saved its ass from being put down, or whatever would have happened to it on the street. I have been sleepless for months worrying over your superhero ass and all you talk about is your work, and joke?" You feel tears well up in your eyes, and for the first time since they'd disappeared, you feel a tear slip out. "I thought everyone was dead. The news showed nothing about it, and - and -,"

Sam leans forward, taking your hand in his. "I had no idea you felt like that, _______." His hands are cold from the peas, but still, they feel like Sam's hands, and they encircle yours well. It feels so comforting. Nice. He leans forward more, and it's then you realise he's about to kiss you.

"Wait a second, what are you doing?" you gasp, moving back.

Sam sits there on the sofa, confused. The bag of peas slips into his lap. "You know, kiss you? It's something two people who feel the same about each other do to show that they like them?" He prompts.

Your eyebrows skyrocket. "You like me? No, wait, you think I -," you feel the words disappear from your mouth. "Wait..."

"I knew you were in love with me, _______, since that time I brought a goddamned pigeon in here and played doctor. I never knew you didn't know you liked me..." Sam shakes his head, and sighs. "Sorry for coming on to you like that."

You look at your hands. "...I mean, Sam - I've felt something for you. It's like a bad habit, of worrying. Wondering if you're okay, and it makes me feel so amazing when you hug me, and -," you glance up. Sam's eyes are bright, hanging onto every word you say. "I'm an idiot, aren't I?"

He shrugs. "Most in love are," he leans forward once more, and this time, you don't edge away, or let your thoughts tell you any different. It isn't a bad habit to love anyone, let alone Sam Wilson, the man with wings and the best recipe for plum pie on this side of America. "Watch the nose, though. You're a great hit."

You can't help but giggle. "Sorry about that. I guess I wasn't expecting any visitors."

Sam smooches you, and presses his lips to your forehead. "Well I'm here to stay, darling. I'm yours."