Chapter Text
…and there was a new voice […]
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do –
determined to save
the only life you could save.
- Mary Oliver, excerpt from “The Journey”
He was beginning to feel more like a politician than a superhero.
After declaring himself Captain America, the U.S. government descended on him like crows to a carcass, claws sinking into his past, present, and future. Yes, he was Sam Wilson from Delacroix, Louisiana. Yes, he had served over two years in the U.S. Air Force. Yes, he was both loyal and critical of his country, but what else had he not told them? Was there a girlfriend who he had wronged? A child he had abandoned? A friend or two, who fell into the wrong crowd and would maybe call for him from prison, begging for a pardon he could not give? Sam answered their questions without flinching, but with every syllable pushed through gritted teeth he wondered, was Walker drilled like this? Was Steve?
He knew the answer in the way they congratulated him with stiff smiles and limp handshakes. He was not the Captain America they wanted, but the U.S. government knew that the shield was grasped so firmly in Sam’s grip, they would have to sever his hand to take it back. Instead, they surrounded him with a team: a public relations manager, a social media specialist, a make-up artist, a speech writer, two armed guards, a therapist who worked out of an office in Georgetown but was on call for virtual sessions, a personal trainer, a physical therapist, a barber who they poached from Atlanta, and of course, his manager, Cory.
“Not having a team was one of the biggest mistakes they made with Walker,” Cory told him once. “They won’t be making that mistake again.”
His team followed him on his press tour across America, where he met with fair crowds in Minnesota and Indigenous populations in New Mexico. In California, some high school kids taught him how to skateboard, and in Illinois, he danced the Cupid’s Shuffle at a five-hundred guest wedding. Every public appearance was recorded and slapped on the internet. Unlike Steve and Walker, his Captain America had a Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and TikTok. His Captain America would be more accessible – a Captain America who was truly of and for the people.
Sam was not allowed to read what people said about him online – “It will destroy your mental health,” his therapist warned, “and you need to be the soundest person in the room.” – but his PR manager, Laura, provided scant updates.
When she told him, “You’re doing much better with White males in their 30s and 40s than we thought you would,” he couldn’t help but ask, “Oh yeah? Why? You thought they would hate me because I’m Black?”
Laura smiled at him the way she always did, slightly condescending but not enough to be fired. “We didn’t think it, that’s what the data predicted.”
The data also predicted that he would not do well overseas. But that was less to do with his race, and more to do with the “Walker incident.” Although the U.S. government continued to the remind the world that Walker had been sufficiently punished, there were too many videos online where Sam was standing on the sidelines with Bucky, watching aghast instead of acting. In an official statement, the Latvian government admonished Sam and Bucky for failing to properly assess Walker’s mental state, and for failing to detain him before he murdered one of their citizens. One line of the statement read, “The appointment of Samuel Thomas Wilson as Captain America does not repair our faith in the United States of America. We question the judgement of the U.S. to replace one ineffective Captain America with another.”
Their statement, and others made by global leaders, were why after Jackson, Mississippi, Sam was boarding a plane to the U.N. headquarters in New York, before flying out for an international press tour.
As they entered the Westin Jackson hotel for the evening, Cory matched Sam’s stride, rambling off the tour schedule. Their first stop was Riga, of course, then Vienna, and Rome. Sam was meant to be listening, but the exhaustion of the day – traveling and smiling in the thick summer heat – had woven around his bones, and threatened to drag his shoulders and head downward, towards the sparkling, cream floor. He was starving and weary, but as they maneuvered through the lobby, he kept up his spirited appearance. For his team, for the government, for the people who watched him from afar, gaping and waving.
They were steps away from the elevators when he heard a small, clearing of throat before a woman said, “Excuse me, I –”
His armed guards reacted instantly. “The Captain is off the clock, ma’am. We’re going to need you to step back.”
“The Captain,” she said. Although Sam couldn’t see her, he could hear the warm smile in her voice. “That’s a real big name, isn’t it Little Paul?”
The elevators doors dinged open. His team shuffled inside but Sam stood, almost frozen. He didn’t recognize the entirety of the woman’s voice but knew the tender lilt of her syllables and the gentle downturn of her sentences, intimately. She sounded like Sundays on the water, like small waves lapping to the tunes of Otis Redding, like the slip-tap-slip-tap of his parent’s feet as they danced across the sole of their boat. She sounded like his sister, Sarah, humming as she tilted her head back, braids and beads tipping over the railing.
Sam turned around. Between his guards stood a short, older Black woman, made even smaller by the size of her purse. Her jet-black wig hid a fraction of her age, but the rest of her years were outlined on her face. She would be the age of his mother if she had lived to see that year. The woman was smiling at him with the sort of familiarity and kindness that was native to Delacroix.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Sam said, stepping toward her, “but I’m having a hard time placing you.”
He knew she was from his hometown. It was not only her accent and demeanor that gave her away, but the ease that his childhood nickname slipped from her mouth. Little Paul, the adults used to call him, because he was once a miniature version of his father.
“That’s alright,” she said, and meant it. “You were about thirteen when you stopped playing with my oldest boys. Michael and JJ Pittman. You remember them?”
Sam’s grin was unstoppable. It spread wide across his cheeks as he was transported back to his youth, playing two-on-one football games on asphalt swollen by the sun. Michael, who was three years older than Sam, was on one team. Sam and JJ were on the other. Sweat clouded their vision as Sam and JJ tried to keep the ball away from Michael, tossing it haphazardly between them, small handprints branding the ball’s skin. But Michael was always too quick. He effortlessly anticipated their moves, grabbing the ball from midair before sprinting towards the makeshift goal.
“I do,” Sam said, almost laughing. “I remember every time me and JJ lost, JJ would say to Michael, ‘When you gonna let somebody else win?’ and Michael would say – ” Together, Sam and the woman recited a shared memory, “- ‘You can win when you stop losing.’”
They laughed and hit Sam like a punch to the throat. He had not genuinely laughed in months.
The action of laughing stripped away some of the woman’s lines, and Sam spotted glimpses of the hazy figure in his memory – thin and small, setting up a pitcher of iced tea on her front porch, as the three of them played in the street.
“Miss Pittman,” Sam said, words bright with recognition, “it’s good to see you.”
Behind him, the elevator doors began to screech. Cory had been holding them open for too long. “Come on, Cap,” he said, impatiently. Your wake-up call is in 0-500 hours, and you still need to eat.”
Miss Pittman perked up. “You haven’t had dinner yet?”
“No, ma’am. My schedule’s pretty tight these days. No real time for meals.”
“Well, that’s a shame,” she said, a hint of playfulness in her voice. “But maybe not, because you’ll have room for this…”
Miss Pittman reached into her oversized purse, but before she could blink one of Sam’s guards grabbed her arm. Sam could tell his grip was tight from the way her mouth dropped open in pain.
“Hey, hey, hey,” Sam said, slowly placing his hand on the guard’s arm. He knew better than to move too suddenly, for Miss Pittman’s sake more than his own. If the guard instinctively reacted to Sam’s movements, he could take being pinned to the floor. But if he twisted Miss Pittman’s arm, it was bound to break.
The guard looked at him, eyes hard and lips tight. “She could have a gun, sir.”
Miss Pittman’s voice trembled as she said, “No, I – I promise, I…”
Sam kept his gaze on the guard’s. “But she doesn’t,” he said calmly. “Thank you for being vigilant, but you can’t grab women like that. Especially –” Minding his manners, Sam bit back calling her elderly. Instead, he said, “Can you let go of her arm? She’s a friend.”
The guard nodded and released her. Sam glanced at Miss Pittman’s arm. Thankfully, there was no bruising, but visibly, Miss Pittman was shaking.
The two guards stepped back as the elevator continued to screech.
Cory said, “Sam.”
“Why don’t you all go up and get some sleep?” Sam said. Cory opened his mouth, a rebuttal thick on his tongue, but Sam’s raised eyebrow shut him down. Sam turned to the guards and said, “The both of you too. You’ve had a harder day than all of us, constantly being on watch and everything. I can take care of myself for the rest of the night.”
The guards hesitated but followed the others onto the elevator. The elevator doors seemed to sigh as they finally closed, leaving Sam and Miss Pittman nearly alone.
Sam’s hand clasped her shoulder, and she released a struggling laugh. “You know, I don’t know why I did that,” she said. “I grew up telling my boys, no sudden movements around cops and then,” another laugh stumbled out.
“He shouldn’t have done that,” Sam said. “Did he hurt you?”
She shook her head. “Only when he first grabbed me, but I’ll be alright.” Her hand was still in her purse. “I just wanted to get this out for you.”
From her bag she pulled a wide Tupperware container. Its contents were pale yellow with bits of burnt orange. The fragrant smell of milk and cheese filled the space between them, and without warning, Sam’s stomach loudly grumbled.
“That can’t be what I think it is.”
Miss Pittman’s smile grew steadier. “I remember when you were little you would always ask me if I was making mac and cheese for dinner. I think you loved it more than my boys did. So, I brought you some.”
She passed him the container and he weighed the contents in his hands. He estimated that it contained an entire pan, more than he could eat on his own.
“Miss Pitman, I don’t know what to say.”
“You say thank you.”
Sam laughed. “Of course, thank you.”
“And you could…” Miss Pitman paused as a couple passed by, heading to the opposite side of the hotel.
“What’s going on, Miss Pittman?”
She looked at him. “Would you mind listening to me? Please? I just…I need someone like you to listen.”
Sam could tell she tried to keep the desperation from her voice, but fat, heavy droplets leaked through. He was grateful that his team was upstairs because this was Cory’s primary concern – that someone from Sam’s past would crop up with an impossible ask. Cory would urge him to politely turn her away, but shield or no shield, he could differentiate between a grifter and someone in need, and Miss Pittman was in need.
So, he said, “Of course. Do you mind if we talk in my room? I can ask the kitchen to heat this up and send us a plate of whatever they have on special.”
Her smile was laced with relief. “Thank you,” she said. “That would be wonderful.”
| |
They ate dinner at the small dining table in his suite. With a room on the top floor, the lights from City Hall glimmered through open windows as the curtains fanned the evening air. Over plates of fried fish, green beans, and Miss Pittman’s mac and cheese, their conversation remained light. Miss Pittman asked about Sam’s sister, his nephews, and what it was like seeing Wakanda in person. She asked about his tour across the United States, and how traveling his own country compared to traveling the world. He answered her questions with more fervor than he used on television, but in the back of his mind he was waiting for when it was her time to truly speak.
The moment came when their plates were empty, and Miss Pittman removed from the cloth napkin from her lap.
“I have another son,” she said. “I had him a while after you and my oldest boys stopped playing together. He was – is. He is such a blessing, but at that time…” She released a small laugh. “He was unexpected but so very welcome.”
From her purse on the chair beside her, she pulled out her phone. With it, she brought up a photo and slid the phone towards Sam’s half of the table. The screen was alight with two smiling faces – Miss Pittman and a boy who couldn’t have been older than twenty. They shared the same almond-shaped eyes and the same round nose, but their similarities ended there. The boy’s skin was lighter, and his hair dripped with large loose curls. His eyebrows were thick but groomed, and his face was carved with the knife of beauty and youth. He was, undeniably, strikingly attractive.
“That’s my baby,” she said. “That’s my, Malik.”
Sam returned her phone, and her gaze drifted towards the photo. Her smile, soft and longing.
“Miss Pittman,” Sam said, reading the unsaid words that pinched the corners of her mouth, “what happened to your son?”
She turned her phone on its face. “I think,” she shook her head. “No, I know he’s gone missing. Two weeks ago, I called him, and he didn’t pick up the phone. See, I’m still in Delacroix, but he moved to New Orleans last year when he…Well, after he told me he was gay.” She looked at him, as if expecting an adverse reaction. Sam’s face only gave the impression of deep listening and her eyes seemed to soften at his silence. “I didn’t take it well at first. I just…I didn’t understand. He had a girlfriend in high school, so I thought…I thought he was confused.”
“How did he react to that?”
“He thought I didn’t love him anymore. That wasn’t true, though. That would never be true, but he said he had to leave. He moved to New Orleans and I just…I wish I would’ve…” Miss Pittman cleared her throat. “I was coming around, though. I sat myself down and said I wasn’t going to lose him because I wasn’t willing to try and understand. So, I called him, and he agreed to let me drive up and see him. I would do that every month. Sometimes twice a month. We would spend the whole day together – grabbing lunch, shopping. And we would call each other every week, I made sure of that. And then one day, like I said, he didn’t pick up the phone. I wasn’t worried because I left a voicemail and he always, always called me back. But that time, he didn’t. I called him the next day, and the next. I kept leaving voicemails and then one day I called, and the line was completely dead. I called the phone company and they said he hadn’t paid his bill, so they shut off his phone.”
Again, she cleared her throat, unraveling the knot of tears that were beginning to grow. “He knew that he could come to me for money, so I knew something was wrong. I drove up there and went to his apartment, but when I knocked on the door, a woman answered it. She was White, but she was young like him, and she’d never heard of Malik. She said she had been living there for two years. She was very helpful, though. She called the landlord and let me talk to him. He had never heard of Malik either.”
Sam asked, “And you had been to his apartment before?”
“Yes. Well, not on the inside. He never let me come in. He said his roommate didn’t like having parents over, but I dropped him off at that building all the time. He told me he lived in 302.”
“But he doesn’t,” Sam said.
“No.” Miss Pittman twisted her hands in her lap. “He doesn’t.”
“Does he have a social media account? Maybe there’s some information on there.”
“Maybe, but I don’t know anything about that. He tried to teach me how to FaceTime and I could barely figure that out.”
“Did you go to the police?”
Her laugh was airy and humorless. “I did. And you know what? I thought with it being New Orleans and all, that they would be a little more willing to listen to me. But when I told them about Malik, when I showed them his picture, one the officers he…He laughed.” She looked at him. “He laughed at my son. And then he said, ‘You all keep raising these boys like animals or girls, what do you think is gonna happen to them?’ and he laughed some more. None of them took me seriously. They said they would file a report but when I called the next day, nothing. They hadn’t started investigating or even asking around. So, I got a motel room and went to that station every single day. And do you know what they did?”
“Told you to go home and wait by the phone?”
“No. They told me they would lock me up if they saw me at that station again.” A stray tear drifted down her cheek. She gingerly wiped it away. “I told them, I just want them to find my son. And they said, he don’t want to be found. But I don’t believe that. Even when he left for New Orleans, he told me where he was going. And we were doing good, real good. He wouldn’t have just left like that.”
She didn’t have to ask. Her question hung in the air between them like the chandelier overhead.
“Miss Pittman,” Sam said, “I’d love to help, but tracking missing civilians? That’s not really what I do.”
“But you help people, and that’s all I’m looking for, that’s all I can ask for. Someone who’s gonna really see my son and at least try.”
Months ago, when he was just Falcon, and only the Air Force were calling him in for one-off missions, it would not have occurred to Sam that there was any other response to Miss Pitman’s request but yes. His existence was predicated on his ability and willingness to help – not just during global disruptions, but for microscopic missions where only few would benefit. And while he knew that as Captain America, he would not be able to reach the individual as effectively as he could as Falcon, he took on the shield to act.
However, the shield represented more than Sam’s hopes and desires. No matter who wielded it, the shield remained a symbol for the U.S. government, and with that came strings – a team, public appearances, speeches written to fit perfectly in his mouth, rules that kept him pinned in place.
But then again, what good were strings if they could not be pulled apart and broken?
Sam told her, “I’m gonna try.” When she began to smile, he interrupted. “But it’s been what, three weeks? I don’t know if I’m gonna find anything, but I want you to know, I’ll try.”
Miss Pittman’s smile was gracious as she reached across the table and grasped Sam’s hands. “Thank you,” she said, releasing a pent up breath. “I can’t say anything else but thank you.”
| |
After walking Miss Pittman to her car and ensuring she had a place to stay for the night, Sam returned to his room and called Joaquín. The clock on the nightstand read 11:15 p.m. and he could feel the seconds slipping by as the other line rang. Sam needed to sleep, but his mornings were always a hectic mess of weight training, cardio, shower, breakfast, and a short briefing, before he was whisked out of the hotel for an early interview or flight. He wouldn’t have time to investigate until after the tour, but Joaquín might be able to help.
He rarely knew where Joaquín was stationed, or what time it was for him, but Joaquín had a habit of always taking Sam’s calls. It was not a surprise when he answered, or when he groaned and said, “Dude, it’s like one a.m. You better be downstairs.”
Sam laughed in the low, throaty way he always did when the two of them were alone. “Sorry to disappoint,” he said, sinking into the couch. “You at home?”
He could hear the shuffle of sheets, how the mattress groaned and sighed beneath Joaquín’s weight. Sam imagined he was sitting up, his back pressed against his cheap wooden headboard, sheets pooled around his bare waist. “For the next two days, yeah. Then I’m back in the field. Italy this time.”
“No shit? For how long?”
“About two weeks. Why? Is the apology tour planning to come through?”
Again, Sam laughed. “I think I’ve got two stops in Italy. You think you can make time for me?”
A stretch of silence grew between them and Sam sank into it. He knew that Joaquín had made up his mind the second he picked up the phone, but he liked to make Sam sweat. The problem was, after only three nights together, Sam could read him like a tattoo inked on the inside of his thigh. They would meet, they would fuck, and after whispering stories into each other’s collarbones, they would fuck again.
Finally, Joaquín said, “I think I could do that.”
His voice was heavy with heat as he turned the conversation towards Sam. This was where Sam would lazily reach into his briefs and ask Joaquín to turn on FaceTime, but his cock couldn’t take precedence. Instead, he said, “I’ll send you my schedule tomorrow. Tonight, I need a favor.”
Again, the mattress shifted. “Like a sexy favor?”
“Unfortunately, no. It’s a very unsexy favor.”
Disappointment dripped from Joaquín’s voice. “You should’ve started with this is a work call.”
“It’s not. This one is off the books.”
Sam told him about Miss Pittman and Malik. Over Signal, he sent Joaquín the photo Miss Pittman shared with him. With Sam’s eyes closed, he allowed the tap-tap-tap of Joaquín’s fingers, flying across his keyboard, to lull him into a light daze. Sam was at the point where he was hovering pleasantly at the edge of sleep.
“Good news,” Joaquín said, rousing Sam’s eyes open, “I found his Instagram account and it’s not private.”
Outside of the official Captain America account, Sam’s Instagram presence consisted of an empty account he used to follow his nephews and a handful of old colleagues from the Air Force. He found it of little use. His nephews only posted clips of each other playing video games, and his colleagues were overly fond of the same three photos of themselves holding dead fish. But his account allowed him to view Malik’s.
Malik’s page was a mural of color. There were photos of him with his face covered in glitter, gleaming beneath the neon lights of a nightclub. In others he was sprawled on a patch greenery, shirtless or in a crop top, his lips pursed in a pout. At times he was alone, laying on a mattress, bare white walls surrounding him as he felt #tooprettytobethisbored. In others he stood close to another boy around his age, their cheeks touching as they both wore eye masks, paired with the hashtag #skincaregoals.
The other boy was tagged as @prettyboinicky, and his account was as open as Malik’s. His photos mostly featured him standing behind a bar, shirtless but in some sort of half-costume. His bio read “nicky, 22, very gay. your fav bartender @ozneworleans.”
“What are you thinking?” Joaquín asked.
“You see the other kid who’s in a bunch of Malik’s pictures? I’m thinking he probably knows something.”
Joaquín was teasing when he said, “You gonna hop in his DMs?”
“Absolutely not. If he didn’t have anything to hide, he would’ve gone to the police the minute Malik went missing. I can’t tip him off.”
“So, what are you gonna do?” Joaquín asked. “You can’t go down there, can you?”
“Not unless I want Cory’s foot all the way up my ass.”
Sam sank further into the couch. He checked the time on his phone, 12:10 a.m. There was a pleasant hum of white noise on the other line: the gentle purr of Joaquín’s brick of a laptop, overheating atop his dining table.
“You want me to go down there instead?” Joaquín asked. “I know I’m out soon, but I –”
“Don’t even finish that sentence, man. You deserve a break, and I wouldn’t ask.” He didn’t mention what they both knew, that after his work assisting Sam and Bucky with the Flag Smashers, Joaquín was on track to make Captain. Italy was the final test of his leadership skills and Sam would never interfere.
Joaquín’s laptop closed with a click. His dining room chair creaked. “Too bad you don’t know any bored, unemployed Avengers who could help.”
Without Tony and Steve, the Avengers were more scattered than before. Wanda and Parker were missing, Scott and Clint had requested uninterrupted time with their families, Rhodey was drowning in work, and the others he barely knew.
Sam had worn out his favors from the Wakandans, and Sharon was busy piecing together a second life in D.C. And Bucky was –
Hell, the last time Sam talked to him, Bucky was a little bored.
He sat up a little straighter. “Actually,” he said, “I think I know someone.”