rodrikstark's headcanons (part 1)

s. wilson + first welcome home

steve and natasha exchange looks. "did she just call him sammy bear?"

stumbling back from the impact of your hug, sam chooses to ignore natasha's light dig. he carefully drops his duffel bag to the ground so he can wrap both his arms under your butt, supporting your weight as he regains his balance.

not that you need it, the way you're clinging to him.

"i would've come straight home," sam murmurs, as you dig your chin into his shoulder, not caring how much he smells like mud and smoke. "you didn't have to meet me here."

"i missed you, sammy," you whimper. sam gives you a couple of pats, a signal for you to release your grip on his neck and hips, but after an entire month of waking up to an empty bed, you refuse.

he laughs, his chest rumbling against you in that familiar way that evokes a sense of safety far more meaningful than whatever he accomplishes by going abroad, taking down bad guys or whatever.

he hides his smile in your temple.

on the mission, sam had often taken your long-distance calls in a separate room, mostly so he could tell you how much he thought about you—and how much he loved you—without the rolling eyes and teasing punches of his more experienced teammates.

but with you in his arms—finally—he doesn't really care anymore. "missed you too, sugar bear."