Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s anti-climatic, he feels, to have the shield back in his hands after everything is said and done.

Samuel Thomas Wilson is Captain America.

The first time, when it was Steve Rogers handing it over, it felt heavy and foreign on his tensed arm.

Taking it back from John Walker, it feels immaterial and mercurial in his sure grip.

Almost like he could toss it and watch it sail on and on, past the line of the horizon, until the dot of it isn’t visible by anything or anyone.

Physically, helming the shield is a process of working out and training muscle memory.

Emotionally, it won’t be his. Not until he talks to one man.

Going back to Baltimore is a burden and a privilege he must shoulder alone.

Standing at the front door, bag in hand, his palms get a little sweaty.

He knocks anyway.

Isaiah Bradley answers the door, having sent his grandson out.

“Well. I guess I can let you in.”

“Thank you,” Sam replies immediately.

They sit at the small table he has in the dining area, opposite sides, the bag leaned against the side of the chair Sam sits in.

“Did you hear?”

Isaiah nods, “The kid kept tabs on it. Told me what I needed to hear. No more, no less.”

Sam nods.

He doesn’t want to explain or excuse his actions but he wishes Isaiah could at least give him a sign of how much that really was. He wants to be clear about this, have all the cards on the table, before he asks the real questions.

“I won’t pretend to understand why you took this on, after everything, because I just don’t. I’m not the man I was, back then, who could try.”

Sam clarifies, “I’m not asking you to be.”

Isaiah accepts that with another curt nod, “What I don’t know is - why are you here now? I’m not exactly in a position to celebrate this with you. Kid isn’t back with the groceries and champagne and caviar ain’t on his list.”

Sam takes a moment to gather his thoughts and his words before he answers.

“I’m not seeking a pat on the back. I’m asking your permission.”

Isaiah tenses in front of him.

“What the fuck you thinkin’ asking me for that?”

Sam bows his head a bit, chastised but still determined, “I don’t need anyone else’s permission to do this - I need yours. As a soldier and as a man.”

Isaiah scoffs, “If you don’t get it? What? You gonna give the shield back to the museum and wait for them to pick another sorry ass white boy out of the canon fodder lineup to do this song and dance all over again?”

“No,” Sam unzips the bag and lays the shield out on the table, “you take it until you’re ready to hand it off: to me, to someone else, whoever.”

“You’re a shitheel for doing this. I didn’t ask for this - I never carried this shield!”

“No,” Sam cuts him off again, “just the insurmountable burden that came with it. It’s different for us, I know. That’s why I’m doing this. This isn’t the easy way but it’s the right one for me.”

Isaiah fumes for a moment. His fingers drum on the table, right next to but not touching the edge of the shield. Sam half-expects him to bury it in the nearest wall and walk away.

Isaiah moves his hand off the table.

“You said you don’t need anyone else’s permission. That include the Hydra gun you came with last time?”

Sam sits back, spine straight and chin up, “I didn’t ask the Winter Soldier,”

Isaiah raises an eyebrow.

“I did talk with James Buchanan Barnes: the guy who followed Steve Rogers into battle for two years. A person who had the full story this whole time - and the only one honest enough to share it with me.”

“That all you sharing?”

Sam answers, “Yes and no. He’s not gonna be the guy he was then but he is willing to work with me when I need him to. He goes by Bucky now, by the way.”

Isaiah lets out a terse laugh, “Call him whatever, that doesn’t make him the kind of guy who’ll take your orders.”

“He won’t get orders from me. He just needs to be himself. Just like I’m asking you.”

Isaiah mulls it over for a second. The older man stands up and picks up the shield with both hands.

He looks down at Sam.

“Get up.”

Sam stands up from his chair.

Isaiah holds the shield out to Sam.

“Take your shield and go, Captain America.”

Sam’s reply is immediate and effusive, “Thank you, Mr. Bradley.”

Chapter Text

The early morning of Saturday in Delacroix has ebbed into the brightness of the day and Sam’s wrapping up his physical training with the shield.

He sends it one last time against a padded tree and catches it on the rebound, the action finally becoming enough of a fluid motion to feel natural and instinctual.

Sam’s shoulders relax and he lets out a heavy breath into the sky above him.

“I see what you meant now - more soldier than a spy.”

Sam turns to see Nick Fury standing next to the porch of his house, overtly covert as ever in dark layers and sunglasses that stand out in the sunny Louisiana coast environment.

Sam laughs and wipes the sweat away from his brow with his free arm.

“Well technically, I’m not even a soldier any more.”

Nick lowers his chin, the glasses sliding down to reveal his eyes - scarred and not - and states, “Wilson, I fought in a firefight with you within hours of meeting you. You’ve always been much more than a soldier. Rogers knew it. I know it. I would think, with that shield on your arm, you know it, too.”

Sam lowers the shield and nods toward the house, “Want some coffee or something? We should probably catch up.”

He steps forward and Nick picks up the storage bag, holding it open as Sam puts the shield away in it.

“This coffee you’re offering, is it anything like what someone would get in a base camp tent?”

Sam nods, laughing, “Yeah. My sister got one of those coffee pod machines for herself because ‘I don’t want whatever tar you call coffee’ and now I get the pot all to myself.”

Nick grins, “Then I’ll take a mug.”

Sam drops the bag against the wall of the kitchen’s hutch and grabs the pot and a couple of mugs.

Nick stays on the back porch near the door, scoping out the great outdoors from his vantage point.

Sam steps back out and hands one of the mugs to Nick.

“Real good digs you got here, Sam.”

Sam sighs as they sit down on two of the adirondack chairs on the porch, “Beats the hell out of D.C., doesn’t it?”

Nick nods and sips from his cup.

“I’m sorry I didn’t check in during the Accords stuff.”

Sam shrugs, “You were, by all conventions, dead and buried so it made sense.”

There’s a sad, tangible silence that stretches over the moment.

“I trusted Rogers for a lot of things. As far as I knew, he was history’s Greatest Soldier come back from near obscurity to serve and protect.”

Sam watches Nick rub at a faded coffee stain on the side of the mug, “And now?”

Nick sighs and sets his mug down.

“I spent a lot of time - researching, observing, working on things behind the scenes. Most of it was in fact, looking up and out: to the stars and beyond.”

Sam nods, figuring this may not be going where he thought.

“Then, everything sort of came back around to here. To Humanity. For all our failures and follies, we’ve made quite an impression on the greater universe. And, in the end, I . . . got pointed to Isaiah Bradley and the program he was enrolled in.”

Sam eyes the man sitting next to him. He saw Fury try to make sense of what was happening within SHIELD - all the sadness, the anger that came from the betrayal, and even the small hopeful desperation that maybe there was something to salvage - but this is more like what he’s used to seeing at the Bradley house from the man himself. A sort of resigned disappointment. He wonders how much of that he shows in his face when he talks about it with Bucky, Sarah, and the rest of them.

“I’ve met him. I get it.”

Nick sighs.

“I’ve never thought we were beyond race or any of that even when I was so blind to the reality of who I was working for. But.”

He lets out a short, low groan, the lack of words for the complexity of the situation starting to wear at his patience.

“I hoped what we were doing - you, me, even Rhodes with his own thing - that it was a sign that there was progress made.”

Sam shrugs, “Isn’t it? Isn’t the whole intent of even making to the point where we take two steps forward and one step back still worth it because we actually got to take a step forward?”

Nick chuckles,”You’re good at that boundless optimism, huh, Wilson?”

Sam grins, “I’ve heard something like that before.”

Nick picks up his mug and takes another long sip.

“Either way, I’m not here just to get a little morose and philosophical with you.”

Sam quirks an eyebrow up, “Really? What brings you by then?”

Nick drains the mug and hands it over.

“I meant it. Then and even now: I know what you’re capable of and I could use someone like you for my team.”

Before Sam could even start to protest, Nick holds up a hand.

“But, I’m also fully aware your new gig is not something you can shirk just for little ol’ me. So I’m just leaving you with this: anytime you need me, call me and I’ll be there.”

Sam hums the song’s beat and Nick laughs a bit before joining in and they’re having an impromptu, a capella sing along for a few seconds.

Nick holds out his hand and Sam shakes it.

“Thank you, Fury.”

“You’re welcome, Captain.”

As the former director of SHIELD stands to leave, Sam reaches out and pauses him with a hand on his arm.

“Actually, there might be something you can help with right now.”

Nick nods, “Anything, name it.”

Sam asks, “That research you have on Isaiah Bradley - you got any copies?”

Nick responds, “I could get them. Why?”

Sam stands up, “I want them. I got an idea for a way to make another step forward - real progress we can reflect on and share.”

Nick lets his face unfold in understanding.

“For him? Of course.”

Sam nods, “For all of us.”

Chapter Text

By the third week of them, Sam is pretty used to the Captain America duties that weren’t shield throwing and flying high in the sky.

It didn’t mean he liked it, just got used to it.

So when his phone rings with a D.C. number for the fourth time in as many consecutive days, he seriously contemplates chucking it in the high tide.

But he hits ‘Answer’ and puts the phone to his ear, “Sam Wilson.”

The voice he hears is neither one of a flat voiced bureaucrat or a snake oil salesman-esque politician.

“Cap,” Rhodey says like he’s been saying it - to Sam - for years, “I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”

Sam lets his tone get lighter, as he is wont to do when he’s around Rhodey, “Never, Rhodes.”

There’s a beep as the call waiting chirps on his end.

There’s a huffed laugh at that, “Tell me, Cap, when’s the next time you’re planning to come up to my neck of the woods?”

Given that Sam wants to see Washington again as much as he wants a hole in his head, he hems and haws for a minute.

“Sam,” Rhodey gets a little less official, “we do need to talk.”

Sam sighs, “Yeah, I figured. Gimme a week.”

It only takes five days, really, for Sam to arrange a flight (commercial because this isn’t strictly business) and send a text to Rhodey that he’s available.

They meet at a restaurant a few blocks from Capitol Hill. It’s a Mexican restaurant Sam used to frequent more when he was living in the area, before everything changed.

Everything has changed - the regulars seen at other tables, most if not all the waitstaff, and Sam takes a minute to review the new dishes on the menu.

As they await the entrees, Rhodey folds his hands in front of him and stares at Sam.

Despite all the grief Sam had given Bucky about his unwavering gaze, that had never left him feeling so exposed.

“What? Got something on my face?”

Rhodey shakes his head, “No, I’m trying to see - not just look.”

Sam rolls a shoulder at that and reaches for his drink, “Now I know you’re messing with me. Did that ever work with Tony?”

Rhodey snorts, “No.”

Sam takes his sip and sets the glass back down.

“I’m not him,”

Rhodey nods without words.

“I know what I said at the Smithsonian was one thing and now I’m saying something else but the lesson I can take away from all that happened since: I’m ready for this.”

Rhodey smirks a bit, “I know that - if I recall that particular conversation, I was actually very enthusiastic about the idea. You don’t have to sell me on it.”

Sam, further persuasive argument still on his lips, deflates.

“Then why did you call me down here like a student getting called into the principal’s office?”

Rhodey huffs, “Since when is this the principal's office? You lived here, Sam.”

Sam rolls his eyes and waves a hand.

The food comes at that point and they let the subject drop for a moment to actually eat.

Sam finishes his tacos and Rhodey pauses his consumption of spanish rice.

“I didn’t really live here. I know - I had a place here, a job, and I established a routine but,”

He pauses and takes an extra gulp from his glass to help clear his throat.

“As much shit as I gave Steve when we met about moving on and what to do next . . . I wasn’t doing it for me. I was doing it because other people expected it of me. And the second I could get back in the action, I did it. I needed it.”

Rhodey sits back, hand to his chin, still listening.

Sam continues, “This isn’t that. I’m not doing this just to get back in the fight - I want to stop the fight before it can start.”

Rhodey gives him another quick nod before leaning a bit forward.

"So, if I ask a question - the question - will you be ready to answer?"

Sam knows exactly what Rhodey is getting at and leans ever slightly back in his seat, "Yeah but are you ready if my answer to that question is no?"

Rhodey shoots back, "I'm not but the rest of them are - you should know from how all of this went down in the first place that they have backups waiting in wings."

Sam nods, still not prepared for what Rhodey is suggesting.

"Being Captain America is not an automatic enrollment as a leader for the Avengers. I'm not saying never but I just don't know that I can shoulder all of that legacy too."

“I understand that, more than almost anyone,” Rhodey says, sitting back in the chair.

Looking at him, Sam notices the fatigue that the other man is trying to hide.

“Speaking of, how are things with you?”

Rhodey waves a dismissive hand, “Oh you know, rough then not bad and now . . . this.”

Sam nods, “Yeah I can imagine. You think maybe you might want to hang up the armor yourself?”

Rhodey shakes his head.

“No.”

He sits forward, tenting his hands above his plate, “I’m not the new Iron Man. There’ll only ever be one. But that doesn’t mean that certain parts don’t carry on.”

Sam sighs and slouches in his chair.

“So here we are. Carrying on these symbols and legacies and getting the flack for everything that came before us.”

Rhodey laughs and throws a balled up napkin down on his plate.

“Two steps forward always includes that one step backward, for us, at least.”

Sam shakes his head, “I know it and I hate it but I’ll be damned if I don’t find myself still fighting tooth and nail for every inch of progress made.”

Rhodey sits up, squares his shoulders.

“So, that brings us back to the question.”

Sam gives the slightest nod.

“If I lead the Avengers as War Machine - will you lead with me as Captain America?”

The phrasing - the way Rhodey is putting his title on the line same as Sam, surprises him.

Even more surprising to them both after this conversation and its detours is how easily Sam replies, “Yes, sir.”

With a final shake on it, something new is reborn from something broken.

Chapter Text

It’s the quiet after the storm when they’re still in the Smithsonian and Eli is sitting to the side as Isaiah makes his way through the rest of the exhibits.

Sam walks over and sits down next to him.

“It’s a lot, I know,” he offers.

Eli shrugs, lifts his chin up, that steel look of determination whenever he vets the people coming to the house in Baltimore.

“Nah, I know it all. Grandpa told me everything. What he couldn’t, I found for myself.”

Sam nods and they sit in amicable silence.

“I didn’t - I never found any photos. The only ones we had were from before.”

Sam doesn’t react; he knows how sometimes, listening is a better tool of communication than having the right words.

“He doesn’t like taking pictures now. Doesn’t get the whole selfie thing which, whatever, not like I’m some Insta influencer.”

Eli scoffs a bit, looks down.

“I just. I don’t wanna forget this.”

Sam takes a glance and notices the teenager is holding his phone in his hands, turning it over and back again, a nervous gesture.

Sam clears his throat and meets Eli’s eyes, “If you want me to, I’ll take it. Just gotta ask.”

Eli nods and hands over the phone.

Sam watches him walk over and touch a hand to his grandfather’s elbow. The two of them talk for a brief minute before walking back to Sam.

“Where do you want to do this?”

Isaiah is the one to point to a place near the photos in his own exhibit.

They stand, side by side, Isaiah with his arm around Eli’s shoulder in the foreground, his squadron line-up in the background. Sam takes three shots before nodding and handing back the phone.

Isaiah and Eli walk and talk through the exhibit again and Sam stays a good distance behind, getting a handle on his own emotions.

He knows that these bittersweet victories still add up and they mean much more to the people they help than anyone who is upset by the progress. But the nature of Sam’s heart is, he looks without rose tinted glasses at the world for what it could be and barrels his way to it as if the scope function of his uniform’s goggles have made a path for him to follow.

The trio of men spend their remaining visit taking in other exhibits in the museum.

Before they leave, Isaiah asks for a detour to the restrooms.

“Old man bladder,” he explains just to get a snorting laugh out of Eli.

Sam sits on a bench on the opposite wall from the restroom entrances and Eli leans against the wall next to him.

“He banned me from ever enlisting.”

The statement is loud in the quiet solemnity of the moment.

Sam tilts his head at the teen, “Would you want to?”

Eli shrugs, “Why would I? I mean. I don’t have strong feelings either way, y’know? Not the way he does.”

Sam nods.

“Why did you do it?” Eli asks him.

Sam gives a small shrug. It’s been a long time since someone’s asked. He has more perspective on it, putting it lightly.

“At the time, I probably would have said it was a lot of things. It would have probably been true enough then. But really, looking back on it; I wanted to do something real and substantial with the freedom and autonomy I had at my disposal. It’s not a great reason or even a right one. It’s what it is.”

Eli takes this answer with silent acceptance, not making any personal judgements evident with his expression.

“I don’t regret it or resent it. I made a choice when I was younger and that led to me making other choices and having one kind of journey to where I am now. No one can go back and re-do things, not really. Just have to understand where you are now and move on from there.”

Eli nods. He sits down next to Sam, hands folded in his lap.

“I don’t want to serve a government or anything like that. But. I don’t want to keep my head down and mouth shut. I get that it’s what he had to do to survive but I don’t know that I can accept that for myself.”

Sam does feel it’s necessary to interject, “I don’t think that’s what he wants for you either.”

Eli relents to the point with a nod.

“Do you have something in mind you would want to do?”

Eli shakes his head, “Not really.”

Sam has a pretty decent read on this kid but there's still a little uncertainty creeping at the edges. He has a guess at what Eli is trying to say but he doesn't want to put words into his mouth.

So he phrases his question carefully, "Do you want to help people - specifically people from your own community?"

Eli stiffens his shoulders, "Yeah."

Sam shifts the focus a little, guided by the reaction, "Outreach, activism, social work - they’re all ways of helping people. The kind of people you see every day, who struggle the way you and your grandfather struggle.”

Eli nods, “Social work. Okay. Anything special I gotta do for that?”

Sam gives a light shrug, “Stay in school - good grades are always a plus. Honestly, just give me a call when you’re ready. I know people who are still out there, doing what needs to be done where the help is needed most.”

Eli leans in, smirking, “I think that’s also your job now, Cap.”

It’s the first time Eli’s actually acknowledged Sam as Captain America and feels just about as poignant as when Isaiah did.

“That’s always been my goal,” Sam says.

Chapter Text

Arriving in Wakanda, either for professional or personal reasons, always feels a little like the first time.

All hushed breath and wide-eyed amazement.

Walking into the Royal Council chambers is pretty similar, if a little less nerve-wracking in comparison.

But the people - the Royal family and those they deem most worthy of their trust - always made even the most bureaucratic of trivialities much more like a good catch-up session with friends than a United Nations meeting.

It’s the warmth, Sam supposes, as he shakes T’Challa’s hand and they exchange greetings.

“What brings the illustrious Captain America to my humble kingdom?”

Sam chuckles, “That’s a pretty conflicting statement there, putting humble in the same sentence as kingdom.”

T’Challa gives a shrug at that, willing to agree on the point.

“That still doesn’t answer the question posed.”

Sam nods, “Fair enough. I’m here to return a few Wakandan artifacts - we did some round-ups on an illicit trade route of weapons and once Bucky and I got eyes on ‘em, we knew what they were and where they need to be.”

“Thank you, Sam,” and then he looks beyond Sam’s shoulder, “and where is the elusive Sgt. Barnes?”

Sam nods out a window, “Something about seeing a goat or two?”

T’Challa chuckles, “Ah, the trip of the White Wolf - yes, they have missed their goatherd. Or so I have been told.”

The two of them then segue into discussion of the artifacts and the parties that were apprehended with them. Sam agrees to keep T’Challa and Wakanda in the loop for any further investigations in exchange for some technological backups from the lab.

“Speaking of the lab,” Sam motions to the case he brought in, “your sister did in fact demand my presence at some point during this trip for quote, necessary upgrades and maintenance.”

T’Challa sighs, “She is only 17 and yet I feel like that demand has the full weight of Wakanda’s forces behind it. I won’t keep you longer when you have further obligations.”

“I’ll be sure to bring Bucky back around for a proper goodbye before we leave. And it’s not an obligation as much as I enjoy consulting with her on this. The creations owe that much to their creator.”

T’Challa has this wry, knowing smile that Sam can’t ignore.

“What is it?”

T’Challa motions briefly to the case, “It’s not solely her creation. Do not think I am trying to humble my sister: she and her lab worked hard on the development and production of the suit and the drones - based off a full design I had on reserve from my own workshop.”

Sam is taken aback, “What? Why?”

“It came from a conversation I had for a mutual friend - Captain Rogers.”

Sam gives a slight shake of his head, completely surprised by the continuing revelations.

T’Challa takes in the change in demeanor and waves his guest to some nearby seats for a further conversation.

“Steve came to check in on the progress of what we were doing for Barnes very early in the process. It led to a lot of different conversations between us.”

T’Challa pauses in his recollection, smile fading into a more pensive look.

“It was good counseling for both of us, at the time. Our talks are memories I will cherish for a long while."

He lets out a small sigh and Sam feels a familiar tickle in his own throat at the subject of Steve.

"One such thread of conversation led to us discussing legacy, as it were.

"I asked him, if he was never to pick the shield back up, who would he choose to take it up in his stead,

T'Challa briefly touches Sam's arm as a conciliatory gesture, "He said the best choice - the only choice worth mentioning - was you, Sam."

It's hard to hear. After all this time, after everything that happened afterward. From someone, yes, that Sam considers a friend; but someone who is telling him secondhand because Steve can't.

Loss and grief come in waves. Sam knows this. Has known it since Riley.

Since his parents passed. His Titi, too.

It's unreasonable and a symptom of grieving but sometimes Sam feels like everyone who's ever believed in him is gone.

But he's worked hard to move forward and every step of the way, he's made new friends, new family, and like he tells those that he counsels, he goes over them in his mind.

Sarah, Bucky, Cass and AJ.

T'Challa, Shuri, Nick Fury. Rhodey.

Isaiah and Eli Bradley.

Absently, he realizes he's crying and his friend is there with a handkerchief to help him dry his tears.

"I understood why he chose you, Sam. That is why I made that design. Because I believe in your ability to be a leader, your moral compass that leads you to do the right thing, and most of all that you're a good man at your core."

Sam nods and wipes at his face, getting a better rein on his emotions.

The two men stand and share a tight hug.

T'Challa clicks his tongue against his teeth when they separate, "I shouldn't keep you any longer or my sister may usurp the throne just to spite me."

Sam laughs, "She'll make a great leader one day soon. If you're still thinking about your own legacy."

The Wakandan leader nods, "Always we must look forward, Captain."

Sam grabs the case and heads out.

"Until next time, Sam Wilson."

"See you soon, King T'Challa."

Chapter Text

The new Avengers compound is a lesson in accepting change.

It’s not exactly an upgrade - most of the layout is the same, despite being quite recently a gigantic crater full of rubble.

For someone like Sam Wilson, it’s more about getting used to seeing new faces in the hall than staring at the new paint on the walls.

He’s a leader for the latest line-up and it’s his responsibility to not only choose his fellow Avengers but guide them through the transition from civilian to hero.

He avoids the words recruit.

It’s not a statement against the government - though, between the Sokovia Accords and the GRC, he would have more than enough reason to be a bit bitter - he just knows that this job is different from anything he did in the armed forces. It’s bigger and it means more.

Everyone who lived, breathed, and died for this knew that too.

It’s that fire, still stoked by the idea of the Avengers as true servants of the greater good, that gets him to the building every morning. To his surprise, in the building today is Nick Fury with a woman Sam’s never met before.

“Captain,” he calls to Sam when they meet at the front lobby, he motions, “I’m showing the missus the new digs.”

She turns away from a new plaque honoring the fallen so far - Sam hates how they left room for more names about as much as he hates the amount of space that was needed to fit all the names already listed - and smiles. Sam knew the whole “wife” story had a lot more to it than he originally heard but seeing her right in front of him is enitrely different.

“Fury,” Sam returns, equal parts curiousity and caution, “Mrs. Fury”.

“Varra works,” she tells him as she holds out her hand for a handshake.

Sam takes it and they have a polite, firm handshake, “Varra it is then. How’s your own upgrade doing? S.A.B.E.R. still spinning around up there?”

Nick has to let a small huff of a laugh out, “Never quite feels like an upgrade in terms of anything but responsibilities. Yet somehow, infinitely worth it.”

Varra pats her husband’s arm, “We were already down here for some beauracratic nonsense and thought we might stop by for a little tour.”

“Then let me be your guide,” Sam points toward a hall to their right and leads with a measured pace to introduce each room and relay its purpose.

There's a quietness to the three of them, nothing uncomfortable but lingering with questions unspoken.

Sam thinks he understands - there's some things you're curious about but not enough to just go out and interrogate your colleague slash friend about.

His questions would probably die on his lips if he could even manage to get them that far.

The Skrull reveal and all that happened after. Whatever went on with Danvers and the kid from Jersey. It's been rendered moot. He wants to know things Nick couldn't possibly answer. Things he should have asked anyone else before things went off the rails.

He's still thinking about it, not entirely focused so they end up making another right - straight into a dead end hallway.

"Okay," he says as a starter with nothing to follow it up with.

He turns around, "Don't worry about it but there used to be something here. And now . . . It's not."

Varra nods, biting back what has to be an amused smile. Nick furrows his brow as if he’s just as sure as Sam was that there used to be a corner hallway there.

Sam starts reviewing all the boring meetings and briefs he's had to endure since he shook Rhodey's hand and then he finally figures it out.

"Spoke and wheel layout - the old place was more of an extended grid and now there's just a little more symmetry and natural flow. Also dead ends, apparently."

Nick and Varra nod their assent and turn back to the open end from which they had entered. Sam only slightly slides past them to again lead the trio of them back down the spoke shaped hallway toward the center.

The inner spoke hallway connecting to the center is a little less familiar but a quick glance at the different signs and peeks inside the windows do help him adjust his internal navigation and allow him to be a fairly useful tour guide.

At one point, they pass an open door and a quick glance from Varra stops her in her tracks. She looks back at Sam and he nods, following her into the room with Nick in step behind him.

It was a casual layover room before and it’s a very similar type of room now with couches, a small corner kitchenette, and a table with a trio of chairs.

What caught Varra’s eye was a far wall, bulletin board set up, the words “What We Fight For” written in a laminate sign at the top. Covering the board were photos: NY battle survivors posing for news stories, Blip returnees letters with reunion selfies, and even littlest “fan” drawings.

Sam smiled, noticing the ones he picked from Cass and AJ’s favorites on the board.

Varra pointed to a different spot, “Who sent that in?”

Sam looked where he thought she might be pointing.

“Scott Lang says they’re his best friends? Honestly, they’re some good guys with criminal records and a serious allergy to keeping things brief.”

Varra shakes her head and steps closer, touching a polaroid with her hand, “This one. With the whole family.”

Sam leans in. It must have been that first time Carol Danvers came home - it’s a photo that includes her, Maria Rambeau and school-age Monica Rambeau, Nick in all his mid-90’s glory, and even the natural forms of Talos, Soren, and G’iah.

“I think G’iah brought it over.”

Nick looks back at Sam from where he had leaned in to look at the picture over his wife’s shoulder, “She was here?”

Sam nods, “She did stop by, said you had referred her. We talked a bit. She knows we’re here to help.”

Nick straightens up, face tiltung upward as if he’s taking in more of the photos, “So is she.”

Varra pulls her hand back, “It’d be nice to have a copy.”

Sam thinks about it for all of a second before promising, “I’ll get it scanned and sent to you, A.S.A.P.”

Nick grips Sam’s arm, the only other indication of his emotion being the break in his voice, “Maybe get a copy sent to Carol too, now that she’s down in Louisiana.”

Sam smiles at him, “I’ll take a print to her myself next time I swing by.”

Varra takes a second to swipe at her eyes, “That’s good. It’ll be nice for Monica to have familiar faces around when she gets home.”

Both men nod and the three of them walk over to the little kitchenette for some coffee and snacks.

The rest of the tour can wait. And so can they.