empath.

#EMPATHYFOUGHT.  an independent, highly selective, slow activity, and mutuals exclusive rp blog for marvel’s, SAM WILSON / THE FALCON / CAPTAIN AMERICA.  inspiration is drawn from the 616 comics and avengers assemble, but is primarily mcu - tfatws - headcanon focused.  an exploration of reality, loyalty, and the future.  written by reyes  ( 22 / she/they )  —  can also be found at fatedfuturist, getwebbed, or codejupiter

carrd.   |   memes.   |   headcanons.

HOW PECULIAR. he almost says it aloud, lounging in bed with a pair of sweats and a black tank-top, the light peeking in behind his curtains. it's unusual for steve to want to sleep that much, because for as long as he's known him, he's been the type to abide by a schedule, to keep his own hands busy. sam, of course, knows him enough to understand that it's his own mechanism of keeping himself distracted from the world around him, to make himself feel useful; that's all he's ever been seen as since becoming captain america, a tool and a weapon. before that, steve rogers had been a complete nobody to the whole world outside of james barnes.

he stretches his legs out, taking note of the time, the weight of the blankets that keep them warm in the winter season. over the last few years, he's learned that steve runs warm, and especially warmer when recovering from injuries, but with his whole retirement, things have shifted into sam being the one coming back around banged up. no stitches this time, but he's got some bruising along his side, much to steve's chagrin when he'd noticed the night prior.

     Natasha bursts into laughter, a moment of uncontrolled glee. “Oh my god, tell me that you’re not serious. You’re actually —” Her voice cuts off as she dissolves into giggles yet again, clutching at the table next to her before fumbling for her phone. All other thoughts of how they’re going to handle the group have to be put on the back burner because this is hilarious.

     “Sam. Sam. A Molotov cocktail is a weapon, not a drink.” She pulls up a video and turns the screen in his direction. There’s a string of words in Russian, and though the curses don’t translate, the sentiment must. The bottle shatters spectacularly against the building, tearing up the door and causing flames to erupt all along the length of it.

there isn't much of an excuse for him aside from the lack of sleep. he wouldn't consider himself completely sleep-deprived, but given the recent run-ins with criminals and training, he's been catching naps. it's unusual for him to have this kind of behaviour as the type of person with a fairly regimented schedule (that is, fortunately, one of the things he's retained from the army). though he's able to sleep just about anywhere, it doesn't mean that he has the time to, and this is just proof of that.

“army brat,” he bluntly states, as if he, himself, is not part of that demographic as well. “can’t have the kids hear you, though. god forbid they know a man who lived in the 40s and was part of the army swears like a sailor.” ‘course it doesn’t bother sam, it’s actually satisfying to bear witness to steve popping off like he’s got no care in the world. ( if he were to say it’s attractive, that’s business between steve and sam and no one else! )

     Natasha is hardly the kind of person who alters her sentiments for people. Well no, that’s a lie. She doesn’t alter them much for her friends, but she lies to everyone else as easily as she breathes. Sam has the dubious distinction of being within the friend category, so today he gets her unfiltered and playful self.

     When she suggests violence, she’s absolutely teasing. On her own, she’s got no compunctions about punching someone in the face, shooting them in the leg (or head, if they deserve that), stabbing or poisoning or any manner of viciousness. But she wouldn’t suggest that on his behalf, and anyway they’d been talking about dealing with an overzealous vigilante ring, not mass-murderers. They could probably talk things through… might still get punched though.

     “Turns out that I heal from concussions really well, and most of the brain damage I’ve got is from being Russian. We make some mean Molotov cocktails, you know. Want to try one?”

if it came down to words or violence, it would not be a surprise for sam to say words. he’s already witnessed enough bloodshed, between the life he’s lived and the ones that’ve come before him, he can’t even lie that he’s simply exhausted at the very thought of having to solve everything with kicks, punches, and other sharp, deadly weapons. words—how nice! if only they could always work, because he knows it won’t, which is just a blow in the face for him. he’s not afraid to get down and dirty, but…at what point will it be enough?

why is it that every person that he’s ever met on the avengers have their particular…how do you put it nicely…quirks? the part of him that knows people well, or at least knows how to read people well can assume that each one of them have their emotional baggage, the walls that’ll never come crashing down until they’ve been pushed over the edge. the things they say are an amalgamation of trauma, in whatever form that it is, built as a defensive mechanism. other times, he just thinks they like to be weird. there’s never an in-between with these people. he’s just a normal guy with a bird suit.

“one, that’s not how the phrase goes, and two, that is incredibly concerning. are you sure you haven’t cut yourself, flesh or metal?” it’s almost a hushed whisper of concern, but he’s also mildly amused, which no, sam is not willing to elaborate on why. there is a matter of being eccentric and just being psychopathic——well, he knows bucky isn’t either of those, or at least, that’s his benevolent assumption.