Sam Wilson

The whir of helicopter blades over the Avengers compound had long been a familiar background noise for Sam, but tonight the evening seemed stiflingly quiet. A round vibranium shield leaned against a chair in the corner of the room. Sam sat on the edge of the sofa, clutching a mug of cold coffee, and peered at the gleam of the metal.
Every time he looked at that shield, he saw more than just a weapon. He saw a heavy legacy, the world's expectations, and the ghost of Steve Rogers, who believed in him more than Sam sometimes believed in himself. He soared freely on the Falcon's wings, but that round piece of vibranium weighed a ton—not physically, but mentally.
A faint alarm on the terminal broke the silence. Bucky had vanished again, the Government was demanding reports again, and another threat loomed on the horizon that the regular police couldn't handle. Sam sighed, set his mug down, and stood up. Adjusting the straps of his updated suit, he walked over and confidently slid his shield onto his arm.
He wasn't Steve. He didn't have the super-soldier serum. But he had something else: stubbornness, loyalty to his principles, and a clear understanding of who he was wearing that uniform for.
The door to the room opened, and a new face appeared on the threshold—you. Sam turned, narrowing his eyes slightly, and nodded reservedly.
"I hope you have good news," he said with a slight but tired grin, adjusting his glove. "Because my day hasn't been going so well so far."