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Sam knew from the beginning that this was a bad idea. "We could just rent a truck," he'd said, "head out to the IKEA in College Park. Or there's Amazon, they've got pretty much everything and they deliver."
Steve hadn't been convinced.
"If something's worth doing, it's worth doing right," Steve had replied, jaw set, which was how Sam found himself in the parking lot of an antiques store in suburban Virginia on a Labour Day weekend. Relationships were all about compromise, Sam got that, but that didn't mean every compromise was a smart one.
"We've got a bed, a couch, a TV, my grandma's kitchen table and a record player," Sam said, locking the truck and sticking the keys in his jeans pocket. "It's not like any of the rest of it is urgent."
Steve had an old-school Dodgers baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, the way he usually did when they were out and he wanted to cut down on the chance that he'd be recognised. Of course, he was still a white man holding a black dude's hand in an area that trended more vanilla than Sam was entirely comfortable with, so who Steve thought he was fooling, Sam didn't know.
"No, but we've got a place now," Steve said firmly, with the same square-jawed certainty as if he were talking mission objectives. "We can do what we want with it. Make it ours."
"Our names on the mortgage didn't do that? Nat's got you watching way too much HGTV," Sam said. "This is her fault, I know who to blame."
Not that Natasha would ever set foot in a place like this, Sam thought as they climbed the steps. Not really the style of someone who favoured brick and concrete lofts and the kind of furniture that looked like it'd adjust your lumbar spine if you sat on it. This store was housed in a converted three-storey Victorian, its wrap-around porch crammed with old planters and disassembled chimney mantels and rusty weathervanes. Sam eyed the multicoloured rooster sitting atop one of the weathervanes; it glared back at him with a baleful eye.
"Lucy in Accounts said we should come here," Steve said. "She said she got some nice things for her new condo, projects to work on. That might be nice, right? Projects we could do together?"
"Projects," Sam said dubiously, because he'd slid the last of the way into love with Steve while following his fool ass around the world looking for Barnes. He was way too familiar with the Steve Rogers approach to projects; had a scar on his forearm and the presidential pardon to prove it.
The inside of the store was cool and dim, the gentle whirr of a fan near the door welcome after standing out in the last ebb of the summer's heat and humidity. Of course, the inside of the store also smelled like the bottom of a nana's handbag: all heavy, powdery florals and must. On a tray near the cash register, several scented candles were burning. Most of the visible surfaces held at least one bowl of potpourri. Dried flowers hung in bunches from the ceiling. Sam's nose twitched.
"Welcome to Neat Repeats!" said the beaming, middle-aged white woman behind the counter, who'd really committed to the concept of crushed velvet. "Where surprise finds from the past get a second chance at being loved!"
"Well, you're in the right place," Sam said and nudged Steve in the side; Steve didn't look too amused.
"How are you folks doing this fine day? Looking for anything in particular?" the woman continued. "We just got in a new shipment of cement urns and crystals, and our upholstered chairs are all 10% off this weekend!"
"We're just browsing, ma'am, thank you," Sam said, before Steve had a chance to ask what an antique store was doing selling crystals. Sam wasn't in a mood to get into a conversation about his aura before he'd even had lunch.
The interior walls had mostly been taken out on the ground floor, making one big room either side of the central stairwell. The place had been painted a uniform eggshell white—ceiling, walls, floor—but with dressers and tilting mannequins blocking most of the windows and only narrow paths left through the clutter, well, Sam had stayed in military quarters that had felt more spacious. Everything here had a half-remembered history attached to it, and Sam didn't know why Steve would want to willingly surround himself with even more of that. He'd ask, but didn't want to interrupt Steve's careful bull-in-a-china-shop act: he inched along, broad shoulders held at an angle so that he didn't knock a turquoise bird cage from its perch on top of a stack of battered steamer trunks.
"Lucy said this was a furniture store," Steve said as they inched their way through to what had once been a screened-in back porch. "Where's the furniture?"
"I think you're looking at it," Sam said, pointing at a wheeled contraption. A tag hanging from it read, in purple-ink cursive, Upcycled bar cart perfect for home entertaining! $275.
"Is… is that made from old milk crates?" Steve said, sounding bewildered. "Why would anyone—what does 'upcycled' mean?"
"Reusing something, but for white folks with pretensions and spray paint," Sam said.
Further investigation turned up more furniture that they'd definitely never use: a church pew turned into what had to be the world's most uncomfortable sofa; the fenders of a Volkswagen Beetle, topped with glass and turned into a coffee table; a Fifties TV set turned into a bookcase that could hold maybe three of the thick paperbacks Steve liked to read.
"Those tags can't be right," Steve said, peering into a chicken coop—half of it yellow, half of it covered in chalkboard paint—that now held dozens of candles in mason jars. "Who'd pay $60 for a candle?"
"Ask my sister," Sam muttered. Sarah could be bougie when she wanted to.
"And that's a library card catalogue!" Steve said, pointing at a piece made of heavy, dark oak. Sam didn't even know how the owners got it inside. "People still use those? What about the internet?"
Sam shrugged. "I think people buy them for storage now."
They both stared at the cabinet for a moment, considering.
Steve stuck his hands in his pockets. "What could you even fit in drawers that size?"
"Hell if I know," Sam said. "A pair of socks?"
"I don't think I've got…" Steve counted. "… Seventy-two different pairs of socks."
"That's because you're a sensible man," Sam said. Well, that was true if you ignored some stuff. But Steve did tend to be pretty good about things like taking out the trash and making sure that the smoke alarm batteries were working.
Steve heaved a sigh. "I just wanted, you know…"
"Yeah, I got you," Sam said, because he did. A place to stand, a place to lay your head at night, something that was yours: a home. Sam wanted what Steve wanted, and he wanted Steve, so he was pretty lucky all things considered. "I just don't think we need to hand distress any furniture to have it."
"You think?" Steve said.
"Pretty confident," Sam said. He pulled out his phone and called up a map. "Look, if you want to do the suburban couple on the weekend thing, there's a diner near here that's supposed to do a good brunch. See? That's a BLT that's fancier than any reasonable person actually needs it to be, complete with avocado."
"I suppose I could eat," Steve said, sounding dubious.
"Good," Sam said, sticking his phone back into his pocket. "Because you got me out of my bed before seven on a Sunday, Steve, so you owe me a plate of huevos rancheros and a mug of coffee as big as my head before I even think about afternoon naps and handjobs."
"That how it is?" Steve asked with a hint of a sly smile, and so help him, the goof clearly thought he was being smooth.
"That's how it is," Sam said.