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"Sit tight, Cap. We're on our way."
Sit tight. Steve pushes his hand through his hair and stifles a sigh until he's sure the comm is dead. He wouldn't have to sit tight if someone had refueled like they were supposed to. Now he's dead on... He checks the map. Wherever he is doesn't even have a name, just the latitude and longitude he rattled off to Sam. West of Hawaii, he thought, but not quite to Micronesia. Almost as far away from anyone as he can be.
He takes out the earpiece and tucks it into a belt pocket as he stands. Or he thinks he tucks it into a pocket; the telltale crunch as he steps away from the ejection seat makes him close his eyes and clench his jaw and just... take a moment to breathe before he looks down. First at the deck, where he lifts his boot and sees what's left of the earpiece, and then at the pocket with the fingertip-sized hole in the bottom. He has a mental list of things to repair on the suit after this last mission, and he adds one more thing to it.
Maybe Sam is onto something. Maybe it's time to trade in the uniform for something that hasn't been mended to hell and back.
Or maybe he just needs a hot shower, a hot meal, and four hours of uninterrupted sleep.
Steve glances through the canopy at the curve of white sand beach. He glances next at the instrument panel and reads the outside temperature. It's not a shower, he thinks, but if he's going to be stuck, he can make do.
He starts peeling off the uniform as he makes his way aft. He elbows the button as he kicks off the boots right at the caution line painted on the deck and waits for the loading ramp to lower. He's used to the clang of metal on metal, or metal on concrete, so it's strange when there's nothing as the ramp touches down and settles. All he hears is gentle waves crashing, a breeze over the hull of the jet, the distant sound of seabirds.
It's the most peaceful thing he's seen in a long time. He stands there and stares out at it for long moments.
Then the uniform is in a heap on the deck by the ramp, and he's digging his toes into hot white sand and feeling the sun on his shoulders, his back. He flexes his fingers absently--it feels strange not to be wearing the gloves, it makes him realize how little time he's spent out of uniform in the last several months--and he scans the water. He doesn't want to get caught in a riptide.
The water is warm where he wades in, but he's still expecting a cold shock that doesn't come when he dives into a rolling wave. Steve surfaces, tosses his head to get his hair out of his face, and treads water. It's a far cry from the frigid north Atlantic. It's warmer even than Rockaway Beach. He takes a deep breath and dives again. He can feel the grime washing out of his hair, out of his beard, and the heat of the sun through the water seems to soften his muscles, so it's not a shower, but it's good enough. Maybe better.
He stays in longer than he means to, surfacing to take great deep breaths, then diving again and again just because he can. So much of his time in the water since... well, since has been unwilling, has been unpleasant. This feels like a treat.
This feels like a vacation.
By the time he staggers out of the water, wiping the ocean from his eyes and his hair and his beard, the sun has moved so far that there's a nice stretch of shade beside the quinjet. He stares into the jet, and then at the soft-looking sand in the shadows beside it, and then glances over his shoulder at the water, mind working. No, he decides. He's not willing to risk the seafood, so an MRE it is.
They're better than the C-Rations were, but that's only when he gets to them before Sam and Natasha do. He discovers that he's not so lucky. Or possibly Sam resupplied like this on purpose. Steve can't be sure. He doesn't want to think badly of his friends, but... As he absently scratches himself and stares down at a locker full of "veggie omelette" and "country captain chicken," he reconsiders the fresh seafood. How bad can mercury poisoning really be?
He doesn't want to smell... whatever comes out of the bag when he opens the veggie omelette, so he grabs one of the chicken--the way Natasha said "country" the first time she waggled it at him made heat crawl up the back of his neck then, and does now as he remembers it--and the desalination kit and goes back outside.
The sand is still warm when he sits down in the shade of the jet and stares out over the water. He stretches one leg out and keeps the other bent, resting his arm across his knee as he chews and tries not to think about the food. It's not warm. It's probably not even really food. But it'll do, and with the view, with the time to think and be quiet and be still, it's almost... nice.
Almost. He has to get the taste of whatever that was out of his mouth.
He tosses what's left of the MRE packaging into the jet, then takes the desalination kit to the water. He wades in up to his waist and bends over to stick is face into the wave, sucking in seawater and swishing it before he spits. He cracks the tube Shuri gave him into the bottle, then dunks it under the water to fill it as another wave hits his chest. He caps the bottle as the water recedes, running between and around his legs. He tries not to think of the taste of seawater and the way Natasha smirked at him. He just holds the bottle up to the horizon and watches the chemical stick make the water drinkable.
He doesn't think about tastes and words and smiles until he's fighting the outgoing tide on his way back to the beach, until he's full and warm and feeling drowsy and he realizes that the water rushing over his skin hasn't left him unaffected.
He finishes the whole bottle and sets it in the sand under the loading ramp. He considers the shade and the sun, and decides that the risk of sunburn is worth it for the warmth, and he stretches out on the soft, hot white sand on his back. He closes his eyes. A warm breeze moves over him, stirring the hair on his chest and lower.
Steve sighs, long and deep and slow, and his hand moves of its own volition until it's wrapped around his cock. And then he's pulling, not thinking, just feeling, friction and heat, building tension, until he's coming, and there's more heat and wet and he's drifting away to the sound of crashing waves and the smell of salt.
***
"If I'd known it was dick o'clock, I'd have worn something else."
Steve opens his eyes to blinding sunshine and a warm, fuzzy shadow that slowly takes shape. "What?"
Sam raises an eyebrow and looks down. Steve follows his gaze.
"Oh." He yawns and pushes himself up until he's sitting. "Guess I forgot to get dressed."
"Yeah, you look like a regular Robinson Crusoe." Sam offers his hand.
Steve takes it and lets Sam pull him up, and because it seems right and he doesn't want to resist, he leans in for a kiss.
Sam kisses back. "Good dreams, or are you just happy to see me?"
"Both." Steve steals another kiss and steps back. He lets go of Sam and pushes his hands through his hair, brushing sand away. He looks around, but they're alone on the beach. He gives Sam a quizzical look.
Sam grins at him. "Natasha and I already refueled and she took off. Said Sleeping Beauty needed his rest."
Steve rolls his eyes. "She just wants to get back to Wakanda before we do."
"She likes when Bucky's off-balance."
He made a small wordless sound of agreement and put his hands on the small of his back to stretch. Sam's eyes are on him, tangible as a touch, and Steve's not in any hurry to get back into the stiff, grimy uniform or whatever street clothes he might still have in the jet. He's staring out at the water and thinking of the long flight back, of the next mission.
He says, "You wanna go for a swim?"