Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"You sure you don't need any help carrying the rest of those?" Steve eyed Natasha dubiously; they'd been carrying boxes into the apartment for the better part of two hours, and while he'd had to take several breathers, as far as he could tell she hadn't even broken a sweat.

 The look she gave him might have made him wilt a little in embarrassment the year before; now, knowing her as well as anyone knew Natasha Romanov, it just made him grin. "You stay where you are, Princess," she said, smirking and nodding at the box of her shoes he was unpacking and organizing in the hall closet. "There's only a few more anyway."

 "Don't pull anything," he called after her with a chuckle, settling back down to take out yet another pair of wickedly tall and pointy high heels and place them on the shoe rack with five more pairs that, to him, looked all but identical (and practically unworn next to his one pair of sneakers and one pair of slightly scuffed dress shoes).

 Thankfully, she hadn’t been understating the situation to make him feel better; after only two more trips up the stairs, carrying two boxes each time, she leaned against the wall next to him and watched him quietly. When he looked up, she nodded, and Steve could finally see a hint of weariness in the set of her mouth. “All done,” she informed him.

 “Good,” he said, standing and wincing as his knees protested the change in position. “Let’s order dinner now and work on the kitchen stuff while we wait.”

 *

 They'd both been organized about the whole thing, thankfully; all their boxes were labelled by room, and Natasha had been reasonably conscientious about placing the boxes she'd brought up in their proper places. Neither of them had brought a lot of kitchen stuff; they'd both lived in the dorms before, and when they did cook it was out of necessity rather than enjoyment. But between the two of them they had most of the basics, and it wouldn't be difficult to make do until they could fill in the gaps.

 For the moment, the most important item was the Chinese takeout menu Nat had brought with her. They pored over it together and picked out their meals, then Steve called to place the order, leaning in the kitchen doorway and watching his friend look around, pick a box and open it. The whole thing felt a little overwhelming just then, and he was glad Natasha was the one starting it; as soon as she unwrapped the first stack of plates from their nest of tea towels and picked a cupboard for them, some of the strangeness bled away, just like it had out in the hall as he'd unpacked their shoes and coats. It wasn't the material things that mattered, it wasn't even where they were placed, it was the act of chipping away at the emptiness bit by bit and replacing it with roots, a space to call home.

 By the time he got off the phone with the Chinese restaurant, Nat had found space for the plates and bowls, and she was working on the glasses and mugs; Steve came up next to her and started folding the tea towels and dishcloths that had cushioned her dishes, and the t-shirts that he'd packed in with his. She wrinkled her nose at him, the scattering of freckles across it shifting with the movement.

 "I hope those were clean," she said disdainfully.

 He laughed and snapped one at her with a flick of his wrist. "They're clean. I seem like the kind of guy who'd wrap clean dishes in dirty laundry?"

 She deftly avoided the shirt, which was fine because he hadn't really meant to hit her with it anyway. "You never know. Men are gross."

 "Why'd you move in with me, then?"

 She sniffed. "You're slightly less gross than most."

 "I love you too, Nat," he told her fondly, hanging one of the tea towels on the handle of the oven door and picking a drawer at random to tuck away the rest.

 *

 By the time their food arrived, they had most of the kitchen done; it was going to take a little while, Steve thought, to learn to share the space without stepping on one another's toes, but the apartment was big enough and both of them had lived in far more adverse conditions than this. They settled down to eat their dinner on the living room floor- they hadn't made it to IKEA to pick out a dining room table yet, so for now the coffee table was the closest thing they had- and both of them were too tired to talk much, or maybe still getting used to this. Steve thought it was the second option, especially when a car alarm shattered the silence outside and Nat jumped a little, trying to cover the motion by reaching for her soda. Steve didn't ask if she was all right. Nat didn't take questions like that as friendly concern, she took them as an insult.

 Instead, he finished his spring roll and wiped his fingers carefully with a napkin. "I think I'm going to visit Gran tomorrow," he mentioned. "Let her know we got moved in all right."

 Natasha nodded- her expression didn't change, but a little of the tension went out of the set of her mouth and shoulders. Steve was learning the signs. "How's she doing in the retirement home?"

 "Still settling in." Steve shrugged. "She's only been there a few weeks, and she lived in that old house for way longer than I've even been alive, so she'll probably take a while to get used to it. It's disorienting for her, I think."

 Something must have shown in his face or voice, because Natasha sighed and shook her head. "We've been over this, Steve," she told him patiently. "It's not your fault. She didn't want you to give up your education, your future, to stay home and take care of her. She'd have been furious with you."

 It's not that Steve didn't know all that. Every word was true, and then some. He'd offered, once, and his grandmother had fixed her steely gaze on him and told him in no uncertain terms what she thought of that idea and how miserable she'd make his life if he went through with it. "I won't have you throwing your scholarship away, young man," she'd snapped. "That's final. Your mother and I already looked into retirement homes a few years ago, and when I can't live alone anymore I know exactly where I'll be going." She'd softened a little, then, and patted his hand. "You've got so much talent, Steve, and so much life. Live it. I'll still be here a while yet."

 "I know," he said now, shaking off the memory. "I just can't help feeling bad. Family should come first."

 Nat's mouth twisted into a wry smile. "I'll take your word for it, kid."

 He laughed and handed her the last spring roll. "You do that."

 *

 Even after making his bed with the same old sheets and the same old worn comforter, Steve had a hard time getting to sleep that night. He knew it wasn't uncommon for people to have trouble sleeping the first few nights in a new place; the thought only led him to thinking of his grandmother, how difficult and strange it must have been for her to go from the cozy little house that had been her home for more than thirty years to a place that, as nice as it had seemed every time he'd been there, was still essentially a bed in a dormitory.

 Eventually he rolled onto his side, facing the humidifier so he could breathe just a little better, and did his best to push those thoughts away. She did seem content in the retirement home, after all. Which was good, in no small part because there was nothing that could be done about it now. The house was sold, that last refuge of Steve's childhood after his mother's death and the sale of the house he'd grown up in.

 Someone else would be happy there, he thought drowsily. It was all right. It was good. There was never any going back, anyway.

 His dreams that night were vague impressions of blurred colours and cold wind rushing past his face; when he woke halfway in the middle of the night, he couldn't be sure whether he had been flying or falling. When he woke in the morning, he couldn't remember if he'd dreamed at all. 

Chapter Text

"Honey, I'm home," Steve called, just to annoy Natasha, bending to unlace his sneakers and place them carefully in the hall closet. Nat had arranged things and rearranged them and put them back the way they'd originally been, several times over; his things were all still in the same places he'd first put them when he'd been unpacking three weeks ago.

"Welcome home, darling," she replied from the kitchen, voice dripping with fake sweetness. "How was class?" The last part was a little more genuine, and accompanied by her peering around the corner at him, coppery curls falling around her face like she was doing a photoshoot for some fashion magazine rather than cooking what smelled like pancakes for dinner.

His right hand was still sore and covered in charcoal, and he held it up for her, waggling his fingers to make her laugh. "Productive," he replied, shrugging out of his too-large coat and hanging it up. "Got a lot of work done on my latest portrait. I think I'm going to use it for my portfolio."

"That good, huh?" Nat disappeared back into the kitchen, and he followed her; his suspicions had been correct, there was a stack of blueberry pancakes on a serving platter next to the stove, and it looked like there were only a few more to go, judging by the nearly-empty bowl of batter. Quickly, Steve reached over to swipe a finger along the top edge of the bowl- he wasn't quite fast enough, though, receiving a firm swat on the back of his hand with a spatula as he withdrew.

"Ow," he complained halfheartedly, licking the batter off his finger.

"That's what you get for being disgusting," she snorted. "Go set the table. I'm almost done."

*

Every morning, Steve would get up early enough to be at the school two hours before the start of his first class. Most days he had early classes, so it was always an hour of the morning when there wouldn’t be many people, if anyone, on the big indoor track that circled its way above the gymnasium. Those who were there at that time tended to be serious athletes; Steve had found them pleasant enough company, as they kept entirely to themselves, too wrapped up in their own little worlds to pay any mind to his slow, wheezing pace, and certainly not inclined to mock it.

That Tuesday, there were two other people already on the track when he arrived- a blonde girl, hair tied back in a thick ponytail, and a tall, lean black man in a War Amps t-shirt. Both of them had that same singleminded focus Steve saw so often in his silent early-morning running companions, so he didn’t feel too self-conscious as he set his bag and water bottle down next to an unoccupied bench and started off at a leisurely jog to warm up.

Yesterday, he'd managed three laps at an actual steady (if slow) run before he'd had to stop and take a nice long break. Today he could tell by the end of his first lap that he wouldn't be so lucky. It wasn't unexpected, not considering the humidity- it was going to rain, and that always set Steve's lungs to seizing at the slightest provocation. Still, he pushed on, through his second lap and on to his third, doggedly refusing to slow his pace despite his aching legs and cramping sides.

That was a mistake, he found out halfway through lap three, when his lungs simply refused to take in any more air. It was a fine line to walk between pushing himself enough to make a difference and pushing himself too much, and Steve, stubborn as he was, had a bad habit of vaulting right over that line. Straightening up and wheezing as he did his best to breathe evenly- or breathe at all- he looked around, and his heart sank. He had been almost exactly halfway through his lap, which meant his bag, and therefore his inhaler, was about as far away from him as it could be right now.

There was nothing for it; the inhaler wasn't going to come to him, all he could do was try to make it over there without passing out. One foot in front of the other , he told himself, over and over again with each step, even when the spots swimming across his eyes took over and he was moving entirely blind and wondering, in the back of his mind, how he'd even know when he'd reached the right bench--

He was so focused that he almost didn’t register the hand on his back until the accompanying voice spoke in his ear, smooth and calm, though Steve could hear the concern. He probably looked like he was having a heart attack or something. Awkward … “You need help, man?”

Steve nodded, gripping the hand rail as hard as he could to keep himself upright. "Inhaler," he wheezed, hoping the words were at least comprehensible to the helpful stranger. "My bag."

"Got it," the voice said- and dimly Steve's mind matched it up with the black guy in the War Amps t-shirt. He wondered if the blonde girl was still jogging, or if she'd left; the last thing he wanted to see when his vision cleared was an audience. It was embarrassing enough having attracted any attention at all.

He was just starting to lose track of his limbs, the strange, floaty sensation that usually directly preceded him passing out, when he felt that hand on his back again and hard plastic against his lips. He nearly let go of the hand rail in relief as the inhaler hissed and he pulled air into his lungs for the first time in what felt like hours. Only by sheer force of will did he manage to keep his grip and keep himself upright, and as the world slowly came back into focus he saw that he'd been right about the identity of his rescuer- and that the rest of the track was blessedly empty. Thank God.

"How're you doing?" The guy's smile was wide and relaxed, as if he hadn't just saved a random stranger's life... or as if doing so were an everyday occurrence. He really was attractive, Steve noticed; his eyes were a terribly appealing shade of chocolate brown, and the small gap between his two front teeth made his grin even more endearing.

"Good," he managed, though it came out a lot less smooth than he was hoping, and a lot more hoarse and croaky. "Better, anyway. Thanks."

"No problem. Wasn't just gonna leave you like that." The guy chuckled and held out his hand once Steve had let go of the railing and was standing on his own again. "Sam, by the way. Woulda been nicer to meet you in better circumstances, but hey, what can you do?"

Steve grinned and took the offered hand, giving it a firm shake. "Steve. Look on the bright side- I pretty much owe you my life now. That's a hell of a thing to start out with."

That got a laugh out of Sam, and he ran his hand over his buzzed-short hair once Steve let go of it. "I'm not gonna cash that debt in, man. I just did what anybody else woulda. Gotta ask, though... if you've got asthma that bad, what're you doing up here running laps?"

It was only the fact that the question was asked with what seemed to be genuine curiosity and concern, and without a hint of mockery, that kept Steve from shooting back with a prickly, sarcastic answer. "I don't want to be like this forever," he said instead, gesturing at himself. "I'm trying to get stronger."

"Yeah?" Sam's eyebrows shot up, and it took Steve a second to realize that he actually looked impressed. "Huh. Good for you. Ever considered getting a workout buddy? Y'know, someone to spot you so you don't almost die every time."

Steve couldn't tell if Sam was flirting or just being nice- he'd always found it impossible to discern between the two, much to Natasha's chagrin- so he decided to err on the side of caution. Mostly. "You offering?"

Sam's seemingly ever-present grin widened. "Sure am."

 *

After he'd arrived home from his classes that afternoon, washed the leftover charcoal off his hands, and put together a sandwich and some apple slices for a snack (Nat had left a post-it note on the fridge to let him know she wouldn't be home until eight, and he didn't like cooking for one if he could help it), he finally remembered to check his phone and was half-surprised, though pleasantly so, to see a text from Sam. They'd exchanged numbers at the track that morning, but Steve hadn't been sure whether to expect Sam to get in touch with him so soon... or at all, really, and now he felt a little guilty for that.

Made it through the day? :) the message read, and Steve chuckled and popped an apple slice in his mouth to chew while he typed a reply.

More or less. Think my hand might fall off from drawing too much, but that's pretty much the norm. What about you? Save any other random people's lives?

The reply was almost immediate. Nope, you're special today! It made him laugh again, and he sent back a smiley face and set his phone aside, turning on the TV to the evening news. He'd never felt like he needed to have a large group of friends- Natasha, always a force to be reckoned with, filled that gap pretty much on her own- but that didn't mean it didn't feel good to make a connection with someone new.

Especially, if he were to be honest with himself, someone as handsome and charming as Sam Wilson.