Work Text:
Sam comes home.
Sam comes home on a Tuesday, and Riley’s dog tags rest heavily under his shirt.
His mother nearly strangles him at the front gate when he gets off the plane, and behind her, his friends and siblings hold up signs welcoming him home. He supposes he should be happy about that, glad to see them, but he has to force that smile on his face.
He doesn’t recognize this world anymore.
*
Sam’s at home, and it’s a Friday.
Sam’s at home on a Friday, and he’s unemployed. His mom comes by a few times with frozen dinners, but even her smiles are starting to fade at the corners.
He doesn’t know if he wants her to stay or not; he’s so used to being around people almost nonstop. Was strange at first, but he easily adapted because the alternative was to be alone. Now, at home, it’s too quiet. Before, he had to sleep in complete silence, but not anymore. He needs the noise. TV, radio, anything. Anything.
Everyone else is quieter, too. Sometimes Sam has to ask his brother to speak up on the phone, to the point that his brother gives an exasperated sigh. His brother calls every Friday.
Fridays are his least favorite days.
*
Twice a week, his mother emails him want ads. Everything from temp office work to construction to restaurant managers. She never brings it up to his face, but her eying his computer every time she comes over says enough.
He doesn’t apply to any of them.
Before, he had thought about training to become an EMT. Then the Air Force came calling, with promises of fulfillment and excitement and, strangely enough, freedom. The sky is endless, after all.
The urge for EMT training is gone, but almost everything is, really. Time passes slow as molasses, and most days he actually misses the rush of adrenaline when he’s in flight, dodging bullets. Taking the shot to the forearm hurt like bloody hell, but at least he had felt something. They patched him up and sent him on his way, then he and Riley laughed, lying on their pathetic bed rolls as they stared up at the ceiling of their tent. Riley joked that Sam’d get a Purple Heart because he wasn’t quick enough.
Now he’s home and he feels nothing. (Riley didn’t either. Riley wasn’t quick enough.)
He’s home and there’s no laughter, no adrenaline. He wakes up from a nightmare and his first thought is to reach for Riley.
There is no Riley. There isn’t anyone. Not anymore. All that’s left is the smell of smoke and the sting in his eyes and dirt in his teeth.
In the end, Sam takes the job at the VA because he needs to take care of his people. (No one else will.) And maybe - maybe he wants to be taken care of, too.
It’s a Monday.
*
Sam’s first day at work could have gone better.
Everyone stares at him sullenly, and there’s no doubt that most of them are here against their will. It’s slightly intimidating, all of their unblinking eyes on him, but this is by far the scariest thing he’s ever had to do. He manages to get through without stuttering, and he’s careful to make eye contact with each and every one of them while he talks. After a time, they begin to relax slightly, but they’re still far from being comfortable. It’s not like Sam expected a huge share and care the first day, but he wishes at least one person would speak up.
Then, the power has to shut off unexpectedly, throwing them into darkness. Of course. Now everyone chooses to speak, mumbling curses and complaints and does this mean we can leave now?
It’s only a few seconds, but once the lights come back on, Sam notices that about three or four people have left, and the rest linger around the door as well. He sighs, about to motion the okay for them to go, when he notices someone in the corner. Shit, what’s his name, Eric, Eli -
Evan. Evan, who’s crouched in the corner, fingers digging into his knees, breathing hard. Flashback.
He motions for everyone to get out, and they do so quickly, quietly, shutting the door behind them. Kneeling down next to Evan, Sam remembers what he’s read. Speak in short, simple sentences. Use their name. Don’t tell them to stop panicking.
He didn’t have to read that to know. He’s had to learn it all on his own experience.
“Breathe, Evan. It’s all right. It’s okay, Evan.” For lack of anything else, he pulls out his car keys and uncurls Evan’s clenched fist, placing them inside. “Feel that?”
Evan’s fingers wrap around them so tightly Sam sees blood running down his forearm. “Keys?”
“Yep. Where would you have keys, Evan?”
“Home.”
“Yes. You’re home.”
An exhale. “Fuck.”
“No, you did good, man. You did good.”
Sam gets a good glare for that one. “Yeah, I did real good. The hell’s wrong with you?”
Sam laughs. “A lot of things, man. Lotta things.”
“Guess that’s why we’re all here, huh,” Evan mutters, his voice full of self-loathing. “I feel like a fucking blue head all over again.”
“Bet you looked funky with that big old bald head.”
Evan considers, a very small smile sliding on his face. “People drew dicks on it.”
“Classic.”
Silence. It’s not uncomfortable; sometimes mere presence alone is enough to be comforting.
“So,” Sam says, after Evan has relaxed enough against the wall, “Want to tell me what you saw?”
“Nope.”
“No problem,” Sam says easily. “You don’t have to.”
“What, no offering to hold my hand?”
Sam shrugs. “Hey, only if you want me to.”
“Thanks. I guess.”
“You don’t have to thank me. This isn’t about you coming in and spilling every thought you have. This is what’s best for you. If sitting here and saying jack shit makes you feel better, then sit here and say jack shit. If you do want to talk, then the floor’s yours. You know that, right?”
Evan nods again. “Is there anything - anything that makes you like -” he gestures to himself.
“Thunder, sometimes,” Sam says simply.
Unfortunate, for someone who favors sky.
It’s a Sunday.
*
Things get easier. Things get better. People talk. Hell, he doesn’t care if they talk about their grocery list. He just wants them to talk.
DADT is repealed during Sam’s third month. Nobody wanted to talk about it when he was in service, before or after. (Despite the fact that Sam knows that at the very least - very least - ten percent of his unit was queer, himself included.)
It’s not until a few weeks later at the VA that someone cautiously broaches the subject. The room goes silent, as it always does when a vet has the courage to lay out their weaknesses, but this time, it’s a different sort of silence. It’s heavier.
His name is Alfonzo, and he falters through the words until he takes a deep breath, whispering, I’m gay. He looks around the room, and while people look a little taken aback, nobody says anything. “I’m gay,” he repeats, louder this time; he squares his shoulders. “I don’t care if that bothers you. I don’t care if it surprises or offends you. It is what it is.”
Raymond, who is only attending his second meeting, stands up. “I’m not surprised that you’re gay,” he says, and Sam’s proud that he doesn’t stumble over the word, “I’m surprised that someone finally said something.” He gives Alfonzo a broad grin. “Thanks, man.”
Raymond begins to talk about his sister - the fourteen year old girl who was thrown out on the streets because she was transgender. The words flow from his lips quickly, as if he doesn’t speak quickly enough, everyone will stop listening.
After that, there is no silence for the rest of the meeting. Sam smiles for the first time since he took this job.
*
Sam can always spot another vet in public, despite how they’re dressed or where they are. Even if he hadn’t pegged Steve Rogers as being Captain America, Sam would have had him pegged as a vet regardless. He once tried to explain it to his mother, that it’s the way they talk, or move, or even breathe, but the closest he can get is it’s in the eyes.
Everyone knows Captain America, noble, heroic, brave. Shit, Sam did a book report on him in the fourth grade. But the person in front of him is not Captain America. It’s just Steve. Steve, in Under Armour and Adidas. He looks...human. (even with the huge biceps and chest and holy shit -)
It takes him a second to notice that Steve is flirting with him. Teasing voice, hands on his hips, wearing a coy smile. Sam’s pretty smooth at first, even comes up with what he thinks is a pretty decent joke under the circumstances. Then he almost messes it up by bringing up the defrosting thing. Yes, because that’s certainly what Steve wants to talk about now: probably the one thing he gets asked by everyone, and something that certainly isn’t a pleasant experience. Steve answers politely and excuses himself, but Sam doesn’t want him to leave, he’s such an idiot, why bring that up - so he spits out an “It’s your bed, right?”
Steve is slightly startled but Sam has his attention again. It’s surprising how easy it is to talk to him, how Steve listens to him with such rapt attention. How the smile on his face as he pulls out his notebook to write down Sam’s suggestion nearly makes Sam grin in response, because Sam was the one who put that smile there. It’s almost like Sam himself is written into Steve’s life. He’s disappointed when Steve gets the text message, but the flirty smile is back, and Sam gives himself a mental pat on the back. He invites Steve to come visit him at the VA, but just in case, his mind is already planning on ways to “run into” Steve again.
Luckily, he doesn’t have to.
People keep talking about Steve being a man out of his own time - it’s a romantic story for sure, sacrificing your life for your country, and everyone has heard that tape of Steve and Peggy. Everything they say is true, so true, but Sam cuts to the heart of the matter.
Steve’s another lonely war vet who’s come home for the first time and has no idea what to do with himself but to throw himself back in.
It’s all in the eyes.
*
Maybe one small reason why he wanted to be Steve’s friend so badly is because Steve was his best chance of getting back in, and he didn’t even realize that’s what he wanted until Steve and Natasha are on his doorstep. Not that he wants to be back overseas, or take commands from higher up, but he wants the need to belong. To fight alongside someone again, but without policies and red tape and bureaucracy.
It’s not the first reason, or even the second (those he’ll consider later, shit), but once he grabs his file and tosses it on his kitchen table as his resume, he has to calm his breathing. It’s exactly what he wants, and he didn’t even have to ask for it.
He figures Steve knows, judging by how easily he accepts the offer.
They’re the same, after all.
*
After Riley's death, someone had the nerve to tell Sam that at least it was over quickly and he didn’t feel any pain. He ended up breaking that guy’s nose and had to be dragged away.
That thought had stuck around, though, and he spent hours mulling over if it was better that Riley had died quickly, or would it have been better if Sam was able to talk to him one last time? Would it have been better to know that Riley’s death was coming, but at least was able to make his peace? He finds himself asking people that question, and after an uncomfortable silence or two, they offer tentative support for either position. In the end, nobody gives him a definite answer.
Now Sam’s on his knees on a river bank, watching the grass and dirt quickly become saturated with Steve’s blood. He twists his knuckles against Steve’s sternum to wake him up, come on, it’s not Riley it’s nothing like Riley -
“Couldn’t do it,” Steve whispers, but he doesn’t open his eyes. “I couldn’t hurt him. I couldn’t.”
“It’s okay,” Sam says, remembering their conversation on the bridge. He doesn’t miss how Steve uses hurt, either. “I couldn’t have done it, either. It’s okay.”
“Sorry.”
“What are you apologizing for?”
“Sorry,” Steve repeats. He pats Sam’s arm, smearing blood. “Sorry.” The Brooklyn accent is heavy in his voice now.
“Shh,” Natasha says, and she sits on his other side, pressing her hands against one of his wounds. “Help is coming.”
Sam’s not sure if she’s talking to Steve or Sam. He should have known all along, but now he truly knows there is no correct answer.
Dying is the unfortunate small print in a soldier’s job description. Maybe an FNG signs up romanticizing war, but shit changes as soon as they get off the plane overseas. Despite what people want to tell themselves, most military deaths are not romantic. Most military deaths are not throwing yourself over a grenade while the rest of your platoon runs for safety, or diving in front of someone to take a bullet.
Death is ugly and messy and quick. It’s leaving your soldiers’ bodies behind in the dirt because you aren’t able to save their honor without getting killed yourself. It’s talking to them one second, and watching them fall to the earth the next. After, it’s like holding a quick ugly messy wake for a ghost.
Airmen may not realize it at first, but it sinks in after witnessing that first one.
Steve’s given himself up twice now, and neither one was quick. Ugly and messy, yes. But not quick. He had plenty of time to ruminate the consequences, and if that doesn’t fuck with your head, nothing will.
This is a whole new territory for Sam, but he’s ready to tackle it. He wants to. Even when Steve plays it off, smiling at him as much as his broken face will let him from the hospital bed.
Sam lets the physical healing be enough for now. He’ll be ready for the rest when it comes.
*
Sam should have known he would have come to this revelation on a Friday. Fucking Fridays.
He likes to sleep in so he can avoid as much of Friday as possible, but that’s not the case today. His phone starts to vibrate on his bedside table, and he groans into his pillow, knowing that it is much earlier than he had planned on getting up.
“What?”
“I need an omelet,” Steve says.
“Are you fucking serious?”
Sam can almost hear the shrug on the other line. “I’m hungry.”
“Then use Yelp, not me. Some people like to sleep.”
“But you’re so much better than Yelp.”
“The Argonaut, if this will get you off the phone,” Sam eventually groans. “But only if they have the chorizo omelet.”
“See you there.” Click.
Motherfucker.
Sam doesn’t bother showering or even changing out of his sweatpants to show Steve how much of an annoyance he has been to Sam this morning. Yeah, that’ll do it. Take that.
Steve is in his running clothes, but of course he doesn’t need to shower; the asshole can run twenty miles and not break a sweat, hair still properly combed. He’s swiping away on his phone and doesn’t realize Sam is there, which gives Sam just enough time to properly look him over and God bless Under Armour.
“Whoops,” Steve says when he looks up. He gives Sam a crooked smile. “Did I wake you?”
“You know you did, asshole,” Sam mutters.
“Sorry, sweetums.” Steve looks down and takes a step back. “Ah.”
“What?” A wet nose nudges at Sam’s hand, a golden retriever sniffing his fingers. The owner apologizes and tries to pull the dog away, but Sam waves her off.
“Hey, buddy,” Sam says, scratching the dog behind her ears. Steve takes a few more steps back. “What?”
“I’m allergic.”
“Still?” Sam says, surprised. “I thought the magic juice got rid of that.”
“Huh,” Steve says, eyebrows furrowed. “I never really thought about it.” Sitting on his heels, he holds out a hand for the dog to sniff, and a boyish smile slides on his face at the lack of allergic reaction. “I had always wanted a dog, cliche as it sounds. Was the normal thing to want, you know? Normal would have been nice. Can’t get a dog now, because I’m gone too often. Maybe - maybe after.” He still wears that smile, but it’s all in the eyes.
The fact that Steve is even thinking of an after, and the fact that Sam realizes he desperately wants to be in that after is when he understands that he is well and truly fucked.
*
There was never one time when he would even consider that he’d be jealous of Natasha Romanoff. She doesn’t exactly lead what he would call a desired lifestyle.
Granted, she is strong, witty, and fiercely protective of those she cares about. Sam admires her more than he can say. There’s so much to her that he can’t even begin to break the surface, and he knows that what she and Steve share is special. He would never want to get in the way of that. If only he could figure out what that was.
It’s not like he wants to be jealous.
This particular realization is on the fourth day that he and Steve begin to run together. Steve typically begins by humoring Sam, keeping pace. Sam learns that Steve can talk almost non-stop while moving at Sam’s speed, while Sam is too out of breath to answer. The bastard knows, too, smirking as he continues to ask questions, knowing that Sam has too much pride to ignore answering. The end result is Sam sounding like a sick cat.
They run together for about thirty minutes before Steve sprints away from him; normally, Sam would want to spit out some sort of exasperated sound, but now? Now, he keeps quiet: he appreciates the view (that Under Armour and long legs), and looks forward to being lapped to see it all over again.
When they finish, Natasha is waiting for them. She’s in workout gear herself, wearing red shorts, a black tank, and ASICS running shoes. Her hair is pulled up in a ponytail, a few loose strands hanging around her face, and she looks strangely young. Steve whispers something in her ear, and she kicks his shin. The small smile on her lips speaks volumes, and she leans up to kiss Steve, patting his chest. It’s intimate to the point that Sam turns away, feeling like he needs to give them some sort of privacy despite the fact that they’re standing right in the middle of Dupont Circle.
“Oh,” Natasha says after a few seconds, and her curious glance makes Sam uneasy. “I can go, if you want?”
“You can stay,” Sam answers, giving her a casual shrug. “Why would you want to leave?”
Her glance becomes slightly more piercing, but Steve doesn’t seem to realize it. “Yeah, we can go get some hot dogs at K Street?”
For some reason, this makes Natasha laugh, and Sam hates the bubble of jealousy as they exchange a knowing look at their inside joke.
He wants what they have. He wants more.
Turns out there’s a vendor on K Street who has taken a liking to Steve, giving him free hot dogs. Sam has to grit his teeth while the vendor pats Steve on the shoulder; Sam nearly bites his tongue when that hand drifts down to Steve’s bicep. Steve takes it easily enough, laughing as they exchange playful barbs.
Steve takes his hot dogs simple, with just ketchup, but Natasha gets hers fully loaded. She passes one on to Sam, with ketchup, mustard, and relish. Sam looks at her one moment too long, and this time, she’s the one that looks away first.
“You brought me a nice friend, too,” the vendor tells Steve, giving Sam a smile. Sam’s first instinct is to glare back, and damn, his mother didn’t teach him that shit. It’s a little too late to properly recover but he does his best, taking a bite and sullenly complimenting the vendor.
For the briefest of moments, Sam thinks Steve gives him a disappointed look, but it’s gone before Sam can know for sure. It’s awkward now, so they quietly eat a few hot dogs before Natasha spills some mustard on Steve’s shirt.
“Oops,” she says, the sound unfamiliar on her tongue. “Better go wash that off - bathroom’s over there.”
Steve gives her a weird look but he obeys, wiping at the stain with a thin napkin.
“You know why I like you, Sam?” Natasha says as soon as he’s out of sight.
Sam first wants to ask you like me? but instead, he shakes his head.
“You go for what you want. I haven’t known you for very long, but that I do know. I respect that. So why are you stopping now?”
“What?”
Natasha gives him a knowing look. “Sam, go for it. Trust me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sam says, but his voice sounds off even to his own ears.
“Right,” Natasha says, patting his arm. “Well, think it over, and I’m sure it’ll come to you.”
Well, shit. Question is, how would he even go about it?
*
At first, it doesn’t appear like it may be as hard as he thought; Steve invites him over one Thursday night, and Thursday nights are fantastic. The last bright spot before Friday dawns. He picks up a case of beer and makes his way over.
Except - Natasha is there.
“Yo.”
It looks like the two of them have been sparring together; Steve’s still in a tank top, and Natasha’s hair is wet from a shower. She hands Steve a brush and sits on the floor, her back against his legs. Steve starts braiding her hair.
Ready to roll with the punches, Sam takes out a beer and puts the rest in the fridge. “Too lazy to do it yourself?”
Natasha shrugs. “He’s better than I am.”
“When did you learn how to braid hair?”
“I used to braid my mom’s all the time when she got too sick to do it herself,” Steve says, separating Natasha’s hair into three equal parts. He laughs. “Soon I had all the mothers on the block knocking on our door for me to do theirs, too.”
“You should open a salon on the side.”
When he finishes, Natasha climbs on the couch and curls on Steve’s lap like a cat, and Steve tugs on her braid, a fond smile on his face. They look more comfortable than ever together, like they do this all the time. Natasha nuzzles against Steve’s thigh, then she looks Sam’s way. Her eyes widen just slightly and she sits up, away from Steve. He looks slightly hurt at the response, but shakes it off, turning back to the movie.
“That’s communal beer, right?” Natasha says, but she’s already standing.
“Have at it, babe.”
Steve raises an eyebrow at him as the title screen of the movie loads.
“Aw, hell. Memento?”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing, if you want a good mind fuck.”
“Oh, I see.”
“What?”
“This one’s not made for simpletons, I suppose.”
“What?”
“Come on, it can’t be that bad.”
“We’ll see, then.”
Natasha’s back with two beers, one of which she hands off to Steve. “I might actually have to side with Sam on this one.”
“Traitor.”
She bats her eyes at him playfully. “Just can’t lie to you, hon.”
Steve glares at both of them, settling in. “We’ll see about that.”
They end up debating for two hours after the movie ends.
*
So movie night wasn’t exactly what he had in mind, but it’s all right. They still go running, still grab something to eat after. He has that. That’s good, right?
Three days after that Thursday night, Sam goes to get the mail when he sees an envelope shoved under his door. Inside are two tickets to the noon game between the Nationals and the Dodgers.
Steve loves baseball. Especially the Dodgers. Have fun, fellas :)
You owe me big, Sammy boy.
Oh God, he’s in middle school again and his cousin is buying cheap earrings at a mall kiosk, insisting that seventh grader Shelly White will love them. “Give her these, and she’ll definitely sit with you at lunch,” he had said, smiling so widely that Sam could have counted every one of his braces.
On that fact alone, Sam is tempted to throw them away for spite’s sake, but...it is actually a decent idea. He should have come up with it on his own. Even Natasha Romanoff is better at dating than he is.
Steve, of course, is thrilled at the idea, and he shows up at Sam’s place wearing a blue Dodgers hat and a white hoodie. It’s cute as shit, and Sam is subjected to the Brooklyn Dodgers’ history the whole ride over. He buys popcorn and nachos and eight dollar beers, and Sam’s got a good feeling about this one.
Until, of course, they end up sitting next to a Vietnam vet who recognizes Steve right away.
Sam holds a finger to his lips, and the vet nods. He leans in and whispers Semper Fi.
Steve laughs and points at Sam. “Air Force.”
“No shit,” the guy says. “Just need some Semper Paratus to round it out, eh?”
Jack’s pretty cool, and has some stories that Sam would normally find hilarious, but Sam really, really wishes that he were sitting somewhere else.
Of course, the three of them end up at the Red Derby after the game, eating shrimp po boys and drinking andre 5000s. Steve can’t get drunk but he certainly looks more relaxed, his hat slightly off kilter as he laughs at one of Jack’s jokes.
Hell, Sam could never hold a grudge, and the Overholt is certainly loosening him up: he finds himself laughing too. All in all, it was a good night, even if it wasn’t quite what he wanted. He and Steve put Jack’s number in their phones, shake hands, and go on their way.
“Thanks for the lift,” Steve says as Sam slows to a stop in front of his apartment.
“No problem,” Sam replies, and before he can even realize what’s happening, Steve leans over and hugs him. Sam goes rigid. “Uh.”
Steve mutters a curse and pulls back. “Sorry,” he says with an apologetic look. “Natasha’s influence, I guess.”
“I like it,” Sam hears himself say.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Who doesn’t like hugs?”
“Right,” Steve says. He flexes his fingers on his lap. “So. Thanks. It was fun - ”
“ - I’ve been craving steak,” Sam interrupts. “I grill a mean one. Tomorrow night, my place?”
Steve grins. “Sure.”
*
Sam’s feeling it today. He made the best french toast this morning, had a great session at the VA, and has just bought steaks from Harvey’s Market. Steve bought green beans and baked potatoes, and Sam has a few six packs of Stella in the fridge.
“I’ll grill if you start double baking those potatoes,” Sam says when they get to his place, tossing his jacket to the side. “Then -” he grunts as Steve pushes him aside.
Sam hadn’t even had time to flick on the light, but he doesn’t miss how Steve pulls out his gun in a second flat, zeroed in on the left corner. Sam stays quiet, still, aware of where his own gun is and how many steps it would take to get it, but when there’s no sound, just their breathing (Steve’s is particularly heavy), Sam turns on the light.
The only thing in the corner is the vacuum cleaner.
Steve still has his gun trained on it, but he’s frozen, with the exception of his hands, which are trembling slightly. His eyes are wide.
Sam keeps his voice nice and low. “It’s okay. It’s okay. It’s okay.”
It takes more time than Sam would like, but eventually Steve lowers the gun. He exhales, then drops it.
“Okay, Steve,” Sam says, as quiet as he can be. Use the name, keep using the name. “Steve. It’s okay.” He doesn’t move toward Steve, as much as he wants to: doesn’t want to spook him. Wait for a sign that Steve is ready. “There’s nobody here but you and me.”
“There was,” Steve’s voice is tight.
“Steve. Do you believe I’m here?”
A sharp, shaky inhale. “Yes?”
Sam takes a few steps, slowly, watching. Steve doesn’t move away, which is a good sign. Sam holds out a hand.
“See?”
Steve lifts his own, brushes Sam’s fingers. He shudders with relief.
“Do you believe now?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think I would stand here and let it happen? Do you think I’d just stand here and let someone try to hurt you, Steve? Hurt me?”
There’s no hesitation this time. “No.”
Carefully, Sam takes Steve’s hand and pulls his glance away from the corner. Steve comes willingly at first, then pulls away, standing at parade rest, his neck scarily stiff. “I’m sorry,” he says brusquely.
“Dude,” Sam says. “I am not your commanding officer, and does this look like the field to you?”
Steve relaxes, but only slightly: his shoulders slump. “It won’t happen again,” he says, voice low but determined, despite his beaten posture.
“Okay,” Sam says, holding his hands out so Steve sees every motion. “It’s cool, soldier. One step at a time. Step one, let’s go to the kitchen.”
Sam doesn’t touch him now, careful that Steve’s hands are slightly shaking behind his back.
“Okay,” Steve says, but he doesn’t move.
“Or we don’t have to,” Sam says, and he sinks to the floor, crossing his legs to be as casual as possible.
“I could have hurt you.”
“No, you wouldn’t,” Sam says. “You were willing to let your best friend hurt -” kill kill kill “- you just so you wouldn’t do anything to him. You wouldn’t have shot me. I know it.”
Steve blows out a breath but he slides down the wall, joining Sam on the floor. “It was a vacuum cleaner,” he says, shamefully. “A vacuum cleaner.”
“It was a dark shape in the corner in a relatively new place,” Sam corrects.
“I’m an idiot.”
“You’re not.”
“Come on,” Steve says, more harshly than Sam has ever heard. “That was pathetic, that -”
“You know what my mama used to tell me?” Sam interrupts. “‘Crying is not a sign of weakness or strength; since birth, it has been a sign that we are alive’. I don’t remember who she was quoting, but it makes sense, I guess. My mama used to do that sort of thing. She would take good quotes from everyone and claim them as her own. I grew up with every teacher praising me for my intellect when I was just repeating what she stole. One time, my fourth grade teacher heard me quoting Emily Dickinson. Something about it being better to be the hammer than the anvil. Which is pretty messed up when you think about it, especially messed up when my elementary school teacher was impressed. So he calls me to the front of the class, asks me to talk about Dickinson. I don’t even know. Started talking shit about psychic dragons, magic cyborgs. Think I even worked in something about radioactive pickles. Teacher let me go on for about ten minutes, man, until he made me sit down and kept me after class to write lines. Told my mama, and you know what she says? ‘Truth is so rare that it is delightful to tell it.’ You know who said that? Emily Fucking Dickinson.”
Sam’s proud when he hears Steve laugh. Quietly, but a laugh nonetheless. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Nothing. But it made you smile.”
One thing Sam knew his mama told him was to let silence be sometimes. Don’t fill the silence if there isn’t anything useful to say. It’s hard to keep his mouth closed this time, though. He literally bites his tongue and waits.
“I’m gonna go home,” Steve eventually says, looking away from Sam.
“Not an option,” Sam says, standing. He picks up the bag of steaks left by the door. “I’m not eating this all by myself.”
“I can’t,” Steve says, looking at his feet. His hair hangs over his eyes. “I should go home.”
Sam leans over, still waiting to be okayed to initiate physical contact. Steve doesn’t flinch, so Sam brushes his hair off of his forehead, his hand cupping Steve’s face. “Stay. Please. For me.”
A long pause, long enough that Sam is ready to start rambling again, then: “Fine. But just for the steaks.”
“Good enough a reason as any. Don’t forget about the potatoes. I love double fried potatoes.”
Steve looks up, a tiny, weak smile on his face, even as Sam runs his thumb along Steve’s jaw. Sam wants nothing more than to kiss him. Until: “You’re a good friend.”
Sam somehow manages to muster up a grin. “And don’t you forget it.”
*
Buzz. Buzz. Buzz.
Sam rolls over, kicking his bed. Fuck super heroes that don’t sleep like normal people. He blinks a few times, then squints at his clock. 3:26 AM.
“Dead,” Sam mumbles. “So, so dead.” He grabs his phone.
thai food is on steve’s list
Sam groans and throws his phone back on the bedside table, closing his eyes. He’ll deal with it in the morning. He will not let something like this keep him up, damn it.
Except now he can’t sleep. Damn it.
i don’t need your help!
A moment, then: you need every bit of help that can be spared
how do you even know that?
how is it that you DON’T know it, wilson? disappointed in your skills ;)
go away
He hates Natasha Romanoff.
*
Sam should have known better to do this today. Really. It’s Friday. Why did he decide to do this on a Friday?
“The Regent has great Thai food,” Sam says as they finish their run on Beach Drive. He’s nearly hit by a cyclist. They’re the worst in this town. “Asshole!”
“How the hell does everyone know about my list?”
“A little birdie told me.”
“Red headed birdie?”
“Maybe.”
Steve mutters something under his breath, but he doesn’t sound angry. “Yeah, okay. I can do Thai tonight. Or whenever.”
“Tonight’s cool,” Sam says, going for casual. Or at least trying not to sound overeager. “You wanna meet there or I pick you up or -”
“We can meet there,” Steve says slowly. Sam can’t quite gauge his expression. “I like to walk, anyway.”
“Cool,” Sam says again. He winces inwardly. “Seven?”
“Sure.”
*
Now Sam’s sixteen all over again and going on his first date, his mother hovering outside of his door, throwing out advice on what to wear. The problem is, he’s not sure how much of a date he wants it to look like at first glance. He doesn’t want to show up overdressed and look like an idiot, but he doesn’t want to look like a slouch, either. The goal is to look as good as possible without making it look like he’s trying to look as good as possible. He throws on some dark jeans and a blazer. Tie? No tie? That green one is his personal favorite. Not to mention it was also his last girlfriend’s personal favorite, and he has pretty good memories of what Priya did with that tie (but that’s another story). Should he wear the tie? Maybe he shouldn’t wear the tie. The tie is overkill.
...he ends up wearing the tie.
Steve’s dressed in jeans, too; he’s wearing a black button-up shirt that he’s rolled up the forearms: Sam’s pretty sure Natasha bought for him. His legs are so fucking long that Sam can’t help but -
“Oh,” Steve says, and Sam blinks to get back on point. “I’m underdressed.”
“You look fine. Really.”
Really.
“Okay,” Steve says, but he already looks uncomfortable and they haven’t even sat down yet. Good start, good start.
It’s darker than Sam expected: ambiance and all, he guesses, but he finds himself squinting at the menu until his eyes adjust.
“I don’t even know what half of these things mean.”
“Don’t you speak like, eight languages?”
“Never quite made it to Thai,” Steve says. When he reads the menu, his lips move. Sam holds back a chuckle and places an appetizer order with their drinks.
"So,” Steve continues, “I bet women really like this place, huh?"
"I guess,” Sam says, but he’s a little thrown by the change of conversation.
Steve looks around, spotting two women sitting a few tables over. Sam follows his gaze and grins; they’re holding hands under the table.
"Ah," Steve says, looking at Sam.
"What?"
"Nothing," he says, picking up his menu again with a slight frown. “I’m getting the red chicken curry. Coconut milk sounds interesting.”
“Uh, that's a two pepper. Maybe go with one? Or none?”
Steve makes a face at him. “I can handle it.”
“Really? Tell me, between being at the orphanage and in the military, what did you eat?”
“Oatmeal,” Steve says, then finally adds: “...sludge.”
“Oatmeal sludge, and the man believes he can eat spicy Thai food.”
“Hey,” Steve says, offended. “Natasha brought me General Tso’s once and that had a pepper next to it on the menu. It was nothing.”
“Dude, that’s American Chinese food. This is actual Thai food. I really don’t think you get the difference here.”
Steve narrows his eyebrows. “I can handle it.”
Sam shrugs. “Just saying, as a first timer, you really need to ease yourself in, but be my guest. Hell, this should be amusing. Should we order some milk?”
Steve shoves a piece of Pla Muek Tod in his mouth to keep from answering. Sam won’t tell him that it’s fried squid.
Sam gets Shrimp Pad See Ew (no peppers), and when it arrives, he twirls some noodles around his fork while he waits. Steve knows, too (he can feel the glare) and he takes a huge bite.
Sam smirks.
“Not so bad,” Steve says. “See?”
“Uh huh,” Sam says. He crosses his legs. And waits.
Steve’s face starts to flush, and he wipes his nose. “Got a bit of a kick,” he says. He hesitates, but takes another bite; granted, much smaller this time.
“A kick, sure. Hey, make sure to eat it all. That shit doesn’t heat up too well.”
“Thanks for the advice,” Steve says. He grimaces, then takes another bite.
Sam gleefully starts eating his own, listening as Steve struggles through his meal. He is pretty impressed that Steve has been doing so well, and he pretends not to watch.
When he looks up, he has to stifle a laugh.
“Oh my God. Are you crying?”
“No,” Steve mumbles. He blinks furiously.
“You are. A food has made you cry. A food has brought down Captain America.”
“Shh,” Steve hisses, still blinking.
People are looking them now, most of them frowning at Sam. He gives them an innocent shrug in return.
“Why is everyone glaring at you?” Steve says under his breath.
“Probably because they think I made you cry. Look at that sweet, red button nose.”
Steve scrubs at his face. “Damn it.” He just looks pathetically miserable now.
“You’re like a kicked puppy.”
“It must be an allergy.”
“You can’t be allergic to anything anymore.”
“Maybe I can say it’s latent.” Steve goes to rub his eyes.
“Don’t - damn it.”
Hands still on his closed eyes, Steve grits his teeth. “I immediately regret this decision.”
Sam’s not sure if he wants to laugh or throw something. “Just go to the bathroom. Wash your eyes out.”
“Yeah,” Steve sighs, stumbling out of his seat. “Where?”
“To the right.”
He gets several sympathetic looks as he stumbles to the bathroom, while Sam still gets some glares. Their waiter drops off the check, patting his shoulder. “Bummer,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Kind of ruined the mood for you, didn’t it?”
Sam gives him a side-eye. “I don’t believe it’s any of your business. And nothing can ruin my mood. The mood. Our mood.”
The waiter doesn’t look convinced, and rightfully so. “Beer and ice cream.”
“What?”
“Beer and ice cream,” the waiter repeats. “That always works for me after eating spicy food. Tried to make beer flavored ice cream once to skip a step. I don’t recommend it.”
“Thanks,” Sam says dryly, handing over his credit card. “I think I’ll figure it out.”
When Steve comes back, his whole face is red.
“Overkill?”
“Shut up.” He’s still blinking. “I feel like my face is on fire.”
“I told you, you know.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Steve sighs. “Wait, did you pay?”
“Am paying,” Sam says as he accepts the credit card receipt from the waiter. The waiter winks at him before walking away. “Asshole.”
“Let me pay half,” Steve insists as Sam tips, signs, and stands up, grabbing his blazer.
“Nope.”
“Come on,” Steve says, trailing after Sam. “I want to pay half.”
“Nope.”
“Hey. Hey, why are you moving so fast? What’s up?”
“Well,” Sam says after he props the door open. “Wasn’t exactly how I was expecting this to go.”
Steve frowns. “How was it supposed to go?”
“I don’t know, more - date-like?”
Steve’s jaw drops open. “That was a date?”
“Yes! What the fuck did you think it was?”
Steve flounders, actually waving his hands around. “You trying to impress a girl!”
“What?”
“You never said it was anything, it was just - hanging out -”
“I was wearing my best tie -”
“ - like when you asked me to come to the VA -”
“ - I took you to a nice restaurant in my best tie - plus those steaks - and fucking baseball - ”
“ - because you wanted to impress the girl at the front desk!”
“- baseball and my best tie!”
“But - the hot dog vendor -”
“Dude, that is the absolute last person I expected you to bring up right now.”
“But,” Steve repeats, and there are those hands again. “He hit on you, and you acted disgusted!”
“I wasn’t disgusted by him! I didn’t like him hitting on you. You shithead.”
Steve frowns. “I am so confused right now.”
“You actually thought I was homophobic?”
Steve lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know?”
“I’m not! I thought you might not be okay with it, with the whole, I dunno, different era and all.”
Steve barks out a laugh. “Seriously? When I was a kid, I had to console my best friend because he was so scared telling me he was gay. The guy who played Hitler during our tour must have made a move on me after every show. You saw that seventy year old guy feel me up. You honestly think that I have a problem with anything other -” those fucking hands again, Sam swears he’s going to “- anything other than heterosexuality? Because I don’t - I’m not that. I’m not -”
“Heterosexual?”
“Yeah. Or no. I’m not - that.”
“If we’re both confused, I’ll just apologize in advance for this.”
He had imagined kissing Steve a million times, each way slightly differently, but this he did not expect. Mainly he was waiting for force, to take on the weight, for a slightly bit of dominance, but -
Steve kisses like he’s still the ninety pound guy, wrapping both of his arms around Sam’s neck as if he’s preparing himself to topple over. Sam stumbles briefly, but rights himself; Steve pants small breaths of air like an asthmatic gearing up for an attack, and it’s enough to make Sam wrap his arms around Steve’s waist and tug him closer. His thumbs rub soothing circles around the small of Steve’s back, and Steve sighs, easing up a bit, trusting Sam to take his weight. Sam can taste a little of the curry, and he smiles. It’s nothing like Riley, when they were both fighting each other, leaving scratch marks and swollen lips. It’s gentle, quiet, everything Sam should hate but he doesn’t, he really really doesn’t, and when Steve tentatively bites Sam’s bottom lip, Sam breathes and nudges Steve’s nose - no. Not time for that. There will be plenty of time for that later. Sam slowly pulls away, smiling as Steve automatically follows. Steve’s jaw is smooth against Sam’s cheek, and Sam places a kiss there, too, a promise (just in case.) Steve’s arms remain around Sam’s neck, and they’re still pressed against each other when Steve huffs a laugh.
“See,” Steve says, “if you had done that from the very beginning, we could have avoided this whole thing.”
“Maybe,” Sam says, “but at least I didn’t cry from that curry. It wasn’t even that hot, man.”
*
The truth must dazzle gradually. Or every man be blind.
Emily Dickinson, of course. Probably his mama’s favorite quote. He hated that one the most because he never understood it.
He kind of understands it now.
Sam’s mama was the biggest romantic he’s ever met. Went on and on about how he’d find the one and he’d live the rest of his life in bliss. He never really bought it, although he had entertained the idea with Priya. Wasn’t enough to convince him, but she was pretty close. Had to come to the realization that it doesn’t work that way.
It’s still hard to sleep sometimes. He’ll hear Riley early in the morning, complaining as he stumbles out of his cot. There are times when he wakes up in a nightmare and scares the fuck out of Steve, and other times that Steve scares the fuck out of him. Which is par for the course for him, normally, in a group setting at the VA, but one on one with his lover? Really. Fucking. Hard. Not to mention Steve doesn’t want to feel like a burden, so he overcompensates for Sam’s problems, to the point that Sam has to tell him to calm down I can take care of myself. Which ends in a stare-off (and Sam almost always loses) and he finds himself eating pancakes that Steve had made (which always lack a tad bit of sugar and flour, due to Steve still not quite with the program that war rations are no longer a thing) with a glass of skim milk. He’s not sure exactly how that’s a victory for Steve, but he’ll take it.
It’s not perfect. But it’s better. The sex isn’t half bad, of course. Warning Steve that he was slightly an invasive sleeper didn’t seem to sink in until that first morning, when Sam wakes up sprawled on top of Steve. Steve watches him, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh, then the fucker throws him off the bed.
Plus, it’s pretty awesome to be with a guy who has super friends. He keeps bugging Steve to let him meet Thor because it’s fucking Thor. You just want to see if you can lift the hammer, Steve accuses, and okay, that part is a little true.
One morning, Sam wakes up and sees Steve sketching in the bed next to him. It’s a spider - a black widow, of course - and he’s carefully shading the hourglass on its abdomen. He chews on his bottom lip as he draws, slightly messy hair hanging over his eyes. Sam could get used to this sight.
Today is Friday. Fridays...are no longer his least favorite day.