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Sam groaned as he unstrapped his wings and crumpled onto the first horizontal surface that presented itself: his Ikea sofa. That poor couch had borne up under some serious abuse lately between either Steve, Bucky, Natasha or Sam flopping down on it after a long day’s work punching bad guys. And when had the world become so full of bad guys, by the way? Sam still wasn’t used to being a superhero with arch-nemeses and noble missions. He was never going to give inspiring speeches like Steve, or rival Natasha and Bucky for tragic backstory/redemption arcs. He was just a guy with mechanical wings, some medical training, and an unfinished degree in clinical psychology.
And right now, he was the guy with more bruises than skin. And thumping down on the hard bones of his cheap couch hadn’t helped matters much. He was so busy cataloguing his many aches he didn’t hear Steve come into the living room.
“That bad?” he asked, a smile in his voice.
Sam grunted. He didn’t have the energy for Steve’s smart mouth. Besides he could just about predict what the asshole would say. What’s the matter, Sam? Getting old? Things move too fast out there for you? Why was Sam even friends with Steve? In fact, why was Sam letting Steve crash at his place until he…well, it was sort of an open ended invitation considering the guy had hurtled his previous employers into the Potomac River last year and didn’t have any employment prospects on the horizon.
“You looked good out there,” Steve said, surprising Sam.
Sam lifted his head suspiciously, waiting for the punch line. Steve ran his hand through his hair, damp with sweat. He had a cut over his left eyebrow and a dark bruise forming on his jaw. He looked ridiculously heroic for a guy who’d been in the same fight that had left Sam boneless and bloodied.
Steve shrugged. “I underestimated Hydra. But we both came out of it, so it’s a win in my book.”
Sam let his head fall on the couch cushion again. “I think I’m dying.”
Steve let out a puff of amused air. “And Peggy said I was dramatic. She would have loved you.”
“Seriously,” Sam insisted, his words muffled against the sofa. “I’ve got more knots in my back than a—than a—than something with a lot of knots. I’ll be lucky if I can stand tomorrow.”
“You have to stand tomorrow,” Steve reminded him. “You and I are going to look at that apartment on Astley. I’ve overstayed my welcome here by quite a bit and Natasha says I can afford it now that the army’s finally giving me my back-pay. Although,” he said with a wry grin, “apparently I’ve set a ‘very dangerous precedent’ for the military.”
Sam snorted and it was agony on his ribs. “If they give back-pay to one soldier who comes back from the dead,” he joked, “they have to give it to ALL of them. There’ll be chaos in the streets.” Sam’s laughter died on an extended groan of pain.
Steve tilted his head and the concern on his face would have been touching if Sam weren’t beat to hell. “You sure you’re okay?” he asked. “We could go to the hospital or something.”
Sam shook his head. “I’ll live. Just bring me a masseuse and a morphine drip, in that order.”
Steve looked down at his hands. “I can be your masseuse,” he offered and Sam really, really didn’t need that right now. The image of Steve rubbing his back and shoulders and…nope, nope, nope. “It’s the least I can do,” Steve continued, completely unaware of what he was doing to Sam. “I threw you into a firefight with no warning.”
Sam grunted and Steve pressed his advantage. “And I guess since I’m giving out massages, I get the shower first.” He was halfway up the stairs before Sam could protest that he hadn’t actually agreed to a massage from Captain Don’t-Know-My-Own-Strength-Until-I-Break-Sam’s-Favorite-Coffee-Mug.
And then he must have fallen asleep, because when Steve came back downstairs to tell him it was his turn to use the shower, Sam fell off the couch in surprise. And then hissed in pain. “That’s on you,” he accused, glaring up at Steve who was trying and failing not to laugh. “Help me up,” he demanded with what dignity hadn’t rolled under the couch. Steve grabbed Sam’s extended hand and pulled him to his feet with little effort.
Sam made a big show of climbing the Mt. Everest of staircases to the bathroom upstairs and he was only half-doing it for attention. He had pain alerts from the top of his head (head-butting a very persistent and hardheaded Hydra agent) to the soles of his feet (a crappy landing when his wings didn’t decelerate enough before he hit the ground).
The hot water did some good. He stared at his feet as dirt, blood, and soap lather swirled down the drain. He felt 12% human by the time he dragged himself into his room and belly-flopped on to his bed, still damp. His towel was bunched around his hips and he wanted to pull it free completely, but his body had made a commitment with the bed to never move again. He sighed.
“So, no back massage then?” Steve asked from the door.
At least, this time, Sam didn’t fall on the floor, although Steve startled him—again. He lifted his head and Steve was leaning against the doorjamb with his arms folded over his chest. He was in another of his ridiculously tight, white T-shirts and a pair of gray sweats Sam was pretty sure belonged to him, or one of his ex-boyfriends, at least.
“I need to put a bell on you,” he mumbled. He dropped his head into the crook of his elbow. “And why are you all sunshine and rainbows. You should feel like shit. I shouldn’t be in this alone.”
Steve shrugged and the corners of his mouth turned up. “If it makes you feel any better, I got my ass handed to me all the time before the serum.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “That doesn’t make me feel any better. And why was anyone beating on you? You were 90 lbs. and asthmatic.”
Steve grinned. “Guess I couldn’t keep my mouth shut.”
Sam believed that. He’d been torn between clocking and kissing Steve by that third “On your left” a year ago.
Steve came into the room and sat on the edge of Sam’s bed. Sam was very aware that he hadn’t put on boxers yet. That was one of things about 40s Steve. He didn’t seem to notice stuff like that, hadn’t grown up in the silly “no-homo” culture of the modern era. Of course, Sam wouldn’t have wanted to be gay in the 40s.
Or black, come to think of it.
Steve’s hands skirted over Sam’s back, gentle and warm and Sam sighed. Steve’s body ran a couple degrees hotter than your average human, which came in handy when Natasha’s feet got cold during movie nights. And it really added something to his masseuse skills. At first, he barely touched Sam, seemed to be learning the topography of a very fragile landscape. And then he added pressure. And Sam, who didn’t want to make this awkward, couldn’t stifle a moan.
“Am I hurting you?” Steve asked, sounding disappointed.
“No,” Sam sighed. “Feels….good.” And now Steve was probably wearing the smug grin of an asshole who did everything perfectly, but just now Sam didn’t care all that much. Knot after knot loosened in his shoulders and back and neck. Steve pressed his thumbs along Sam’s spine and Sam swore his vertebrae were melting. Before long, Sam couldn’t really tell where he began and the bed ended. He was a blob. A perfectly satisfied blob. And then Steve massaged his arms, kneading the muscles of his bi- and triceps, which no one had ever done before, and they really should have, because this felt lovely. Sam had never felt so relaxed, so comfortable, so…
The next morning, Sam woke up with sunlight falling on his face in bars of light through the half-open blinds. He squinted and reached for the extra pillow to obscure the light. And punched Steve in the eye.
“Ow,” Steve said in a tone that said Sam hadn’t even startled him, let alone hurt him.
Sam jerked away. “What are you doing? In my bed?” His voice was scratchy with sleep.
“You don’t remember?” Steve smirked.
Sam frowned, worried, tried to pull up his memories from last night. A massage and then sleep, right? But Sleepy Sam could get weird. Did he get weird? God.
“You said I was the best you ever had,” Steve teased, wiggling his eyebrows. “And then you insisted I stay. I think you said my body was like a heating pad. Which I decided to take as a compliment, by the way.”
Sam groaned. He didn’t remember any of it, but that sounded like Sleepy Sam. It could have been worse. He could have told Steve how massive his stupid crush was. That would've been one for the books. Area Man Literally Dies of Humiliation after Confessing Crush on Super Soldier Way Out of his League.
“I didn’t take you for a little spoon,” Steve continued, his eyes sparkling.
And Sam couldn’t let a little embarrassment keep him from giving as good as he got. “Have you ever tried to spoon a brick wall?” He jabbed Steve's shoulder, as unyielding as rock.
“I can be spoonable!” Steve protested as he flipped on his side and pulled Sam’s arm over his waist. He wiggled backwards into the curve of Sam's body. “See. Spooned.”
Sam looked down at the narrow space between their bodies. A space that wasn't enough, actually, if he wanted to avoid awkwardness—more awkwardness. He cleared his throat. “Maybe we can save our spooning experiments for when both of us are wearing pants.”
The arc of Steve’s eye brow spoke volumes. He rolled onto his back. “Or maybe no one should be.” He smirked like a guy who knew he had already sealed the deal.
And okay, Sam knew how corny that line was. Steve wasn’t winning any awards for “game” or “mack” this morning. But he had just said the thing Sam had been waiting a year for him to say, or some variation thereof.
Sam had been holding back his feelings since the Winter Soldier turned out to be Steve’s long lost friend; and then, when they found Bucky, Sam had stuffed his feelings away out of sight so they could help Bucky recover; and when he saw how easy it was between Bucky and Steve, he’d realized he didn’t have much of chance; and then there had been the spike in Hydra activity; and then…there was always going to be something. But damn if Steve didn’t give an amazing back massage to make up for all the “somethings” that came with hanging around him.
Part of Sam wanted to ask “What about Bucky?” but he knew he was often his own worst enemy and Steve had spent the night with him, not Bucky. Had, on more than one occasion, given Sam a look that Sam desperately wanted to interpret as interested. And suddenly Sam realized what an idiot he’d been and he grinned.
“That’s how it is?” he asked, leaning over Steve, drinking in the sight of him.
Steve's hand came up to cup Sam's jaw and he pulled him down into a kiss—firm, demanding, perfect. “Oh, that’s how it is.”