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Sam swirled complex patterns into the smooth expanse of Steve’s back, touching as he had wanted to touch for so long. Sunlight poured into the room, tinted Steve’s skin a pale amber. Sam had woken up at least an hour ago, but had made no moves to get out of bed, only flipped over so he could stare at Steve in all his beauty.
Steve made a little sighing sound when he woke up and Sam was annoyed at how sexy it sounded. Steve lifted his head. His hair was mussed and the imprint from the pillow ran along his cheek. He looked gorgeous.
Sam had to run through a list of Steve’s most infuriating habits to keep from saying so.
The chiseled line of his jaw was totally outweighed by all his snarky comments about Sam’s running form and speed. And his pouty lips were downright hideous when Sam recalled the state Steve and Bucky always left the living room in after a movie night. And the way he ate through Sam’s entire pantry in what felt like seconds; the guy was worse than a plague of locusts. And how he threw himself off tall things and took for granted Sam could lift his heavy-ass dead weight. And those eyes were— fuck, who was Sam kidding? Steve looked like Michelangelo’s wet dream.
Sam leaned forward and kissed his boyfriend (his boyfriend!)—a gentle hello—and Steve smiled against his mouth.
“What time is it?” he asked, his voice husky and low.
Sam looked over his shoulder at the alarm clock on his night stand. “6:42.”
Steve let his head drop back on to the pillow. “We slept in.”
“I thought you might need the rest.” Sam grinned and if there was a little smugness there, who could blame him?
Steve huffed, but before he could set the record straight about which of them was superhuman and more than capable of tiring out his very human boyfriend with ridiculous sex, Sam said, “You can’t cancel on the real estate lady again. I think last time, I heard a blood vessel pop in her head.”
Steve grunted. For the last two weeks, he’d been cancelling and dodging the real estate agent who he’d contacted to help him move out of Sam’s place. He kept insisting that more important things came up—Bucky wanted Steve to try out this new yoga class with him; Natasha ferried him away on some hush-hush mission; he wanted to lay in bed with Sam for just ten more hours.
And the agent had been patient the first two or three brush-offs, but around the sixth rescheduling, she sounded just this side of a mental break.
“I’m not trying to annoy her,” Steve insisted. “But she takes it so personally. What’s that about?”
Sam shrugged. “Commission? Being able to say she sold Captain America his first apartment?”
Steve pouted. “I’m nothing but a pretty face to these people.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “You poor baby.” He pushed himself into a seated position and stuffed one of his pillows behind his back. He grabbed his iPad to look through today’s calendar and To Do list. He had to stay on top of his work at the VA in case Steve pulled him in on some last-minute Hydra-punching hi-jinks. “Just go,” he said to Steve. “Maybe you’ll like it. Maybe it’ll even feel like home.”
Steve didn’t say anything and as he always had something to say, Sam looked down at him. Steve’s expression was indecipherable. Which was weird, because Sam was an expert in reading Steve.
“You okay?” he asked.
Steve nodded, smiled. Sam studied his face, made sure the smile was genuine and Steve pushed his hand through his messy hair. “Anyway, I really can’t go today.”
Sam turned his attention back to his tablet. He opened an email from one of the VA directors marked “Time Sensitive.” “Why’s that?”
“Because you’ve got work and I can’t go alone.”
Sam snorted. “Somehow I don’t think Captain America is going to need my help taking on a real estate agent.”
“She could make me sign something dodgy,” Steve said.
“Don’t sign anything.” Sam began typing out a response to the director.
“I don’t know what to look for in an apartment.”
“Four walls and a kitchen.”
“She could be Hydra.”
“Unlikely.” Sam pressed send. The little whooshing sound was very satisfying.
“Sam, I’m starting to think you don’t want me in your apartment anymore.”
“Don’t be si--,”
In one quick move, Steve plucked Sam’s tablet from his fingers and stuffed it behind his back.
“Steve!”
Sam tried to scowl at Steve, but as usual, the asshole somehow looked simultaneously as smug as a frat bro and as ingenuous as a newborn. (Really, how the hell did he do that? Was it something in the eyes, some innate thing that Sam couldn’t replicate for his own purposes?)
“Come with me today,” Steve said, ignoring Sam’s futile attempts to get across his body and retrieve the tablet. “Friday is paperwork day. That’s what you said.”
“Yeah,” Sam grunted, lunging across Steve’s shoulder. “And I have a lot of it.”
“Sam,” Steve said in his serious-business voice—the one he reserved for heroic speeches and “I’m Captain Goddamn America” moments, the one that went straight to Sam’s dick. His resolve buckled like a house of cards.
“How do you do that?” he asked, equal parts fondness and exasperation.
“What?”
“Get me to do whatever you ask?”
Steve smiled, pulled Sam into a kiss, the kind of kiss that should have spiraled into more, but wouldn’t because they had to meet the real estate agent at nine and Sam needed to go for a run. “I think you know how,” Steve murmured against Sam’s jaw.
Sam shivered and closed his eyes. “Go call Miss House Hunters. Let her know we’re coming.”
The apartment was…nice. Way nicer than Sam’s townhouse, actually, which made Sam think either the military was being uncharacteristically generous with Steve’s back pay or this was wildly out of his price range.
Or, Tony and Natasha were somehow involved and Steve didn’t know about it. For a guy who didn’t mind crashing at Sam’s for well over a year, Steve was oddly stubborn about getting help from Tony. When Tony offered to fund the hunt for Bucky last year, Steve had declined even though it meant a series of depressing motels and fast food.
But this apartment was in the middle of a very happening neighborhood and a penthouse suite. The almost-black hardwood floors gleamed expensively and the chrome accents gave the place a futuristic aesthetic.
“Does it come with the furniture?” Sam asked, pointing to the couch, all sleek lines and white suede. Steve stood by the fireplace examining a key pad of twenty or so buttons with little symbols.
The real estate agent, Just-Call-Me-Becky, nodded. “This apartment is as-is. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Sam nodded. “And just the one bedroom?”
Just-Call-Me-Becky’s smile wavered. “Only one. I thought I was only looking for Capt—I mean, Steve. He didn’t say he’d have a roommate.”
“We’re not roommates,” Steve called. “We’re—”
“Just looking together,” Sam interrupted. “Steve doesn’t have much experience with this sort of thing.”
Just-Call-Me-Becky nodded. “Well, Steve, how do you like it?”
Steve shrugged. Today’s tight gray T-shirt of choice strained against the movement and Sam watched as the real estate agent tried not to notice. “Mattress was too soft,” Steve said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Easy fix,” Just-Call-Me-Becky said.
Steve nodded. “Yeah….” And there was that indecipherable expression again. Sam frowned and Steve’s jaw clenched. “Becky, can you give me a minute with my…friend?
The real estate agent nodded and scurried out into the hall.
“I hate it,” Steve said flatly. “Why is it all one color?”
Sam smiled. “I count three. Black, white, gray—oh, another kind of gray.”
Steve shook his head. “It’s bleak and I’ve had enough bleak.”
“Okay, we’ll tell her that.”
“Can we just go home?” Steve asked. He was taller than Sam by an inch or two, but somehow managed to look up at him through his lashes as he spoke.
And Sam realized, with gut-punching force, the answer to his question from earlier: How did Steve get Sam to do anything he asked? Because Sam loved him. Loved him dangerously. Loved him like he’d loved Riley, like he hadn’t thought he would ever love again. Can we go home? Steve asked and Sam nodded. Realized what Steve was asking and knew without a moment’s doubt that he would give it to him, would keep on giving Steve what he wanted until Steve didn’t want him anymore. (Let that day never come.)
“Yeah, Steve,” he said, “we can go home.” He closed the distance between them, cupped Steve’s jaw. “I thought you wanted your own place,” he explained. “To assert your independence and all that.”
Steve pressed his forehead to Sam’s and a sparkle of mischief gleamed in his eyes. “What I want is to get rid of that cleaning schedule on the refrigerator.”
Sam laughed. “Never gonna happen, captain.”
Just-Call-Me-Becky was surprisingly calm when Steve broke the news that he was no longer looking for an apartment because he was moving in with his boyfriend. She showed all her perfectly white teeth in a Roll-With-The-Punches grin and said, “I’m very happy for you. Here’s my card if you ever think of moving.”
Back in the car, Sam turned to Steve and said with deep gravity. “If we ever decide to move, we have to call Becky.”
“Yeah,” Steve agreed, “If we don’t, we might be the catalyst of her villain origin story.”
Sam laughed. “Home, then?” he asked and what he meant was “I love you.”
“Home,” Steve said and he meant “I love you, too.”