Work Text:
Catching up with schoolwork was a bitch. Finals were only two weeks away, and Steve had several overdue projects. His professors were very understanding and granted him extensions on virtually everything, but even with that, Steve was working eighteen hours a day, twenty if he could manage it. Sam had repeatedly voiced concern, but Steve soldiered on through project after project, his hands perpetually covered in charcoal and graphite and pastel smudges, a cup of coffee always within arms’ reach. He’d run into Tony Stark at least once a day at the coffee shop; Tony had voiced sympathy and assumed Steve was a fellow sufferer of insomnia, and he chattered so fast that Steve hadn’t had time to break the stream and interject that he’d love to sleep if he could. But people were counting on him, his grades needed to stay up in order for him to keep his scholarship, and he had to finish these projects.
He barely saw Peter outside of class. He felt terrible about this. He also felt terrible about ignoring Peter’s texts about how he noticed Steve seemed really tired, and urging him to get some sleep.
Steve was whacking a pencil repeatedly against his forehead and grimacing at an empty canvas when the door to his dorm room opened, and Sam and Peter stepped in, accompanied by the smell of Chinese takeout.
“We’re here~” Sam sing-songed, setting two plastic bags down on the coffee table.
Steve glared at them.
Peter waved awkwardly.
Sam proudly smiled at Steve. “Drop the pencil! Your intervention party has arrived!”
“I’m working!” Steve insisted through gritted teeth. His head was pounding and he felt like a wrung-out sponge crawling with wasps.
“Not anymore!” Sam announced cheerfully, a stern edge to his expression as he stepped between Steve and his canvas. “You, my friend, are going to get some decent food in your body, you’re going to take an evening off and relax, and then you’re going to get a decent night’s sleep.”
Steve was thinking that maybe he could wolf down some food to humor him and then get right back to working on his project, but then Peter held up a DVD. “Sam said you’d been wanting to watch this.”
Steve stared at the DVD.
Peter shifted his weight awkwardly, his smile nervous, a near-defiant tilt to his shoulders. He looked halfway between standing his ground and running from Steve’s wrath.
“You brought that for me?” Steve asked, meeting Peter’s eyes.
Peter’s nervous smile twitched. “It was no big deal. They had it at the Redbox. We’ve got it till Saturday.”
Sam held out a hand towards Steve. “Do I need to help you up? Or do I need to carry you.”
Steve pointedly did not take Sam’s hand as he stood, glowering. “I can stand just fine on my own.”
“Of course you can. And you can walk just fine, right into the other room.” Sam left no room for argument.
Steve huffed a sigh and moved over to the coffee table, arms folded across his chest, jaw jutting out stubbornly.
Sam unwrapped the Chinese takeout cheerfully and explained what everything was. He passed around plastic forks and styrofoam plates. He pushed Steve’s large herbal tea towards him.
Steve glared at Sam, jaw set. “I’m not taking the night off. I have too much work to do.”
“Steve,” Peter pleaded. “All you do is work. Please. It’s just one night.”
“Even one night could set me behind!” Steve launched into a long list of everything and when it was due and over due, all the things he had left to do on every project for every class, and Sam nodded patiently while Peter fretted with his still-broken arm and averted his gaze. After Steve had cited his very long to-do list, Sam called Peter’s name, gave him a meaningful look, and nodded his head towards the DVD player.
Steve sighed in annoyance. “We can watch that while we eat, but as soon as it’s over, I’m getting back to work!”
“Whatever you say, Steve,” Sam said, sitting on the futon.
Steve watched Peter fumble with the DVD player, more to do with nerves and clumsy fingers than anything else, and it struck Steve just how long it had been since he really admired the breadth of Peter’s shoulders, the narrowness of his waist, the swirling pattern of his chestnut hair as it tapered at the base of his neck, the way the lights glinted off of his comically thick glasses. When Peter turned around with an awkward smile, Steve was hit with a sudden wave of adoration as those warm brown irises, magnified by his glasses, turned in his direction. “All set,” Peter said, and behind him, commercials started to play.
“Sit,” Sam commanded, tapping Steve’s knee.
Steve jerked his leg away from Sam- traitor- and grumpily served himself food. He hated to admit how good it smelled. He’d been living on sandwiches and soup filched from the cafeteria.
Peter settled onto the other end of the futon and, noting how close he was to the middle, laughed nervously and slid over further to give Steve more space.
Steve’s heart tugged. He sat directly in the middle. Keeping his jaw clenched and his expression sullen, he ate quickly and tried to project the aura that he was not to be messed with, that he was serious about getting back to work. But the DVD played on.
As the movie started, Steve gradually let himself get absorbed in the storyline. He did his best to ignore Sam’s reactions, just out of spite, but when Peter accidentally touched him and then shied away, Steve’s resolve cracked. Every sullen trace vanished from his expression and he wordlessly slid across the futon towards Peter, keeping his eyes on the screen as he picked up Peter’s long, warm arm and draped it behind his upper back, and cozied his cheek against Peter’s shoulder. Peter tensed for a brief moment, but then his long, warm fingers were hugging Steve’s upper arm, his arm had settled comfortably around Steve’s shoulders, and his cheek gently rested on top of Steve’s head.
They stayed like that for the rest of the movie.
As the credits started to roll, Steve felt his eyelids growing heavy. A small part of him really wanted to get up, to go into the other room and finish his project, but Peter’s fresh-clean aftershave was mingling with his worn-this-all-week hoodie, and his shoulder was warm and padded, his cheek heavy on top of Steve’s head, and Steve couldn’t find it in him to move.
“All right,” Sam said, “I’m going to put these leftovers away and take out the trash, and after that, I’m going to have a sleepover with Clint and Natasha. If either of you two need anything, you know where to find me.” As he spoke, he pulled on shoes and a coat. He closed the three partly-empty takeout containers and placed them in the mini fridge, then gathered the remains of their meal and stuffed it into a trash bag. “Don’t make a mess of my futon!” Sam warned as he closed the door.
Peter’s thumb twitched uncertainly on Steve’s shoulder. The pressure eased as Peter lifted his head, leaving a cool spot behind. “...You wanna lie down?”
Steve shrugged.
“Heh,” Peter laughed nervously. Awkwardly, he shifted positions so his legs were on the futon, and he lowered himself so that he was lying down.
Because Steve was too tired to argue, he followed suit.
Wordlessly, Peter reached over and pulled a blanket down on top of them. He tucked the blanket around both their bodies and went through a few positions before settling comfortably around Steve. A nervous smile flashed across his face. “Good night.”
“‘Night,” Steve mumbled with halfhearted defiance.
A sudden thought flashed across Peter’s face. He reached over and gently, very gently, removed Steve’s glasses. Steve was so taken aback by the tenderness of the gesture that he barely had time to appreciate the stretch and pull of Peter’s muscles as he placed Steve’s glasses on the table behind him, followed by Peter’s own rectangular frames. Peter flashed him another self-conscious smile and said “Good night” again.
Steve wrapped his arms around him and cuddled close.
“Night,” he said softly.
*
Steve didn’t even remember falling asleep. He just remembered saying goodnight, and then suddenly it was bright outside and Peter was breathing next to him and it occurred to him that he hadn’t kissed Peter since before he’d gone to the hospital.
Peter was already awake. His face cracked into a smile the moment their eyes met. “Morning,” he barely had time to say before Steve’s mouth collided with his, and Steve poured out the weeks of pent-up need and affection and sexual frustration. The kiss deepened and heated; Steve's hands slid restlessly up and down Peter’s body, breaths growing dangerously shorter, and he had to stop himself before his breathing got out of control.
“Wow,” Peter said, dazed. “That was…” He frowned. “-Steve? Steve! Are you okay?” He sat up, reaching out with both arms- injured and uninjured- towards Steve.
“Yeah,” Steve panted. “I just… need my… inhaler,” he admitted begrudgingly.
“Yeah,” Peter breathed. “Yeah! One second!” He bent down and felt around until he produced Steve’s inhaler.
Steve used the damned thing and counted as the medicine dispersed through his lungs. He breathed out. And cursed himself. “Damn.”
“It’s okay,” Peter laughed. His warm hand was on Steve’s shoulder. “You okay?”
“‘m fine.” Steve still wanted to hold Peter. He didn’t want to think about anything else.
Peter must have noticed his heated gaze, because pink bloomed adorably across his cheeks and neck. “Uh…” He cleared his throat. “You wanna try that again?”
Steve embraced the fogginess of his half-awake brain and leaned towards Peter’s lips again. Peter gasped gently, lips parting. One hand reached up to cradle Steve’s face.
*
Finals week was hell, as was everything leading up to it, but at least Steve had little glimmers of heaven whenever Peter was around. Despite their own no doubt heavy responsibilities, Sam and Peter seemed to have made it their own personal mission to make sure Steve was properly fed and hydrated. Peter spent a few nights at Steve’s dorm, holding him while he slept. Every time Steve woke up next to Peter, he couldn’t believe how lucky he was.
Peter was acting odd though.
It was little things here and there; Steve probably missed a lot of it while he was busy playing catch-up. But after his last final, when he’d gone to Peter’s room to tell him and celebrate, he found Peter standing, sweaty, in the middle of his room, his red-and-blue plaid shirt tied around his waist, sweat staining the edges of his white undershirt, his sweatpant-clad legs spread in a vaguely familiar stance.
Peter’s eyes had widened- almost funny, magnified by those rectangular glasses, and almost beautiful since the magnification only accentuated the honey-browns and golds- and he had stumbled into an awkward stance, all confidence sliding off of him in a second as though his fierce expression had been a figment of Steve’s imagination.
“Steve!” Peter said with surprise, voice cracking.
“Peter,” Steve said, thrown off. “You working out?”
Peter blinked owlishly, chest heaving. “Yeah! Yeah, I was just. You know. Yeah. Uh… Did you finish with your finals?”
“Yeah,” Steve said slowly. “Did you still want to get shawarma with Nat and them?”
“Yeah! Yeah, just let me get changed.”
*
That had been a close one. When Steve had appeared suddenly in the middle of Peter’s workout, he’d thought for sure he’d have to explain what he was doing. But fortunately, ‘working out’ was all Peter needed to say, and Steve had seemed to accept it.
There were a couple more close run-ins, where Steve almost caught him in the action, but Peter somehow managed to keep talking his way out of it, albeit awkwardly.
He never figured he’d be done in by a plastic cup.
Winter break had resulted in Peter and Steve finding out they only lived about twenty minutes away from each other, both natives to New York City. When Steve had invited Peter over, Peter had been ecstatic. How many people had been lucky enough to step foot into the home of Steve Rogers?
Not many, as it turned out. And there was a reason for that.
Peter scrambled for a compliment- any compliment- to give the cramped, miniscule apartment where he could almost see his breath. The only furniture was an old beat-up sofa-bed, a barstool, two folding chairs, and a collapsible card table. The refrigerator in the kitchen was barely big enough to hold a gallon of milk- one of the shelves had to be removed in order to do that- and there was no oven or stove, only a microwave and a toaster oven, the latter of which had gathered a thick layer of dust and was buried under several packages of paper plates and plastic utensils. The floor and walls in the kitchen were done in grungy yellow tile; the rest of the apartment was done in dark gray horsehair carpet and a depressing shade of taupe walls. The ceiling looked like it had been white once upon a time, but now it was yellowed with age, spotted with multiple water stains.
“Welcome to my humble abode!” Steve gestured grandly, but his tone was sarcastic.
Art supplies littered the couch and card table. An easel was set up in the corner with a just-finished nature painting sitting on it.
That was the first positive thing Peter could think to say. “Is that one of my pictures?”
“Hm? Oh.” Steve caught sight of the painting. “Yeah. Finished it this morning. You like it?”
Peter stepped closer to take a better look at it. “It’s gorgeous!” he gushed. And it was.
Steve’s tiny chest puffed out with pride, but his expression was humble. “Thanks.”
After some awkwardness on Peter’s part, the two of them had ended up sitting on the couch- Steve pushed several art supplies aside- and playing a video game on Steve’s surprisingly nice TV. Because it was so cold in Steve’s apartment, the two of them were sitting close, draped in a warm, fuzzy blanket. (With Wonder Woman on it; Steve said she really was his favorite, but Superman was a close second.)
Time had passed. Peter had gotten thirsty. And Steve had led them to the kitchen to apologetically pour water into two Solo cups, explaining he hadn’t had a chance to go shopping.
They had brought the cups to the couch, and set them on the card table, and Steve had completely wiped the floor with Peter on Rainbow Road, which had caused Peter to kick out in frustration- a kick which sent Steve’s mostly-full cup of water heading straight for the sketchbook on the floor.
Peter didn’t think; he just reached out. He caught the cup faster than he could blink. Not two drops hit that sketch pad.
“Nice reflexes,” Steve had commented.
“Thanks,” Peter said nervously.
“Are you a dancer?”
“No.” Peter laughed awkwardly. “I take martial arts. -Took! I took martial arts!” he corrected in a panic, but it was too late. The pause had been too long.
“Peter…” Steve was frowning.
“I meant ‘took.’”
Steve’s frown deepened. “Peter,” he said again, “you’d tell me if you were in trouble, wouldn’t you?”
Peter laughed nervously. “I’m fine! Really. I meant ‘took.’”
Steve was studying him with deep concern. He set down his controller and turned to face Peter. “You know you can tell me anything, right?”
Peter gulped. “I know.”
Steve set his hand on Peter’s knee. “I don’t know how bad things were… but you can’t get back into that, Peter. We have cops for a reason.”
Peter held up his hands defensively. “I’m not, I swear! I’m not getting back into that! I just..!”
“You just what.”
Peter fumbled for words, for a way out-- anything. But he kept coming up blank. And the longer he sat there, silent, the more disapproval and concern radiated off of Steve. He could feel the lecture building in Steve’s chest.
Peter bit his lip and broke eye contact. “I didn’t want to tell you because I knew you’d take it the wrong way.”
That had been entirely the wrong thing to say. Steve’s wariness spiked.
“Not that I thought you’d--! It’s just-!” Peter scraped a hand across his face. The words came tumbling out of him. “Ever since I saw you in that hospital-- no, ever since I saw you fighting like that, fighting for me, and I couldn’t do anything, Steve-- I can’t-- What if that happened again? What if someone tried to hurt you again, and I couldn’t help? What if the ambulance didn’t arrive in time? -I can’t stand the thought of you getting hurt, and me not being able to help you. But I didn’t wanna tell you, because I knew you’d take it the wrong way, I knew you’d think it was because you thought I thought you were-- weak , but it’s not like that! I don’t-- Steve, you’re the strongest person I know, and if you died because I couldn’t help you--” Peter broke off, tears leaking down his cheeks.
Steve was watching him silently.
Peter figured, this was it. He’d finally gone and fucked it up. He closed his eyes and hugged his knees, circling in on himself, and shook with the force of his tears.
He couldn’t have been more surprised by the soft embrace. “You took martial arts for me?”
Peter sniffled. “Not just to protect you. To help you.”
“Peter…” Steve wrapped himself around Peter’s lanky body as much as he could and stroked his hair gently. He was quiet for a long moment as Peter cried.
*
Steve had been five years old. The other kid had been six, and nearly twice Steve’s size. He’d been kicking dirt and grass at a girl who was picking dandelions on the edge of the soccer field. Steve had told him to leave her alone. The kid had laughed in his face and asked what he was gonna do about it. Steve had gathered his fist and punched him in the face.
Not two minutes later, Bucky had joined in.
Bucky had been his constant shadow, standing up for him, by his side no matter how many times Steve told him he didn’t need his help. Bucky had punched out so many guys for Steve, Steve couldn’t count them if he tried. And all Steve had ever done was tell Bucky to fuck off, that he could handle it on his own. “I had ‘em on the ropes.”
“I know ya did.”
Steve had fought so many fights since Bucky died. He’d gotten beaten and bloody, been spit on and kicked, had nearly all of his bones broken at some point or other. He’d fought all the more recklessly since he knew Bucky wouldn’t be there to save him. Sometimes he’d half-hoped this would be the fight that killed him.
But Peter…
He couldn’t do that to Peter.