Archive of Our Own

The worst part is that it was Steve’s picture the guy wanted. 

Steve had been walking side-by-side with Sam, returning from a stroll through New York, one of their first actual dates since they’d started searching for Bucky.  They didn’t get many opportunities to do this – to just meander through a city in each other’s company.  But their search was at a standstill, and they had decided to take a break while they could. 

And for nearly the entire date, Steve’s disguise had worked.  Thick black-rimmed eyeglasses, a trucker cap and an ugly, too-big plaid coat all somehow successfully concealed his identity as Captain America, allowing him to roam Manhattan as a normal civilian – albeit a hipster-looking civilian whose appearance Sam teased relentlessly.  Sam himself hadn’t needed a disguise.  The wings only came out during raids on isolated HYDRA bases, and public knowledge of any “Falcon” barely went beyond internet rumors.  The person operating the wings was even less known.

And so they’d been able to wander more or less anonymously, on a cool cloudy day.  New York City was still a strange landscape to Steve.  So different from what he’d known in the 20s and 30s, and yet sometimes he caught a glimpse of a storefront or a street layout so familiar he felt like he’d stepped right back into his old life.  The dissonance made him almost light-headed sometimes.   

It was far easier to get lost in Sam’s memories of the city – of Harlem, of Sam’s father’s melodic and powerful voice, of rooftops and pigeon coops, of his aunt’s Sunday dinners.  But Harlem, too, was different from how Sam remembered it.  His father’s voice had been abruptly silenced years ago, and the pigeon coops hung open and abandoned.  The building where Sam’s aunt once served Sunday dinner had been demolished and replaced with a yoga studio.

His New York wasn’t the only one being eaten away, Steve thought.

Nevertheless, Sam had been in good spirits over lunch, which they ate at a hole-in-the-wall pho shop on their way back to Stark Tower.  Over rich bowls of broth and noodles, Sam had recounted all kinds of stories of childhood mischief.  Steve had followed along contentedly.  He’d actually heard some of these stories already, but they made Sam’s eyes twinkle and that gap-toothed smile spread across his face, so Steve was happy to listen to a few repeats. 

The pho shop was only a few blocks from Stark Tower, and after lunch they’d decided to walk back.  They weren’t holding hands, but came close enough that the backs of their hands brushed against each other.  Even that small touch sent little jolts through Steve.  

He smiled to himself, remembering how hard he’d resisted Natasha’s attempts to set him up on dates.  Back then, he’d rolled his eyes and put her off.  But now that he had Sam, he suddenly appreciated what she’d been trying to do.  She had wanted him to know – this.  The simple contentment of another person’s company.  Natasha just hadn’t yet realized Steve already had his eye on the attractive soldier he’d seen on his morning jog.  (And Steve still wasn’t sure how, but he had instinctively pegged Sam as another soldier, even before he’d spotted the insignia on his sweatshirt.)

Steve was even tempted to kiss Sam, out here in the street.  He still hadn’t quite gotten his head around the fact that you could apparently do that these days, at least in New York.  Steve had few reservations about private intimacy, but public displays still filled him with an instinctive nervousness.  Still, with Sam it was so tempting…

They were just arriving at Stark Tower when the flash went off.

God, but it was bright. So painfully bright that even with a supersoldier’s eyes and reflexes, it disoriented Steve sharply for a brief second.  Beside him, he heard Sam suck down a gasp and take a stumbled step backwards. When the white light cleared, a wiry young man with a bushy beard and tight red jeans lifted his camera again for another shot.

“Captain America!  I knew it was you!  One of the Avengers!  Who’s your friend?”

Steve glared at the intruder.  Tony’s media people had told him never to give an emotional reaction to people with recording devices, but the day’s peace had been shattered, and Sam—

Oh, God.  Steve looked over and saw that Sam had put a hand over his eyes, and his shoulders were going up and down rapidly.

Dammit.  Dammit.  Steve had seen this only once before, but he’d never forgotten. 

Six months ago, they had been in a safehouse in Mexico City, chasing a rumored sighting of the Winter Soldier.  A thunderstorm had kicked up, with one particularly bright lightning strike catching Sam off guard before he could close all the curtains.  This had set off a terrible panic attack, Sam half-collapsed and squeezing his eyes shut and trying not to hyperventilate.  After an excruciating fifteen minutes the attack had subsided, and Sam had shakily explained that he was sorry, he knew it was only lightning, he just still couldn’t always handle sudden bursts of light.  He’d lost Riley flying a night mission.  A sudden blinding burst had been the only warning of the fatal RPG strike. 

And now Sam was backed up against the side of the building.  His dark eyes were unfocused, darting back and forth.  Terrified. 

The hell with Tony’s media people.  Steve rounded on the photographer, fists tight.  “You give me that camera,” he snarled, “and you get off Stark property.  NOW.”

The photographer stepped back wide-eyed, and Steve was able to pull the camera from his limp-fingered grasp.  “You’ll get this back later.  Now get out before I haul you off myself.”

“Uh,” the photographer said inarticulately, and scrambled away.

Steve watched until the man was well across the street and out of sight, and then turned back.  Sam had balled up his hands and pressed them both tightly over his eyes.  He was breathing loudly and erratically, a forced breath sucked in and a shallow breath huffed out.

“Sam,” Steve said, low and urgent. “Let’s get inside.”

“Y-yeah.”  Sam’s voice was small, choked.

Steve guided Sam into an alleyway and found a side entrance to Stark Tower.  He keyed in his access code faster than he’d ever done in his life and pushed in the heavy door, all but pulling Sam with him.  The side entrance opened into a carpeted hallway.  Steve opened the closest door and discovered an empty conference room.

Good.  This would do.  It was a big room that no one was using, so Sam would have both space and privacy.

Still half-hyperventilating, Sam followed Steve in.  He stood against the nearby wall, leaning back heavily, hands cupped over the bottom half of his face.  Then an abrupt look of distress came over him, and he stumbled quickly towards the nearest corner of the room.  Dropping to his knees, he proceeded to throw up every bit of that nice pho lunch he’d eaten. 

Steve winced, shutting the door.  He set the camera he’d confiscated on the conference table, and went to go attend to Sam. 

After he was finished retching, Sam moved a few feet away from the corner and fell into a seated position against the wall.  Steve approached with slow, careful steps and knelt down beside him.  

“Hey,” Steve said.  “It’s going to be okay.  I’ve got you.”

Sam shut his eyes tightly and shook his head.  He was beginning to tremble in earnest now, the panic attack crashing over him like an ocean wave. Steve had to bite down on the urge to shout in frustration.  That damned photographer!  The Sam who had been recounting childhood stories of Harlem, whose twinkling eyes and gap-toothed smile Steve had been happy to sit and watch, had vanished.  Now Sam looked – small, hunching in on himself.  He’d brought his hands up to the sides of his head, and shut his eyes tightly.  He was still close to hyperventilating, his breath loud and desperate. 

Steve bit his lip.  They had talked about this after last time.  Back then, during the incident in Mexico City, Steve had been worse than useless.  Every instinct he’d had – trying to hold Sam in an attempt at comfort, asking too many questions – just exacerbated Sam’s stress, worsened his attack.  Sam had explained later that it overloaded him, that simple calm exercises were best.

Steve still had no idea what he was doing, if he was going to fail just as badly as last time.  But he licked his lips and ventured: “Hey, Sam, hey. This is a panic attack.”  No effect, not that he particularly expected it.  “You know how to get through this.”

Eyes still tightly shut, Sam made a small noise and shook his head No.

“Yes, you do.” Steve took a breath.  “Sam, can you look at me?”

Sam twitched sharply, his hands tightening against his head, and Steve hated himself, hated that he was screwing this up again.  But after a moment Sam halfway lifted his eyes.  They were blown wide, still unfocused and terrified, and he couldn’t quite manage eye contact.  But he fixed his gaze on a spot on the floor by Steve, which was close enough.

“Can you hold my hand?” Steve ventured. He reached out, palm up.  “Like we talked about?”

Sam did that awful gasp-gasp-gasp thing as if he wanted to say something, but his lungs and throat refused to do anything other than spasm for air.  After a moment, Sam lowered one of his hands, and managed to push his fingers into Steve’s open palm.  God, he was shaking so badly.  Steve tried to keep himself steady, not to flinch.  He closed his own fingers around Sam’s, in a grip he hoped was not too constrictive, but firm enough to be reassuring. 

“Good,” Steve said.  “You’re doing great.”

Sam expelled a fierce breath that might have been a word of response, but it was impossible to tell.

“Can you try to squeeze my hand?” Steve said.

Sam’s fingers shook too badly for him to manage more than the barest tightening of his grip around Steve’s hand.  But he did manage it, after a long second or two.

“Good,” Steve said.  “Good, Sam.”

Sam scowled, his disbelief plain.  “’m—not—” he wheezed. Steve waited a moment, watching Sam struggle for his voice, before seeming to give up. 

“Hey,” Steve said softly.  “Just try to squeeze my hand again, okay?”

Sam dragged his gaze to their interlaced hands, and managed a slightly more forceful squeeze. 

“Again,” Steve said.  “Try to squeeze my hand a little longer.  One, two, three, four.”

For the four seconds he counted off, Sam’s fingertips dug into his skin.  It was a painful and uncontrolled grip, accompanied by the barest flash of anger in Sam’s eye.  Likely angry at himself, if Steve guessed correctly, but he tucked that speculation away for now.  The important thing was that Sam could follow along with the sensory exercises.  Like they had talked about.   

“Good,” Steve murmured.  “One, two, three, four.”  Another pierce of Sam’s fingertips.  “You’ve got this.”

Sam shook his head, his face crumpling.  He pressed his free hand against his chest.  “H-hurts,” he ground out.  “I’m gonna—gonna die…”

“Sam, no, no you’re not,” Steve said, and hated the high note of alarm he heard in his own voice, the way his chest seized at that particular comment.  “Maybe – will it help if you breathe with me?”

Steve took in a deep, audible breath of his own as an example, hoping it would help Sam imitate him.  Sam watched him, and it seemed to take him a few moments before he was ready to try it.  He sucked in the beginning of a deep breath.  But abruptly his throat hitched, and his breathing seemed to trip over itself, a little gagged noise in between shallow, irregular inhales.

“It’s okay, Sam,” Steve said.  “Just try again.  You can do this.”  And he drew another slow, steady breath, silently praying that it would be in any way useful. 

It didn’t work. Sam could only manage a violent gasp, one that echoed in the quiet conference room, and ended on a strangled noise of frustration.

“Okay,” Steve said quickly.  “Okay.  Maybe – just – squeeze my hand again?”

Steve cast his eyes around desperately, keenly aware that he was failing. Screwing up again.  He’d pushed too hard with the breathing thing.  Or maybe he wasn’t pushing hard enough.  But Sam looked so damn anguished when he failed to breathe the way Steve modeled.  It seemed better to stick to what was working.  Wasn’t it? 

“Can you – squeeze my hand?” Steve said.  Pleaded.  “Four seconds, again?”

On his next exhale Sam let out a broken noise.  But he managed to tighten his fingers while Steve counted. 

“Good job,” Steve said, hating how tight his own voice was.  “Good, Sam.”

Sam wasn’t even looking at him anymore.  His gaze was straight down at the carpet.  All Steve could do was keep holding his hand and encouraging him to tighten his grip, counting off four seconds over and over again like some murmured religious incantation.  Steve had no idea how long they went on like that.  The empty silence of the conference room made time feel as if it were at a standstill, while Sam suffered through an attack that refused to abate. 

Eventually, the panic attack did not end so much as it petered out, as if Sam’s body simply ran out of the energy needed to keep it going.  The fast, irregular rhythm of his breathing broke, and then finally slowed down, until Sam released a defeated exhale and fell back against the wall. The tension appeared to leave his muscles, along with every ounce of strength he possessed.

Steve watched him with some relief, let out a heavy breath of his own.  The worst seemed to be over.  But it had left Sam looking like an absolute wreck. Sweat drenched his face and the collar of his shirt, and he still could not stop trembling.  He pushed a shaky hand up and over his face, wiping away some of the clammy sheen on his forehead.  As Sam’s face lifted, Steve could see his eyes were flat and empty, reddened with tears that plainly embarrassed him. 

Steve wanted no more than to jump in and do something – to pull Sam in tightly and tell him it was okay, to go back outside and wring the neck of that photographer.  But he forced himself to stay still.  What Sam needed was his own space, and his own time.

Eventually Sam himself broke the silence.  His voice came out as a hoarse croak.  “Well, that sucked.”

“You got through it,” Steve said.  “You did great.”

“Yeah.” Sam scowled.  “I’m sure Stark will think it’s great that I puked on his carpet. Jesus…”

“I think Tony himself would tell you that’s not the worst thing that’s ever happened on one of his carpets,” Steve said gently.

This got a breathless, slightly hysterical-sounding laugh out of Sam. But it did nothing to erase the misery on his face.  “I’m sorry, man.”  He pressed his hand over his eyes. “I’m so sorry.  We were having a good day and everything.”

“Hey,” Steve said.  “Don’t you dare try to apologize.  That guy had no right.”

“He was just taking a picture.”  Sam’s face twisted up, and he slammed a fist at the floor.  “I should be able to handle fucking cameras by now.” 

“Sam,” Steve said, a little sternly.  “What would you say to someone back at the VA if they told you that?”

Sam went quiet for a long moment, his mouth pulled into a tight line.  His eyes moved back and forth, and despite how wrung out he looked, Steve was reminded of the man he’d first walked in on at the VA counseling center: steady, thoughtful, compassionate. 

“You know what I’d say,” Sam eventually muttered.

“Well, then.  Say it to yourself.”

“Speaking of my old job, are you – are you sure you don’t want to give it a shot?” Sam said.  “You’re not doing too bad here, you know.”

Steve shook his head.  “I think you’re being very generous.” 

They both fell quiet, Sam trying to fight off an impending energy crash.  He ran his hands over his face, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.  His shoulders went up in a deep inhale, down in a long, loud exhale.  He repeated that for several moments.  Steve watched, and again fought down his own impulse to do something, and just waited.

At last Sam pushed his hands back against the wall, preparing to stand.  “…I think I’m good.”

Steve leapt up to his feet and reached out a hand, which Sam grabbed to pull himself up.  Steve winced slightly upon feeling the faint tremors that still ran under Sam’s skin. 

“Are you okay to do the elevator?” Steve asked.

Sam glanced upward.  “Not unless you’ve got my wings, ‘cause I’m sure not doing a hundred flights of stairs right now.”

“You know I could always carry you.”

This drew an incredulous glare. “Like hell, Rogers.”

They weren’t quite joking with each other like normal; Sam still sounded too shaken for that.  But it was a hint of normal.  Steve decided he’d take it.

On their way out of the conference room, Steve retrieved the camera, and discreetly alerted JARVIS to the mess in the corner.  Then they made their way down the hallway toward the elevator.  It was, thankfully, empty.  Sam still looked like a mess.  He – both of them – would at least be spared any questions or curious glances from other passengers. 

As the elevator whirred its way up, Steve reached over and brushed his fingers against Sam’s, seeking permission.  Sam immediately laced their fingers together, and leaned in to tuck his head against Steve’s shoulder. 

“Hey,” Sam murmured.  “Thanks.”

Steve let his own head fall towards Sam, and placed a long, gentle kiss to his forehead.  “Anytime.”

When the elevator reached Steve’s floor, they got off.  Sam did not officially live at Stark Tower, but unofficially, Steve’s quarters were his new home in New York.  He did still have family up in Harlem, but with their search for Bucky placing them on the remnants of HYDRA’s radar, neither Steve nor Sam wanted to risk their safety by making direct contact, let alone staying over.  And so Sam had half-moved in to Steve’s floor, with a drawer for his own clothes and a toothbrush, and his own side of the flat, hard mattress that occupied their bedroom floor.  

“I, um,” Sam said, pulling at his sweat-soaked collar.  “I think I’m just going to go shower.”

“OK,” Steve said.  “Do you need me here?”

Sam shook his head tightly.  “I’ll be good.”

Steve narrowed his eyes, uncertain if he was genuinely being asked to give Sam time to himself, or if it was just Sam’s pride kicking in.  He fidgeted with the camera, which he was still holding. 

“Steve,” Sam said after a moment.  “It’s OK.”

“Well I might, uh,” Steve said.  “Go talk to Tony for a minute.” 

Sam nodded. 

“Hey.”  Steve’s hand found Sam’s shoulder, and he pulled them together for a kiss.  It was slow and warm, and Steve’s grip tightened a little as he felt Sam’s residual trembling.  He pulled back, stroking at Sam’s face. “You call if you need me down here, OK?  No matter what.”

The smile Sam offered looked dull, and absolutely exhausted.  “I will.”

Once Steve got back into the elevator and the door closed, it took all of his self-restraint not to hurl the camera against the wall.

Upstairs, on the same wide-windowed floor where they’d once apprehended Loki, Steve found Tony sprawled out over one of the couches.  He was fiddling with a holographic schematic that floated in the air in front of him.  His posture – and jeans and faded band T-shirt – suggested laziness, but Steve knew better.  Tony’s eyes were focused sharply on the schematic, and there were probably only a few people on earth who could begin to comprehend the numbers and calculations flying through his head.

“You and Banner finally get out of the lab?” Steve said. 

“Banner, the bleeding heart, thinks volunteering at the free clinic down in Queens is the best use of his time right now,” Tony complained, heaving a great sigh. He looked up from his schematic, and then promptly broke into laughter.  “Holy shit, Cap, you look amazing.  JARVIS, please capture full videographic record of hipster Steve—”

Steve huffed, yanking the hat and glasses off.  He’d forgotten he was wearing them.  He set the accessories, along with the camera he’d taken, down on the coffee table with a sharp clank.  “I don’t really feel like having my picture taken right now.”

Tony frowned, sitting up.  With a flick of his fingers, he dissipated the hologram he’d been working on.  “What happened?”

“There was–” Steve shook his head.  “A guy lurking around outside, trying to get a picture.  He was – bothering us. Me and Sam. I took the guy’s camera, and I told him he’d get it back.”

“Well, that was silly.  If he was dumb enough to hand it over, it should be finders keepers,” Tony said.  “Who was it?  What’d he say?”

“I don’t really know.”  Steve paced back and forth.  “He didn’t say much before I ran him off.”

“Okay, so…” Tony said.  “It was more like he just took your picture?”

“Is that not enough?”  Steve demanded.  “It was an invasion of privacy.”

“I thought you were used to that by now, being our nation’s pride and joy and all,” Tony replied.

“I am,” Steve said tersely, “but Sam isn’t.”

“Ah.”  This brought a knowing grin to Tony’s face.  “Interrupted your hot date, huh.”

“Tony—” Steve pursed his lips.  He was not going to disclose Sam’s panic attack.  That wasn’t his right, regardless of how much he trusted Tony.  “Sam doesn’t need that kind of attention.”

“Are you sure?” Tony said.  “I keep telling you, Wilson would make a great Avenger.”

“Now isn’t the best time for that conversation,” Steve said.  “I just want to figure out how to return this guy’s camera, and make sure he never stalks the building again.”

Tony shrugged.  “You’re always gonna have fans, Cap.  It wouldn’t be the end of the world if your boyfriend did too.”  He frowned.  “You two are up to the ‘boyfriend’ stage, right?

Steve halted his pacing, and turned on Tony with a glare.  “Sam is a private citizen who wants to stay that way.”

“Private citizen?  Aren’t you a silver-tongued romantic.” Tony narrowed his eyes.  “But seriously, aren’t you the one who pressganged Wilson into helping you take down a couple of Helicarriers?”

“He chose to help with that.” 

“Right.  Just like he can choose to be an Avenger or not.” Tony said. “He’s got Romanoff’s seal of approval, for crying out loud.  Even I didn’t get that.”

“And I’d say exactly the same thing if Natasha were asking,” Steve answered, “only I have a feeling she might actually listen.”

“Tch.”  Tony sprawled back over the couch again, in that deceptively lazy posture.  “You do realize that, unless there are some scandalous pictures involving farm animals I’m not aware of, Sam Wilson is a publicist’s wet dream, right?  You play this smart, you use this photographer incident to take control of the narrative, and I guarantee at least sixty percent of the public will have heart eyes over Captain America’s nauseatingly functional interracial gay military hero relationship.”

“A whole sixty percent, huh?” Steve said. “No thanks.”

“We could probably get it up to seventy if the Avengers get called in to stop another Chitauri invasion.”

“Tony.” Steve put up his hands.  “You’re not listening.”

“I am totally listening. I just think Wilson has nothing to fear from the spotlight.”

“Except that he doesn’t want it,” Steve snapped.

“He doesn’t, or you don’t?”

“He doesn’t.  Believe me, you can take my word on that.”

“Really, are you his agent now?” Tony said.  “Where is Sam, anyway?  We could always get him up here to settle this.”

Steve jolted in alarm.  “No.”

“JARVIS, see if Wilson—”

“JARVIS, belay that,” Steve barked.

“You didn’t even know what I was going to say,” Tony protested.

“I know exactly what you’re saying, but Sam isn’t some goddamned publicity stunt!”

Tony stiffened in his seat, wide-eyed, and Steve heard his own voice echoing off the walls.  He’d risen to a roar without realizing it.

“…I’m sorry.”  Steve put his hands up in a surrender gesture.  “I know you’re trying to help.  But you need to leave Sam out of this.  Please.”

“All right, all right.”  Tony tilted his head, and looked at Steve analytically, the way he might a misbehaving circuit.

“And I’m sorry I shouted.”

“No, no, it’s fine,” Tony said.  “Always interesting to see what makes the supersoldier go more Hulk than Captain America.”

Steve let out a long sigh, rubbing his fingers against his forehead.  He hadn’t come up here to have a fight with Tony; they’d put aside any genuine anger long ago. But there were still moments like these…

“I know Wilson’s important to you,” Tony continued quietly, “but you can’t keep him stashed away forever.”

Steve ground his jaw.  “I can damn well try.”

Tony shook his head, laughing to himself.  “Should’ve figured you would say that,” he said.  He picked up the camera, waving it.  “I’ll have JARVIS get to work finding this thing’s owner.  And wipe whatever he got of you and Wilson.  Are you sure you’re not just mad somebody got a picture of you in that goofy outfit?”

Steve glanced down at the abandoned hat and glasses.  “I’ve worn goofier.”

This, at least, got a laugh out of Tony.  “Right, I forgot PR stunts were different in your time.”

“So they were.”  Steve picked up the accessories, tucking them under his arm.  “…Thank you.  I really am sorry for shouting.”

Tony waved him off.  “Don’t you have your heartwarming People article of a boyfriend to get back to?”

The elevator chimed, indicating Steve had reached his floor.

He breathed out a little sigh as the doors opened, his shoulders relaxing. It was good to be home.  Home was now a massive, expensively-furnished apartment he couldn’t have remotely dreamed of back when he was living in a Brooklyn tenement. But it was home all the same. 

Steve’s footsteps clicked on the marble foyer as he left the elevator, went quiet after he toed off his shoes, and then completely silent once his socked feet hit the carpet of the main room. He continued through the main room, past minimalist chrome and black furniture, over a warm charcoal-colored floor, all as angular and clean as the army barracks used to be. The lights were off, but floor-to-ceiling windows let in enough daylight to render them unnecessary, even on a clouded day like today. There was no trace of Sam.

Steve couldn’t help a rueful glance out the north-facing window.  It felt like much longer than three hours ago that they had been walking in Harlem, and Sam had been telling stories that made it so easy to picture him as that gap-toothed 17-year-old kid dreaming of the sky.

Now silence filled the apartment.  It was soundproofed, like most of the personal floors in Stark Tower, which Steve was normally grateful for.  But at the moment, the empty quiet unnerved him.  He wondered if he’d done the right thing, going to Tony, instead of staying here with Sam.  No – Sam had sounded like he wanted some time to himself.  Hadn’t he?

Anxious, Steve found himself picking up speed as he moved through the apartment.  He went through the kitchen, noted the teakettle and one of the stove burners were still warm from recent use.  It was probably a good sign if Sam had made himself tea, Steve thought, although he wasn’t completely sure of that either. Exiting the kitchen on the other side, he checked the bedroom – where the mattress lay untouched – and then the bathroom, which smelled of steam and soap, but was otherwise unoccupied. 

It was in one of the smaller rooms, shut off from the big main room, that Steve finally located Sam. 

The room had been designed as a library, with bookshelves lining the walls, and a triad of a sofa and two chairs in the center. One large window looked out over the city, and allowed in the same cloudy daylight.

Sam was curled up on the far end of the sofa.  He had changed into a gray T-shirt and sweats, his bare feet tucked up under him and his head propped up on his hand.  A cup of tea, still steaming, sat on a table beside the sofa.  Sam’s eyes were closed, and Steve paused.  He couldn’t tell if Sam were asleep or awake, and wondered if he should back out of the room.

But then Sam’s eyes drifted open.  His voice was low and rough.  “How’d it go with Stark?”

“Oh—fine.”  Steve pulled off his plaid coat and tossed it over the back of one of the chairs, on which he also dumped his hat and glasses.  “Did I wake you up?”

“Nah. Wasn’t really asleep.” 

Steve nodded.  He seated himself carefully next to Sam.  Up close, it alarmed him to see that Sam’s eyes were noticeably redder than they’d been before.  Steve had a good guess what that meant, and he was even more certain Sam would sooner get his teeth pulled than talk about it.

Instead of talking, Steve risked a caress, his fingers making gentle swirls just above Sam’s shoulder blades.  Sam drew a sharp breath at the touch, and then after a second, relaxed back into it.  Relief warmed his face.  Encouraged, Steve kept it up, his hand stroking and curling against Sam’s upper back, rubbing against the nape of his neck.  Steve could not help a fond smile when Sam sighed and craned his neck back a little bit, as if to feel as much of Steve’s touch as possible.

After a moment, Sam let his head fall to the side, facing Steve.  His eyes were still a little red, still bore a dull exhaustion.  But there was warmth there, and the ghost of a smile at his lips.

Delicately, Steve leaned down to kiss him. His lips were soft against Sam’s, tentative, as he still feared pushing him too hard.  But Sam slung an arm over Steve’s shoulder and pulled him closer, and kissed him back hungrily.  Caught by surprise, Steve grunted and deepened the kiss, his one hand cupping the back of Sam’s neck, his other coming around Sam’s waist. 

As they drew back Steve could not help smiling, his hand resting at Sam’s neck, his thumb going over Sam’s cheek. 

“You feel better?” he murmured.

Sam nodded.  Despite the exhaustion tightening his face, he said:  “Yeah.”

“Are you sure?” Steve prodded.

“I’m sure.”  Sam glanced down.  “I see you lost your disguise.”

“Ha.” Steve kissed him again lightly.  “Tony diplomatically reminded me I was wearing it.”

“Diplomatically, huh?” Sam said.  His eyebrow lifted. “Hope I don’t need to go up there.”

“No,” Steve sighed.  “That, you definitely don’t.”

He regretted it the second it left his mouth.  Because Sam might have been tired and shaken, but he hadn’t lost his ability to read Steve.  He pulled back, eyes narrowing.

“Sounds like it was an interesting talk,” Sam said.

“It was—” Steve paused. “Well, you know how it is with me and Tony.”

“Yeah, and I also know how you look when something’s actually pissing you off.”  Sam cocked his head. “What’d you really talk about?”

“Nothing.”  Seeing that Sam was not going to be deterred, Steve ran a hand over his face. “…The Avengers thing came up again.  You know, for you.”

Sam’s shoulders sagged.  “Oh.”

“It was nothing new.”  Steve shrugged. “Nothing you can’t think about tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”  But Sam had begun to fidget with the hem of his shirt.  He laughed, but it was a bitter noise.  “Guess I just took myself out of the running anyway, huh?”

Steve bristled.  “No, you did not.  Tony would sign you up tomorrow if he could.”

“But you wouldn’t?”

“Sam,” Steve said, unable to hold back a note of exasperation.  “Seriously?”

“I—yeah.”  Sam shook his head, chastened.  “Sorry.”  He peered up.  “But then what are you so mad about?”

“I’m not, I’m…” Steve threw up his hands.  “The guy who got our picture downstairs.  Tony seems to think it could be the start of a media campaign of some kind. I know he means well.  He just… sometimes forgets that not everybody’s interested in being a public figure.”

“And I take it he doesn’t know about,” Sam said, now fidgeting hard enough with his T-shirt hem that he risked tearing it.  He swallowed hard. “About my problem?”

“I didn’t tell him about your attack, and I won’t.”  Steve caught himself, and frowned.  “Unless you want me to?”

“No, no.”  Sam pointedly kept his eyes down, focused on his fidgeting hands. “No.” 

Steve flinched.  He hated, hated how ashamed of himself Sam sounded.

He had pieced together, from various conversations since they’d first met, that Sam’s superiors in Afghanistan had not been kind to him when the nightmares and the panic attacks started after Riley’s death.  Fuck-up.  Mental case. Snowflake. Pussy. That Sam had only barely managed to hold off a total breakdown until after his tour ended, that it was one of the reasons he’d been so determined to help other vets once he retired from active duty.

Steve, basically, wanted to break the faces of a lot of people in Sam’s former chain of command whenever that small, shamed tone crept into Sam’s voice.  But anger was not constructive.  It would not help Sam now.  Steve told himself that as he took a few deep breaths and forced himself to flex his fingers, which had balled up into fists without him even realizing it.

When he trusted himself not to sound angry, Steve said: “You shouldn’t have to worry about any of this.”

Sam shook his head.  “Well, life doesn’t usually wait around for what you’re ready for.”

“But it can, this time,” Steve said, sitting up.  “I’ll make sure it does.”

“You—” Sam’s face curled up in disgust.  “Have so many other things to be concerned with.”

“Maybe you could let me decide that,” Steve said.  “I’ve already asked too much from you.”

“What the hell?” Sam drew back, eyes flashing. “I must’ve forgotten the part where you made me do any of this.  If I didn’t think I could hack it looking for Bucky, I’d already be back in D.C.”

“I never said you couldn’t hack it.”

“Then what exactly do you mean?”

“I mean—” Steve floundered, and then burst out: “I mean that I hated being a showman, Sam.  A dancing pony.  Some kind of... icon.  I understand the purpose of it.  But it feels so – unnatural.  And even now, the media coverage of the Avengers, it’s exactly the same sometimes. That guy out there wanted my picture, Sam. Even if there weren’t the issue of it being a trigger for you, I hate that you’re getting dragged into something you shouldn’t have to do, just because of me.”

Steve came to a stop, realizing he could hear anger ringing in his voice.  With a wince, he shut his eyes.  This was exactly what he didn’t want to do, to argue and get angry and stress Sam out, when he was supposed to be helping him.

Sam had gone quiet, and when Steve dared a look over, he could not read him.  Turmoil was plain on Sam’s face, his eyes going back and forth as he absorbed Steve’s words. And of course he still looked tired. So tired, like this was taking every last bit of his energy.

“Sam,” Steve murmured, daring a caress to his face. “I just – want to look out for you.”

Sam softened, leaning into the caress, even as he still looked troubled.  When he looked up, his dark eyes were hesitant.  “So that’s what your talk up there was about?”

“Yeah.”  Steve cleared his throat.  “I may have, uh, diplomatically emphasized my point of view to Tony.”

Sam snorted, and Steve caught the barest glimpse of that gap in his teeth, the barest beginning of a smile. 

“OK,” Sam said, shifting over and settling against Steve.

“OK?” Steve said in mild surprise, lifting his arm to embrace him.

“Yeah.”  Sam's hand skimmed across Steve’s belly, hooking around his waist so that he could pull himself into a more comfortable position. His head came to rest against the crook of Steve’s neck. “That’s good enough for me.”

It probably wasn’t, at least, not enough to close the topic permanently.  But Steve had enough sense to realize Sam was probably too tired to go any further with it.  And so he tightened his embrace for a moment, rubbing at Sam's arm.

Sam made a pleasant grunt, and lifted his head.  His mouth sought out Steve’s for another kiss, deep and languid.  When they pulled apart, a sigh escaped Sam.

“Tired?” Steve said.

Sam’s eyes lowered.  “Yeah,” he admitted. 

Steve kissed him again.  Then he pulled away, despite Sam’s noise of protest. It took a few minutes of scrabbling, but Steve eventually got hold of the blanket draped over the back of the sofa.  He pulled it open with a flourish, and pulled it over Sam as they curled back up together.

Gradually, the exhaustion that had been looming ever since his panic attack began to overwhelm Sam completely. His body grew still and pliant, his grip on Steve sagging. As Sam crashed into heavy sleep, Steve shifted carefully.  He pulled the blanket up around Sam’s neck, made sure it covered his bare feet.  Once they were settled, Steve looped a firm arm around Sam’s shoulders, and placed a soft kiss to his forehead.

They remained like that for a long time, long enough for the cloudy sky to darken and a brisk rain to start.  Steve watched the drops batter the window, traced the foggy outline of skyscrapers and followed the blinking light of an airplane across the sky. But none of it held his true attention.

What truly preoccupied Steve were the other physical sensations: the scent of soap clinging to Sam’s skin, the full weight of his body, the feel of his heart thumping where their chests were pressed together.  The tickle of Sam’s breath against his neck, the way Steve could feel Sam’s shoulders rise slowly with every inhale, and just as slowly lower with every exhale. It was the opposite of how he’d struggled to breathe earlier, and Steve thought he might never have heard a more soothing sound.

Steve focused on all of it, tried to burn everything into his memory. He had lost so many years with Peggy, with Bucky.  With everyone.  He took nothing for granted anymore, not even the smallest brush of their skin or sleepy smack of Sam’s mouth.  Something hot and fierce stirred in Steve, his grip tightening.  If he were a little selfish about wanting to keep Sam to himself, so be it. 

In the end, he knew very well he might not have a choice. But he would hold onto Sam like this for as long as he could.