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Sam and Monica had let Rhodey choose the location for their double date night with Steve: an up-and-coming jazz lounge downtown where one of Rhodey’s old friends played piano and all their specialty drinks were different kinds of moonshine. Giving Rhodey control of the date location was just one of the many concessions they had had to make to get Rhodey to come. Monica and Sam had been trying to orchestrate a double date for going on a year now. Although Sam, Monica, and Rhodey were all best friends and Sam, Monica, and Steve were all best friends, it had been hard to get Rhodey and Steve in the same space long enough for a merry foursome to get going.
(Not that kind of foursome, Monica had been quick to say while she and Sam were scheming and plotting to make the date happen. I’m happy for you, but the idea of a pink dick takes literal years off my life. It makes me ashy, Sam. Ashy.)
The difficulty lay in the fact that Rhodey still pointedly disliked Steve over the whole mess with the Accords. Steve had originally just been too embarrassed and apologetic to hang out with Rhodey, but he’d switched over into “well if he hates me, I hate him too” pettiness the longer Rhodey went on loathing him. Monica had had a talk with Rhodey and Sam had promised Steve all manner of sexual favors if he would come out and try to get along, so here they were.
The night hadn’t gone too shabbily, either. In fact, the club owner had come over to their corner and asked if his photographer could get a picture of them for promotional materials and it wasn’t until Steve smiled that Captain America smile that he realized he was talking to members of the Avengers team.
“If he didn’t realize we were superheroes, why’d he single us out?” Steve asked when the owner and his photographer had finished taking a photoshoot’s worth of pictures.
Rhodey slung his arm around Monica’s bare shoulders (she was wearing a strapless silvery dress that clung to her curves like a new advancement in fabric technology). “Guess we just look so damn good,” Rhodey said. He dropped a kiss on Monica’s shoulder and she rolled her eyes.
“Don’t try to butter me up now. You were talking a very different tune in the car tonight.”
Sam narrowed his eyes. “Rhodey, did you insult this queen’s looks today?”
Rhodey heaved a put-upon sigh. “No, this queen baited me into a discussion I knew we shouldn’t have and when we had it – at her insistence – she had the nerve to get mad.”
“I wasn’t mad,” Monica said. “And I’m not mad. Just surprised.”
Sam knocked back his apple-infused moonshine (and tried not to gasp. The shit needed a chaser and honestly, bleach would have been gentle and sweet by comparison.) “Well, don’t leave us in suspense,” he said. “What were you fighting about?”
Rhodey flicked his eyes at Steve and Sam saw the very slight curl of his lip. Sam kicked him under the table. If Sam could play nice with Tony on the occasions that Tony came to D.C., Rhodey could do the same with Steve. Rhodey unpinched his mouth. “Monica wanted to play that ‘who’s your cheat person?’ game that always leads to disaster.”
“Cheat person?” Steve repeated. He pushed his sweet tea over to Sam without Sam even having to ask or signal.
“The one person that if you met them and they were willing, you could sleep with them and your partner would let it slide.”
Steve wrinkled his nose. “Is that a thing?”
“It’s purely a hypothetical,” Monica assured him.
“It’s a guaranteed way to get your lady mad at you is what it is,” Rhodey grumbled.
“Well, who’d you say?” Sam asked. Steve’s sweet tea was like a healing balm on his throat and he pushed the unfinished glass of moonshine toward the edge of the table so the waiter would take it away on his next round.
“He said Catherine Zeta-Jones in her prime.”
Sam nodded appreciatively.
Monica went on, “And all I said to James was that I don’t look a thing like Ms. Catherine Zeta-Jones.”
“You said it with an attitude,” Rhodey insisted.
“Just stating a fact. Here I am with my dark brown skin, my lovely long dreadlocks, my well-muscled body and there she is being all beige and skinny.”
“Would it have been better if I picked Serena Williams? I think she’s gorgeous, too.”
Monica raised her eyebrows. “So, now my man just has a list of stunning women. The game is ONE person. Not an army.”
Rhodey motioned for the waiter to come over to the table and ordered a scotch, neat. Sam put in an order for prosecco (he was just never gonna be a hard alcohol kind of guy; give him fizzy, sweet champagne any day).
“It’s a dangerous game,” Sam observed.
Monica shrugged. “Well, I never got to answer because James thought I was mad at him—”
“You were,” Rhodey interrupted.
“So,” Monica went on loudly, “I think I’d pick Denzel in his prime.”
Rhodey nodded. “Solid choice.”
Monica sipped her moonshine like it wasn’t the hazardous by-product from a chemical plant. “You wouldn’t be saying that if I had said Brad Pitt or some shit.”
“Do you want Brad Pitt?” Rhodey asked.
Monica shrugged.
“Because you have never expressed interest in Brad Pitt in your whole life.”
“Maybe we should change the subject,” Steve interjected.
“Yeah,” Sam agreed. “Anybody paying attention to the NBA? The Wizards aren’t looking so shabby this year.”
The conversation veered toward a heated debate about Monica and Rhodey’s Celtics versus Sam’s Wizards, with Steve mostly repeating Sam’s points when called upon to back him up. Steve was more into the NFL and even still, he hadn’t yet picked a team and just rooted blindly for the offense every game. Sam took the conversation to NFL playoffs and Steve gushed about the Falcon’s game-winning touchdown drive the Sunday before.
“You’re one of them bandwagon fans, then?” Rhodey asked, his face full of contempt (or as much contempt as a face could have eating the best mac and cheese Sam had ever tasted. Baked with bread crumbs on top, the cheese brown and crisp at the edges, gooey and hot at the center. Ask Sam who his cheat person was right now and he’d say the chef who put her foot in this macaroni).
Steve shrugged, “I just like good football,” he said.
Rhodey pursed his lips. “I’m an Eagles fan,” he volunteered. “Born and raised in Philadelphia. Didn’t have much choice as far good football goes. But I’m loyal. Real fans are.”
“Tell me about it,” Steve said, innocently pretending he didn’t hear Rhodey trying to get under his skin. Sam was impressed; usually Steve was itching for an argument with Rhodey. “I gotta watch this guy bellyache about the Jets every September through December.”
Rhodey winced. “Forgot you were from New York,” he said to Sam. “My condolences.”
“Man, whatever,” Sam said. “We’re rebuilding.”
“I heard that’s what all bad teams say,” Steve teased.
“Aw snap,” Rhodey laughed. “Burned by your bae.”
Monica laughed. “You gonna just take that, Sam?”
“At least I’m not a Saints fan,” he jabbed. “One of the best quarterbacks in the game and y’all still can’t win.”
The foursome bickered and laughed at one another over football, split a Death by Chocolate dessert, and all ragged on Steve who managed to go to town on what everyone else could only manage four or five bites.
“Too rich, my ass,” Steve said, scraping chocolate cake and coffee ice cream on to his spoon with gusto.
Before the couples split off into their cars, Monica squeezed Sam’s hand and whispered “Progress.” She and Rhodey got into an Uber and Steve and Sam climbed into Steve’s silver Prius.
“Not so bad, right?” Sam squeezed Steve’s thigh.
Steve shook his head. “Let’s see if he likes me without the alcohol before we get too excited.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “If you two stopped hating each other, you might actually get along.”
“How much moonshine did you have, babe? That made no sense.”
“I’m fine,” Sam insisted. He leaned his back against the passenger seat door as Steve drove them home. Sam watched the street lights throw shadow and color on Steve’s profile.
Steve flicked his eyes over at Sam once or twice and a smile curved his lips. “What?” he asked.
Sam shook his head. “You’re pretty, that’s all.”
“Prettier than Brad Pitt and Denzel?”
“Ummmmmmm.”
Steve laughed. “Come on, babe. Lie to me.”
“Are we talking Denzel in Great Debaters? Glory? Brad Pitt in that one episode of Friends? Mr. and Mrs. Smith?”
“I am assuming those are movies that I haven’t seen.”
“And a TV show. But yes.”
Steve shrugged. “I don’t know. Let’s play that game. The one Rhodey and Monica were playing.”
“Oh nonononono. That’s a terrible idea.”
“Why? It’ll be fun. Like those personality quizzes you’re always making me do.”
Sam leaned his head back against the window, feeling the prosecco bubbles floating around inside him. “It’s a bad idea,” he said weakly.
“I’ll go first,” Steve said. “If it helps.”
“It doesn’t,” Sam mumbled.
“I’d choose Peggy. Back before the ice. When we were almost….” He trailed off, letting his whole known tragic history fill the silence.
Sam sighed. “I guess that makes sense,” he said begrudgingly. It would be in poor taste to be jealous of a woman who was dead and gone, and who had been one of Steve’s only links to the past when he’d woken up in the future. Poor taste. Sam wouldn’t do it.
“So, what about you?” Steve asked. “Who’s your cheat person.”
“No one,” Sam said. He yawned. “I’ve got you. Why would my eyes ever wander?”
“That’s such a line,” Steve said.
“It’s not,” Sam insisted.
“I know you’ve got someone. I could tell when Rhodey and Monica were talking that you had someone.” Steve shrugged. “But if you don’t trust me enough to tell me, I guess we’re not where I thought we were.”
Sam groaned. “I’ve had so much wine,” he pled.
Steve pulled the gear shift into park. They were home. “Just tell me,” he said. “I wanna know. Unless…is it Tony?”
Sam snorted. “Yeah, Steve, I totally wanna bang your pal Tony.”
“Well, if it’s not Tony, there’s no way it could be so bad. Why won’t you tell me?”
“Because it doesn’t matter.”
“You’re making it matter by not telling me.”
“No, you’re making it matter by insisting that I tell you.”
“I guess Rhodey and Monica are just closer than we are,” Steve said forlornly. “They can tell each other things openly and honestly.”
“Steve,” Sam begged.
“Is it because it’s a girl? Because I won’t mind.”
“You will most definitely mind,” Sam grumbled before he could stop the words from tripping off his tongue like little sentient drunks going out where they didn’t belong.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Steve demanded.
“It means, let’s go in the house, put the fireplace on, and listen to Earth, Wind, and Fire.”
“You’re not going to use sex to get out of this,” Steve said.
“Who said anything about sex?” Sam opened his car door and stumbled out. “Why is everything about sex with you?”
Steve laid off Sam until they had both showered and put on their pajamas. Sam turned the TV to the music channels up and found an R&B station playing BoysIIMen’s “End of the Road.”
Steve climbed into bed and pulled back the comforter for Sam to join him. When Sam had climbed in, Steve nuzzled his ear and swept his hand down across Sam’s stomach, just shy of his dick which could most definitely be persuaded to be interested. Steve tweaked Sam’s nipple and went to work kissing the life out of him. He started a sort of maddening game of keeping his hands away from where Sam most wanted him to touch.
Just when Sam lost patience and moved to straddle him, Steve said, “So, who’s the girl you’d cheat on me with?”.
Sam made an irritated noise at the back of his throat and flopped back on his pillow. “Did you think you were lowering my defenses here? Do you even want to have sex?”
Steve shrugged and rolled over to his side of the bed. “I mostly wanna know why you’re avoiding the question.”
“Because you will most definitely get mad and insecure.”
Steve considered this for less time than it took to properly hear the sentence. “No, I won't,” he promised.
Sam looked down sadly at his waning erection. “Trust me,” he said. “You will.
“Sam,” Steve wheedled. “Come on. We're married.”
Sam turned off the TV (Playing Ginuwine’s “Pony”) and the lamp beside his bed and rolled onto his side.
“I’m just gonna start guessing until I get it right,” Steve threatened.
“Go to sleep,” Sam ordered.
“I won’t get mad.”
“Steve, I know you. Drop it.”
“I promise I'll be totally cool.”
“You won't.”
“I’ll give you a blowjob right now.”
“Steven Grant Rogers!”
“You know all my flaws of character, Sam, and my persistence is right at the top of the list. And I can go for longer without sleep than you can.” He poked Sam’s shoulder. “Tell me.” Poke. “Tell me.” Poke. “Tell—”
“I swear to God, I’m gonna kill you and I’ll make it look like an accident. A really bloody accident.”
“Fine,” Steve said, giving Sam a very brief reprieve, “but we’ve got all weekend to get to the bottom of this.”
A more expressive man than Sam might have burst into loud, noisy tears. Sam settled for a long, drawn out groan.
The next day Steve delivered on his promise, starting with breakfast in bed, where he arranged the chocolate chips in Sam’s pancakes as question marks. When they went for their run, he stayed with Sam the entire time, running at Sam’s relatively slow pace explaining in extravagant, unnecessary detail about why and how relationships thrived with communication and honesty.
As Sam did chores around the house (laundry, cleaning out the refrigerator, hiding in the basement entertainment room), Steve popped up out of nowhere like he could startle the answer out of him.
Sam tried to escape the house by going grocery shopping, but Steve tagged along. Sam had never seen him this bullheaded and annoying.
“It’s Bucky,” he finally snapped. “I wanna bang your good, ole pal Bucky.”
Steve’s face went through several permutations of shock and disbelief. “No, it’s not,” he said. “You still haven’t forgiven him for fucking up your car way back when.”
Sam shrugged. “Call it a hate fuck.”
Steve laughed. “Now I know you’re lying. But nice try. Who is it? Who’s so bad that you’d lie and say Bucky? Who is it? Who is it? Who. Is. It?”
And Sam eventually broke. He didn’t know why he thought he could outlast Steve. It was a fool’s dream.
Steve had Sam pinned to the sofa, refusing to get up until Sam yielded.
Sam sighed. “Misty,” he confessed. “It would be Misty.”
Steve’s whole body slouched. He climbed off Sam and groaned, tried to turn it into a just-clearing-my-throat noise, but ended up coughing until he was red in the face.
Sam rolled his eyes. “Real smooth, Steve.”
“I'm just, it's just—she's, um, Misty is, um—You're not over Misty?”
Exactly as Sam had predicted, Steve was a lovely shade of puce. “I am well over Misty,” he assured him. “That's why I'm with you and not her.”
“But you still wanna...” Steve trailed off and swallowed thickly.
Sam shrugged. “We had good sex. We had great sex, actually.”
The puce transformed into a sort of mottled gray before fading into a pale, sickly white. “Better than us?” Steve whispered.
“Of course not,” Sam said.
Steve looked utterly unconvinced.
“It was different,” Sam said. He could hear how lackluster and un-reassuring that sounded.
“What'd she do that I don't do?” Steve demanded. “Tell me.”
“This was a terrible idea.”
“I just didn't expect you to say Misty, your ex-girlfriend, one of your current best friends, and often partner on long away missions.”
“Steve...”
“No, I mean, I asked. I insisted. This is on me.”
“You said Peggy,” Sam pointed out. “How is this different?”
“Peggy is dead, Sam. Peggy poses no threat to our relationship.”
“I'm sorry Misty isn't dead, then,” Sam snapped, losing his patience. “If I'd known we were only supposed to pick our dead exes--”
“You know that's not what I meant
. Misty's just so – so – so”
“So what, Steve?”
“Accessible,” he blurted out.
Sam rolled his eyes. “You do realize Misty is in a very loving relationship with Danny, right? So not only would I have to be okay with cheating on you (which I'm not), she'd have to be okay cheating on him (which she's not). This little,” Sam waved his hand to encompass all of Steve. “It's not attractive. I told you this was a bad idea.”
“I know.”
“And we’re having brunch with Misty and Danny tomorrow. Do you think you can be a normal human being or should I cancel?”
Steve flushed bright pink.
“Steve, don’t tell me I have to cancel.”
“Sam.”
“I better not hear the word cancel come out of your mouth except for you to say, ‘No, Sam, you don’t have to cancel. I know we have a strong relationship and that you’re not in love with Misty and that you would never step out on me. I know that this dumb game I insisted we play was about hypothetical sex we would have and not some confession of lingering lust or feelings. It would be silly for you to cancel, Sam.’ Is that what you’re gonna say, Steve?”
Steve hung his head. “Maybe we can see them next time they’re in town.”
Sam threw his hands up.
“You just put this on me, Sam. It’s gonna take a little while to adapt.”
“YOU MADE ME TELL YOU!” Sam shouted. He had never yelled at Steve before, but this took his patience and beat it against a cement wall. “I told you I didn’t want to talk about it, but you wouldn’t listen. You are the most aggravating, stubborn, doesn’t-listen-to-anybody-ever knucklehead I have ever known!”
Steve hung his head. “I’m sorry, Sam.”
“Nuh-uh. You don’t get to go all puppy dog eyes on me now. We are going to brunch tomorrow and you will behave.”
“What about all the mind-blowing sexual favors I was supposed to get for going on that double date?” Steve asked.
Sam’s mouth fell open in helpless fury. “Do you really think I want your dick in my mouth after what you’ve put me through today?”
“I’m sorry, Sam,” Steve said again.
“I’m gonna go take an anger nap, now, because you have thoroughly exhausted me.” Sam got up and stalked toward their bedroom. “Everybody told me to watch out for them white boys because they’re nuts. But did I listen? Noooooo. I said, ‘He’s cute, mama.’ I said, ‘That’s Steve Rogers, Rhodey.’ Serves me right. My husband is a nut. A very handsome lunatic.”
…. The Next Day ….
“Danny’s out there haggling with the taxi driver,” Misty said by way of hello the next morning at the restaurant. She bumped her cheek against Sam’s and waved at Steve, who barely managed to smile.
Sam elbowed him in the side and grinned at Misty like nothing was amiss. “Is Danny trying to pay him in meditation sessions and almonds?” he asked.
Misty shrugged, a sort of resigned amusement playing on her lips. “I think he paid the actual fare in American dollars, but he’s discussing more valuable tip options.”
“Has that ever once worked?” Sam asked. He surreptitiously pushed Steve toward the maître d’s stand to get him away as he radiated awkwardness.
“It worked on me,” Misty admitted. “He was supposed to Venmo me for paying his cover charge at that soul funk lounge Luke dragged us all to, and he offered me a first date instead of ‘the currency of toxic capitalism in its death throes’.”
Sam laughed. “Did you say yes to get him to stop talking like that?”
“If I could deal with you talking about Marvin Gaye like you wanted to bang his entire discography, I can handle Danny being a little…”
“A little what?” Danny asked, appearing at Sam’s side.
“Passionate--” “Weird--” Sam and Misty said at the same time.
Danny nodded wisely (he did everything wisely) and a lock of his dark hair fell forward on to his forehead. Misty pushed it back with her fingertips and smiled at him lovingly. “You’re not weird,” she said. “But you do need a haircut.”
Danny batted her hand away. “You are unhealthily preoccupied with my outer self.”
Sam rolled his eyes, but Misty laughed and pecked Danny on the lips. “I like your outer self,” she said. “It’s a very pretty outer self.”
Steve rejoined the group with his hands in his pockets. He wedged himself between Misty and Sam. “It’ll be about five minutes,” he said. He nodded at Danny.
“You shouldn’t leave me alone with these two,” Sam said. “They’re mushier than we are.”
“Are not,” Misty objected.
“We express ourselves openly and honestly,” Danny added.
“That’s ‘enlightened’ talk for, mushy,” Sam said.
“Says the guy who rented a sky writer to say he loved me!” Misty laughed.
“That’s elaborate,” Danny observed. “And not really your taste, Misty.”
“No, it was not. But we were young. And I could tell he really wanted me to like it.”
“A sky writer?” Steve repeated. “What do you have to do to get one of those?”
“Be really good in bed,” Misty joked.
Danny laughed, as Steve stiffened at Sam’s side. Danny, very seriously, said, “Sam, please give me the number of your sky writer. I have been neglecting my duties.”
“Shut up,” Misty laughed. “I told you. It’s not my style.”
“Mr. Rogers,” the maître d’ interrupted. “Your table’s ready. She’ll take you over.”
Their waitress wound her way through the restaurant to a table by the window that had a view of part of the National Mall. There was a bit of jockeying for seats, because Misty, Steve, and Sam were all trained to have the exits in their sight lines. Danny was oblivious to this and waited patiently for Misty to settle before he sat down beside her. He squeezed her hand on the table absent-mindedly, as if he simply wanted to touch her. Sam smiled. He loved casual love. And years after the sky writer incident, he also knew that Misty preferred someone touching her hand to very public, ridiculous declarations.
“You’re troubled,” Danny said to Steve after their server had taken their drink orders (mimosa for Sam, water for everyone else. Sam flashed Misty a look of betrayal as they had a firm alcohol policy in the face of their teetotaling partners).
Steve shook his head. “I didn’t sleep well last night,” he said. “Just a little tired.”
“I could give you a little boost,” Danny offered. He held his slim, brown hands out across the table. “Fatigue is one of my healing specialties.”
“It’s fine,” Steve said. “The serum ought to kick in any minute now.”
Danny tilted his head and withdrew his hands.
Misty grinned. “Danny’s too polite to say it, but he’s totally judging you for relying on science over his spiritual learning.”
Steve blushed. “I didn’t mean to offe—”
“Oh, don’t worry about my judgy boyfriend,” Misty said. “Although I will say, his pick-me-up chi stuff is really very good.”
“It’s not pick-me-up chi stuff,” Danny said. “It’s--
“Don’t bore our friends,” Misty said. She softened this with a kiss to Danny’s hand. “I swear,” Misty said, looking up at Sam and Steve, “I feel bad for our baby. She’s gonna be bored to tears by this stuff.”
“Or she might care as deeply as her father,” Danny pointed out.
Sam frowned. “Wait, are you pregnant?”
Misty frowned too. “Wait, did I not tell you that?”
“No!” Sam almost shouted.
“Shit, I thought I had everybody on that email chain. Fuck. Anyhow. Yeah. Danny and me—we’re having a baby!”
“Congratulations!” Sam and Steve both shouted.
“A baby! A real-life human?! Is gonna come out of you? You?! Girl who I’ve known since we were kids. Girl who refused all baby-sitting jobs because you wanted to play cops and robbers well into her teens. Misty!”
“I know. I fucking know,” she said. Her eyes were dazzlingly bright and Danny looked a little damp around the eyes too. “She’s gonna have such a hard time. With me and Danny as her parents.”
“She’s gonna be the most blessed child in the universe with you two as her parents,” Sam assured her. “I can’t believe you forgot to tell me. Who are the godparents? Wait, don’t answer that. I know it can’t be me because I live in D.C. and it will break my heart if you say anybody but me.”
Misty and Danny laughed. “We actually hadn’t thought about it yet.”
“But we are thinking of moving out of New York,” Danny said.
“I know we all grew up there, but—”
“It’s a very literal microcosm of all that’s wrong in the world.”
“Don’t tell me you’re taking my goddaughter to India,” Sam said.
Danny laughed. “I love my family and my homeland very, very much, but no. That is not our plan.”
“Well,” Steve said, “as a Brooklynite displaced to D.C., I can recommend it.”
“No ulterior motives?” Misty teased.
“Sam here wants to be a godparent. I’d like to give him as good a shot as anyone.”
Sam squeezed Steve’s thigh, barely able to contain the stupid grin on his face.
…. A Few Hours Later ….
“Sorry,” Steve said the moment they were in his car.
“For what?”
Steve ducked his head. “I was being ridiculous yesterday.”
“And this morning,” Sam added helpfully.
“And this morning.”
“In your defense,” Sam said, “it is a terrible, horrible, no-good-can-come-of-it sort of game.” He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts.
“You didn’t act like an idiot about my answer.”
“Well,” Sam said, crafting his text message, “you came back to me pretty fast; I won’t hold it against you.”
“Do you think Danny’s powers are hereditary?” Steve asked.
Sam considered this possibility with an evil grin. “God I hope so. Misty could do with a little terrorizing.”
“Better not let her hear you say that. It might knock you out of the godparent race.”
“You know, if I’m a godparent, you would be too, right?”
Steve blinked, surprised, then grinned. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of that. I’d be okay with that.”
“Yeah?”
Steve leaned over and kissed Sam softly. “Where you go, I go.”
Sam pressed send on his message. “Well, then, let’s go home.”
A new text-message arrived almost immediately. Are you sure you wanna call in all your favors for this?
Sam grinned. Absolutely.
When they got home, Sam asked Steve to go check the mail.
“It’s Sunday,” Steve pointed out.
“I didn’t get it yesterday.”
“Yes, you did,” Steve remembered. “Because your sister sent you her vows renewal invitation.”
“Didn’t that come by FedEx, which isn’t our usual mail?”
“No, it was definitely just a regular enve—”
“Steve, will you please go outside and stop being difficult?”
Steve frowned. “Why? What’s outside?”
“A firing squad,” Sam joked. “I’m planning to kill you.” He put a hand in the small of Steve’s back and marched him back out of their house. He knew Steve was being marched along only because he wanted to; there was no way in hell Sam could push Steve anywhere.
“Alright,” Sam said. He scanned the sky for a second until he found what he was looking for. “There,” he pointed, guiding Steve’s gaze upwards.
Steve’s turned his face up to the sky and slowly his confusion turned to pure joy as he watched Rhodey high up in the air scrawling the words, I LOVE YOU STEVE ROGERS. Steve laughed and laughed, burying his face in Sam’s neck, overcome with the giggles. He kept looking up at the words and hiding his pink face over and over until Rhodey landed in their front yard and opened his face plate, scowling. Steve tried to look a little more buttoned-up and calm.
“I hate you,” Rhodey said very calmly. He closed his face mask and launched back into the sky, where the words were starting to disperse.
“How’d I do?” Sam asked. He took Steve’s hands and looked up at the fading message that Rhodey had left behind.
Steve’s crooked smile bloomed on his face like a daffodil in January and he kissed Sam’s forehead. ”Misty got a plane.”