#steve&sam.

"what is that?"

the aroma drifting from the stovetop is the first thing that really reaches him, a rich and buttery warmth that temporarily pushes back the stale grey vacuum of his own thoughts as steve lets himself be guided toward the table by a gentle but firm palm on his shoulder. he tries to offer a smile, though it probably comes across as a clumsily disjointed twitch of his mouth, his entire body still moving with the slow and muddy inertia of someone who hasn't truly slept without a nightmare in months. sam is already in the thick of it, moving seamlessly between the sizzling pans and the clutter of the breakfast table while managing a small army of children who have abandoned their plates entirely to crowd around the kitchen threshold, their small voices rising in a chorus of blunt, unfiltered questions about the overgrown wilderness of the beard taking over steve's jawline. he knows he looks a mess, knows he should have found a razor weeks ago, but the tangled mass of hair had been a convenient mask during his last long stretch of off the grid work, a simple way to blur his features into the background of crowded transit stations and forgotten coastal towns where nobody expected to see a ghost. it is a convenient excuse to tell himself, though the deeper reality is far less noble; he simply hasn't possessed the internal fuel to care about the reflection in the mirror, his existence having lessened to a punishing repetition of fighting until his knuckles bleed and then collapsing into a blank sleep, only to wake up and find another target. there is a strange, protective comfort in letting the hair grow thick and untamed, a way of ensuring that people keep their distance, because the absolute last thing he wants right now is for anyone to look too closely at the hollowed out expression in his eyes or realize how desperately he wishes he could just fade away back into the shadows like a wanted fugitive running out the clock again. he has been tearing himself apart at a frightening pace-- but when sam kept ringing his phone, refusing to let the line go cold, the steady persistence of that voice finally cracked through his defenses, and the promise of a lovely kitchen and a homecooked meal became a pull too powerful to resist. yet even here, surrounded by the bright clatter of silverware and the sweet scent of browning sugar, the space directly to his left feels completely vacant, a noticeable void where natasha should be sitting, her absence a blatantly unmentioned presence that everyone gracefully avoids naming because to speak it aloud would mean breaking the fragile peace of the morning. steve keeps his mouth shut, locking the memory behind his teeth, though his mind is still reeling from the trick his eyes had played on him just forty-eight hours ago in a miserable, sun-bleached motel room, where for a single breathtaking second he could have sworn she was sitting on the end of the mattress, looking at him with that typically dry smirk of hers. if he was losing his mind before her sacrifice, he is entirely certain now that the line between what is real and what is gone is beginning to crumble completely.

he finds a bitter sort of comfort in the knowledge that sam understands the exact shape of his pain, having spent years pulling broken soldiers back from the ledge, which is exactly why there are no exhausting heart to hearts or demands for an explanation; instead, sam simply gives him the grace to exist as a monolithic fixture on the living room couch, letting him sink into the cushions without judgment. bucky is a different story, monitoring him with a very not subtle, hyper-vigilant intensity that manifests in the frequent, searching glances thrown his way from the stove, not a delicate tip-toeing-- they have survived too many trenches together to ever dance around each other's moods-- but rather a continuous unspoken assessment of his stability that steve stubbornly chooses to ignore. he forces his attention down to the plate instead, focused entirely on the small motions of breakfast, meticulously sliding a knife across a slice of toast to coat it in butter and a thick layer of strawberry jam before taking a huge bite that fills his mouth with the crunch of charred crust and sweet fruit. the bacon is perfectly crisp, and the pancakes are thick and fluffy, a reminder of a level of comfort he hasn't tasted since before the world split in half, forcing an appreciative nod from his chin as he looks up to catch sam's eye before immediately dropping his gaze back to the porcelain. "s'good," he mumbles around the food, the words small but entirely genuine, because the truth is he feels an almost painful gratitude for being allowed into this house; he had tried to learn his way around the stove back at the compound, spending cozy afternoons watching natasha demonstrate how to properly season a pan or balance flavors, but his own attempts always turned out grey and utilitarian, lacking whatever secret, comforting magic sam seems to throw into a simple skillet.

he washes the sweet grease down with a cold swallow of orange juice, looking past the smallest child who is still staring at him with wide, unblinking curiosity from across the table, entirely aware of what a bizarre spectacle he must present to a kid. he is a towering, weathered beast of a man compared to the clean-shaven, brightly colored icon that used to decorate their school notebooks and trading cards, his expression stripped of that easy, old fashioned optimism that people used to rely on to feel safe. he tells himself he is trying to find his way back to that person, that he is putting in the effort to heal, but being inside this warm house makes him realize what a massive lie that is, the sheer domestic peace of sam and bucky's life together highlighting every single thing he will never have for himself. it is an entire lifetime of birthdays and quiet sundays that he might have dreamed about once, a beautiful reality that is completely out of reach now, and while he doesn't harbor an ounce of resentment toward the couple for building it, the realization that his own future has been completely emptied of that warmth is a bitter pill to swallow. he refuses to let his mind wander back to natasha-- refuses to speculate on whether they could have found some version of this joyful life together if they had both survived the battle, because admitting that they might have had a chance while she was alive is a kind of torment he isn't strong enough to endure.

he's not terribly surprised to find sam wilson breaking into his apartment on a hot early afternoon, though he makes sure to lift his head and indeed check that the intruder's friendly before proceeding to plop back down, fuzzy face shoving right into a soft pillow as he initially half-grunts, half-whines in response, throwing a blanket quickly over himself to block out the world. he's only in a pair of briefs, and since he's been up all night running gear checks, scouring black-market intelligence boards, and wrapping up off-the-grid operations under the radar, he'd certainly like the peace of sleeping through the day, which has been his usual fucked up sleeping schedule for weeks now-- but he prefers the solitude of working through the small hours, except for the fact that it does make keeping consistent communication with others incredibly complicated. communication isn't something he finds terribly necessary these days anyway; yes, he loves his friends, and they love him, and they are honestly the closest thing to a real family he has left in this century, however, the act of him handing sam the shield and allowing them to go out and do their own thing basically speaks to the deep faith that he has in their ability. he knows that they're okay out there, and though he generally misses them during the long hours spent staring at a glowing laptop screen or sharpening knives, it's nothing urgent enough to make him pick up the phone and ruin their focus.

apparently, sam doesn't seem to agree with that thought process at all, judging by the loud rustle of fabric that follows.

he stalls; pink rushing up to the tops of his cheeks until they're bright and rosy, a look of genuine surprise on his face at sam and the way he voices his words so easily. this is a man who can kill fascists, beat the shit out of some bullies, jump out of planes without a parachute, and lead the avengers against an entire alien invasion, yet this is apparently not a man who can ask a colleague out on a date without completely stiffening up. well, he can, and technically he has done it before on accident, and it's not like he hasn't gone out with his fair share of civilian women over the years, all lovely encounters that ultimately never amounted to anything real because steve has realized something fundamental about himself-- that he can't allow himself to get close to someone in a very real way, that he can't give them the hope of a relationship that he won't be able to sustain when he's constantly running off to fight some new war. it's a shame how before the serum, the pretty dames really wouldn't even look his way on the brooklyn streets, and now that they do, he's just been too hurt and burdened by everything he's lost to ever consider anything in the long-term, choosing instead to keep his guard up and his focus entirely on the next mission.

all of these internal issues aside, nat most likely wouldn't want any of these things, least of all with a guy like him who's still trying to figure out how to go through this modern world. she's natasha romanoff, another one of his closest friends in this strange century, and while he's not intimidated by the name or the skillset, she doesn't strike him as the type of woman to want romance anyway, preferring to keep her secrets tucked away where nobody can use them against her. "i am doing this right," steve eventually recollects himself, clearing the rough edge from his throat and countering with the same old dry sass he uses when he's trying to build a wall around his own thoughts, "by not doing anything at all. she's got other things on her mind." it doesn't escape him that natasha, like him, falls off the radar every now and again, perhaps to handle something out in the open or away from the team before she reemerges without a single word of explanation, and it's nothing he holds against her since they're mutually used to being on the run, being wanted fugitives, or just having private matters to settle without a whole audience tracking their every move. though, steve does still feel like he's quitting before he's even gotten his head fully into the game, and he does thoroughly dislike that aspect about refusing to pursue someone so close to him, a stubborn part of his soldier mentality refusing to accept a defeat he chose for himself.

nonetheless, he takes a slow sip of his drink and tries his best to look like he wasn't just blushing a second ago, his blue eyes moving past sam's shoulder to watch over everyone else gathered at the bar where the mood is completely different from the quiet of their own conversation. there's a party going on and it's gotten rather loud over the last hour, the music bouncing off the high ceilings and the roar of laughter making it nearly impossible to hold a normal conversation, so he and sam had to find their own little corner to tuck themselves into just to get a bit of breathing room away from the crowd. steve stares down at the ice melting in his cup, the cool condensation wetting his palms as he feels the usual frustration of his own hesitation taking hold in his chest, though he pushes it down and forces his face back into a flat, neutral expression before looking back up at his friend with a small, wry tilt to his mouth. "besides, we can't all be smooth talkers." @her0eswelcome