#suitfer

Lying low while it all calms down, and while Natasha and Bucky keep an eye on the Hydra targets.

If anyone can manage to do that without being noticed, it’s them, Steve knows that.

And if he’s being totally honest, there are worse things than being stuck in a cabin with Sam Wilson.

Sam who has never left Steve’s side, even when the world said that Steve Rogers was not to be trusted.

Sam whose faith never wavered.

Sam who only tries to support and help him, while keeping all of their spirits up, even in the face of impossible odds.

Sam Wilson.

Sam who has managed to find a book and is currently sitting in one of the rickety seats in the cabin, legs folded under his body while immersing himself in it.

Steve finds his notebook in his rucksack and sketches him while he can.

God knows how Sam will react when he spots Steve drawing him.

For now, he focuses on the lines of Sam’s body, honed by the military training and by his natural lean build--lean muscles, bulging whenever Sam twitches or flicks over a page, but always worthy of the finest sculptor to save for posterity.

Just one man’s opinion.

“Cap.”

Just look at those curves, those lines, they speak of strength in their fluidity …

“Steve.”

“Uh?”

Sam’s eyes are still firmly on the page in front of him, but there is a crooked smile tilting the corner of his mouth up. “I see you.”

“I should hope so.”

“Smartass.”

“That’s me.”

Sam’s laugh echoes in the cabin, and even if there is a stray line zigzagging across Steve’s sketch, he really can’t complain.

---

Two days turn into five, and Sam is about to lose his mind.

Not about being in the cabin, not about being forced to take a break from everything.

About his companion.

Oh, it’s not that Steve is being insufferable--far from it actually, he’s probably the best roommate Sam ever had in his life--it’s quite the contrary really.

Steve is far too likable for Sam’s wellbeing.

He’s so charming and, frankly, adorable, that Sam is about to make a big mistake.

Like letting those feelings bubbling up in his chest loose and act on what they’re suggesting--kiss those plump, pink lips, for starters.

Explore those muscles (and see if Steve is still as ticklish as Bucky seemed to suggest).

Wrap himself in that big frame--or spoon it, Sam isn’t picky, and Steve seems like the kind of guy who could use a good spooning.

“You okay?”

“Sweet Jesus!”

Sam nearly jumps out of his skin as Steve leans over the back of the couch where Sam was daydreaming.

“Sorry,” Steve says, resting his chin over his crossed arms, and though his words are apologetic, there is twinkle of mischief in his eyes that belies it.

“No you’re not.”

“I didn’t expect to perform a jumping roll maneuver,” Steve says, and now there is laughter making his voice shake, the asshole, “but no, I’m not exactly sorry.”

Sam lets out a weak chuckle and leans back on his hand. “Fine, you joker, what did you want?”

Steve looks lost for a second. “Uh?”

“For starling me like that? Did you want something?”

Steve straightens up, and there is a very suspicious blush on the back of his neck. “N-no, just checking on you, partner.”

“Uh-huh.”

---

Steve is going to lose his mind.

He thought it would be the settling into a new century that would send him to the cuckoos’ nest, but nooo, it’s Sam Freakin’ Wilson.

With his cheekbones and his soft eyes and his deep, rumbling smile, and the way he holds his glass and the way he sips his drink, so gentlemanly but still, a fire behind the manners …

“Ugh.”

“What’s wrong, Cap?”

Speak of the Devil …

A devil wearing wings, how ironic.

That would make an interesting drawing though …

“Rogers? Steve, are you listening to me?”

Steve shakes his head slightly, trying to banish the images of Sam posing for him, wearing the wings and nothing else from his mind. “Hey.”

“You okay?”

Steve smiles at the echo of him shocking Sam only one day ago--what was Sam daydreaming about?

In his wildest dreams, Steve likes to imagine that Sam was thinking about him.

But that’s only a dream, isn’t it.

“I’m good, Sam.”

---

It all comes down to a rainstorm, on day 8 of their … “retreat.”

Because as much as Sam likes to take pride in the fact that he has a good grip on himself, his feelings and his impulse, there is a part of him--a rather big part of him, really--that cannot leave Steve Rogers by himself when he’s shaking under a blanket because of the thunder raging outside.

“Hey,” he says softly, sitting on the bed and putting one hand on Steve’s shoulder. “It’s okay, it’s going to end soon.”

Steve looks at him, eyes wide and so terribly young--too often, Sam forgets that Steve is only a twenty-something year old trying to be the hero people want him to be.

Sam lies down on the bed next to him and gestures for Steve to come closer. “C’m’here.”

Steve snuggles up to him like a young puppy, and they fall asleep like that, tangled into each other.

The following morning, though.

The following morning, Sam can tell the moment Steve is awake, by the sudden tension in his posture.

And then, to his complete surprise, Steve relaxes again, rubbing the tip of his nose against Sam’s chest.

“Mornin’.”

“Hmmmmmorning.”

It’s so sweet, really, Sam could get use to it.

“Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“May I kiss you?”

Sam looks down, and Steve looks up, and there is no trace of the pain and hurt from last night--just those big blue eyes, looking hopeful and tender.

How is Sam supposed to deny them anything?

Particularly when he has been thinking about doing that very same thing for the better portion of the past two days (and more if he’s being honest with himself)?

Well, if his wishes meet Steve’s …