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 Sam arrives  at their crappy rent-by-the-week apartment at fifteen hundred hours. It’s home, however temporarily while rooming with a larger than life legend and chasing after a broken nonagenarian assassin.

The door is unlocked and broken glass is scattered across the  floor.

Shit, shit, shit.

What did you get us into this time, Cap?, he thinks quietly settling two heavy canvas grocery bags on the floor. One of the bags slouches to the side, spilling apples across the floor.

“Steve?” he says low, adrenaline spiking through his system as he unholsters his weapon, gripping it in both hands.

A low groan filters to his ears and Sam breathes out slowly, pulse jumping.

He kicks open the door with his boot. The door bounces off the wall and he barely catches it in his fingers, eyes wide in horror at the tableau before him. Steve’s naked, skin slick with sweat as he pounds into a girl, equally naked on the kitchen table. Sam’s jaw drops and Steve’s eyes snap open.

“Sorry, sorry, I didn’t know, man,” he says backing out of the kitchen and down the hall. “Oh, God, my eyes.”

 

….

 

"I’m traumatised. All the things that I have seen and it’s Captain America that has traumatised me."

"You’re a counsellor," Steve says offering up a bottle of beer.

“And?”

"Aren't you trained to deal with trauma?"

"Oh, no, I am not talking to you," Sam says grabbing the bottle and avoiding eye contact.

“There’s no one else here,” Steve says, eyes flicking over the empty livingroom.

“Cept that pretty little thing you were doing on my kitchen table.”

“It’s not your kitchen,” Steve says. As if the distinction makes things any better.

“I did not need to see your shiny white ass plowing some chick, Rogers,” Sam says pointing at Steve with the index finger of the hand he’s holding the bottle in.

“Dammit, Steve, you’re supposed to put a damn sock on the door first.”

“Sorry.”

“What the hell were you thinking, man.”

"I, uh, wasn’t thinking. M’sorry you had to see that," Steve says in that sincere tone that Sam’s beginning to despise.

“You’re damn right you weren’t thinking. There’s a code. You abide by the code, Captain…,” Sam rants on ignoring the kicked puppy look Steve throws at him. He isn’t stupid enough to fall for that shit any more. “…and anyway where did the girl come from?”

“She’s my…girlfriend,” Steve says jaw twitching and eyes straying from Sam’s to the doorway.

“Bullshit.” 

“S’true. Knew her before I met you.”

“You’re Captain Fucking America you can’t lie…also I can’t believe I just said that,” Sam says with a shudder.

“He’s not lying…at least not this time anyway,” the girl says from the doorway.

“I don’t lie,” Steve says defensively. There is a smile curving across his face though and Steve sits up a little straighter. “And you weren’t supposed to come here, Darcy.”

"Yeah, cause I’m going to listen and stay way when you say HYDRA agents shot at you."

"Only a little bit," Steve says dryly.

"Keep telling yourself that, Steven," Darcy says stepping into the room. Her cheeks are flushed pink and she fidgets with the hem of her t-shirt. She smooths out her skirt and walks over to Sam, hand extended. "Hi, Darcy Lewis. I’d say nice to meet you, but you have to admit our first introduction was a little, uh, inconvenient there."

"That’s one word for it," Sam says, shaking hands with her.

“Mentally scarring?”

“That’s more like it,” Sam nods, and Darcy smiles wide and bright. “So you and blondie bear over there?”

“Yup.”

“You know of all the people to walk in on I I can’t believe I walked in on Captain America,” Sam says with a sour twist of his mouth. The girl, Darcy, blushes brighter and rubs her free hand over her face. Sam tracks his gaze over to Steve who shrugs and reaches out for Darcy, pulling her hand down and lacing their fingers together. Its oddly intimate, which drags Sam’s brain back to the image of Captain America fucking a girl on his kitchen table.

He did not need to see that. Ever.

If you had asked him an hour ago Sam would have said that Captain America does not watch porn. He does not have sex. Nope. In the book of Sam Wilson these things do not happen and he will never ever see them.

“Captain America is a corporate tool. Steve Rogers though? He’s a jerk,” Darcy says.

“Hey,” Steve mutters crossing his arms over his chest.

“I like you."

"Thanks," Darcy grins tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"Think you can do better than him,” Sam says, grinning at Steve’s splutter.

“Yeah, but I’m kinda attached to his stupid face. And he totally rocks at moving furniture around.”

“How’d you meet?”

“I’m a SHIELD agent…former SHIELD agent,” Darcy says wincing and shaking her head. “Nerd herd, tech and analysis. Captain Rogers refused to let me go on a mission. We argued. There may have been name calling, then-”

“I think we’ve given Sam enough mental scars for today without telling him that,” Steve says pressing a bottle of beer into Darcy’s hands.

"You know, she’s out of your league, right?"

“Probably,” Steve shrugs, “thought you weren’t talking to me?”

“I’m still not talking to you,” Sam says rinsing his empty bottle in the sink and tossing it in the recycling box. “Does Natasha know?”

Steve’s face hardens and he shakes his head, “No. I tried to tell her but…”

“Right,” Sam says reaching into his pocket and pulling out a slim phone and finding Natasha’s number in the address book.

“No,” Steve says as Sam backs out of the room shutting the door between them.

“This better be important, Wilson,” Natasha says, voice husky and low on the line.

“Oh, it’s better than important. You're gonna love this. Trust me.”

“Sam!” Steve shouts after him.

Sam ignores the shout a wide grin spreading across his face. "Seems our brave leader's been keeping secrets from us."

"Talk."