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Good Old Fashioned Lover Boy

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Cameron Mitchell has seen a lot of weird shit in his life, so meeting a guy who survived being frozen in ice for the last seventy years doesn't faze him. What does surprise him is the fact that the man in question is sitting in a bar, sketching people. Art never looked that sexy before, especially wrapped up in dress greens and that hint of needing someone Cam had never been able to resist.

Deciding that he'd waited for his old friends long enough, Cam abandoned the table he'd been holding and went to the artist. "Interesting choice of places to draw," Cam observed.

Steve Rogers looked up, assessing him in one glance that took in his dress uniform. For a moment, irritation flashed across his face, only to be masked quickly as he came to attention and saluted. "My apologies, Colonel. Come to take me back?" he asked, sighing as he put away his sketchbook and pencil in a battered leather satchel.

"Back?" Startled, Cam looked at him, reading reluctance to leave in the too-rigid posture. "Back where? And for God's sake, sit down. I may be in uniform, but I'm off base and off duty, same as you."

One eyebrow rose at that. A mischievous grin quickly followed, and Steve gestured for Cam to sit down as he did likewise. "I'm supposed to be safely in a hotel downtown. I wasn't expecting an escort when I asked if I could see a friend's grandson graduate from the Academy."

"Ditched the security?" Cam grinned. "What, a guy like you can't be trusted to take care of himself for one night?"

Steve shrugged, looking more than a little irritated. "Nobody wants to listen when I tell them I'm perfectly capable of handling things."

"Oh, it's not you they're worried about," Cam assured him. "It's everyone else."

Steve sighed, then his gaze sharpened. "You sound as if you have some experience with that, Colonel Mitchell."

"Call me Cam," he offered, extending his hand to shake. "And there's no way in hell I'm going to call you Captain America all night."

A rueful laugh met his words. "Steve, please." A studied look followed. "You must have an interesting security clearance if you recognized me without my costume."

Cam shrugged. He wasn't about to tell him that he'd looked up Captain America's real identity just to be sure he wasn't going to be a threat to the Stargate program, or that he'd been curious to find out who Captain Rogers was, once the stories about a WWII soldier recovered from ice had started making the rounds. "You have an intriguing picture," he said noncommittally. "I'd wager you're probably breaking a few of your security protocols just talking to me."

Steve chuckled. "Probably. The fellows they assigned me have no imagination; makes it hard for me to want to spend any time with them. If they were more interesting, I might have invited them here with me."

"They're not paid to be interesting," Cam felt compelled to point out.

"I would rather not have them be cannon fodder, either, if it came to that," Steve countered. "Besides, how am I supposed to learn about this century's technology if no one talks to me?" Steve asked reasonably, leaning forward intently. "I may be out of date, but I'm not stupid. I did learn how to use a cell phone."

"What do you need help with?"

Steve smiled. "You have a TV? How do you turn the channels if you have one of those boxes on top?"

"Depends on whether or not someone's programmed the remote to control both the box and the TV," Cam told him.

 "You have that at your place?"

 Cam nodded, caught off guard.

 "Maybe you can show me?"

 Cam gaped at him. "Right now?"

 Steve stared at him guilelessly. "Well, they're flying me home tomorrow. I don't think you're available to come to New York, and videoconferencing is something I haven't figured out yet, but it looks pretty cool. I'm not supposed to give my phone number to strangers, so you couldn't call me." He paused. "If I'm intruding, or you live somewhere else, maybe with a girlfriend –"

 "No, it's fine, and I don't have a girlfriend," Cam said hastily. He had a key to a condo he rarely used; he usually lived in the Mountain between missions. He was abruptly grateful he'd been struck by the urge to get the hell out of the complex before he could be roped into leading yet another mission without the comfort of his regular teammates, and therefore had cleaned and stocked the condo with groceries to last a week.

 "Then what?" Steve looked at him, clearly curious. "I seriously doubt anyone with the Medal of Honor on his uniform would be inclined to want to kidnap me."

 Cam goggled, then burst into a reluctant laugh. "Okay, I'll take that as a compliment. My car's in the back parking lot."

 Twenty minutes later, during which they held a free-ranging conversation about fast cars (Steve mourned not being able to drive as much as he wanted, a regret Cam shared), tastes in music (Cam hated pop music, and Steve mentioned his friends had loaded his smartphone with what he called an "interesting" assortment), and the influence of modern media (Steve hated doing any sort of PR work, and didn't seem to think things had improved much), they were in Cam's condo. Somehow, Cam was never quite sure how, the instruction on how to use multiple TV remotes morphed into a lesson in the bedroom.

Steve Rogers, he decided later, was a wicked, wicked man who should come with a warning label. Under that gentle, inquisitive nature was a sensuous, quietly determined man who knew what he wanted, and had apparently more than enough time to figure out that, at least in this century, no one was going to kill him for going after it. Evidently, what he wanted that night was Cameron, naked and writhing under him, falling hopelessly in lust with him, wanting him as he'd never wanted anyone else as Cam learned yet again that sometimes what he needed most was another man's touch. It didn't help, either, that the man served him breakfast in bed – okay, so it was toast, but the thought was there, along with an apology for not making eggs; Steve didn't know how to work an electric stove.

The only thing Cam could do in return – aside from kissing Steve thoroughly and keeping him from getting completely dressed until it was almost too late – was to make sure Steve got to the Academy on time, and not in trouble for it. Steve was profuse in his gratitude, but it wasn't until later, when Cam went to put his uniform away, that he found the sketch Steve had done of him, sprawled out on the bed and sleeping. A phone number was under the sketch in lieu of a signature, and Cam smiled and started to plot how to get to New York.