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Another night, another shitty rented room. Not quite clean, reeking of stale cigarette smoke that clung to the walls and cheap curtains. Another morning, grabbing a cup of shitty cheap coffee for the road, either burnt and thick as motor oil or thin and watery. Sam’s not sure which of those options is worse anymore. Getting into the car, looking doubtfully at a paper map because service is shit out here in the middle of nowhere, trying to bite his tongue to stop from making a sarcastic quip that's only going to earn him a heartbroken look from those cornflower baby blues of Steve’s. He only succeeds some of the time. driving till the sun runs out, keep driving till neither of them have it in them to keep focused on the road for much longer. Sometimes they get on a plane, sometimes they switch cars. It all depended on the intel Natasha fed them, or what clues they pieced together on their own. It’s become a routine no matter what corner of the globe they’re searching. Work to the point of exhaustion, get a terrible night’s sleep, keep going.
They make it to another shitty motel, Sam tried to grab a couple hours sleep on the world's worst mattress. He could swear he felt the springs poking at him through the padding. As soon as he managed to turn his brain off and drift into a fitful sleep, the alarm blared out again, telling them it’s time to hit the road. Familiar routine. Sam jumped into a cold shower, too used to it to bother waiting in vain for the water to warm up and knowing as miserable as it is, this will wake him up better than the coffee. Anytime they end up following a trail somewhere public, they each slip on a nondescript ball cap and some shades, covered in layers of ill-fitting clothing.
"You probably wouldn't have to worry about being recognized if you grew your hair out," Sam remarked mildly as he dusted soft blonde hairs off of the cheap clippers they'd picked up at a Walmart back in the states, "No one expects America's golden boy to be rocking hippie hair. could grow out a beard, too. More effective than the hats and glasses, you know?"
"Do you want me to grow my hair out?" Steve asks doubtfully, rubbing a self conscious hair over the freshly trimmed stubble on the back of his head.
"Just a suggestion, man," Sam said, now dusting Steve’s shoulders off with a motel towel that had a suspicious stain Sam was trying not to think too hard on, "Our disguises aren't exactly foolproof."
"A beard tho?" Steve looked critically into the mirror, tilting his head back and forth under the harsh yellow of the overhead light like he was trying to picture how it'd look.
Sam takes Steve by the shoulders and turns him around, taking his chin in hand and turning his face himself, pretending to be thinking it over, "Nah, you're right, you couldn't pull it off. Can you even grow a beard?"
The slightly worried expression on Steve’s face flattened out in response, eyes battling against amusement at the dig, "Nope, smooth as a baby. Serum thing, I guess."
Sam snorted at the dry sarcasm, "You go through the motions of shaving every morning for fun?"
"Morning rituals,” Steve answered, a smile dancing somewhere in his eyes, “Something's gotta maintain that sense of normalcy."
"Here I was thinking you went and got your chest waxed on a regular basis," Sam teased, setting the clippers down on the countertop, "No idea where I imagined you got the time, but something had to explain how you have that perfectly smooth and hairless chest."
The way this comment hit the man was like watching something beautiful unfold. a delicate pink quickly flooded his face, right to the tips of his ears. His mouth fell open, slack with shock, then snapped shut with an audible click. The blush deepened and his mouth opened and shut a few more times, like he kept trying to say something but couldn't think of just what he was supposed to say. There was exactly zero part of Sam that wanted to relieve Steve of the embarrassment he was fumbling through, Steve’s chin was still held securely in Sam’s hand. Sam smoothed the hand along Steve’s jawline, feeling the sandpaper-like promise of stubble under his skin. It was late at night, and they were promised an early rise to catch an early flight to chase another inevitable dead-end.
"Woops," he commented dryly, smirking at the other man, "Blew your cover there, baby face."
Steve’s face took on a different kind of heat, one that Sam wouldn't want to make a move on, in the off chance that he misread it. Luckily, he's spared that by Steve closing that gap between them himself, catching Sam’s lips in his own. Sam responded enthusiastically, tongue darting out in question against Steve’s lips, which part easily to let him in. From there it's a desperate clash of teeth and tongue, Sam’s hand moving to hook around the back of Steve’s neck to keep him close while Steve’s hands toyed with the hem of Sam’s shirt, asking without words. Sam took a moment, indulging himself by biting a bruising mark into Steve’s neck. He knew it wouldn't last, but then again neither will this.
The gasps that escape Steve were light and airy, turning to a whining pitch, Sam growling something deep in return. Then he broke away, raising his arms to allow Steve to lift his shirt off and backing away out of the bathroom and into the room with the two equally awful beds with their scratchy sheets, landing on the nearest one. He looked at Steve standing in the dingy little bathroom, haloed in the slightly flickering yellow light from the overhead fixture, lips bitten bright pink and pupils blown wide with lust. Steve stripped his own shirt off, ditching it on the bathroom floor on top of Sam’s discarded one and walked towards the bed, undoing the button on his jeans as he did so. Sam was kneeling on the mattress, ready to meet the other man and pull him down onto the bed and lock him into another clashing kiss.
Strong, warm hands framed his face, tilting it up, and it felt like Steve was trying to pour himself into Sam’s mouth, as if he just couldn’t get close enough. He leaned his head to the side when Steve started mouthing towards his throat, exposing the skin there and letting out a moan as Steve sucked a matching mark to the one Sam gave him. Sam’s hands wandered south, skimming under the edge of Steve’s briefs.
“And here I was worried you were completely hairless below your eyebrows,” Sam tried for dry humor again, but it came out a bit too husky, voice stained with desire. The effect altogether sounded ridiculous, and he snorted at himself.
He felt Steve’s smile against his skin, felt him shake a little with laughter, eventually collapsing onto the bed in a fit of somewhat delirious giggles. Sam stretched out beside him, smiling at the sight of Steve Rogers looking carefree and happy for a brief moment in time, laughing at some dumb shit he just said. It’s been a long few months. Something in his expression must show Sam’s hand here a bit too much, because when Steve opened his eyes again, the corners still crinkled with laughter, he stilled somewhat, his own expression turning something a bit reverent. They pulled each other into another passionate kiss, Steve grabbing one of Sam’s hands and guiding it to where his dick was straining against the fabric of his underwear.
Sam took the hint, palming over it lightly, teasing, and earned himself a pretty little gasp escaping Steve’s lips against his own. He hummed in response, taking the initiative to give the movement a little more friction this time. The briefs got roughly shoved down, then the hand in question was brought back up, Sam pulling away from the kiss to spit into it. He took Steve’s length, curled his hand around it and started working it slowly, watching Steve’s face as his eyes fluttered shut and a moan fell out of his mouth.
A thumb hooked over the head of Steve’s dick and smearing precum with Sam’s spit to slick over the length, still going at a torturously slow pace to try to savor whatever the hell this was. Sam was torn between catching Steve’s mouth in another crushing kiss and tasting the little noises he made for himself, and keeping watch from this angle to commit the man’s slack jawed responses to memory.
“Sam, please,” Steve whined, breaking through the reverie as he bucked his hips up with desperation, trying to chase more friction, “Please.”
“Yeah, I got you, Cap,” Sam told him reassuringly, picking the pace up and putting his unoccupied thumb against Steve’s bitten bottom lip experimentally.
Steve’s eyes shot open, the blue blown almost completely black, as he wrapped his lips around the digit, sucking it into his mouth and hollowing his cheeks in doing so.
“Fuck,” Sam said, feeling his own desire rise, realizing he was still wearing his own jeans as they started to feel uncomfortably tight.
Nothing he could do about that now without breaking this spell, so he bit his lip as he kept his pace with Steve, their eyes locked together as the tension in the room seemed to hit it’s boiling point. Then Steve’s eyes fluttered shut, his mouth falling open once more to let out breathy little gasps that seemed to signify how close he was.
“Damn, you look good like this, you know,” Sam commented, his own voice gruff, “So fucking good, all blissed out by my touch.”
Steve let out a cry at that, coming hard in hot spurts striping across his bare abdomen and chest, shuddering as Sam kept working him through the aftershocks. Sam kept his hand moving, watching as Steve twitched with oversensitivity from the continued contact but didn’t pull away, moans still pouring out of him like he was enjoying every second of touch no matter how overstimulated. Finally, Sam brought his hand away from Steve’s length, dragging two of his fingers through the mess on the other man’s stomach then sucking them clean. Steve watched this happen, expression on his face shifting quickly from satisfied to a renewed hunger.
“That was fun,” Sam told him, as if his mouth hadn’t just gone dry with the way Steve was looking at Sam like he wanted to devour him.
Steve moved with surprising agility for someone who’d just appeared boneless not even a minute ago, taking Sam by the shoulders and moving him so he was propped against the headboard, then started to work undoing the button of Sam’s jeans. Sam helpfully lifted his hips to make the process of pulling them down easier, letting Steve do most of the work. As Steve tossed the discarded pants to the floor, he looked up at Sam through his eyelashes, dipping down to take the elastic band of Sam’s underwear in his teeth and pull them down as well, and Sam’s brain all but short circuits at the sight.
“God damn ,” he lets out, like words of praise, before Steve puts his hand around the bottom of his shaft, wrapping his lips around the head and swirling his tongue at the tip, teasing a bit.
Yeah, Sam’s brain is short circuiting alright, he lets out an incoherent moan that he’s sure was meant to be words but he just can’t figure out what words it was meant to be. Steve proceeds to take Sam’s length down his throat without gagging, and Sam doesn’t have the mental capacity to think about what it means that Steve either has no gag reflex or he’s had enough experience to bypass it, so he files that away to ruminate on later. Right now he’s lost on the sensation of Steve’s lips dragging up and down as he bobs his head with a practiced efficiency, and yeah, that’s definitely something he’s curious about. Captain America is extremely proficient at sucking dick, and Sam is getting a thorough demonstration to prove it.
Steve hums around Sam, the sound filthy and addictive and the vibrations of it tear a moan from his chest as Steve bobs down to the root again, swallowing around him. Sam could swear the man was trying to end him as Steve slowly dragged himself back up, pulling off of him with an audible pop.
“I want you to come for me,” he said, voice husky, working a hand over Sam’s spit slick length.
That wasn’t going to be a problem, Sam could feel he was close already, and he nodded dumbly, eyes fluttering shut. Steve took him into his mouth again, renewing his pace with a determined focus. A handful of sheets in each hand, Sam tipped his head back, mouth falling open to lose desperate moans and Steve hummed appreciatively around him, not shying off from showing off how deep he could take it. That was all it really took, the feeling of Steve’s throat working around him again and Sam was gone, vision whiting out a bit as he cried Steve’s name.
Sam felt all floaty from it for a while, gradually coming back down from his high to see Steve looking up at him, wiping spit and come from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, “You look like the cat that got the canary, man,” Sam commented, his own voice a little rough.
Steve’s smile was surprisingly sharp, “That was… nice.”
“Yeah?” Sam asked, laughing through winded breath, heart still racing a bit, “I’m glad it was... nice .”
The other man’s cheeks turned a bit pink again, but his smile stayed the same as he lay at Sam’s side. Sam took note that Steve looked achingly hard again, cock leaking precum. Apparently he’d really been enjoying getting Sam off, and super soldiers had a hell of a short refractory period, or something.
“You mind if I…” Steve had followed Sam’s eyeline, and wrapped his hand around himself, tugging a bit lazily.
“That’s fine, I’m good to watch you, Steve.”
There was some inherent truth to watching someone take care of themself, a practiced efficiency to get the quickest possible burst of pleasure from familiar movements. Steve closed his eyes and bit is bottom lip, and Sam nestled close to him, finding the crook in his neck where he’d left a love bite before and renewing the effort, then taking one of Steve’s nipples between two of his fingers and rolling it experimentally, both actions rewarded with pretty little noises and Steve working himself faster, coming hard and fast.
“Sam…” Steve said as he came back down, breathless and soft.
Sam pressed a tender kiss to Steve’s forehead before standing up, “I’m gonna get something to clean all this up.”
He padded barefoot over to the bathroom, trying not to think about how nasty that carpeting probably is, dampening down a towel under the trickle of the terrible water pressure from the sink. When he turned back, Steve’s eyes were closed and he was snoring lightly. Damn, Sam wished he could’ve at least held off until he’d come back, they could’ve both gotten under the relatively cleaner covers of the other bed. Steve didn’t stir as Sam ran the damp towel over his chest and abdomen, cleaning away the streaks of fresh and dried come that were clinging to his skin. Kinda nasty, Sam’s a good friend for that. Even if they had both just been… well, anyway. Sam cleaned himself up then slipped on a pair of boxers, getting into the other bed. No need for them both to sleep in the mess they’d just made.
The alarm blared out far too soon, Sam feeling groggy and worn out. He looked over to the other bed, saw it had already been made with military efficiency. That bathroom door was closed, and he could hear the shower running. He hoped futilely there would be enough hot water left for him. There never was, not in these shitty rooms.
They’re out the door before the sun is up, Steve behind the wheel. Neither of them bring it up. They make their flight, meet up with Natasha in their flimsy disguises, trying to look casual as they sip coffee outside a cafe. The renowned spy doesn’t say anything, but the moment she saw them she looked between the two of them, eyebrow hitching almost unnoticeably. Sam knew immediately that she could tell something had changed, but the redhead said nothing, just slid a manila envelope across the table, staring Sam down with her even green eyes. When she hugged him goodbye she whispered something in his ear so low he’s not even sure if he heard it.
Be careful.
It doesn’t become a regular thing. But it does happen again, one of them breaking and pushing the other against a wall, hot and desperate. And again, one cradling the other’s face gently in their hands, reverent and gentle. Be careful. That couldn’t be what she actually said, given the lives they lead, given what they’re doing, who they’re looking for. After everything they’ve been through, isn’t it a bit late for that?
Sam and Steve don’t talk about it, they never talk about it. Once one of them leaves the bed, it’s like it never happened. It’s not a regular thing, it's not something they talk about.
Be careful. He can hear Natasha’s low whisper as he looked over at the other man, silhouetted against the setting sun in the driver’s side window, lighting up his features with a rosy hue. His heart has never been careful.