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Steve wakes up slowly, gently, floating in sensation: the old quilt soft across his waist and a warm hand blanketing his nape, the lumpy mattress bulging beneath his shoulder and a tingle of mustache beside his mouth, the pillow bunched beneath his head and soft lips skimming his cheek. He smiles, as the old house creaks and murmurs in the predawn breeze, under Sam's mouth as Sam breathes a chuckle to him and kisses him properly; he shifts to his side so he can reach for Sam, so Sam can wrap those strong arms around him as he pulls Sam into their bed.

Sam's fingertips run a tickle up over Steve's ribs -- he's one of the few who can actually tickle Steve -- and Steve crushes his shout against Sam's generous mouth, Sam muffles his answering laugh around Steve's tongue. They have to be quiet. This old house is full of their ragtag team, asleep along this hallway full of bedrooms. Scott and Hope are across the way, Nat's with Clint's entire family two doors up in the master bedroom, and just thinking of all those kids helps steady Steve's nerves and hands a tiny bit, enough to push down his noise, enough to win the little shoving contest and roll Sam over under him, tucked between his thighs.

Sam bites his lip for it, just hard enough to spark down his nerves, to heat up his blood. Steve drags his head back to feel the sweet scrape of Sam's teeth along his lip, hoists up his eyelids and looks at Sam in the soft predawn light, the arch of his forehead and the drape of his eyelids, the shapely slopes of his cheekbones and nose and every crisp little hair outlining his lush mouth. It's just bright enough to see the soft pink glowing through the rich brown as Sam shapes his lips to a smile, then a grin, shaking his head just a little, squeezing Steve around the waist as he mutters, "Man, I can feel you looking."

"'Course I am," Steve murmurs back, plants his elbows and watches Sam breathe like he's never been so lucky as to see him before. "When my best guy's such a looker."

"Oh God not the '40's lines," Sam moans, warm hands skimming up Steve's bare back, grips Steve's head as he laughs and hauls him down into a rougher, hotter kiss. He rocks his hips down just a bit as Steve rocks his up in the wonderfully familiar horizontal dance, getting them lined up through their clothes, and the first sensitive brush of dick on dick makes Steve's breath catch with delight, just like every time.

Sam gasps too, over Steve's parted lips, hums determination as he grips Steve's waist, and firmly rolls them onto their sides. "Where's the bottle?" he asks, voice firm under huskiness. He's right, they don't have much time.

That doesn't mean Steve has to go down easy. "But I wanted --" Strong fingers sliding into his pants win a tiny stutter, and Sam presses a smirk into his cheek; Steve can take flurries of hits without flinching, but pleasure always sweetly shocks him. "Wanna taste you," he whispers low, and feels Sam's abs clench behind his wrist as he mirrors the move. "Don't you want--"

Sam stops his mouth with a deep kiss, pulling his hand out of Steve's pants to strip off his jockeys, and Steve reaches to help him, four hands moving in their customary smooth tandem. He could almost, never, take it for granted. "Baby," Sam rumbles, deep and sweet, hooking a knee behind Steve's, peeling Steve's sleep pants down his hips, "course I do. Tonight. We'll get an hour to ourselves," words between kisses, "hide away and lock the door, just the two of us."

Steve knows Sam knows better. They really wouldn't dare leave everyone unguarded like that, not while they're on the run. He knows Sam's only kissing him now because Sharon's holding down the fort, that she deserves her sleep as much as any of their flock of fugitives. He blinks and finds Sam looking at him, sees his own rueful smile reflected in those soulful dark eyes, and kisses Sam, a little apology, lots of gratitude, all love.

He kisses Sam, crossing his arms behind Sam's waist to grip two springy handfuls of his muscular ass, and Sam kisses him back, reaching over his shoulder, bringing back a wet hand to wrap around both their dicks, lined up just right.

Sam strokes slowly, a moment's indulgence like they have all the time in the world, slick pleasure so strong it makes Steve shiver from his core out to every edge. Sam smiles over his mouth, speeding up smoothly, and Steve grips him tighter, their chests pressing tightly on every breath, and watches his face. Every flutter of eyelashes, every crinkle across his wide intelligent forehead, little creases falling in at the corners of his eyes as he rocks into it. Steve's hips are already rolling, his chest heaving, dick sliding and nipples sparking alongside Sam's, nose tucked alongside nose, but he shoves his eyelids up and keeps watching every flickering delight race across Sam's face.

Until Sam groans deep, vibrating into Steve's guts and heart, tucks his face into Steve's neck and presses the bright edges of his teeth either side of the tendon there. Steve's breath catches on the feel of it, his dick throbs with it, and Sam moans into his skin, plush lips and sharp teeth, as he shudders into coming, spurting over Steve's abs, over his aching dick, and that's it, that's always it. Steve rolls his face down to Sam's shoulder a bare moment before the glad cry wrenches out of him as bliss pours through him, pulse by pulse.

Sam laughs softly against Steve's throat, just a little breathless, peels his sticky fingers away and drags over the softness of his well-worn jockeys. He hums, a deep contented sound, as he wipes up most of the stickiness, and Steve strokes his lips up Sam's strong throat and along the edge of his beard, laying soft kisses all the way up to his cheekbone as he rumbles in answer.

Turning his mouth towards Steve's, Sam yawns, and Steve snickers, because he can. Sam shoves him in the chest, and just as quickly closes the distance again for one more luscious kiss.

But he yawns again and Steve pulls back to look at him, smiling and easy, and kisses his nose while wriggling back into the sleep pants. Sam exhales a soft little laugh and gives Steve a welcome, unnecessary boost over himself as Steve climbs out of bed, trailing his hand loosely down Steve's shoulder and arm to catch his hand.

"Look at you," Sam murmurs, eyes bright and intent like he's memorizing Steve all over again. "Fresh as a daisy. It's this bed, isn't it? Full of lumps and mashed springs." Steve grins. "Older than you are and got here the hard way."

Dazzled by sheer emotion, Steve has to look down as he answers, "It's you." But a memory flickers sharply, and he has to ask, "You ever regret asking me that?" before he can look up again. "About my bed?"

Sam hasn't wavered, still looking at Steve with that tender comprehension from the day they met, the day he first asked. Another breath, two, and he shuts his eyes, and something in Steve braces for his warm hand to pull away, for the answer that question, this whole fugitive life, deserves.

Sam opens his eyes again and Steve's chest unlocks. "I look at you," he says, the light in his dark eyes as warm as a kiss, "and I couldn't if I tried."

Steve's heart is too full to speak, aching with happiness. He leans in, and Sam curls his other hand behind Steve's nape for one more soft, lingering kiss.

Then he shifts it to Steve's chest and pushes. "Go on, lemme sleep," he says, ostentatiously shutting his eyes as he rolls to his other side.

"I suppose." Steve pulls the quilt up around Sam's shoulders, because he can, and pulls himself away. A quick regulation shower, a shave and change, and he'll go relieve Sharon and keep watch until breakfast --

-- a flicker of translucent red curls into a little heart, spinning in the air between his nose and the door until it winks out. Apparently someone woke up. Feeling his cheeks glow in answer, Steve thinks 'good morning, mind your own business,' at Wanda, and feels her answering giggle as he heads out, his heart full of warmth and Sam at rest behind him, into their new day.