Chapter Text
Natasha is already gone by the time they file into the dining room for breakfast. They've even taken her chair. Sam starts to set his tray down in his usual spot, but a glare from Maria freezes him in place.
"It's taken," she says. Tony swings his legs up onto it, scuffling his feet so dirt falls off the soles of his shoes and onto the seat.
Sam raises his eyebrows. "By who?"
Maria shrugs. “Your pick,” she says. Bruce looks at him with the same kicked-puppy expression from last night. Clint glares blearily at him through the steam rising up from his coffee.
Sam thinks about arguing, but really, what would be the point? He turns, meaning to go sit at Pierce and Sitwell's table—it's clearly where they expect him to end up—when a thin hand on his arm tugs him in the opposite direction.
"Come on," Steve says. Bucky lurks behind him. How he manages to lurk in full fluorescent lighting Sam will never understand. "We have an extra chair."
Breakfast is quiet, punctuated by the occasional whisper from the main table and Steve's pencil scratching softly on paper. He seems to forget that the food is there, taking absent little bites of toast in between lines. Every few minutes Bucky nudges his plate towards him, a silent reminder. Sam eats mechanically, not tasting anything. He's not used to being disliked. He doesn't enjoy the feeling.
"I didn't rat her out," he says at one point. He's not talking to anyone in particular and doesn’t expect a response, but Steve looks up at him. He looks surprised.
"I know," he replies, sounding puzzled. Like he doesn't know why Sam even bothered to mention it.
After a few days it becomes routine. Sam pairs with Steve during GST, and they work through their flashcards together. The two of them sit with Bucky during group, a chair left conspicuously empty between Sam and Maria. Somehow they end up spending time together during their free hours, too, the three of them sitting out on the hill or the porch together. He wonders occasionally how Bucky feels about this, but he doesn't seem to be glaring at him much more than usual, and Sam figures that, based on what he knows of the guy, if he disapproves he'll let him know sooner rather than later.
He's not sure how Pierce feels about their "unholy trinity," as he overhears Tony calling it one day. He seems to approve of Sam and Steve; he nods at them sometimes, a little, pleased tilt of the head that Sam isn't sure he's supposed to even notice. But he still seems to have it out for Bucky, which means that, by extension, he has it out for Steve, too. Sam gets used to cutting in when their exchanges get too heated (on Steve's part, anyway), carefully redirecting the conversation so no one gets punched. The easiest way is to make Steve laugh.
Sam discovers that he likes to try to make Steve laugh, and that it isn't hard. He's got a trick to brushing the eraser dust off of his sketchbook, an odd flick of the wrist that somehow doesn't seem to interrupt the movement of his pencil at all. He gets annoyed every time Bucky tries to slip him his dessert, but accepts it if it's cherry Jell-O. His handwriting is loopy and distinctive, his printing absurdly messy. He never finishes his carrots. When he is thinking about something his hand drifts up to his mouth, his long fingers brushing a gentle rhythm against his lower lip.
Sam tries not to see the things he sees. He really does.
He doesn't think about the dream that much at all, either. Except sometimes when he's about to fall asleep. Or when he sees Steve crouching down to tie an errant shoelace. Or when he brushes his bangs out of his eyes. Or when the light hits him a certain way and turns him gold. Or when he accidentally smears charcoal along the sharp line of his jaw. Or when his brows knit together as he processes something Sitwell says, or when he draws a slightly deeper breath for an angry retort, or when he ducks his head down bashfully when someone compliments him, or-
Almost never, is his point.
He’s doing really well, when you think about it.
***
It turns out Natasha was right about paintball.
"Okay, boys!" Sitwell shouts. The field behind the house has been set up with wooden barricades, uneven towers of rubber tires, fox holes, and miscellaneous piles of debris for cover. "Three per team, shirts versus skins. In the middle of the field"—he points at a plywood cut-out meant to look like a castle—“is the fortress. Inside the fortress is the flag. In order to win, at least one member of your team has to retrieve the flag and bring it back to Home Base." He indicates a white chalk circle on the grass in front of them. "Three hits mean you're dead. You have five minutes to take cover and strategize; if anyone shoots during those five minutes, they're disqualified. Now, if you want to choose your teams-"
"We already have," Tony says firmly, indicating Clint and Bruce. Sam glances over at Steve and Bucky. Bucky meets his gaze and shrugs. Steve takes a deep breath, squaring his shoulders.
"We call shirts," he says. The words are barely out of his mouth before Tony's is off and on the ground. Clint's follows a second after; Bruce is more reluctant, peeling out of his button-down slowly, his face reddening. Tony wolf-whistles.
"That's right, Banner, take it off! Take it all off!" he calls. Bruce's blush goes right from his face to the top of his chest.
"That's enough, Tony," Sitwell says wearily. He hands them each a pair of goggles, a gun, and two reloadable cartridges. They've all seen better days. The shells in the cartridges look softer than the ones he’s seen on TV, their casings looser. "Remember, this is war. This is how boys become men. Show no mercy, take no prisoners, and bring back that flag. The team that wins will get a reward." He waits for them all to settle the goggles onto their faces and then nods. "Head for cover."
The teams retreat. Sam, Steve, and Bucky hide behind one of the wooden barricades, which has been painted—what else—baby blue.
"Okay, so we have to strategize," Steve says, panting a little. The area behind the barricade is small, and his leg is brushing against Sam's. It’s just enough to be distracting. "Any ideas?"
"Shoot them," Bucky suggests, clutching his paintball gun in his good hand.
Steve shakes his head. "We need a little more to go on, Buck, sorry."
Bucky raises an eyebrow. "Shoot them in the face?"
"Split up," Sam says. "They'll be expecting us all to stick together. I'll lead them around the perimeter. Bucky, how good is your aim?"
"It's really good," Steve says, sounding proud. "He can get paper into the waste basket from across the room."
Sam's not sure if that particular skill will be that useful in this instance, but what the hell. "Okay, you can cover Steve. Stay high, pick off anyone who gets near him. Steve, you can get the flag. Keep low to the ground, move in short bursts, and only shoot if you have to. Otherwise you'll give yourself awa-" He breaks off, realizing that both boys are staring at him. "What?"
"Nothing." Steve looks like he's fighting a laugh. Bucky emphatically does not. "You played this before?"
Sam shakes his head. "Never."
"So you're just naturally commanding?"
Is he teasing him? Sam looks at him. The corners of his mouth are twitching. He's totally teasing. "Just call me Captain," Sam replies, and is rewarded by a full-on grin.
"Thirty seconds!" Sitwell bellows from home base. Sam grips his gun tighter, settling into a one-handed runner's crouch.
"We all good?" he murmurs. Steve nods, hoisting his gun to his chest. Bucky doesn't respond, but his eyes are already moving, seeking out high spots. "Alright, ready, set-"
"GO!"
Sam bursts out from behind the barricade, zigzagging between the obstacles on the field. A shell hits the top of a tire pile behind him, bursting red and yellow. Another whistles past his ear as he dodges around a pile of old bricks and broken planks. He whoops, feeling adrenaline surge through him. It's like being on the field in the rain, knowing you could go down any minute, not caring. Leaping over a foxhole, he banks a sharp left and doubles back, hearing feet pounding after him. He turns as he runs, chancing a quick look behind him. Bruce is tailing him, his glasses bouncing awkwardly inside the plastic goggles. He has his gun raised up to eye level. Sam fires off a quick shot, hearing it smack wetly into Bruce's chest.
"Sorry, man," he yells, turning again to cut through the middle of the obstacle course. With no shirt on the impact must have been pretty painful.
A sharp sting, and red explodes on his collarbone. He curses, casting his eyes around for the shooter. He doesn't have to search long. Tony is perched on top of one of the barricades.
"That's right!" he yells, waving his gun triumphantly. "That's what you get when you-"
Three shots hit him in the back in quick succession.
"You're out, Tony!" Sitwell yells. Sam can't see Bucky, but nods thankfully in his general direction anyway as he ducks behind one of the tire piles. He catches a glimpse of blue through the obstacles--Steve, crawling close to the ground, halfway to the fortress. Unfortunately, he's not the only one who spots him.
"Clint!" Tony yells, halfway off the field. "He's crawling, look, shoot him!"
"Tony, you can't give advice when you're out," Sitwell says exasperatedly, but he's too late; Clint's head and arm appear at the top of one of the piles of debris, his gun pointed at Steve.
Sam's not sure who shoots first, him or Bucky. His goes wide, but Bucky's gets Clint on the crown of his head, red spattering down his face. He disappears again with a shout, either of pain or frustration, but not before shooting at Sam. It hits him in the stomach, making him hiss with pain.
"These people are begging for a lawsuit," he mutters. He may not have played paintball before, but he's pretty sure you're supposed to have more equipment than a pair of goggles. He edges carefully around one of the barriers, keeping his gun raised high. One more shot and he's dead. He's got to get to the fortress; Steve is probably already there, and he'll need more cover to get back to base.
A shot rings out from somewhere farther in, and he hears Bruce cry out again. "One more, Bruce," Sitwell calls. He heads toward the noise, moving in a half-crouch. Chances are if Banner's out there rather than close to him, he's headed towards the flag as well.
He's almost at the fortress when another shot bursts right over his head, making him duck. Abandoning his stance, he races around the edge of the plywood cutout, hearing more shells spatter against its surface. None hit him.
"YOU WERE IN THE ARCHERY CLUB!" Tony roars in the distance. "GET IN THE GAME, BARTON!"
He collapses behind the fortress, sweaty and breathless. Steve is sitting behind it, clutching the flag in his lap. Sam looks at it and makes a face. It's pink and blue.
"You'd think they'd get sick of the colour scheme sometime," he says. "Where's Bucky?"
"Here." Bucky seems to have mastered Natasha's trick of appearing out of nowhere. He squats next to Steve, resting his weight on his gun. There are two splatters of paint on the front of his shirt. Sam checks Steve. There’s no paint on him at all.
"You didn't get hit?" he asks. Steve shakes his head, resettling his goggles on his nose.
"I had good cover," he says wryly. "Besides, I was too low to the ground. You guys should take the flag to base. I'll stay out here and distract them."
"No," Bucky says, glowering. It's an absolute no.
Steve argues anyway.
"It makes sense," he insists, his jaw set stubbornly. "I know I'm slow, but it'll give you guys time to get back to base."
Bucky says nothing.
"Buck," Steve says, "nobody's hit me yet. I still have three shots left on me. If you two get hit, even once, you're out."
Bucky says nothing.
"You know this is the only way," Steve says. Sam hears a noise in the grass outside the fortress. Someone's getting close. "I can buy you time."
Bucky says nothing.
"I know you're thinking about that time with Kevin Shea," Steve says, nearly dancing in place with impatience. "This is different, okay? I'm not going to break a rib. I'll be fine."
"Out of curiousity," Sam says, genuinely interested, "is he answering you telepathically or have you just had this argument before?"
"Had it before," Bucky says. The ghost of a smile lights on his mouth. Paired with his sweat-drenched hair and the eyeliner smeared down his cheeks, it looks slightly unsettling. "Stubborn punk."
Steve rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm stubborn," he growls. "Not like you, you're just-"
Sam sighs. "Okay, so here's the thing," he says. Whoever it is outside is getting closer. Clint or Bruce, he wonders? "You guys can either have this argument for the rest of the day and we can all get shot in the face. Or, if that doesn't sound good to you, you could listen to this plan I have."
They listen. Although Steve requires a little extra convincing.
A few moments later they burst out from behind the fortress: Sam in front, Bucky behind, and Steve perched on Sam's shoulders, clutching his gun with one hand and holding on for dear life with the other. The flag is tied around his shoulders like a cape. They race across the field to the chalk circle in the grass. It's all so familiar: the wind in his face, the burn of his lungs, the goal getting closer and closer.
Having a ninety pound white guy on his shoulders is new, admittedly, but it's not like it's bad.
A shot rings out from behind them, then another. One hits Bucky in the leg, and he goes down with an audible snarl. Sam feels the other one hit Steve, feels his body jolt at the impact, and yells, "Shoot, Rogers!"
Steve twists on his shoulders, turning to loose the rest of the cartridge on Clint and Bruce. Sam's not sure how many hit home, whether Clint and Bruce go down or keep coming after them. All he can see is that white circle in the grass as he takes one final step over it. He sinks to his knees and collapses, Steve tumbling off his shoulders in an undignified heap. He flops back onto the grass, his chest heaving, and begins to laugh.
"Well done, Shirts!" Sitwell calls, jogging up to them. He smiles, then frowns. "Inappropriate touching, guys," he says reprovingly.
It's only then that Sam realizes how close they are, his head resting on Steve's knobbly knees. He scrambles up hurriedly. Bucky, Bruce, Clint, and Tony are approaching base, all sweaty and splattered with paint. Tony looks sulky, Bruce exhausted, Clint baffled. Bucky isn't smiling any more, but the look he gives Sam is almost approving.
"Not bad," he says, and reaches down to pull Steve to his feet.
***
The prize for the winning team turns out to be their normal clothes, left in neatly folded piles on their beds.
"Some prize," Bucky mutters, picking though his. Still, Sam can't help but notice how quickly he trades his blue shirt for a black one. The others watch them with barely concealed jealousy.
"Could be worse," Steve says philosophically. There are flecks of red and yellow paint speckling his hair. He shakes out a green plaid shirt, turning his back as he strips out of his True Directions button-down. Sam can see bones pressing against his skin, a pale dusting of freckles scattered across his shoulders, purple bruises spilling along his spine where he was hit. He looks quickly away, keeping his eyes trained on his bed.
The three of them go down to dinner in their own clothes, and it's amazing how it makes Sam suddenly feel like a person again. Pierce nods at them as they enter, smiling with what looks like pride. Sam and Bucky move to sit at their table; Steve, however, hesitates, then shakes his head.
"This is stupid," he says, and turns on his heel. He marches them over to the other table, leaning down just enough so his voice doesn't carry to Pierce and Sitwell.
"You need to let Sam sit with you again," he says. Bucky comes up behind him, a silent shadow.
The muscles in Maria's jaw visibly knot. "No chance," she replies curtly. Bucky's weird looming lo-mortal-I-am-Death routine clearly doesn't bother her. "You know I spent three hours learning how to applique flowers with Pierce today? Do you have any idea how many episodes of Martha Stewart Living he has taped?"
"It's not his fault that Natasha got kicked out," Steve insists, pressing forward. "She lied to cover for him. He didn't report her. It had nothing to do with him."
"Is that so." She looks at Sam, dark brows raised skeptically. "So why were you really out there, Wilson?"
"I told you," Sam replies evenly. "I was getting some air. She startled me on the porch, I made a noise, Sitwell woke up and found us there. Simple as that."
"Why should we believe that?” Tony asks flatly.
Sam shrugs. Maybe he’s still high on adrenaline, maybe off the win from before, but fuck it, he’s too Zen for this shit right now. “Don’t if you want. I don’t care.”
“But I do,” Steve says. His eyes are boring into Maria’s. Neither of them look like they’re backing down any time soon.
It’s Bruce of all people who intervenes. “Guys,” he says. There’s a firmness in his voice that Sam can’t remember ever hearing before. “Steve is right, this is stupid. How long are we going to keep avoiding eye contact and refusing to talk to each other? Let’s just let it go. There’s no need to make this place worse than it is, right?” He pushes Tony’s feet off Sam’s old chair and nudges it forward, giving him a tiny smile.
But Sam shakes his head. “No,” he says slowly, an idea occurring to him. “Let’s push ‘em together.”
It takes Steve a minute to get it. When he does he grins, broad and bright.
“Bucky,” he says, looking over his shoulder. “You okay with that?”
Bucky is silent for another moment, then nods curtly. Clint looks like he’s about to protest, but then shrugs instead.
“I guess Nat wouldn’t want us all to be jackasses to each other,” he says reluctantly. “What the hell.”
“Whatever,” Tony says grumpily, clearly upset about the loss of his foot rest.
They look at Maria, collectively anxious. She looks fierce and unyielding for another moment. Then, almost imperceptibly, her jaw relaxes. Sam sees her eyes flicker over to Pierce’s table for a second.
“Do it,” she says.
Sitwell nearly gets up when he sees Bucky and Sam pushing the tables together, but Pierce stops him with a careful hand on his arm. The two of them watch in silence as the campers sit down to eat together.
“Put that back at the end of the night, boys,” he says at last.
Sam feels like maybe they’ve won.
***
By the time they go into the Therapy Room the next morning Sam’s whole body is on fire, his muscles screaming in protest every time he moves. He’s not used to that much physical activity anymore. The others seem to feel the same way; they move stiffly, and Sam hears Tony hiss in pain as he drops into his chair.
Their seats have been rearranged into two rows of four. At the front of the room is a television on a wheel trolley, the kind of thing Sam remembers from elementary school. It’s even got a VCR. Pierce is standing by it, his hands thrust boyishly into his suit pockets.
“Sweet,” Clint says, perking up considerably as he sits down. “It’s Bill Nye day.”
Pierce chuckles. “I’m afraid not,” he says. “But I think you’ll all be pleased to know that today we’re moving on to Step Four. Which is…?”
“Demystify the opposite sex,” they say, more or less in unison. Sam’s surprised he can remember it. It seems like the Steps have burned themselves into his brain.
“That’s right,” Pierce says. “One of the reasons you’ve all developed such deep-seated problems with your own identities is because you do not understand the role the opposite gender has to play in your lives. Men and women have very different needs, and it’s crucial that you understand that before you begin to operate in the world as heterosexuals. To that end, I’ve decided that we can take a break from our group therapy this morning. This movie is, I think, a good way to start you off on the fourth step.”
He pushes a tape—an actual tape—into the VCR, presses play, and steps back, settling into the back row.
The movie is… well, the best thing that Sam can say about it is that it’s exactly what he was expecting. Black and white, apparently made in the fifties for about three dollars, and featuring a surplus of bouncy girls in poodle skirts. It has some kind of storyline involving a sock hop or a soda fountain or something like that.
“Remember,” Pierce calls to them over the choppy dialogue, “you need to actively participate to benefit from this film. Watch it critically. Apply what we’ve learned in Group so far. What do the women depicted here want? What do the men want?”
“Jobs as extras on the set of Grease,” Tony says behind them.
“Worse,” Clint replies. “Grease 2.”
Pierce frowns at them, and they subside, paying reluctant attention to the screen. The main character, an upright, earnest young man named Jim or John or Joe, has a side part in his fair hair so severe it looks like it was made with a ruler. From what Sam can tell he likes a girl named Mary and has to figure out how to ask her to go out for a malt with him without offending her virtue. Hijinks ensue.
“He looks like you,” Sam whispers to Steve, low enough that no one else can hear.
Steve chuckles, leaning back in his chair. His arm presses against Sam's, cool skin to warm, and a shiver escapes him without his consent. Steve's eyes flick to his for a second, thick, dark lashes shadowing the blue. His hand is resting in his lap; he moves it slowly, inch by inch, until it's crossed over the space between their chairs. It hovers over Sam's for a second, not touching, then covers it.
"Okay?" he murmurs, his lips barely moving, too low for anyone else to hear. There’s the slightest unsteadiness in his voice.
Sam swallows and inclines his head just a little, enough for him to see and no one else.
“Golly,” Jim-John-Joe says sadly on screen, “I’m really in a pickle now, huh?”
Sam keeps his gaze straight and level, making sure he follows the action with his eyes, but it's just a blur of shade and sound. His muscles are still sore, his bones still aching, but he doesn't feel it anymore, doesn't feel anything but the weight of Steve's fingers over his.
***
“Psst. Pssssst, Sam.”
Sam blinks awake, squinting into the unexpected light. Steve is kneeling beside his bed, one hand on his shoulder.
“Wha’?” he says blearily, sitting up. The room is only half dark, with the bedside lights switched on even though the overheads are still off. The others are moving around in that stealthy, guilty, way-too-noisy way that people do when they’re up when they shouldn’t be. “What’s wrong?”
“We’re sneaking out.” Steve’s eyes are shining. He’s not in his pajamas or his True Directions clothes, but a T-shirt and jeans. “Get dressed.”
Sam wakes up in earnest now, remembering the flyer he found in the woods. “NP?” he asks.
Steve nods. “There’s a van waiting at the bottom of the hill. Bucky and I went to see them, asked a few questions. They seem okay.”
“I hope you’re right, Rogers,” Clint says from by his bed. He sounds like he’s still asleep, or at least would like to be. “Otherwise we’re all going to end up dead in a ditch somewhere.”
Steve rolls his eyes. “They’re fine, Clint,” he says impatiently, then looks back at Sam. “You in?”
He says it like he isn’t even really expecting an answer, like he doesn’t think there’s any way Sam won’t be in for this. He finds himself out of bed and on his feet before he knows what’s happening.
“I’m in,” he says. Steve beams.
“Of course you are,” Tony says grumpily, padding over to them. His hair is wild and mussed, his pajama top done up completely wrong. “Rogers, do you have a T-shirt I could borrow?”
Steve raises his eyebrows, looking pointedly at Tony and then down at himself. “It’ll be a little tight.”
Tony raises his right back. “And?”
“Right.” Steve shakes his head and reaches under his bed, pulling out a soft pile of coloured cotton. “Forgot who I was talking to for a second there. Have a look.”
Sam gets dressed, wondering as he does it what exactly he’s getting dressed for. “Where are we going?” he asks over his shoulder as he pulls on a white tee. It’s wrinkled as hell, but it’ll do. He’ll just throw his letter jacket over it to hide the worst of the creases.
“I’m not sure,” is the reply. “We only talked for a second, we didn’t really have enough time to—aw, come on, Tony, not that one, you’re going to stretch it out!”
“You said I could!” Tony says indignantly. Sam grins and reaches for his jeans.
“Hey.” Bruce steps shyly into his field of vision. “Could I borrow from you? I’d wear my TD stuff, but it’s a little, uh, conspicuous.”
Sam’s pants are a little too tight for Bruce, but one of his old button-downs just about fits. He fusses with the collar, glancing anxiously at Sam.
“Does it look okay?” he asks. He’s buttoned it wrong, one side tailing down lower than the other. Sam reaches out to fix it.
“Perfect,” he says. It’s a deep green, a little odd paired with the bright blue of the shorts he still has to wear, but the colour suits him. Bruce nods gratefully. Sam turns just in time to see Steve look at him, a happy, considering little sidelong glance.
It takes them a few more minutes to get ready, all of them intermittently hissing at one another to be quiet. Sam, Steve, and Bruce look just about normal, but Tony’s chosen a shirt that would be small even on Steve, a tight white tank that barely stretches across his chest. Clint is dressed even more outlandishly in various tight black somethings that he clearly borrowed from Bucky. He’s even sporting a ring of eyeliner around each eye, although he seems to have applied it with a steadier hand. Sam would have thought that seeing them dressed the same would make them look alike, but somehow it just throws their differences into sharp relief: the bluntness of Clint’s features and the softness of Bucky’s, Clint’s coarse blonde hair and Bucky’s silky dark locks. Tony surveys them, one hand on his chin.
“The Crow,” he says, pointing to Bucky, then to Clint. “And Taylor Momsen.”
Bucky looks at Tony in the same way, longer and blanker. “Poor man’s Lara Croft,” he replies.
They finally make it out the door, tiptoeing across the porch and down onto the path. Sam’s heart is hammering in his throat the whole time; he remembers the last time he was up at night, how well that ended, and keeps expecting the light in Sitwell’s room to come on again. But nothing moves in the house, no one comes after them, and it takes them no time at all to reach the black van at the bottom of the hill. Maria is waiting for them inside, her face hidden by shadow.
“Took you long enough,” she says as they crowd in around her. She doesn’t have access to any of her civilian clothes, but she’s let her hair hang loose around her shoulders and pulled a black leather jacket on over her pink skirt and blouse. It’s familiar. Sam tries to place it, then remembers.
“That’s Natasha’s!” he says.
Maria shrugs ruefully. “She left it behind,” she says. One hand idly traces the fraying stitches in the right sleeve. “It was the only thing I could find that wasn’t pink.”
“Everybody in?” a gruff voice calls from the driver’s seat. Without waiting for a reply, the engine starts with a throaty roar, and the van pulls away onto the road.
Someone twists around in the passenger’s seat, an older white man with thinning hair and soft, kind eyes. “Quite a group we’ve got tonight,” he says, sounding pleased. “Nice to see you all, kids. I’m Phil, and this is my husband, Nick.”
The driver, a bald black man who seems to be wearing an eye patch, jerks his head in a brief nod. “Took you all long enough,” he says. There’s no real rancor in his voice, though. “We’ve been parking out here for weeks, hoping one of you would work up some nerve.”
“You’ll all need IDs,” Phil says, reaching into his pocket. Flipping through a little stack of plastic cards, he carefully selects seven and passes them back. “They’re not exact matches, but if the doorman asks, just say Nick and Phil brought you. We have an understanding.”
“That understanding being that if they don’t let them in you’ll come to the door and get disappointed at them,” Nick grumbles.
Sam is apparently a thirty year old organ donor named Marvin Partridge. Steve, he sees before passing the cards along, is five foot eleven.
“They know Pierce,” Steve tells Sam, taking his fake ID. He looks at it and makes a face.
Sam frowns. “From True Directions?” They seem too old to have been in any of the pictures he saw on the upper level of the house.
Nick snorts. “Not likely,” he says. “We all worked together once upon a time.”
“Doing what?” Tony asks dubiously. Given the eye patch, Sam can’t really blame him. Maybe they were pirates.
Nick eyeballs him in the rear view mirror. “Doing work,” he replies flatly. “When he found out about Phil and I he got a little… upset.”
“Fired us,” Phil translates. Sam sees one of his hands snake up to Nick’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “The next year, Pierce started the program. After what happened, we knew we had to step in somehow.”
“So you decided to drive to True Directions and park outside in the dark every night,” Maria says flatly.
“We decided that we had to provide you with a balanced perspective,” Nick corrects her. “Maybe you’ll come out of this program thinking that you’re fixed, that you can all marry women—or men, in your case—and live straight lives and be totally fine with it. But that’s not your only option.” He glances at his husband, his expression both irritated and terribly fond. “Your other option is to follow us into the world of clip art and inconsistent fonts.”
“My flyers are masterpieces and you know it,” Phil tells him. His smile is sincere. Sam looks at where his hand still rests on Nick’s shoulder. It’s a simple little gesture. There’s no reason why he can’t look away.
After about ten minutes of driving they pull up in front of a low brick building by the side of the road. Everything about it is brown and dusty-looking but the sign, a neon rainbow arc that flashes off and on in the dark. It’s so garish it takes Sam a few minutes to read the words. When he finally does he groans aloud.
“Seriously?” he says. “The Queen Mary?”
Clint shrugs. “Better that than the Queen Fairy.”
Nick actually turns around in his seat to look at them all now, the neon light from the window reflected in the shiny crown of his head. “Here are the rules. One, you can’t get drunk. You may have a drink, maybe two if you think you can handle it, but I don’t want any of you nursing a hangover in front of Pierce tomorrow.”
“Well, what’s the point of being here at all?” Tony mutters rebelliously.
“Two,” Nick continues, ignoring him, “you stay in the bar unless you’re going outside together. No matter what those IDs say, you’re young and you’re vulnerable. You stick together and keep one another safe. Three, you don’t go home with anyone. We don’t want to drive around the sticks looking for you for the rest of the night because some twink in a tank top decided you looked like you’d be a good time.” His eyes dart back to Tony for a split second. “If you have any problems, you go to the bartender with the blonde hair and tell her to call Nick. We’ll be back in three hours—that’s one A.M. sharp.” He nods at them. Phil beams.
“Have fun!” he calls as they pile out of the car, making their way to the front door.
When they first step inside it seems like every other bar Sam’s been in or seen in the movies: dim, close, a little too loud, the air thick with the smell of sweat and spilled beer. It’s only after they get past the doorman—who barely glances at their IDs, after all, giving them all lazy nods and Tony a frank once-over, which he gleefully returns—that he begins to notice the differences. The butch woman sitting at the bar, her crew cut shot through with grey. The wall above the pool table draped with a dusty rainbow flag. The couples packed onto the dance floor, men grinding against one another in the dark. Sam only lets his eyes linger there for a second before looking away.
“Come on,” Steve says, nearly shouting. He pulls at Sam’s arm, tugging him forward. The others follow suit, and they crowd around the bar together. Sam leans against it, trying to look nonchalant. He’s beginning to wish he left his letter jacket at home; he feels uncomfortably young.
“Shots!” Tony crows, waving at the bartender and dropping a few bills. It’s the blonde girl Nick mentioned—at least, Sam doesn’t see any other blondes in the vicinity. She’s younger than he thought she’d be, barely older than they are. She nods and starts setting out a line of shot glasses on the bar, filling them with something clear. “I need to have at least one drink in me before I dance.”
Bruce looks queasily at his. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he says. “Last time I did shots I kind of… broke someone’s pool house.”
“That,” Tony says, slinging an arm around his shoulders, “sounds like a great story. But it’s one that will have to wait until this song is over, because we are going to dance.” Downing his own shot and then Bruce’s, he pulls him out onto the dance floor. Steve watches them go, smiling crookedly.
“That kid is gonna get in trouble someday,” he says, sounding so world-weary that Sam laughs.
“Do you mean Bruce or Tony?” he asks.
“Bruce,” Steve replies. “I don’t think he’s Tony’s type.”
Maria snorts. “I’m pretty sure Tony’s type is whoever pays attention to him.”
Steve hums in assent, eyes wandering over the dance floor. “Must be nice, though.”
“What must be?” Sam tracks his gaze, trying not to wonder who he’s looking at. If there’s someone in particular he’s thinking of dancing with.
Steve shrugs. “To… I dunno, be someone’s type. I mean, you’ve all got your niches, right? Clint and Bucky, you guys have the goth corner covered, and Bruce is the shy, sweet, nerdy type, and Maria, you’re gold for any girl looking for someone who could wrestle a bear for their honour. Or whatever.”
“Thanks,” Maria says drily
“The only people who’re attracted to me are chickenhawks. Men who go for younger guys,” he explains, seeing Sam’s blank expression. “Not really a market I want to explore.”
“I’m not really in the goth corner,” Clint says thoughtfully. “I don’t think I’m in a corner at all. I’m, like, in a different room listening to Steely Dan.”
“Steely Dan?” Maria says incredulously. “How old are you?”
“What about me?” Sam asks hurriedly, seeing Clint bristle. He and Maria talked about music in the dining room once, and it ended with both of them on their feet and red in the face. He never wants to see a man get that emotional about the Doobie Brothers again. “Whose type do you think I am?”
And Steve shoots him another one of those sly little sidelong glances, his eyes lit up electric. “You’re everybody’s type,” he says.
Sam’s face floods with heat. He doesn’t know how to respond to that, so instead he just grins goofily and tosses his shot back. It burns in his throat and then his stomach, making him splutter and cough. Steve chuckles and pounds him on the back, then shoots his own and nearly chokes.
“Jesus Christ,” Maria says, shaking her head in disgust. “It’s like watching a baby horse stand up for the first time. Have neither of you ever had vodka before?” She downs hers effortlessly, then passes one each to Clint and Bucky. Bucky looks at his contemplatively, shrugs, and drinks it like water.
“Of course I have,” Steve says indignantly. Even in the dim light, Sam can see that his cheeks are already flushed—from the alcohol or the embarrassment, he’s not sure. “It’s just… harsh, that’s all.”
She rolls her eyes and meets the bartender’s gaze, ordering herself another drink. The blonde complies, lingering over the transaction a little more than necessary. The glance she shoots up at Maria through her lashes is flirtatious, and when she hands over the drink her fingertips brush Maria’s for a second.
“Wow,” Steve says, following the interaction. Maria turns back to the group, looking a little flustered. “You going to do something about that?”
“Naw,” Clint says before she can answer. He’s nursing his shot, taking tiny sips and making a face after each. “You’ve already got your cap set for someone, haven’t you?”
It’s Maria’s turn to flush now. She takes a hearty swig from the glass she’s holding, her free hand tracing the stitches in the leather jacket again. “That’s not your business, Barton,” she replies, but her heart doesn’t seem to be in it, and she only gives the bartender a brief look back before turning away.
This is okay, Sam tells himself firmly. He can feel how tense he is, and forces his muscles to relax one by one. The music washes over him, bass thrumming under his rib cage; the alcohol winds through his veins, warm and slow. If he closes his eyes, forgets where he is and who he’s with, it could be any Saturday night with Riley.
Except when he opens them he sees Steve there, his hands thrust in his pockets, nodding along to the beat. His bangs are falling into his eyes; he swipes them away impatiently.
“Excuse me.” All of a sudden his vision if filled with what looks like seven feet of man. Tanned, blond, with an accent he can’t quite place and a wide smile. That smile is aimed directly at Sam now. “Would you like to dance?”
And this—somehow this is a thing Sam hadn’t expected. Going to a bar, drinking, listening to music, those are all things he’s done before, but dancing with another guy? He finds himself looking down at Steve, as if for guidance. Steve looks from the tall guy to him, his dark brows furrowed.
“Sure he would,” he says after a few awkward seconds. He pushes Sam towards the guy, two gentle fingers on his lower back. There’s no real force behind it, but Sam finds himself stumbling a little anyway, nearly falling into the blond giant’s arms. To his credit, the guy just laughs and leads him out as the song changes.
Steve watches them go. Sam doesn’t know what expression he’s wearing.
The new song is something he’s heard on the radio once or twice, a slow one. Sam wishes it wasn’t; if it were a fast song this would be easier to deal with, because that kind of dancing doesn’t involve too much touching. For this he’s basically in the giant’s arms, tucked up against them and hyper aware of where their bodies touch. The man’s hands are on his hips, pulling him close, moving him slightly to the beat. Sam can feel himself tense again and sternly tells himself to chill out.
“Sorry,” he says. Out here the music is even louder, and he has to yell twice as loud to be heard. “I, uh, don’t dance much.”
“Not to worry.” The blond man smiles again. Sam has to tilt his head a little to meet his eye. “What’s your name?”
“Sam,” he replies, and almost loses it when the guy gives his own name in return. Figures that the first man he ever dances with would be named Thor.
This isn’t that different than slow dancing with a girl, really. True, he’s moving around more—all the girls he’s danced with have been happy enough with slowly rotating in a circle—and his hips are definitely more… wiggly than they otherwise would be, but all in all it’s the same kind of thing. The main difference is that he knows that he’s dancing with a man, that he can smell his sweat and his aftershave. He doesn’t know if he should think about it or not.
Behind them, at the bar, Steve downs another shot. Bucky tugs on his arm, whispers in his ear, and they’re coming out to the dance floor, too, leaving Clint and Maria at the bar, they’re curling up close to one another, they—
This is definitely something he shouldn’t think about. He wrenches his eyes away and back to the blond guy’s face.
“Is this your first time here?” he asks. He’s not that far away, but he still has to shout a little. Sam’s not keeping his eyes trained on him well enough, though; he can still see them, Steve stretching up on his tiptoes to whisper something in his ear. Sam remembers Nick and Phil again, the way his hand had come up in the dark.
He could pretend that the burn in his stomach is because of the shot he took. But he knows it’s not.
Fuck it. He knows what he wants, and this isn’t it. He steps gently away from the enormous guy, raising an apologetic hand. “Sorry, man,” he says. “I gotta go.”
He doesn’t wait for a response before turning away, escaping out the door and into the cool night air. Leaning against the bar wall, he feels the smooth leather of his jacket sleeves catch against the rough brick. He breathes deep and slow, hoping the hammering of his heart will slow.
This is okay, he tells himself again, but this time he can’t make himself believe it.
“Okay, what the fuck.” Steve’s in front of him all of a sudden, his arms crossed. He sounds pissed. “I thought we were done with this, Sam.”
“Done with what?”
“You freaking out about Bucky and me.” The flashing light of the bar sign illuminates his scowl in six different colours. “I told you, there’s nothing like that going on between us.”
Sam snorts helplessly, shaking his head. “I promise, man,” he says, “I wasn’t freaking out about you and Bucky.”
“You took one look at us dancing and booked it. We’re not even supposed to be out here alone!”
Steve Rogers of all people telling him about the rules is so ludicrous he starts laughing, quietly at first, then louder and harder, until he feels like he’s close to hyperventilating. “No,” he chokes, and can’t say anything else, just “no, no, no,” over and over again. Maybe this is what hysteria feels like.
Steve’s scowl fades, replaced by a look of puzzlement. “So why are you freaking out?” he asks. “Is it the bar? The guy? Did he-”
“I was doing okay,” Sam interrupts, wheezing a little. Steve’s puzzled look deepens. “I was going to get out clean, you know? But then-” He shakes his head again, feeling his knees start to give out. He fumbles his way to an overturned crate, sitting heavily on it.
They’re both silent for a minute. Steve takes a cautious step forward, his expression complicated.
“Then?” he echoes, and slowly, carefully, lays a hand on his shoulder. It feels heavier than Sam would have expected, warmer, and he can’t stop himself from standing up, stepping forward, cupping Steve’s face and leaning in.
The kiss is cool, soft, and brief. It feels better than anything he’s ever felt in his life.
“Oh, thank God,” Steve whispers fervently when he pulls away, resting his forehead against Sam’s. His eyes are still closed. Sam laughs again, dizzy, high, and swoops back in, covering his mouth hungrily with his own.