Note: For a prompt on page 50 of round 27 of the Avengers kink meme. It asks for Steve to draw Mills and Boon book cover style pictures with Sam as the dashing hero and Steve as the heroine. Then Sam gets hold of the sketchbook…
"Out of a Novel"
Usually Sam hated being grounded. His current wings were being upgraded, and his back-up set were waiting for repairs. This was why he'd asked for a second back-up set, though the way his luck was going they probably would've malfunctioned before he even set foot out the door.
That was the way he'd thought his luck was going. He'd gotten a call from a stranger who'd found one of Sam's guys having a panic attack. Apparently Sam was still listed as the guy's emergency contact. So he'd spent a couple of hours on the phone with Kieran, talking him down from drastic action and occasionally advising the good Samaritan who'd stayed by his side the whole time. Kinda gave Sam some faith in humankind, but he hated it when one of his men had a panic attack, especially if it was triggered by an attempted suicide.
Weirdly enough, it wasn't Kieran who'd been trying to kill himself. It was the stranger who'd turned saviour when the panic attack started. The call ended with the girl determined to become a therapist, bolstered by the fact that she now knew what she wanted to do with her life. Sam wasn't sure whether to start shipping them yet or not, and decided to get someone to keep an extra eye on Kieran for him.
But Sam hated being grounded because it meant he wasn't being useful. Not in battle, anyway. He could be useful by making sure that medical would be ready, by keeping track of the fighting to anticipate injuries, and have a huge amount of food on standby for when they all (he hoped) returned later on. They'd been hungry and tired, which led to crankiness, which set back team-building progress by days, if not weeks.
He wandered the base while he waited for the fresh bread to bake. At least it could be toasted later on. He entered the relaxation area, where some of them had been chilling before the emergency call came. He noticed Steve's open case of charcoals, and his sketchbook face-down on the floor. On the carpet. And charcoal stained like a bitch. He sighed, and picked up the book.
Honestly, he meant to close it – without looking – and set it on the table. Then he'd close the box of charcoal as well, clean the carpet in case anything had rubbed off on it, and hope that whatever picture Steve had been working on was okay.
It was fine. Not smudged yet; it looked like Steve had been laying down an initial sketch in pencil. A pencil which probably fell under the furniture when the captain leapt to action, but none of that mattered. What mattered was the picture Steve had been working on. Sam sank onto the sofa, staring at the rough drawing.
It was like the cover of one of those romances which saturated bookstores. The dashing hero with bared chest, the adoring maiden with a heaving bosom staring at him like he had all the answers. In this case, Sam was the dashing hero, complete with angel wings and an open shirt. And who was the 'damsel'?
Steve. Male Steve, one hand on Sam's shoulder and one over his heart, gazing up at Sam with parted lips. But instead of staring into space, Sam was looking down at Steve, equally enamoured, and his eyes seemed to be focused on Steve's lips. Something which Sam often had to fight himself not to do. He didn't imagine Steve could feel that way about him.
Shit. Had he noticed? Was that what this was? Nah, he'd never torment Sam like this.
Wondering whether there was more evidence, he flipped through the sketchbook. It was technically invading Steve's privacy, but since the pictures included Sam he figured it wasn't too wrong. Not if this was legit. Not if Steve wanted him back.
Most of the drawings were like the one Sam had just seen, romance novel covers which probably had interesting stories behind them. Were these fantasies Steve was drawing? Did he actually imagine scenarios like this, or was it simply art? He hoped the battle would end soon so he could ask. The rest of the pictures were also of Sam, mostly with Steve, nearly all overtly romantic in nature. There was kissing, touching, longing looks, even something racy which Steve never finished drawing. For all the guy could swear like a sailor, he was surprisingly modest at times.
With a smile, Sam set the sketchbook aside. He checked the timer, saw that he had enough time, and fetched a sticky note from the refrigerator. He scribbled a note on it, stuck it to the front of the sketchbook, and tidied the area. Then he retreated to the kitchen to prepare the next loaf. And maybe call Stark to bitch him out about not getting that third set of wings ready in time.
Steve felt bone tired by the time they all staggered in. His super senses picked up the smell of food in the oven. Casserole or roast, something which would take awhile, and Sam would keep it warm for as long as it took them all to clean up. Steve hated encountering alien monsters. They had the weirdest goop in their bodies.
He had to go through the living room to get to his quarters, and noticed his drawing supplies on the coffee table. That's right; he was sketching when they got the call. At least he'd had the presence of mind to close the book.
He registered the sticky note, and figured Sam had put it somewhere Steve would see it, reminding him to come and eat first. That was so like him. They could debrief over dinner, Steve figured, so he scooped up his things and returned to his rooms. He dumped them haphazardly on the bed, nearly tripped getting in the shower, and scrubbed as thoroughly and efficiently as he could. He didn't want to keep anyone waiting for dinner. And he carefully did not think about Sam, otherwise he'd need to turn off the hot water, and he'd end up being frozen as well as late.
Back in his bedroom, he checked the sticky note.
Steve,
You're damn lucky you weren't using charcoal, or you would've cleaned up the mess.
Be careful what you leave lying around.
Now come to dinner.
Sam.
Chuckling, but wary, Steve set it aside. How did Sam know he didn't use the charcoals? It was a question which nagged his sluggish mind as he got dressed, then padded through the base in his comfiest slippers, and through dinner. It was halfway through the meal when the truth hit him.
He didn't close the sketchbook. He remembered dropping his pencil – it rolled under the table – and the book when he realised the alarm was blaring. The box of charcoals had been open, so it should've been a reasonable assumption that he'd been using them. The only way Sam could've known what Steve was drawing with was… was if he'd seen…
Oh, fuck.
Steve dropped his cutlery, feeling ill, and abruptly stood up. The others stared at him, and he avoided Sam's eyes, his cheeks burning hot.
"I'm gonna go get some sleep," he mumbled. "We can finish debriefing later. I'm sorry."
He bolted from the room, neglecting all the good manners his ma had instilled in him: taking his plate to the kitchen, thanking the cook, offering to help out with the dishes (even though a dishwasher made it unnecessary), waiting for the others to say goodnight. Now wasn't the time for manners. Now was the time for panicking.
Oh God, oh God, oh God, he thought, running straight to his rooms. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he knows. He knows, and he'll hate me. He doesn't need me mooning over him, and now it's gonna be awkward, and I'm gonna lose one of my best friends.
He locked his door, and then threw himself onto his bed, burying his face in his pillows. It was better than any other plan at the moment. After he'd screamed out his frustration, he turned his head to the side and noticed the offending articles, lying there so innocuously.
With a pained, frustrated growl, he swept them off the bed. Then he yanked his covers down, burrowed underneath, and curled up in the smallest ball he could manage. He hid his head under the pillow again, and wished his memory wasn't so damn good. He wanted to forget this day, and preferably avoid Sam for the rest of forever. Or at least until he got over him… yeah, the rest of forever it was.
Sam frowned as he stacked everything in the dishwasher, having sent the others to bed early. They were nearly falling asleep in their food, even Vision.
He knew why Steve had disappeared, or at least he could guess. Apparently he'd only just worked out that Sam had seen the sketch he'd been working on, maybe the others as well, and instead of staying to talk it over he'd run off. Was he embarrassed? Did he think Sam would read more into it than there really was?
One thing was clear. They needed to talk.
"Steve!" He hammered on the door. "Are you awake?" Silence. "I… wanted to make sure you were okay. Are you there?"
Eventually a text came through from Steve, saying 'I'm fine, Sam. Just tired. Don't worry about me.'
"Like that's gonna make me worry any less, since you're not talking to me," Sam muttered as he typed a reply. 'Why did you leave?'
'I told you.'
He sighed. 'Not the truth. Can we talk?'
There was a long pause before the next reply. 'I don't feel like talking right now.'
'I really think we need to, and I think you know what about.'
An even longer pause. 'I don't want to.'
"Stop being such a damn child, Rogers!" he growled. He tried calling, but Steve didn't answer, so he resorted to text again. 'If you value our friendship at all, you'll talk to me about this. If you don't feel well, I'll respect that. If you're procrastinating, I'll be disappointed.'
That finally got a reaction, as his phone buzzed with a call. He hit the green button.
"Do you feel sick?" he asked. "Because if you do, I'm taking you to medical."
"No," Steve said. His voice sounded funny. Stuffy. He sniffled once, and Sam realised what the problem was. "We can talk tomorrow."
"I'm not sorry I saw the pictures."
He thought Steve had hung up when there was no reply. Then he heard a soft, "I am."
"Why?"
"You… y-you were never meant to see `em."
"Why not?"
"Because—!" A gusty sigh. "I didn't want you to know."
"Know what?"
"You know damn well—"
"I wanna hear you say it. So there's no misunderstandings."
"…I love you."
Sam pressed. "As a friend?"
"No! I mean, yes, you're my friend, but I… I don't wanna lose you. I always lose the people who mean the most to me. I lost my parents, I lost Peggy, I lost Bucky—"
"Even though we got him back?"
"He'll never be the same again."
He waited, but nothing more.
"Steve," Sam said carefully, "I'm… I'm in love with you."
There was a gasp. Then, "You can't say that, Sam. Not if you don't mean it. If you're just tryin' t' make me feel better—"
"I'm not. If you don't feel the same way, let's pretend this conversation never happened. Okay?"
There was the click of Steve hanging up. Heart plummeting to his feet, Sam pressed the end call button on his phone, and shoved it into his pocket. He turned, squaring his shoulders so he wouldn't feel so small, and strode quickly away. Everyone else was in bed, so he wasn't likely to run into them.
What was he thinking? He'd gotten his hopes up for no reason, and now he'd told Steve something he couldn't take back. Not with the memory that man had on him.
Pounding footsteps were the only warning he had before Steve skidded around to a halt in front of him, breathing heavily.
"I dream about you!" he blurted out. "They're the only nice dreams I have. Anything else… nightmares… or dreamin' about what might've been… and sometimes I hate dreamin' about you, `cause it's like my brain is saying 'Here, fantasise about what you can never have, `cause you'll never be that lucky'. And I wake up, and I try to draw to get it out of my system, but it never works. Instead I can't stop thinking about you. I'm so goddamn in love with you, Sam, and it's been drivin' me crazy. `Cause there's always that little voice sayin' I'm not good enough. I've been lucky, gettin' the serum, gettin' to say goodbye to Peggy, gettin' Bucky back. You're… you're one of the best things… people… in my life. I'm terrified of losing you." He was gripping Sam's upper arms, but not too tightly. "And I was so scared of driving you away." He swallowed. "I didn't think you'd feel the same way about me. I… I tried to pretend nothing had changed… then tonight, when I realised that you knew…" He released one of Sam's arms and wiped at his red eyes, which Sam noticed were damp. "Thought I'd lose you for sure."
"No, Steve," Sam said, cupping Steve's elbows. "You'd never lose me, no matter how either of us felt. This… this isn't a joke, is it?"
But Steve wasn't that good at acting, and shook his head fiercely while he sniffled again.
"I'm in love with you," he repeated. "Did you really mean it… when you said—"
"Yeah," Sam said. "I don't know when it happened…"
"Neither do I…"
"But yeah. I'm in love with you, too, Steve."
There was only one possible answer for that, and it involved Steve kissing Sam thoroughly in the middle of the hallway. Sam cupped the back of his neck and took charge, remembering the role he seemed to play in Steve's fantasies. The quiet whimper showed he was going in the right direction.
"What d'you say I make good on some of those ideas you've had, hmm?" he offered.
Steve, apparently speechless, just nodded. He tugged Sam back to his room, while Sam admired the flush creeping up the back of his neck.
As I've said before (on Tumblr), writing angst gives me frown lines, and I don't care. At least the angst didn't last all that long (for you, dear readers).
Speaking of Tumblr, if you go to the Avengers kink meme and find the prompt, there's a link to a picture on Tumblr which inspired the prompt. Which, in turn, led to this story. Poor Steve drawing out his fantasies – literally – but at least they came true. Or will.
Please review!