"Hey man, you're looking good," is the first thing that Sam says to him. Steve smiles. Sam stands outside the door to his apartment, Steve just beyond the threshold. He is like a breath of fresh air.
"Thanks. You're not looking too bad yourself," he replies. Sam smiles warmly. Steve is finding that he has firm footing for the first time since Bucky left. "So, where are we going?"
Sam laughs. "Well, you see I had all of these ideas on the way over here, but now all I can think about is a big, juicy hamburger." He makes motions with his hands. "You down?"
"You have no idea," Steve tells him. He grabs a coat. They leave together.
"So, how have you been doing?" Sam asks. He sounds well-meaning, but they both know and understand the weight.
"Well, I've been better," Steve replies with a brief turn of his head. His throat feels heavy, and he swallows.
"Yeah," Sam replies. There is a moment of silence between them as they walk. "Have you talked to him?"
"No," Steve replies, voice quieter. "He doesn't want to talk with me."
Sam nods, looks away briefly, remains casual. He turns back, every inch of his body language open and inviting. "Did he tell you that?" he asks.
"No," Steve says again. He feels like he is suffocating for a moment, sinking under the Potomac. "But I know."
Sam frowns for a moment, and then nods. He slips his hands in his back pockets. "He staying with Natasha?"
"Yeah," Steve says. He thins his lips.
"That's what I thought," Sam replies. "She's the one that told me. She's worried about you."
Steve offers a bitter smile. "Nice of her," he says. His voice is cold. Sam understands.
"Hey, she's kind of scary, but she does care about you," he says. Steve knows. "I'm glad she did, too, how else would I have found out?" There is an accusation there that they both ignore.
"Have you spoken with him?" Steve asks. He is reaching. Sam can hear it in his voice.
"No, I haven't," Sam tells him. He pauses for a moment, then adds "What happened?"
The wheels are turning in Steve's head. He can replay it scene by scene, pause, rewind. Go back in time to moments before, the lead up, the build-up that he recognized but ignored. Watching Bucky get better, watching Bucky get worse. Moments on the Potomac, moments in DC, in Europe, in Brooklyn. "I'm not gonna leave you," Bucky had said. Steve swallows.
"Hey, it's cool," Sam tells him. "I'm not going to press it." Steve is grateful. He would talk about it, should talk about it, but the words refuse to form. Sam shoots him a small, casual smile. They carve out the space together in a way that's not as thick, but just as complete.
And they don't talk about it. They get to the restaurant, order more food than Sam could ever eat. Sam flirts with the waitress. She flirts back. They talk about baseball. They talk about movies. Steve tells him about the disastrous stop Captain America's tour of the country selling war bonds had in Milwaukee; Sam tells him about the horrors of his first date. Steve tells him about his high school graduation; Sam tells him about his senior class's best prank. Steve laughs so hard his face turns red. Sam chokes on his drink. For two and a half hours, Steve breathes easy.
They pay, leave a good tip, and then face the cold again. It will be spring soon.
"How old you gonna be this year?" Sam asks. There is a cold wind, something comfortingly empty about the late afternoon.
Steve has to think for a moment, do the math. "Ninety-eight," he finally replies. "But really I'll be twenty-nine."
Sam chokes on a laugh. Steve raises an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, man," he says. "I just realized I'm older than you." This gets Steve laughing, too.
"How old are you?" he asks.
"I'm gonna be thirty-three," Sam manages to get out. He is shaking.
"Well, you're not over the hill yet," Steve tells him. He is smiling so wide his face is starting to hurt. Sam pats his back, takes a few deep breaths.
"We should do this again sometime," he says.
"Yeah, we should," Steve replies.
"Sometime soon," Sam adds. "You doing anything tomorrow night?"
Steve considers. "I planned on wallowing in sadness for a couple of hours, but I'm sure I can fit something in," he says.
Sam smiles, but there is a sadness to it. "You play video games?"
"Not really," Steve tells him. "Never really got the chance to start." Sam's smile widens, deepens, becomes positively demonic.
"Well, you're gonna start. Eight 'o'clock. My place."
Steve nods. "Sounds good," he says. "I'll be looking forward to it." The concept strikes him as a little strange.
They keep walking, hands shoved in pockets. The world pulses on around them. People come home, leave home, talk, walk, kiss. "Hey, Cap!" a man yells from a car. He waves a hand and smiles. Steve waves back.
Before they know it, they are back at the apartment. "Hey, Steve," Sam says before he leaves.
Steve turns. "Yeah?" he asks.
Sam licks his lips, thinks for a second. Steve recognizes the look. "I don't know how it was before – well, before he came back," Sam starts. Steve's heart twitches. "But you know you're not alone, right? Like, he's not the only that you got."
Steve frowns involuntarily, saves himself, and forces his lips into a smile. Sam returns it. "Thanks, Sam," he says. He means it.
Sam nods. "It's what friends are for." A car drives past. "See you Saturday," he says, with a wink. "Take care of yourself," he adds.
"I'll try," Steve tells him.
He's a little shocked to realize that he means it.