Steve knows that Sam has family, that there are people who might be disappointed to hear he's a fugitive and that does something to the aching muscle in his chest. Sam stays at his side, unwavering, and has since the moment he met him on the sidewalks of D.C. Something about the light in him drew Steve in, and even know it's impossible to ignore.
Sam Wilson is a good, kind, gentle man. The nudge to his shoulder, the warmth of the man at his side, proves it. It wills some life back into him, and while he doesn't laugh, his smile pulls across his lips, warm and genuine and easier than it has been in months. ]
Might just want to leave the old girl resting. [ He sighs and looks back at the stove, the work they've put into it. They'll be here a week and here they are, huddled under the side of an old, broken down oven. It makes him snort softly, another not-laugh, but caught in between.
A quiet falls over him and he looks down at his hands, gripped lightly in front of him, and he lets out a long breath. A hand, heavy and warm, falls onto Sam's shoulder, gripping it. ]
I'm sorry, Sam. [ He feels like a coward, not meeting his eye yet. ] All of this... you deserve to be out there living your life. Eating pizza in D.C., as much and as often as you want. This life? [ He gestures to the damp, cold flat. ] This is my responsibility. This is what I chose, not you. Your road can end here.
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Steve knows that Sam has family, that there are people who might be disappointed to hear he's a fugitive and that does something to the aching muscle in his chest. Sam stays at his side, unwavering, and has since the moment he met him on the sidewalks of D.C. Something about the light in him drew Steve in, and even know it's impossible to ignore.
Sam Wilson is a good, kind, gentle man. The nudge to his shoulder, the warmth of the man at his side, proves it. It wills some life back into him, and while he doesn't laugh, his smile pulls across his lips, warm and genuine and easier than it has been in months. ]
Might just want to leave the old girl resting. [ He sighs and looks back at the stove, the work they've put into it. They'll be here a week and here they are, huddled under the side of an old, broken down oven. It makes him snort softly, another not-laugh, but caught in between.
A quiet falls over him and he looks down at his hands, gripped lightly in front of him, and he lets out a long breath. A hand, heavy and warm, falls onto Sam's shoulder, gripping it. ]
I'm sorry, Sam. [ He feels like a coward, not meeting his eye yet. ] All of this... you deserve to be out there living your life. Eating pizza in D.C., as much and as often as you want. This life? [ He gestures to the damp, cold flat. ] This is my responsibility. This is what I chose, not you. Your road can end here.