prompt: you fell asleep on my shoulder on the plane ride and i would ask you to move but you look so comfy and adorable when you sleep. also you smell really good and the feeling of your breath on my skin is somewhat relaxing maybe we can go out to lunch in this shitty airport when you wake up?

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( in this new world, every direction he glances in raises a new argument from his moral compass. sometimes, regardless of the amount of missions and real-life experiences he walks into, it feels like maybe he's never going to lose his sentimentality for the forties. things weren't any easier back then ( as much as he likes to protest the opposite ) but the world felt smaller. from hydra to s.h.i.e.l.d. to the avengers — it just never gets to be black and white. it's about power: who has it and who wants to take it. one person's best intentions to save humanity usually transform into something ungodly, warped into an ideology that people have to be wiped out for something better to emerge.

they're between wars, which means that steve's mind isn't on what could possibly crawl out of the depths of hell next, it's on the mission at hand. in four more hours, they'll be on another continent, following ghost stories from the mouths of locals. he stops asking sam why he's doing this and trades the inquiries for needless reminders that he doesn't have to follow him, or that he's done plenty and he can leave whenever he likes on the next flight stateside.

he doesn't.

it's part of the reason why when sam dozes off in the seat next to him on the jet, steve doesn't shrug him off into the window to teach him about personal space with a sunburn. he lets him sleep because he's keenly aware of the sleeplessness that comes with the job. he's puzzled over the maps, spent the last 72 hours with headphones in more often than not, trying to pick up key phrases without sounding like a tourist. there's no escaping his well-known looks, although he will do whatever he can to throw smoke.

at the moment, he's practicing mindfulness. he figures if he paces back and forth long enough, he'll tear a hole in the cabin floor. the strokes of his pencil against paper are cathartic in their own creative way, giving him an outlet that's vastly different from using his hands for violence. the other part of the reason he allows sam to sleep long after his shoulder gets tense and his bicep goes a bit dead is because he looks peaceful. his cologne or aftershave isn't totally intolerable either. it's less bothersome than it is when his breath fans against his neck, touching one of the few patches of exposed skin on his body. it's weirdly comforting, like knowing there's a knife under your pillow or someone in the cot beside you. it's nice — nice being the luxury steve doesn't permit himself to have as far as intimacy is concerned.

he won't draw something personal with sam around. these sketchbooks have served as visual journals for him in the past. so he's touching up the falcon's wings, the actual bird, when he speaks up. ) How long have you been pretending to be asleep?

( sam's breathing changed. )