hydratrashmeme | Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Dumpster #3: The Great Pacific Garbage Patch

Holy shitballs, look at us go. Welcome to Captain America fandom's resident wretched hive of scum and villainy: ROUND THREE. AKA Bad Guys Do Dirtybadwrong Things To Your Faves, AKA the Hydra Trash Party kinkmeme. As usual, BLANKET NON-CON AND NSFW WARNINGS apply: just assume going in that everything in this landfill is unfit for human consumption.

Rules in brief: don't be a jerk except to fictional characters, warnings for particularly fucked-up garbage are nice but not required, thou shalt not judge the trashiness of thy neighbor's kinks unless thy neighbor is trying to pass off their rotting banana peels and half-eaten pizza crusts as a healthy romantic dinner for two, off-topic comments may be chucked out of the dumpster at management's discretion, management's discretion decrees that omegaverse, soulbond AUs, D/s-verse, non-superpowered AUs, and dark!good guys AUs are off-topic.

[Round 1] [Round 2] [Fill post] [Chatter post] [hydratrashmeme Pinboard archive (maintained by

greenkirtle)] [Round 3 in flat view (comments in non-threaded chronological order, most recent last)]

Round 3 is closed; comments and fills in existing threads are still welcome, but all new prompts go to Round 4.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

WHERE IS THE BODYSWAP BORDERLINE CRACK TRASH

Steve knows who he’s fighting, has his best friend back, and is in a romantic relationship with Sam. Life is good.

Brock is in excruciating pain, has lost all his friends, and is hyper aware that the only reason HYDRA rescued him from the hospital is so he couldn’t talk, so he needs to get useful again fast. Life is not good.

Then because... magic...? they wake up in each other’s bodies. Brock feels great, is safe, has sexual access to a gorgeous guy without having put in any of the romancing work... Things are looking up.

+Brock’s masculinity problems. Maybe he was afraid he wasn’t going to be able to have sex after his injuries, and now he’s got a super- libido. Maybe he’s always been secretive about fucking guys, and now it’s not his rep on the line, just Steve’s.

++Rape “roleplay.” Sam thought it was funny a softie like Steve even wanted to pretend-rape him, but it’s a game, it’s Steve, so he felt comfortable playing along. Except really it was Brock containing his urge to admit the truth/openly rape Sam.

Oh no :( I'm so scared thinking about the moment they're having sex and it's just...kind of fucked up and weird but okay, it's Steve, and suddenly something happens that makes Sam realizes it's DEFINITELY NOT STEVE, he doesn't know why or how but it's not. But he's already tied up or something and he just has to wait it out until the sex is over, while trying to pretend he still think it's Steve. Maybe he even realizes who it really is.

For your consideration: Sam not only getting through sex that he's rapidly realizing is actually rape, but having to smile and try to act normal and affectionate with his rapist right after, while also figuring out how to get to a phone or a gun without raising the suspicions of a man who could snap his spine.

(TBH Sam achieving this because Rumlow's so hot and bothered that he creeped Sam out with the "fake" rape, he doesn't notice Sam figured it out. Too busy patting himself on the back.)

Conversely, Steve in RUMLOW'S body? Turning himself in when no one will believe him and demanding to see Sam, but "Steve" just took Sam on a romantic vacation to a country with no extradition treaty, far away from people like Natasha and Bucky and Fury, who might not just go "wow, Steve's being weird, breaking off doorknobs like he doesn't know his own strength and talking different" but actually specifically "wow, Steve's being weird...ly like Rumlow" since they knew Rumlow personally.

And if it all comes out Sam might engage in tender caresses with Steve in Rumlow's body. Ofc he also might never be able to sleep with Steve back in his own body again, that'd leave some scars.

(new anon)

"'Steve' just took Sam on a romantic vacation to a country with no extradition treaty"

I didn't know it was possible for me to be creeped out anymore but damn, nonny. Damn. NICE

in other news I need this filled pronto, the original was amazing but this is what tipped me over to "enthusiasm level: trash maximum" if you know what I mean

Also please let it be, like, the Standard Vacation. You know? Long boring plane ride, "it's so beautiful" as they're landing, tropics tropics tropics, beach fanservice, a random donation to a homeless-looking person... every Vacation trope. And then, of course, the awful things happening behind closed doors. This trashbaby's body is rEADY

[this is going to be shortish, unbetaed, just... not everything it could be... and please if anyone else is interested in filling HAVE AT IT but I have to work out some terribad kinks I guess so here's part 1]

Sam’s first theory: There was something wrong—temporarily, unusually—with Steve.

Sam got home from the VA on Monday and Steve was standing in the middle of their living room with his face twisted up. He stared at Sam, surprised like he hadn’t expected him home yet even though Sam was, if anything, a little late. He usually got out at 2:00pm on Mondays, and it was nearly 3:00 now, between a last-minute office supply emergency and the traffic.

“Hey,” Sam said. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve said, after a second where his jaw worked like he was nursing a bruise. “Yeah, s’nothin,’ I just—fell asleep. Bad nap, I’m all—” He shook his head. He was standing tensed and strange.

Sam nodded, tossing his keys and wallet on the coffee table. Not unheard of for Steve. “You sure you’re not hurt?” He leaned in for his hello-again-for-the-afternoon kiss.

Steve grabbed Sam’s arms and jerked back. Absolutely unheard of for Steve.

“Dude,” Sam said, trying to back off, but he wasn’t going anywhere with Steve holding him this tight. “Seriously, is—”

Steve’s eyes went from too wide to too narrow. He pulled Sam in and kissed him hard, grabbing the back of Sam’s neck and all but biting down. Sam didn’t register that they were moving until his back hit the wall, and a second after that Steve had hitched him up against it with an arm beneath his thighs. None of which was unheard of for Steve, though usually not on days they’d been apart for seven hours. Sam had intended to shower first, but he was pretty much good to go from the second Steve picked him up with one arm, up until Steve brought his other hand down from Sam’s neck and dragged Sam’s hips into a truly uncomfortable position so he could rut against his ass right there.

“Okay,” Sam gasped, twisting his face away enough to talk. “You want to move this to the bedroom?”

“Not really.” Steve grinned, tense and strange as the way he’d been standing before, but then he dropped his face to Sam’s shoulder and laughed. “Uh, if we do you have to promise not to get distracted. I mighta… I said I woke up confused, right?”

“What, did you break something?”

Steve laughed again, wheezy and a little giddy. “I took the door off its hinges.”

Sam snorted, trying to sound normal through the growing and contradictory hazes of arousal and concern. “Well, I’m not fixing it.” He kissed Steve again, but pulled away to add, “Must’ve been some nightmare.”

“Fuckin’ terrible,” Steve agreed. He put both hands under Sam’s ass and started carrying him to the bedroom. Sam grabbed his shoulders, because it was weird, but he felt unsettled moving backward like this. Steve was a superhero, he could get them down a hallway in one piece. “Worst nightmare I ever had. But it’s all over now. Now my biggest problem is you still got clothes on.” He dropped Sam onto the bed and was on top of him before Sam could even go for the button of his jeans. “Why’d I let you leave this morning? You remember? I must not have been thinking straight.” He’d started over-enunciating his words, but Steve did that, too, after a year of elocution to try and drive the Brooklyn out of his accent when he was in his USO show. “I was an idiot this morning.” Steve—literally—ripped Sam’s jeans open. The button gave and the seams around the zipper tore.

“Dude,” Sam objected. It lost some of its heat in his laugh.

“Ah, you don’t need ’em.” He dragged them down Sam’s thighs, leaving them pooled at his calves.

“I don’t need ’em nothing, those were nice jeans. You’re buying me new ones.”

“Or a nice silk bathrobe. Easier access. I can afford that. Hell, why do you work?” He flipped Sam over and hauled him back to the edge of the bed. Which brought them back around to “weird,” since even if Steve was in the mood for rough he usually gave Sam—more of a heads up to see if he was in the same mood, first of all, but then some more opportunity to participate in the position, and—

“Jesus,” Sam yelped when Steve stuck the tip of a finger in dry. “Steve, for Christ’s sake, there’s lube in the drawer, while we’re talking about things that happened as long ago as this morning.”

Steve groaned into the small of Sam’s back, a rumble right into his spine. Then he surged up, wrapped an arm around Sam’s waist, and shoved them both up the bed, groping one-handed for the bedside table. “Far be it from Captain America to be rude about this,” he said. “Bet you could take it, though.”

“How about we don’t find out.” Sam reached back and grabbed Steve’s dick, intending to get him through the apparently intolerable next two minutes. “I’m not explaining to some pretty nurse that I need stitches up my ass because my superhero boyfriend couldn’t wait—” Steve shuddered, his elbow slipped, and his weight dropped on Sam’s back. Sam’s thigh was soaked and they were going to have to launder the comforter. “Well, shit,” Sam said. “You got me all worked up.”

Steve sat back, breathing heavily. “I can go again,” he said. He sounded surprised.

“Believe me, I know.” Sam squirmed onto his back, tough with Steve right there and his jeans still around his ankles. He managed to kick them off. “You want to slow it down a couple miles per hour?”

“Really don’t.” He grinned, still taut and strange, and flipped the lube open. “We should get outta here.”

“What, for—Christ!” The lube was still cold and he had two fingers up his ass way faster than he was expecting. His dick jumped, plenty okay with the change. He gritted his teeth. “For dinner?” he said, making an effort to sound unaffected. Steve was insufferable when he felt he’d won something.

“Sure,” Steve said, “dinner. To start with. Then Tahiti or something.”

“What—?” Sam had to shut up or gasp out loud, and Steve wasn’t distracted enough for him to start doing that. “You okayed that with Fury?” He tried to sound like it wasn’t a big deal, like he wasn’t already weighing how much it’d kill him to miss his groups at the VA, or to be gone if something went down in D.C., against the idea of relaxing with Steve and without the weight of the world.

“Screw Fury,” Steve said. “I’m a big boy, I don’t need daddy’s permission. And what’re they gonna do, fire Captain America?” He hoisted Sam’s knee over his shoulder. “I don’t think about myself enough, you know that? Always so hung up on the mission. I need a little time with just—” He put a hand on Sam’s face, spanning his jaw, inches from his throat. “Just you.”

All of which qualified as something pretty big being up with Steve. But it wasn’t unheard of for Steve to prefer fucking to talking about something that was wrong, either, at least at first. He’d tell Sam what was wrong. He was lucky Sam had been in the mood for this, and not feeling defensive about his VA work (“why do you work,” he knew how important it was to Sam). But it was unusual and it was temporary. They’d figure it out tomorrow.

Oh god oh geez oh poor SAM :( He knows there's something wrong but it doesn't occur to him that it's not Steve and oh no :( I'm so invested already this is so good. I love your Sam characterization, and I love how obvious it is for someone already in on the premise, just in the way he talks, that that's NOT STEVE

Re: bodyswap trash fill 1/4?

(Anonymous) - 2016-05-26 03:19 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 1/4?

(Anonymous) - 2016-05-26 04:01 (UTC) - Expand

This is brilliant. I love how Rumlow's so obviously Rumlow (for the reader), and how Sam is explaining that behavior to himself.

Re: bodyswap trash fill 1/4?

(Anonymous) - 2016-06-07 03:22 (UTC) - Expand

Sam’s second theory: He’d been wrong about Steve.

Really, calling it a theory was giving it too much weight; it was more of a suspicion, niggling at the back of Sam’s head, half-formed and half-visible. And it took too long to get even that far, he’d think later. He should at least have known this wasn’t some mood of Steve’s.

But he didn’t. He thought it was weird when he got home the next day and the bedroom door was still lying on its side in the hallway, splintered around the hinges, no replacement in sight. And a few seconds later, he thought he had an explanation, for that and for the general weirdness.

Sam’s phone chimed. He hadn’t thought Steve was home, but at the sound, he fucking appeared. “Who’s that?” he said.

“Hey to you too.” Sam had managed not to jump. “Where’d you come from?”

“Attic. I needed a couple things for the trip.” He kissed Sam and stuck his hands under Sam’s shirt. He smelled like stale air and there was dust flaking off his shoulders.

Sam swatted more dust off and sneezed. “To answer your question, I don’t know who that was, because you popped up like a jack in the box before I could check.”

“It’s Bucky. I was asking to be polite. I’m telling you it’s gonna be Bucky.”

“Why would Barnes be texting me?” Sam leaned back to dig his phone out. It was Barnes. It said, The fuck is steve’s problem?

Steve took the phone, looked at it, and snorted. He threw it on the dresser and stuck his hand under Sam’s shirt again, lifting this time until Sam raised his arms and let him strip it off. “Dude, what’s that about?” Sam waved a hand at the phone.

“We’re having a disagreement.”

“Are you serious?” Sam grabbed Steve’s hands before he could go for Sam’s zipper. “You and Barnes are fighting bad enough he’s texting me about it? Do you want to go see him?”

“I want to get going. Time’s a-wasting. You’re not gonna want khakis in Mexico, let’s get ’em off.”

Sam laughed. “Oh, it’s Mexico now? Not Tahiti?”

“Mexico’s faster. We can talk about Tahiti once we’re there. Bucky doesn’t think it should be anywhere, which sucks, because our plane leaves in four hours.” He shook Sam’s fingers loose. “Move ’em or lose ’em.”

“Hold up. Hey, wait, are you serious?” Sam grabbed Steve’s wrists. It didn’t slow him down any. “Steve, come on… Man, not to be a buzzkill, but I can’t keep walking away from the VA with no notice, and they’re gonna be way less understanding when it’s less ‘HYDRA’s taking over the world’ and more ‘I wanted to frolic on a beach.’”

“Yeah…” Steve slipped Sam’s belt off and paused. “I could tell them it’s HYDRA.” He laughed like that was funnier than it actually was. “I tell them you’ve gotta go because of HYDRA, they have to believe me . Just stay off Facebook.” He backed up toward the bed, pulling Sam with him.

“Okay, well, I still need some more warning before I drop my groups again. These people need stability. Or… a day’s warning, they’d settle for that.”

Steve sat down, dragging Sam’s pants down after him. “Sam, you know I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.” He stopped, face twitching oddly before he settled into earnestness. “I… This is mine.” He took Sam’s wrist and set his palm against his chest. “No matter how I got it, Erskine or whatever, even if I didn’t start out with it, it’s mine now. Right?”

Sam nodded. Steve didn’t tend to verbalize stuff like this.

“So I don’t owe it to anyone,” Steve said. “I don’t have to stay here. We can go. It’s important,” he repeated, and his eyes narrowed. “You trust me.”

“Sure I do.”

“Say it, though.”

“’Course I trust you—”

“Good.” Steve’s face cracked, smile too wide, and he hooked Sam’s knees, tugging Sam into his lap. He was already flipping open the lube, which Sam was pretty sure meant he’d been carrying it around. “Can I tie you up?”

And that was weird, because that was another thing Steve tended not to verbalize, exactly—last time he’d wanted anyone tied up, he’d left a tie on the bed like it was an accident, then grabbed a bedpost and suggested that they could, no pressure, but if Sam thought he might be into it too…

“Hang the hell on,” Sam said. Steve’s jeans scraped between his thighs. “I trust you, yeah, and if it’s that big a deal I’ll figure something out with work. It’s not that I don’t want to go. But why are we leaving today, and what’s this about Barnes not wanting you to leave?”

“Ah, he’s jealous,” Steve said, way too casually for someone dismissing the emotional state of a guy he’d spent three years chasing after and defending. His expression went earnest again. “It’d be good for him to have some time on his own. Like I said, we disagreed about some stuff. I don’t want to talk about it, okay?” He snapped Sam’s belt lightly against his ass. “What’d you say?”

Sam shook his head but put his wrists together. “You know this is gonna be a wreck when we get back, if I give less than 24 hours of notice at work and you walk out in the middle of a fight with Barnes.”

“Worth it.” Steve moved Sam’s arms behind his back before he put them together again and wrapped the belt around them, clear up to Sam’s elbows, not tight but it’d be a bitch to get out of. “It’s been four years of nonstop crazy since the aliens hit New York.” He hefted Sam up enough to undo his own pants and slather himself with lube. “We’re in a spot we could get ourselves out for a while, and we don’t take it? We’d be nuts. Life doesn’t give you shit like this on purpose, it just forgets to take the good stuff away fast enough.”

That statement gave Sam some pause—not so much in that he’d never thought as much, or that he didn’t believe Steve ever thought that way, as in what kind of bedroom talk did Steve think that was, fatalism didn’t really get Sam in the mood—but he didn’t get a chance to object to that, because Steve kept hold of his waist with one arm and pulled his left leg out with the other and shoved in. Not far, but Steve was big, and on no prep and without any particular arousal of his own to distract him, it was plenty.

“Fuck,” Sam gasped, arching forward and dropping his head onto Steve’s shoulder. “Hang on a second.”

“We’re on a tight schedule,” Steve said, just as out of breath. He laughed and kissed Sam’s temple. He rocked back to do it, and Sam couldn’t balance. His right knee went out and he slipped further down, and now it actually hurt, searing and hot.

“Hold on,” Sam bit out. “Or we can just leave right now.”

“All right, all right.” Steve kissed his head again and grabbed his waist tighter, lifting him back up a bit. It felt like being pulled at from the inside and Sam choked. “Not moving,” Steve said, freezing, and traced a few slow circles on his back.

“Just—hang on, Christ.” He was in bed with Steve, getting turned on was practically an ingrained response. They were technically already in the middle of having sex. He wasn’t sure why he was half-irritated with himself for finally getting hard. “Okay,” he said, “just—slow as hell if we’re doing it like this, holy shit.” He could feel Steve—pulsing, almost, inside of him, too full, and he felt feverish with it. “Man, you need to cut it out with the philosophical rants in bed and pick it up with warning me before you pull a stunt like that.”

“Sorry,” Steve laughed, and Sam could feel that all through his body too. Steve’s hand slid down and he prodded where Sam was stretched open around him, where his skin felt thin. “You okay?” He went back to rubbing circles over Sam’s spine.

“Fine.” Sam sat back up, moving slowly. It drove Steve a little deeper, but he was ready for it now. They were too close to the edge of the bed, and he still couldn’t balance all that well with his arms behind him and just the comforter for purchase. But Steve stuck a hand between them and grabbed Sam’s cock, his expression fond, and it didn’t really hurt anymore, so things were—mostly normal. They’d be having a conversation about this, but for now, things were fine; Sam wanted to get off more than he wanted to bicker with his boyfriend halfway through sex.

And he thought he knew what was going on. Right up to when they boarded the plane with the carry-on bags Steve had packed before Sam even got home, Sam thought a fight with Bucky explained pretty much all of it.

Sam’s phone chimed a couple times in a row as they settled into their seats. Sam, who’d never flown first-class before, was distracted by the amount of leg room he had, but he looked over in time to see Steve turning both their phones off, face sour. “I swear,” he said, “we’re gonna have to go to Tahiti.”

“Hey,” Sam protested, grabbing his phone back.

“They’ll tell us to turn them off soon anyway, right? Been a while since I flew this way.” Steve shook his head. “Leave it, Bucky’ll just embarrass himself if he gets hold of you. I told you he was jealous.”

“You did,” Sam said. “What do you mean, embarrass himself? I thought you meant generally jealous. Since you told me you two weren’t ever like that.”

“Us two?” Steve laughed, sharp and loud. “Nah, Sam, you gotta know he wants to—he wants you. That’s what we fought about. You did get that, right?”

“Uh, no.” Sam shook his head. “I didn’t—get that.” The rest of what he wanted to say started with are you fucking with me, because I’m aware Barnes doesn’t even like me, thanks, but he bit it back. Because Steve clearly wasn’t fucking with him, but Sam was sure—totally, icily—that it wasn’t true, either.

So Steve was wrong. He wouldn’t lie about this. He was just wrong. It’d be an accusation worth fighting over either way. And a fight with Bucky would still explain this mood. He could act as cavalier as he wanted to about it right now, Bucky still loomed immense in Steve’s emotional landscape.

Sam slid down in the chair some to try and take the pressure off his ass, and over enough to put his head on Steve’s shoulder.

“What—” said Steve, almost flinching, the way he had yesterday when Sam went to kiss him. He darted a look around the plane. He hadn’t done that since, what, the first month they were dating, maybe.

“Steve, we’re in first class. If anyone hassles us we can sue them. This is the cushy life.”

“Right.” Steve settled back, tension jerking out of his shoulders. “Right.” He stuck his arm behind Sam and pulled him closer. “You drool on this shirt and you forfeit your right to wear any for the whole vacation.” He was grinning.

Sam rolled his eyes. “Once I see you pony up for those jeans you destroyed you can talk to me about a little drool.” He nudged back onto Steve’s shoulder, and everything else was fucked up right now, but Steve smelled the same as ever, comforting, like sweat and something metallic and Sam’s bodywash because he was a soap moocher. There was some of that dry attic must clinging to him, but Sam ignored that. He went ahead with his plan to nap through the five-hour flight. And he still didn’t even think he’d been wrong about Steve yet.

The sense of dread you're building here is just overwhelming. It's SO well-written and SO fucking scary. Fantastic job.

8WIGGLES8

*WIGGLES SOME MORE*

*sniffs* yes, that is some quality trash

Oh god. This is a masterpiece. I. Cannot. WAIT until Sam and Bucky talk.

[THANK YOU FOR YOUR GOOD & KIND COMMENTS, I love them & wanted to have another part ready when I responded and then a lot of life happened but… here is this.]

Sam started to think he’d been wrong about Steve only after they’d checked into a tiny hotel in a foreign country and he’d found out he was homeless. Not a great time to re-evaluate just who he was dating.

Steve hovered over the bill at the front desk, asking the clerk questions in Spanish every so often. Sam hadn’t realized Steve spoke Spanish, but on top of French and German and in a super-powered brain, he guessed it made sense. Sam, for his part, didn’t speak Spanish, but he was fluent in social queues, and he got the sense Steve was annoying the crap out of the clerk.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, “do you want me to kick in here?”

“What?” Steve laughed. “No, I got it. Just want to make sure they’re not—that everything checks out.”

It wasn’t until they were halfway down the hall that Sam started replaying that moment in his head, trying to get rid of the crawling suspicion that Steve had meant less “they, the people running this shady-looking hotel” and more “they, the Mexican people running this hotel.” Steve was a white guy who’d grown up in the 30’s; it wouldn’t be the first time he’d fucked up. Telling him he’d fucked up was always a chore; he came around every time, but he was too used to having the moral high ground to be graceful about losing it. This still didn’t feel like one of Steve’s ordinary fuckups—felt too obviously mean—which was what made Sam second-guess himself.

The hotel might have been tiny and unobtrusively named—Sam hadn’t seen a sign anywhere and still wasn’t sure what it was called—but it did have a view. They could have climbed out the window straight onto the beach, a spray of white sand sweeping down to a turquoise bay.

“Told you it’d be worth the drive,” Steve said, tossing their bags on the carpet and already tugging Sam’s shirt loose from his belt.

“Hey, hey, not happening, after the last couple times?” Sam backed up. “You can submit your plans and intentions in writing first.”

Steve gave him the weirdest look, like Sam was not only talking nonsense but trying Steve’s patience doing it. “It’s a romantic vacation,” he said.

“Then you can romantically follow me to the beach, if you want, and when we have sex, later, you can romantically ask me before you do any odd shit.” Sam slid his own shirt off, but only because he was going to change into his swim trunks. It had been a hell of a drive, on top of the flight, and he was about to go risk getting stung by every jellyfish out there if it meant working the kinks loose. “How did you know about this place?”

Steve didn’t answer, for long enough that Sam turned back to see what was up. “Kinda went all over with SHIELD,” Steve said finally. “Come here.”

Sam snapped the waistband of his swim trunks into place and did. The carpet felt grimy under his feet and he was beyond ready to get on the sand. Steve, still fully clothed and stinking faintly of gasoline and tarmac, wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist and leaned into him. The buttons on his shirt bit into Sam’s chest. He nuzzled his pointy white boy nose into Sam’s neck, even though Sam had to smell just as bad as he did.

“You know what, I do have something to submit in writing,” Steve said. He dragged his fingers down Sam’s back. “For later.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Could we—” Steve puffed hot air into the crook of Sam’s neck, laughing at himself. “It’s odd shit.”

“If you ask me first, I’m probably up for it.” It was too strange a week for Sam to be terrifically enthused, but he should be proud Steve was asking verbally instead of resorting to the elaborate borderline pantomimes he usually fell back on rather than just say he wanted to get spanked or whatever.

“We’ve done roleplay,” Steve said, pressing his thumbs in at the dimples above Sam’s ass.

“I guess,” Sam said, frowning. A little, technically, a while back.

“I’d like… that.” Steve walked Sam backward to the bed and laid him on it. He pushed Sam’s wrist into the mattress. “Try to pull away.”

Sam did, briefly. About a half a tug was all it took to tell Steve wasn’t using his “pretending to be normal out of fairness” strength. Sam wasn’t going anywhere.

“I’d like that,” Steve said, hard against Sam’s hip.

So they were back to pantomime, which was almost comforting. Sam was at least used to working out clues like this. He just didn’t usually arrive at… “You want to—pretend to force me?” he said. It sounded stupid, both because he’d tried to find a better word than ”rape” and ended up sounding Victorian, and because the idea of Steve raping anyone was ridiculous.

“Yeah,” Steve said, grinding into him a little.

Sam laughed, incredulous, and bit it back quickly. “I, uh, can’t promise I’m the best actor in the world, but we could try it, as long as there’s not too much name-calling. What were you thinking we’d roleplay? Strangers at a bar? I’m telling you now, your character motivation includes a burning need for lube and prep, because we’re not doing without either of those again.”

Steve let up on his wrist and sat back on Sam’s thighs. “We’re… us. I’m Steve.”

Sam frowned, trying to picture it. His stomach tipped a bit. Steve as Steve holding him down—which he could do—no.

He tried to escape the nagging feeling that before this week, the scenario would have been so laughable it wouldn’t have bothered him. They’d had some bad sex recently, was all. It wasn’t a big deal. It didn’t matter.

“Sorry, man, no go,” he said. “We’ve got to stray a little farther afield.”

Steve gave him a blank look, like he didn’t know how to respond to that, but then he grinned. “Superheroes,” he said. “You, anyway. You be, I don’t know, the Hawk. I’ll be a supervillain.”

Sam laughed, grateful for the sensation, knots loosened all over his body. “You’re killing me,” he said. “‘You won’t get away with this, the planet Earth will never submit for your rule,’ that’s what you’re asking for? Because you know that’s about as deep as my dialogue’s getting.”

Steve scoffed. “I’m not gonna rule the planet. I’ve got better standards than a guy with horns on his helmet.” He tapped Sam’s lips. “I could gag you.”

“You might have to, unless you want to hear about how you might take my body but you’ll never take America. Later.” He slapped Steve’s thigh. “I’m still swimming first. And not the Hawk, you’ll make me think about Clint. I could never look him in the face again. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“If I’m… some bird of prey… who’re you?”

Steve grinned, the wide-stretched one that looked wrong his face. “I never got a chance to use it, but I’ve always kind of wanted to be Crossbones.”

Sam rolled his eyes. “If you say anything about shivered timbers—”

“It’s not nautical.” He sounded insulted.

“If you say so, Crossbones.”

Sam’s phone rang. Actually rang, not just a text, which was rare unless it was work.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Steve said. “When’d you turn it back on?”

“I didn’t make a note of the time,” Sam said, twisting to dig through the pockets of the jeans he’d thrown on the bed.

“I got it,” Steve said, and hitched Sam over with one hand, which, outside of the context of sex or an injury, was just a fucking bizarre thing to have happen. “If the VA is gonna collapse because you left for one day—”

“Steve, I swear to God,” Sam said, grabbing for the phone, because no way in hell was he the guy whose boyfriend answered his phone for him when work called.

“Bucky,” Steve said.

That was different. Sam wasn’t playing go-between for those two. He let his hand drop as Steve went right ahead and answered. Steve was still crouched over him, and cell phones being what they were, Sam could hear perfectly when Bucky said in a rush, “Sam, are you okay?”

“Sam’s fine,” Steve said, jostling Sam a little beneath him. “We’re on vacation, remember? He’s only in danger of dehydration from all the booze we’re about to drink.”

Sam rolled out from under Steve and climbed off the bed. If they’d finish their fight up, great. He didn’t want to hear every bit of it. Steve held a finger up, wait. Bucky hadn’t said anything yet. When he did, Sam could still hear it. “Steve, good. Natasha’s trying to call you. Sam’s there, though. He’s with you.”

“Sure he is. I’ve got him.”

“Good.” Bucky sounded stilted even for him. “The thing is, you guys might want to come back. Sam’s house blew up.”

Sam snatched the phone from Steve. “Tell me you didn’t just say my house blew up.”

“Sam.” Bucky said it on an exhale. “You’re okay.”

“Yeah, we established that. Is my house okay? How blown up are we talking here?” He fought to catch his breath. His head spun a little, just enough to keep him from remembering if he’d ever gotten his photos of Riley on leave from his mom’s place. If they were at his house…

“Uh, very. I didn’t get… a great look. It blew up with me inside, so I had to… you know. Leave. And not get charged with blowing it up.” He paused. “I didn’t, so you know.”

“Holy shit.” Sam sank back onto the bed. “Are you hurt? The neighbors?”

“Everyone’s fine. It’s just important you guys come home. Natasha says so too. And Fury. This was… targeted. You’re not safe.”

“Fuck that,” Steve said. Sam guessed that with super hearing, this conversation was downright loud. Steve raised his voice in the general direction of the phone. “We’re not coming back if Sam’s being targeted. That’s just what they’d want.”

“Steve. We sure as shit are! I just lost everything but my passport, some jeans, and a bathing suit—I’ve got to get back there and start wrestling with the insurance company. Christ, if they know where I live, they could know where my family lives…”

“Fury can take care of that.”

“Sam,” Bucky said, oddly subdued. “Where exactly are you guys—”

“No,” Steve said. “That’s final. They got that close? They were in your house? You’re not going back there. Bucky, you and Natasha and Fury work it out. Sam’s safest away from that. He’s got Captain America to protect him.”

Steve was using a snapping “captain’s orders” voice on a level Sam hadn’t seen from him except with Tony. “We’ll call you back,” he settled on saying to Bucky.

“Careful,” Bucky said, voice strained.

“Yeah, I sure will be.” Sam hung up and turned his attention to Steve. “What the hell kind of bullshit was that?”

Steve, who ordinarily got mad right back or went way over into apologetic, looked sort of amused. “Well, you’re not running back into a burning building on my watch.”

“Running back into burning buildings is what we do for a living, man. And this isn’t even about that, this isn’t some Avengers mission. This is my life. My papers, my mortgage, my gran’s quilts, my dad’s wedding ring. You make the calls in a fight, but this isn’t—”

“It is,” Steve said. “You’re being attacked, it’s a fight. I’m making the call.”

Sam had had fights with Steve. This wasn’t how they worked. Steve could be infuriating—he could sound condescending when he didn’t mean it, he hated admitting he was wrong, and okay, he didn’t always have the firmest grasp of where his authority in the field ended. But when Sam snapped at him, he yelled back, and they shouted it out. Right now, Steve was totally, coldly calm. Sam paused, disoriented.

“We’re going to switch hotels,” Steve said. The over-enunciation was back. It added to the overall chilly thing he had going on. “Anyone could have traced that call. We’re getting rid of our phones. I’ll get a burner. When Romanoff or Fury tells me they’ve caught whoever did this, we’ll go back. That’s the call.” His face went slack and then pulled into a softer expression. “I can’t lose you,” he said.

Sam inhaled and held it, trying to match Steve’s calm. “And even if we actually knew this was about me, and not a random ‘blow up an Avenger’ thing, I can’t lose everything I own without at least… seeing what I can save. You don’t have to come with, but I’m going back.”

“Other people can go through your stuff. You’re not thinking straight.”

“Fine, so I’m not thinking straight. I’m still making a decision.”

“I can’t let you,” Steve said regretfully. He sounded beyond condescending, sounded… older than he was. Softening again, he grabbed Sam’s hand. “At least let’s think about it overnight, okay? Humor me. Switch hotels, go for a swim. If you still think it’s the best idea tomorrow, we’ll go back.”

“How about you humor me,” Sam said, “since my house is the one that got blown up.”

Steve sighed. He swiped a hand back and forth over his jaw. “No,” he said. “Not tonight. Come on, are you going to leave me here without a car? It’s just stuff, Sam, I’ll buy you more stuff. You’re safe, that’s what matters.”

And it was then, finally, that Sam started to feel like he was wrong about Steve. He knew Steve could be stubborn, and so high-minded it was tough to swallow, and that he’d lost more than a house so maybe he was having trouble adjusting his scale of relative loss. But he’d never known Steve to be callous, and this… was, the platitudes about safety ringing hollow. So maybe this was Steve and he’d been missing it.

Which was exactly why he caved. He couldn’t have thought it through in exactly these terms at the time, not on one fight and some vague suspicions and an upset rumble in the back of his head, but if Steve could shrug off something that hurt Sam this much, then this relationship wasn’t going to last all that much longer. And if it wasn’t going to last all that much longer, Sam wanted to make the best of what they had left.

In the moment, mostly he knew that he couldn’t handle going back to face the fact that he didn’t have a home and keep fighting with his boyfriend. Something had to give, and it had been a long day of travel already.

“Fine,” he said. His second theory twisted deep in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t really know Steve, not like he thought. Or it was just this crazy week, the fight with Bucky, and Steve would apologize tomorrow. He wasn't thinking straight. “One more night.”

“There you go,” Steve said. He tugged Sam’s chin down so he could kiss his temple. “I got you.”

Re: bodyswap trash fill 3/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-07-26 04:25 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 3/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-23 17:20 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 3/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-07-26 06:12 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 3/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-07-28 23:34 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 3/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-23 17:23 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 3/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-07-26 16:42 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 3/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-23 17:24 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 3/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-06 19:55 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 3/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-23 17:25 (UTC) - Expand

Sam’s third theory was…

It wasn’t a theory. He was sure. And he was stupid for thinking it, because it was ridiculous. And he was stupid for not having thought it earlier. And most of all, he was fucked.

He should’ve just gone to bed. The day had proved to be the bad kind of wild ride. He should have called it quits before he got any further behind.

Sam had never been good at calling it quits.

There was still sunlight left when they were installed in their new hotel; just a low golden haze, but enough to go to the beach. Shark time. Sam was pretty sure he’d heard sharks hunted at dawn and dusk. Well, he wasn’t going out all that far.

The sand was hot under their feet even as it turned red and the water turned purple. The beach wasn’t private, but it was rocky and small and people had gone to find dinner, so it wasn’t crowded, for summer vacation season. There were plenty of honeymooners making out on huge towels, some teens building a bonfire, a little old lady with a food cart.

Steve kept an arm around Sam’s waist, which Sam would have thought was a comfort thing except that he also kept a sharp eye on everyone in the vicinity. So maybe a “you’re under attack” thing. Sam shrugged him off to pull ahead, because Steve was taking his damn time, and made it to the edge of the waves just before the tingling of his soles got painful.

“You burned, you know,” Sam said when Steve caught up to him; he gestured to the side of Steve’s face and neck. Steve stood very still, squinting in the light, head tilted a little. “Should’ve made you put sunscreen on,” Sam added, mostly to himself, skimming a hand down Steve’s arm. He'd put some on in the car, but Steve had shrugged it off. He clamped down hard on any thoughts about who—If they broke up—was going to remind this punk that he healed fast from sunburns but he got them even faster. Maybe it wouldn’t be that bad a hypothetical breakup, and Sam would still remind him. They’d been friends before they were boyfriends. It wasn't like they'd stop talking, if they broke up someday. “It must’ve happened while you were driving.”

Steve laughed too loud. “No way,” he said, and swiped a hand down his face. He winced. “Jesus. Come on, let’s cool it off.” He grabbed Sam around the waist again, lifting him this time, and hauled him out into the water; Sam grabbed Steve’s shoulders, hopefully before anyone noticed Steve picking up a solidly-built 6’ man with one arm and apparent effort.

“Maybe we get a boat next,” Steve said as the water rose to their waists. It had been warm on Sam's feet but it was chillier out here, and Sam was hot where Steve was pressed against him until water washed between them and made him jump a little each time. The mud stirred up by the waves hid any potential sea urchins or sting rays or what the fuck ever. Sam did his best to get his feet under him anyway, chasing the feeling of those ripple marks in the sand. “International waters.”

“But this Crossbones thing isn’t nautical.”

“Hey. Fuck the squids, I’m not gonna stab the Army in the back. I’m just saying it’d be hard to find you on the open sea.”

The pit of Sam’s stomach dropped out again. Right. No house. “Let’s… not, right this second,” he said. It’d be easy to forget again. It was hard enough to imagine even without having to reconcile it with the fact that he was still standing on the damn beach.

“Sure,” Steve said, easy as if he’d asked to put off the decision of what to have for dinner, and he hitched Sam up into his arms. “Ready?” Which was the warning Sam got before they dropped underwater.

It was good—the soft roaring quiet, the chill after being hot all day. The tug of the waves. Even if they’d been moving instead of sitting on the bottom it wouldn’t have been like flight, but there was still... something... about being this aware of the forces against his skin. It was relaxing where flight was exhilarating, but that was fine by him right now. Sam, in the process of the whole relaxing thing, realized he was still half-pulling away from Steve. He made himself go loose.

Steve stood up as abruptly as he'd dropped down, still with his hands around Sam's thighs. "Was that enough swimming?"

"Fuck off, was that enough swimming." Sam shook seawater out of his eyes. "I'm gonna go catch a shark, maybe ride a dolphin."

"You're really gonna make me run your ass to the hospital on our last night in Mexico? Have a shark following us out into the open ocean tomorrow, looking to finish the job..."

"We'll need an arch-nemesis if we're living the pirate life." Sam made a move to get down, but Steve kept holding on, which... was pretty much end of story. "This is gonna be one boring high seas adventure if you don't let me find Jaws for us."

"Or you could just keep wriggling right there."

Sam knocked his heel into the back of Steve's thigh, laughing, but startled into checking for anyone close enough to hear. "I need to burn off some of that car time, Crossbones, or I'm gonna cramp up halfway through the festivities. Not all of us have eternal youth and infinite plasticity."

Steve hitched Sam up higher. "You could still wriggle—" he started, and someone on the beach behind them let out a wolf whistle. There were enough bikini-clad women left on the sand that Sam wasn't particularly convinced it was aimed at them, but Steve went stiff and made a face. "Fine," he said. "Don't go out too far. I'm going to lecture that young person."

"Sure you are." Sam succeeded in getting his feet under him this time. "Go ahead, improve some hearts and minds." He was faintly surprised when Steve actually did walk away, but... fine. They'd been on top of each other all day, he could use a second.

He swam out past the waves and let the sea go purple-black around him, trying to keep half on eye on where he'd need to exit the water again. He lost Steve in the gloom, but for sheer size he wouldn't be hard to find when Sam got back to shore.

Sam hung vertically in the water, as deep as he could go and keep breathing, and relished not being able to touch bottom; pretended he was out so far the bottom was miles away. He'd gone out of his way to get a place on the outskirts of D.C., thinking he'd get to the beach in Maryland once in a while, but work had happened, and then the Avengers had happened—Right. And now he didn't have a place, full stop. Fuck this. He'd rather have the distraction of sex.

He was pretty sure he made it back out where he was supposed to be, but twilight had descended fast. He couldn't make out anyone's face who wasn't standing right by the bonfire, and the little college demons were clearly deep into their tequila.

"Excuse me..." A white lady wrapped in a towel printed to look like a grass skirt put her hand on his arm. "Are you looking for your boyfriend?"

"Uh, yeah," Sam said, trying to remember whether they'd settled on fake names despite the real passports. "You seen him?" He backed up a little.

She followed the motion, keeping her hand on him. "He should be just over by the food cart. I think it's so brave what you're doing."

Oh. " Thanks." He backed up more decisively.

"Coming out in public—"

Steve, as was apparently going to be his new habit, fucking materialized out of nowhere and locked an arm over Sam's shoulders. "What's going on?"

"We're very brave, is what's going on," Sam informed him.

"Just beautiful," the lady said. "And you seem so in love. It's wonderful to see a committed couple—"

"Ain't that the truth." Steve tightened his arm and smiled down at Sam, as far as Sam could make out his expression in the flickering light. "We're very happy, aren't we, Sam?"

"Yep," Sam said, popping the P in what he hoped communicated his lack of interest in this conversation.

Steve positively beamed. Sam hoped it was just the light.

They'd already started before it occurred to Sam that, in terms of mindless distraction sex, rape roleplay with a guy he was mad at, who was also in a strange mood, wasn't the brightest idea.

It was plenty distracting, at least. For instance, Steve had put way more thought into this Crossbones thing than Sam would have guessed. Steve wasn't the best at deliberately communicating what he wanted, but he was usually just as shitty at hiding it, so Sam could generally see what was coming. He hadn't seen a damn backstory coming.

"Crossbones," Steve announced authoritatively, "is a mercenary."

"Okay," said Sam, surveying the tiny hotel room doubtfully. It looked cleaner than the last place, but it was miniscule. They weren't going to be able to stage much of a fight. Steve took up most of the room between the bed and the dresser just standing there. "Does he like using knockout gas or blackmail or something? Because..." He put his arms out. He could touch the bathroom door with one hand and the headboard with the other.

"He likes a fair fight," Steve said. "For the fun of it. He spent a long time working his goddamn ass off for an organization that promised security and didn't deliver. He's out for himself now. Well..." He reached across and easily pulled Sam onto the bed. "More or less fair."

"You get what I'm saying, though. I'm not seeing space to defuse a bomb or rescue hostages and make a heroic but doomed attempt to end your villainy."

Steve leaned down and kissed him. There were more teeth involved than Sam felt was necessary. "Fine, but the—what, the Golden Eagle—doesn't have anything blackmail-worthy."

"Fuck that, you haven't seen the Golden Eagle's browser history."

"Crossbones," Steve continued, "has been after the Golden Eagle for a while. I might be willing to settle for a home invasion instead of a pitched battle, if an opportunity fell into my lap."

Sam did his best not to laugh. "If you put a sock over your head, I'm, uh..."

"I'll blindfold you, how about. Gotta maintain my secret identity somehow."

"You're not blindfolding me and gagging me, though, so pick one."

Steve's eyebrows tilted, but then he nodded. "I don't really want to cover too much of your face, anyway."

"Thanks, I guess."

"A blindfold might look like your little goggles. Or a domino mask. It'd be thematic." He dragged his thumb down Sam's mouth.

"Those flight goggles are very sophisticated technology," Sam said, a bit indistinctly.

"I bet. How about you go to sleep? Someone sold you out, your address... You're in bed already when I attack."

Sam grimaced, also hard to do with a thumb on his mouth. This was getting awfully close to home again. He'd been more comfortable with the bomb defusing scenario.

Steve gestured to the room. "If I'm already on top of you, you can struggle all you want. We're not going to run into any walls or knock the dresser over."

And it wasn't like it was that close to home. Sam had never even had his house burgled, and they were in a hotel, so the surroundings weren't familiar or—Right. Well, his house wasn't ever going to get burgled now, that was for sure. Sam sighed and nodded. The faster they got to the actual sex, the better.

Steve kissed him again. "You have to know it's me," he said. "I mean, Crossbones. Recognize my voice, or something. And say it."

"I'll do my best to call you Crossbones without laughing, but if you actually call me Golden Eagle to my face, I'm not making any promises."

Steve grinned. "Cross my heart, I won't." He pushed Sam onto his back. "Work on getting to fake sleep without theatrical snoring, I'm gonna hunt up a blindfold."

"Fine..." Sam threw an arm over his eyes; a second later the room went even darker when Steve hit the switch. This hotel wasn't right on the beach the way the last one had been, but they were close enough that he could hear the music the bonfire kids had started blasting, and over that the music from the bar across the street. They were both too faint to cover the small sounds of Steve moving around the room. And they were both too faint—

That wasn't Steve.

Sam sat up, planting a foot on the ground. "Steve," he said, because it had to be Steve, he hadn't disappeared in two seconds.

In the Air Force, he'd gotten so used to hearing the guys in his unit move around in the dark he'd started identifying them by the sounds they made, the way they moved. They all had; everyone was jumpy, adrenaline-high, paying too much attention to every last sound. He'd never dropped the habit. He knew what Steve sounded like in the dark. This wasn't it. Steps too heavy and then too silent. Too sharp a thud when he closed a drawer. His breath too rasping.

"What's up?" Steve stepped into the light from the window, orange from the streetlight and blue from the neon bar signs.

"Shit," Sam said, sighing again. "Nothing, sorry. Go ahead. I'm fast asleep over here, not even snoring."

"You sure? Should I look you over for jellyfish stings? They can mess with you."

"The day I let you play doctor on me, Rogers, is the day I want you to take me to an actual hospital."

"Probably for the best."

Sam lay back down. On his side this time, so he could stare at the wall without interrupting Steve's blindfold quest, which had gone dead quiet. Steve could be silent when he wanted to be. That didn't usually happen when it was just the two of them, but they didn't usually stage home invasions.

Lying on his side wasn't a great position to be in when two hundred+ pounds of super-soldier landed on him. He imagined his shoulder and elbow had caused Steve some discomfort, which he was fine with, since he'd had the air knocked out of him and spent the next few seconds kicking ineffectually while gasping for breath.

If the elbow thing bothered Steve any, he didn't act like it. He shoved Sam onto his stomach, pinned Sam's ankles with his own, and panted against Sam's neck, sounding the opposite of pained. Sam would've rolled his eyes if he could have collected himself, which was when he realized that this wasn't the best kind of distraction sex. Normally he'd have been pleased to get Steve going, even if the specific way he'd managed it wasn't his own favorite. But he wasn't in a giving mood, and waiting for his lungs to start working again wasn't getting him there.

Sam jabbed his left elbow back and reached up with his right hand, going for Steve's hair. If it were real I'd go for the eyes, he thought, like he could tell where he was going to hit. He could've slammed his head back, too, broken the guy's nose. If it were real.

Steve caught both his wrists; all his weight went from his arms to his body, pushing another breath out of Sam and jabbing his dick into Sam's lower back. Steve stayed like that, settled into a position Sam would have been impressed by, for all the core maintenance involved, if it weren't depriving him of oxygen and making it way too obvious that this already had Steve unreasonably hot. They still had their clothes on, for fuck's sake. Steve dragged Sam's arms further into the position they'd started to go, twisting his left arm up his back and his right down behind his head until his fingertips touched.

Sam coughed, going limp, and Steve eased off too, at least on Sam's upper body. Sam tried to buck under him, throw him off balance. It seemed for a second like it had worked, and then Sam realized Steve had let him get the momentum up, let him bend at the waist. He jacknifed them so they were straight up on their knees, his ankles still pinning Sam's in place. He pulled Sam's hands closer together, until he could hold them both in one of his. Sam's biceps protested and he realized this was the worst position he could have gotten stuck in; he'd been hoping that if he attacked from two different directions at least one of them would work, and regardless of how Steve held his hands behind his back it would always have given him a tremendous amount of control. But this was bordering on painful as a baseline, it screwed Sam's neck around, and swim or no swim he was going to cramp up. Now I know, he thought. In case it ever happened. At least he could breathe, sitting up and God knew with his chest open.

Steve sat back between their heels, dragging Sam with him and onto his lap by the wrists, his free hand jabbing into Sam's abdomen in counterpoint to his dick at Sam's ass. It was like sitting on an industrial tool, he was so hard already. Sam wondered if porn rules applied and this was a given, or if he was supposed to be shocked by this turn of events.

"Got you," Steve growled, close to his ear, so Sam dropped that line of thought in favor of trying to remember his comic books.

"You," he said, and winced, because he sounded more scolding than aghast and enraged. It worked fine for Steve, to all appearances. He made a few quick movements, then grabbed a handful of Sam's shorts and dragged them down his thighs. The waistband caught, but there was enough give for Steve to stick his dick between Sam's legs, heavy and wet against Sam's balls, which should have felt good. Steve dragged him closer, and Sam's right bicep twinged harder as his head was forced down.

"Me, who?" Steve wormed a hand down the front of Sam's shorts and wrapped his fingers around both of them at once. Sam wasn't all that hard, but Steve jerked them together and the jolt of sensation was exactly what Sam had been after. All he'd been after, but...

"Crossbones," he said, maybe not with a straight face, but Steve couldn't see that.

"Yeah," Steve said, vowel long, voice too deep. "And I got you." His dick pulsed and he came, mostly in Sam's shorts. Sam thought belatedly of the cleaning lady. They should've hunted up some condoms, given this probably wasn't the end of the evening's events. Sam's neck ached and he had a strange, dislocated view of Steve's hand moving under his shorts without being able to see what it was doing, and then a belatedly clear picture when Steve drove a couple sopping fingers up his ass. Sam gasped for air and Steve dragged out, scooped up more jizz and did it again. He was using another finger or Sam had locked up instead of relaxing.

"Would you," Sam said, and cut himself off. Battle of wills and all.

"We haven't even gotten started," Steve said, blood in the water. "You take a punch pretty well for a guy who's gonna start begging before he's even got a cock in him."

"You run your mouth a lot for a guy who's about two seconds from getting IDed and spending the rest of his life in supermax."

"In a perfect world," Steve said. "I have an idea. Why don't you make sure that happens? Go ahead and yell for a neighbor. Maybe one of the nice ones will come running." He slid his hand down Sam's dick, thumb pressing hard. "None of this has to happen. They'll see my face, right? You can stop this whenever you want. Just scream."

Sam's brain had started to fuzz off at the edges with the pressure on his dick, but he couldn't help automatically mapping out imaginary contingencies. The edges sharpened back up. "That happens, you don't get caught," he said. "You kill them and you run."

"I love it when you threaten people for me," Steve laughed. "Sure, now you mention it. I would have to run, though. All that noise and mess." He nuzzled into Sam's neck and cheek, out of sight but all skin on skin. "No mask, and someone would have called the cops. So the point stands. You don't want this, you can stop it anytime. Any do-good neighbors you don't like too well?"

"A couple of them do still owe me for cups of flour, but I think I'll stick to plan A and just kick your ass when you slip up."

Steve laughed again and stuck his fingers back into Sam. This fingerful of cum was cooling down, and it squelched against what he'd managed to slick Sam with so far. Sam usually enjoyed getting messy during sex—it was why they didn't bother with condoms most of the time—but his stomach rolled. "You should shut up," Steve said, as cheerful as he'd been the whole time. "I can help you out with that."

He dropped Sam's arms. He'd been counting on surprise to stall Sam, he would have bet, but the position was too unnatural; Sam didn't have to expect it to know the second he had some give. He spun for the edge of the bed, whipping his left arm out and around. He faltered a second later, because it was a game, and they'd planned on keeping it to the bed, and his shorts were twisted around his thighs. Another second later and he realized that he'd succeeded in practically clotheslining Steve. The sensation of Steve's throat against his forearm swung back around at him.

"Shit," he said, reaching out. It wasn't even the roughest they'd gotten in bed, but he hadn't been thinking, hadn't controlled the strike at all—

Steve laughed, a bit wheezy, and lunged, a blurred shape in the dark. His nails dug into Sam's thighs as he lifted him and twisted, slamming Sam into the bed on his back. He yanked Sam's shirt up, over his head, and twisted it around his wrists, dragging them down to pin them behind his neck. Sam'd call it an improvement, over the belt and the last hold both. It was like a pillow.

"Last chance," Steve said, weight on Sam's wrists. He pulled something over Sam's eyes. The window and Steve's shape against it, the door outlined in the light from the hall, all blinked out. The cloth slid against Sam's face as Steve adjusted it, pulling it until it was clear of Sam's cheekbones. A blur of orange light leaked under his eyelashes, it was so high, but he still couldn't make anything out. A hand slid down Sam's face, stroking, gentle, and then a thumb and forefinger dug into the hinge of Sam's jaw.

"Last chance for you to walk away from this as a guy who hasn't raped anybody," Sam said, consonants clumsy.

Steve went still again, the way he had by the water. Sam managed to knee him in the ass. It didn't get him anything but a shooting pain in his lower jaw, but he awarded himself points for trying.

"You're sweet," Steve said. "You're a real sweetheart. No, we're late on that one. Last chance for you to scream, at least for a little while." The bed jostled and his weight shifted up as he shuffled forward, and then the tip of his dick smeared over Sam's chin and lips. He let go of Sam's bound wrists. The sound of a slap made Sam jump a little, but nothing had touched him. The hollow, flat sound registered as Steve's hand against the wall above the bed when he said, "What'd you think this is made of, plaster? Tell you what, I bet if I spray it with enough bullets, it doesn't matter: I'm gonna hit someone eventually."

"If you're trying to say 'no teeth,' I hear you, but you can get the same thing by asking someone real nice at a bar."

"You think?" Steve pinched harder at Sam's jaw; his mouth dropped open and Steve started feeding his dick in. "You haven't seen me. Maybe nobody's gonna go home with this."

Sam would've hazarded a guess that the roleplay didn't extend to not participating in the blowjob, except that he couldn't do shit in this position. Steve's dick hit the roof of his mouth and pushed its way down the back of his throat, and Sam had to concentrate on breathing and keeping his teeth out of the way. If he could've raised his head some more it would have helped, but Steve put his free hand, sticky with cum, on Sam's forehead and cheek, stroking his face as he pumped in further.

"Perfect," Steve said, breath coming short. "You're perfect. Just like this. No distractions, no fucking interruptions. Just you with a mouthful of my cock."

A throatful, actually, Sam thought wryly. Steve was ridiculously off-balance in order to lean over him and get further down his throat. Sam was going to be coughing all day tomorrow, and he could have knocked Steve off except he really didn't want to bite his dick. And he really wanted this to... continue, and then be over. He wasn't going to tap out or anything, it just wasn't doing it for him. Maybe once Steve got a hand on his dick again.

"Beautiful," Steve said. "Just like this. You never shoulda been fighting me."

Sam's stomach rolled again. Steve was doing a Bronx accent. Steve couldn't do accents. Steve spoke a handful of languages and in every one of them he sounded like an American. His Spanish accent at the front desk of the last hotel hadn't been bad either, from what Sam could tell. If Steve spoke Spanish, he didn't speak it like that. Sam choked on a thrust and tried to pay attention to what he was doing, because this is was fucking insane, he knew whose dick was in his mouth, the taste and shape of it.

"You shouldn't have gone up against me. You went in over your head and this is what you get, kid."

It wasn’t Steve.

It was stupid. A stupid theory. Over a stupid word. But after everything, the word kid did it. Steve was younger than Sam and he wasn't a creative actor. No matter how much thought he'd put into this character (he hadn't, Steve wouldn't), no way had he thought to make him older. No way did he think to use that passive-aggressive bullshit word.

"Hey," Steve protested. "Teeth." Steve's voice. If it were Steve they'd be on a plane home right now.

It was Steve. It had to be Steve. Sam had heard him talk about Natasha's mimic technology, but that was a mask. It didn't do full body makeovers, shoulder span and height. It didn't give people super strength.

Sam found he'd stopped breathing through his nose when his head went light and bright, his throat closed, and he started choking on a lungful of cum, swallowing convulsively to try and reroute. Steve--Steve pulled out, spilling jizz and saliva down Sam's chin and neck. He grabbed Sam under the arms and hauled him upright. "Don't pass out on me," he said, joking, unconcerned.

It wasn't Steve. It wasn't him. Sam pressed his fingers to the back of the blindfold. He could tug it off. He wasn't restrained well. And if he looked at Steve, if he could see him, he'd think he was crazy. But that hadn't been Steve moving around the room. Steve wouldn't have kept him here after the news about the house. And of all the stupid shit, Steve wouldn't call him kid.

Steve—but it wasn't—twisted the shirt tighter around Sam's wrists. "Quit the dramatics," he said. "It wasn't that bad, was it? If it was, you can end this now. Go ahead and yell."

He doesn't know I know, Sam thought. He couldn't. Sam couldn't have tipped him off yet. It didn't make what he'd said any less true. If Sam yelled, someone might come. And this—person—was as strong as Steve was. If someone came, he could kill them. They hadn't brought any guns, but Steve didn't need a gun to kill someone.

He could kill me.

Sam lurched forward, into Steve's arms, and Steve caught him—maybe thought he was trying to attack, since he pressed Sam's wrists to the back of his neck and pinned him in place with an arm around him. It was enough like an embrace that Sam thought, I can just say I have to tap out.

The arm around his waist was like steel. He'd lifted Sam with one hand. If Sam asked him to stop the game and he stopped pretending to be Steve instead, he was fucked.

This was going to continue, and then it was going to be over. And Sam was going to get away.

"No? I didn't think so. You can take a hell of a lot more than a cock in your mouth, can't you? We don't want to waste your hard work." He slid his hand down to Sam's ass and squeezed, kneaded. Sam's legs twitched with the urge to kick. Steve laughed. "Oh, you're on company behavior now? A real martyr." He sounded lazily admiring, like Sam had done a card trick he wished he could pull off but wasn't going to practice. "Fine. Put these here, then." He lifted Sam's arms and looped them over his shoulders, completing the embrace. "You try anything now, and this is going to get a lot more painful and a lot drier while you waste time," he added, and lined his dick up with Sam's ass.

Sam would have stopped it right then if it were Steve—saliva and cum weren't lube, and some fingers for ten seconds, ten minutes ago, weren't prep. Instead, he realized he knew exactly when he'd come home and it hadn't been Steve waiting for him. He'd already had sex with this man, whoever he was. This was more of the same.

This—Steve—pressed until the head of his dick had forced its way in. The pressure felt wrong. It's not Steve. He lifted Sam back off of himself, all the way out, dragging at his rim, and then shoved back in, forcing him wide again. This time he let Sam drop down further, but then he repeated the process, the drag sickening as he withdrew. Before he could thrust back in, Sam dug a heel into the mattress and tried to push away, thoughtless.

Steve grabbed his thighs and dragged him back, through the burn of entrance again, harder this time, and kept going, only small backward jabs on the way to fucking all the way in. He kept hold of Sam's thighs, scratching, and Sam thought, He doesn't know how often he has to cut Steve's nails.

That became a more clear and present danger when both Steve's thumbs pressed against him, pressed against his rim the way he had—earlier today, technically—and it hadn't been Steve then either, Sam had already done this, he could do it again. But Steve's fingernails scratched and he wasn't stopping, wasn't just feeling around this time, he was pushing where Sam was already too open.

"Stop," Sam said, as thoughtless as kicking. They were permissible things to do even if he didn’t know, he told himself. He was playing the game, was all. Nothing had changed. Steve, not-Steve, didn't know.

"Feel free to distract me," Steve's voice said, right in his ear. "Give a whistle." He pried at Sam with his fingers, spreading him, and managed to shove a thumb in alongside his dick.

Sam knocked his forehead against Steve's jaw, gasping wetly in an attempt not to make too much sound. He'd been shot in his life and made it through that; it wasn't that this hurt too much to handle. But the pressure against already-raw flesh was too much and he couldn't believe it was happening—couldn't even believe it wasn't hurting Steve as much as it was him; his dick had to be raw too, and getting scraped up by that fucking fingernail. "Stop," Sam repeated, mindless, "stop, stop."

Steve tried to spread him wider, his other thumb prying. "Whenever you want."

"Fuck off," Sam bit out.

Steve laughed. Sam felt it against his chest. He was clinging to Steve, trying to get some leverage. "I got an idea." Steve tapped at the skin pressed close around his dick with a few more fingers. "You don't have to get other people involved to distract me. How about you tell me how good this feels, and I don't stick my whole fist up you as soon as we're done with this part? Does that sound fair?"

Sam wasn't sure why he'd been so sure this was the closing act. It wasn't like Steve couldn't keep going all night.

"You're not the only one doing hard work." Steve slapped his ass, as best he could one hand anchored in place and the other helping support Sam's weight. "A man likes to be appreciated for his efforts."

Sam thought giving in might be admitting he knew, because bullshit did he ever give ground to Steve during a game like this, and he knew Steve wouldn't actually try to fist him out of fucking nowhere. But it wasn't--now that he was reviewing the last couple days—it wasn't like this guy's Steve impression was so perfect that he knew every nuance of their actual relationship.

Sam also thought he might not be able to say it. Steve jabbed deeper, to the ball of his thumb, and it couldn't really have made much difference but Christ, it felt like he'd been ripped open. "Sure," Sam said. His voice cracked halfway through and Steve's dick twitched inside him. "No skin off my nose. You walk around for cue-cards for when your ego needs an extra stroke to make it home, or am I supposed to guess what it is you wanna hear?"

Steve laughed, the movement sending spikes of lead all the way up Sam's spine.

"Gimme a break, I'm not asking for anything that special. Whatever you normally tell the guys fucking you."

"Normally the guys fucking me—" Sam said, and then muffled a cry in Steve's shoulder, because he'd worked his other thumb in. He had to have torn something, which was exactly what Sam was trying to avoid, he had to be able to walk out of here. The stretch was unbelievable. Sam was sweating all over and he felt cold.

"Don't," Steve said. "I was being rude. Don't fucking lie to me, you don't have guys fucking you."

"No," Sam said, through his teeth, but shit, choking past his pride wasn't going to be a problem after all. He'd say anything right now. He had words all lined up to get out. "Just you. You're the only one."

"Yeah." Steve started thrusting, slowly, lifting Sam up and dragging him down. His thumbs kept slicing deeper on every lift, and his dick on every fall. It didn't matter which direction he was moving, it fucking hurt. "So how's it feel?"

Just fucking finish him off. "Great," Sam managed. He could still untwist his wrists easily, and it was a miracle the blindfold hadn't slipped off on its own. He could jab Steve's eyes. And then—and then. "You're doing a bang-up job."

"Come on..."

"I l-ove it." His voice cracked again.

"With the name."

"I love it," Sam wanted to laugh, it was such a stupid fucking name, and Christ, it might actually be this guy's name, he might really be saying—"Crossbones."

"Good enough," Steve said, and slid out, thumbs and then, with a pop, dick. He shrugged Sam's hands off and Sam had about a second to start shaking, thinking it was over, before his world spun again and he landed on his elbows and knees and Steve shoved back in again. There was nothing to muffle his cry against this time, but it passed for a normal sex noise, he hoped. Steve kept his fingers out this time, at least, even if it felt like he was sawing in there and only his hands on Sam's hips stopped the ridiculous force of his thrusts knocking Sam over. His elbows gave out, balance off, and he got a faceful of musty hotel comforter, Steve's heat and weight hunkered over the curve of his spine, humming with tension.

He could still hear the music from the beach and from the bar. He tried to identify one song or the other and kept losing the thread. “Look at you,” Steve rasped, just when Sam thought he had one melody picked out, and ran a hand down Sam’s ass and thigh, up his spine. He grabbed Sam’s head and turned it, adjusting the blindfold, tracing Sam’s cheek. “Look at you.”

Sam felt something leak down his thigh and thought it was blood, until Steve shuddered and dropped his weight.

"Off," Sam said. He rolled his wrists and the shirt came loose. He shoved the blindfold and over his head but didn't look at Steve. "Steve," he said. Please keep faking, motherfucker, don't you stop now, not after I did that. "Steve, I have to get up."

"Sure, sure—Sam, slow down, you're gonna tear something." He clapped lazy hands to Sam's hips and moved him, and sure it was slow but fuck, he hadn't softened up all that much and it hurt all the way out.

"I have to—" Sam said, sliding to his feet. His knees tried to give and he locked them. He was still sweating and he was still freezing goddamn cold. "Gimme a minute."

"Sure," Steve repeated, still lazy. He didn't know Sam knew. He couldn't.

Sam closed the bathroom door behind himself, wrenched the shower on, and looked around. It was an indoor bathroom, no window, not even a small one. He didn’t have a gun, because it was quicker through the airport without them and they had—Captain America. In case of emergencies. He could break the towel rod off the wall, and then he could maybe stab Steve with it once before he got his own neck broken. Steve had gotten rid of their phones, Sam had let him take his phone, and there wasn't a replacement yet. He had to get to another phone. He was buck naked and he had cum dribbling down his leg, so that had to change.

He climbed into the shower. He couldn't bring himself to wash himself out. He didn't want hands there. He rinsed off. He tried to open the paper-wrapped hotel soap and got half the paper off with wet fingers before he gave up and used the half poking through the wrapper. He was going to have to walk back out there and get dressed and find an excuse to leave the room.

When he climbed out of the shower, Steve walked in.

Sam froze. There was no reason for him to think Steve wouldn't open the bathroom door, but he'd been sure. He'd been sure he had until he went back out there. He wasn't ready.

In the light, this was Steve. It was just Steve. He looked soft, concerned. "What's going on?" he said.

He knows I know. It was the wrong soft, the wrong concerned, skin stretched on the wrong bones. It wasn't Steve. "Steve," Sam said anyway. He wasn't controlling his own damn face. He knew he looked wrong too.

"I thought so.” Steve put a hand out. Sam flinched, he fucking flinched. Gave it away. But Steve just shook his head and said, “Too much?”

Sam laughed. Covered his mouth. Nodded. Come on… “Sorry, yeah. You, uh.” I love it. “I got spooked.” Not fair. He’d gotten through it. It had continued, it was over.

Steve reached for him again, slower this time. Sam let it happen. “Sorry,” Steve said. “I won’t ask again.” He pulled Sam close. There was still cum on his hands. He pressed his face against Sam’s, too close to see clearly but eyes still open, still fast on Sam’s face. Sam shut his eyes. The towel rod was right behind him. The door out of the room was five, maybe six feet along the wall to the left, past Steve, out of the bathroom. Steve skimmed his fingernails down Sam’s arms, too light to tickle. “You can tell me,” he said.

I love it. “It just,” Sam said. He closed his eyes. It wasn’t Steve. It felt like him. Now that he’d been in the ocean and sweated through sex, it even smelled like him. He was breathing wrong, though. He’d wrapped his fingers around Sam’s wrists and Sam could feel him staring. Steve wouldn’t. “I couldn’t do anything,” Sam said.

Steve dug his nose into Sam’s neck. “You wouldn’t have to, you know,” he said. “If anyone ever really came for you, I’d stop it.” He wrapped his arms around Sam, pulling him close. “Which is why I think we should talk about this whole… going back to the States tomorrow idea.”

Sam shook his head. “Not right now. Steve, come on, man.”

“…No, sure. You’re right. Tomorrow.” He backed Sam up toward the shower. “Come on, my turn. I’ll keep you company.” He lifted Sam back over the lip of the stall. “It’s okay now. I swear, I won’t ask again.”

Sam nodded. It’d continue. It’d be over.

Re: bodyswap trash fill 4c/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-23 20:16 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 4c/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-24 03:31 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 4c/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-24 00:20 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 4c/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-24 03:33 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 4c/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-24 03:47 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 4c/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-24 05:18 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 4c/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-24 09:03 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 4c/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-25 03:01 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 4c/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-08-28 10:56 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 4c/5?

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-03 06:05 (UTC) - Expand

[I swear this time... I know where I'm going and now I also know how long it'll take to get there. one more part.]

Breaking the towel rod off the wall was useless—worse than useless, if this guy who wasn’t Steve got suspicious. Sam… broke the towel rod off the wall. He didn’t know what else to do, after last night. He’d tried to leave the room a couple times and Steve had shot down his excuses. There wasn’t an ice machine in this shithole. Like hell was Sam taking a walk to clear his head alone with an unknown threat at large, Steve’d go with him. They’d get a new phone and contact Fury tomorrow, would Sam relax? And then he’d rolled up behind Sam in the bed, wound both arms around his waist, shoved his thigh between Sam’s legs, and gone to sleep like that.

Sam hadn’t gotten any sleep. Even if he hadn’t been waiting for a dick up his ass or a hand around his throat in the night, even if he hadn’t still been sore and fucking terrified, he couldn’t have slept. It was too damn hot. Steve didn’t seem to feel it. He stayed plastered to Sam’s back as sweat dampened the sheet between them and slicked their skin. Sam was pretty sure he was actually asleep, not faking, but he didn’t roll away and his grip didn’t slacken any. Sam wedged a hand between Steve’s arms and his own side and tried to lever some room to get free. Nothing doing.

Nothing doing was something Steve said sometimes, even though he tried not to. He’d done it in front of Barnes once and Barnes laughed. It had been old-fashioned in the forties, too, Steve admitted, and he’d been hopeful because Barnes remembered that.

If this wasn’t Steve, then where—

And it wasn’t. Trapped in the dark with his back to the guy, just the weird rasp in Steve’s lungs and the throb all up and down his own spine, the memory of the faint Bronx accent on “kid” snagging something in his memory, Sam knew it wasn’t. He left his hand stuck against his ribs, and every time he drifted off he startled awake again. The lights in the bar across the street stayed on all night. The thrum of music from the beach faded sometime around 3am. Sam’s vision blurred and his eyes scratched and he watched the blue neon sheen on the window fade as the sun got close to the horizon and drowned it out.

Steve woke up maybe two hours after the music died. He hadn’t loosened his grip once yet. He ground his morning wood against Sam’s ass.

“I gotta shower,” Sam said, voice hoarse from last night. He slid his hand out from under Steve’s arm to grab it and tug. “We’re gross, man. You’re a hotbox and I don’t think it got below 80 all night.”

“Sure thing.” He pressed his forehead to the nape of Sam’s neck, and undid his arms but dropped his hands to Sam’s hips.

“I’m serious—” Sam tried to sit up, but Steve’s hands didn’t budge. Sam hadn’t, ever, been held so motionless by so little actual contact, but he couldn’t shift his spine, his center of gravity, with Steve pinning him on his side. And Steve wouldn’t have.

Sam settled for moving what he could, his shoulders and neck, twisting to look at Steve. When he could see him, it was Steve. Blue eyes creased with sleep, freckles showing on his shoulder where he’d burned yesterday. “I can’t go again yet,” Sam said, calm, like it was no big deal. It sounded fake to him, hollow.

“No, you don’t have to. Just lemme finish.” He dragged Sam closer. They both had shorts on and it was just Steve’s dick rubbing along the cleft of his ass, but it ached and it drove home how sore Sam was still, that this movement jarred him so badly. Steve shoved against him slowly, fingers spreading to dig into the cheeks of Sam’s ass. Sam pressed the back of his fist against his mouth to keep from objecting again. This wasn’t Steve and he wasn’t going to stop, but he was going to do worse than “not stop” if Sam blew his cover for him.

It was slow and it took too long. Sam had been ignoring the ache all night, but it was all he could think about by the time Steve sped up and groaned into the back of his neck. His hands went slack and Sam stood up before he could grab on again. “Shower,” he said. He was sure he sounded fake, now. He got in the shower anyway and rinsed the sweat off.

The door opened and Sam almost reached for the shower rod, which curved and looked set into the wall better than the towel rod; it wasn’t going to help. But beyond the curtain Steve just ran the sink. “You got a razor?” he asked.

If I had a razor I’d have turned it into a weapon by now, Sam thought. They’d planned on buying toiletries once they got here and then they’d switched hotels instead. “Sorry.”

Steve made a noncommittal noise and the door closed behind him.

When Sam got out of the shower, the towel Steve had run under the sink and used to mop himself off was crumpled on the ground. Even less ideal. Steve knew the rod wasn’t all that loose. Sam grit his teeth and broke the rod free from the wall. The tile crunched. One end of the rod splintered. Steve was unarmed and it was still a knife at a gunfight. Not even that. Sam could use a knife. He’d never used a fucking towel rod.

“Sorry,” he said, when he went back into the bedroom, tossing the rod on top of the dresser. The room was too small for that to put it out of reach. “Snapped right off. I’ll pay for it.”

“Or we won’t tell them.” Steve was dressed. Really not taking a shower of his own, then. Fuck. It would’ve been a good time to make a break for it without resorting to getting picked up by the face and thrown across a room. Fucking super soldiers, he thought, even though that hadn’t been Barnes’s fault, and even though he’d probably cry with relief if Barnes showed up right now.

“Steve,” he said. “I still—we still have to go back.”

“Sure,” Steve said, as easily as he’d said Sam didn’t have to. “Let’s grab some breakfast and a burner.”

“I’m not real hungry.”

“So? You gotta eat.” His eyes were too narrow again. “You wanted a phone pretty bad last night.”

Sam nodded. “It’ll be good to talk to Natasha.” It seemed like the safest thing to say. He didn’t move toward the towel rod yet.

Steve opened the door and stood there, waiting for Sam to walk out first. “Breakfast,” he said. “Then a burner.”

Steve was staring right at him. If Sam couldn’t incapacitate him, he was better off not doing anything.

He walked past Steve and a wave of gooseflesh crept down his arms. Steve was right behind him, almost beside him, but if he looked the other way so he couldn’t see Steve from the corner of his eye, he could hear how wrong Steve’s stride was, too short and sharp, almost a stomp.

Steve took Sam across the street and bought them little omelets on paper plates from the bar, which turned out to also be an actual restaurant. The paper plates were so they could get the phone and go back to the beach with their food.

“Lemme call Natasha,” Sam said offhandedly as Steve fiddled with the settings. There was a kiosk around the corner from the bar, and Steve had bought it there. Sam had been hoping for a convenience store with more people, maybe some security cameras. There was hardly anyone around yet. The teenager who handed them their food looked half-asleep.

“Yeah…” Steve didn’t make any move to hand him the phone. “Let me just take care of some stuff first.”

Sam couldn’t remember. Steve walked a half step behind him, put a hand on his back or his arm. And Sam couldn’t remember if this had started on Monday or if Steve had gotten suspicious since. He couldn’t have been following Sam around the house all afternoon; Sam would’ve noticed. But he couldn’t specifically remember any time Steve hadn’t been right there, aside from when he’d been at work.

The beach was pink and yellow, already heating up. The wind was stiff and the waves were thigh-high but they were farther out than they’d been last night. One of the bonfires hadn’t been put out properly and there were empties scattered around.

Steve finished his omelet and—he crumpled the paper plate and stuck it in his pocket, but it had looked for a second like he was going to drop it. Steve hated littering. He was still fucking around with the phone. “Finish your breakfast,” he said, without looking up. “I got us a boat.”

Sam went from numb with the suspicion that he’d lost his mind to fucking pissed. “You got you a boat. I think I’ve been pretty clear I’m not going.” He braced himself somewhere between “pissed” and “numb” and tried it. Tried to just… walk away.

Steve grabbed his wrist and ignored his attempt to pull away. “We can talk about it, I just want us to have the option.” He twisted his hand, pushing down on Sam’s forearm so he was jerked closer without Steve having actually jerked him, exactly. He still looked perfectly calm. “Calm down, hang on. The sun’s still coming up, we can… watch it.”

“The option? So you changed our plane tickets to this morning, too, just so we have the option?” He realized he’d raised his voice when Steve shot a look to the side. The white lady from last night, in one of those souvenir shop sarongs now, was walking down the beach with a guy. She was staring at them, wide-eyed. Sam clenched his teeth but stepped closer to Steve. “I can’t go for a goddamn boat ride today, Steve.”

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for us to go back,” he said blithely, like it had just come up for the first time. “I texted Barnes.”

Sam’s lungs felt weighted down. Steve hadn’t ever, not once, called Bucky “Barnes.” But it couldn’t—who else could it fucking be? He reached up and put a hand on the back of Steve’s neck, ran his fingers through Steve’s hair. He tried to look like he was just taking a second to think. The nick behind Steve’s left ear where his hair grew the wrong way was there, bristling under his fingers. Hell, Sam had had to reach up in the first place, and before he started hanging out with superheroes, he’d usually been the tallest one in the room himself; the height was right. He dropped his hand to Steve’s chest and Steve’s heart was beating right, the too-fast metabolism driving a pulse that made Sam nervous some days. Christ, he’d been naked with this man, it was Steve, it was definitely Steve, not some hi-tech mask.

“We’ll take a short cruise,” Steve said. “Rent some fishing poles. I’ll find you a shark. We can still make it back today.”

“No,” Sam said. Steve set his jaw, irritated. It looked wrong. Steve’s blue-green eyes, Steve’s long dark lashes, Steve’s crooked nose. His jaw didn’t look right. Like he was trying to square it and it was trying to jut the way it normally did when he was mad. This was insane. Sam felt light-headed. He tried to smile. “You remember what happened last time we tried boating,” he said.

Steve’s entire face twisted. Sam thought for a second it was actually going to change; maybe there was a mask involved. It didn’t. It was Steve’s face. His grip on Sam’s wrist turned painful and he clamped his other hand over Sam’s on his chest. “You know, Wilson, whatever you think of my acting? I swear to God, that was worse.”

“Jesus,” Sam said, rearing back, “Jesus Christ—”

“Hold the fuck still,” the guy said, voice low. “That nosy bitch can see us. You want to leave her to give our last known location to Romanoff, or you want me to go over there and snap her neck?” He sighed. “You could still have gotten a couple more hours of a nice vacation out of this. The last time we tried boating, Jesus. Like I’ve never seen a thriller.” He shot a harried look down the beach after the couple, then spun Sam so he was under Steve’s arm, right wrist locked to his left shoulder in Steve’s hand. “We’re going back to the hotel,” Steve said, already dragging Sam back up the beach, “and then we’re getting on a boat, and I don’t want to use the word hostage not eight hours after you sucked my dick, but I really did text Barnes just now. Among some other people.” He pulled the phone out of his pocket and crushed it in his bare hand. He brushed the pieces off against his thigh. “You had to go and fuck this up. You’re lucky I like you, Wilson, you really fucking are.”

Sam’s stomach heaved and he tried not to trip. “Where’s Steve?” he said. He’d been shutting this thought down since last night; he had to get out of this alive first. But if this guy knew, and if this was Sam’s only chance to ask, because bullshit—maybe they were going to a boat, or maybe Natasha was going to find his body in that tiny hotel room, he couldn’t trust word one out of this guy’s mouth.

“Hell if I know.” He kicked the hotel door open, gently, so he could keep one arm over Sam’s shoulders and grab Sam’s hip with the other. Sam guessed maybe it looked like an embrace to the guy who’d shown up at the front desk, but he couldn’t bring himself to check. Steve—it wasn’t Steve, he’d admitted it, Sam wasn’t delusional—leaned close to keep talking without the clerk hearing. “He’s knocking around in my sloppy seconds, if he hasn’t gotten himself killed yet.” His nose brushed Sam’s ear and his breath went down Sam’s shirt, and Sam flinched away. “Aw, don’t be like that. You were fine with it last night.” He jerked their door open, shoved Sam in, and slammed it behind them. “Get your shit, I don’t know when we’re gonna get a chance to buy more clothes.”

“You blew up my house,” Sam said, for something to say.

“You can bitch me out for taking precautionary measures once we’re on the boat and off the radar.” He planted a hand on Sam’s chest and shoved again—not hard, not even a little; the playing-normal strength Steve would have used.

Sam staggered back some anyway. “What the fuck is wrong with—I’m not going anywhere with you. A couple on the beach, a guy at the desk, sure, but you can’t kill all the people on some dock. You want to make a break for it, do it on your own.”

Steve—it wasn’t Steve, it wasn’t Steve—backhanded him. Sam stumbled into the dresser, ears ringing, jaw aching. “We don’t have time for this,” the guy said. “You want to be here when Barnes rides in on a white horse? I’ve got some bad fucking news for you, Wilson, some other people got a head start and they’re gonna beat him here. HYDRA’s pissed at me, but at least I come in a valuable package. You want a rundown of what they’ll do to you?”

“Quick bullet to the head? I thought you guys didn’t take prisoners.” Sam pulled himself upright with a hand on the top of the dresser.

“Sweet, you remembered. Well, there’s been a change in management. Why do you think I’m here, instead of doing what I was supposed to with this?” He gestured to himself. “Pierce had a vision. He knew where we needed to be and he knew how to get us here. This fucking mess—”

Sam stabbed him. The towel rod was too thick and too blunt; Steve’s ribs were unforgiving. Sam should have gone for the groin, the neck. But it was Steve’s body. That strangled thought about his nails, he’d been right, this wasn’t a disguise. My sloppy seconds. Steve was in this guy’s body. So they’d switch them back. They could figure it out.

But Sam still had to make it out alive, so he did his best to perforate his boyfriend’s side and he ran for it.

Steve made a terrible noise—several, actually—and doubled over. Sam didn’t stay to listen. And he made it to the front door, even.

The telephone from the front desk smashed against the door beside his head and he ducked. He was almost out when the clerk screamed.

“Sam…” He sounded like Steve. “Come on back.”

Sam turned back around. He really wished he didn’t have to.

Steve had the clerk on his back on the desk, the rod jammed under his chin. He was bleeding from the side, but incapacitated wasn’t the word Sam would use to describe him. Well, his odds hadn’t been great to start with. This wasn’t a shocker.

“You want me to see if I can shove this thing through a skull, or are you gonna come back over here?”

You remembered, he’d said. Sam had been assuming he’d heard that “no prisoners” line from Barnes, one of the times he’d admitted stuff about HYDRA, but he hadn’t. He almost couldn’t remember the name, but… “Rumlow.”

He winked . “There you go. Took you long enough, Jesus. You were starting to hurt my feelings.” He flexed his fingers around the rod and the clerk whimpered.

“You didn’t make much of an impression, compared to the forty-one floor jump.” But Sam walked over. He’d have put a hand on the clerk’s shoulder or something, but if he didn’t understand English and didn’t have any idea what was going on, he might be just as scared of Sam as he was of—Rumlow. “Let up on the poor dude, he doesn’t even have a phone now, he’s not gonna have time to do anything to you.”

“I got a suggestion,” Steve said, and grabbed Sam’s throat with his free hand. “Worry about your own ass here.” He dragged Sam in, twisting him around to wrap his arm around Sam’s neck, and Sam had about ten seconds before black dots crawled across his vision, thick and fast enough to bury him. He used the ten seconds—he kicked Steve’s knee, and he jammed his elbow into the wound in Steve’s side, and he scratched at Sam’s face—but the last thing he heard was Steve laughing.

It had been a shitty situation in which to lose consciousness. Regaining consciousness didn’t do Sam too many favors either. The throbbing in his head and throat resolved itself into the throb of an engine. The smell of gasoline stung his nose. His wrists hurt. He thought it was because of the way Steve had grabbed them, which might’ve been true, but as he found when he tried to sit up, they were also tied behind him. And to his ankles. He was fucking hogtied. At least there wasn’t anything around his neck. It was an even nicer touch since he didn’t need any more impediments to breathing than he already had: a gag so big his jaw hurt already and the whole “locked in the trunk of a car” thing.

Which had to be it—for a second he panicked thinking they were already on the water, but he didn’t smell fish and the movement wasn’t right, no rocking to it. Plus, he wasn’t an expert on the kind of boat a man on the run could rent or steal on a day’s notice, but he doubted they were lined with this scratchy carpet-upholstery shit. It’d get moldy, right? Sea air?

He might already be oxygen-deprived.

He couldn’t see for crap and he couldn’t feel much of the space from this position. It was too small for the car they’d rented earlier. He did his best to wriggle around in case there was a crowbar handy, but he wasn’t even running into a spare tire. He could just about reach his own pockets, if he did some muscle-cramping things with his legs, but there was fuck-all in them; they’d had to pass carry-on luggage rules. Some candy wrappers, a couple receipts, a credit card. Natasha could probably kill Steve with the credit card, but he didn’t spend a decade as a Russian child-spy. A pen. Okay, he could do something with a pen. He could… stab his boyfriend in the eye. Sure. Fuck, he’d gone and pictured it.

It wasn’t Steve. Christ, he barely remembered what Rumlow looked like. Just enough to transpose a vague dark-haired shape over last night, the night before, the night before that. Over the guy who’d handed him coffee and kissed him before he left for work Tuesday morning. Sam swallowed hard and breathed through his nose. The gag was tied in place, but it felt like the business end was just an item of clothing bunched into his mouth. He was starting to wonder if it was a whole goddamn shirt. The tail of it was starting to creep down his throat. At least the pre-vomit saliva was putting some moisture back in his mouth, but if he threw up he could choke.

The car turned, bumped, tilted, stopped. Sam let go of the pen. If he had long sleeves on to hide it in, that’d be one thing. If he had time to wedge it into the knot and try to undo the rope, that’d be—he could work with that. But if Steve was coming right now…

A door slammed, seagulls screamed, and the lock on the trunk scratched.

It was a bright day. Really good weather. Sam was pleased for people who were on the beach enjoying it. For him personally, the relief of fresh air was offset by the blinding sunlight right in his eyes at a moment he could have used some instantaneous situational awareness, but he hoped the nosy white lady was having the time of her life. He hoped she was feeling chatty. He hoped Natasha found her fast.

By the time he could see and breathe again, Steve had sliced through part of the rope and hauled him up by the front of his shirt. Steve pulling him out of a sticky situation, that part felt sickeningly normal.

His hands were still tied, but his ankles were half free and not tied to his hands anymore, so that was a start. “You with me?” Steve grabbed Sam’s chin and turned his head one way, then the other. They were on a very small, very rocky, very steep beach, and of fucking course there were no people around. The road was a few feet behind them, radiating heat, and there were weeds growing in the cracks, so this probably wasn’t a major thoroughfare.

Steve shook Sam’s head and then there was cold metal against his neck. Sam froze. Steve slid it up and through whatever was holding the gag in place. “You can yell if you want, I just don’t want to listen to it,” he said, and yanked the gag out of Sam’s mouth. Sam’s jaw clicked, pain shooting up it and into his temples.

“Where are you getting this shit?” he said. His voice dragged at his sore throat all the way out. “I don’t have a knife. When did you get a knife?”

“I worked for an intelligence agency instead of babysitting grown men who wanna cry about how they didn’t get killed in the sandbox. I have contacts.” He set Sam on the edge of the car. The bumper seared Sam’s legs, and he hissed, jerking back. “Sorry. Think you can stand?” He pulled Sam onto his feet without waiting for an answer.

Sam wavered but caught his balance. He tugged his left ankle away from his right and almost fell over, but at least worked the rope off. “I’ve been managing since I was a year old, yeah.”

“We’ve got a couple minutes before the boat gets here. We’re not going far.” He looked just like Steve did when he was concerned. Sam wondered whether that meant he had a better Steve impression in there when he wanted to, or it was just how this face worked, given time. “Just want to throw them off some. We’re going real low-tech.” He clapped a hand to Sam’s shoulder and dug a thumb into the hollow of his throat. “Don’t fucking try anything, Wilson, I’d hate to have to break your ankles.” He was breathing hard, eyes alight. Euphoric. “We’re almost out of this.” He surged forward, jostling Sam against the car, and kissed him. The hot metal scorched Sam’s back and legs, his jaw hurt so badly when Steve forced it open that he cried out, and he’d have kept either sensation if he could’ve traded away the dick heavy against his hip.

He ducked his head the second there was a give in Steve’s grip. “Get your goddamn hands off me.” He knew it was a mistake before it was halfway out his mouth.

Steve grinned. He closed his left hand, enough to hold Sam still, and hit him with his right. Sam’s vision blurred. Steve swung him around and shoved him off his feet. He hit the rocks elbows-first, which was better than face-first, at least. Or that was what he told himself. He couldn’t feel his left hand. He could, just about, get his fingers into his pocket.

Steve crouched over him, pinning his legs down. “Little late for that, Wilson. We both know I’m your type.”

“Yeah, you were great. Do you usually have to threaten guys into saying they’re having a good time, or was that special for me?”

“Well, I guess I’d be a change after Rogers. He probably cried when you fucked him. You’ll get used to it.”

Sam twisted like he was trying to get away. It got him a bruising grip on his thigh, but it put his fingers deeper in his pocket. “Where’s Steve?”

“I told you already.”

“No, you told me he’s got a Face Off deal too. I mean where is he, your body, whatever.”

Steve let go of his leg and stood up. “You stay right the fuck there or I’m gonna see what happens when I stomp on a man’s hand in this thing, and then it’ll be blowjobs instead of handies all the way to Tahiti. Just making work for yourself.” He turned to face the sea. It didn’t put Sam out of his line of vision, but it made him peripheral. “I’m gonna bet he’s fine, aside from the walking corpse he’s stuck in. That might even be doing him some favors; they can’t torture him for information, the state he’s in. Hell, he’s probably getting better treatment than I was before they realized I was the only one left who actually knew him well enough to pull this off.”

“HYDRA retirement package not all it was cracked up to be?” He had the pen in his hand, but it was wrong end up. If he tried to stick the button end into the knot, Steve—Steve would have heard it. He had good hearing, waves and wind aside.

“Whose is, these days? Hey. Our ride’s here.” He waved an arm over his head. Sam couldn’t see shit from this position. He spun the pen as quickly as he could and tried to force it under some useful bit of the knot. He was out of time. Steve bent over, grabbed his arm, and hauled him to his feet.

The boat was low-tech. It didn’t look like it had heard of the telegraph, never mind GPS. It didn’t, as far as Sam was concerned, look seaworthy. He dug his heels in. “Is now a good time to mention I get seasick?”

“Wilson, for fuck’s sake, if it sinks I can probably swim the pair of us and punch a shark along the way. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

“If it sinks is making me worry, as a phrase.” As was the specificity of thought put into how he’d be providing orgasms even now that he wouldn’t be participating, but he’d table that.

“Calm down. We’ve got time to test it, we’re gonna have to swim out. It can’t land here, this beach is for shit.”

He still couldn’t get under the knot. “Like goddamn hell am I—”

Steve wheeled around and grabbed his face, clacking his teeth together. “You’re not, no. You’re not doing fuck all. Your hands are staying tied. I’m gonna get you out there. You can shut your fucking mouth about it or I can break your jaw.”

Sam held still and tense, which didn’t do his aching neck any good.

“Where the hell is that bastard?” Steve took his hand off Sam’s face and peered at the boat. It was close, now, and Sam was pretty sure it had stopped moving. “He could get closer than this…”

“You’re bleeding,” Sam said. He must have done something to bandage up the stab wound, but there was finally blood seeping through his shirt. “I could look at it.”

“Yeah, once we’re on the boat.” Like he’d been taking that for granted, like they were in this together. Sam could try to encourage an infection, but he wasn’t sure there was a germ out there that was going to give Steve’s immune system pause.

“Where the shit…” He had the knife in his hand again. “Fuck.” He grabbed Sam’s bicep, dragged him in close, and stuck the knife under his chin.

“Hey, asshole.” Barnes had made it nearly out of the water. He was up to his thighs in waves, dripping wet, and pointing a gun that looked like a fucking joke, some kind of Super Soaker painted black. Sam had been right earlier: he could’ve cried with relief. “He give you the ‘I’ve got contacts’ speech?”

“It came up,” Sam said between his teeth. If he kept his eyes on Barnes, it wasn’t Steve doing this.

“And I was too zoned out to notice who you were talking to, huh?” Barnes rolled his shoulders. “Let go of Sam, Rumlow.”

“I don’t think so.” Rumlow coiled in closer behind Sam, twisting a handful of the back of his shirt in one hand and keeping the knife pressed into his chin with the other. He was big enough that Barnes could probably hit him anyway, at least a shoulder. He was pressed along Sam’s back, the length of him, and Sam wanted to burn off every bit of skin he was touching. He was so close to not having to do this anymore. Blood from Steve’s shirt was smearing his wrist. Barnes kept not taking the shot. “You’re not going to shoot me with that,” Rumlow said, right in Sam’s ear. “That shit was designed for you, Soldier. We know what it does to your knockoff store brand serum. You don’t have clue fucking one what it’d do to Rogers.” Barnes locked his jaw.

Sam wanted Steve back. But God, he wanted this man off him. He wanted the last three days off him.

He stabbed back with the pen, right where the shirt was leaking blood onto his wrists. He felt the knife go into his chin, bright and clean and too fast for pain. Rumlow lost his grip on Sam’s arm and shirt and Sam stumbled aside.

Barnes fired. Sam doubted the Winter Soldier had ever missed at this range. He didn’t start now.

Steve hit the rocks hard, convulsing. Barnes looked like he might be sick. He fired again anyway. Steve stopped moving.

Sam half expected there to be a gaping wound in his neck, spurting blood all down his front. He could practically see it, deaths he’d seen pasted onto himself. The cut was shallow, though, nothing hot or fast so far.

“Hey,” Barnes said. “You look like hell.”

“We have to stop meeting like this. I’m told I clean up pretty decent.”

“We’ve got Steve.” Barnes waded out of the water, pulling a seriously heavy-duty pair of handcuffs off his belt. He stooped and grabbed the knife. “Turn around.”

Sam did. As soon as he had his back to Barnes, he started shaking. How the fuck did he know this was actually Barnes?

He cut the tie around Sam’s wrists and stepped back. Sam faced him and backed up the beach a ways while Barnes threaded Steve’s limp hands into the cuffs. “Is he alive?”

“Yeah—I mean we’ve got both of them. Rumlow—Steve—shit. The actual Steve is back with the organization that’s definitely not S.H.I.E.L.D. He’s locked up, but he’s okay. And now we’ve got… this one, too. We’ll put them back. I can infiltrate one more HYDRA base, no problem.” He tossed the knife to Sam before he bent to check Steve’s pulse. Sam tried to catch it with his left and hand fumbled when he couldn’t feel it. “Can you, uh—I don’t know… how to monitor for shock, or whatever. Natasha’s on her way, but…”

Sam made sure he had the knife first. He walked over to Steve with his knees about to check out for the day.

“Hey,” Barnes said. “Close enough. If you just… tell me what I’m looking for. You don’t have to touch him if you don’t—want to.”

Sam’s legs sent him a resignation notice. He tried to accept it gracefully. “I’m fine to touch him.” He settled next to Steve and took his pulse for himself. It was fast, but just Steve’s normal fast. “Why wouldn’t I be? Go check in the car for a blanket, would you?”

“Sam, um. I worked. I worked with Rumlow. I know—how he is.”

Sam flattened one hand against Steve’s chest and the other over the knife on his thigh. He shook his head. “You better get a blanket or something if we’re worried about shock. More clothes out of the bags’d work.” He reached up and adjusted Steve’s head, tilting it back some more, reminding himself not to overcompensate. If Steve woke up right now, the bound wrists wouldn’t be a problem. He could still grab Sam.

Barnes went and got the bags. Sam, based on the squeal of metal, thought he might have torn a door off to get them. Couldn’t just break a window like a normal person. Barnes started digging extra shirts out and ripping them along the seams to use as blankets. “You never,” he said. “You know, when I—have trouble, you’re always real decent about it. I can be, for you… for fuck’s sake, Sam, don’t pretend he didn’t.”

Sam heard a helicopter. “I’m not pretending.” He smiled. “Jesus, everybody knows, huh? I mean, Natasha does. And if she does, so does Fury. Does Hill? Carter?”

“Fuck them. I just mean—you can… I know what it’s like to look at Steve and see something else.”

Sam pressed his hand down harder. He couldn’t see it shaking, like this. Barnes could tell, he guessed, but he’d take what he could get.

The helo sounded close. Barnes glanced up. “You can. If you change your mind.”

Sam nodded.

Re: bodyswap trash fill 5c/6

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-03 08:40 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 5c/6

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-03 16:45 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 5c/6

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-06 06:45 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 5c/6

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-06 16:36 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 5c/6

(Anonymous) - 2016-09-14 01:44 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 5c/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-04-26 02:29 (UTC) - Expand

[ur comments are So Much, I’m so flippen gratified u liked the “claustrophobia” and “tension” & stuff, I know it’s taking me forever to get back to ppl but it really means the world to me; & yeah, I probably will put this on Ao3 when it’s done if just bc some of the typos are killing me & I want a cleaner version LOL. also this is “6a” but 6b and 6c are going to be a couple days yet just FYI]

Sam got Steve back. A couple of times. Over and over.

The first time, Steve was behind bars and not himself. Barnes told Sam, "You don't have to see him. He says. If you don't want to." His mouth pulled. "Kind of wish I hadn't. It's weird."
¬¬
"I want to," Sam said, but he didn't go into the cell. He stomped sand off his shoes and brushed it off his skinned elbows. He said, "You, uh, you knew? When you called me? You and Natasha already knew."

Barnes shook his head, changed his mind. Nodded. "We knew what—Steve—in Rumlow's body said. I believed him. Not everybody did but…" He breathed in and then out, air hissing between his teeth. "I should have said?"

"No, I guess not."

"If I were you..." Barnes shrugged. "I'd have wanted to know. But if I were you..." He splayed his fingers at Sam. They buzzed.

"Yeah." Sam looked down at his own hands. "If you were me you couldn't have done anything about it once you knew." Sam was still expecting Barnes to turn it into a joke here. He'd left himself wide open. He was hoping for something along the lines of "yeah, what's it like to be useless without a super-special backpack?" He had a whole lineup of responses for that one.

Barnes dropped his head. "I came as fast as I could."

Sam thought he wouldn't be able to say anything, for a second, but Barnes wasn't looking at him. He had spit something out. "I know," he managed. He patted Barnes's arm on his way by.

Rumlow's—Steve's head shot up when Sam walked in, and he made a sound—maybe he'd moved too fast, or it was just seeing Sam that did it—but he sounded like Rumlow, from what Sam remembered of the Triskelion. He was sitting on the floor in the corner of the cell, and he pushed himself up in one movement, then staggered. "Sam," he said.

Sam stayed clear of the bars.

"Sam, it's me, I swear it's me." His voice sounded different than Sam remembered, and his face was practically melted off. The bars of the cell made it impossible to take all his features in at once. Sam wanted to recognize Rumlow. He wanted to be sure this was Steve, and he wanted to be sure he was in Rumlow's body. If he could see this, too, then Rumlow in Steve's body would be... easier.

"Come on, Sam, are you okay? You don't have to believe me, just say something, would you? Just..." He limped forward, one hand out, and stopped short of the bars.

"I believe you," Sam said.

Rumlow smiled. Jesus, that was Steve's smile, the sad barely-there one he used instead of crying or punching something. "No, you don't," he said. He stuck his hands through the horizontal bars and rested his wrists against a cross bar. "But you're alright?"

Sam nodded. He stepped a little closer. Steve's eyes darted across his face, searching, the same way they did after a firefight where he'd lost sight of Sam for too long. Steve’s eyes. They were brown, and level with Sam’s.

“You could ask me something,” Steve said. “Anything, I mean. To prove it’s me.” No Bronx in his voice, a hell of a lot of smoke inhalation, all the scar tissue around his mouth. That was why it didn’t sound like the Rumlow Sam remembered. He couldn’t expect everything to line up exactly.

“Yeah,” Sam said. He cleared his throat. This felt stupid. HYDRA had bugs that looked like earrings, or like buttons, or like nothing at all; they had years of access to Steve’s passwords and habits. “What’d we do for our first date?”

Steve’s big dumb panicked expression translated pretty well across physical forms. “Went out for dinner together?” he said, because even with his own life in the balance Steve Rogers planned to fake it till he made it. “We wanted Chinese but everywhere was closed because of the gas leak downtown, and we ended up at that little French place where everything cost at least forty dollars and we were the only ones wearing jeans and t shirts—”

“Okay, relax, I know we didn’t have a real first date,” Sam said. “That was a nice night though, good emergency call.” They’d been fucking for months before that night, but then, they’d been doing things that looked pretty date-like the entire time they’d been friends, they’d moved in together before they so much as kissed, they’d started fucking without really talking about it… It hadn’t been a chronologically traditional relationship.

Steve slumped forward against the bars. “That was mean.”

Sam shrugged. “Good to know you still step right into my traps.”

“Still, huh?” Steve’s fingers, too short and broad, jerked on the bars when he tried to tighten them. “It’s been a week.” His face shifted. The bars kept it sliced into separate pieces: here a cheek, there an eye. “I was planning on keeping it up for the foreseeable future.”

“I know. Me too.”

“And now?” Steve swayed on his feet, but locked his elbows and stayed upright. Sam watched, and not until Steve was steady again did it occur to him that he should be worried, that—Steve—the body Steve was in had serious injuries. “Sam, don’t—maybe don’t decide right now, I’m so sorry for whatever Rumlow did, or—or said—but let me at least get out of here before you—”

“Steve.” He sounded angrier than he’d meant to. “I’m not breaking up with you. We’ll be fine.”

Steve laughed. It was just relief. It was the closest to sounding like the Rumlow Sam remembered that he’d come yet.

Sam almost left the room right then. This was what he’d wanted—the symmetry, the other side of the equation to balance. He just couldn’t stand to be around it.

But Steve was balancing against the bars, tipped forward and holding himself stiff to stay in place, and if he left—if Sam left. And if something happened to Steve.

Rumlow had looked huge to Sam in the Triskelion, but trying to see him as Steve, now, he looked small; he was too short, his arms were too thin. Even where he wasn’t burned he looked fragile. What had looked chiseled on Rumlow looked brittle when Sam thought of him as Steve. He had to be three times the size Steve was before the serum, but Sam had never had to worry about Steve like that. Rumlow’s—Steve’s breath whistled through his damaged throat and Sam remembered asthma from the list of ailments Steve didn’t talk about.

He leaned against the wall opposite the cell. It was cold through his shirt. He ached up and down his spine, but he tried to look easy, to settle in.

Steve sagged against the bars a little. He wanted to ask, Sam could see that, eyes still moving too fast over Sam’s body and back to his face. He had to be bruised up, he realized suddenly. He hadn’t noticed any pain there in a while, but Rumlow had hit him in the face a couple times. The cut on his neck, there was that. Those, he thought, could be from any fight. He crossed his arms because the rings of bruises starting to bloom hot around his wrists, those didn’t look like any fight. He wasn’t sure whether Steve had seen them.

“They do room service here?” Sam said.

“Sam, don’t do it. Order us a pizza, I’m begging you.”

“Oh, Fury gives the Domino’s guys top-level clearance? S.H.I.E.L.D. really is a soft touch.”

“Well… make Bucky go get us some.”

“It’s not delivery, it’s…” Sam glanced down to make sure his wrists were hidden. He had blood under his fingernails. It was Steve’s, he realized, and it made his head spin. Steve’s body was in this building somewhere. Bucky should be there, with Rumlow, with that body, to make sure. Bucky would be the only one who could stop him, if he woke up and got loose; and Bucky would be going insane worrying about him, doctors prodding at what was still Steve’s body.

If Steve… if Rumlow woke up. If he got loose.

“I think I’ll do that,” Sam said. “We can all have a picnic.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said when Sam ducked outside and asked him. “Kind of wish I hadn’t,” Sam remembered too late, and he couldn’t meet Bucky’s eyes, between that and the thick chest-wide wash of shame at asking at all. Bucky knew. He knew why Sam didn’t want to be alone, not with Steve, not in case Rumlow woke up. He said, “Unless you want Natasha. One of us has to stay with Steve. Steve’s body. So if you want us to trade. But I can stay with you guys.”

Sam would, now he thought of it, have preferred Natasha. He knew her better and he trusted her to pretend she didn’t know even though she did.

And now he couldn’t say it, like he was scared of Bucky, like he needed it to be a woman in there with him.

“Nah, man, let’s have dinner,” he said. “And maybe—I’ll pay you back. Could you pick me up a shirt with longer sleeves? It’s fucking freezing in there.”

“Yeah,” Bucky said again, just as fast as the first time.

And it was okay. He couldn’t take his eyes off Steve the whole time and Bucky didn’t look at Steve once, but nothing happened. They managed to fake a normal conversation, too polite for how Sam and Bucky usually were together but pretty passable. He thought, I can keep this up. He’d make it through, Steve would make it through, they’d put him back in his body. They’d go—Right. Not home. They’d go somewhere, though. It’d be over.

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6a/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-05-14 14:17 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6a/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-05-15 20:03 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6a/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-05-14 21:07 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6a/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-05-15 20:11 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6a/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-05-16 01:06 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6a/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-06-01 04:50 (UTC) - Expand

[JK by "6b and 6c" I also mean "6d" because I've realized there's no chance in hell Sam Wilson doesn't confront Rumlow]

Sam got Steve back when they put him in his own body again.

Sam wasn’t there for it. He understood it was quite a light show. Natasha and Barnes took that bullet—after they took whatever bullets they’d needed to in order to come back smelling like smoke and chemicals, dragging a HYDRA scientist and a load of paperwork behind them. No one suggested that Sam go with them, or that he be there for the attempt to switch Steve and Rumlow back. Sam didn’t suggest it. He felt worse than useless but he kept his mouth shut.

“I don’t think we should try too many times,” Steve had said earlier, while Barnes and Natasha were gone. “You know what I mean? I don’t think we should give him too many chances to pull a fast one.”

Sam shivered. It really was cold in this cell. “Yeah, that did it,” he said. “I wasn’t feeling dire enough about this whole situation, but you got me there. Thanks.”

“Sam. I’m serious.”

Sam bent forward on the bench they’d hauled down for him. It had been a week since they got back from Mexico, and he didn’t really hurt anymore. The ache had eased, anyway. He didn’t constantly feel like he might have to throw up, just because that was the only thing he could think to do with the pain in his guts. Now he just felt… hollow. Scooped out. “Have you talked to anybody else about this?”

Steve shrugged and then froze up, shoulders locked, and they both had to wait out the rush of pain, wait for him to be able to talk.

This was what had Sam wanting to run away and throw up, now. That he was better, and Steve was trapped with this, with agony that barely let up. My sloppy seconds, he kept hearing.

“Not yet,” Steve said, breathless, but pretending he hadn’t just lost thirty seconds to burns that weren’t even his. “I wanted to tell you first. Then I’ll talk to Fury. I don’t think… I don’t think I’ll tell Nat or Bucky.”

“Good call,” Sam muttered, because they wouldn’t let it happen. Fury could order in a whole squadron of S.H.I.EL.D.’s finest to execute Steve Rogers’s body, and even if Fury did convince Natasha, Barnes alone could knock them down as they came. While Sam… “I get a vote here?”

“Come on, Sam… you don’t want him getting loose like this any more than I do. You know I can’t risk it.”

Sam shrugged. He could do that, repercussion-free. He got up and knocked on the door of the cell, one-two, one-two-three, which was the code that shot the extra dead bolts and locked him in here too, which in turn meant he could open the bars keeping Steve on his side of the cell. It had taken him a while to ask for this, and another while for Fury to agree. But everything else aside, Sam was a medic, and as much as he knew Steve needed advanced care way beyond his emergency field training, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he could fix things if he tried hard enough.

“If that happened,” he said, gesturing for Steve to get his shirt off. He aimed for casual, like he wasn’t picturing Steve—Steve’s actual body—with a bullet through the side of his head. “If you were stuck like this. Then what?”

Steve struggled with the range of motion required to get the collar over his head, but the shirt was loose and Sam knew better than to help. “That’s what I’m asking,” he said. “I guess the—worst case scenario, that part I’m telling. If he hurt you again, or somebody else… We can’t let that happen.”

Sam sucked a breath down, another coil of the haze around his brain shredding. Somebody else. If Natasha had walked into the house that day, before Sam got home—if it had been Wanda—Natasha wouldn’t have fallen for it, he thought. He could remember so many things he should’ve realized were wrong. This all would have been over in twenty-four hours if it had been Natasha. Hell, Wanda probably would have sensed it or some shit like that.

All of that was unhelpful and none of it changed the first second of his reaction; the image of Steve hurting them was already there, vivid in his head.

Steve fumbled his shirt and dropped it, but left it on the floor. He turned away from it like he didn’t care, like he could’ve picked it up if he wanted. “Right?”

Sam nodded and grabbed the sanitizer and jar of ointment off Steve’s bed.

“So what I’m asking is, then what?”

“Turn around, man.” Sam cleaned his hands off and dunked into the ointment, which smelled like the chemical-candy equivalent of mint and was S.H.I.E.L.D.’s in-house solution for burns that should have been life-ending and appeared not to have received any real medical attention since Rumlow had been broken out of the hospital. He smoothed it across the backs of Steve’s shoulders, where he couldn’t reach himself. The scars didn’t bother Sam in and of themselves—they were grisly, still red edged in white; they were thinner than they should be by now and sometimes they split; but he was used to worse and fresher than that. What bothered him was when he remembered they were Steve’s, for now; that Steve had to feel them. “Then,” Sam said, “you’re legally Brock Rumlow. Your face has been on TV as a ringleader in HYDRA, so that’s gonna put a crimp in our big date night when you get released.”

“Well.” Steve gasped when Sam touched something wrong, then went loose when he got it right. “Yeah. That’s a problem.”

“And this…” Sam dug his thumb into a knot. He was getting good at hitting the place between too hard for the burns, and too soft to do anything for the tension. “…is permanent. It’d cut into your avenging even if you were allowed within five hundred yards of a firearm.”

“Tony could make me a suit.” Steve turned to face him.

This was harder. He knew it was Steve. But this close, Steve the same height as him, brown-eyed and heavy-browed—Sam leaned back, hard as he tried not to.

Steve smiled a little, the worst kind. “Yeah, that,” he said. “It’s S.H.I.E.L.D., they’ll figure something out. Legally or otherwise. I know it’d be hard, I’m just saying I could handle it. I’m asking, could you?”

Sam was easily frustrated with Steve’s inability to let anything resembling a challenge go, irritation and concern always just below the surface waiting for that particular trait. It occurred to him why that might be when he found himself halfway through the only possible response, which was to kiss Steve.

It was weird. Steve was the wrong height. His mouth was shaped wrong. He kissed… right, clumsy and hungry and gentle where Rumlow had been desperate or overcautious. I should’ve noticed, Sam thought again. He worried for a second he’d freak out, given he was kissing Rumlow’s body. But it was fine. It was Steve.

And if it weren’t. If they switched back all of a sudden, right now. Rumlow couldn’t hurt anybody like this.

It felt like a betrayal, but something heavy moved in Sam’s chest, threatening to dislodge. “I’m game if you are,” he said.

Only that wasn’t what happened. Sam got Steve back. In his own body, hale and whole, no more pain, and Sam was glad—glad for Steve, and for the first few minutes, for them both. Barnes and Natasha swore it was him, and when Steve saw Sam he lit up the way only Steve could. He wrapped his arms around Sam and swung him up, and even that was fine, at first; it was Steve, Steve could do that, that was just how things were. For those first few seconds, Sam thought things were just going to click back to normal.

He got Steve back and they left together. They were boyfriends. They’d been living together. It was Steve, he’d been cleared, so they left together.

Before they left, Natasha pulled him aside. “We couldn’t gag him,” she said. “Rumlow. We needed them both talking, so we could be sure. We needed them in the same room for our shoestring version of this to work. Rumlow… talked.”

Sam stuck his tongue between his teeth and bit down, a little harder and a little harder again. He stopped. “I can guess what he said.”

“You can guess,” she agreed. “It was pretty predictable.”

To her. To Barnes, maybe. To Sam, now. It would have been fresh for Steve. Original material.

And then they left together, but they couldn’t go home, and neither of them wanted go through the rolodex of superheroes, so they went to a hotel.

Sam was still glad for Steve. He did click back to normal, as natural in his body as he’d been the whole time Sam had known him. After a few hours of rolling his shoulders a lot and taking deep breaths, it was like nothing had happened. Steve wasn’t the problem; Sam was. And the hotel.

It was a suite in a D.C. chain, not a tiny room in Mexico. But something about the smell of cleaner, the shiny comforter and the feel of industrial carpet underfoot… Either room was bigger than his bedroom at home, but they both felt small, like Sam was overheated and couldn’t get space to breathe.

He tried going in the bedroom and closing the door, with the excuse that he had to call the V.A. and figure some things out about his schedule. That was fine for as long as it lasted. Then he was done, and Steve knew he was done, because Steve could hear through that shitty excuse for a door; and Steve had been through some shit too, and Sam was going to get out there and be with his boyfriend.

He stared at the door instead, throat squeezing shut.

What was supposed to stop HYDRA from doing the same thing again? They’d had Rumlow before, but had they needed him with them physically in order to pull it off?

If they’d done it again, Rumlow would have had time to compose himself. By now, he’d be oriented, ready. He could pretend.

It was like being six years old and convinced there was a wolf at the head of the stairs, just where the light cut out, on the way up to bed. Sam did the same thing now he’d done then; open his eyes so wide it hurt and walk faster. He barreled into the couch-and-a-TV imitation living room.

Steve wiped his face clear, though not fast enough. He hadn’t been crying—Steve didn’t, really, only once in the time Sam had known him—but he was drawn and blotchy; it had been close. Sam washed over with relief, and then felt selfish, but it was so much easier to deal with Steve’s problems than with his.

And Rumlow wouldn’t have been crying, not even almost.

Sam sat down next to Steve on the couch and reached over to card his fingers through Steve’s hair. He still smelled funny, antiseptic from being kept locked up. “How’s it going?”

Steve’s face twisted up, smoothed out. He looked at the coffee table, so shiny it reflected them back. “He used to, um… Rumlow. Some of the jokes he made, when we worked together…” He smiled, a self-mocking grimace that reminded Sam of Barnes. “I really thought he didn’t like guys. I, uh. I don’t know. It didn’t occur to me that he’d—want—I was afraid he’d say awful stuff to you, or…” He pressed his palm over the fading bruise on Sam’s wrist without closing his fingers. “Bucky knew better, he tried to warn me. I didn’t get it.”

“Forget it,” Sam said. The rage started low in his gut, that he’d been this close to Steve not even hearing about it; if they’d just gagged Rumlow, Sam could have pretended it never happened. “I should have known, but I didn’t, so it wasn’t awful.”

He remembered, way too clearly, the way Rumlow had jerked away from him that first day. Startled, like waking up in Sam’s house hadn’t clued him in. If he hadn’t kissed Rumlow first, if he hadn’t fucking started it—

“Of course you didn’t know,” Steve said. “Why would you—who the hell thinks that?”

Sam kissed him, hard and sudden. He kept his eyes open. The kiss felt right, like Steve, but he looked… wrong, now. Fake. Steve’s eyes closed, eyelashes dark against his skin, like a picture. If Sam closed his eyes too it’d be fine.

He kept them open. He fumbled the button of Steve’s jeans.

“Um,” Steve pulled back to say. “Sam?”

“It’s over,” Sam said. “It could’ve been worse. Dude, think about it, if he’d actually done whatever HYDRA wanted instead of trying to elope. We were lucky. It wasn’t that bad, it was short, and it’s—it’s over.” He levered his hand into Steve’s pants, and Steve was hard in about the time it took Sam to get him in hand. Normally he’d stand up, because he hated losing an argument to his super-libido, but—weird day.

He leaned back. “Are you sure, is all,” he said.

Sam slid over him, into his lap, bracing himself with a hand on the back of the couch over Steve’s shoulder. It was green, an ugly bright shade with olive stripes. They should just go home, he thought, even though he knew they couldn’t. He bent forward, to lean into Steve, because that was what came naturally; and then he sat back so he could see Steve’s face.

Steve looked different. Not really, Sam knew, not actually. He just looked… newer. It had been years since Sam looked at him and saw Captain America, physical perfection, too good to be true. He saw Steve, his boyfriend, gentle hands and worst morning breath in the country, freckles and a lazy eyelid. Sam blinked hard, trying to banish the veneer of strangeness, dislocation. Like there was a robot there, something fake, not Rumlow but not… Steve, either.

Each time he blinked there was a second where everything was fine. When his eyes were closed he knew who it was. But that wasn’t good enough, that wasn’t going to get them anywhere.

Steve gasped, one of those hitching little ones that sounded like he might cry. He did that almost every time. Rumlow never had. He locked a hand on Sam’s hip.

Sam bit his tongue again, hard and harder. It wasn’t anything like before. Steve wasn’t holding him still. He worked his hand faster; he was getting hard too, thought he’d even like Steve to fuck him, maybe, except he didn’t think he could do this all the way through, keep it together.

When Steve came all over Sam’s hand and his jeans and the ugly couch Sam let himself close his eyes and lean into Steve’s shoulder, where he couldn’t see. Steve put an arm over his back, just one, and didn’t try to return the favor.

Sam knew better, he’d learned better, but right then, he thought, There. This isn’t going to be so tough.

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6b/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-06-01 20:28 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6b/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-06-02 22:14 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6b/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-06-04 04:54 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6b/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-06-05 23:12 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6b/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-06-21 03:58 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6b/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-06-29 17:59 (UTC) - Expand

[alright never mind, I don't know exactly how many letters there are going to be in "part 6", because my word count has gotten away from me]

It didn’t feel like it at the time, but Sam got Steve back, at least a little more, when he went to see Rumlow.

It was a bad month, leading up to that; he made it a bad month. He really did know better. That was the killer. He knew better than to do every single thing he was doing. He was certified in knowing better. But he was right back to where he’d been after Riley died, doing the stupidest shit and promising himself this was the last time.

He knew better than to outright lie to Steve and say that every time he and Rumlow fucked he’d thought it was Steve. He knew better than to go through just a few motions, enough to pretend there wasn’t a problem but not enough to make himself feel normal. He knew better than to let something build up in his throat until it was too big ever to say out loud. He definitely knew better than to indulge his least convenient fear and turn his most stable relationship into an anvil on his chest. But Steve wanted to help, and Sam had lost his grip at a really inconvenient time.

They tried to jump right back in. They’d gone on separate missions—Sam with Natasha, Steve with Barnes—and Steve beat Sam back to their placeholder apartment.

Barnes was still there and Natasha walked in behind Sam, and those were maybe the only reasons Sam didn’t walk straight back out again. Steve was standing in the center of the shitty living room, shoulders hunched, tense and miserable, and he looked up sharply when Sam entered the room.

It wasn’t that Sam thought it was Rumlow again. It wasn’t, he told himself, because Barnes was right there, on the couch; he would have noticed the change. But there was that second of doubt, and then… then it was too late, like something had slipped sideways in his brain. He didn’t recognize Steve.

“Steve,” Natasha said, throwing him her coat. “Tea, thanks.”

“Natasha,” Steve said at almost the same time, relieved; “do you want something—” and then he caught on, and rolled his eyes, and hung up her coat for her even though she’d been closer to the coat rack to start with. Whatever it was in Sam’s head, it grated back the other way. Steve, sure, it was just Steve, all the same old tight-wound nerves and affection thrumming though him. Sam grabbed his shoulder, too late to fill the second where he’d stopped dead when he should have greeted his boyfriend, and followed him into the tiny kitchen.

Steve waited another awkward second to see if Sam would pull away before he went in for a kiss. “How’d it go?”

“I hate West Virginia. HYDRA can have it next time.”

Sam could see the way this face would twist up if it were Rumlow but it wasn’t, it was Steve, whose eyes crinkled when he laughed. Either way it was the same face, the same perfect face that had been over Sam when—

“Sam! They can’t. You know that Mothman fella needs it.”

“Oh, dude, don’t. Natasha made me go see a statue of that shady fucker.”

“I told you! I told you she would. Did you get a picture?”

“I got a picture of him frowning at Mothman,” Natasha said, swinging around the doorway. “Manners wouldn’t have cost you anything, Sam. Mothman never did anything to you.”

“Give you five bucks to make Sam hold that stuffed Jackalope, and get a picture of that too.” Steve darted too heavy a look at Sam while he said it—see, I remember stuff about Natasha, it’s me.

“Can we stop at aliens? I thought aliens were plenty. I don’t need you guys pulling for this other shit,” Sam said, and retreated to the kitchen table.

“You’re all crazy,” Barnes said, having followed Natasha over like a duckling. “Bigfoot, though…”

Steve muttered something about newfangled beasts and there being nothing wrong with a good lake monster, and turned to make the tea. It was good, it was normal, and it gave Sam whiplash how fast they lost it once Barnes and Natasha left. How fast he lost it.

He saw them out, and he turned around and Steve wasn’t there.

“Steve,” he said.

“Yeah?” He’d been right there, just in the bedroom. It hadn’t been a full ten seconds. It couldn’t be Rumlow again.

“Sorry. No, nothing. What’d you want to do for dinner, man?”

Steve shrugged. “Whatever you want. You look beat, I’ll go pick us something up?” He took a few steps forward, cautious, not even sneaky. It was Steve. It was. Sam wanted to tell him not to go, or to say he’d come too. It had to still be Steve, and if he lost sight of him for that long again it might not be.

“Sure,” he said. “That’d be great.”

He didn’t know whether that had been dumb or not, but he knew damn well that what he did after it was dumb. He knew better.

Because Steve got back, then, and it happened again, Sam had lost it. Pink lips, dark lashes, round chin on a square jaw, everything that made Steve, but it didn’t add up right. The kind of face strange women on the beach could trust, but only that. Not somebody Sam knew.

No Barnes, no Natasha. He’d had plenty of time to get himself together, if—if it wasn’t Steve. Sam gave up, starting by closing his eyes and grinding the heels of his palms into them when he couldn’t keep them shut.

He heard the takeout bags hit the floor of the shitty apartment, a little too hard, because Steve still did that—lost track of how tall he was now—and Steve’s footsteps, quick and light. Steve put both arms around him all at once, hard, the way he always had; it was only this month he’d started hesitating first.

“Ask me something,” Steve said.

“It’s fine.” Sam pushed his forehead against Steve’s shoulder.

“I gave Natasha a stuffed Jackalope,” Steve said anyway. “Tony called you Samwise once and now Vision thinks that might actually be your name. You passed up an invite to tour the world with Fury to help me track Bucky down. I’m gonna buy Bucky a stuffed Bigfoot if he’s not careful.”

“Like hell,” Sam said.

“Come on, it’d be funny.”

Sam considered. He leaned all the way in, let Steve actually hold him. “Do they have those ones that are shaped like bean bag chairs? That’d be funny. Make it the focal point of his living room.”

Steve laughed. It caught in his throat. “Sam,” he said. “I can’t—I can’t make you look at me like that. Can we… take some time off? If we just stay together, if you can see me, would that help?”

Sam knew better than this, exactly this, but he was sick of looking at Steve that way too. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s try that for a while.”

And that was where the month really took a nosedive.

Give it an inch. He knew that about himself, he remembered what it had been like after Riley. He’d retreated inside from the dizzy spells and ended up just short of outright agoraphobia. He just—he was just tired. He wanted a break, with Steve, without starting over every time one of them left the apartment.

Turned out, without starting over, they ground to a halt. The amount of time Sam could go without checking on Steve chopped itself into fractions, but he didn’t get any more comfortable around him. It was three weeks of standoffs, taking longer and longer runs in the morning and then sitting on opposite ends of the couch and pretending they were paying attention to the score of whatever game came up, or what had happened previously on…, or where David Attenborough was.

Nights were easier, in a weird way. Sam wasn’t getting much sleep and Steve was having nightmares, but that felt normal, like before, when they’d go through bad patches at the same time. Sam dozed on his side of the bed, and in his sleep Steve would stop being careful, roll into the middle and throw an arm and a leg over Sam. The apartment smelled weird, funky, but in bed it was their laundry soap and Steve’s sweat and candy-cinnamon toothpaste. By one or two in the morning, Steve started twitching in his sleep, breath getting deep and uneven.

Sam did what he’d always done, when this woke him up or he was awake for it anyway. He squirmed over to face Steve, slotted against him and wrapped both his arms around Steve’s waist. If Steve wasn’t holding him too tight, he levered himself up the bed a little and tuck Steve’s head under his chin. Steve didn’t feel so big like this—his waist was narrow, his arms weren’t so much bigger than Sam’s, he wasn’t that much taller. The shoulders and the extra couple inches made him look huge, but in the dark like this, he felt smaller.

Sam rubbed his knuckles up and down Steve’s back and whispered nonsense to try and get him faster to the part where he woke up.

Steve had these nightmares before, too. Not even the content had changed, although they happened more since Rumlow, and seemed worse. Steve would wake up shuddering, lips clamped shut, the hand between them running back and forth over the expanse of his own chest until he was sure.

“Nothing happened?” he asked this time, and it was always something like that. “Everyone’s okay?” or “We did it?”

Usually the nightmares came after they’d fucked up in the field; usually, not everyone was okay. “We’re both here,” Sam said this time.

Steve heaved a couple more breaths, tugging Sam closer convulsively. “Sorry,” he said blearily. His limbs were already going loose and heavy again.

“You’re okay.”

“I don’t think Bucky likes me this way either,” Steve said, with the unnerving clarity of someone talking in their sleep, and then he dropped out completely.

Sam held on tighter. He remembered—earlier that day Natasha had visited. Sam had gone out to get them all coffees, because he could leave and Steve wouldn’t be alone. He’d walked back faster and faster, thinking that Natasha might not be careful enough; maybe she’d step out too.

When he opened the door Steve was saying, “—easier for him if it hadn’t worked,” and then he saw Sam and the conversation shifted really damn fast.

Sam knew what he’d been talking about, now.

He’d had the same thought. That didn’t make it okay. If he could have scrubbed it out of his own head, he would; he didn’t want Steve thinking it, not ever, not for a second.

This wasn’t working, the break. Sam needed to change something; even if he couldn’t make it better, yet, he had to make it different. He told Steve they’d better go back to work—that he was going back to the VA, either way—and he told Fury he wanted to see Rumlow.

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6c/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-07-02 00:28 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6c/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-08-27 10:35 (UTC) - Expand

[OK OK there's one more part/scene-ish thing after this one so 6e will be the very final thing as long as I keep my word count reasonable... and it's halfway written so maybe not another weeks-long gap in between]

Rumlow’s cell was on the other side of the hall, facing where Steve’s had been. It was the same room in reverse. Sam felt like he was on the wrong side of the bars.

Rumlow was sitting on the floor. His head shot up when Sam came in. His eyes widened and then he smiled, splitting his face, the smile Sam had seen on Steve. “Hey,” he said. “You figure out Rogers isn’t gonna give it to you like you’re used to these days?”

Sam snorted. “Natasha said you’d be predictable, but dude, come on.” This was going to be easier than Sam had expected. Rumlow, in person, wasn’t all that intimidating. And it wasn’t like the sight of him dragged any memories to the surface. That was the problem.

Rumlow sighed, like he’d told a harmless joke and it was rude of Sam not to at least chuckle. “I’ve spent some cold goddamn nights in here, Wilson. If it’s predictable to want a warm one, fine, guilty.”

“I’ll ask them to turn the heat up on my way out.” Sam folded his arms. There wasn’t a bench in this cell, on his side; or a cot on Rumlow’s side. “They didn’t run a security check on me,” he said. “Nobody searched me, nobody asked me to walk through a metal detector.”

Rumlow considered him a second before he said, “Placing these duties before personal desires… You don’t have a weapon.”

“I don’t need one. I just think it’s a pretty good bet that means they’re not watching the security feed, either.” Everything he’d been tamping down bubbled up, pressing low in his chest, enough to make him sick but not enough that he could let it loose. This, Rumlow like this—he wasn’t it. He wasn’t what had done this to Sam. Even if Sam could’ve killed him this way, while he was weak, he wasn’t the version Sam wanted gone.

“That others may fucking live,” Rumlow said, head back against the wall, eyes half-closed. “You’re not going to do anything to me like this.” He waved a twisted hand half-heartedly in the air.

“What we should do,” Sam said. “What we should do is let you go.”

Rumlow laughed, rolling his head down to meet Sam’s eyes properly. “Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll meet you for coffee, we’ll see where the afternoon takes us, how’s that?”

“Yeah. Just let you walk out the front door and see how far you get.”

It was hard to read Rumlow’s expression. The scars flattened all the details out. “Typical,” he said. “Typical good-guy B.S. You won’t get your hands dirty, but if HYDRA’ll do it for you, you’ll jump out of the way for them? Send Cap in here with that line and I’d even buy it.”

“I can do that,” Sam pointed out.

Rumlow heaved forward and wove back. Standing up was a process. He doubled over and when he straightened, one arm braced too hard and sudden against the wall, his eyes were wide. He said, “Sam?” incredulous and panicked.

Sam didn’t buy it, really, but there was that split second of doubt. Of wondering how he could ever be sure.

Rumlow dropped it. “I could make this harder,” he said. “Quit wasting my time.” His face pulled, teeth showing. “Hell, quit wasting yours. You’re back with him? How’s that going?”

The back of Sam’s mouth tasted bitter. He thought, for the first time, he really could hit Rumlow, even like this, weak and unrecognizable in a body Sam half-saw, still, as Steve’s. “You don’t ask me about him.”

“Fine, I’ll tell you, instead. I’ll tell you this: He’s a freak. Just like the asset. They’re goddamn monsters, I don’t care how much prettier they painted up that version. I didn’t do one thing to you he can’t, anytime he wants.” His eyes gleamed the way they had in the Triskelion, lit with the delight of spewing this shit. “You think I don’t get what a rush it is to pretend you can handle them? But you can’t, nobody can without the chair and an ice box. You were better off with me driving that thing. I showed you some hard truths, is all. I was honest. But him—he doesn’t even know enough to stop himself, and sooner or later—”

“That’s it?” Sam dropped his hands to his sides. “That’s what you’ve got?”

Rumlow’s smile stretched wider, less self-satisfied. “He’s a freak,” he repeated. “And you’re not. It was a miracle you ever made it work with him, and you’re lucky I fucked it up before he could.”

Rumlow, Sam thought, was pathetic. This whole thing was pathetic. He was a prisoner, on the run from his own people, dependent on S.H.I.E.L.D. to keep his skin together; he was seriously trying to convince Sam that he should, logically, be scared of Steve.

Rumlow was pathetic, and what did that make Sam?

It hadn’t even taken him a week to do this, and Sam was stuck with it. It wasn’t going to be over.

I can live with it. I’ve lived with worse. Sam shook his head. He’d wanted to know why Rumlow hadn’t run on his own, why he’d dragged Sam into it. He wasn’t going to get anything but more crazed rants. And he didn’t need them. He’d wanted Rumlow to say something else, to make it something else, but Sam could guess just fine. How pleased Rumlow had been when that woman said they looked in love, everything he’d asked Sam to say—that he trusted him, that they were happy. No big plan, no grand vengeance. And now Sam had to live with it for good.

“Sure,” he said. “Thanks for the favor. Enjoy the institutional dining, I hear it’s something else. I’m going home and see what Steve’s got on the stove, myself, so I guess we’re both back where we started.”

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6d/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-07-01 02:58 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6d/6

(Anonymous) - 2018-02-10 04:04 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6d/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-07-01 03:50 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6d/6

(Anonymous) - 2018-02-10 04:05 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6d/6

(Anonymous) - 2017-08-27 12:22 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 6d/6

(Anonymous) - 2018-02-10 04:13 (UTC) - Expand

[I said there was one more part, and in the... way too many months... it's taken me to progress on it, I gave up pretending it belonged under the number 6, so... 7a and 7b, and that's it for real, as long as 7b fits in the character counter. (but full disclosure I don't have 7b written yet.)]

Sam got Steve back—finally—when Steve got shot.

They went back to work. It didn’t get easier between the two of them, except Steve had fewer nightmares and Sam got better at pretending he wasn’t slipping, with all the practice. It stopped being a question of seconds, of minutes, before seeing Steve again sent him back a step. It was still a question of hours. But Sam went to the VA anyway; he kicked Steve out for coffee with Barnes anyway. He took solo missions. He went home to visit his mom and siblings for the weekend, now that he could back up the cavalier shit happens when you’re an Avenger attitude he’d taken with them on the phone when he’d told them about the house.

Sex was the hardest part, now, and Sam found that comforting. It felt more like how things were supposed to go. By the book. Follow these five easy steps.

Not fast enough, apparently.

“We’re not unbeatable,” Barnes told him. Steve had gone ahead and bought the Bigfoot beanbag chair, and Sam was breaking it in while Steve went to buy pizza as an apology for sneaking ugly novelty furniture into Barnes’s apartment.

“Who?” Sam was busy propping Bigfoot against the wall so its chin would stop hitting his head. The arms moved from the elbows down, and he wrapped them around his waist to see what that got him. Maybe a really inconvenient, squishy lap-desk.

“Me,” Barnes said. “And Steve.”

“You’re sure not, I just beat you to the best seat in the house.”

Barnes wadded up some of the packaging from the chair. “We can do a lot of flashy tricks, but we're not the Hulk. Natasha could beat me, if I didn’t have a gun.” He rolled the ball of packing between his hands for another second before he threw it at Sam.

Sam had found that, in conversation with Barnes, it paid to back up a few steps when he was confused. He decided the tape stuck to his shirt was meant as comeuppance for the chair joke.

“You could beat me, if I didn’t have a gun,” Barnes continued. He sounded less convinced about this. “With some more training.”

“Thanks,” Sam said.

“Natasha’s good at beating people who are stronger than she is. You’re not used to that, is all.”

“Okay,” Sam said.

He’d been wrong to think Barnes disliked him, he was pretty sure. The problem was, Barnes wasn’t very good at liking people, either. At least, it sure didn’t feel like it when he got this way as soon as Steve was out of earshot.

Barnes did, like Sam or not, get fed up with him. “I know I’m not saying it all the right way,” he snapped. "But if you’re going to stay with Steve, you have to do something about how scared you are. He can tell.”

Sam stood up. Bigfoot no longer felt like a good spot to have this conversation. “Do you really want to start this? He comes home to me psyched when you manage to look him in the eye once in a conversation, but you want to go there?”

Barnes's jaw ground sideways. "Okay," he said. "I know. I'm doing my best."

"I know you are. Wonder what that must be like."

Barnes dropped his chin, but forged ahead. "Sooner or later Steve's gotta stop pretending things are going back to the way they were. I can still be his friend but it has to be different now. He thinks we can act like nothing happened and if we do a good enough job it'll be true."

Sam looked away, at the Goodwill bookcase Barnes had started carefully filling, mostly with cookbooks and atlases. He chewed back the first four things his instincts told him to say, because they were cruel or unfair and Barnes was right and it was that simple. Sam knew that. He just couldn't act like it. "Did you ever," he started. He was pretty sure he didn't really want the answer. "You said you, uh. Knew what Rumlow was like, or something. Did he ever--"

"I'm not sure." Barnes said it fast, before Sam could even really ask, let alone follow it up with something about how he didn't have to answer if he didn't want to. "I remember seeing him with other people. I know... some guys did, with me. I just don't know if that was him too or not."

"Steve doesn't know, does he?"

Barnes's eyes widened. "Don't tell him."

"Jesus, no, I wouldn't. That's not what I meant, man." Sam just wished Steve didn't know about him, either, and that would be cruel and unfair to say, too. It wasn't really doing Barnes any favors. It'd fly in the face of what Barnes had just said, and been right about. Sam walked over to the bookcase. "You don't think Steve's buying it, huh?"

"Have you ever thought I was buying his act?"

Sam shrugged. "How many cookbooks by Vincent Price do you have?"

"How many different titles, or how many copies total?" Barnes came over to stand next to him and started pulling books out at an angle. "Talk to Natasha. Or Carter."

"You're right," Sam made himself say. He wasn't going to talk to Natasha or Carter. Barnes stopped pulling books out, six books in. "Jesus, dude."

"I like Vincent Price, what do you want?"

"I want you to make us a Vincent Price dinner, not con my man into paying for pizza. You've got this hidden talent you're holding out on us."

He'd timed it right, anyway. Steve got back and they were laughing about spaghetti in a can instead of glaring at each other about who was fucking Steve up worse. Sam called that a victory, these days.

Re: bodyswap trash fill 7a/7

(Anonymous) - 2018-02-11 06:35 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 7a/7

(Anonymous) - 2018-02-12 06:18 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 7a/7

(Anonymous) - 2018-02-11 11:47 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 7a/7

(Anonymous) - 2018-02-12 06:36 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 7a/7

(Anonymous) - 2018-02-17 03:02 (UTC) - Expand

Re: bodyswap trash fill 7a/7

(Anonymous) - 2018-02-17 21:30 (UTC) - Expand

https://archiveofourown.org/works/14377302

This still isn't finished, but it's close enough that I feel confident putting it on Ao3 isn't going to mean making any more people wait um... almost a year for me to finish, sorry guys. I'm real close now!

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Steve/Sam, Brock/Sam, bodyswap

Re: Steve/Sam, Brock/Sam, bodyswap

Re: Steve/Sam, Brock/Sam, bodyswap

Re: Steve/Sam, Brock/Sam, bodyswap

Re: Steve/Sam, Brock/Sam, bodyswap

bodyswap trash fill 1/4?

Re: bodyswap trash fill 1/4?

Re: bodyswap trash fill 1/4?

bodyswap trash fill 2/4?

Re: bodyswap trash fill 2/4?

Re: bodyswap trash fill 2/4?

Re: bodyswap trash fill 2/4?

bodyswap trash fill 3/5?

bodyswap trash fill 4a/5?

bodyswap trash fill 4b/5?

bodyswap trash fill 4c/5?

bodyswap trash fill 5a/6

bodyswap trash fill 5b/6

bodyswap trash fill 5c/6

bodyswap trash fill 6a/6

bodyswap trash fill 6b/6

bodyswap trash fill 6c/6

bodyswap trash fill 6d/6

bodyswap trash fill 7a/7

bodyswap trash fill now on Ao3