Steve has a sudden, barely controllable urge to shake the water out. The only thing that stops him is that Sam has already changed and the amount of water in Steve's fur could easily soak him again. He'd probably hate having to dry off the kitchen too. Despite knowing all of these things, it truly takes everything in him to hold it back.
So when Sam tosses the towel on his head, Steve considers, if just for a second, turning the entire kitchen into a splash zone. But then he looks at Sam and his pile of towels that Steve would never have asked for despite the very real discomfort of cold, wet fur, and all he feels is warmth.
The lets out a loud sigh and drops his head, resigned to the towel down.
Sam's never had a pet dog, but he still knows enough about their behavior to eye Steve with suspicion for a long moment. He wouldn't kick Steve back out into the rain if he shook his coat out, but the garage? Maybe. That fur's enough to keep him warm through the night.
But the tension ebbs away, and Sam grabs the first towel and starts rubbing Steve down. "Bucky and I've been doing some work together," he mentions, just talking to fill the silence. Everything he tells Steve while he dries him off is just inconsequential stuff, minor stories of mishaps (mostly Bucky's, although Sam's not afraid to mention his own) and his attempts to get Bucky to socialize like a normal human being ("which means he thinks he can hit on my sister," Sam adds darkly). He talks about working on the boat sometime halfway through the second or third towel, how they're trying to get it back in shape to rent it out and bring in income from tourists. What he wants to know is what happened to Steve, where he's been and why he's like this. But obviously he's in no shape to discuss that at the moment.
Sam, thankfully, can keep up one side of a conversation all by himself for hours (it's an art perfected by spending time with Bucky), so he doesn't even have to resort to singing Marvin Gaye songs while he works.
"There." Sam steps back and throws the last towel on the pile. "All dry. You wanna head up to the guest room?"
Not since his mother passed has Steve let anyone fuss over him like this. If it weren't for his current predicament, he most likely wouldn't be allowing it now. But he has no choice, he's hungry and tired and lost, and giving in is too strong a temptation. It has been too long since Steve felt he had anything approximating a home, but being in Sam's presence is like finding something he feared was long lost, a sense of peace that only comes with knowing you are safe and cared for.
Sam, of course, is incapable of making Steve feel ashamed for accepting help. He takes it upon himself to keep up a one-sided conversation, and the sound of his voice lulls Steve's animal brain into a restful state. At some point, he relaxes enough to settle into a curled position next to where Sam is seated, leaning his spine back against the warmth of Sam's thigh.
By the time that Sam is finished, Steve has gotten so comfortable that the sudden shift in atmosphere leaves him disoriented. Perhaps that's why the most pathetic sounding whimper escapes him when Sam suggests the guest room. He feels like a slave to his urges as he bumps his head against Sam, pushing and nudging to make room so he can curl up in Sam's lap (as much of him as can fit, anyway), but he isn't ready for this closeness between them to end.
Sam finds that he's getting pretty comfortable, too, between the rhythm of rubbing Steve dry and the warmth of his body. By the end, he's not really sure what he's saying anymore, but he's lulled himself into a relaxed and nearly dozing state. He doesn't protest when Steve worms his way onto his lap - it makes him think of a Great Dane pretending to be a Chihuahua, and it's actually pretty cute. Instead, he just tips his head back against the couch and runs his fingers through the fur around Steve's ears.
They stay like that for a good fifteen minutes, and Sam's nearly asleep when something in his neck twinges and reminds him that he can't sleep sitting up anymore unless he wants to regret it for a week. (Steve, he suspects, could sleep folded up like a pretzel and be just fine the next day.)
"Can we at least move this to my room?" he murmurs sleepily. Doesn't think twice about it - it's not like they haven't had to squeeze into whatever's been available before. If Steve wants to cuddle, that's fine by him. The sound of the storm outside just makes the thought more appealing, now that he's dry.
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no subject
So when Sam tosses the towel on his head, Steve considers, if just for a second, turning the entire kitchen into a splash zone. But then he looks at Sam and his pile of towels that Steve would never have asked for despite the very real discomfort of cold, wet fur, and all he feels is warmth.
The lets out a loud sigh and drops his head, resigned to the towel down.
no subject
But the tension ebbs away, and Sam grabs the first towel and starts rubbing Steve down. "Bucky and I've been doing some work together," he mentions, just talking to fill the silence. Everything he tells Steve while he dries him off is just inconsequential stuff, minor stories of mishaps (mostly Bucky's, although Sam's not afraid to mention his own) and his attempts to get Bucky to socialize like a normal human being ("which means he thinks he can hit on my sister," Sam adds darkly). He talks about working on the boat sometime halfway through the second or third towel, how they're trying to get it back in shape to rent it out and bring in income from tourists. What he wants to know is what happened to Steve, where he's been and why he's like this. But obviously he's in no shape to discuss that at the moment.
Sam, thankfully, can keep up one side of a conversation all by himself for hours (it's an art perfected by spending time with Bucky), so he doesn't even have to resort to singing Marvin Gaye songs while he works.
"There." Sam steps back and throws the last towel on the pile. "All dry. You wanna head up to the guest room?"
no subject
Sam, of course, is incapable of making Steve feel ashamed for accepting help. He takes it upon himself to keep up a one-sided conversation, and the sound of his voice lulls Steve's animal brain into a restful state. At some point, he relaxes enough to settle into a curled position next to where Sam is seated, leaning his spine back against the warmth of Sam's thigh.
By the time that Sam is finished, Steve has gotten so comfortable that the sudden shift in atmosphere leaves him disoriented. Perhaps that's why the most pathetic sounding whimper escapes him when Sam suggests the guest room. He feels like a slave to his urges as he bumps his head against Sam, pushing and nudging to make room so he can curl up in Sam's lap (as much of him as can fit, anyway), but he isn't ready for this closeness between them to end.
no subject
They stay like that for a good fifteen minutes, and Sam's nearly asleep when something in his neck twinges and reminds him that he can't sleep sitting up anymore unless he wants to regret it for a week. (Steve, he suspects, could sleep folded up like a pretzel and be just fine the next day.)
"Can we at least move this to my room?" he murmurs sleepily. Doesn't think twice about it - it's not like they haven't had to squeeze into whatever's been available before. If Steve wants to cuddle, that's fine by him. The sound of the storm outside just makes the thought more appealing, now that he's dry.