Sam has always done that, almost from the minute we met. Seen through Captain America and seen Steve, in a way that knocks down the mask and appearance of being unshakably steady to... a Guy from Brooklyn.
He also hates it because he knows damn well part of what Sam does with it - and why - is to avoid dealing with his own shit. Which is why Steve is studying Sam back, both verifying that he's here, and wondering just how damn awful it is to come back to what he came back to. All of it - losses and family and his own existence erased like it never mattered, and how the hell anyone handles that.
Partially because he's Steve, and this is Sam and he cares a hell of a lot - mostly that. Also a little so Steve doesn't have to think about much more than the fact that Sam is here.
"Yeah. Sorry. Peak physical condition doesn't seem to care about my hairline." It's a joke, offhand and barely paying attention to what he's saying, but brushing off the too accurate observations behind it. He wants to cry, but he's just... not. Instead he reaches up, hand opposite Sam's and hand on Sam's shoulder and kisses him.
Fast, but hard and with teeth. Too fast, too brief and too sharp. Not desperate, more brittle. "That was five years overdue." He's not apologizing. Won't. Whatever Sam does with it.
Sam makes a soft sound - surprise, not protest. It's clear the kiss catches him off guard, which isn't without its irony. For a man who reads others quite well, who has always been able to see Steve under layers of Cap, Sam has been entirely oblivious that the nature of the way Steve looks at him has evolved over time. As if for all that Sam carries himself with a quiet confidence, it never even occurred to him that anyone could fall for him and, worse, be unable to get over him for the five years of his death. As if he never considered that the person he's found himself so closely entwined with for four years might just love him.
And...
It hits him like a brick wall. Four years, they've known each other. That means Steve mourned him for longer than they'd known each other. It also means Steve has loved Sam for longer than Sam has known Steve. It shifts Sam's entire world on his axis, sends him into free fall. And yet... despite the bite of that kiss, fhe brittle, desperate hunger, Sam knows that he will be caught, knows it deep in his bones and begins to understand what's been sitting in his own chest, small and tender and aching, for so much of the time he's known Steve.
Sam's pulse hammers in his chest. He doesn't pull away, he fists a hand in Steve's shirt. Doesn't pull him closer - but he nods.
Acceptance. Understanding. Permission... for Steve to come take what he needs.
Whatever Steve expected - and even after all this time, all the mental wondering, all the even tactical genius and what-ifs - it wasn't this.
He's almost surprised Sam is still real, solid, alive and there.
His own reaction isn't anything particularly dramatic. He takes the permission to give it, but all he really does is pivot them around so Sam's back is to the door, let go of Sam's shoulder so both his hands are braced on the door at about the level of Sam's ribcage so the 'catch' can become literal at any given moment it needs to. Physically, literally, supportive even if Sam's knees stay solid.
Then drops his forehead down against the door beside Sam, and closes his eyes. "Did you call Sarah?"
A deep breath, eyes sliding shut. Sam is still for a moment. He feels cornered, but... it's good. It feels safe, right here, bracketed by Steve against the door.
Sarah lived. So did the boys, and Sam is grateful beyond belief for that. If anyone had to die, he's glad it was him. And he will not say that out loud, because it's a horrid thing to think and feel.
"Steve..."
Sam stops himself. He's not sure what he should say, what he should ask. It takes him a moment, then his hands come rest on Steve's chest. He turns his head, noses at Steve's jawline. Feels the way his owm breath hitches. The way his chest tightens, and his heart yearns.
The last man he felt this way for got shot out of the sky.
Sam needs to go home - not right now, not immediately. But soon. Needs to be able to hug his sister, to survive the knowledge that his nephews lost him when they were so young they now have no memories of their uncle.
But not right now. Right now, he has to survive knowing Steve wanted to kiss him five years ago, and still does. Has to survive realising that he wants Steve to kiss him, too.
That's acknowledgement that Sam's taken care of letting his family know he's back and there's a plan to go back. It's also recognition of what Sam's asking for, and an intent on Steve's part to give it to him.
It's a lot of ground for one, small word to cover.
Steve spends a second or two using the sound of Sam's heart, the warmth and weight of Sam's hands against his chest and even (especially) that gentle nudge against his jaw to get himself grounded in the now. To breathe past the pressure in his chest, until it eases off.
It's barely a couple of seconds before he lifts his head, opens his eyes and meets Sam's and smiles, faint and fast, and kisses him again. Slower, deeper, less brittle edges, more warmth - more Steve. Say what you want about the man, he knows how to kiss. Teeth, tongue, and breath, gratitude and love and just... everything Steve is, and everything he has.
The words sit in Sam's chest, clawing to rise into his throat. There's an entire world out there that needs fixing, though, and Sam's struggles to come to terms with what happened to him are such an insignificant part of that. He knows given half the chance, he himself will bury it deep down and focus on showing up to help, to save what and who he can, to fix, to rebuild. To the rescue? Always. The pararescue motto is 'the things we do, so others may live', and it's engraved in Sam's bones.
It would be selfish to ask Steve to come with him. To be with Sam and his family, with golden sunsets over the bayou in Sam's childhood home, where the love of his long lost parents sits in every wall and every creaking bone of the house. It would be selfish to ask Steve to come hide away with Sam, just for a moment, just for a little while, so that Sam can have the space to sort through the graveyard of emotion in his chest.
So he can look at Steve and let himself slowly realize that Riley would love this for Sam, too. So that he can look at Steve and tell him that there had been Riley, back in the day, and now there was Steve.
Sam knows, deep inside his bones, that he will not get to have that calm, that quiet peaceful path through his own emotions. But maybe Steve understands.
For now, what Sam has are Steve's smile and his kisses, the solid warmth of him, the weight of five years of grief and yearning. For all of Sam's quiet confidence, Steve might be surprised to find his kisses come hesitant at first. He trembles a little, his entire body tense and shaking like he'll fall apart in a moment. Like a skittish animal that needs to be soothed and coaxed, not yet realizing it's safe and won't be harmed. Sam kisses like a man who has not kissed in a long time, and is re-learning that he wants to be kissed and kiss back. He kisses like he's learning the shape of Steve's longing and pain and grief, and like he's coming to terms with how much the shape of those emotions is mirrored in his own chest, where Sam clearly had failed to look for so long.
He kisses like a man so used to hiding himself away that he lost his own heart to another man and never even noticed.
And slowly but surely, he falls into it, kisses back less hesitantly, more sweetly. Trembles less in shock and more in need, feels less like a skittish, wounded animal and more like a wild thing gladly leaning in. Sam steps away from the door, closer into Steve's arms. Melts into him.
The unanswered question answered with an unspoken but oh so very clear 'yes'.
Steve is steady, patient, and present while Sam settles under his hands and against that wall. He's fine - in the fragile space of the moment and confines of a shitty hotel room, just like ones he spent years of nights in with Sam, before it all went straight to hell.
He can feel pressure just outside this specific bubble of time and place, just as surely and physically as he can feel the serum trying to finish the job of healing him without enough food, sleep or even blood in his veins.
This isn't over for him. Not even the abstract and long work of trying to put the world back together and take care of all the people who need it, but immediately. He has to get through Tony's funeral and seeing Tony's daughter. Then he has to get those stones buried back in the past. He doesn't particularly want to and there's a sense of... finality surrounding it that borders on ominous.
It needs to be done. He wants it done, and he is absolutely going to be who does it.
And he's got it pushed solidly enough outside the moment and to the back of his mind that he can have this and be here now. Once Sam settles, once he feels (and hears, and truthfully can even smell) that shift, he pulls slowly back. Puts a hand on Sam's jaw while he does, and then brushes a thumb over his lower lip.
"Let's maybe get this to a bed. I'll be there as soon as my boots are off." And coat.
There's so much for Sam to catch up on. There hasn't been time yet to sit down with people and listen to stories about the stones and time travel and what it all means. It's a headache for tomorrow, but not a headache for next week, the way Sam sees it. And he knows Steve well enough to know that it's a headache Steve will put on himself one way or another. Sam will try to be there to support him. His place is on Steve's left. Not a sidekick, just a friend and partner doing the same thing, but a bit slower. With more style though, no offense, Cap.
A friend and partner.
And now...
Sam's pupils widen. Those golden brown eyes made dark. His pulse thrums under his skin. Sam smells like cocoa butter and coconut, always reaches for good skin care even on a run. Once told Steve he'd turn himself over to Ross before he shames his mother by being ashy, and he'd only been half joking. Steve's reward for the care Sam puts into himself is soft, smooth dark skin, and to his heightened senses, an easily recognizable scent, especially now that kisses and desire make Sam's skin warmer.
Sam leans his head into the large, wide palm cupping his jaw, kisses the pad of a thumb stroking over his full lip. Looks up at Steve from under those long lashes.
"have you done this before?"
Not judgment, just curiosity. And Sam means with a man specifically, not the act in general. He steals one more kiss and moves to the bed, letting Steve handle his boots and coat while Sam closes the blinds. Shuts away the outside world for a little while longer.
Steve... actually laughs in response to the question. Not mockingly, and not embarrassed, but because Sam is actually one of two or three people who know him well enough to think to ask.
And that's a strange kind of relief.
"I've had some sex in the past five years, but not a lot and it was all with a woman." He will elaborate if he has to, but he's not exactly sounding light and airy in spite of that laugh.
Fill in those gaps, Sam.
Or don't.
Steve moves away, eyes a little more shadowed than before, but not as much as they might be, so he can get busy unlacing his boots. He doesn't like the distance, but it's necessary.
A lingering glance, the weight of which makes it clear that Sam does, indeed, fill the gaps. What clenches in his chest isn't jealousy - Sam doesn't roll like that. He just... painfully, desperately wishes things had shaken out differently. Would it have been kinder of the world to leave Sam and everyone else dead and gone, to allow Natasha to live, to allow Steve to maybe, one day, forget what he felt for Sam and move forwards? Can Sam be glad to be back when it cost one of his dearest friends, who Steve held so much closer yet?
For a moment, Sam watches Steve, then averts his eyes. Stands by the window, fingertips lingering on the blinds, peering out through the small gaps between.
Waits for Steve to join him again. Sam's mind wanders, for a bit. When Riley got shot out of the sky, ending a relationship that existed in secret due to circumstance, that to this day Sam has not told anybody about, he left the Air Force. Went home to Delacroix, laid down in his bed and didn't leave it for a month.
Sam doesn't do casual. It takes him a long time to fall for people, so long that apparently the line from friendship into love blurs so deeply he cannot tell the difference himself until he's confronted with it. He loves his friends so deeply that it cuts him down to the bone to see them hurt, to lose them. To love someone enough for his body to become interested in intimacy... takes a lot. Takes time few people have. Takes patience Sam has seen run out so often he learned not to bother. His interest now is the result of four years of deepening feelings, and even then he wouldn't have noticed had Steve not taken a leap.
Sam remembers the brittle bite of that kiss. Wonders, for a moment, if this should happen. If Steve is just hurting himself, or punishing himself, or drowning himself. If so, does that mean Sam will also be hurt and punished and drowned?
Will it stop them?
When he hears Steve moving towards him, Sam looks back to him again.
"There was Riley." It's like I was up there just to watch. After that, I had a really hard time finding a reason for being over there, y'know? "There's you." Words said to Steve a long time ago. To a man who threw himself into the ice to end a threat. A man who'd lost a love and a loved one and threw himself into that abyss. And maybe Steve didn't understand what Sam said then, but... well.
Fill in those gaps, Steve.
Sam's hand comes up to cup that much too serious, shadowed face.
Steve's not hurting himself, Steve's just hurting.
You can do the math on how many lives are saved by the loss of others. You can tell someone you need them to go, very likely, die so you can prevent greater losses. You can watch your best friend plunge to their (supposed) death off the side of a moving train, feel your world stop and your heartbreak and still hold on with everything you've got, because there are other people who need you and the war isn't over. You can even give up your own life, and everyone you've known and loved and every hope of the future, to take a terrible weapon down with you.
Steve's done all of it, and in the case of the first two, he's done a lot of them.
What he knows, down to his bones is what you can't do is value one life more than another, or trade one for another.
In his mind, Nat and Tony are gone. Sam and Bucky are alive again. They didn't die to bring those two specific people back. They died for an entire world of people.
He's hurting, but he's not... replacing Nat with Sam, or causing himself more pain. He's shifting gears, trying to adapt and trying to find a way to just keep breathing in a man he loves, and has loved as surely as he has mourned his loss. Relief and gratitude, loss and pain can and do co-exist in this.
He finishes taking off his boots, leaving them neatly by the door and moves over to Sam. He settles behind him, wraps one arm around Sam's waist and kisses him, but this time on the temple.
"I know. We're both here." For however long. Neither one of them is the fuck okay, because he reads between lines and can fill in the gaps, too. "And the whales are going to be mad about it."
Sam's not a frail or delicate man. He's tall, though Steve's taller, and he's muscular. Still, there's something about having Steve hold him like this that makes him feel so precious. It's so tender it makes Sam want to shatter apart. He's gone so long without being something precious to someone else that for a second, he doesn't quite know what to do with it. So for a moment, he just breathes. Just enjoys being held for a moment, enjoys the novelty of that before he turns his head, brings their lips together sweetly.
The comment about the whales earns Steve a chuckle. Sam has no context on that line, but he has no context on much right now. It's amusing regardless, and he thinks he can understand the sentiment anyway.
"We tend to have that effect."
And they do. Defying authority, getting shot at, punching bad guys, maybe getting arresteda little bit... that's just a hobby at this point.
Maybe it's been foreplay all along.
"I'm sorry I didn't realize where we were heading." In regards to their hearts and their desires. "Proves me right, of course. I do what you do, just slower." It's a mild tease, not fully a joke. "Tell me what you want tonight. Tell me what you need."
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no subject
Sam has always done that, almost from the minute we met. Seen through Captain America and seen Steve, in a way that knocks down the mask and appearance of being unshakably steady to... a Guy from Brooklyn.
He also hates it because he knows damn well part of what Sam does with it - and why - is to avoid dealing with his own shit. Which is why Steve is studying Sam back, both verifying that he's here, and wondering just how damn awful it is to come back to what he came back to. All of it - losses and family and his own existence erased like it never mattered, and how the hell anyone handles that.
Partially because he's Steve, and this is Sam and he cares a hell of a lot - mostly that. Also a little so Steve doesn't have to think about much more than the fact that Sam is here.
"Yeah. Sorry. Peak physical condition doesn't seem to care about my hairline." It's a joke, offhand and barely paying attention to what he's saying, but brushing off the too accurate observations behind it. He wants to cry, but he's just... not. Instead he reaches up, hand opposite Sam's and hand on Sam's shoulder and kisses him.
Fast, but hard and with teeth. Too fast, too brief and too sharp. Not desperate, more brittle. "That was five years overdue." He's not apologizing. Won't. Whatever Sam does with it.
no subject
And...
It hits him like a brick wall. Four years, they've known each other. That means Steve mourned him for longer than they'd known each other. It also means Steve has loved Sam for longer than Sam has known Steve. It shifts Sam's entire world on his axis, sends him into free fall. And yet... despite the bite of that kiss, fhe brittle, desperate hunger, Sam knows that he will be caught, knows it deep in his bones and begins to understand what's been sitting in his own chest, small and tender and aching, for so much of the time he's known Steve.
Sam's pulse hammers in his chest. He doesn't pull away, he fists a hand in Steve's shirt. Doesn't pull him closer - but he nods.
Acceptance. Understanding. Permission... for Steve to come take what he needs.
no subject
He's almost surprised Sam is still real, solid, alive and there.
His own reaction isn't anything particularly dramatic. He takes the permission to give it, but all he really does is pivot them around so Sam's back is to the door, let go of Sam's shoulder so both his hands are braced on the door at about the level of Sam's ribcage so the 'catch' can become literal at any given moment it needs to. Physically, literally, supportive even if Sam's knees stay solid.
Then drops his forehead down against the door beside Sam, and closes his eyes. "Did you call Sarah?"
no subject
A deep breath, eyes sliding shut. Sam is still for a moment. He feels cornered, but... it's good. It feels safe, right here, bracketed by Steve against the door.
Sarah lived. So did the boys, and Sam is grateful beyond belief for that. If anyone had to die, he's glad it was him. And he will not say that out loud, because it's a horrid thing to think and feel.
"Steve..."
Sam stops himself. He's not sure what he should say, what he should ask. It takes him a moment, then his hands come rest on Steve's chest. He turns his head, noses at Steve's jawline. Feels the way his owm breath hitches. The way his chest tightens, and his heart yearns.
The last man he felt this way for got shot out of the sky.
Sam needs to go home - not right now, not immediately. But soon. Needs to be able to hug his sister, to survive the knowledge that his nephews lost him when they were so young they now have no memories of their uncle.
But not right now. Right now, he has to survive knowing Steve wanted to kiss him five years ago, and still does. Has to survive realising that he wants Steve to kiss him, too.
no subject
That's acknowledgement that Sam's taken care of letting his family know he's back and there's a plan to go back. It's also recognition of what Sam's asking for, and an intent on Steve's part to give it to him.
It's a lot of ground for one, small word to cover.
Steve spends a second or two using the sound of Sam's heart, the warmth and weight of Sam's hands against his chest and even (especially) that gentle nudge against his jaw to get himself grounded in the now. To breathe past the pressure in his chest, until it eases off.
It's barely a couple of seconds before he lifts his head, opens his eyes and meets Sam's and smiles, faint and fast, and kisses him again. Slower, deeper, less brittle edges, more warmth - more Steve. Say what you want about the man, he knows how to kiss. Teeth, tongue, and breath, gratitude and love and just... everything Steve is, and everything he has.
no subject
The words sit in Sam's chest, clawing to rise into his throat. There's an entire world out there that needs fixing, though, and Sam's struggles to come to terms with what happened to him are such an insignificant part of that. He knows given half the chance, he himself will bury it deep down and focus on showing up to help, to save what and who he can, to fix, to rebuild. To the rescue? Always. The pararescue motto is 'the things we do, so others may live', and it's engraved in Sam's bones.
It would be selfish to ask Steve to come with him. To be with Sam and his family, with golden sunsets over the bayou in Sam's childhood home, where the love of his long lost parents sits in every wall and every creaking bone of the house. It would be selfish to ask Steve to come hide away with Sam, just for a moment, just for a little while, so that Sam can have the space to sort through the graveyard of emotion in his chest.
So he can look at Steve and let himself slowly realize that Riley would love this for Sam, too. So that he can look at Steve and tell him that there had been Riley, back in the day, and now there was Steve.
Sam knows, deep inside his bones, that he will not get to have that calm, that quiet peaceful path through his own emotions. But maybe Steve understands.
For now, what Sam has are Steve's smile and his kisses, the solid warmth of him, the weight of five years of grief and yearning. For all of Sam's quiet confidence, Steve might be surprised to find his kisses come hesitant at first. He trembles a little, his entire body tense and shaking like he'll fall apart in a moment. Like a skittish animal that needs to be soothed and coaxed, not yet realizing it's safe and won't be harmed. Sam kisses like a man who has not kissed in a long time, and is re-learning that he wants to be kissed and kiss back. He kisses like he's learning the shape of Steve's longing and pain and grief, and like he's coming to terms with how much the shape of those emotions is mirrored in his own chest, where Sam clearly had failed to look for so long.
He kisses like a man so used to hiding himself away that he lost his own heart to another man and never even noticed.
And slowly but surely, he falls into it, kisses back less hesitantly, more sweetly. Trembles less in shock and more in need, feels less like a skittish, wounded animal and more like a wild thing gladly leaning in. Sam steps away from the door, closer into Steve's arms. Melts into him.
The unanswered question answered with an unspoken but oh so very clear 'yes'.
no subject
He can feel pressure just outside this specific bubble of time and place, just as surely and physically as he can feel the serum trying to finish the job of healing him without enough food, sleep or even blood in his veins.
This isn't over for him. Not even the abstract and long work of trying to put the world back together and take care of all the people who need it, but immediately. He has to get through Tony's funeral and seeing Tony's daughter. Then he has to get those stones buried back in the past. He doesn't particularly want to and there's a sense of... finality surrounding it that borders on ominous.
It needs to be done. He wants it done, and he is absolutely going to be who does it.
And he's got it pushed solidly enough outside the moment and to the back of his mind that he can have this and be here now. Once Sam settles, once he feels (and hears, and truthfully can even smell) that shift, he pulls slowly back. Puts a hand on Sam's jaw while he does, and then brushes a thumb over his lower lip.
"Let's maybe get this to a bed. I'll be there as soon as my boots are off." And coat.
no subject
A friend and partner.
And now...
Sam's pupils widen. Those golden brown eyes made dark. His pulse thrums under his skin. Sam smells like cocoa butter and coconut, always reaches for good skin care even on a run. Once told Steve he'd turn himself over to Ross before he shames his mother by being ashy, and he'd only been half joking. Steve's reward for the care Sam puts into himself is soft, smooth dark skin, and to his heightened senses, an easily recognizable scent, especially now that kisses and desire make Sam's skin warmer.
Sam leans his head into the large, wide palm cupping his jaw, kisses the pad of a thumb stroking over his full lip. Looks up at Steve from under those long lashes.
"have you done this before?"
Not judgment, just curiosity. And Sam means with a man specifically, not the act in general. He steals one more kiss and moves to the bed, letting Steve handle his boots and coat while Sam closes the blinds. Shuts away the outside world for a little while longer.
no subject
And that's a strange kind of relief.
"I've had some sex in the past five years, but not a lot and it was all with a woman." He will elaborate if he has to, but he's not exactly sounding light and airy in spite of that laugh.
Fill in those gaps, Sam.
Or don't.
Steve moves away, eyes a little more shadowed than before, but not as much as they might be, so he can get busy unlacing his boots. He doesn't like the distance, but it's necessary.
no subject
For a moment, Sam watches Steve, then averts his eyes. Stands by the window, fingertips lingering on the blinds, peering out through the small gaps between.
Waits for Steve to join him again. Sam's mind wanders, for a bit. When Riley got shot out of the sky, ending a relationship that existed in secret due to circumstance, that to this day Sam has not told anybody about, he left the Air Force. Went home to Delacroix, laid down in his bed and didn't leave it for a month.
Sam doesn't do casual. It takes him a long time to fall for people, so long that apparently the line from friendship into love blurs so deeply he cannot tell the difference himself until he's confronted with it. He loves his friends so deeply that it cuts him down to the bone to see them hurt, to lose them. To love someone enough for his body to become interested in intimacy... takes a lot. Takes time few people have. Takes patience Sam has seen run out so often he learned not to bother. His interest now is the result of four years of deepening feelings, and even then he wouldn't have noticed had Steve not taken a leap.
Sam remembers the brittle bite of that kiss. Wonders, for a moment, if this should happen. If Steve is just hurting himself, or punishing himself, or drowning himself. If so, does that mean Sam will also be hurt and punished and drowned?
Will it stop them?
When he hears Steve moving towards him, Sam looks back to him again.
"There was Riley." It's like I was up there just to watch. After that, I had a really hard time finding a reason for being over there, y'know? "There's you." Words said to Steve a long time ago. To a man who threw himself into the ice to end a threat. A man who'd lost a love and a loved one and threw himself into that abyss. And maybe Steve didn't understand what Sam said then, but... well.
Fill in those gaps, Steve.
Sam's hand comes up to cup that much too serious, shadowed face.
"I'm here, Steve."
I don't want you to hurt yourself.
no subject
You can do the math on how many lives are saved by the loss of others. You can tell someone you need them to go, very likely, die so you can prevent greater losses. You can watch your best friend plunge to their (supposed) death off the side of a moving train, feel your world stop and your heartbreak and still hold on with everything you've got, because there are other people who need you and the war isn't over. You can even give up your own life, and everyone you've known and loved and every hope of the future, to take a terrible weapon down with you.
Steve's done all of it, and in the case of the first two, he's done a lot of them.
What he knows, down to his bones is what you can't do is value one life more than another, or trade one for another.
In his mind, Nat and Tony are gone. Sam and Bucky are alive again. They didn't die to bring those two specific people back. They died for an entire world of people.
He's hurting, but he's not... replacing Nat with Sam, or causing himself more pain. He's shifting gears, trying to adapt and trying to find a way to just keep breathing in a man he loves, and has loved as surely as he has mourned his loss. Relief and gratitude, loss and pain can and do co-exist in this.
He finishes taking off his boots, leaving them neatly by the door and moves over to Sam. He settles behind him, wraps one arm around Sam's waist and kisses him, but this time on the temple.
"I know. We're both here." For however long. Neither one of them is the fuck okay, because he reads between lines and can fill in the gaps, too. "And the whales are going to be mad about it."
no subject
The comment about the whales earns Steve a chuckle. Sam has no context on that line, but he has no context on much right now. It's amusing regardless, and he thinks he can understand the sentiment anyway.
"We tend to have that effect."
And they do. Defying authority, getting shot at, punching bad guys, maybe getting arresteda little bit... that's just a hobby at this point.
Maybe it's been foreplay all along.
"I'm sorry I didn't realize where we were heading." In regards to their hearts and their desires. "Proves me right, of course. I do what you do, just slower." It's a mild tease, not fully a joke. "Tell me what you want tonight. Tell me what you need."