AN: Emergency eye surgeries and chemistry homework will be keeping me away for most of the month or so.

All errors are mine because my eyes are truly mean things.

Title: on your left

Disclaimer: Right, owned by Kirby and Simon

Word Count: 764

Summary: Okay, so he's being trolled by the actual Star-Spangled Man. As far as life goes, it couldn't be the weirdest thing so far.

Sam started to wheeze as the white man passed him for the third time. He dropped his hands to his knees, trying to take in more air. "What the hell?" he gasped.

Tall with wide shoulders and narrow hips, the jogger kept his steady rhythm as he circled the water fountain again. You could see massive muscles moving under his thin gray shirt that was plastered with sweat and... Sam cocked his head to the side, frowning as the man moved almost inhumanly fast.

"The hell?" he repeated. He stood back up; hands laced together at the back of his neck as he straightened his spine and stretched. The cracks and pops of his bones were the only reassuring thing so far in his day. He had some Boy Scout that had to be hopped up on all sorts of steroids that was giving Road Runner something to fear about. "So does this make me Wilie E. Coyote?" he muttered.

He was coming up again.

Sweet baby Jesus; that man knew how to run.

Sam sat on the edge of the fountain, letting the spray cool him down. Disgruntled, he watched the man sped past him, catching tousled blond hair and forearms that needed to have their own magazine.

He also caught what had to be a smile, but that wasn't important. What was important was that Sam's morning routine was being shown up by what had to be some lovechild of a star Olympian and a god.

Sam wasn't going to take it standing down.

He pushed himself off the fountain's edge and started running again.

Sam got passed again as he reached the midway point.

"On your left," the man said. He slowed for a second; his shit-eating smile was bright and cheery.

Ass, Sam thought. He forced himself to go faster, his muscles and lungs burning. Mentally, he was taking notes on how to improve his routine: I'll go to the gym five times this week, I'll try that yoga class that lady at the front desk's been talking about all week, I'm going to lay off those really sugary fruit juices—

There he was, and with only a thin sheen of sweat that covered his exposed skin. "On your left."

Cursing inwardly, Sam slowed down so that he could focus his glare. Just how… but…what? Just who did this guy thought he was? An Avenger? But as the man passed him again, all Sam wanted to do was laugh at his situation. He was still running somehow, and Sam almost couldn't believe it even with his two eyes.

"What's your secret?" he asked to the man's well-shaped back, expecting to hear something like 'I eat the this rare fruit with my egg whites each morning!' 'I had my legs replaced with robotic parts!' 'I'm actually a figment of your imagination because you have no life!'

The man slowed down, jogging lightly back to Sam. He ran in place, the show-off. "I take a long nap first!" He laughed sharply, as if it was an inside joke, and ran to continue another lap.

Sam sighed, "Unbelievable." But his eyes refused to move as they followed man, almost grudgingly admiring his technique. There were other things to admire, but Sam had a feeling that they would be seeing more of each other. The forearms flashed in his mind…and had seen those in a magazine before.

Oh, God.

Sam goggled as the realization came. Stalwart and true; America's Red, White, and Blue; the beating patriotic heart of America, The First Avenger, the central topic to Sam's essay about heroes in the eighth grade…

His new running companion was Steve Rogers.

He massaged his temples, already imagining endless conversations. 'Yes, Ma. I met him while running.' 'His shoulder-to-hip ratio is exactly like a Dorito's.' 'Nah, he smells more like Pine Fresh than the True American Spirit…'

Hell, he was being trolled by Captain America of all people!

"An example to Boy Scouts everywhere, my ass," Sam muttered. "Can't make anything simple for yourself, now can you, Wilson?"

He tried running again, but the rhythm was broken as Steven Grant Rogers appeared with a smile that was now becoming familiar.

A moment passed between them in silence, the smile curling with a mischievous edge.

"Just say it," Sam panted. "Come on, man."

There was a roll of his incredible shoulders. "Okay." He fell back a few steps, falling into place with Sam's. "On your…" The bastard was dragging it out, and then he bolted, the word hanging in the air behind him. "…left!"