How 'bout we get that drink, and I can fill you in.
[A bar name had popped into his head immediately and it's real tempting, knowing what he knows so far about Jean-Paul, and in the end Sam can't resist the urge to drag him to the Canadian-themed sports bar near the Garden. Sam's only been in there once, but it's got drinks, there's hockey shit everywhere, and frankly he just wants to see the reaction.
There's a little pressure involved in picking the venue for a first date, or whatever this is, and Sam being Sam, he couldn't let it pass without a callback to that comment about stereotypes and loving it. There's a pretty perfect table just opening up in the back, at an angle that lets them both put their backs to the wall. Maybe it doesn't matter so much for Jean-Paul, but Sam still prefers it.]
[The reaction does not disappoint. Jean-Paul has spent most of his adult life in one spotlight or another, and has had the paycheque that goes along with such a lifestyle. That means that he is familiar with New York's finer cocktail and wine bars, and is used to frequenting places where the base minimum for a drink is over ten dollars and the bartenders all know how to craft a perfect Manhattan.
That said, he's been to plenty of sports bars before.
So his expression upon entering the bar is one of horrified amusement.]
Wow.
[He arches a brow at Sam as they take their seats.]
I'll feel less homesick if the bartender speaks French. Tell me there's craft beer.
You sure you don't want one of these cocktails that they clearly put together by pulling booze names out of a hat and then adding orange juice?
[He's loving it. Sam is openly savoring every moment of the horror, and is gratified to find the amusement in it too, but it is a smugly satisfied gratification. It was too much power, giving him the choice of picking a bar.
But in Sam's defense, if there can be a defense, they hadn't gotten onto the music topic, so swinging uptown to his favorite low-key jazz dive had been too iffy. Sam actually likes that place, so it matters what people think of it. This place, not so much.]
Looks like they got a few. Long Trail, Goose Island, stuff like that. Really, I just wanted to see your face, we don't need to stick around here. I've only ever been here once before, my reaction was the same as yours.
[He looks over the menu with genuine dismay.] ...they ALL have vodka. All of them. Tabernak.
[Yeah, Sam gets The Eyebrow.]
Ohhhh, non. You picked it, mister, we're having at least one drink here. If I must suffer, so must you.
[Beer, at least, is safe enough. It may not be spectacular, but at least the only choice isn't Molson. Once he's picked something that appears inoffensive and gotten Sam's order, he strides to the bar and orders. He returns, looking entirely out of place in his nice suit.]
So. You were telling me your deep mental traumas. Or your turn ons. Whichever.
[The Eyebrow is probably a little less effective when the person it's directed at kinda likes it.
In truth, Sam's impressed that Jean-Paul is going along with his very sarcastic choice. They can stay for a drink. Maybe two drinks, if they can stomach it. He picks a beer of his own and watches Jean-Paul make his way easily through the crowds of hockey jerseys at the bar. He does look out of place, but comfortable with it even so. Something else to like.
Sam is sitting back, totally at ease in a Canadian-themed hockey bar, by the time Jean-Paul gets back.]
I suppose they should go in that order, huh? [He takes a drink from the pint glass, and when he speaks again it's still easily, but just a little more subdued.] I was in the 58th Pararescue, two tours, but I lost my wingman over there, Riley. It was a night mission. Never saw the RPG coming, never figured out point of origin, he was just gone, nothing I could do. It wasn't as easy to remember why I was over there after that.
[Sam has talked a lot about Riley at the VA. It helps people more than they expect to hear someone else open up about their loss, and he thinks Riley would appreciate being able to help. So it doesn't bring down the mood, it's just a slightly more somber Sam who inclines his head in thanks.]
Thanks, I appreciate that. You're right, it does. And I didn't like that much. I came home and started volunteering at the VA while I took a few classes. It felt good, so I kept doing it. But it didn't leave me much time for a highly active social life.
[And he feels a little like he could ask Jean-Paul who he'd lost, but he really doesn't want to bring the mood down.]
How 'bout you, you're on the market too, what's that about?
[That earns him an outright laugh, not because Sam doesn't believe him but because he's pretty sure he's met someone like that before, but Stark isn't here having a drink with him.]
Yeah? Internationally, even. Should I be impressed?
[ It's an email notification that greets him in the morning. Steve skims over it, already knowing the contents. He leaves a note for Sam on the table that he's going out for a run, so Sam can shower and make breakfast if he likes, and Steve was going to pick up coffee before coming back. He sets it down on the table, listening to someone moving about in the kitchen, the smell of omelette. ]
[ There are a hundred ways to begin. He exhales quickly, coming in and leaning against the counter. ]
Hey.
[ He presses his mouth into a brief line, feeling conscious of every last muscle of his body. ]
[Sam's an early riser, but Steve is somehow an even earlier riser. Sam can't even be mad. Predawn runs for Sam really only happen after a bad night, like the night before the morning he'd met Steve, and since having Steve around the bad nights happen less and less often. He gets up after Steve's been out of the house for a while, finds the note, goes for a much shorter run himself, leaving enough time to shower and start making an eight-million-egg omelette for Steve and a much more reasonably-sized omelette for himself.]
Hey.
[He doesn't look up from where he's flipping the omelette until he catches the tautness in Steve's tone, and then he switches off the heat, frowning a little. Something's wrong, but it isn't related to Barnes, Sam is fairly sure. Steve always goes a little Captain-y when they stumble upon leads, and this is anything but.]
[ His hesitation annoys him. It's easy enough to say well the renovations on my apartment are done. It's a simple English sentence, unambiguous, it's not even particularly negative. He's not trying to carry someone's body back across a minefield, he's not even storming a beach. Somehow, both other options seem more appealing than having to say I don't know if I want to leave. ]
They fixed my apartment. Finally.
[ His feet want to shift. They keep mercifully still. ]
Hey, that's great. Way they were going, I was afraid they were gonna make you move in December.
[Sam smiles, despite the little sinking disappointment in his chest. It had been inevitable, they had to finish eventually, and it had already taken long enough. But why doesn't Steve look happy about it?
The omelettes are done, and Sam transfers them to plates before they get overcooked, but then he sets them aside and crosses to lean against the counter next to Steve, because he knows sometimes it's easier for him to talk when they're not looking at each other.]
[ December — Christmas. Sam hasn't invited him (yet), but Steve knows if he'd stayed that long he'd be meeting the family, because Sam's just that kind of guy. Not wanting to leave him out in the cold. ]
[ He's staring at his feet, shored up against some invisible, untouchable foe. Everything really important of his is here, and he's gotten used to it. Steve likes this too much to let go of it because of this, just like that. ]
I don't know.
[ He says it a little helplessly, with a lift of a shoulder. ]
[This is Steve at his finest, Sam thinks, unable to prevent the little affectionate quirk of his lips. He scoops up the plates and takes them to the table, adds the bacon that had been keeping warm on the counter, pours the coffees into real mugs, their usual mugs, and gives Steve a prod in the side.]
Go on, sit your sweaty ass. At least you can eat my omelette while it's hot.
[It's routine, the gentle sniping, the mothering. Sam does it to Steve more often, but Steve's returned the favor more than once.]
[ Like a mother hen, Natasha would say, with her own brand of fondness. Steve hasn't seen her in a while, though she texts. They're still working on — whatever they've got. ]
All right, all right, I'm moving.
[ He goes along with it good-naturedly, having been at the other side of this equation. But he doesn't want Sam trying to help him out with it, he wants to be able to say, with finality, that this is a place that's been easier for him to be in for a single moment than the last two years. Sam deserves that, plainly offered, without the familiar and gentle push and pull they have. ]
[Sam makes good omelettes, if he does say so himself, and he'd put some mushrooms and green onions in them, plus the last of the spinach. Not much of that. Steve needs the protein after running for as long as he's been running, and Sam could use it himself. Especially if they're in for the kind of conversation that starts out like this.]
[ He does make good omelette. Steve passes over the coffee cup — the barista knows them. Sweet girl, college student. Always draws a little shield for him on top, so his name isn't blazed out for the entire world to look at early in the morning. ]
A few things. You know what, it's Saturday, and it's still early, you want to hit the farmer's market this time? The good one, with the actual farmers, not so much with the handmade beeswax candles.
[Sam grins at the little shield. Being a superhero is a certain kind of celebrity, and it's sweet of her to keep their early morning coffee runs under her hat. They tip well, that has to help.]
[Sam nods and pulls out his phone to start making a list.]
We'll get some of that fancy-ass milk in the glass bottles if you promise not to drink it all. ...I guess we'll have to meet up there next time, you'll be back in your own place.
[This time Steve's already looking right at him, there's just no way for him to hide the way his shoulders slump a little at the idea.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
@speed-of-snark
How 'bout we get that drink, and I can fill you in.
[A bar name had popped into his head immediately and it's real tempting, knowing what he knows so far about Jean-Paul, and in the end Sam can't resist the urge to drag him to the Canadian-themed sports bar near the Garden. Sam's only been in there once, but it's got drinks, there's hockey shit everywhere, and frankly he just wants to see the reaction.
There's a little pressure involved in picking the venue for a first date, or whatever this is, and Sam being Sam, he couldn't let it pass without a callback to that comment about stereotypes and loving it. There's a pretty perfect table just opening up in the back, at an angle that lets them both put their backs to the wall. Maybe it doesn't matter so much for Jean-Paul, but Sam still prefers it.]
I thought maybe you felt a little homesick.
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That said, he's been to plenty of sports bars before.
So his expression upon entering the bar is one of horrified amusement.]
Wow.
[He arches a brow at Sam as they take their seats.]
I'll feel less homesick if the bartender speaks French. Tell me there's craft beer.
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[He's loving it. Sam is openly savoring every moment of the horror, and is gratified to find the amusement in it too, but it is a smugly satisfied gratification. It was too much power, giving him the choice of picking a bar.
But in Sam's defense, if there can be a defense, they hadn't gotten onto the music topic, so swinging uptown to his favorite low-key jazz dive had been too iffy. Sam actually likes that place, so it matters what people think of it. This place, not so much.]
Looks like they got a few. Long Trail, Goose Island, stuff like that. Really, I just wanted to see your face, we don't need to stick around here. I've only ever been here once before, my reaction was the same as yours.
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[Yeah, Sam gets The Eyebrow.]
Ohhhh, non. You picked it, mister, we're having at least one drink here. If I must suffer, so must you.
[Beer, at least, is safe enough. It may not be spectacular, but at least the only choice isn't Molson. Once he's picked something that appears inoffensive and gotten Sam's order, he strides to the bar and orders. He returns, looking entirely out of place in his nice suit.]
So. You were telling me your deep mental traumas. Or your turn ons. Whichever.
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In truth, Sam's impressed that Jean-Paul is going along with his very sarcastic choice. They can stay for a drink. Maybe two drinks, if they can stomach it. He picks a beer of his own and watches Jean-Paul make his way easily through the crowds of hockey jerseys at the bar. He does look out of place, but comfortable with it even so. Something else to like.
Sam is sitting back, totally at ease in a Canadian-themed hockey bar, by the time Jean-Paul gets back.]
I suppose they should go in that order, huh? [He takes a drink from the pint glass, and when he speaks again it's still easily, but just a little more subdued.] I was in the 58th Pararescue, two tours, but I lost my wingman over there, Riley. It was a night mission. Never saw the RPG coming, never figured out point of origin, he was just gone, nothing I could do. It wasn't as easy to remember why I was over there after that.
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[He sips his beer as Sam talks. It's not horrible - the beer, that is, not Sam's story.]
I am genuinely sorry for your loss. When someone is taken from us suddenly, life tends to lose meaning for a time.
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Thanks, I appreciate that. You're right, it does. And I didn't like that much. I came home and started volunteering at the VA while I took a few classes. It felt good, so I kept doing it. But it didn't leave me much time for a highly active social life.
[And he feels a little like he could ask Jean-Paul who he'd lost, but he really doesn't want to bring the mood down.]
How 'bout you, you're on the market too, what's that about?
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[He laughs brightly.] Oh, no secret there. I'm extremely unlikable.
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[Sam grins, sitting back, hands wrapped easily around his glass.]
Is that so? Sounds like a secret to me, I haven't seen much evidence of that.
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[Jean-Paul nods, eyes glittering with amusement.]
Non, no secret. I am internationally known for being a difficult bitch. I'm a perfectionist and I don't really care about sparing people's feelings.
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Yeah? Internationally, even. Should I be impressed?
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So tell me something else about you.
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[He's got some lofty-ass company to compete against, just saying.]
What do you want to know?
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[ There are a hundred ways to begin. He exhales quickly, coming in and leaning against the counter. ]
Hey.
[ He presses his mouth into a brief line, feeling conscious of every last muscle of his body. ]
Can we talk?
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Hey.
[He doesn't look up from where he's flipping the omelette until he catches the tautness in Steve's tone, and then he switches off the heat, frowning a little. Something's wrong, but it isn't related to Barnes, Sam is fairly sure. Steve always goes a little Captain-y when they stumble upon leads, and this is anything but.]
Sure, man. What's on your mind?
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They fixed my apartment. Finally.
[ His feet want to shift. They keep mercifully still. ]
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[Sam smiles, despite the little sinking disappointment in his chest. It had been inevitable, they had to finish eventually, and it had already taken long enough. But why doesn't Steve look happy about it?
The omelettes are done, and Sam transfers them to plates before they get overcooked, but then he sets them aside and crosses to lean against the counter next to Steve, because he knows sometimes it's easier for him to talk when they're not looking at each other.]
...so what's really on your mind, Steve?
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[ He's staring at his feet, shored up against some invisible, untouchable foe. Everything really important of his is here, and he's gotten used to it. Steve likes this too much to let go of it because of this, just like that. ]
I don't know.
[ He says it a little helplessly, with a lift of a shoulder. ]
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Go on, sit your sweaty ass. At least you can eat my omelette while it's hot.
[It's routine, the gentle sniping, the mothering. Sam does it to Steve more often, but Steve's returned the favor more than once.]
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All right, all right, I'm moving.
[ He goes along with it good-naturedly, having been at the other side of this equation. But he doesn't want Sam trying to help him out with it, he wants to be able to say, with finality, that this is a place that's been easier for him to be in for a single moment than the last two years. Sam deserves that, plainly offered, without the familiar and gentle push and pull they have. ]
Thanks.
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Yeah, you're welcome. We're out of spinach.
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I'll get some later. Do we need anything else?
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[Sam grins at the little shield. Being a superhero is a certain kind of celebrity, and it's sweet of her to keep their early morning coffee runs under her hat. They tip well, that has to help.]
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Sure.
[ Getting some air, walking around, organic produce, that'd be a good way to spend a Saturday. ]
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We'll get some of that fancy-ass milk in the glass bottles if you promise not to drink it all. ...I guess we'll have to meet up there next time, you'll be back in your own place.
[This time Steve's already looking right at him, there's just no way for him to hide the way his shoulders slump a little at the idea.]
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