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So they save the world.
Steve figures it’s probably about time he finally gets back out in it.
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1.
It’s not, as Tony had hazarded a guess once, that Steve is such a golden boy he isn’t comfortable in bars or around alcohol. He knows he could outdrink anyone these days, after all, and Steve more or less managed to survive the war. To do that, he had to make it through more than a few Howling Commando drinking sessions. Steve saw a bunch of guys in the army trying to outlast each other on near-blinding home-brewed cider while he was in England; he’s seen it all.
Steve is just still uncomfortable with a world made up of so many things he doesn’t understand. He’s getting there. He’s mastered the basic use of his cell phone, even though it’s Stark-issued – Pepper had congratulated him on somehow getting to grips with it faster than most regular people – and he understands that everything is faster these days, on the go, wireless. He’s learnt to mask his surprise at the things he hasn’t encountered yet. He gets by, and even if there are parts of this world he doesn’t like, he has to admit life (minus being an Avenger) is easier these days.
It’s never any fun to break the awkward silence when a joke or reference falls flat, though, and Steve meant it when he was pleased to get Fury’s quip about flying monkeys amidst all the chaos on the Helicarier. It’s a relief to know some things still remain, but genuine excitement at proving that as Captain America he still knows something about America isn’t a great facilitator of small talk. It’s why he’s here, why he’s doing this, on his bike with the long road of the states stretched out in front of him. He’s going to learn about America today, the good and the bad (with the recent destruction of New York he thinks he’s seen the ugly), and this is his first stop.
He’d pulled up here because of the setting, just far enough from the outskirts of any cities that there's a sense of quiet he's missed for a long time now. The hotel itself looks like it could use some refurbishment, nothing too expensive or high-end, because Steve is on SHIELD’s payroll now but he's still not used to the way money gets thrown around. He's still not used to the uniformity of chains. The hotel is picturesque though, the old-fashioned structure turned quaint in the bleeding colours of the setting sun. It appeals to the artist in Steve, and he thinks that maybe later he’ll try a sketch or two. He’s got a room on the third floor, a large window with a decent view.
He has a few drinks down in the bar first because that’s what people do. The drinks he’s had have no effect on him, but there’s something almost nostalgic about it for him, the taste of cheap beer amidst the low rumble of talk and laughter. It feels for a moment like he could be here with Bucky, sitting at the bar and covertly making eyes at the group of girls over in the corner. Bucky would get a real kick out of twenty-first century dames, Steve is sure.
Maybe it’s because he’s so lost in his thoughts, but when someone settles onto the barstool next to his, Steve is disappointed for a small, sharp second when he turns to see a stranger there. Still, whether it’s because of where his mind is or just coincidence, there’s something in the guy’s dark hair and strong jaw that reminds him a little of Bucky, and Steve smiles on instinct, polite and ingrained in him, and then smiles again as the guy catches his eye and returns Steve’s look with a hint of friendly interest.
Steve hasn’t had much of a chance to make any friends in this new world of his yet. Being thrown in with The Avengers had been an experience, and he trusts them with his life, but he’s not sure they’re classed as friends – a lot closer to it now than the first time he met the lot of them, but it’s a forced proximity, working together thing right now. They’re like the troops he worked with back in the day, banter and competence and a space left where something deeper might later form.
It’s a relief to see that apparently there are still just some plain friendly people around. He's wary of engaging in conversation at first, but the out of time Captain America is back in New York. Steve is here, just another nameless figure in a bar unwinding after a long day of travel with a smiling face by his side.
Steve doesn't think that bar-etiquette can have changed too much. He thanks the guy when the guy offers to buy him a drink, and he gets the next round.
Steve is surprised how easy the guy – Jack, he introduces himself, with a good handshake and a grin – is to talk to. Times have changed, but here there are none of the red flags of his recent experiences. The same things still matter deep down. Jack tells Steve about his family, how he's on his way back home from college and looking forward to seeing his mom and his sister and getting a home cooked meal, how he misses his neighbourhood buddies – he's the sort of guy Bucky could have been in a different time, charming and on his way to success. There's something in the confident way he holds himself, the way he gets Steve engaged in the conversation.
“Man, I'm sorry,” Jack says, ducking his head and smiling down at the bar. He flicks his gaze back to Steve, looking up at him from under his eyelashes. “I'm totally just rambling about all this boring shit. You can just tell me to shut up before I start talking about how much my final Fine Art module is kicking my ass.”
Steve's not sure how to say that he's more interested in hearing about normality than Jack will ever be able to understand, and so he just shakes his head. They're a few beers in. It's not doing anything to Steve; Jack still seems as lucid and clear-headed as he had at the start of the conversation, though his cheeks are flushed. “It's fine. I was – I actually thought about going to art school for a while.” He pauses as he thinks about just how long ago that was, the reluctance he'd felt at the thought of carving out a future for himself that wasn't saving the world with the army. “So I'm interested.”
“Yeah?” Jack looks Steve over again, like now he's seeing him in a different light. His eyes linger on Steve's hands, one still curled around his drink. “Yeah, I see that, actually. Good hands for it.”
The alcohol still isn't affecting him. Steve isn't sure why it is he feels his cheeks heat up for a moment.
It isn't until the bar turns everyone out for the night and Jack stops as they're leaving, feet planted firmly apart on the floor in a stance that tells Steve he's in the way deliberately, that Steve realises that through the whole conversation they've been flirting.They're standing too close for anything else, in the gloomy shadows outside the bar, sounds of the other patrons fading into the distance as they head out or back up to their rooms. Steve's never been any good these things – Bucky used to have to point it out to him, on the rare occasion a dame showed him any interest back in the day – and he doesn't expect it, not here, him, from another man.
It's startling. He waits for the knee-jerk reaction, the curl of anger in the pit of his stomach. It's okay; Steve understands it's okay. There were a couple of of the guys in the army, barely more than kids, an open secret that dogged their heels and scared them more than the thought of the trenches some days. Steve is thankful every time he thinks about it, how far the world has come, but he's not--
He's just not. Except he's not angry or horrified at the implication he's been sending out that signal, either, that he might have been flirting back. He's unnerved that he might have been doing it without being aware, but mostly he just feels startled, surprised at himself for not reacting badly and then frustrated with himself because of his surprise.
During the war, with the Avengers, Steve has kept himself surrounded with extraordinary people. He knows all about trust and respect, but he was only ever really close to Bucky, his best friend, his brother for life. He'd relied on Bucky to be his other half and he'd fallen deep in love with Peggy Carter, and then he'd woken up in a world he wasn't sure could still contain either of those feelings.
This is the first spark of something, interest or attraction or maybe just flat out appreciation, that Steve has felt in decades.
Something of his thoughts must show on his face, because Jack says, “Hey, dude.” It's a whole new language of slang and colloquialisms for Steve to get used to. “You're cool, yeah?”
Steve nods. “I'm cool,” he repeats, in spite of the heat he can still feel in his face.
Jack smiles. “Sweet.”
Then that smile is pressing against Steve's mouth, a warm, gentle pressure, softer than the hurried passion of the blink-and-it's-over kiss Steve shared with Peggy so long ago. For a moment, it's barely a kiss at all, just the touch of two mouths – then Steve breathes in deep through his nose and tilts his head into it, parts his lips just slightly at the brief, wet hint of tongue that lasts for just a moment. It's a sweet kiss, Steve thinks, and maybe that's what Jack had been referring to, and it makes him feel warm all over and something twist pleasantly in his stomach and the world fails to react around them. None of the stragglers still leaving say a word. Steve's heart doesn't beat right out of his chest. The ground doesn't open up, not even when he rests a hand on Jack's side, fingers spanning over his ribs.
With a faint noise, Jack pulls away, and he rubs a thumb over Steve's bottom lip as he smiles again. The slow drag feels almost more intimate than the kiss, Steve's tongue darting out automatically, a nervous reflex, catching the passing tang of sweat and beer.
“It was really great meeting you, Steve,” Jack says, and steps back. There's a knowing look in his eyes, and Steve wonders if he's projecting just how much he needs to process this right out into the space between them. It seems likely. He has a lot to think about.
“You too,” Steve says honestly, watching Jack walk away with a wave, and he pauses to take stock of the situation. He feels good – he feels excellent. He feels perfectly okay.
Maybe there's not so much to think about after all.