Work Text:
With the way Steve was sitting, hunched over his tablet, there was no doubt that the ache in his back and his wrist would set sooner than later. He heard Sam call that dinner was ready, but he was almost done — just a few more strokes, a little more blending, going back to that-unlabelled-layer, and then just cleaning up the line art and—
“Baby, the food’s going to get cold.”
Sam stood in the doorway, his arms crossed and a kind smile sitting on his lips. Steve didn’t have to look up to know what kind of expression sat on his face. His eyes stayed fixed on the screen in front of him, laser focused as he looked for the problem with the drawing. After a moment, he huffed, looking up, and the tension in his eyebrows dissolved. “‘m comin’, promise.”
And, true to his word, he saved his work and stretched his body, feeling the joints crack and the inevitable soreness set in, but that was nothing new. Getting off the couch, he reached for Sam’s neck to pull him down and kiss him, lingering in the space between them for far too long.
“Thank you for cookin’ tonight.” He stayed there, reaching for Sam’s hand and giving it a squeeze. He knew very well everything Sam did for him, not to mention the patience, love, and all the acceptance between them.
Sam, despite the food waiting for them in the kitchen, didn’t let go, and only returned the sentiment, leaning down to kiss him again. His eyes sparkled, the tease leaving him with ease. “The food’s going to get cold if you end up taking me to bed, Rogers.”
Laughing, Steve pulled him into the kitchen, grabbing the plates and setting the table while Sam took the wraps off the stove and put the bowl of chicken salad on the table. Dinner was as pleasant as it always was, with easy talk of the day earlier. Sam told him about his clients and all they got up to, and Steve said the same about his commissions. To exist together, in such a comfortable air, was a gift to them both.
Steve wasn’t sure he’d ever figure out how he’d deserved a man like Sam, but he’d learned to accept instead of question it at all. All he could do was offer him all the same love back. They had their misunderstandings, and they rose above them all the time.
“I have an appointment tomorrow at 10,” Steve said in passing, hoping not to draw too much attention, but Sam frowned. If Steve had left it till last minute to say, then he might manage to go alone. Not for nothing, but every time he was reminded of his own inability to do most things others could, he worked himself up. He hated it, he hated not… being enough, by his own standards at least.
Being surrounded by people who loved him made it easier. But every time he woke up in the middle of the night because he stopped breathing, or every time he had to change out his infusion set, or every time Sam rushed him into the hospital when they first got together, it all really only went to show what his own limitations were. And trust, they were harder on him than they were on anyone else.
“I can cancel my client to take you.” Because of course, instead of getting upset that Steve’s communication was, once again, subpar, Sam just looked for a solution. “It’s no problem. Foster?”
Steve shook his head and pushed himself to his tiptoes to kiss Sam’s cheek.
“I got it, yeah? Don’t worry.”
…
I got it meant that Steve arrived in the clinic’s waiting area and checked in with the receptionist, Wong, about 30 minutes before his appointment. Of course he was early. Sitting on the plastic seat, he looked around the familiar clinic, shared by Doctor Stephen Strange and Doctor Jane Foster. Some paintings hung around, soft music playing in the background. Still, he found anxiety gnawing at his chest and he started picking at his cuticles.
“Arno! You came!” a white haired woman exclaimed, seeming not to pay mind to the context and the quiet lobby. She walked nearby, stopping in front of Steve’s chair-neighbor, a dark haired man who, at a glance, seemed perfectly fine.
(Steve envied him for that… maybe all these issues would be easier to bear if he could hide them. Then again, he wondered how much harder it’d be if no one believed him when he struggled.)
The man looked at her for a long while, gaze piercing, before replying.
“Is that why you’re here?”
The woman frowned. What had she possibly done to him that he treated her so coldly? “No,” she replied, gentle but huffing. “I’m taking Wong out for lunch. Which, for the record, I made sure Tony’s busy today so you can get your privacy.”
Turning around, she left and snuck behind the counter, arms wrapping loosely around Wong’s neck. Her entire demeanor changed, warmth in her eyes, before she let go and settled on the chair next to him. Steve turned his gaze to ‘Arno,’ curious but a little understanding. More than anyone, he knew what it was like not to want anyone in your business.
“Family can be a lot,” he offered, unlocking his phone to show all his recent face calls. Three from his mam, one from Bucky, another from Sam. Sharon called twice and Nat once.
Arno tilted his head.
“Clea’s not family.” He seemed so distant, and Steve had to wonder if that was just the way he was. “Neither is Wong. Or Doctor Strange. But Tony is, and they assume it makes them family by substitution. Relationships are not math, though.”
Steve snorted.
“I dunno about that, man. The more the merrier, to me. It’s easy to close off, but… what kind of life would we be living if we did?”
Arno looked at him long enough that Steve started to think he’d said something wrong, but then, he extended his hand. “Arno Stark.”
Smiling, Steve shook it.
“Steve Rogers. What do you do?”
It seemed like Steve found the key, because Arno’s eyes lit up, the smallest of smiles growing across his lips. “Everything,” he answered. “I’ve been analyzing human behavior since I was a child, human genetics since I could begin to understand them. But I specialize in adapting assistive tools to be affordable and effective. My last project was creating an exoskeleton cybernetic for someone who’d been paralyzed torso down.”
“That sounds like a lot of words for ‘save the world.’”
Steve thought his hearing aids were off when he heard Arno laugh, but they were perfectly fine. For the next while, they’d spent the time talking, Steve’s gaze pretty fixed on Arno’s lips, following along where the room might fill with chatter and the noise would blend in together.
Arno surprised Steve when he lifted his hands to sign.
Is this easier for you? He asked, fluent.
Yeah. Steve’s hands paused, still unsure what to say or how to react. Where’d you learn?
Self-taught. Arno’s lips pursed, and he shifted his gaze away, turning to see Nurse Temple come in. I think that’s you, S-T-E-V-E.
Steve looked at her, seeing her looking at him and signaling him in. Steve got up, grabbing his bag and his phone. He hesitated, though, turning to Arno. “Are you free for coffee tomorrow?”
He surprised even himself by asking, but his smile was lopsided and hopeful.
Arno looked at him quizzically.
Steve looked at Nurse Temple, then back at Arno. He offered an apologetic smile.
“Sorry. Nevermind.”
He turned around, about to walk off, but Arno’s fingers wrapped around his wrist. When Steve turned back around, Arno smiled, as though he’d needed a whole minute to compute Steve’s question.
“Yeah. Yeah, let’s grab coffee. Leave your number at the reception for me.”
…
What did Jane say? To Sam, of course she was Jane and not Doctor Foster , but that came with the territory of having been together for a time. Steve didn’t mind, but he shrugged his shoulders. What could she say? She upped his pain meds, yelled at him for not wearing his back brace, ordered some more tests.
Steve beelined around Sam to do the dishes, putting on the plastic gloves and started. “I met someone,” he said, glancing over his shoulder to catch Sam’s expression. “Arno Stark. Invited him to coffee tomorrow, that okay?”
Sam smiled.
“Yeah, that’s okay. Now, are you going to tell me what the doctor said?”
…
Arno did get his number, and Steve wasn’t surprised to find that he was as dry a texter as he was a talker. Then again, Steve’s texting was also dry, well-punctuated, and often cut down on words. This place work for you? Was something along the lines of what he’d send, and Arno would answer with messages as short as possible. Yes. Ten?
It took some getting used to, but he didn’t think Arno was disinterested, moreso… just varying communication styles.
He got to the coffee shop a quarter to ten, hoping to get settled and find a comfortable place before Arno arrived, but he found Arno already tucked in a corner with his laptop open, typing away. For a moment, Steve just studied him for a minute — Arno sharp and focused, not sparing a glance at the keyboard as he worked. Only a moment later, Steve realized that his friend was talking into a comm in his ear, so he hung back.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, Arno closed his laptop, put away his things, and spared a glance near the door, where Steve sat leaning against the wall. He frowned, raising a hand to wave, and Steve took that cue to mean he was welcome.
Arno Stark was fascinating (and little did Steve know, thought the same about him).
Hey, doing okay? Steve signed on his way over, offering an awkward grin.
Hey. Did I leave you waiting too long?
Easily, before they’d even gotten their drinks, the conversation flowed between them. Steve told Arno of growing up with Sarah and the Barnes’es, and Arno, in turn, offered the slightest glimpse of his story too. Apparently the only son born to Howard and Maria, Tony was adopted, but Arno’s medical condition left him hospital-bound for his childhood. Arno didn’t elaborate, and Steve didn’t press further, moving past the topic with ease. (Still, while there was much he couldn’t relate to… spending most of your childhood being a medical anomaly? That was something he understood.)
What do you want to drink?
Small soy latte. Chocolate and low sugar, please.
Steve’s hands moved before his brain did, but for Arno to take on the task of ordering was something he appreciated, more than just a thank you would express. He pulled out his phone in the meantime, texting Sam and updating him on how the coffee date was going. (Pretty damn well.) Arno came back with their drinks, his own a black coffee, and offered Steve another —rare— smile.
You’re an artist, then?
Steve grinned.
…
“Who are you texting like a schoolboy?” Natasha asked, deadpan, but the look in her eyes held the very familiar teasing lilt to it. Steve rolled his eyes, typed, and then tucked the phone in his pocket.
“I am not .”
Sam laughed as he came into the room, setting his keys on the table. “It’s probably his boyfriend.” Steve scowled at the added fuel, but it all faded when Sam moved to settle in his lap, keeping his weight grounded on his feet but letting Steve have the proximity all the same.
“You know he’s not—”
Sam shut him up with a kiss.
“Oy, get a room!” Steve broke the kiss to give Bucky the middle finger, the edges of his eyes wrinkling with silent laughter. Nat and Bucky both laughed at the response, but grabbed their things to leave anyway; no matter how much Steve tried to convince them to stay, they had dinner plans.
Steve’s phone vibrated in his pocket, and he raised his eyebrows in surprise.
A. STARK: My brother is having a barbecue with the Stranges this weekend. Do you and Wilson want to come?
He showed it to Sam first, questioning, his other hand making a what gesture. Sam brightened, and took the phone to respond himself.
It’s a date (;