#stevestephen

#26, sitting in the same park bench au

The man who sits on the park bench as Steve runs is always frowning. He’s tall. Gangly. Steve has never seen him smile except once with a blond woman, but the way she’d kissed his cheek was so motherly he assumes she’s nothing but a friend, maybe a sibling.

Steve stretches. His thighs burn as he touches his toes and he vows to himself that he will go to yoga with Nat. Hell, he’ll even deal with all the single women hitting on his gay ass. The man looks at him as he starts to run.

Steve’s lungs burn as he slows to a walk. His eyes are undeniably watching the man on the bench, but the man makes no attempt to look away. His eyes are sad, that much Steve can tell. In the end, he can’t say what draws him to invite the man to his usual tradition of a donut and a coffee after his run, but he supposed it has something to do with the man’s resemblance to a drowned rat. Drowned in what, Steve has yet to know.

“Steve,” Steve offers. He sticks his hand out. “Steve Rogers.”

The man’s hands tremble, and Steve starts to worry if the man perhaps has social anxiety or something against handshakes before he sees vicious scarring over the man’s hands. Steve’s not a doctor, but he’d bet his apartment on that being the cause of the shakes. “Stephen,” the man says quietly. His mouth quirks, but not in the way Steve would hope. “I’ll shake your hand, but fair warning, I’m going to be shaking like an addict.”

Steve shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me.” The man’s hands are warm, but his face is cold and barren, looking like the aftermath of a disaster. His grip is weak, a little bit like a child’s. “It’s nice to meet you, Stephen.” He smiles easily. “Not Steve? Because this’ll get confusin’ real quick.”

“Not Steve,” Stephen says quickly, maybe even indignantly. “But you don’t have to worry about that, Brooklyn.”

Steve’s smile widens, crinkling his eyes. “Good to know, Doc.”

Stephens eyes widen, and then they turn sad. Steve’s starting to understand the devastation in the lines of Stephen’s form, nature’s pen drawing out an image of such beauty, yet such regret. “How did you know?”

Steve points to the thin sweater Stephen is wearing under his other jacket. “It’s from the inner city hospital. My mother worked there until she couldn’t. Brought back a lot of sweaters in her time.”

Stephen looks sadder, somehow. “Good eye.”

“Do you want to go for donuts with me? There’s a place within walking distance, ‘bout two blocks away.”

Stephen is silent. Steve waits patiently.

“Why? I hardly know you.” Stephen scowls suddenly, mood changing as quickly as weather changes in the summer. “Maybe I don’t want to.”

Steve’s as friendly as a golden retriever; he’s not going to let a pseudo-rejection stop him. From anybody else, he might entertain the thought that maybe they just don’t like him—not amiss, he can be too much, too outgoing for some people—but Stephen is far too miserable for someone who would be gleeful while rejecting him. For the way he said it, most people take sick joy out of getting rid of people. Stephen sinks into his coat and tucks his devastatingly pretty trembling hands into his sleeves. “If it’s true, I wouldn't mind going,” Steve says. “But—I get the feeling you don’t want that.“

“We really don’t know each other,” Stephen points out, sagging into his sweater and shivering. Steve eyes him; he's still hot from the aftermath of his run and he’d always run hot, but Stephen looks so scrawny even under all those layers that he looks like he’d fall over at a stiff breeze. No wonder he’s shivering. His beard is untrimmed so, and Steve bets that Stephen used to be a proud man. Steve sees no reason why he can’t be anymore.

“Why can’t we?” Steve waits expectantly.

Stephen’s smile is much nicer than his frown.

Bucky likes to curse his huge heart, but Steve doesn’t mind the scrapes it gets him into if it pulls him into a dimly lit donut shop and cafe on 12th street, sitting with a new friend.