The bar is old, with a perpetual chill that runs through it. It feels stubborn, vindictive - sitting down you can feel that at one point it held the sign 'Irish need not apply' for a time before being bought out by an Irish family. Sam feels comforted by the air.
There's a woman behind the bar with blood red hair and quick eyes. She looked exactly like someone who would own the bar, and Sam made a beeline towards her.
"Hello," He started, politely, standing professionally in his deep brown jacket with discolored patches. "Are you a Rogers?"
"There's only a Steve left." She cleaned a mug with a rag while looking him in the eyes. It was incredibly intimidating - he looked at the scar over the bridge of her nose instead of staring back. "Do I look like a Steve?"
He felt like if he apologized like his instincts wanted she would eat him alive. Her smirk made it seem literally.
"He's in the back. You the one opening the reagents store?"
"Just right down the street." He nodded. He had just moved in his boxes of inventory, and the thought of unpacking caused him to immediately lock up and try some door-to-door marketing. The bar was less than a two-minute walk and, from what he heard, it was his best bet to set up a work relationship, preferably profitable on both ends.
She led him behind the counter but didn't follow him into the back, just knocked on the door and went back to work. Sam swore he saw her reflect the lights and flicker, but he tried not to stare. Staring is rude no matter the species, and depending on what, it can reveal something you're never ready to see.
That's how he felt when the door opened and a man - Steve Rogers - stood in front of him. Just for an instant, his air was knocked out of him and replaced entirely with the chill of the bar, pulling him in, shaping and forming all around him.
"Oh, hey!" He smiled, and his teeth were off white, with a canine tooth sticking out on the right. "You're the one who rented out the store up the street?" He asked. Rogers wiped his hand on his paint-strained black jeans and held it out to shake.
Sam took him up on his offer and spoke when he got his breathe back, but held onto the cold. "Sam Wilson, I just wanted to meet you before I set up shop." His grip was strong - Rogers was just as cold as the air. Like he was made with it.
"Come on in, if you have a minute to spare of course." Sam was willing to spare more minutes than he could ever have, and he stepped right into his office.
Just as dim, just as cold, just as historic. Rogers left the door a crack open before he rounded back, energetically. "You sure didn't take long to get settled - it felt like as soon as rumor had it someone rented out the shop boxes were being delivered."
"Well, it's a monthly payment." He left it at that and shrugged, possibly comedically, possibly charismatic, possibly awkward. He relaxed when Steve laughed for a bit and continued to smile.
Sam knew he should bring up a possibitly of a business plan, but he couldn't bring himself to think of the idea. Not just yet, anyway. Not when Rogers' blond hair keeps falling into his eyes and he brushes it out of the way, only for it to fall back.
"I hear you're selling reagents." Rogers leaned back onto his desk, which may just be crates with a blanket covering them.
"You must hear a lot of things." Sam retorts.
"I own a bar, I'm in the business of hearing things." He copies Sam's shrug and Sam copies his laugh. It felt like a dance.
"I sell a lot of ingredients, but the focus is primely on potion ingredients." Sam explains. "It's a family trade, actually."
"What a relief!" Steve exclaims. "We dabble in potions from time to time, but we always had to go out of town to get fresh ingredients. It's nice to finally have someone so close." He thought of the implication of that statement, and hastily clarified. "A merchant - someone selling the ingredients so close, I mean."
"I get what you mean." Sam caught the implication easily and eagerly. "I think we could set up some sort of agreement, possibly with a monthly deliver? If that works for you." He pushed gently.
"Could we do a bi-monthly delivery?" He pushed back, less gently.
"We could do a weekly delivery if that works best." He pushed back, matching him. A weekly delivery is great for business, but bad for his inventory.
He would make it work.
"It would be after I set up shop of course." Sam continued. "Figure out what I have, what was lost in the move, what I forgot and will have to make the decision to go back and get it or let is expire. The whole shebang.
Rogers - well, Steve now - laughed again and Sam realized he hadn't looked away from him in a long time. He didn't particularly feel like doing it.
"Give me a shout whenever you're ready. I hope we will eventually see a lot of each other." They shook hands again, someone less formal than the first. Sam noticed his dark purple spider-veins crossing up his arm, and was incredibly interested in a future where he could continue to notice things about Steve whenever he could.
When he left, the red-headed woman had another knowing smirk on her face, and he was certain that she didn't need to be listening to know everything she needed to know about the 'business invitation'.
He didn't notice that the only name he caught was Steve's until he got into his bedroom above his shop. He would have to remember to look at the sign as soon as he sets up his inventory.