Superheroes

Riding Up

Stiles is in the middle of research for another client of his when Barnes starts off the meeting. "Your little brother..." he trails off, trying to gather his words. Stiles raises his eyebrows in interest, but doesn't look away from his laptop. He's also surprised that they're conversing in English today. It's been awhile since Barnes has felt comfortable speaking in something other than Romanian or Italian. "Are you like that all the time?"

Stiles snorts. "Most of the time, we have referees." He pushes the laptop away, tilting the lid down but not closing it all the way. "You saw when Derek stepped in? He knows our limits. Everyone does. And you also heard how confused my dad was about the whole thing. Liam never calls me. He's got Scott wrapped around his finger. To be fair, Liam's not usually this stupid. If Scott, the king of stupid decisions, says no, that should be a giant red flag."

Barnes' expression doesn't change, but his body language loosens just a tiny bit. Stiles reaches out and closes the laptop completely, because it's going to be one of those times where they can get through an entire topic. He gives Barnes his complete attention.

"He's your other brother?"

Stiles nods. He's mentioned Scott plenty of times, and while he mostly jokes about Liam being his little brother, Scott is. Legally even, now. "But do not be fooled. Liam gets all his bad decision making skills from Scott. That idiot decided the best way to get girls in high school would be to join sports. Specifically, join a sport that involves heavy contact and a lot of running. Scott has moderate asthma."

Barnes rolls his eyes, a reaction Stiles himself had when he heard Scott's genius plan the summer before their sophomore year in high school. But anyone who studied Captain America knew that one of his worst ailments was asthma, and if Barnes was Rogers' Stiles, then he got the stupidity.

"You talk him out of it?" Barnes asks gruffly. His eyes are trained to a spot over Stiles' shoulder, an expression on his face that Stiles equates with him thinking about pre-World War II. He's wistful, not guilty.

"No," Stiles says after a few moments. "I joined the team with him and carried an extra inhaler - modern asthma medication - for when he couldn't breathe."

Barnes nods slowly, gaze dropping to the top of the table, but he hasn't tensed up. "Sounds about right."

Stiles knows that fond, yet exasperated tone very intimately. He holds back his own grin, and takes the opening Barnes left him and runs with it. "What's one thing that you did to help Steve when his asthma was bad? I'm not familiar with what medications or treatments were used."

Through their tiny sessions, Stiles learned that he can ask questions about the good things Barnes did, as long as he phrases the question in such a way that it's not really about Barnes. In this case, he wants to know more about asthma medications and treatments, not how Barnes himself actually helped Rogers. They get the same end goal: a reminder of something good Barnes has done in his life, when he was a man free to make his own choices.

Barnes toys with the pen and paper that Stiles always brings to keep his hands occupied while he straightens out his thoughts. "Well, every doc thought it was just in his head, that he was just depressed and wanted attention."