stands_for_hope | The Metropolis Dork Squad, Captain America, and the Falcon in... Angst, Death, and Taxes

Entry tags:

house of am

The Metropolis Dork Squad, Captain America, and the Falcon in... Angst, Death, and Taxes

[continued from here]

The day had arrived. The trap had been set.

They'd gone to Lois's apartment the day before and made their intentions clear, hoping that with a short period of time, the HYDRA forces wouldn't be able to pull together anything that was too hard to handle.

Jim's paycheck had come in, so he'd treated a rather delicious dinner for the three of them, which had been followed up with some surveillance work, a couple of flights over the various buildings to scout for good positions (both to look for snipers and to drop Lois), and a watching of The Incredibles since there weren't any good games on.

Lois hadn't quite gotten Jim into a french braid with flowers, but she had managed to twist up a few smaller braids and tuck the remainder into a pony tail to keep the worst of it out of his face. If Lois was happy about it as much for it's utility as to give Jim a firm, physical reminder of the people who cared about him... well, she wasn't about to say it out loud.

Clark was with them until roughly half an hour before and informed them just before he left that Captain America was on the ground, apparently sketching one of the ruined and as yet unrepaired buildings on a bench nearby with large 'easel case' while the Falcon was half a mile away on a rooftop. Thankfully, while a good portion of the surrounding area had been destroyed during the attack on Metropolis, this neighborhood was semi-functional (if largely empty during the weekend) so he wasn't entirely out of place.

That just left Lois, her HYDRA pin tucked in place at her collar, and Jim in the empty office room, doing their best to psych themselves into believing this would work.

...and Clark going to investigate the singular figure hiding out on one of the higher rooftops nearby.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Steve held his hand out to Clint.

"The signal blocker?"

After all, they didn't want to lead HYDRA or anyone else straight to the little hotel room.

Trying out an easy smile he was doing his best to feel, he looked past Clint to where Sam had joined Clark and Lois on the couch to watch the game. A bit of a lean told him the answer to the question that had gotten ignored earlier.

"And apparently, it's against the Brewers."

Clint handed over the signal blocker after giving it a few taps. "It's set to block everything right now," he said. "When you get it back here, I'll set it to block location data only so we can get into their network." A little flip and a cover latched over the device's screen. "Don't turn this off. We'll see if I can't kill everyone with chocolate when you get back."

Jim watched the little device but couldn't place having seen anything like it before. He ended up shaking his head, but then heading for the door. "You be in charge of that. You're probably better with it than I am."

Steve stashed it in his jacket pocket, snapping the button over the top of it to make sure it stayed put. Clint got a little nod of confirmation, but he just shrugged at Jim as he followed him out the door.

"I've never used this particular model," Steve said as he trotted forward to lead the way towards where he'd parked his bike, "but it doesn't look too different from the ones I have."

"They never gave me the tech," Jim answered, "unless it was just something to plug in and go. They usually just gave me guns."

Steve's motorcycle, at least, was easy to spot. It was the only motorcycle on the lot. He wasn't too happy with the fact that he was going to have to hold on to someone he still wasn't really sure of, but he could put up with it.

"So I saw," was all he said about that, making his way over to the bike. He took the time to dust off a few of the parts (needlessly, as she was in pristine condition) before slinging his leg around it and settling down.

"I'm assuming it's stashed somewhere near where everything went down, across the bridge?"

"Other side of town," Jim answered, "parking garage on an alley near the hospital, bottom floor in a junction box." He climbed on, striving for casual and managing to strike awkward instead.

Steve looked over his shoulder.

"Shouldn't take too long. I've uh... done some riding around town. I know where the hospital is. So just tell me where to go once we're in the area."

Jim nodded. "No problem." That much, he could do. And road noise meant he could be quiet until they got there. He'd need the time to stop feeling like climbing a wall and defending his right to privacy on the roof.

Steve didn't say anything as he started the bike and kicked up the stand, and he certainly didn't say anything as he pulled out of the spot and pulled out of the parking lot.

In fact, it seemed like Steve was content not to say a thing as they drove, the motorcycle serving to get them from point A to point B and the company merely the most convenient pairing that wouldn't have one of the going off entirely on his own.

Edited 2014-06-14 23:25 (UTC)

It was time well-spent to help him settle his nerves, to keep himself from being on edge and ready to react badly. Everything had gone too smoothly. Too well. It left him waiting for something to happen. Anything. He just wasn't sure from what quarter.

"Turn right at the next light," he said eventually. "Then left two lights up. The alley is the next right past that."

"Can do," was all he said as he got to the next light, turned as instructed, and followed the rest of the directions until they could park in the alley. He put the kick stand down as soon as the bike was turned off and waited for Jim to get up with quiet patience. It was a far cry from the slightly antsy man from earlier.

"Signal blocker still fine," he reported with a faint smile over his shoulder.

"Good. Now we just have to hope the battery's still alive." He climbed from the bike and headed over toward the one structure that was obviously for parking.

It was something of a pure-function eyesore, all sand-coloured concrete and half-open levels. It was one of those half-height walls that Jim climbed like it was nothing, remembering camera angles and keeping to one certain wall. "Follow me," he said quietly.

Steve's all open body language and loping strides in one second and tight, controlled movement in the next. He followed, and he followed exactly, tracing the steps with the seriousness of the mission written in the tension of his shoulders.

"How long has it been there?" he asked, his head tipped down carefully and his tone just breathy enough not to echo through the structure.

"Few days, but I figure it probably has some kind of battery saving. Seems like I remember something about that."

Stairs again, and he was careful to stay below the railing until he had to climb over to descend each level, just like he'd done when he'd brought it in. "All of this concrete has rebar and electric wiring. That clouds any kind of signal that wants through, especially underground and in a junction box."

"The signal blocker has a small power cell attached, possibly for reasons like that," Steve provided as they make their way in.

They walk a little longer before Steve, finally, let's out a little huff of breath.

"Can I ask you a question?"

He glanced back, then shrugged. "I'll answer if I can." Even if he had to wonder just what it was that Steve would ask. If he'd say he could or couldn't answer.

"After all this is settled, the tablet, dinner, whatever Clint's cooking up," he ran a hand through his hair, too short it felt like, and took a second to look around before continuing, "...would it be easier for you if I just... disappeared from your life?"

His tone was pointedly blank, carefully curated and even a little bit hollowed out, though if that's from him or just from him pulling out whatever he's feeling that would be there is somewhat impossible to tell.

"I mean," and the words are rushed as he obviously hadn't realized some of the connotations, "I'd always come if you needed help, you or your friends. And it's not, I don't--" and he's hunching up again, "it's not that I want to just hightail on you, but--"

But he will, if that's what Jim wants. If that's what Jim needs out of him.

Now that was a hell of a question. He took a slow breath, standing there in the stairwell, his hand on the railing. What was the answer to that question?

His eyes scoured the stairs before him, as if the answer was written there, but it wasn't. 'Watch Your Step' was not going to help him now. It was hard to know what answer was right. There were only two. Yes or no. Or-- "I don't know."

That was most honest.

He jumped the rail to the next level - the level he was looking for - before looking up again and saying, "Maybe for a while. It took me a while to get used to Clark and Lois. And they didn't know me as anything but Jim. You..."

Jim looked away.

"You come with a lot of memories."

Steve kept his face as blank as his voice was, but even if Jim tried to look at him, he wouldn't meet the other man's eyes.

"We'll be gone by morning," was all he said before stepping forward and gesturing for Jim to continue to lead the way.

"I'll give you my phone number. Just..."

His one flesh-and-blood head rubbed at his temples. "I need time. I've got to... adjust. Again."

"That's why I asked."

Same careful, polite tone. Jim isn't stupid, and Jim remembers... pieces. So he knows Jim has some idea of what's going on inside of him when he speaks like that; Steve Rogers had always been kind and respectful but 'polite' was a little too removed for him most of the time. Polite was the realm of Captain America. Polite was Steve without the heart, that part of him locked away to do what needed doing. He figures Jim knows... but he's going to do everything he CAN do to make sure the other man doesn't push himself, doesn't try to give when he needs time.

"You don't have to give me anything. I left my card with Lois."

"Goddamn it, Steve," he grit from between his teeth. "I'm about two inches away from giving you a shiner."

What he did instead was stalk over to the junction box and, with a move that Steve would likely remember from a car on a bridge, he ripped off the cover, discarding it with a loud clang onto the concrete (plain grey on the floor) behind him. He switched arms to pull out the tablet and held it out to Steve with his jaw clenched. "Here."

"Wouldn't be the first or last," was his only response to the 'threat', a little more tired than polite, but only by a hair.

He took the tablet, though, pulling the blocker out of his pocket and slipping it in with a satisfying click. It made a soft beep as the new power source was registered as thankfully, the tablet hadn't run out of juice yet. The light on the blocker changed subtly to tell him that it'd started to do it's job and Steve tucked it under his arm before turning to head back to the bike. He's not the best at espionage, but he'd done his share of covert ops and Jim had already shown him the right spots to avoid the cameras.

"Acting like I kicked your damn puppy because God forbid I have some memory problems after being shocked in the head a million fucking times," he muttered, stalking after Steve, his hands reflexively flexing into and out of fists. "God forbid I have some fucking problems after being turned into this by the assholes who had me strapped to a table. But no, Steve gets that look on his face and that tone in his voice like someone just punched him in the gut-- You know--" His voice came back to normal. "I really could punch you in the damned gut, Steve, see if that makes you feel better, so then you really have something to sound betrayed about."

His shoulders drew up as he breathed in and it was clear even from behind that he was going to say something because of all the things Steve was good at, keeping his temper is not one of them.

He was, however, smart enough to put the tablet down on a concrete divider because he was pretty certain he was going to get hit no matter what came out of his mouth.

"That's. why. I. asked," he repeated, grating and hard, turning to look at Jim.

There's a million things he could say, a million explanations, but he doesn't want to say them, doesn't want to give them. It's easier to just clam up, put up all the walls he has and keep soldiering on. Jim didn't want inside his head right now, so he wasn't about to drag him through it even if he's wrong as anything. But there's one thing he has to clear up, not because of him but because of Jim, and if it damns everything to hell, so be it.

"And if I was about to feel betrayed, it's about a few weeks too late and a bullet or two short. Didn't then, don't now" and that last word comes out rougher, truer, "but if you wanna punch somebody, go on. Go to town."

He never had been one for running.

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject