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beansidePosting from the start because I did some editing based on comments on the original post.
The ceiling in his motel room had seventeen hairline cracks in it. Located between Metairie and New Orleans, it had seen better days. The air conditioning chugged along, not making much of a dent in the thick, swampy heat. Tonight was worse than standard, he’d been told. A thunderstorm was looming, threatening to dump all the moisture it’d picked up from the Gulf. The air had a ozone tinged charge, and it felt like the world was waiting.
He’d always thought that summer in Brooklyn was the worst, the smell of the docks seeming to hang in the heat, humidity making fabric stick to skin like a second skin.
Louisiana was somehow worse. The heat was impressive, sure. 101 during the heat of the day and not appreciably lower after sunset. But the humidity was almost a tangible thing, like walking into a steam room.
He loved it. Loved the smell of petrichor and slow decay that seemed to hang over the area. Comparatively, Brooklyn seemed young. He almost seemed young next to the grand old plantations, oak trees dripping Spanish moss.
It was the second inn that they'd checked for a room. In the first, a much nicer place, he'd seen the sideways looks that Sam had gotten, like they weren't sure they wanted an African American in their grand place.
And that made him feel ancient.
Seemed like no matter how advanced the technology had gotten, people never changed. Whether it was 1940’s Europe or 2016 America, a bigot was a bigot was a bigot.
Tomorrow, they were heading into the city proper, following another of Natasha’s cryptic messages. What they’d find there was a mystery. Sometimes, it was Hydra. Sometimes, it was AIM. Sometimes, it was something else entirely.
Mostly, it was whatever quasi-legal problem they needed solved. The Accords had been buried with some help from T’Challa, but the Avengers were still officially disbanded.
They all existed in the gray area. Too valuable to get rid of, too volatile to officially sanction. They’d run a few missions as a team, but it was generally agreed that unless the world was ending, Tony and Steve should be kept apart.
Tony had unbent about Bucky at least. With the file that Natasha had found, and the footage that T’Challa had retrieved from the Siberian base, it made a pretty solid case for POW. If they could ever deprogram him, he’d be free to come back to the US without fear. Tony had even sent the documentation for his tech, in the event it could help.
On the other hand, Tony was managing to hold a hell of a grudge against Steve.
They’d managed pointed civility, but that was about it. Steve couldn’t even say he was wrong. He’d screwed up over and over. He should have gone to Tony as soon as he was out of the hospital after DC. He should have told him about his suspicions. He should have made him understand.
Should have, could have, would have. Amounted to the same things-nothing.
After they hit the base, they'd be taking a Sam-mandated long weekend in the French Quarter. Sam swore that they were going to put the supersoldier serum to a real test.
From what he could tell, that meant he'd be carrying Sam back to the hotel post Bourbon Street. Possibly Natasha as well.
Tony had set up their lodging in an old B&B that he swore would knock their socks off. Since Tony was still under the impression that cell phones also knocked his socks off, (an impression that Steve was more than a little responsible for) he wasn’t sure what that would entail.
Still, it would be a nice to hang out with Sam and Natasha without bloodshed involved, even if he was pretty sure that Natasha had multiple plans that involved throwing anyone with a pulse at him. They seemed to be convinced that all he needed to jumpstart his libido was a good burlesque show despite his protestations that he’d been in wartime Paris.
Hell, they’d been in Paris when the last push got both the Nazi’s and HYDRA out of there. De Gaulle, in his new position of leader of the Provisional Government of the French Republic, had requested the presence of Captain America and his Howling Commandos at a fete to be held in the Allies honor at the Moulin Rouge.
He wondered how they would feel if he told them that he’d managed to get he and Bucky out when he’d gotten into a fistfight with one of the top commanders of the French Resistance. He disagreed with Steve’s belief that even a prostitute had the right to say no to a man. When his buddies jumped in, Bucky hadn’t been far behind. They’d kicked of a hell of a brawl, and even with Jacques and Gabe interceding on their behalf (and Bucky’s charm) they’d been pitched out. The owner thanked them for protecting one of his “girls,” but said that with his business after the Allies had left in mind, he needed to ask them to leave. The young lady who Steve had intervened for, who went by the stage name “Delila,” followed them out to thank them. Predictably, Bucky had charmed the living daylights out of her, and in short order, Georgette (her real name) and her friend Lilly insisted taking them on a tour of their city.
It had been a wonderful night--one of the last ones before they’d been sent to the mountains of Italy to start taking down Zola.
With a sigh, Steve rolled over and scooped the remote off the nightstand. Usually, nights like this, when the past was a little too close, he’d go for a jog. Natasha had specifically asked them to keep a low profile this time--something about not being sure how deep the shit went in this area. From the bit he’d read, it could go either way. New Orleans had a long history of corruption. That could either make it very easy for Hydra or AIM to infiltrate, or make it impossible for a new player to get a foothold.
Either way, Captain America streaking through the night was not really covert. Even this late, someone was bound to see. Maybe especially this late. The area they were in was not far from the airport, rife with strip clubs and bars for travelers who didn’t want to make the trek to Bourbon Street. So, television it was.
Late night tv was still a strange thing for him. He’d mostly gotten used to television in general. It wasn’t all that different from radio shows or serials. There was a much bigger variety, of course. If you were lucky, you got one or two stations, at least with the radios they’d had. Now, all but the most destitute had hundreds of channels available with the touch of a button. Late nights, though. The infomercials and blue movies that showed up on his screen after dark fascinated him.
Steve flipped idly through the channels, bypassing a handful of talk-news stations, including one with his face plastered behind a woman whose face was alarmingly plastic and fixed. He settled on a movie of questionable quality, and settled in.
On the screen, a private detective was assuring a woman with improbable cleavage that they’d find out where her husband had disappeared to. The acting was subpar, the drawling Brooklyn accent horrific, and he settled in to enjoy the atrocity.
Not more than twenty minutes into it, the storm that had been threatening hit full force. The power didn’t last five minutes after it, and he heard Sam swearing next door as the shitty air conditioner ground to a halt.
“Fucking soft Chair Force zoomies,” Cap called, trusting the paper thin walls to carry his voice.
A yelp of annoyance told him that Sam had heard him just fine. “Screw you, Cap. We didn’t all walk uphill in the blizzard both ways, while dodging mastodons.”
Laughing, Steve stood, pulling the the window open for some air in the room. Even after a couple of minutes without the shitty air conditioner, the room was getting stuffy.
A blaze of lightning lit up the courtyard, and Steve blinked away the afterimages. In the moment before the landscape was plunged into darkness, he noticed a figure near the parking lot, half obscured by the privacy fence around the edge of the pool. It was facing their rooms, a glint of a sniper scope visible in the stark light.
Steve was moving, diving to the side, away from the window. “Sam! Get down, and stay down! Possible hostile by the pool with a scope.”
“Steve, don’t you dare-” Sam started.
Before Sam could finish, Steve dove through the open window, rolling to come into a crouch. The shadow was gone, melting into the pitch black. A moment later, a bike’s roar cut through the storm’s fury.
“Sonofabitch,” Steve murmured, turning towards Sam’s now open window. “Gear up. We’re hitting them tonight.”
“You could have at least taken the shield before you went running into danger,” Sam returned.
Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I forgot that I had it back.”
Sam leaned out the windows, the rain drenching his shirt almost immediately, and smacked Steve lightly upside the head. “Idiot.”
“Not the first time I've heard that,” Steve admitted.
Sam shrugged. “More and more, I’m kind of amazed that he never tried to choke the shit out of you when he wasn’ brainwashed.
And this was why he adored Sam. He didn’t look at Steve like he was a ticking time bomb. Instead, he poked and prodded, and teased. He didn’t tiptoe around all things Bucky.
“Eh, he was more prone to just tying me to the bed.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, Steve was cringing.
“Wow, that’s way more kinky than I thought Cap was allowed to be.”
“Not you, too. You know Tony still thinks I’m a virgin. We hadn't been talking again for more than an hour before he was asking me if I'd seen any unicorns in Wakanda.”
“I think he just likes to get a rise out of you.”
Steve shrugged. “Yeah, probably. It’s just obnoxious. I used to give a blowjob for a dollar on the docks, but Tony’s sure I’m straight and pure as the driven snow.”
Sam’s mouth moved silently for a moment, and Steve felt himself flushing.
“Wow, was not expecting that. Didn’t think you were a virgin, but wasn’t expecting the teenage prostitute thing.”
“Or the bisexual thing, right?”
“Dude. I watched you checking out my ass while we ran. That part is not a surprise.”
Steve snorted. “I still don’t know how my teammates never clocked that. Well, aside from Thor. Warrior bonds and all that.”
“Are you saying that you and Thor? No, I don’t want to know. Wait, no. I do.”
Steve smiled a little wolfishly. “Interstellar diplomacy.” Before Sam could reply, he ducked back inside and grabbed his uniform off the chair he’d draped it on.
“Suit up,” he called.
He’d slept in the undersuit bottoms, so it was the work of a moment to yank the pieces into place and shrug the harness for his shield on. After so long without, it was almost disorienting to feel the straps slide into place.
Tossing a twenty for the cleaning staff on the table, he grabbed his go bag and waited in the hallway for Sam. Less than five minutes later, they were piling into their car, Steve's much better eyes scanning the darkened lot for hostiles.
A slumped figure on the ground near the car caught his attention, and Steve froze. “Sam? Call Natasha. We’ve got a body.”
“Shitfuck,” Sam cursed, grabbing the cell that Tony had assured them was unhackable.
Twenty minutes later, a tac team in urban camo piled out of a black van, Sharon in the lead. Steve winced internally. They hadn’t exactly parted on good terms after a brief and mostly passionless fling. The specter of Peggy (and if Steve was honest--Bucky) hung too heavy for it to work out.
He’d been kind of relieved when she’d called it off. It seemed like he wasn’t made for a normal grown up relationship outside of wartime.
Ten minutes later, they were on their way to the coordinates, with nothing more than a couple pointed looks from Sharon.
The ceiling in his motel room had seventeen hairline cracks in it. Located between Metairie and New Orleans, it had seen better days. The air conditioning chugged along, not making much of a dent in the thick, swampy heat. Tonight was worse than standard, he’d been told. A thunderstorm was looming, threatening to dump all the moisture it’d picked up from the Gulf. The air had a ozone tinged charge, and it felt like the world was waiting.
He’d always thought that summer in Brooklyn was the worst, the smell of the docks seeming to hang in the heat, humidity making fabric stick to skin like a second skin.
Louisiana was somehow worse. The heat was impressive, sure. 101 during the heat of the day and not appreciably lower after sunset. But the humidity was almost a tangible thing, like walking into a steam room.
He loved it. Loved the smell of petrichor and slow decay that seemed to hang over the area. Comparatively, Brooklyn seemed young. He almost seemed young next to the grand old plantations, oak trees dripping Spanish moss.
It was the second inn that they'd checked for a room. In the first, a much nicer place, he'd seen the sideways looks that Sam had gotten, like they weren't sure they wanted an African American in their grand place.
And that made him feel ancient.
Seemed like no matter how advanced the technology had gotten, people never changed. Whether it was 1940’s Europe or 2016 America, a bigot was a bigot was a bigot.
Tomorrow, they were heading into the city proper, following another of Natasha’s cryptic messages. What they’d find there was a mystery. Sometimes, it was Hydra. Sometimes, it was AIM. Sometimes, it was something else entirely.
Mostly, it was whatever quasi-legal problem they needed solved. The Accords had been buried with some help from T’Challa, but the Avengers were still officially disbanded.
They all existed in the gray area. Too valuable to get rid of, too volatile to officially sanction. They’d run a few missions as a team, but it was generally agreed that unless the world was ending, Tony and Steve should be kept apart.
Tony had unbent about Bucky at least. With the file that Natasha had found, and the footage that T’Challa had retrieved from the Siberian base, it made a pretty solid case for POW. If they could ever deprogram him, he’d be free to come back to the US without fear. Tony had even sent the documentation for his tech, in the event it could help.
On the other hand, Tony was managing to hold a hell of a grudge against Steve.
They’d managed pointed civility, but that was about it. Steve couldn’t even say he was wrong. He’d screwed up over and over. He should have gone to Tony as soon as he was out of the hospital after DC. He should have told him about his suspicions. He should have made him understand.
Should have, could have, would have. Amounted to the same things-nothing.
After they hit the base, they'd be taking a Sam-mandated long weekend in the French Quarter. Sam swore that they were going to put the supersoldier serum to a real test.
From what he could tell, that meant he'd be carrying Sam back to the hotel post Bourbon Street. Possibly Natasha as well.
Tony had set up their lodging in an old B&B that he swore would knock their socks off. Since Tony was still under the impression that cell phones also knocked his socks off, (an impression that Steve was more than a little responsible for) he wasn’t sure what that would entail.
Still, it would be a nice to hang out with Sam and Natasha without bloodshed involved, even if he was pretty sure that Natasha had multiple plans that involved throwing anyone with a pulse at him. They seemed to be convinced that all he needed to jumpstart his libido was a good burlesque show despite his protestations that he’d been in wartime Paris.
Hell, they’d been in Paris when the last push got both the Nazi’s and HYDRA out of there. De Gaulle, in his new position of leader of the Provisional Government of the French Republic, had requested the presence of Captain America and his Howling Commandos at a fete to be held in the Allies honor at the Moulin Rouge.
He wondered how they would feel if he told them that he’d managed to get he and Bucky out when he’d gotten into a fistfight with one of the top commanders of the French Resistance. He disagreed with Steve’s belief that even a prostitute had the right to say no to a man. When his buddies jumped in, Bucky hadn’t been far behind. They’d kicked of a hell of a brawl, and even with Jacques and Gabe interceding on their behalf (and Bucky’s charm) they’d been pitched out. The owner thanked them for protecting one of his “girls,” but said that with his business after the Allies had left in mind, he needed to ask them to leave. The young lady who Steve had intervened for, who went by the stage name “Delila,” followed them out to thank them. Predictably, Bucky had charmed the living daylights out of her, and in short order, Georgette (her real name) and her friend Lilly insisted taking them on a tour of their city.
It had been a wonderful night--one of the last ones before they’d been sent to the mountains of Italy to start taking down Zola.
With a sigh, Steve rolled over and scooped the remote off the nightstand. Usually, nights like this, when the past was a little too close, he’d go for a jog. Natasha had specifically asked them to keep a low profile this time--something about not being sure how deep the shit went in this area. From the bit he’d read, it could go either way. New Orleans had a long history of corruption. That could either make it very easy for Hydra or AIM to infiltrate, or make it impossible for a new player to get a foothold.
Either way, Captain America streaking through the night was not really covert. Even this late, someone was bound to see. Maybe especially this late. The area they were in was not far from the airport, rife with strip clubs and bars for travelers who didn’t want to make the trek to Bourbon Street. So, television it was.
Late night tv was still a strange thing for him. He’d mostly gotten used to television in general. It wasn’t all that different from radio shows or serials. There was a much bigger variety, of course. If you were lucky, you got one or two stations, at least with the radios they’d had. Now, all but the most destitute had hundreds of channels available with the touch of a button. Late nights, though. The infomercials and blue movies that showed up on his screen after dark fascinated him.
Steve flipped idly through the channels, bypassing a handful of talk-news stations, including one with his face plastered behind a woman whose face was alarmingly plastic and fixed. He settled on a movie of questionable quality, and settled in.
On the screen, a private detective was assuring a woman with improbable cleavage that they’d find out where her husband had disappeared to. The acting was subpar, the drawling Brooklyn accent horrific, and he settled in to enjoy the atrocity.
Not more than twenty minutes into it, the storm that had been threatening hit full force. The power didn’t last five minutes after it, and he heard Sam swearing next door as the shitty air conditioner ground to a halt.
“Fucking soft Chair Force zoomies,” Cap called, trusting the paper thin walls to carry his voice.
A yelp of annoyance told him that Sam had heard him just fine. “Screw you, Cap. We didn’t all walk uphill in the blizzard both ways, while dodging mastodons.”
Laughing, Steve stood, pulling the the window open for some air in the room. Even after a couple of minutes without the shitty air conditioner, the room was getting stuffy.
A blaze of lightning lit up the courtyard, and Steve blinked away the afterimages. In the moment before the landscape was plunged into darkness, he noticed a figure near the parking lot, half obscured by the privacy fence around the edge of the pool. It was facing their rooms, a glint of a sniper scope visible in the stark light.
Steve was moving, diving to the side, away from the window. “Sam! Get down, and stay down! Possible hostile by the pool with a scope.”
“Steve, don’t you dare-” Sam started.
Before Sam could finish, Steve dove through the open window, rolling to come into a crouch. The shadow was gone, melting into the pitch black. A moment later, a bike’s roar cut through the storm’s fury.
“Sonofabitch,” Steve murmured, turning towards Sam’s now open window. “Gear up. We’re hitting them tonight.”
“You could have at least taken the shield before you went running into danger,” Sam returned.
Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “I forgot that I had it back.”
Sam leaned out the windows, the rain drenching his shirt almost immediately, and smacked Steve lightly upside the head. “Idiot.”
“Not the first time I've heard that,” Steve admitted.
Sam shrugged. “More and more, I’m kind of amazed that he never tried to choke the shit out of you when he wasn’ brainwashed.
And this was why he adored Sam. He didn’t look at Steve like he was a ticking time bomb. Instead, he poked and prodded, and teased. He didn’t tiptoe around all things Bucky.
“Eh, he was more prone to just tying me to the bed.” Even as the words came out of his mouth, Steve was cringing.
“Wow, that’s way more kinky than I thought Cap was allowed to be.”
“Not you, too. You know Tony still thinks I’m a virgin. We hadn't been talking again for more than an hour before he was asking me if I'd seen any unicorns in Wakanda.”
“I think he just likes to get a rise out of you.”
Steve shrugged. “Yeah, probably. It’s just obnoxious. I used to give a blowjob for a dollar on the docks, but Tony’s sure I’m straight and pure as the driven snow.”
Sam’s mouth moved silently for a moment, and Steve felt himself flushing.
“Wow, was not expecting that. Didn’t think you were a virgin, but wasn’t expecting the teenage prostitute thing.”
“Or the bisexual thing, right?”
“Dude. I watched you checking out my ass while we ran. That part is not a surprise.”
Steve snorted. “I still don’t know how my teammates never clocked that. Well, aside from Thor. Warrior bonds and all that.”
“Are you saying that you and Thor? No, I don’t want to know. Wait, no. I do.”
Steve smiled a little wolfishly. “Interstellar diplomacy.” Before Sam could reply, he ducked back inside and grabbed his uniform off the chair he’d draped it on.
“Suit up,” he called.
He’d slept in the undersuit bottoms, so it was the work of a moment to yank the pieces into place and shrug the harness for his shield on. After so long without, it was almost disorienting to feel the straps slide into place.
Tossing a twenty for the cleaning staff on the table, he grabbed his go bag and waited in the hallway for Sam. Less than five minutes later, they were piling into their car, Steve's much better eyes scanning the darkened lot for hostiles.
A slumped figure on the ground near the car caught his attention, and Steve froze. “Sam? Call Natasha. We’ve got a body.”
“Shitfuck,” Sam cursed, grabbing the cell that Tony had assured them was unhackable.
Twenty minutes later, a tac team in urban camo piled out of a black van, Sharon in the lead. Steve winced internally. They hadn’t exactly parted on good terms after a brief and mostly passionless fling. The specter of Peggy (and if Steve was honest--Bucky) hung too heavy for it to work out.
He’d been kind of relieved when she’d called it off. It seemed like he wasn’t made for a normal grown up relationship outside of wartime.
Ten minutes later, they were on their way to the coordinates, with nothing more than a couple pointed looks from Sharon.
