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I WAS MADE TO HIT IN AMERICAAAA
He should know not to go out at night by himself. Not because he's in any danger - Captain America in New York City on a less-than-average day doesn't have much to worry about. But because, almost without exception, he gets lost. Steve tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and squints up at the buildings around him, ignoring the college student who staggers by, stops to stare at him, and bursts out laughing before moving on.
He's used to that, too, by now. Apparently dressing conservatively these days isn't a reflection of care for the resources of the country, or a side-effect of living life as a soldier for two years - it's just "dorky." At least he doesn't feel like someone's taped a sign to his back, not since he asked Darcy - Agent Lewis - why he kept getting that reaction.
Of course the fact that she had to explain what 'Because you're a dork' meant didn't really help his... street cred. He chuckles to himself, only a little ironic, at managing to use both terms in one train of thought.
A few streets later he's getting very confused. Usually he's able to find at least one familiar street or landmark to point him in the general right direction, at least until he finds a cab to get him the rest of the way back to the mansion. He's done this enough in the months he's been here that his assigned SHIELD shadows don't pop a vein unless he's not back by morning - in this case, though, that's probably working against him.
Finally Steve sighs and digs into his pocket to pull out his cellular phone. He looks at it for a moment, smiling to himself and wondering what Howard would make of all this. Tiny phones with tinier batteries and communicators and jets that don't need runways to take off.
Well, for all Steve knows, Howard invented most of it. He still hasn't been able to bring himself to look at history texts to see how his friends lived out their lives. There's something too much like admitting he's never going to see them again in doing that.
He flips the phone open gingerly, poking the tiny buttons with his pinky because he's not sure how else to manage the thing, and dials in what he's fairly sure is Darcy's number. Agent Lewis's number. He could try calling someone else, but she's friendly, in her own way. She doesn't treat him like a loaded gun waiting to be pointed at the next Big Bad Guy.
Steve lifts the phone to his ear with a frown. "Uh. Hello?"
He's used to that, too, by now. Apparently dressing conservatively these days isn't a reflection of care for the resources of the country, or a side-effect of living life as a soldier for two years - it's just "dorky." At least he doesn't feel like someone's taped a sign to his back, not since he asked Darcy - Agent Lewis - why he kept getting that reaction.
Of course the fact that she had to explain what 'Because you're a dork' meant didn't really help his... street cred. He chuckles to himself, only a little ironic, at managing to use both terms in one train of thought.
A few streets later he's getting very confused. Usually he's able to find at least one familiar street or landmark to point him in the general right direction, at least until he finds a cab to get him the rest of the way back to the mansion. He's done this enough in the months he's been here that his assigned SHIELD shadows don't pop a vein unless he's not back by morning - in this case, though, that's probably working against him.
Finally Steve sighs and digs into his pocket to pull out his cellular phone. He looks at it for a moment, smiling to himself and wondering what Howard would make of all this. Tiny phones with tinier batteries and communicators and jets that don't need runways to take off.
Well, for all Steve knows, Howard invented most of it. He still hasn't been able to bring himself to look at history texts to see how his friends lived out their lives. There's something too much like admitting he's never going to see them again in doing that.
He flips the phone open gingerly, poking the tiny buttons with his pinky because he's not sure how else to manage the thing, and dials in what he's fairly sure is Darcy's number. Agent Lewis's number. He could try calling someone else, but she's friendly, in her own way. She doesn't treat him like a loaded gun waiting to be pointed at the next Big Bad Guy.
Steve lifts the phone to his ear with a frown. "Uh. Hello?"
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"When I have to. I mean. I don't really eat all that much in general, and when I do it's not like I can order out." He cocks his head at that, then smiles sheepishly. Money to pay for it and availability of take-out menus aren't issues anymore (the money thing sort of is, even though he's been told he's being paid top-tier agent salary; he's gotten used to frugality as a necessity). "Well, I suppose I can now, but. Fallen out of the habit. Plus, it's probably not the most healthy so. Yeah, when I have to eat I pretty much cook for myself."
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Forget the fact that his heightened metabolism lets him - forces him - to put away enough food to fill the back of a small pickup at regular intervals. Steve just likes food. From poorhouse, to orphanage, to depression and rationing - living in the here and now with multiple fridges stocked to the edges of their shelves is still miraculous to him. As long as he doesn't look at the prices, just walking through a grocery store is like a walk through Valhalla. "You have a whole kitchen to yourself. ...You must at least make some pretty interesting dishes."
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A small smile lights up his face as he remembers. "There was this one time, I think I almost went for a whole week on just, uh. Coffee and pretzel sticks. Didn't even realize how long it'd been until I slid out of my chair with the room spinning like a top." He chuckles at himself, continuing without realizing what he's saying. "Didn't matter how often she'd yell at me about it, it'd always end up with somebody shoving loaded with carbs in my face and a lecture from Betty about--"
It's her name that snaps him back as his chest aches. Working in the lab at Culver seems like a lifetime ago, and in a lot of ways it is. Better that way, really.
"Anyway." Bruce clears his throat to get rid of whatever's trying to block it. "I mostly just throw whatever's in the fridge together and heat it up some. Quick and easy."
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"Uh, sure?" Not that he's at all sure what Steve wants with the fridge, especially since he's pretty sure it's still bare-ish.
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Can you deny that smile, Bruce? Can you?
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"Er, well. I'm not really that hungry, sir, but you can go on ahead. After all, I've still got a lot of reading to get through and besides, there's plenty I can have if I do get hungry later - which I'm not at this point in time. But, uh, thank you?"
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Plus, getting Bruce out of the basement can only be a good thing.
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Bruce fidgets under that look - feeling like he's somehow letting the captain down by not going with.
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The eating part is important okay.
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Bruce doesn't last longer than a minute.
"Ah, w-well, if. I guess I can go for a little while while you're going and. Doing what it is you're going to do. At least until somebody else shows up, since." He clears his throat quietly. "Yeah."
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"Quorra! Hungry? I was just going to make something for myself and Dr. Banner." He peeks over her shoulder at the contents of the cupboard. "Any requests?"
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"Well, see, there's someone else right here so since you're all set on company, I'm just. I'm-- I'm gonna go, thank you, bye." He keeps babbling as he attempts to nonchalantly slide his way back to the stairs.
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Then her face falls when Bruce makes the motions to leave. "Oh, no, please--you don't have to leave on my account."
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"I'm n- That's... I didn--" Bruce's shoulders slump as he grabs a stool by the island in the middle of the kitchen. "Okay, but. I do have reading to get back to," he protests weakly, foot tapping out a rhythm on the tile.
Nodding a quick hello to Quorra, he says, "And I already know Ms. Quorra, since there was that. Potluck thing a while ago. It was... An interesting conversation."
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She looks pleased at his 'interesting conversation' comment, waving back at him, but awkwardly sets the food boxes on a counter. She'd like him to stay, but she can tell he doesn't entirely want to. "I don't want to force you to stay, especially if you have to read," she starts, fidgeting slightly, although his grabbing of the stool was a good sign. "But if you came up for food, you should have some. I don't want to spoil that for you."
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He's starting to feel like a den mother or a cub scout leader, or the woman who ran the orphanage where he used to live. "Please?"
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Crossing his arms on the counter, he glances up from where he's decided to stake out the patterns in the formica. "And, uh, I don't want to be contrary, but. I'm not hungry so I'm not eating. That's- You don't have to go to any extra trouble on my account." He'll just. You know. Sit here. That's okay.
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