Aftershock

The Unexpected Guest

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Tony

When I open my front door, the last person I expect to see is Steve "Captain America" Rogers. Well, maybe not last, but pretty damn low. His broad frame fills my doorway, and his dimpled smile fills my chest with warmth and dread. It's a harsh reminder of why I haven't reached out in months.
"Nat wanted me to check on you," he says. No hello, straight to business.
I try to stifle my laugh. "Bullshit. Wanna tell me why you're really here?"
Steve raises an eyebrow.
"Nat checked up me last week. See, I have this little thing called a cell phone, maybe you've heard of it?"
"Alright, alright." He exhales slowly and pinches the bridge of his nose, taking a moment to collect himself before he meets my eyes again. "I wanted to check on you."
I wonder if he can tell that my pulse just quickened, or that my cheeks have taken on a touch of color at the blunt sincerity in his words. "Consider myself checked," I say. "I'm fine, Cap. This civilian's not in danger, you can take the night off."
"I haven't heard a peep from you in months, Tony. Not many have. Am I wrong to be worried?"
"Obviously."
He doesn't respond to that, giving way to a tense silence. I'm not a fan of tense silences. They make me...tense.
"Did you drive all the way here?" I ask.
"Well, I didn't walk."
"Technically, you could've."
"Funny."
I shift my weight from foot to foot, visually contemplating the sequence of bad decisions I'm about to make. I invite Steve to step inside with a flick of my head and, to my surprise, he accepts. I close the door after him. "Can I get you a drink?"
"I'm good." He eyes my arm, or at least the place my arm should be. I'm only sporting the shoulder piece to my prosthetic. "Is...are you..."
"Upgrades," I offer. "I was actually in the middle of working when I was so rudely interrupted. Wanna see?"
I don't wait for an answer, instead pushing past him and heading for my workshop. I don't know what I'm doing, but Steve's trailing behind me, so I guess I have to commit.
"You know, I wouldn't be as worried about you if you hadn't moved out to the middle of nowhere," he says. "Can I ask what inspired that?"
"Panic. Hysteria. A healthy dose of depression," I say. Steve doesn't seem amused by this. As he shouldn't, I suppose; it's only partially untrue. "Look, I needed to get away for a bit. Figure shit out. Is that good enough for you?"
"Do you like it here?"
"What are you, a realtor?"
"No, I just..."
"Take a seat, Mr. America."
He opens his mouth to say something else, seems to think better of it, and plants himself in my high-backed office chair. I turn back to my work, but can't focus. His eyes are boring a hole into the back of my skull. Sitting with that damn perfect posture, a hand on each knee, index fingers tapping with restless energy. I put down my tools. "What? There's a staring fee, you know."
He nods his head towards my arm, which is disassembled on my desk. I'm re-calibrating the palm repulsor, since it's a little stronger than my left, and the last time I tried flying it looked like I was wearing a sneaker on one foot and a stiletto on the other. I mean, if you're gonna go stiletto, you gotta go all the way.
"You're the only person I know who would put blasters in their prosthetic," he says.
"I mean, calling them 'blasters' is a little diminutive, don't you think?" It's equipped with fully functional heat-seeking lasers, a pulsar ray, and a few other tricks I'd rather keep hidden up my metal sleeve, mostly because Steve would give me a whole spiel about "safety" and "regulations". Yawn.
"You're going to shoot yourself in the face one of these days if you're not careful."
"Thanks Mom, I'll keep that in mind."
Steve makes a tutting sound but smiles anyway. I decide to omit the fact that I shot a hole into my bathroom ceiling this morning while brushing my teeth.
I clear my throat. "Well, if you're gonna loiter, come make yourself useful."
He rolls over to me. I have to say, I kind of enjoy watching America's favorite poster-boy scooting his way across my floor. He folds his arms across my work table and peers at my organized chaos with that indifferent yet slightly disapproving expression of his, and asks, "What'cha need?"
I swat his elbow. "First, you're very cute in your highchair, but I'm gonna need you to stand up."
He complies and I hand him a screwdriver, which he inspects as if he's never seen one before. "Huh."
"Huh? What 'Huh'? Didn't they have tools in the 40's?"
"I just expected it to be...fancy," Steve says. "You know, high-tec."
"It's a screwdriver, Cap. If you think I'm gonna trust you with my 'fancy' stuff, I'm taking you to the hospital for head trauma," I reply, and then gesture to my hand that's sitting on the table. "There's a plate on the base of my wrist that I need you to unscrew. I'd do it myself, but I'm working with...minimal assets, here." I do a singular jazz hand.
He exhales a short laugh. "Understood."
I scoot to my left, allowing Steve to take my place. He picks up my hand gingerly and turns it to examine the base. I lean over his shoulder. "You know, we're technically holding hands right now."
"Tony."
"Yes dear?"
He side-eyes me. "Can we focus? Which panel?"
I reach around him to point at the screws, and he dutifully gets to work. It doesn't take him long. He manages to pop open the panel, revealing an intricate system of wires, sensors, and a couple override buttons. "What now?"
"You're good, I think I'll keep you. How do you feel about assistant? Maybe errand boy?"
"Tony."
"Right, point the base towards me and pass me those wire-cutters. No, no, not—Yes, there you go. Thanks doll." I delicately maneuver the cutters through the mass of tiny wires until I dig up an orange one, which I snip with some gusto that's only dampened by the possibility of a mansion-wide explosion. So, carefully. I cut it carefully. I nod at the panel on the counter, and Steve gets to work putting it back together. "Don't worry, cap, I won't need your help much longer. Once I master the blueprints for this prototype, I'll be able to mass-produce it. We're talking an arm in any color of the rainbow, or maybe an arm with all the colors of the rainbow, if I'm feeling festive. How do you feel about holo?"
Steve stops for a moment to blink at me. "Can't say I know what that is."
"Uncultured. Who even let you in here?"
A smirk, now, pulling up the corner of his mouth. "You did," he says.
"Damn. Uncultured and a smart-ass. I'm revoking my job offer."
Steve finishes setting the panel back in place and passes my hand back to me. "I'm hurt," he says.
"You should be; I am. It's a shame to lose such capable hands."
He hesitates. We lock eyes, the prosthetic still suspended between us, his fingers brushing against mine. He tightens his grip for a brief moment before releasing both of my hands and tucking his own into his jacket pockets. He offers a slight nod that I can't even begin to decode.
"Right," he says. "Well, if you're good...I should probably get going."
"Right," I parrot. "No, yeah, Grandpa needs his beauty rest. Wouldn't want to keep you up past..." I check my watch, "10pm."
"Got big plans tonight, Tony?"
"I could," I say, partially under my breath, but I can tell by the slight tilt of his head that Steve caught it. He seems contemplative, like he's weighing his options. Or perhaps doubting my sincerity.
"Goodnight, Tony."
"Right."
He steps out of my workshop and waves on his way up the stairs. I salute in response.
And then I'm alone again.