Aftershock

The Lack of Caller ID

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Tony

My phone rings while we're making breakfast—pancakes, to be exact. Steve just dipped his finger in the batter and baptized my forehead like Simba, and I have him in a well-meaning headlock as retaliation, threatening to dip my whole hand in the batter and smack him with it. He's laughing his ass off.

That's when my phone decides to vibrate itself nearly off the counter. I release Steve and pick it up, glancing at the suspicious lack of caller ID while Steve dusts the flour off of his shirt. "Probably spam," I say.

"Probably Fury," Steve counters.

I glare at him. "Shh! Don't will that into existence, I swear to god. Take it back right now."

"You know I'm right."

"Yes, and I hate you for it." I accept the call. "Tony Stark isn't available right now, leave a message after the raspberry. Pbbthh."

"Tony better be available, for his sake," Fury's unamused voice booms into my ear.

I wince. "Nick Fury, what a surprise. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"You can skip the formalities, Stark. You're needed back in the field. We're on the verge of busting a new Hydra facility, and I need you to be there."

My second cup of coffee turns to lead in my stomach. "Ha. Good one."

"It wasn't a joke."

"You flatter me, chief. Really. But aren't there...uh...other operatives you could put on the case?"

"It also wasn't a question, Tony. I've put up with your little vacation for as long as I could afford to, but it's time to suit up and step back up to the plate. I expect to see you at the airport within the next two hours," Fury says. "Oh, and make sure to pack some T-shirts, you're going to California."

He hangs up before I can protest further. I stare at my phone in disbelief, frozen in place while my mind spins out of control and my heart threatens to beat its way out of my chest. "But..."

Steve's phone starts ringing.

I meet his eyes, and he confirms my dreaded suspicions: no caller ID.

Shit.

There's no way I'm getting out of this.

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The ride to the airport is quiet and tense. The air feels thick with apprehension, hard to breathe and compressing me from all angles; I squeeze the steering wheel until my knuckles start turning white. Steve's sitting beside me, one of my extra backpacks at his feet, full of a borrowed clothes and some toiletries we bought at the dollar store. He didn't have time to run home, given that his apartment is nearly an hour away, so we're...making the best of it. I tried to give him clothes that I haven't worn in a long time, so it's less obvious, but none of them really fit him and there's only so much a Coney-Island tee from 2011 can do.

He's the first to break the silence. "I'm sorry, Tony."

"Not your fault."

"Think you're gonna be alright on this mission?"

"Gonna have to be."

"Well, you shouldn't have to be," he says, frowning. "It's unreasonable to expect you to go back before you're ready."