Work Text:
1.
“I told you the suspect would be back here,” Amy whispered as they crept quietly between storage containers. Jake made a face at her after signaling another corner was clear to go.
“I’ll let you have it this time, Peralta-Santiago,” Jake said, and his whisper echoed loudly in the abandoned warehouse. “Since you’re wrong so often, you should enjoy this.”
Amy stuck her tongue out at him, and despite the tension, it made him grin. “That’s Santiago-Peralta to you,” she said. Rosa, inspecting another corner with her gun drawn, rolled her eyes. She’d reluctantly admit that her coworkers were adorable, but they could be downright insufferable with their overwhelming love for each other.
They were chasing the suspect of several bombings that had been causing mayhem and injury throughout Brooklyn for the last couple of weeks. He seemed to be targeting historical sites, mainly from the WW2 era, and had been escalating recently, moving on from property damage to actual injuries. No fatalities yet, but it was only a matter of time if they didn’t catch him.
They’d had very little clues until Amy tracked down a suspect with the use of some complicated math and her old history textbook. There wasn’t enough evidence to get SWAT mobilized, so the 99th precinct did it themselves. Rosa, Amy, and Jake were searching through the maze of shipping containers while Boyle and Terry secured the perimeter. Holt’s voice was a warm drone in their earpieces as he guided them through.
The shipping containers seemed endless, not helped by the fact that Jake had been leading them in circles until Rosa stepped in and took over. They were just nearing the last few of them when the gunshot ran out, interrupting the whispered flirting.
The three exchanged a glance, and started running, bursting into the open space at the very back of the building. They found the suspect they’d been tracking cowering on the floor, dead or almost there, judging by the pool of blood collecting on the floor.
And above him -
Rosa’s lips were a thin white line and she widened her stance. Amy stifled a gasp but her hands on her gun remained steady. Surreptitiously, Jake positioned himself so that he was covering her, though letting her have a clean shot.
Not that it would matter. The man who had taken out their suspect barely looked human. His face was a mass of scarring, with patches of naked muscle and bone. Despite this, he looked agile on his feet and built like a tank, his massive chest covered by a chest plate inscribed with two crossed bones.
There was a gun in his hands and he pinned them with a look that let them know he thought they were no threat, despite the guns they were pointing at him. Holt was loud in their earpieces, demanding to know what was going on.
Amy, always the one more likely to keep up with news, whispered, “Crossbones,” into her microphone. There was a brief moment of silence before Holt screamed at them to retreat.
Jake realized two things in quick succession. One was that the man in front of them had blown himself up twice and survived, so it wasn’t going to be their guns that would stop him. The other one was that the twice-monthly toothpick stacking competition they had with Vice would definitely need to be postponed, on the account of the high probability of them being dead.
“Hey, man, let’s talk this out -” Jake started to say, his negotiator training starting to kick in, but Crossbones just pinned him with another glare, raised his arm, and fired off a shot.
And then the ceiling exploded.
It looked to Jake, who’d never been a particularly religious person, like a guardian angel had descended from the heavens. But then the angel opened his mouth and said, “Why don't you just stay dead you zombie motherfucker?” and he realized that it was the Falcon coming to their rescue.
Leaping behind him through the hole in the roof was Captain America, who landed like the most delicate gymnast on the cement floor, followed by Bucky Barnes, who made a small crater but seemed similarly unaffected by the landing.
That’s all Jake saw before Amy tackled him onto the floor and out of the way of an incoming bullet, and Rosa grabbed the back of their jackets to drag them behind a shipping container and out of the line of fire.
As if on cue, several dark figures stepped out of the shadows, each hefting a firearm aimed at the heroic trio.
One made the mistake of coming in too close and Captain America punched him in the face. "Pow!"
Bucky Barnes dropkicked three guys at the same time. "Wham!"
Falcon avoided a spray of bullets with some delicate aerial maneuvering. "Whoosh!" exclaimed Jake, who was accompanying their battle with appropriate sound effects.
The battle had only taken about a minute before Crossbones' henchmen were mostly out for the count. Sensing imminent defeat, Crossbones slipped out into the maze of shipping containers. Their only warning was a chilling laugh echoing off the rafters before there was an explosion in one of the corners of the warehouse. And another. And another.
A few things happened in quick succession - Captain America reached their hiding place and hefted both Jake and Amy over his massive shoulders, while Rosa had a brief exchange of glances with Bucky Barnes, who then proceeded to only very lightly grip her around the waist, and they all jumped through the hole in the ceiling, boosted by the Falcon, who complained the whole time how heavy they were.
Later on, Jake would recount the moment to a paramedic who was examining him for head trauma (as he'd accidentally slipped a little in Captain America's grip and hit his head against his buns of steel).
"Actually, you could say," Jake paused for dramatic effect, "that we banged with Captain America."
The paramedic silently ticked off 'concussion symptoms' on his report.
"You know, because the explosion went off with a big bang, " Jake continued enthusiastically explaining, "so it was like we banged…"
*
2.
While Steve Rogers was in a briefing with Captain Raymond Holt, Bucky Barnes and Sam Wilson were engaged in bickering over the coffee.
"Does super soldier conditioning protect you from getting diabetes too?" Sam asked, faux-concerned.
Bucky glared at him and hunched protectively over his cup, to which he'd been in the process of adding his fifth spoonful of sugar.
Sam continued, undeterred. "If you put some milk in there, you could add less sugar, since the milk is a little sweet."
"I like it like this way," Bucky hissed. He glared at the milk carton that Sam was pushing in his direction.
"You'll get heartburn if you drink your coffee black," Sam cautioned, sagely, a smile tugging at the edges of his mouth.
"I don't get heartburn!"
"But you can get diabetes, how do you know you can't get heartburn?"
"I can't get diabetes!"
"But are you sure?"
As they continued to argue, Bucky waved his arms around for emphasis and hit the milk carton, sending it falling onto the floor. It uncapped, and instead of milk, a strange green viscous liquid came spilling out. It smelled strongly of mold and decay.
It almost seemed like it was moving.
"How long has that milk been in the fridge?" Amy asked with no small amount of trepidation.
"I put it in there in 1973!" Sully announced proudly.
"Oh no," Hitchcock gasped, palling. "I drank a full cup of it just now."
And it was true - there was an empty mug on his desk, smelling like it just came from the morgue.
The ambulance was called and Hitchcock got to the hospital just in time to be cured of a possibly fatal case of food poisoning.
The 99th Precinct’s offices had to be quarantined for a whole week. They sent Bucky and Sam a thank you card.
*
3.
Le Cul was the hottest new restaurant in New York City. Boyle had had to book his table for months in advance and the wait had only served to heighten his anticipation.
The entree had been glorious - sweet, rich onion soup with butt ery croutons, and donkey meat carpaccio with fennel seeds. However, the main course would be the highlight. The dish he’d been daydreaming about, to the point where his regular sandwiches began to feel lackluster and dull. The restaurant’s signature dish - deep fried chicken bottom rings with a creamy reduction and brown couscous from the Atlas mountains.
It felt like the waiter was approaching him in slow motion, Boyle’s eyes fixated on the covered plate he was holding in his arms. Romantic music was played by the restaurant’s string quartet and nothing had ever seemed more appropriate.
The dish was carefully placed in front of him. Boyle’s hands shook, so he folded them in his lap to hide his anticipation. The waiter uncovered the plate and Boyle barely remembered to squeak out a thank you, his attention riveted to a singular point. He reached for the fork. The ass rings glistened in the dim lighting.
Someone screamed.
A moment later, the glass front of the restaurant exploded inward, showering the patrons with pieces of glass, and something big and heavy landed directly on Boyle’s table. It turned, and Boyle scrambled backward, finding himself face to face with a mouth full of sharp teeth. The creature roared, its beady eyes fixated on Boyle as it advanced towards him.
The only thing he could think about was that he was going to die without tasting the chicken ass rings. The creature opened its mouth to take a great big bite -
A bright oversized metal frisbee came flying through the windowless restaurant front, embedding into the creature’s neck and killing it instantly.
A moment later, Captain America came bounding in after, pulling his shield out with a mighty heave, absently cleaning off the strange blood with a corner of a tablecloth, and apologizing to the waiter for the commotion.
Captain America turned and spotted Boyle crouching on the floor, and his serious expression melted into an apologetic smile.
“Sorry to interrupt your dinner, Detective Boyle,” he said, then bounded out the window and into the fray beyond.
As barely contained panic resumed, Boyle checked if there was anyone looking at him. He picked up a small ass ring off the floor, out of the ruins of his highly anticipated meal. He popped it into his mouth, closing his eyes.
It was delicious.
*
4.
As a rule, Gina didn’t do Tinder dates. In her experience, it was much better to meet prospective partners at the gym, or at the grocery store, fighting over the last can of mushroom soup. But she’d been bored and lonely, and the app could be as addicting as some of her games.
The guy she was meeting seemed nice enough. His name was John, which was boring, but she supposed that wasn’t his fault, just his parents’. He seemed interested and he was nearby, and when he invited her for a drink, she’d accepted.
She was regretting it now. It wasn’t that he didn’t look like his pictures or that he was boring. It was just that when they were actually in the same space, the creepy vibe she was getting from him was undeniable. From the much too detailed sexual questions he was attempting to ask, to the way he’d had her caged in against the corner of the bar, had her alarm bells ringing nice and clear. Especially once he mentioned his new white van.
In these situations, she’d either call Rosa or Jake to come to bail her out. Amy too, though these days, she and Jake came as a pair. If Jake came, she could pretend she was his long lost wife, reuniting with him after having gone missing on a cruise vacation to Aruba. She was becoming quite good at crying on command and gazing at him with a whimsical expression.
If Rosa came to pick her up, she’d do pretty much the same skit, except Rosa would actually dip her and kiss her passionately to add to the effect. Gina liked it when Rosa came. She was an excellent kisser.
But Rosa was on a survival retreat in the Alaska Range, which she’d been excitedly (or what passed for excitement with her) talking about for weeks. Jake and Amy were also out of town for some sort of post-honeymoon trip.
John the Creep attached his fingers around her arm and Gina started wondering if she was desperate enough to call Terry and disturb his playtime with his kids. And then someone cleared their throat behind her. A second later, a shining silver hand came between her and John, clamping around his wrist hard enough that he let her go with a yelp of pain.
“I thought it was you,” Bucky Barnes said in a quiet gravely voice. Gina turned to look at him and found his dark cold eyes squarely focused on her. The man still held by the wrist might as well have been a dust mite with how little attention he was paying to him.
“Oh, hello,” Gina said, spotting both Captain America and the Falcon at a booth behind her. Captain America was nodding encouragingly. Falcon gave her a thumbs up. All it took was another murderous glare from Bucky for the guy to scramble away with an angry look on his face.
It wasn’t exactly that Gina was invited to sit at their table, she just sort of invited herself after that. She got roaringly drunk with Sam Wilson, with Captain “Call me Steve” Rogers and Bucky keeping pace, with pretty much zero effect. The three of them walked her home afterward and she went to sleep that night, warm and safe in her bed, waking up with a splitting headache.
It wasn’t until a couple of days later when John the Creep was being arrested on the news for multiple homicides and ties to terrorist cells that she finally realized what a close call it had been.
*
+1
Having fans was an idea that Steve could never seem to fully grasp. There were people out in the world that wanted to meet him. People that collected pieces of his life and called it a collection, spending their money on things he’d only touched absent-mindedly and then forgot about. He couldn’t wrap his head around it.
Especially when he had to work with them. Coulson was bad enough. The two detectives from the 99th Precinct might be worse.
“We invited you to our wedding,” Detective Peralta-Santiago said, looking up at him with wide luminous eyes.
“Uh,” Steve said, flummoxed. “I’m sorry I missed it. Congratulations!”
The invitation must have gotten lost in the mail. Did things still get lost in the mail in 2019? That, or it was hidden in some SHIELD warehouse, among state secrets. The thought was amusing.
“Thank you very much,” Detective Santiago-Peralta demurred, looking up at him with eyes as big as her husband’s. “We understood that you were busy, saving the world and all.”
“That’s on us, for having a wedding during an alien invasion!” Detective Peralta-Santiago said, laughing. Steve smiled back, cautiously.
“I hope you’ll be very happy together,” Steve said. He glanced around the open concept office, searching for a viable escape route. None was forthcoming. The detectives had him trapped.
“Oh, with your blessing, I’m sure we will be!” Detective Santiago-Peralta gushed. “We were wondering, actually, if you’d like to be the godfather to our first child. When we have it, of course. My cousin Marie has already agreed to be the godmother, but I’m sure she’d be willing to step aside if you could ask Bucky Barnes to do it.”
“Uh,” Steve said, momentarily arrested by the thought of having to broach that subject with Bucky.
“Amy, you’re coming on too strong!” Detective Peralta-Santiago hissed at his wife. “I thought we agreed to mention the godfather thing after we asked him about a threesome!”
Steve blinked.
“I’m coming on too strong?” Detective Santiago-Peralta muttered, visibly furious. “You’re the one who hasn’t stopped staring at his arms since he got here!”
“They’re so big, Amy!” Detective Peralta-Santiago whined. Steve cleared his throat. That was a mistake because it brought both pairs of eyes back to staring at him with something that was suspiciously like worship in them.
“But Captain Rogers doesn’t want to know about boring stuff like that,” Detective Peralta-Santiago said with an awkward chuckle. “How’s about it, old sport? You up to a game of poker? Me and the lads meet up every Saturday night.”
He said that last part in a terrible faux Cockney accent and Steve had to pinch his wrist to make sure the whole interaction wasn’t some strange dream he was having.
“Captain Rogers isn’t interested in such low pursuits!” Detective Santiago-Peralta said, glaring at her husband. “He prefers more cerebral interests, like chess or scrapbooking. Would you like to join my scrapbooking group, Captain Rogers? We meet every Wednesday at 8 o’clock and Mrs. Stohlmeyer always bakes the most divine cookies!”
“Psh, boring!” Detective Peralta-Santiago yelled. “Everyone there will be his age!”
The argument escalated. They each clamped their hands on Steve’s arms and he felt like a battered doll, torn between them. It was just poetic irony that he should die like this, not on the battlefield, but tugged apart by two overzealous fans.
And then, salvation.
“Excuse me, detectives. I’m here to take Captain Rogers to his meeting with Captain Holt. Unhand him, please.”
The detectives let him go with a grumble. Steve immediately took a few steps back so the newcomer was between him and them like a shield.
“I’m Sergeant Jeffords,” the man shook his head firmly. Steve hoped he didn’t look as pathetically grateful as he felt. “Let’s get going.”
Sergeant Jeffords guided him out of the office and into a corridor, smiling apologetically.
“I’m so sorry about them,” he said. “They promised to behave. I knew I shouldn’t have trusted them. I’m afraid Captain Holt hasn’t arrived yet. I just used it as an excuse to get you out of there.”
“Oh,” Steve said, “thank you.”
“I’m really sorry, again. Captain Holt is stuck in traffic still. He told me you were going to speak to him about the African-American Gay and Lesbian New York City Police Association?” Sergeant Jeffords said. Steve froze for a moment, but Sergeant Jeffords regarded him with nothing but sincere interest.
“Yes,” Steve said, finally. “I was hoping to ask him about how it was…”
Steve trailed off. Sergeant Jeffords nodded, encouragingly.
“I don’t mind waiting for him,” Steve said, aware that he was blushing. “Just, uh, is there somewhere else I could…?”
Sergeant Jeffords looked him over appraisingly. “Yes,” he said. “I know a place. I don’t suppose you know anything about putting together a plastic toy kitchen set?”
“I don’t know, but I’m willing to try,” Steve said and followed him down the hallway.