Chapter Text
D&D Grocery - 22:38
There’s steam rising from the pot-holed tarmac, moisture still on the air that’s sluggish and heavy after the rain. Their feet hit the slick, dirty sidewalk almost in tandem and Jake half-listens while Boyle monologues-
‘…Nikolaj actually tried yak milk for the first time! And he liked it! He asked for it again this morning on his Coco Pops - I think his palate is really developing…’
It’s comforting, really. Five years without Genevieve and Nikolaj had done something to Boyle. He’d been so sad, of course everyone had been so sad (he’d hold Amy every night and think thankgodthankgodthankgod and then feel guilty about it) but the Blip had knocked so much of the essential Boyle-ness out of him. So quiet, so shut down. He’d pretty much existed on plain oatmeal and jacket potatoes, all joy and interest taken away from him in that moment.
So, if he wants to tell Jake about Nikolaj’s newly deep and wide palate (ew, ew, so very much ew) he’ll take it because anything is better than Sad Boyle.
Jake would have done almost anything to make it better for Sad Boyle, for everyone but he couldn’t. That’s for superheroes and much as he would he would be the first person to argue that NYC cops are, in general, superheroes by default (except for Teddy. And the Vulture. Naturally.) he would also have to admit that technically they aren’t. He isn’t, anyway.
‘…and Genevieve thinks that by Christmas he’ll be ready to try some Casu Marzu- I mean, I know it’s technically illegal, but honestly what’s a few maggots when that flavour is so rich? And I have this contact…’
Not all superheroes have superpowers, anyway. Iron Man didn’t. Okay, he had the fancy suit and all, but he hadn’t been, strictly speaking, superpowered. Neither is the new Captain America- The proper new Captain America, not that blond guy with the weird chin. And the whole shield-murder thing. That had not been cool. Sam Wilson is cool. Kinda guy you could have a beer with, Jake thinks. And he thinks that in another life he could have made a good Captain America himself. He can stand stoically and when it comes to making a great speech he’s basically a genius.
The city is starting to feel like itself again, noisy and busy and too crowded but it’s what he knows and he missed so badly. Jake pulls in a deep breath of air that smells like Brooklyn: gasoline, stale hot-dog water, dirt- Okay, so it isn’t a nice smell but it’s the right smell.
A lull in the monologue.
‘Hey,’ Jakes says brightly, ‘question: in the original - and I mean the original - line-up of the Howling Commandos, which one would I be?’
‘Oh!’ Boyle’s eyes flash, his round face immediately bright. ‘You’d be Captain America, no doubt.’
Jake grins.
‘And I’d be Junior Juniper,’ Boyle continues happily.
‘Ju-’ Jake blinks, side-steps a puddle of something he’d rather not think about. ‘Okay. Still cool, I guess.’ His lips press together. ‘So, just leap-frogging right over Bucky Barnes, huh? Not even trying for Dum Dum Dugan?’
The dark head shakes. ‘Oh, there’s no way I’m cool enough to pull off Bucky Barnes. I mean, just look at his jacket!’
‘Huh.’ Jake nods. Self-knowledge is a good thing. Probably. Hands thrust into the pockets of his baggy hoodie, Jake swings towards Boyle. ‘No doubt, no doubt. You, er, you think you might put a bit too much importance on jackets?’
Boyle shrugs and then adds: ’Rosa could totally do Bucky Barnes.’
Jake winces, his face screwing up. ‘Poor phrasing but I take your point.’ She does have the leather jacket, after all. And the same ferocious scowl.
They continue companionably, Jake working out just how childish it really is to jump in a rain puddle, but it’s just so much fun, but the sneakers are new and he stares at the bright toe-caps and how the neon lights from the bodega on the corner they’re approaching reflect in the slick of dark wet paving when he hears it, the muffled pop-pop just up ahead coming from that same bodega and a door swings open in the alley to their left, metal banging against brickwork.
Five people spill out, running, eyes wide and fearful. The kid in front has a rash of pimples across his face like a burn, headphones around his neck and he barrels towards them.
‘Dudes! Like, call the cops!
He sprints past them. Jake catches hold of the older man wheezing up behind the kid. Heavy-set and assorted stains on his white apron. The bodega owner, Jake guesses. ‘Robbery?’
The man nods, silvery-grey streaking his moustache and the hair at his temples. His dark eyes look more wearied than anything. ‘Anyone still in there? Apart from the bad guys, I mean.’
Another nod. ‘Two men. They got us out.’
A middle-aged couple with slack faces and a skinny teen-aged girl, furiously jabbing at her phone, get herded by Boyle into relative safety under a streetlamp.
‘How many robbers?’
‘Three.’
‘Boyle, call it in.’
Jake edges forward, eyes trained on the windows of the bodega. Less than ten feet to the doorway. He can hear Boyle behind him-
‘-robbery in progress, D-and-D Grocery-’
-less than six feet now and-
The window smashes, a large dark shape crashing through, landing heavily on the sidewalk in a shower of broken glass that catches the light. Jake’s eyes flick from the fallen figure to the man standing in the frame of the ruined window. Silhouetted against the bright lights from the bodega’s interior he looks unnaturally large, a dark brooding presence. Shoulders high and squared under his leather jacket; one sleeve has been removed to accommodate the hard metal curve of his arm that ripples minutely as he flexes his left hand. When Jake gets a better look at his face his expression doesn’t look so much ferocious as just plain annoyed.
‘Stay down,’ he tells the crumpled figure on the sidewalk. It groans in response. And then he looks at Jake.
‘You should get out of here.’ And turns into the interior of fallen shelves and flickering strip-lights.
Jake weaves on the spot, giddy, sucks in a breath and his voice rises with each word. ‘Ohmigod it’s happening!’
‘Jake!’
Boyle’s hand light on his shoulder, eyes all dark and serious; his gaze moves from the body still whining piteously and making fruitless attempts to sit up to Jake, questioning.
‘Did you see?’ Jake grins crazily. ‘It’s him. Tonight, we are the Howling Commandos! Wait-’ The bodega owner had said that there were two guys in the store, two who had got them out of there, which must mean-
He grabs hold of Boyle, hustles him the few feet across the scrunch of broken glass to the door, pushes it open just in time to see another man slump against the counter, the gleaming shield strapped to his right wrist. And another two bodies piled in the aisle behind him. He tenses when they enter, chin lifting. Bucky Barnes appears, silent, behind him.
‘I thought I told you to beat it,’ he says to Jake.
Jake holds up both hands, empty and palms out before carefully pulling the chain with his police shield from the depths of his hoodie. ‘It’s okay, we’re cops.’
Blue eyes study them both, thoughtfully, and something of the tension leaves the lines of the man’s shoulders but there’s something still mistrustful in his face. If anything he’s taken another step closer to Sam Wilson - a protective stance. ‘Good. That makes this your business.’ He jerks his thumb in the direction of the unconscious would-be robbers. ‘Your bad guys are over there.’
Sam scrubs at his eyes with his left hand. ‘Man, all I wanted was some ice.’
‘Did you get the ice?’
Sam’s head turns, eyeballing Bucky and his mouth thins. ‘Kinda slipped my mind there, Buck.’
A grunt in response. Bucky slips away and from the rear of the store comes the sound of metal scraping on metal, a heavy thud and then a door opening and slamming shut again. When Bucky reappears he’s carrying a bag of ice. He fishes some crumpled notes out of his pocket and drops them on the counter.
‘Way too much for ice,’ Sam tells him.
‘Way too much for everything,’ Bucky complains. ‘Y’know in my day that-’
Sam pulls his hand from the leather straps, slides the shield back into its case. ‘You realise every sentence that starts with “in my day” makes you sound like a thousand years old?’
‘I am old.’ He glances at Jake and Boyle. ‘You guys got this, right?’
Jake nods, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet, vibrating with energy. ‘Uh-huh!’
Bucky nods, curt, peels Sam off the counter and the two men step into the night.
Jake swings round to Boyle. ‘Did you see that? Can you believe that?’
Boyle’s face is also rapturous, something reverent kindling in his dark eyes. ‘I know!’ He reaches past Jake and picks up a plastic bag filled with numerous brown, curled shapes. ‘They must sell mopane worms here! I can’t believe it!’
‘Wha-’
A metallic hand reaches between them, snags the bag from Boyle’s grasp.
‘Sorry, that’s, uh, that’s actually mine.’
Bucky Barnes flashes them an apologetic smile that’s almost bordering on the shy and melts away again.
Boyle stares after him and it is definitely reverence now. Like he’s had some sort of deep spiritual awakening. ‘He eats mopane worms…’ he murmurs. His eyes slowly turn to Jake’s. ‘Maybe I could do Bucky Barnes!’
Jake’s hands claw at the air. ‘Boyle!’