Work Text:
Jerry slams his truck door shut - on two of his fingers. His loud swearing draws scandalous looks from a short woman holding her children's hands. He proceeds to swear while looking at her dead in the eye. She huffs, picking up the pace, and she's gone within moments.
"Damn it," Jerry mutters, examining his fingers. They're red, a sure sign that bruising is to come, and his index finger is bleeding slightly. He curses once more and simply shoves that hand in his pocket.
He figured this was going to be a terrible week. Gloria's father was staying with them, and he was a hateful, bitter old man who did nothing but complain. Gloria promised that she would more than make it up to Jerry, but at this point, he would accept nothing less than a palace, eight Rolls Royces, and all the filet mignons he could eat.
At least his children can escape; they've spent all of their free time at friends' houses or holed up in the basement. Jerry is expected to entertain their guest, as Gloria reminds him that she does for his own father when he visits.
Difference is, his father isn't a bastard. He bites his tongue, though, and does as he's told. Gloria is the best person he's ever known and he would do anything for her. She, too, knows her father is a shitstain, but after all these years there's not much she can do.
Work isn't even a good escape for him, as they've had to downsize and he now does the work of four people. At the same pay rate.
Wednesday, he was doused with burning hot coffee by the new temp. Thursday? Bitten by a dog that had broken free of its leash. This morning? Jerry's father in law broke their coffee maker and demanded a replacement.
So here he is, his hand aching (along with his head), walking through the doors of the mall. He buys the cheapest one he can find: when the old bastard leaves, Jerry'll come back and buy a nice one, but now it's his turn to be hateful and bitter.
Jerry clutches the bag with his nonhurt hand, squinting as he looks for his truck. He swears he parked it in this aisle, but it's nowhere to be found. He drifts around surrounding lanes but comes up empty.
Coming to a dead stop, he snarls. Actually snarls. He can't fucking believe it. No fucking way did someone steal his truck. His hands shake; his ears are ringing. It's only when a man touches his shoulder and asks him something that he blinks.
"My truck," he says, his voice trembling with barely contained rage. "I think someone stole my fucking truck."
The man says something else but Jerry doesn't hear it. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees that the man is on the phone, hopefully for the FBI or CIA because he needs to find his truck.
"Police are coming," the man says, putting his phone back in his pocket. "I'll wait with you until they get here."
"Police," Jerry echoes. "Police."
"Yeah," the man says, chewing on his lower lip. He must only be in his early twenties. "Um. Do you want to sit on the curb, or something?"
"Curb."
When it's clear that Jerry has nothing substantial to offer, the man falls silent.
Jerry gives his information to the police officer blankly; he's just too tired right now. Tired of today, this week...he should have known that something like this would happen. The officer has to prod him to give someone a call to pick him up.
When Jerry and Gloria get home, his father in law actually laughs. "I bet you didn't even bother to lock the doors."
Jerry lunges toward him but Gloria grabs his arm. Furious, Gloria begins to yell, her face red. Jerry stares at her because Gloria's angry; Gloria simply does not get angry. Not even when their son threw a baseball through the back window, or when their daughter ripped Gloria's favorite shirt.
For the briefest of moments, Jerry is able to smile at the stunned, outrageous expression on his father in law's face.
*
When a week goes by with no word, the police tell him it's a lost cause. Doesn't matter, Jerry had already given up when Gloria came to give him a ride.
*
Twelve days later, Gloria takes the kids to Six Flags; the bastard left a week ago but he didn't take Jerry's bad mood with him. Jerry turns down the offer to accompany them. It hardly seems fair to see people having a great time and merriment and all that when he's so miserable.
Instead, he's on his couch; It's Opening Day and the Nationals are on TV. Strasburg strikes out the side and Jerry gives a pathetic clap. He's trying to decide if he's too lazy to get up and grab a beer when the doorbell rings.
When Jerry peers through the peephole, he sees a tall, blond man wearing a sheepish look on his face. Frowning, Jerry opens the door, and the man straightens immediately. "Hi. Um. My name's Steve...did you used to own a blue pick up truck?"
Jerry blinks because the man looks so familiar. Steve..."Captain America?" he blurts out.
Steve winces. "Yeah, that's me. So...the truck?"
Jerry's mind goes on autopilot. "Yes, I did. Why - how did you -?"
If possible, Steve winces even more. "I might have taken it."
Captain America stole his truck. Captain America stole his fucking truck. He imagined over and over what he would do if he were ever confronted with the person who took it but it was Captain Fucking America.
"You - you stole my truck."
"Well, see -" and Steve launches into the explanation but Jerry really doesn't need to hear it. Like every other human being, he's well aware of what Steve has been up to. He was glued to the TV as he watched the news with SHIELD's downfall, Steve falling from that aircraft, and how he had felt such relief when he learned that everything was going to be okay.
When Steve is finished, all Jerry can say is "You took my truck."
"I wanted to make it up to you," Steve says. "I was going to bring it back - really - but...it kind of blew up. Least I could do - I am really, really sorry. I felt horrible. So I got you a new one."
Jerry finally manages to tear his eyes away from Steve - Captain America is on his front porch - and look at the driveway. For the first time, he notices the sleek, GMC Sierra Denali DURAMAX (which, if Jerry remembers correctly, costs over fifty thousand dollars.)
"I got Sirius XM radio," Steve says quickly, "state of the art GPS, heated seats, and some other things. I know this probably doesn't -"
Steve's cut off when Jerry lunges at him and wraps his arms around Steve. He's not crying a little, he's not, that would be embarrassing. Steve hesitates for a moment, then pats Jerry's back, laughing.
"Is it okay?"
Jerry's eyes pan over the truck. "It's mine. It's really mine?"
"Yes."
"Can I get in it? Can I drive it?"
Steve laughs again. "Yes and yes."
Jerry runs his fingers along the sides carefully, as if one touch will make it disappear. When it doesn't, he throws the door open and jumps inside. His jaw drops as he looks around. It's incredible. It's - it's - he's got no other words.
"Start it up," Steve says, handing over the key, and Jerry slides that baby in the ignition and the truck roars to life. Jerry plays with the radio until he finds a classic rock station.
"Whoa," he says. His brain feel numb.
Steve stands outside, a little awkwardly, his hands tucked behind the small of his back. "Like it?"
Jerry gives him a sly look. "Only one way to really find out." He bends over the passenger seat and opens the door. "You got time to go for a ride?"
Steve grins and hops in the seat. "My guy can wait a few minutes."
"Your guy?" Jerry says, his face turning coy. He racks his brain. "Sam? The guy with wings?"
Steve's eyes widen slightly. "How did you know?"
"I'm just that good," Jerry says. "So, you two, huh?"
Steve tries to hide a smile, but fails. "Yeah, something like that." He clears his throat. "Where to?"
"No idea, but I need to get this thing out of the driveway," Jerry says. Steve hums in approval and buckles his seat belt. "Maybe you can tell me about your Sam along the way."
As they ride down the highway, windows down, Steve telling him about Sam while Boston plays in the background, all Jerry can think is (for the first time in his life): damn, I wish my father in law were here to see this.