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Late at night, when the truck stop was empty except for him, was his favorite time of the day. He finished his tasks and then could sleep or read or sit on his sleeping bag and rock, a well worn lavender sachet held to his nose if it was a particularly bad night. Tonight was a good night. James wasn’t sleepy yet, so he pulled his latest literary acquisition from his backpack and settled down on his sleeping bag to read.
During the childhood and young adulthood he could only remember snippets of, he had loved the pulp adventure and science fiction novels that his mother had sworn would rot his brain. There was so much more out there now, he’d missed a goodly portion of it, so he made sure to pick up a new book whenever he finished one.He left the ones he finished for others to pick up and enjoy. There were plenty of fellows like him, no permanent address nor family to worry for them. Little things like books and food meant a lot.
James was at once more fortunate and less than most men in his situation. More fortunate in that he had some marketable skills and less fortunate in that he perforce had to remain under the radar of the powers that be and that he had what he had learned was now called PTSD to a rather severe degree. For that last reason, he chose his potential places of earning wisely. Places owned by vets or people who had vets in their family were good. Places that didn’t mind paying under the table were essential. James didn’t mind working for room and board, either. Any actual money he earned was hoarded. He never knew when he’d have to leave in a hurry. His first job in the diner in Manhattan had driven that point home.
He laid the book on his chest for a moment, remembering D’Joris, Milt, Ava, Martina, and Jose. They had all been kind, particularly Milt and D’Joris. He missed them fiercely, wishing not for the first time that he could return there and be James the busboy again. Unwise, that. Barton had told him that S.H.I.E.L.D. had shown up not long after they had left.
He missed the Bartons, too. The kids’ endless energy and chatter, Laura’s effortless, warm concern, not to mention her cooking. Clint’s way of understanding James’ demons, when to talk and when to let him be. The baby’s warm weight in his arms.
One thing James did remember from Before was his sisters. He wondered if they had married, had children. They’d be great-grandmothers now if so. He understood that, understood why that was. How it should have been impossible and wasn’t. Damn the rotten bastards to every part of hell for stealing that from him too.
‘Quiet now, quiet. Everything’s going to be all right.’ No need to wake the angry bear in his brain, after all. He picked up the book again. Better to see what Harry, Ron, and Hermione got up to this time than to risk having to leave before he was ready to.
He never stayed in one place too long now, no more than 2 months at most. After the girl had approached him at the church Christmas eve, he had realized that he’d been sloppy. Gotten complacent. It had ended as well as could be expected, but he didn’t want to be on anyone’s radar again. He had accepted the arrowhead, taken from his belongings as a memento after his ‘death’ by Gabe Jones and passed to Gabe’s grandson, then taken by the girl’s boss again as a momento. He had declined the offer of shelter and sanctuary, knowing that the price for it would be more blood. He’d be a weapon again. No. He’d ditched the card before getting in the car with the Bartons. Just in case. The arrowhead had little meaning for him any longer, but Barton would appreciate it. Better that it stay with him.
He sighed again, shifting, book laying on his chest once more. He was too unsettled to read tonight. He’d been here at the truck stop for a month now, this little place in the middle of Nowhere, South Dakota, only getting traffic from long haul truckers and fans of the Little House books. He’d read those while at the Bartons’. Lila had the entire set. He refused to admit that as being one of the reasons he’d headed this way. At all.
He’d shown up here one afternoon in late March, sat at the counter and paid for his meal out of his hoarded savings. Asked the owner, a burly red-haired man who walked with a limp, if he could scrub the trucker’s shower stalls and the bathrooms in exchange for being allowed to sleep under the overhang out front. The man had eyed him warily, but agreed after spying James’ prosthetic. He’d followed the man to the other side of the building, been shown the cleaning supply area and had gotten to work. Men’s room first, not nearly as bad as many he’d seen. Ladies’ room next, also not bad.
He’d had to wait for the showers to empty out, so he’d shuffled back into the restaurant for a cup of coffee. The red haired man was nowhere to be seen. His wife, however, a little graying blond of five foot nothing was being sworn at by a man in an expensive jacket, with a plump, well dressed woman and two bratty little boys. James had watched for a moment and then stepped into the man’s space, looming over him.
“That’s no way to talk to a lady.” He gave the man a steely, blue stare.
The man had paid quickly and hustled his family out.
James had nodded to the owner’s wife. “Ma’am.” She gave him a tremulous smile in return.”Cup of coffee, please?” He had laid a dollar on the counter.
“You put that up,” she said, settling her shoulders. “Anything you want, you just let me know. Andy said you were doing some odd jobs for us.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” He had accepted the cup of coffee with a slight, diffident smile and moved to an empty table where he could watch and see when the showers were vacant. He finished the coffee just as the showers came open and he had shuffled back over to the other side to clean them before anyone else came in. Once they were spotless, he had swept the gift store between the shower area and the restaurant, then swept the dining room for good measure.
After that, the red haired man, Andy, had reappeared. “You did a real good job on the bathrooms and showers. My wife, Lisa, told me what happened with that foul mouthed idiot. Thanks for stepping in. Most won’t try anything while I’m here but there's always that one.”
James had shrugged, eyes on the broom handle. “He shouldn'ta been talking to a lady like that.”
“Agreed. So, Lisa told me she said we’d keep you fed and coffeed. I’m good with that. Least I can do.” He nodded towards the prosthetic. “That happen while you were serving?” When James nodded, swallowing nervously, Andy leaned over and raised his pants leg, revealing a prosthetic of his own. “Me too. Iraq. God, what a shitshow that was!” He gave James an appraising look. “You just passing through, or you planning to stay awhile?”
James had shrugged again. “Got nowhere special to be.”
“Well, tell you what: Why don’t you stick around? You can crash in my stock room, keep the bathrooms and showers clean for me and we'll feed you. If you want to bus tables and do dishes, we’ll split tips with you. So long as you don’t do any drinking around my kids, we’re square.”
“No drinking.” He nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The man had laughed. “You’re making it sound like I’m your CO. It's Andy, Andy Calhoun.” He held out his right hand. James hesitated, then shook it.
“James.” He hesitated again and then took a deep breath. “James Grant.”
“Look, you’re welcome to use the showers too, after hours. Let me know if you need any supplies like razors or anything. And let Lisa know if you have laundry that needs done.”
“Thanks….Andy.”
They weren't Milt and D’Joris, but they were kind. It was nice being around kids again, too. Andy and Lisa’s girls, Tabitha and Callie 12 and 14 respectively, worked in the kitchen while the boys, Asher and Royce at 10 and 15, waited tables and bussed. James thought it a wise arrangement.
The girls were avid Harry Potter fans and they made sure that Mister James had the rest of the series. He agreed with Callie that Umbridge was almost worse than Voldemort.
The girls had read the Little House books, too, and were more impressed than they should have been that he’d passed through Mansfield, Missouri and had been to the museum.
The boys were avid sports fans, primarily football, although they followed baseball too. They allowed that him rooting for the Dodgers wasn't all that bad. At least it wasn't the Yankees.
Asher had a bit of a hero-worship thing going for superheroes, too, and was heartbroken that his favorite was considered an outlaw now.
“Don't you worry, Ash,” Callie had said with all the authority of her 14 years. “Someday soon everyone will see that Captain America is really a good guy and that Iron Man is a bag of ...butts,” she finished, shooting a quick glance at her father.
“The best guy,” James had muttered, but she heard him and flashed him a smile.
“See, Mister James thinks so too.” She patted her little brother on the head, ignoring his squawk of protest. “Maybe Thor will come back then, too.”
“Just because you're in loooove with him,”Ash sang, dodging a swat from Callie. “Cal and Thor sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G….” He scampered off, howling with laughter, his sister in hot pursuit. Tab wrinkled her nose at both of them.
“Cap is way hotter than Thor. Just saying….”
James chuckled quietly, up to his elbows in dishwater. Steve would be ten shades of red if he’d heard that conversation.
He was doing better, but he still had bad days. He still winced inwardly about the time Tabitha had found him curled in a ball and huddled against the stock room wall after a bad thunderstorm. She’d run for her father and Andy, for a wonder, hadn't tossed him out. He’d just sat down next to him and talked to him until James had uncurled enough to look at him.
“You were a POW, weren't you?”
James’ flinch answered his question more eloquently than the words he couldn't speak and after that, he noticed a change in the way the family behaved around him. Loud noises were avoided, movements were telegraphed, intentions were spoken. Even by the children.
“Lisa’s dad was a POW. We know the drill. Don’t worry about it,” Andy explained.
Things had gotten better then. He had fewer bad days. He was beginning to hope that someday his bad days would be infrequent enough that he could stay in one place for awhile. Not while the Accords were in effect, and not while Steve was a wanted man, but maybe someday. Until then he’d keep moving, because his capture would mean Steve’s capture. The punk would never abandon him.
Sighing, he laid the book aside. For now, this was a good place to be. Maybe he would be able to sleep for more than a couple of hours.
“G’night, punk.”.