Hey all, here I am with the actual first chapter as an apology for the weirdness that happened with the formatting of the intro. Here's hoping that's the last we see of it!
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Chapter One: That Strange Mechanic
"There are no coincidences in life. What person that wandered in and out of your life was there for some purpose, even if they caused you harm. Sometimes, it doesn't make sense the short periods of time we get with people, or the outcomes from their choices. However, if you turn it over to God he promises that you will see the big picture in the hereafter. Nothing is too small to be a mistake."
― Shannon L. Alder
The next morning was, indeed, less mad. Gossip flew everywhere about the bright light, and the shooting star that had come so close, and the strange noise of grating metal that they had heard from the alley, but no one even thought about, never mind guessed the truth of the matter.
As he went about his usual business, Steve felt inordinately grateful for the obliviousness of his neighbors. There was no chance of anyone connecting him to it. No awkward questions or suspicious glances.
Now that the United States was at war, everything different was a possible Nazi threat. It felt a little ridiculous. Of course there were spies and the like, but what kind of spy would make a flying robot?
No, it actually made him antsy for other reasons. Where before it was important to hide the keen glances he would give to men as well as women, now it was essential. He wanted to fight in the army, not get thrown into prison as a possible Nazi spy as well as a queer.
He was so busy thinking on what had happened and what it all meant that he didn't notice the man in front of him until he walked right into him. "Oh, sorry," he said sheepishly, and took in who he had bumped. If it was Mr Hornberger again, he'd be in some serious trouble.
Luckily, it wasn't. Instead, a handsome man smiled a few inches down at him. "No harm, no foul, short stuff," the man said cheerfully, examining him with dark eyes that were far too clever for his own good. He was a strange one, hair messy rather than smoothed back like most men and wearing a black long sleeved shirt under a dark grey one, oil stained jeans that hugged his legs, and sneakers like Steve had never seen before.
"I haven't seen you around these parts before," the blonde said interestedly. This part of town didn't get too many visitors for a reason.
"Got kinda lost, I'm not from around here," the man admitted, putting a grease stained hand through his already fly-away hair. He grimaced as he looked around, obviously trying to place himself.
Steve smiled. "It's pretty easy to get lost around here. Where you heading?" he questioned. His errands could wait when someone, especially someone so interesting, needed help.
"That's the thing," the man prefaced agitatedly, "I don't know where I am, but I don't know where I'm going either. Just kinda… stuck. With no way to get back to where I was." The man paced as he rambled, turning smartly on his heel at the curb and right before he would have hit a building. It seemed to be his natural state, his hands waving animatedly. Perhaps he was part Italian, he had the tanned skin.
Steve pulled him out of the way of a disgruntled-looking mother and the line of children following her like ducklings. "In that case, do you want to get some coffee? Maybe talking it out might help," he suggested. He had to remind himself to release the man's sleeve, or else he might think he was a weirdo.
The man blinked down at him, face surprised and amused at once. "Yeah, sure, why not? Where has some good coffee around here?" he replied, head swiveling every which way as if he expected a diner or coffee shop to appear out of nowhere.
To Steve's embarrassment, his reply ended up being a loud sneeze. "Sorry," he mumbled, "I think I'm getting sick." He knew he should have ignored the blue light last night and gotten home to their semi-warm flat faster… He already got sick too often to work, even without being stupid and curious.
"Want me to walk you home? You look like a good breeze will knock you over," the man offered glibly.
"Sure," Steve replied with a shrug. It wasn't like he and Bucky had anything worth taking, except the last vestiges of the bread and ham, if the man was a robber. He didn't seem the type, though, and it would be humiliating to keel over on the way back. "Steve Rogers," he introduced himself, offering his hand.
For a moment the man simply stared, eyes roaming Steve's face but at the same time looking like he was mentally somewhere else. It was a little awkward. "Tony Stark," he finally said, a mischievous grin slowly growing on his face.
"Good to meet you," Steve returned, and turned around to lead the way back to his place.
Stark kept pace easily, eyes everywhere at once as they passed through Brooklyn. "This doesn't seem like the friendliest of places. What's a little thing like you doing out here alone?" he asked as they passed by a shifty-eyed group hanging around on a stoop.
"Unless I pick a fight, nobody bothers with me," Steve replied gratefully, "I don't have anything worth stealing and Bucky, he's my best friend, has probably knocked out all of them at one point or another." Mostly because they thought they could beat up Steve without consequences, but sometimes for Bucky's own reasons. Dockside politics were beyond his scope, and nothing he wanted to understand anyways.
At the mention of Bucky, Stark's smile turned frozen. "Best friend, huh?" he breathed, obviously not intending for it to be heard.
Steve gave him a look but didn't say anything. No, he sneezed again. "I hate being sick," he mumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. It may have been March, but the air was still chilly.
"Get sick often then?" Stark questioned. A corner of his lips quirked up in half a smile, as though he was laughing at a private joke.
"All the time," Steve said, displeased. There were very few memories he had where he wasn't sick in one way or another, even without counting his faulty lungs and weak heart.
They ascended the stairs then, Steve having to stop several times on the flights up in order to catch his breath. Normally it was only once or twice. But the rattling in his chest was worse than usual, and his breath had a sour tang he knew too well: infection.
Rather than tease him like Steve was somehow expecting, Stark stayed and waited for him to get his breath back. It was appreciated. Even if his comments about the building weren't really. "What kind of dump is this?" the brunet asked, wrinkling his nose at the faded wallpaper and peeling carpet the color of cat sick. It even smelled a little like cat sick, not that Steve had to deal with any kind of smell too often with his constantly clogged sinuses.
"This is my apartment building," Steve wheezed. His hands were mostly steady as he dug in his pocket for his key and unlocked the front door.
"Well it's a dump," Stark reiterated, eyeing the bare bulb with disdain as it began swinging slightly. Someone must have come out into the hall upstairs.
Steve smiled, keeping his agreement to himself. "It's all we can afford," he said, shrugging as he opened the door. He kept his coat on, as the small studio he shared with Bucky wasn't much warmer than outside, without the other man's body heat helping heat the small space.
"Can we turn the heater on?" Stark requested, shutting the door behind himself. The click of the lock echoed in the small room.
A flush took Steve's cheeks. "It doesn't really work well enough to justify it," he explained, and went to heat up the stove for the percolator. At least that would help.
Instead of complaining, as Steve privately expected, Stark crossed the room in a few strides and began examining the ancient furnace. "This thing is a wreck," he pronounced with disgust after a moment of examination, "Do health codes really allow this sort of thing? Do you have a wrench and a Phillips screwdriver?" He looked over his shoulder expectantly from where he knelt in front of the appliance.
Steve swore his heart leapt into his throat. "You can fix it?" he asked, pleasantly surprised as he reached for the wrench. It, and two screwdrivers, were kept in the kitchen in case anything needed repairs that he and Bucky had an idea how to fix. The heater had been beyond them until now.
The smirk Stark gave him made his chest clench up, and he ended up coughing into his sleeve. "Don't get too excited, there," the older man drawled, eyes sparkling, "I made a self-sustaining energy source in a cave, of course I can fix a heater. Wrench and screwdriver?"
The tools were handed over and Stark immediately set to work. It was fascinating to watch him get lost in his own thoughts, muttering under his breath (nothing complimentary) as he took apart the heater. When he got it down to its bare bones, he began putting it back together again in a different configuration. Some parts were altered and others simply rearranged until it looked nothing like it did before, smaller and neater.
Half-way through the job, the percolator was ready. Steve interestedly looked at the inner workings of what Stark was doing as he set the full mug on the floor beside the man. "How's it going?" he asked, taking a sip of his own beverage. Unable to generally afford milk or sugar, he had learned to drink it straight.
It didn't seem to be a problem for Stark; he gulped down the scalding beverage without a thought, or even a wince. "Lucky there's so many spare parts in here," he reported, tightening a bolt, "Otherwise I might have had to scavenge. Give me a few more minutes and I'll test it."
Unwilling to disturb his new acquaintance any longer, Steve curled up on the sofa and watched him quietly. The couch was the most uncomfortable thing he had ever sat on, felt like two boards nailed together and upholstered with someone's old jeans. It provided a good vantage point to look out the window and draw, though.
When Stark turned the dial on the heater, a blast of hot air shot out. It felt like sinking into a hot bath, and Steve shivered pleasantly with the sudden loosening of his muscles. A sigh of pleasure sneaked out of his throat as the air flow modulated itself.
There was another click of the dial, and another burst of air shot out. This time it was cold, like the air outside. Quickly, it was changed back to the previous setting and the room began to warm up.
"What was that?" Steve asked, frowning at the man who was screwing the case back onto the heater. Several parts were still on the floor, apparently unneeded.
"That was me being a genius," Stark declared as he worked, "Your heater works, about five times more efficiently than it ever has, and if you turn the dial the other way, you have air conditioning." The smile he shot over his shoulder was proud, and a little teasing, as he wiped his dirty hands on his jeans.
Steve's mouth hung open slightly as he stared at the man. It switched to the heater, which worked more quietly than he had ever experience, then back to the man who had repaired it. "Thank you," he finally said, every ounce of gratitude he felt in his voice, "Thank you so much. Is there anything I can do for you?" As long as it was something he could do, he would.
When Stark asked for another cup of coffee and to keep the parts he hadn't needed, Steve agreed easily. There was plenty of coffee, and he had no use for spare mechanical bits.
They were drinking their second cups of coffee and Stark was laughing over one of Steve's sneezing fits when Bucky came in. "Hey, Stevie," Bucky greeted cheerfully, "Who's this?" He examined the stranger judgmentally as he kicked off his shoes and took off his coat.
"Tony Stark. Short-stuff here almost bowled me over earlier." The smile Stark gave was a little shark-like, a little frozen, but his tone was perfectly relaxed. It was a strange amalgamation of attitudes.
Steve flushed again, his only possible answer being yet another sneeze.
Bucky rolled his eyes fondly at his best friend. "James Barnes, but everybody calls me Bucky," he introduced, and headed to the percolator. "Is something on fire downstairs? I don't think this place has ever been this warm." He didn't seem too concerned, instead humming happily as he filled his favorite mug.
"Actually Stark fixed the heater," Steve corrected, giving the appliance and then its repairer a fond glance.
When Bucky spun about, it was to frown at the heater. "Seriously? I don't even hear it running," he said, and hovered a hand over the vent. The look on his face was pleasantly surprised when he felt hot air getting pushed out.
"What can I say, I'm great at what I do," Stark boasted from where he lounged on the ragged armchair.
"You a mechanic?" Bucky asked, taking his usual spot on the left side of the sofa. It was one of those things he had always been interested in, but he never got the opportunity to learn beyond the basics. No, the Depression got in the way of that dream like many others.
"Among other things," Stark replied mysteriously.
Bucky didn't take it too hard, as he raised his mug in a salute. "A man of many talents," he declared, before he took a drink.
The gesture was echoed by the other two men. At least in Steve's opinion, the job was worth more than some coffee and a cheer. "Is there anywhere you need to be?" he asked, emptying his mug.
"Nah. New in town. Noplace to go, noplace to be," Stark replied with a nonchalant wave of his hand. His smile was a little wistful, a bit sad, but that vanished when he looked at Steve again, like he was the cure for his homesickness.
"Do you at least have a place to stay?" Bucky asked, concerned.
The shake of Stark's head was slow and he masked the melancholy behind it with a shrug. "I can get by fine. Just gotta get a few jobs and I'll be set," he said, not quite optimistic.
"We don't have much, but you can sleep on the floor in here for the night, in the warm spot by the heater," Bucky offered kindly, "You fixed it. We owe you."
Steve coughed in agreement, and made a face at the taste. "I'd offer part of the bed, but I'm getting sick and Bucky has work tomorrow," he choked out, rubbing his chest with the heel of his hand.
"Getting sick? You are sick, short-stuff," Stark corrected, and got out of the chair. He set his empty mug in the sink and raided the kitchen with various sounds of dismay and disgust.
"Interesting guy," Bucky commented under his breath, watching the man in his kitchen with a raised eyebrow. "Where'd you find him, again?"
"Ran into him on the way to the post office," Steve answered. He hoped that Stark wasn't going to mess with the stove, that worked perfectly fine and they needed it.
Amused, Bucky shook his head and leaned back. "Only you, Stevie," he said fondly, groaning when he stretched in a particularly satisfying way.
Not for the first time, Steve found himself thanking God that he had gotten over his previous (huge) crush on Bucky. Otherwise that sound would have sorely tested him. As it was, he allowed his friend to lean on him and stretch out over the couch.
"This stove sucks, too. Do I even want to see your water heater?" Stark called from the kitchen.
"Probably not," Steve answered, wincing as he remembered how quickly he'd had to jump out of the shower yesterday. It couldn't have been more than ten minutes before the water went cold.
The look Stark gave him was exasperated and fond at once. "No wonder you're always sick," he declared. There was no stopping him from gathering his (borrowed) tools and marching into the bathroom, presumably to fix the hot water heater.
The moment that the clanging and swearing of Stark's tinkering started, Steve allowed himself to let out a huff. That man…
"You think he'd fix the stove, too?" Bucky whispered.
"I don't want to ask so much of him. I mean, it's not like we can pay him," Steve replied, already feeling bad about all the repair work being done. He didn't have any money, and couldn't do anything else to help besides offering him a piece of (hard) floor to rest his head on.
"Hmmm… He said he's from out of town. Maybe, if he's up for it, I could find him some work at the docks? We need a mechanic to keep the winches operating," Bucky mused, rolling his tongue along the outside of his teeth habitually.
It sounded like a plan. But for the moment, Steve was too tired to want to think about it. "I think I'm heading to bed," he said, pushing his best friend's head off his chest, "Gerroff me, ya giant mook."
More from his own movements than the strength of Steve's shoves, Bucky sat up. "Did you eat?" he asked, worried eyes glancing down at his best friend's concave stomach.
"More tired than hungry," Steve admitted. "I'll eat in the morning." He knew it wasn't the best of ideas, but his body was calling for the sweet oblivion of sleep. In the morning Bucky would press some toast down his throat, so what was the worry?
After an exchange of mumbled goodnights, Steve crawled into his side of the lumpy bed that he shared with Bucky. It was probably a little weird, two grown men sharing one bed, but it had been that way since they were kids. They were practically brothers, and they couldn't afford a second bed. Or the space to put one.
The thought of being here, with the one he cared most about, a searing enigma in his bathroom, and a working heater had him smiling. Before he realized it, his breath was deeper and more rattly with sleep.
