Author's Note: Phone bouncing contest idea from Tumblr user strike-team-beta. Thank you!
Chapter 3.
James hasn't been by S.H.I.E.L.D. Repairs in four days.
Or, well, he has, he just hasn't been inside. James had tried to stop in yesterday, but the shop wasn't open late on Sundays. The day before that, his phone hadn't been busted. He'd been knocking it off counters and tables for days without so much as chipping the glass, and James had been starting to get desperate. That was when he was struck by a bolt of genius in the form of challenging Clint to a cell phone bouncing contest down three flights of stairs in his apartment building.
Clint had kept his phone in its super industrial strength case, of course, so it was no surprise when Thor declared him the winner. James had been expecting that. But with his phone as jacked up as it was now, he was pretty sure it would take Steve a while to fix it.
He may or may not have been practicing terrible lines in his bathroom mirror before heading out. But if he had, that was between James and his reflection and nobody was ever going to find out. Ever.
James takes a deep breath and pulls his hands out of his jacket pockets. How is this his life? How are these his decisions? He remembers being all hardcore and shit. Like, 'motivated dedicated super hooah don't fuck with me' levels of badass. A stone-cold, steely-eyed killer. Now his palm gets sweaty while talking to cute boys in cell phone repair shops. He's pretty sure that he could still recite the NCO Creed after ten minutes in the CS chamber, but one look from Steve will get him stumbling over words and forgetting his own name.
James has, in short, become a human clusterfuck.
He wishes he could blame it all on the fact that Steve is a gorgeous little punk who makes him stupid and trips up his tongue something fierce, but James has been a shit show for a while without anyone's help or input. He joked with Natasha that his last boyfriend had been an M24 sniper rifle and he honest to god hasn't been laid in a year. In more than a year now, because his last hookup was a fellow veteran recovering at Walter Reed.
Another minute goes by. James is still standing around outside like a fuckin' mook and starting to panic because he doesn't remember how to flirt. It was a thing he did once, right? Wasn't it? He thinks it must have been, like, back in high school or some shit. Somewhere in the last decade or so he has completely lost the ability to socialize.
Holy fuck. He is the poster boy for 'The Fucked Up Former Army Friends Union.'
"Fuuuuuck," James groans. What the hell is wrong with him right now? He rehearsed this shit like a goddamn board-rat before coming out, and now he's psyching himself out on the sidewalk. James has literally jumped out of airplanes before with less nerve-wracking than this. The shop is open. The door is right in front of him. James has kicked in way more threatening doors than this.
Shit, he can even see that Steve is inside, at his usual place behind the counter, head down as he goes over something in his sketchbook. He's wearing an oversized beanie today that hides his flop of blond hair and a loose sweater with the sleeves pushed up around his elbows. He's just so. . . fuck, he's so tiny and hot, and it makes James want to rip his clothes off and manhandle him over the nearest available surface. Steve's got that voice and that goddamn mouth and all James can think about is all the dirty awful shit he wants to do with it.
At this rate, he's gonna get himself hard before he ever gets inside. James exhales slowly and reaches for the door. He just knows Steve's gonna think he's a desperate loser for breaking his phone a third time. They've installed a little bell since the last time he was in and it makes a light chiming sound as James enters. Steve looks up. James feels his blood rush and his heart stop all at once.
"You again?" Steve asks, a small, lopsided smile spreading across his features. James freezes, thinking for a moment that this asshole has magically developed telepathy before realizing that Steve isn't reacting to the latest x-rated fantasy he was directing in his head. Also, that he sounds genuinely pleased to see him, which hey. That's a good sign. James beams back at him as he sidles up to the counter. "What happened this time?"
"It fell," the lie comes out smooth just like he practiced. Steve huffs a long-suffering sigh and closes his sketchbook, pushing it off to one side to make room on the counter in front of him. He motions for James to give it up.
The baggie James pulls out of his jacket pocket contains a phone that has definitely seen better days. It's nearly in two pieces. Chunks of the shattered screen are actually missing. Steve's expression goes from gently amused to horrified in record time.
"It fell?" the blond repeats, gaping in disbelief as he pokes the phone's carcass through the plastic. "Off of what, Bucky? A train?"
James shifts uncomfortably. Okay, so maybe he overdid it a little this time. He just needed some more time to work through his own ineptitude. Because he's a loser with zero game. What even is his life.
"Can you save it?" he asks instead of answering. Steve looks up with a helpless expression, eyes wide and pleading. Like he wants to beg James not to ask this of him, wants to tell him that this phone is not salvageable. James pouts for a second, then bites down on his lower lip, and absolutely does not miss the way that Steve's gaze flicks down to his mouth at the action.
"I. . ." Steve starts to say, trailing off. He doesn't want to promise James anything.
"Please, Steve?" James pleads, trying to be charming instead of letting on that he's a pathetic garbage sack in desperate need of this beautiful man's pity. Steve looks back down at the phone, his shoulders sagging just a little as he nods and caves to the request.
James's negotiation skills are awesome. He feels like a fucking hero right now. Steve is going to fix his phone. Somebody get out the ticker-tape and the parade floats. 'We Are the Champions' or the theme to 'Rocky' ought to be playing in the background right now. James actually has to repress the urge to bust out his victory dance, which would definitely kill any hope of him ever getting laid again if seen in the light of day, but there's no way for him to keep the triumphant grin off his face. "I knew I could count on you. You're a real life-saver."
Steve makes a noncommittal sound and starts picking at the phone, assessing the damage and pulling replacement parts out from beneath the counter. James tries to engage him in small talk, like he practiced.
Well, if he were the kind of dumbass who needed to practice, but he's clearly not, haha, because he's the fucking man right now. Yeah, he's a beast, he's so smooth, so cool. Steve probably thinks he's all sexy and mysterious and shit. All he has to do is not fuck that up in the next ten seconds.
"So, uh. . . Are you, like, an artist, or just a guy who likes to draw?" James asks, toying with the metal spiral of Steve's sketchbook. Steve glances up from his tools, brows raised. James grimaces.
Fuuuuuuuck. He is. He is absolutely the kind of dumbass who needs to practice. What the fuck did he even just say? Were those words? He could combust from the sheer power of his own awkwardness.
"What's the difference?"
"Uh. . . Well, artists get paid, I guess."
Steve laughs at that, and wow, okay, yeah, James likes that sound. He likes it a lot. "Then I guess I'm mostly just a guy who likes to draw. Every once in a while I get to be an artist, though. Commissions and odd jobs and stuff."
"That's cool. Like, what kinda stuff?"
"Huh? Oh. Uh. . . I've done a couple of comics? Short-runs, no big deal, and I've been brought in as a guest for a coupla issues here and there on other people's projects."
That doesn't sound like 'no big deal' to James. That sounds like Steve is so far out of his league that they might not even be playing the same sport right now. Shit. James is pretty sure that he has done absolutely nothing productive with his life since leaving the Army. "Whaddya mean, 'no big deal?' That's awesome, Steve! Don't sell yourself short. You must be real talented."
The smile that comment earns him is embarrassed and looks good with the little flush that gets paired with it before Steve ducks his head and goes back to piecing together James's phone. They drift off into silence for a few moments while Steve works. He knew the screen was shot to shit, and James had figured that it would need to be replaced, but he wasn't really sure what could be done about the fact that the lower bezel was hanging on by a prayer and some dumb luck.
His poor phone. It didn't deserve this kind of abuse. Honestly, James kinda felt like a dick for this. He and that phone had been through a lot together. It was a good phone. Loyal, non-judgmental. His phone didn't care if he looked up cat videos at three o'clock in the morning, or if he played Candy Crush until the battery crapped out instead of attempting to be a functional adult when out with friends.
It takes him a minute to realize that Steve is taking out all the unbroken components of his phone to transfer them, like some kind of crazy, robo-brain transplant. New backplate, new screen, all the same insides. Heart transplant maybe? Yeah, his phone is a lover, not a philosopher. Besides, James is pretty sure that his version of Siri is the one moron A.I. that Apple released on accident.
"What do you do?" Steve asks, fitting another piece into the new-old phone. "You know, when you're not breaking your phone."
"Haha," James says dryly with a roll of his eyes. Okay, yeah, so he has been jacking up his phone like it's his job this past week. He deserves some teasing about it. "I work at a bar."
"Like. . . as a bouncer?"
James narrows his eyes a little at that. "No, as a bartender. What, you think I look like a bouncer?"
Steve does this thing with his mouth where it moves but no sound comes out. It makes James want to bite his lips and suck on his tongue. "N-no! I just. . . I-I mean. . . Nevermind."
They go quiet again, but it's not as comfortable as it was earlier. James feels like he's going to buzz out of his skin if he doesn't find a way to keep this conversation going. But he doesn't know what to say. He didn't practice for this. Steve looks like he'd be fine if they were done talking, but James can't waste this opportunity a third time.
"It's 'cause I got these guns on me all the time, huh?" He knows it's stupid to try to flex and show off his bicep while he's still wearing a jacket, but James raises his arm and does it anyway. "Makes me look dangerous."
"Oh my god," Steve says, which is clearly the only appropriate response, and then they're both laughing and hey. This isn't so bad. Steve has his head tilted back, his laugh a full body event, and James loves the way Steve's hand comes up to grab his own chest like he needs it to help steady him. James drops the ridiculous pose and rests his forearms on the counter, grinning while he waits for Steve to catch his breath. There's a bit of a struggle that leaves him gasping, but finally Steve manages to add, "That's not what I meant!"
Maybe he can't be cool, but James will settle for being funny if it means he gets to see Steve smile at him like that, warm and open like James coming into the shop is the best thing that has happened all day.
"I'm practically a ghost story in the West Village. Strong, fast, metal as fuck," James goes on.
"You are not. Breaking your phone a lot is not metal."
"You haven't seen the things I've seen, Steve. You don't know what I'm capable of," he shoots back, bites down on his lip again and raises his brows cheekily. Steve's still red from laughing, so James can't tell if he blushes or not. The blond shakes his head and changes the subject.
"Why the West Village? You live there?" he asks instead.
"Nah, I'm a Brooklyn boy. Red Hook. But my bar's there."
"Me, too. Brooklyn, I mean."
"Yeah?" Nice. James is about to suggest that they go out sometime, since they're from the same area — which, okay, he realizes is a stupid pretense for asking someone on a date, but what-the-fuck-ever, he's a grown ass man and doesn't need any excuses, okay? — when Steve starts to slide the phone back across the counter to him.
"Yeah. Okay, I think I'm done here," he says and then pauses, as though a better idea occurred to him. "Gimme a sec?"
James nods. He would probably give this guy anything he asked for, he thinks, and is grateful that he isn't quite dumb enough to say that out loud. He watches as Steve snatches up the phone and ducks into the back room. A few minutes later he emerges with a smug little smirk. James's heart plummets the second Steve sets the phone down on the counter.
It's in a case.
A black, sturdy looking case that he probably won't be able to break shy of getting Natasha to run over it with her car. James looks up from the phone to Steve, not understanding. Steve looks so pleased with himself, but that falters a little at the perplexed look.
"It. . . I-I thought, you know, since you were always breaking your phone, you might need. . ." Steve tries to explain, his tone and smile stumbling. James forces a smile and just nods. Of course. Steve is just trying to help him out.
"Thanks," he says, and tries to make it sound like anything other than the huge disappointment he's feeling. Steve rubs at the back of his neck with one hand. "That's probably a good idea, huh?"
"Well, I just. . . we have other options? If you don't like this one, I mean. I just thought, you know, that it would go well. With." Steve makes a vague and embarrassed gesture towards James. "You."
James picks the phone up. The case isn't heavy or clunky or any of the things that he thinks he could use as an excuse to give it back. There is legit nothing wrong with it. Except that it exists, and now James has to figure out what he's going to do because he can't imagine not coming back in and seeing Steve laugh and smile. He wants to know more about him and ask him out and get him pinned up against a wall and kiss him until he's gasping for breath. James keeps his fake smile on, but can feel it going tight around the edges. "Nah, it's cool. Thanks. What do I owe you?"
Steve fidgets for a moment before stuttering out the cost of the repairs. James pays up and shoves his wallet and phone back into his pocket before mumbling an apology about needing to be somewhere and heading for the door. He's halfway to the metro station when he realizes that Steve didn't charge him for the case.
