A/N: Ladies, ladies - I sympathize, believe me, but restaurants can't serve anyone not wearing shirt and shoes! I don't think they'd even make an exception for the lovely view. Still, I've done my best. (Longish one, but the last was a shortish one.)
10. Look Before You Leap
There were things, actually, that he liked about bussing, Steve thought idly as he placed napkin-wrapped silverware and laid out placemats. It was so different from what he did with the rest of his time - a little mindless, exact, simple. You knew when you were done and everything looked a little nicer because of it. And nobody hated to see a busboy coming. You were either ignored or the sight of you made people smile. Usually.
He glanced around the dining room. Not so much tonight. Didn't look like anything was going to make this group smile. He finished setting up tables and got busy clearing a few others. Couldn't imagine what they were so bad tempered about, really - they were sitting down, waited on, well fed. He flexed his stinging foot and his stomach gave a growl. Sounded pretty good to him about now.
His shoe had gone back on without too much trouble, helped, no doubt, by the greasing of the burn ointment, and now he only had the slightest of limps, as likely to be due to his bruised hip as his burned foot. He grimaced. Hopefully there would be no foot pursuits on the agenda tomorrow, unless they were pursuing some eighty-year-old with a walker. Then he might stand an even chance.
He cast an eye over the dining room again. Most of the bus group seemed to have settled down to pie and coffee. The regulars appeared more inclined to beers and snacks, and while there was no open sparring, the dining room definitely had an undercurrent of tension completely unlike its usual laid back atmosphere. He peeked at his watch to see how long until closing. Surely it didn't take this long to fix a flat, even on a big bus tire? Or maybe the bus driver was enjoying a little break from his group. He collected dirty silverware and tossed it into the pan. Could hardly blame him.
He ran his rag over the table, noticed that his pan was full enough for an unload. He started toward the kitchen, letting his gaze skim the tables once more, making sure everything was under control. Not bad, considering. Cristina had section two covered and - now, where the heck had Darla disappeared to again? He paused halfway through the door to the kitchen, looking more carefully. After a second he shook his head. He'd give her five more minutes, then he'd go looking for her. Probably should have sent her home in the first place - then he and Cristina at least could have divvied things up so that they'd know what they were dealing with. Right now things seemed to be going okay, but even a couple of minutes could easily change that.
He hefted the dishpan onto the counter by the sink and bumped the faucet with his elbow to start the water running, holding fistfuls of silverware under it for a quick rinse, barely aware of the grumble of voices from the dining room. Just a couple more hours and he was free to go home and - he glanced at the clock again, made a face - crash until the alarm went off.
He dropped the silverware in the sink to soak for a minute while he pulled a basket of clean out of the dishwasher.
Wonder what the odds are I'd be able to put in for a vacation. Seemed like it had been a long time since he'd had one of those. On the other hand, if a vacation was as restful as his day off, he might be better off putting in for double shifts. The thought of surviving seven days like this made him shudder.
He was moving to the cutlery rack to put the clean silverware away when he became conscious of another sound - also voices, but not from the dining room. These were outside…sounded like the back alley, where they dumped the garbage and the staff took their smoke breaks. He stepped closer to the door, leaning in to listen. Had to be a little careful. This was the wall where Jesse had found him snoozing last night. Didn't want to take any more unscheduled naps.
He could make out an unfamiliar voice, but no real words - just a tone - raised and angry and a little - he tilted his head to listen more closely. Yeah. He'd made enough arrests of that kind, especially in his early days, to know - whoever it was, was under the influence of something. He heard another voice answer, higher and sweeter, and this one he recognized. Darla. What was going on now?
He didn't get an opportunity to puzzle it out because next came the sharp, familiar sound of flesh hitting flesh. His temper gave with a snap. He pushed his way through the door and into the alley.
Despite the fringe of motion lights illuminating the area it took amoment for his eyes to adjust from the brightly lit kitchen, but after a heartbeat or two he could make out Darla, one hand pressed against her cheek, with some young thug-wannabe clutching her arm.
The pair seemed to freeze for a second, startled to be interrupted, then Prince-Not-So-Charming growled, "Get lost. This is none of your business, man."
Steve smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile. "Now, that's where you're wrong. You're standing at my place of business, and that's one of my employees you're keeping from her shift." Darla glanced timidly up at him and he caught a glitter of moisture on her cheeks. Steve's throat tightened with indignation. He crossed his arms over his chest to suppress the urge to swing. "I think it's time for you to leave."
The thug squinted at him, his eyes flat and blank in the half light. "You mind your own business and get out of here. This is between my girl and me."
Steve took a step closer. "From what I hear, she's not your girl any more."
The thin shoulders hunched and not-so-tall, dark and scruffy's frown deepened. He gave Darla's arm a shake, so that she rattled at the end of it like a rag doll. "What're you tellin' folks, huh?" His voice rose. "This what yer leavin' me for? Some busboy?"
"All right, that's enough." Steve inserted himself neatly between them, tucking Darla behind him and pushing her sweetheart away with a warning thump to the chest from the heel of his palm. "You've got about five seconds to settle down and shove off before you get to see what else it is I do for a living. Or if you like to hit people so much, why don't you try somebody your own size? Me, for instance?" Steve didn't cross his arms this time - he kept them free and ready. He had no doubt that he could take this guy in a normal fight, and certainly if he was drunk, but if he was high on the wrong thing - PCP, for instance - then it became a bit of a gamble. He waited.
The thug seemed to really take him in for the first time, and, blinking, he shifted uncertainly.
Steve watched him carefully. Good. Maybe he would just turn tail and take himself away. Men who beat up on women were invariably cowards, but sometimes they were also incredibly stupid.
"Steve - "
He felt Darla's tentative palm in the middle of his back, but kept his eyes on her suitor. "Go inside, Darla."
The boyfriend seemed shaken out of his uncertainty for a minute. "You stay here until I say so!"
Steve suppressed the urge to flatten him then and there and end this. "Darla, you have tables waiting. Last time I looked I was still paying your salary."
"Steve - " The hand on his back grew more insistent. "Maybe I should just - "
"Darla." Boyfriend looks antsy. This can't be good. "Just go in and get back to work. We'll talk about it later."
"So this IS the jerk you're leavin' me for!" Without warning, the boyfriend launched himself - probably at Darla, but Steve was still standing between them.
Steve had suspected something like this was coming and raised an arm to block the leap. That was his intention, anyway.
Unfortunately, Darla chose that moment to clutch at said arm, whimpering her alarm. "Oh, please, Steve - "
Steve turned slightly to try and pry her loose and caught the full weight of the jump's momentum smack in the middle of his chest. Darla's grip on his arm and his burned foot had him slightly off balance, and as Darla suddenly realized what she was doing, she abruptly let go. Boyfriend and Steve went down together in a tumbling heap.
Steve found himself pinned under the boyfriend's squirming weight. He felt hands tighten in the cotton of his t-shirt and grit his teeth in irritation, twisting his arm so that the elbow thunked into his attacker's sternum.
Just my luck to get one of the incredibly stupid ones. And he didn't even seem to respond to the blow to his sternum, though Steve knew from experience that those hurt. A lot. Stupid AND high. Just great.
"I'll teach you to mess with MY girl!"
Original, too. Why was it that all these Jamokes sounded about the same? He shifted the elbow to create some space between them, got a hand loose and circled the looming neck with it. Not, however, much of a sparring partner.
He tightened his grip enough to cut off his attacker's air for just a minute and slow him down, then used his advantage to roll forward and reverse their positions, with him on top now, straddling his assailant's chest. He tried to grab and control the flailing hands. Man, he was fueled with something all right - freakishly strong.
He got the hands pinned and panted to catch his breath. "Enough of this - you're going downtown. You have the right to remain silent - "
"Steve!"
It was like being slammed across the back with a metal wall. Steve gave a grunt of surprise as the air left his lungs and he was briefly airborne, then slapped into the ground again, rolling, stung by the bite of gravel and slick with a few stickier substances that he devoutly chose not to think too much about. He was trying to push himself up on his knees and catch his breath at the same time when two sets of hands appeared out of the dim light to help him.
"Oh, Steve! I'm so sorry!"
Cristina. Really, this just didn't seem to be his day.
He heard the spatter and crunch of gravel that indicated that Mr. Wonderful was getting away. Just great. Well, maybe that solved the problem just as well…He tried to push upwards with the wrong foot and sank back on his haunches instead. Ouch.
"I'm so sorry, Steve - I had no idea you were there. I was just looking for you because - well - it looks like things are heating up in the dining room and I thought you might want to break it up before they got out of hand..."
Out of hand. Steve chuckled before he could stop himself and Cristina's face appeared in front of him, puckered with concern.
"Are you all right? I didn't hurt you, did I?"
For some reason that made Steve laugh harder, and he saw Cristina and Darla exchange a troubled glance.
All right, Steve, now you're scaring the help…he took a slow breath and tried to pull himself together. "I'm fine." Sort of. That almost started him laughing again, but he held himself in check. He was okay in all the meaningful ways, anyway. "What's going on in the dining room?" He accepted the offer of Cristina's arm to help him push to his feet and staggered a couple of steps before rediscovering his balance, pressing one palm against the wall of the building, letting it take his weight until he was sure he had it. Yeah. Okay.
He raked his hands through his hair and brushed some cinders from the heels of his palms before reaching for the door. His voice sounded a little steadier to his own ears when he repeated, "The dining room?"
Cristina took his arm to lead him into the kitchen, Darla following, still sniffling pathetically.
"Oh, there was an argument starting when I left - could get heated. I thought you might want to throw some cold water on it before it did. Not literally, of course - "
Steve frowned. He could just make out the edge of raised voices in the dining room. "Terrific," he muttered. He tried to get a glimpse through the pass through, but they were out of his line of vision. He moved to stiff-arm the swinging door from the kitchen instead, stopped at an insistent hand around his bicep.
"Steve!"
Steve glanced down at Cristina hanging from his arm, wondering why it seemed that somebody was always hanging on him tonight. "Cristina?" he prompted, a little impatiently.
"Don't you think - I mean - " she was gesturing to his chest, and he was suddenly aware of a faint breeze in that vicinity.
Groaning inwardly, he looked resignedly downward, following her hand. Sure enough, the t-shirt was rent from collar to waist. He took the halves in either hand, helplessly trying to fuse the two portions together. Maybe he needed to give up wearing t-shirts all together. After tonight, he probably didn't have that many left anyway. "Well, I don't know what I can do about it," he sighed at last. "I know I look like something out of The Incredible Hulk, but that was my spare. I don't have another one here."
"Jesse does," Cristina offered helpfully. "You could wear his spare one."
Steve's brows drew together in a frown. "How the heck do you think I could get into a t-shirt of Jesse's?"
But Cristina was already rustling through the small closet where the help hung their coats and stored their purses and car keys. "It'll be fine. They stretch, and besides, you wear your t-shirts too big anyway."
"That's a lot of - hey! I do not."
"You do." Darla's voice still sounded small, but she was nodding vigorously in agreement.
"I like my t-shirts comfortable," Steve defended himself. "And there's nothing worse than some guy walking around in a t-shirt that looks like he's going to burst out of it - just showing off."
"I'm sure it will look very nice." Cristina emerged triumphant with a light blue t-shirt clutched in her fist. She thrust it at him. "Besides, I don't think you really have a choice."
Steve glanced back down at the wide expanse of muscled chest revealed by the torn t-shirt and sighed. She had a point. Nothing could be much worse than this.
Tiredly, he accepted the t-shirt and started to pull the torn one over his head - not very hard, with the newly enlarged opening.
"Stanley Kowalski."
"Huh?" He tossed the ruined garment aside, thinking that if he wasn't so tired he might have the energy to be embarrassed about stripping down in front of the wait staff.
"Not The Incredible Hulk. More like Stanley Kowalski. In Streetcar Named Desire."
"Oh." He slid his arms into the t-shirt, stretching it a little to create some extra give. Sorry about this, Jess. I'll get you a new one. "Look, Cristina, scintillating as this is, why don't you and Darla see if you can cool things down with coffee or a sweet smile or something? I'll be there in just a second."
Cristina tugged, frowning, at the hem of his t-shirt, then shrugged, disappearing through the swinging door, with Darla trailing behind her, still dabbing at her eyes.
Steve saw where the hem of the shirt ended and pulled hopefully at it himself, then abandoned it as pointless. Well, this was nice. A man of his age in a belly shirt. He shifted his shoulders uncomfortably, trying to settle the fabric straining across them. Much too snug, he thought dismally.
"That proves it. I do not wear my t-shirts too loose," he muttered rebelliously, following the waitresses through the kitchen door. And ducking instantly.
Something whistled through the air and shattered against the door right where his head had been, swinging it wildly inward. Steve stared in disbelief at the remains of a standard make, white ceramic coffee mug, lying at the foot of the door. Indignation swelled within him. "Hey!" he said irritably. "Those cost money!"
The answer was another incoming missile, but this time a couple of decades of playing outfield stood him in good stead and he lifted a hand and felt it smack into his palm. He glanced at it. A sugar bowl. Perfect. So there was sugar needing a clean up somewhere too. "Hey!" he repeated. "That stuff on the floor attracts mice!"
No one took any notice of him. People were gathered in a circle as though watching a sporting event, blocking any clear view. He didn't immediately spot either waitress, but he did see a hand raised, flailing above the crowd, gesturing with a napkin holder. He stared. Were they crazy? You couldn't throw those! Those things weighed a ton! And he wasn't filling them again, either.
He took two long strides forward, heedless of the bodies parting hastily in front of him, and clamped a vise-like hand around it. "I said, that's ENOUGH!" He yanked hard, so that the napkin holder came free in his hand and slammed down on the formica tabletop with a crack that made even him wince. "What the heck are you thinking? Somebody could get hurt!"
He glanced from one antagonist to the other - the portly bus tourist, of course, and his disgruntled beer drinker. What the heck was their problem? Was there a good reason they couldn't just eat dinner in peace? "Look - " He shoved his hands into his pockets to stop himself from using them in a way he might regret. "You two have given us nothing but trouble since you got here. These girls have run their feet off trying to take care of you and I've tried to be as gracious as I could under the circumstances and all you've done is complain and snipe at each other and destroy my property." He shot a look around the shifting crowd, who suddenly seemed more timid, shuffling a little and glancing sheepishly at their shoes. "And you folks aren't any better - egging them on. So I'll tell you what - it stops right now, this minute. All of you who can settle up your bill and go, go. All of you waiting for your bus driver, sit down and be silent until he gets here, or I swear, I'm running you all in for disturbing the peace and bugging the hell out of a peace officer!" He caught sight of one of the elderly bus patrons out of the corner of his eye and reddened, mumbling quickly, "I meant heck."
The portly gentleman scratched at the back of his neck, his face shifting oddly. The beer drinker sniffed and rubbed an arm across his nose. They eyed each other warily.
"Or," Steve offered sternly, "You can stay - provided you apologize and shake hands. Right now." And just when did I turn into a Kindergarten teacher?
He waited. Neither moved at first, but the testosterone level in the air dipped noticeably. Steve didn't relax his stance.
The beer drinker shrugged moodily, dropping his eyes. "Guess I - guess maybe I overreacted."
Not to be outdone, the tourist cleared his throat. "I - I suspect I did some of the same."
"Huh - " The beer drinker hesitantly offered his hand. He seemed to forget that he was still holding a plate weapon, because it fell from his open grasp and hit the linoleum with a chiming sound, separating into three pieces.
Steve sighed, bending down to retrieve the shards. Must be his day for broken crockery. Well, hopefully this was the last dead soldier.
He scooped up the remains of the plate and started to straighten. Something sharp and pointed caught him hard in the right eye socket on the way up, shoving him backward. He gave a grunt of surprise as the momentum skidded his heels on the linoleum and he flopped over, splatting against the floor. The world telescoped into a bright white dot rimmed with darkness. Then it blipped out all together.
(Sharon, you must be psychic! )
TBC