The Roadhouse
The weather was fair. The sun was bright, but a cool wind blew among the trees that lined the rural road. Steve Rogers rode on his Harley. His helmet was dutifully on, but the face piece was open to catch the air.
He cruised, simply enjoying the passing scenery and hardly noticing the passing time. But, eventually, his stomach began to growl and he realized he had ridden straight through lunch. He stopped by the road for a protein bar and an apple, then set out again looking for a place to eat a late lunch.
But hopes of a late lunch soon became craving for an early dinner, as he realized how far off the main road he'd drifted. The miles passed and he found nothing but woods and then pastures.
Steve shook his head at himself for not paying attention. What kind of military leader was he, anyway?
He paused by the side of the road and consulted his roadmap, helped by a few curious cows attracted by his presence. The cows hung their heads over the fence, seeming to try to help the traveler read his map. It almost made Steve feel guilty that he really wanted a hamburger right now.
"So if I'm right here," he said to the cows, pointing at the map. "Then all I have to do is continue on this road and I'll get to this town before dark."
The cows nodded their heads wisely. Steve solemnly thanked them for their help and rode on.
Turned out, he didn't have to go as far as the town. Just as sunset painted the sky in deep pink and pale purple, Steve came to a crossroads where a roadhouse stood inviting passersby to try "the best burgers in the county."
That sounded good to Steve.
Besides, there were a dozen motorcycles lined up in the parking lot. That had to be a good sign — right?
Faithful to his promise to Clint, Steve carried his helmet, backpack and shield-concealing laundry bag into the roadhouse.
Into danger.
There should have been lookouts to intercept any intruders at the door, but the two who had been assigned that duty were still arguing with their leader about being left out of the fun.
The roadhouse dining room was decorated like a hunting lodge with wood paneled walls, a polished wooden floor and a peaked ceiling with open beams. There were booths along the side walls. Two sets of two long tables were parallel to the door with an aisle between them that led to a well-stocked bar lining the back wall.
Two burly bikers with scraggly beards and black leather jackets were harassing the owner behind the bar. One pulled a cork out of a bottle of Chablis with his nicotine stained teeth, slugged down a couple of swallows and made a face. "Don't you have any decent booze in this place?" he growled, and poured the rest of the bottle over the owner's bald head.
His friend laughed and began smashing wine bottles, setting the "manly" hard liquor aside for the gang.
Four bikers had a family trapped in a booth. One held a knife to the throat of the father, who was already handicapped by having his right arm in a cast. The other three pawed at the wife and her two daughters. The mother tried to protect the weeping 13-year-old who was sitting next to her. The 16-year-old gritted her teeth and tried to smile flirtatiously, anything to keep the evilly grinning men from hurting her family.
One man had a waitress backed against a long table. The older woman, the owner's wife, must have been setting the tables family style, because there was a tray with a stack of plates and a bin of silverware. The biker was smashing plates right in front of her face. He took two of the heavy ceramic plates and crashed them together. Ceramic splinters flew and the woman flinched back, raising one arm to defend against the shrapnel. She had small cuts all over her arm, neck and left cheek.
The rest of the rowdy crowd were enjoying the racket they made, smashing glassware and plates and wall decorations while they ate any food they found and drank out of any container that held liquid.
The wine-soaked owner was the only one facing the door when Steve entered. His eyes widened and he gave a quick headshake, warning the newcomer to flee while he had a chance. But it was already too late.
The bikers turned as one to face the door, like a starving wolf pack scenting new prey.
That feral focus would have rightfully frightened most sensible men. Bucky Barnes could have told them, Steve Rogers had never been that sensible.
Steve's head came up in proud defiance. He dropped his helmet and backpack beneath a bench and loosened the neck of the drawstring bag that held his shield.
Steve Rogers was not a predator. He was the herd master, the bull bison who protects the herd.
And he wasn't afraid of wolves.
He gave the bikers a feral grin that set them aback long enough for him to step forward to the man harassing the owner's wife.
"That's not how you break plates," Steve chided. With one hand, he took the two heavy ceramic plates from the shocked biker's unresisting hands. Steve placed his other hand on the astonished biker's bare chest and shoved. The man backpedaled frantically, trying to stay on his feet, but momentum overcame him and he sat down hard, still sliding across the room until he ended up in a heap against the wall.
Steve then flicked his powerful wrist once, twice.
The plates screamed across the room. One hit the shoulder of the knife-wielding biker, knocking him away from the handicapped father. The sturdy plate didn't break, but rebounded a foot to smash the face of the biker pawing the 16-year-old.
The second plate hit the head of the biker who had just begun to grab up the 13-year-old as a shield. He dropped before he could complete the thought. The plate, still intact, landed on the table, whirling into position in front of the mother. She took her cue and grabbed it before it stopped spinning. Using two hands, she battered at the face of the man holding her, while her one-handed husband grabbed his attacker by his long greasy hair and slammed his head repeatedly into the table until the man was as unconscious as his three companions.
Steve tsked at himself. "Looks like I misspoke. That was the way to break heads, not plates," he said to the biker leader who had started toward him, but paused because of the astonishing attack.
The head biker stared. Five men were down and five potential hostages had been rescued in less than a minute. But the biker leader was no coward. He firmed his jaw and sneered at the intruder. "Throwing plates. Who do you think you are, Captain America?"
Steve's lip curled in a derisive smile that didn't reach his cold blue eyes.
"As a matter of fact, yes," he answered and pulled his shield from the bag.
Steve slammed his shield forward, into the leader, flattening his nose and sending him tumbling head over heels across the tables. Before he came to a halt, Steve threw his shield on a rebounding, ricocheting course through the dining room that flattened two bikers, hit a table, wall and ceiling and scythed down on two more vandals.
At the same time, Steve vaulted up on a table, leaped to grab a ceiling beam then swung over to the bar. He took two quick strides and threw himself down, sliding feet first along the bar in a classic baseball takedown slide, broken glass and waves of wine spraying everywhere. Powerful kicks from his booted feet cleared away both of the men who had assaulted the owner.
Steve rolled off the bar, landing on his feet opposite the owner. The Avenger raised his hand and caught his shield as if it had a homing instinct. He held the pose momentarily, looking for another target, but the family, the owner and his wife were the only ones left standing. They had been left breathless by Cap's whirlwind attack, then the wife clapped her hands to her cheeks and squawked.
"The kitchen!"
Steve's eyes shot left and he saw a wide-eyed bearded face looking through the window in the swinging kitchen door.
"Got it," he said. "Tie these guys up," he ordered, then he hit the swinging door at full speed.
It slammed back so hard it was jarred from its hinges. The man who had been looking through the window was flattened against the wall and a second biker was sent flying by the door's wild swing.
The men in the outer room had never had a chance to grab their pistols and shotguns, but the bikers in the kitchen had been warned by the peeper. And they were in a room full of weapons and hostages.
The five men still standing were scattered around the room. Two were behind the service island with the two cooks held at knifepoint. A young, caramel-haired waitress hid behind a flimsy metal cart, out of danger for the moment. Two burly bikers stood with shotguns ready while the last man had a macho blue-steel revolver aimed at the door.
When Steve crashed through the door, the pistol man fired as rapidly as he could. Steve ducked behind his shield and pressed forward. Bullets ricocheted around the room. One pinged off the steel serving cart, making the waitress yelp.
Steve took more care to angle the shield to the side, so the next bullet hit one of the shotgun men in the shoulder. Unable to hold the gun, he dropped it and fell to an awkward seat on the floor, clutching his wound.
The other shotgun man fired. Reflected pellets went everywhere, peppering walls and banging off pots and pans. One of the hostage cooks cried out, as a stray pellet tore his earlobe.
Enough of that, Steve thought. He grabbed the handle of a pot on the stove, ignoring the pain as it seared his hand. He slung the pot at the man with the shotgun. A cascade of boiling water and overcooked green beans hit the gunman in face and chest, followed by the stainless steel pan that smacked him right in the chin. He fell, screaming at the scalding pain.
Steve jumped, one foot on the stove, avoiding the burners and grabbed the overhead pan carousel with his burned hand. He kicked off and the rack spun, pans clattering. The revolving rack carried Steve in a rapid circle, letting him kick the two knife men away from the cooks. He dropped in front of the last biker standing. The man tried to bring his revolver to bear, but Steve's fist lashed out, straight to the chin.
All the bikers were incapacitated and the cooks were quickly tying their hands with kitchen twine — except the scalded man who was huddled in a ball, sobbing.
"Is there anyone else?" Steve asked.
The young waitress peeked out into the dining room. Everything was under control there.
"No. I don't think so, Cap," she said. "No one went out the back door for sure."
The owner's wife had come in when the crashing, banging noises ceased. She counted the fallen bikers. "That's all of them," she confirmed and added. "My husband called 9-1-1."
"Good," Steve replied. He went back to the dining room and saw that all the bikers had been restrained. Sirens could be heard approaching rapidly.
Steve sat heavily on a bar stool, breathing heavily. All that action after a long day and no food finally caught up to him. He was tired.
"Thank you, Cap. Thank you for saving us." The owner, George, grabbed Steve's hand and shook it in enthusiastic gratitude, then dropped it as if he'd been burned when Steve winced.
His wife, Charlene, snatched the hand and saw the red, blistered burn. She exclaimed in alarm.
"Don't worry, ma'am," Steve said. "I heal really fast."
When the police and paramedics arrived, Charlene told them Steve needed to be checked because he was hurt, but Steve insisted they check the civilians and the badly wounded bikers first. When everyone was checked out, all the statements were taken and the bikers had been transported to the county jail or the hospital, the Bickford family came to thank Steve for the rescue. The girls kissed his cheek as shyly as he accepted the kisses.
Finally, only one paramedic remained to treat Steve's hand, where the burn was already showing signs of healing. He wrapped it in gauze to keep the wound clean while it healed.
"Have you got tweezers?" Steve quietly asked the man, who said he did.
Steve shifted sideways and pulled apart two holes in his pants, just above his knee.
"Couldn't quite block all the shotgun pellets," he said dryly. "And if we don't pull them out, the skin will heal over them."
The paramedic saw the holes were already scabbing over. "I'm going to have to cut," the man said. "Let me get an anesthetic."
"No point. They don't work on me. Just work fast," Steve said.
The paramedic used a scalpel to widen the wound and fished out the pellets with long-nosed tweezers. He felt Steve's leg muscles twitch involuntarily, but the man's face never changed until the second pellet was withdrawn. Steve smiled. "That feels better. Thanks."
The paramedic suggested stitches, but Steve said a butterfly bandage would do. "Trust me, I have lots of experience," he said with a grin.
Soon only Steve and the roadhouse staff were left. The restaurant people chattered among themselves, but gradually noticed their hero looked a little wilted, slumped on a barstool.
"Cap? Can we do anything for you?" George asked.
"Maybe one of those award-winning burgers?" Steve answered with a weak smile.
George combed his fingers across his bare scalp. "We can't use the kitchen until we clean it. There's blood and bullets everywhere."
"I'm sorry," Steve said and meant it.
"No, it's not your fault," Charlene said strongly, as she scrubbed wine and footprints off the bar top. "It's those biker bastards' fault."
"But we still can't use it until it's sanitary," George said.
"I've got it," said Hao, one of the cooks. He ran out the back door behind the bar.
"Ah, the grill," realized Jake, the other cook. Pressing one hand to his bandaged ear, he went to the kitchen and got meat from the refrigerator and hamburger buns. Fortunately, the heavy industrial fridge had withstood all the gunshots.
"Excuse me, captain, I think your phone is ringing." The waitress had light brown hair that reminded Steve of caramel. Her name, appropriately, was Candy. She was pointing at Steve's backpack. Now that he was listening, he could hear faint music coming from it. The girl gladly fetched the phone for the weary superhero. It had stopped ringing, but Steve knew which button to push to call his friend back.
"Hi, Tony. What's up?"
"That's my question, Rogers," Tony said sternly. "Jarvis says your location corresponds to a 9-1-1 call about a pitched battle with a biker gang."
"I thought you were too busy to spy on me?" Steve joked.
"I'm not spying, just keeping an eye on a stranger in a strange land."
"That's the Bible, right? Exodus, I think." Steve was pleased to identify a quote.
"I thought it was Heinlein, but whatever," Tony replied. "Why do you sound so tired? You're like the Energizer Bunny, you usually keep going and going."
So much for identifying quotes, Steve thought with a sigh. "I'm just tired. It's been a long day, Tony, that's all. And I missed lunch" — he looked at the clock on the phone — "and dinner, apparently."
"Hey!" Tony was alarmed, remembering that wounded Cap had needed to eat after the Battle of Manhattan. "Don't pass out on me Rogers! Put the phone on speaker. Let me talk to the people you rescued." Which proved Jarvis had hacked into the county sheriff's department's initial report.
Steve pushed the speaker button and set the phone on the now gleaming bar top. "You're on speaker. Happy?"
"Yo, rescuees, are you listening to me?" Tony demanded.
"Yes sir," George answered. He and Charlene leaned closer to the phone.
"Is Cap all right? Did he get hurt?" Steve gestured no, but Charlene told Tony about the burned hand and the two shotgun pellets.
"And he looks whipped," Candy ventured. "I mean, really, really tired."
"It's nothing, Tony," Steve insisted.
"It's not nothing. Don't make me put on the suit and come out there, Rogers," Tony warned.
"You're not old enough to be my father, Stark," Steve replied.
The roadhouse staff looked at each other with eyes wide. Tony … Stark!
"Listen, rescuees," Tony said. "Do not let that man fall asleep until he's eaten."
"We're cooking him a burger right now," Charlene said.
"Make it three," Tony ordered. Candy flew to the back door to tell Jake and Hao. Fortunately, they'd put on enough patties to feed the whole staff. They added two more to the propane grill.
"And find him vegetables, if you can. He actually eats them," Tony added.
Charlene immediately went to the refrigerator to pull out salad ingredients and condiments for the burgers.
"Anything else, Mr. Stark?" George said respectfully.
"Just take care of the old man. We need him back here in one piece," Tony answered honestly.
"Yes sir. He can sleep in our guestroom overnight — we live just out back. It's the least we can do."
"You done arranging my life, Tony?" Steve asked around a mouthful of lettuce and cucumber.
"Ha! Wait until you get back to New York and Pepper starts on you. Then you'll see arranging!"
"Thanks for caring enough to call, Tony," Steve said honestly. It's not like he had any friends left to worry about him.
"Yeah, well…" Tony sounded almost embarrassed to be caught kindhearted. "Somebody's got to look after the old folks. Night, Steve."
"Bye, Tony."
Steve turned off the phone and realized the others were staring at him.
"Was that really Tony Stark?" Candy asked breathlessly.
"The bossy billionaire," Steve confirmed.
"Wow," George said in awe. Then the cooks brought in the burgers and everyone was too busy eating to think about anything else.
In the morning, Steve showed his hosts that his wounds were entirely healed, just a slight discoloration remained in the palm of his hand. His pants, however, were ruined.
George and Charlene fixed him a big breakfast in their personal kitchen, then escorted their hero to his motorcycle. As he was about to leave, a van pulled up. It said, "Disaster and Crime Scene Clean Up" on the side. The crew said Tony Stark had paid for their services.
"He's a lot nicer than he wants people to believe," Steve told the overwhelmed couple.
The driver of the van tapped Steve on the shoulder and held out a box. "Mr. Stark also shipped this to our office to give to you, sir."
Inside were two pairs of pants. Steve shook his head and stowed the gift in his backpack. "Nicer than you'd think," he reiterated. With a wave of his hand, Steve Rogers drove off to continue his roadtrip.
A/N: This is the only action story of the Road Trip stories in my head. And, in case you missed it, on Thursday I posted two chapters of a new story: Bucky Remembers.