Work Text:
Construction takes time; buildings fall in minutes, but it can be years before pits of rubble become apartments again. Sometimes they never return, empty lots left as reminders, and sometimes new things took its place, a coffee shop, a bodega, or a hamburger joint. The city was like that; decaying as it grew, turning to dust as it was reborn. Garbage spilling out of dumpsters and flowers blooming in window boxes. Heavy black exhaust greying the air and beautiful art adorning brick walls.
Life was never dull, no day the same. New Yorkers learned to shrug at superheroes, ignoring flapping capes and bitching about traffic jams they caused. They complained about lost history and the rents in new buildings. Steve Rogers could walk the streets and city dwellers left him alone, even running interference when tourists got pushy. The inevitable fans who lined the street outside of Stark Tower were subjected to honking taxi horns and buffeted by business people on the way to work. But they sipped Black Widow dirty martinis, ate Hulk pistachio cookies, and ate Captain America red, white, and blu burgers.
And, like always, they opined about everything from politics to fashion. Gossip pages made headlines with the ups and downs of A Rod’s endless parade of girlfriends and the endless “are they are aren’t they?” of Pepper Potts and Tony Stark. The New York Times ran editorials about the risks of letting superheroes act without repercussions. The New York Post headlines alternated between Senator Sterns’ love affairs and the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen. The city might be blase about their celebrities on the street, but they were just as fascinated by them in the privacy of their homes.
At Callahan’s Crosstown Diner, the conversation flowed and the coffee cups were always full. If they worried a little more when the television showed battles or kept certain favorite foods at the ready when break ups were reported, well, the regulars pretended not to notice. And when the stools were filled by certain customers, the TV were turned to the game and the newspapers went under the counter. Because at Callahan’s, everyone was family, and family looked out for each other.
JOY SMITH
I was on a roll, the scene flowing, witty dialogue popping up on the screen as fast as I could play it out in my head. The noise of the diner dimmed, and I was in the moment, sitting in that deli with the characters, lies being revealed and explained. My muse was sitting right beside me, whispering in my ear all the details. I loved these moments when I felt like a real writer and not just some middle aged mother typing out fantasies for my own enjoyment.
The snag came when the characters needed to react; action scenes were much harder than talky-talky ones. All the movements to describe -- and then they got up and left the deli and shut the door -- it drives me a little crazy and breaks the tone I like to write in. I just want to jump over it all and say “shit happens” and go on to the sex scene. I’ve developed quite a thick skin; I can sit right in the middle of families and superheroes and write an intense bondage scene or some very explicit gay sex. Doesn’t bother me at all anymore; I just smile and sip my tea as I debate whether to use thrust or fucked as the verb of a sentence.
My alarm popped up on my laptop, a twenty minute warning to wrap things up in time to swing by the grocers and get salad fixings to go with the lasagna I had ready for dinner. The kids were both in the fall play and practice ran late, so they needed a pick up. Back to being mom for the rest of the evening; writer Joy had to give way. But I’d managed over 2400 words today, so that was a win/win. I’d enjoy the time with my kids as they chattered away about their lines and the dance they were learning.
The door jangled and I looked up, concentration broken; Steve Rogers blew in with the cold November wind, a big blonde behind him. We hadn’t seen much of Steve in the last few months; he dropped by occasionally, always with a smile and kind words for everyone. Last time, he’d been with Natasha and they’d stayed until Clint joined them, looking better but still far too quiet.
No way I could mistake who the blonde was; even with his leather jacket and street clothes, Thor was a vibrant presence. Hair in a ponytail, he was too regal, too … alien … no I didn’t like that word, too overused since the Chitauri. He stuck out in the crowd, a head above, cloak or no cloak. He glanced around the crowded space and stepped aside to let the door swing closed.
All the booths were full; Andy’s Atomic Goulash was the special and the chill in the air brought a lots of customers. Even the stools were taken up with a group of business men from the law firm down the street; Marcy probably sent them over. The place had been hopping when I’d come in; I had to take a four person booth rather than my usual two seater. Well, I was leaving in a few minutes anyway.
“If you don’t mind sharing while I finish my tea, you can sit here” I said as I stood up and waved them over. “I’ve got to leave in a few minutes.”
“Thanks,” Steve let Thor slide in the empty side and then he motioned me in. “Busy today.”
“Go on, take the seat,” I told him. “Easier if I’m on the outside.” I closed the laptop and tucked it in my bag under the seat. “If you like goulash, Andy’s is the best you’ll ever taste.”
“Everything here is good,” Steve agreed.
I can’t say I minded sitting next to Steve. I might be happily married but Steve Rogers was a fine example of a man. His shoulders took up more than half the booth width alone.
“How are you?” I went with for an opener. Nice and innocuous, nothing specific.
“Miss seeing everyone since I moved. Took a job down in D.C.,” Steve said. “Just back for a visit. This is my friend, Thor. Thor, Joy Smith.”
“A pleasure, Lady Smith. You are a frequent patron of this establishment? What is good?” Thor asked, looking over the menu he’d picked up. “I wish to try the delicacies I’ve heard so much about from Callahan’s.”
“Don’t worry, Kayla’s working today. She’ll get you all set up.” Joy saw Kayla already putting in an order and turning to Roy to get drinks. “Everything is good here. Just depends upon what you have a taste for.”
“Joy is a writer; she publishes books,” Steve told Thor. “I’ve read a couple of her mysteries myself.”
“A storyteller. An ancient profession indeed. What types of stories do you tell, Lady Smith?” Thor’s smile was genuine but a hint of sadness lurked behind his eyes.
“Oh, many kinds. I write a mystery series with female detective in Charleston, South Carolina. I just love that city. I’ve started dabbling lately in urban fantasy; working on a novel right now about a New York cop who moves to Montana and becomes sheriff of a small mountain town. Shapeshifting and Native American mythology. Plus a really hot love story. I’ve got a nibble from Baen about publishing it.”
“And here you go.” Kayla picked up a tall frosted glass from her tray and slid it over to Steve. “Cranberry milkshake with white chocolate cream and fresh pear compote on top.” The large white porcelain mug she put down in front of Thor still steamed; in the white foam, Roy had scribed a series of circles that looked like Thor’s breastplate. “And for the new guy, a macchiato with an extra shot of Kona. Food will be up shortly.”
Thor picked up the cup and sipped the hot brew. “Aye, now this is a drink!” he declared. “I can feel it working already.”
“Thor loves coffee,” Steve told me, taking up a spoon to use for the thick concoction. “Since he’s going to be in New York for awhile I had to introduce him to the best.”
“I prefer tea,” I admitted. “A habit I picked up in London. Hot with a touch of cream.”
“Ah, my Jane is still in London. I hope she is able to visit soon.” Thor steadily drank, coffee disappearing. If I sucked that much caffeine down that fast, I’d have one massive migraine. “I will bring her here. She favors coffee as well.”
My phone started playing “Uptown Funk;” I swiped the snooze button and gave myself five more minutes. “Almost time to head off to get the young ones and get the lasagna in the oven.” I drained the last of my cup of Chai Thai tea.
“How are the girls?” Steve shifted as I reached down to get my messenger bag. I put a ten dollar bill on the table for the tea and homemade chips.
“Growing far too fast.” I flipped to a recent photo of them on my phone and showed him.
“And here’s your food.” Kayla was back, handing out plates piled high with food. “A C’est la Vie salmon and brie salad on a fresh baked croissant, double serving for Steve’s appetite, with a side of onion soup and french bread. And for the hungry man over here, a full bowl of Atomic Goulash and a whole Harden My Heart sandwich -- rye bread, mushroom and artichoke spread, roasted peppers and a pound of espresso roasted beef with horseradish dressing. Dessert’s already ordered for you both.”
Thor’s eyes widened in honest delight; Steve sighed. “I was thinking of France yesterday and a little cafe with the best bread and brie cheese.”
I scooted out of the bench and gathered my things. “I hope you enjoy your lunches,” I said to both of them. “And welcome to New York City.”
Before I got my bag slung over my shoulder, Thor stood, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand from his first bite. “Lady Smith, it was a delight to meet you.”
“And you too.” Honestly, I don’t remember the last time a man stood for me and watched me go. Not even my husband did that anymore; I love him, but we’ve been married for fourteen years. The fact he remembers my birthday and our anniversary is a positive in his favor. And, truthfully, I’ve long ago given up worrying about wearing my granny underwear and my comfy sweats. No matter what the tabloids say about gods from other dimensions, Thor was almost as gentlemanly as Steve Rogers.
Maybe that’s what my story needed; a larger-than-life good guy with lots of muscles. Lots and lots of muscles.
KRIS DUVALL
“... second day of the manhunt for Captain America and we’re still in the dark, Wolf. SHIELD hasn’t been forthcoming with information; the facts so far come from the Prince George Sheriff’s office about the incident yesterday near the beltway …”
The TV’s volume was turned low but I could hear it despite the clattering of dishes and murmured conversations flowing around the diner. No one wanted to believe that Steve Rogers could turn against this country or be part of a conspiracy to bring down SHIELD. It was all hearsay and rumors, a few “anonymous sources” willing to whisper terrible things to reporters. Of course, knowing Steve, chatting across the counter, him being part of the family, made it impossible for me to accept.
“Dude, they seriously want us to believe that Cap’s a bad guy now?” one of the new guys at the counter said. His longish hair was slicked back, the freckles across the bridge of his nose stark against his pale skin. I didn’t even have to ask to know they were interns in one of the big law firms. There’s a certain hungry look to the fresh out of law school, working for peanuts, eating ramen noodles every day, wearing the same cheap suit over and over again types. I’d been there once upon another lifetime ago, before I came out of the closet and started my transition. I’d made junior partner at one of the top corporate firms, filling out paperwork and keeping the rich rich and the poor poor. The token woman on the team, that was me. What a shock when I showed up with short hair and my binder and turned in my resignation.
These two were do-gooders, the kind of kids who went into law to help others. Yeah, that was going to get knocked out of them pretty quick if they liked to eat. Oh, some of them kept it, that kernel of morality, but I can tell you, giving up the car and the one bedroom apartment in a building with amenities for a subway pass and glorified closet isn’t easy. Not that I regret it for a second; being who I was meant to be, working here with people who accepted me … hands down, I was happier than I’d ever been with an Audi warehoused in a garage.
“He blew up a jet,” the other one answered. Darker, slimmer, with a jaw line of six o’clock shadow at noon, he wore gold rimmed round glasses with reflective lens. The white stick leaning against the counter told the rest of the story. “Face it, Foggy, nobody’s perfect. He can still be a good man and make the wrong choices.”
I tilted the coffee pot and refilled Foggy’s cup with Roy’s pick me up blend. Good for the various business people who worked long hours with little pay like these boys. “Or he can be a good man doing what has to be done,” I added.
“You have to forgive, Matt,” Foggy told me. “He’s a rare kind of optimist who sees the both as it is and how he wants it to be.”
“Sounds good to me,” I replied. “Now, you want to know today’s specials? Soup’s karma karma chicken curry, comes in a cup or bowl. The burger of the day is Andy’s Caribbean Queen; spicy jerk chicken sausage with an orange pepper sauce. Comes with a side of sweet potato fries; sausage is made fresh by a butcher down on 9th avenue.”
“That wouldn’t be Esposito’s would it?” Foggy asked. “I heard Joe took over from his father and is making a go of it.”
“Yeah, he’s genius with spices. And he makes the patties big; lots of people share one.” I noticed the way Foggy had looked at the menu board with the prices.
“I grew up not far from the deli,” Matt said. “We should try it, Foggy. Support the neighborhood.”
“One special with two plates coming up.” I wrote the order out on the green ruled slip -- we’re still old school, no computers, just pen and paper. I put in for two cups of soup as well; Andy felt the same way I did about young people getting started in the city. Didn’t cost much for a ladle full to fill a belly. I hadn’t lied about the burgers; I always suggested sharing except for certain super metabolism guys who liked to visit. Thor could put away two of them.
“...happening at the Triskelion. We’ve got launch, I repeat, we’ve got helicarriers launching. This is .... didn’t have any warning. Doors just started opening in the river and then we saw … Wait. There’s something in the air … Oh my God, the jets are exploding. People are firing, SHIELD people, turning on each other. It’s … oh, I don’t have words for what I’m seeing. So much blood and … Joe, Joe, get a close up. There on the airstrip … is that the same guy from the bridge? The Silver Armed Soldier?”
All eyes turned to the TV screen, the conversation faltering. Blooming debris clouds covered the ground; circling helicopters gave the helicarriers wide berth. A lens zoomed in on the deck, shaky and hard to see, focusing on a man in red, white and blue fighting with black suited SHIELD agents. Another shot showed a dark skinned man with mechanical wings … wings! … circling around another carrier.
“Holy cow!” Foggy exclaimed. “Matt, there’s a guy flying with what looks like a backpack and some crazy ass wings. Oh, wow, Cap just jumped off the damn thing and the guy caught him!”
“I’d say you’re making that up,” Matt accused his friend. “But there’s Iron Man and Thor so what’s another flying guy?”
Their order came up and I grabbed the plates, sliding the burger and chips in front of each plus a cup of soup and some na’an to go with it. “Here you go.”
“We didn’t order soup,” Foggy said, looking longingly at the rich thick broth.
“Cup comes with the special,” I lied, brushing his fingers as I pushed it over to him. Frustration, exhaustion, a constant niggle of worry; I soothed them away with a touch.
Matt leaned over and sniffed then dipped his spoon in and tasted. “Wow, that’s good.”
“There’s bread for dipping.” Pushing the nan’an over, I touched the back of his hand.
Pain. Anger. Blood. Searing light then total darkness. The cry of a child, scared and alone. The rage of a man, helpless against evil. Fear. Strength. A world on fire.
I drew back as if scalded, my fingers numb; I couldn’t help but glance down, expecting to see reddened tips, and yet my skin was still pink. The echos resonated in my head; it took far too long for me to tamp them down, time enough for both of the men to notice my silence. Shaking it off, I said, “Sorry. I keep catching bits and pieces of the news. Something about Cap?”
“... the carriers’ guns are active, repeat, the Air Force has confirmed that the … Oh my God. The carriers are opening fire on one another, Wolf. It’s an air battle right over the potomac …”
“Holy shit.” Foggy touched Matt on the shoulder. “It’s like we’re at war. But Cap’s a good guy, right?”
“Saints and sinners. They all end up bloody and bruised,” Matt replied.
We all watched it play out like some Shakespearian tragedy on the tiny screen. The anchor broke in and started rattling on about a data download, and images of the destruction began to be interspersed with pictures of SHIELD agents, technology, and maps. Of course they went for the big names first; a long list of Tony Stark’s inventions including new engines on the carriers popped up. Details of Nick Fury’s career. Within an hour, a crew had found Marcella Carson, retired in Florida, and were interviewing her about the Amazing Hawkeye. Then came the revelations of covert missions and coup attempts.
Customers came and went, some staying longer to discuss the day’s events. Matt and Foggy went back to work, neither one at ease. And me? I didn’t know what to think. All the people I knew, people I considered part of the Callahan’s family, all the secrets I didn’t want to know. The foremost concern was for them, for Clint and Natasha, Tony and Pepper and Rhodey, Bruce and Steve and Thor, Maria and Nick and Jasper. They’d lost so much already. And now they’d lost so much more.
Next time I saw them, I’d do what I could. We all would.
MARK VALDEZ
Working after school and on weekends means I miss the morning coffee and power lunch rushes. I like the dinner and late evening shift, especially when the theatre crowd comes in. My sister wants to be an actress and Louisa is very talented. Maybe someday she’ll be the one everyone talks about. Of my three siblings, she’s the one I’m closest too; we both inherited Mama’s special genes.
Cleaning tables isn’t glamorous like performing, but I don’t like the spotlight. I want to study and be a doctor, a pediatrician. No one from my family has finished college; I intend to be the first. Every penny I make I put away for my education. Well, almost all of it. I bought an iphone so I can keep up with all my friends who have more time to be on the internet. Peter is obsessed with Iron Man; I just nod when he talks and keep my mouth shut then kid him about his crush. Guy’s so damn smart he could almost be another Stark in the making -- without the money though.
As I came out of the kitchen, I saw Clint sitting at the counter. Baseball cap pulled way down over his forehead, sunglasses on, ratty t-shirt under a leather coat. He’d let his hair grow shaggy, but it was still him. Plus he had a salted caramel milkshake, a dead giveaway. Clint was addicted to the things. Too sweet for me; I like the bitter Mexican chocolate shake myself.
Sitting next to him, drinking a soda in a glass bottle, was an African American guy I’d never seen before. He had a friendly face, an easy smile; it was good to see Clint responding. Beside the fact Clint remembered my name, he also kicked ass at Skyrim.
“Hey, did you see the trailer for the new Fallout game?” I asked as I passed, sitting the empty plastic tub on the nearby empty booth. Mid-afternoon was a slow time for customers. “Boston, man. It’s set in Boston.”
“I missed that,” Clint replied. “Have to check it out.”
“Man, last thing I need is one more way for you to kick my ass on the Xbox,” the guy joked. “My self-esteem is low enough as it is.”
“Not my problem no one will do a flight simulator with you, Sam,” Clint grinned, not his usual open smile, but an upturn of the corner of his lips nonetheless. Dude was dealing with the shit that happened last year. “I brought you here for the best burger in town. That more than makes up for the drubbing I gave you at Halo.”
“Gonna have to be a damn fine burger,” Sam said, sipping his soda.
“Did you order today’s special? The Radioactive burger is my fave. Even my pap says it’s spicy.” Damn thing has ghost pepper spread and fried habaneros on top, along with jalapenos mixed into the patty. Comes with a cool ranch dipping sauce and a glass of almond milk. “Or the Down Under?”
“Radioactive,” Sam replied. “I like heat.”
“I give him three bites before he’s begging for mercy,” Clint said. “I’m man enough to admit when I can’t handle something.”
Sam burst out laughing. “Can I get that on camera ‘cause that is priceless.”
As usual the TV was playing with the sound off, closed caption titles running across the bottom of the screen. It had become second nature to tune to the news; every week there was some new sighting or piece of information. Now that HYDRA was back, so much was happening. Just a few days ago, some dude who could control fish attacked an aquarium down South. The world was getting stranger.
Today it was an overhead shot of a skirmish; the ticker beneath proclaimed “ANOTHER SHIELD/HYDRA CONFRONTATION IN NEW MEXICO.” An armored car with doors open filled the screen, figures fighting on the ground. In rapid cuts, images showed soldiers in black uniforms, an African-American guy in a leather jacket, and an older man in a kevlar vest and dress shirt with sleeves rolled up.
“Son of a bitch!” Clint exclaimed. He whipped out his phone; it started playing Bad to the Bone before Clint could push a button. Swiping across the face, he answered. “Let me guess, facial recognition pinged? Yeah, I just saw the report. What’s the percentage?” He paused for an answer. “Damn. Okay. How long before we can …” He stopped, listening. “Okay, pick up in fifteen, on the corner.” Ending the call, he dropped the phone back in his pocket. “Looks like I’m going to need mine to go,” he told Rita as she passed.
“Put my burger in a box too,” Sam added. “No way I’m letting these guys run off into what is surely trouble without a voice of reason.”
“Well, that let’s you out, Wilson,” Clint told him, voice vibrating with emotion. “But we could use some calm backup from someone not in the fall out zone.”
Andy got their burgers out in five minutes even putting Sam’s milk in a to-go cup. When the jet hovered over the adjacent street, they were gone, heading to New Mexico at top speed.
“That’s going to be ugly,” Roy said. We all nodded in agreement; there’d been no mistaking Phil Coulson charging out of that steel plated car. The Phil Coulson who was supposed to be dead, but obviously wasn’t. The Phil Coulson that Clint Barton had an unrequited crush on and thought he’d gotten killed.
I’d hate to be in Phil’s shoes when he had to explain. But, hey, maybe Clint would finally man up and say something.
ANDY CALLAHAN
First time I saw him, I knew he was a veteran. Ball cap pushed way down low, scraggly unwashed hair, an old canvas jacket, the man was younger than I’d thought. He’d hidden behind one of the trash bins, watching the doorway to the diner, shivering in an unusual late cold snap. I took the last of the day’s soup special and put it into a take out container, leaving it on the corner of the back porch. Dealing with injured soldiers is like befriending a wild animal; gotta take it one step at a time.
The soup got to be a regular thing, sometimes two, three times in a week and then nothing for a month at a time. I’d leave a hunk of bread, a styrofoam cup of coffee, and it’d all be gone next time I came out. Then the garbage bag started mysteriously making its way from the top of the stairs to the dumpster down at the corner. Rena had set them out during a rush to deal with later and they’d be gone. That deserved pastries, so I started leaving some breakfast as well. One morning I got caught in the transit strike and Roy was sick with the flu; when I arrived, crates of fresh fruit and vegetables were stacked neatly by the back door, a familiar figure half-asleep on one. When he helped carry them in, I saw the metal hand; prosthetics were a bitch and a half, I knew from a friend’s experience. I simply nodded to a stool in the kitchen and served him up an omelette as I prepped for the breakfast specials; after we got busy, I looked up and he was gone.
We’d probably have gone on like that if the rainstorm/hurricane hadn’t hit. Poor guy looked like a drowned rat; what else could I do but basically bully him inside and let him dry off in my office. I keep a change of clothes, just basic sweats which were far too big for his muscular frame, but he was dry and out of the torrential downpour. We were light on help; Mal couldn’t make it in, Kris was pulling a double shift, and Kayla had to get her kid who was out in Jersey with his father. Seemed the natural thing to do to hand the guy a plastic tub and set him to cleaning tables. If he hid his left hand under the tub and used his right to wipe the formica clean, I didn’t care. Somewhere along the way, he started washing dishes and even stepping in to carry food to the table. Roy started calling him Jim and the name stuck whether it was right or not.
After that, Jim would appear at the back door and go to work. Stocking the storage room, hauling bags of potatoes, cleaning tables, even fixing little things around the kitchen with a hammer and nails. No one asked where he went or what he did, we just made sure he ate when he was here and always had a clean set of clothes in his size tucked in one of the lockers. First time he laughed at one of Seb’s bad jokes, I hide my smile. And when he insisted on walking Amrita home after a late shift, well, I knew he was a good man despite whatever had happened to him overseas.
There was this one time when Katya went off on a tirade in Russian about her latest boyfriend. Jim jumped up and slammed out the front door faster than anyone could move. He came back three days later, didn’t talk about it about, just left some alyonka chocolates in at Katya’s plate while she wasn’t looking. Then there was his habit of disappearing; I mean completely there one minute and then gone the next. Took a long time for anyone to figure out what set him off; of course, it was Sarah who understood numbers and formulas. She pinned the reaction to certain customers and, from there, the leap wasn’t that big to make. So when Stark made an appearance or Bruce stopped in for tea, Jim melted into the woodwork. The day Clint came in with Phil for his first post-death pancakes (the ones he’d been ordering didn’t count, it seemed), Jim stayed in the storage room, rearranging everything by some archaic system I never did figure out. Matt and Foggy didn’t bother him, but the first time Steve, Sam, and Natasha took a corner booth, I actually saw panic in Jim’s eyes before he climbed the roof access ladder and jumped to the fire escape of the building behind us.
Thing is, none of us cared who he was or used to be. Jim had become one of the family; that’s all that mattered. Hell, I knew he’d driven away some gang members who’d followed a couple up the alley. He checked out everyone who came in and had even stared down Kayla’s ex and made him leave. Mal loved hanging around him, working together to keep the place running. He and Mark had a running competition for who could pick up the heaviest tub filled with dishes, and so far he was winning. He glowered at anyone who started to bring up Kris’ transition and had kicked a bunch of teens out for comments they’d made. He was the big brother the younger set wished they’d had and the son the rest of us wanted to help.
Not everyone ignored those winter soldiers who came home battered and bruised. Some of us welcomed them with open arms, made them feel at ease, and gave them everything they needed. And one day, I hoped, Jim would be ready to be found by the one desperately searching; until then, I was happy to have him right here in the diner with us.