Pizza, Coffee, And Idiots
He’d stopped caring overly much about the figure with a quiver of arrows strapped to his back about two hours ago, and instead focused on using the little pocket change he had to make some homeless people’s lives that much better. He was already decently well known; a kid to talk to if you had no one else, someone who could give you some comfort food or a new shirt free of charge.
Getting ‘em new hats and such for the winter when banned from helping the dead seemed par for the course.
He got a cheap painting set for a doodler on a street corner (a lovely man who was a failed artist, made him silly sketches in thanks every time they spotted one another) and burner phones for everyone who will allow him (stupid pride and egos) so that they can talk to one another and stuff. He tells them to be wary of the man that is following him, but not to try and beat the sh*t out of him, yeah?
He can only imagine the consequences of a group of angry homeless people beating a superhero.
Actually, he can’t. (won’t)
New York is alive, even at eleven at night on a Thursday. Sure, it’s a different kind of alive then at noon; every crowd has an even sprinkling of drunks and lovesick couples among them. The dead smile at him over (or through) shoulders and heads, and he makes a mental note to help a man with a busted eye on a later date, and lets Kala, his friendly high-school age trickster companion, comfort him in the meantime.
It doesn’t help the guilt of leaving him to that pain, but the sugar high from the soda and the raw distraction factor of the city does.
He wandered into a 24-hour pizza place that had free breadsticks today to gorge himself and pass the time. The owner was a lovely lady named Mrs. Sangrino, and she rather liked him, especially after he chased away a robber. (That incident had the vibe of Crime Man. Out-crime the criminals. Not his fault his friends went a little wild!)
Then he surfed from coffee bar to coffee bar to get that caffeine high to make it through the night, and found several hole-in-the-wall bookshoppy types- with old leather chairs and enough shelves to fill an off brand IKEA.
He bought himself a sandwich with some emergency pocket money with his second cup, as a makeshift dinner combined with the breadsticks from earlier. Then he looked in his bag and found that Sangrina had slipped a slice of cheese pizza in his bag wrapped securely in wax paper.
He munched moodily (he needed the food, sure, but-!)(it was probably why he was so short. Hadn’t gotten all the calories he needed to be a basketball player) as he wandered/people watched.
Then he got mugged.
He didn’t feel very threatened, considering the dummy tried to steal from someone who looked homeless and very much not caring about his own safety or wellbeing. Not to mention his stance with that knife was laughable. But the figure on the roof started moving towards ‘im much faster than before.
He glanced between the mugger and the possible government-agent/Avenger. Mugger. Shadow archer. Mugger. Superhero.
He kicked the man in between the legs and booked it, grumpily trying not to drop his crust as he ran.
Grunts and curses behind him. He felt a bit bad, but unless he was already injured right there it wasn’t like it was anything permanent. He’d hate to doom someone without healthcare to anything more than a papercut.
He made sure to steer clear of where his friends hung out more often.
Eventually his lungs started prompting for revolution, and he was two doors down from a coffee shop. Not a big-bucks kinda one, but a smaller, quainter shop that popped up every few blocks. Hidden Secrets. He could smell dark-roast and cinnamon, and spotted pastries on display inside. He didn’t hear anything from behind him, either, which was encouraging.
Good enough for me.
He dashed inside and definitely did not wince at the annoyed looks he got when he barrelled in and came to a screeching halt.
He looked around. It was an exposed-brick sort of place, one that fancies itself historical or whatever, but had a distinct lack of TVs, which he was grateful for. Black-leather seats, wooden tables polished to a cloudy shine.
He tried his best not to gape at the man ordering at the counter, he really did.
Did every Avenger have a subconscious guideline set whenever going in public? Like: Being a Totally Normal Person Base Kit: oversized hoodie and baseball hat. Dark sunglasses. Jeans as dark as your soul. Slouched posture and hands constantly stashed in pockets. Congrats, you are a Regular Civilian, Yup, Definitely.
I mean, who’s not going to recognize Captain America even with a sulky teenager’s getup?
Everyone with eyes was the answer, but were tactfully ignoring it. Several were too hopped up on caffeine and misery to even consider giving a sh*t, while the others were content to let the sleeping wolf lie.
He had found where the Thawed American Dream adjusted to modern life, then.
A ghost hovered in the corner, a little boy dressed like he had lived sometime in the industrial revolution. He grinned conspiratorially at Grim, and in that moment he knew that his way too eventful day had yet to wind down.
D*mn it.
The American Wonder Boy was shockingly down to earth. Grim got himself another sandwich (which he pocketed) and a coffee with sugar this time around no matter how much he hated the bitterness, and managed to chat idly with him in line. He thought the girl behind the counter was rude. Grim thought she looked dead on her feet.
He’s really in for a ride huh? Twenty first century all at once must be nuts.
He gets his order with extra shots of espresso to keep up that energy buzz to hold himself back. Captain (“I’m Steve. You?” “Uh… don’t laugh.”) insisted they sit together, and they sit in awkward silence for a half a beat while Grim internally screams.
“So. Everything alright? Ran in here like your heels were on fire.”
Oh yeah, two of your friends just verbally beat me up, I nearly got mugged, I don’t know they next time I’m going to eat or sleep, and the entire city's dead population have at least three odd jobs they needed him for. Totally normal.
He bites down on a hysterical laugh (smile!) before taking a long drink to buy himself time. God, he’s going to have so much caffeine in his system tonight.
He considers how to respond. Most republicans thought Golden Boy would support them, but he knew for a fact that was bull. There were grainy pictures of him in picket lines, letters of him supporting women's rights, recorded speeches against minority descrimination, the whole nine yards. So overall not the worst person to be asking the wrong questions.
But he was also a superhero with a bleeding heart, and would be emotionally obligated to help him out. Not to mention legally.
He didn’t even want to know what would happen if the Samsons blacklisted him in the system. With the government on his tail. And his main friends being renowned thieves.
He took another sip for good measure.
He stares into the man’s eyes and hopes the sheer social anxiety would stop him.
It didn’t. And now he felt weird.
Captain grinned calmingly, and grabbed his backpack from the back of his chair. “Take a walk with me.”
He didn’t like the sound of that.
But he wasn’t dumb enough to think he could get away from the man either.
He chugged the coffee and prayed.
He could hardly comprehend how dumb some of the Avengers were. Stark could barely calmly lead a private conversation with a teenager. Banner refused medical attention.
Rogers led him right to the Tower, personally made sure he got in past reception, and shooed him into some lounge area under ‘avenger level clearance’ without any sort of explanation. If Grim was much dumber than he was, he’d be flipping out. The window, maybe.
Okay. Okay. He could handle this. This was fine. Everything was hunky-dory.
“Sit down. Tea? Water? Milk? No more coffee, it’s bad for you.” He knew drugs were bad, thank you Captain Obvious.
“Uh. Honey tea? Just like, hot water with honey.” He liked sweet teas, but most were herbal or whatever. Plus it was good for his throat.
The man didn’t react past a nod, and wandered off into the kitchen. Leaving him to stare into the cushions of the couch opposite him in silent wonder at… really everything about right now.
How in the h*ll was he supposed to deal with this?
How could he spin this? The Samsons would be pissed if he ditched ‘em and their reputation did a nose dive, so that was out.
Maybe something about being scared because of past abuse and whatever? That might work. Paired with mugging that could be pretty convincing. And he could be comforted by American’s Golden Boy, and be back to sleep by breakfast time.
But if Black Widow came back by some wild chance…
Urg.
This was a headache waiting to happen. He could feel it.
There’s no way he can tell the truth, and very few places where he can tell a lie.
God help him, the chain-smoking, drunk f*ck.
Well. If this was what was going to happen then he was d*mn well going to get some food out of it. Something more substantial than garlic bread, a bit of cheese pizza and bean water.
“Hey, am I allowed in the kitchen too?” He didn’t wait for the grunt of acknowledgement before slipping off the couch.
He was going to win on one front or the other, god of gen z help him.
ANNOUNCEMENT!
Hi! Jay here. I've put one of my works on pause (Robots and Heroes) due to lack of inspiration. If you guys wanna read it and throw some ideas my way or adopt it was your own, that would be cool. Otherwise, the updates past here are going to stop being daily because I'm running out of pre-written stuff to post. Enjoy reading!