Ironman the Hipster

James wiped his hands on his apron in annoyance. It was only ten in the morning and so far his day was going terribly. He had woken that morning at 3am to find himself shaking, tears running down his cheeks and his body covered in scratches and bruises from where he must have grabbed himself with his metal hand in his sleep. He couldn’t remember his nightmare, thankfully, but he couldn’t shake the panic as he lay there panting. Suddenly his stomach lurched and he raced to the bathroom where he promptly threw up in the toilet, vaguely trying to keep his hair out of the way, but to no avail.

Once it had passed, he rinsed out his mouth and glanced at himself in the mirror. Dark circles, face sweaty, hair hanging limp and red marks all over his bare chest and arm. Jesus. He looked terrible.

One of his more pushy co-workers had recently started trying to probe him about his love life, taking no notice of his reluctance to discuss the subject. Or anything, really. Clint was a nice guy, and James trusted him, but he had decided that the best way to deal with a lot of James’s issues was to just push through them. He wasn’t necessarily wrong about that, but it didn’t mean James was going to make it easy for either of them. The first time Clint had asked what his type was, James had given him such a frosty glare that Clint had looked genuinely alarmed for a moment. Their colleagues had found it hilarious - Clint was usually so cool and unruffled - and Natasha hadn't stopped teasing him for it ever since. However none of this had stopped Clint from continuing to quiz James every time they had a shift together. His interrogation methods ranged from a casual “describe your dream-date, Jamesy” to a more blunt “so lets get real, when did you last get laid”.

James had not answered any of Clint's questions vocally, choosing to respond instead with what had been widely christened his ‘murder glare’, although he had to admit he sometimes found his lips twitching in amusement at the questions.

It was better for everyone if he wasn’t honest about his love life. If he wanted to explain why he didn’t date, he would have to explain a lot of other things that he didn’t want to talk about. That he found it hard enough to get up five days a week and go to work, let alone go on a date with someone. That even though he’d got a lot of attention back in the day, he didn’t see how anyone would ever find him attractive now considering he was missing an arm, covered in scars and looked permanently exhausted. That he didn’t know how to flirt anymore, let alone ask someone out, and he wouldn’t know how to function on a date and he definitely didn’t know if he could have sex with someone.

That he’d been tortured for two years and highly doubted that he’d ever fully recover.

This had all come back to him as he stood in front of the mirror and he pulled himself away from his reflection in shame. Staggering back to bed, he fell back to sleep but it seemed like just a few moments before his alarm rang. It was 5.30am and time to get up for his shift. He felt groggy. A familiar fog of despair and fatigue was lingering at the edges of his mind and it wasn’t until he noticed that he had sick in his hair that he was able to force himself up and into the shower. Washing his hair was a challenge, as his metal arm wasn't working as well as usual. It had been resetting and whirring a lot recently and had even seized up and stopped working a few times, which was really quite worrying, but there was nothing he could do except hope it didn’t break.

After pulling on a pair of jeans he realised in a panic that all of his long-sleeved tops were dirty and he would have to wear a t-shirt. That meant a whole day of people staring at his metal arm even more than usual. Great. He yanked a black t-shirt on, angry with himself that he hadn't done laundry. When he glanced in the mirror he realised that it also revealed the sore red scratches on his flesh arm. Perhaps if he was lucky people would assume he had been attacked by an angry cat.

Once he got to work his day got even worse. As he poured himself a filter coffee Natasha, his manager, eyed the scratches and then James with concern.

“Are you alright, James?” she asked. After a reluctant pause he mumbled, “yeah, just tired” but from the look she gave him she clearly didn’t believe him, especially because he wasn’t speaking much. When he had started at the café just over a year ago he had still struggled with days where he couldn’t speak aloud and could only communicate in sign language with Natasha and Clint, but he rarely got days that bad anymore.

He had been insanely lucky to get the job back then, lucky that two of his colleagues knew ASL and lucky that he’d been allowed to just work in the kitchen and not have to deal with customers. Lucky that Natasha had been understanding about his limitations and asked less of him on the days when he couldn't stop jumping at every noise and zoning out. Lucky that he could take sick days when things got too bad for him to even get out of bed.

He still spent most of his time out back in the kitchen but today Clint was off on holiday and their other colleague called in sick just when the morning rush started, so James had to jump on the coffee machine. Natasha shot him an apologetic look and asked if he was going to be okay. He felt like shit but he knew he could do it - and it wasn’t like he could handle taking over from Natasha on the till - so he signed back yeah I’ve got it.

He wasn’t the best at making coffee – his metal hand made it awkward to hold the milk jug without heating his hand up as well and he had to use his other hand to check the temperature - but he could just about manage. The more stressful aspect was having to call out people’s names when their coffees were ready, but he got through it by not looking at anyone, just barking the name and then hiding back behind the coffee machine.

The rush was just beginning to die down when the two men walked in.

James became aware of a stir in the café, a sudden buzz of noise and interest and he glanced round the coffee machine in time to see two men who joined the back of the small queue. One was relatively short with dark hair, sunglasses and a fancy suit, but he was talking in a loud, entitled voice to his companion. The man beside him was big, at least as big as James, and was dressed casually in jeans and a white t-shirt which strained across his massive, muscular chest. He had blond hair and a strong jaw and James was shocked and mildly horrified by the recognition of who they were. Suddenly the bigger blond guy looked straight up at the counter and caught James’s eye. Quickly James let his hair drop around his face and pulled back behind the coffee machine, but not before the blond guy had smiled at him. Oh god. James ignored them, continuing to make coffee and ignoring Natasha’s frantic signing at him. The coffees he made during the time it took the two men to get to the front of the queue were probably the worst he had ever made. Fortunately the people waiting were completely distracted by the fact that Ironman and Captain America were queuing for coffee.

They looked completely out of place. Although it was actually pretty spacious the cafe had a cosy feel, with bookshelves and mismatched furniture everywhere. It was mostly populated by students and locals. The staff prided themselves on the cafe being open and accessible - several members of staff knew ASL, the music was always kept low to minimise background noise, the counter was lower than usual - so had acquired something of a following amongst the hard of hearing and disabled community. Lots of groups congregated there, including an informal veterans meeting group which Natasha been blunt in suggesting that James should consider going to.

It felt more like a community hub than a cafe in a lot of ways and most of the customers knew each other. Even the businessmen who came in for a takeaway coffee and pastry on their way to work usually chatted to Clint or Natasha, or stopped to greet a couple of regulars. To have two celebrities wander in off the street - and not just any celebrities but superheroes - just didn't make a damn bit of sense.

When the two men finally got to the front of the queue Natasha greeted them with the usual distant-but-friendly demeanour she reserved for new customers. James kept his head down, glad his hair hid his face from view. He could hear Ironman talking at a thousand miles an hour as he debated the menu while Captain America let out a long-suffering sigh and ordered a black americano in the biggest size possible. James felt relieved that even he wouldn’t be able to fuck that up, though his relief quickly disappeared when Ironman decided to order what was probably the most complicated thing on their menu – a decaffeinated pumpkin caramel mocha with oat milk and extra cream on top.

Ironman the hipster James signed to Natasha when she glanced over to check if he’d heard the order and she laughed out loud. Stark looked confused but Captain America was watching their interaction with interest and James flushed again, quickly turning back to the coffee machine. He vaguely listened to Stark as he paid for the two drinks, which seemed to require about five minutes of non-stop talking and feigned reluctance from Natasha over what she considered to be a too-generous tip. By the time the two men had moved down to the end James had their drinks ready on the counter. Not trusting that his voice would work right then he didn't say anything; they had taken so long to order that no one else was waiting anyway.

He was alarmed when Ironman practically threw himself round the end of the counter and grabbed James’s metal arm, talking excitedly. James froze, forcing himself to push down the training that threatened to rise up in him, the urge to flip the man into the nearest wall. There was no way he let himself attack bloody Ironman at his work.

“Tony!” Captain America shouted, sounding as alarmed as James felt, but Tony Stark was still talking and now James realised he was raving about James’s arm and asking questions about it. Where had he got it and how much sensitivity did he have and could he move it as easily as a normal arm. There was no opportunity for James to answer these questions even if he could have and at some point Tony realised this because he suddenly shut up. James yanked his arm back firmly and Tony looked genuinely sad.

“I’m so sorry about him,” Captain America was saying. James looked over at him and oh god he had such amazing bright blue eyes.  “He’s just excited about your arm. He's been working on a prototype for something similar. Hasn't stopped talking about it for weeks.”

“It’s okay,” James said quietly, surprising himself with his own voice.

“Oh, you can speak!” said Tony, with no tact at all. “So what do you think? Will you let me take a look at it? I’ll give you anything you want if you’ll let me see figure out how it works, anything in the word. A jet? A penthouse? A date with Sexy Stevie here?” Both Steve and James went bright red at this last one.

Natasha appeared then and asked in her coldest voice why Tony was harassing her staff. James felt an overwhelming love for her and the way she spoke to Tony like she would to any other annoying customer. Tony held his hands up.

“Sorry, sorry. I just want to examine Terminator here's arm, but this probably isn't the time or place so I’m going to give him my card and he can contact me if he wants. Sound good?” He looked slightly nervous of Natasha.

James had thought it would affect him more to be casually called Terminator, considering that was what he would have become if Hydra had got their way, but something about Tony’s tone and the way he looked apologetically over his sunglasses made it hard to be annoyed for long.

“I’ll think about it,” he said reluctantly, since it was probably the fastest way out of this situation. He took the card Tony offered with his metal hand. As he watched the hand move Tony looked like he was going to die of excitement.

Captain America shot James a big smile that made him feel warm and fuzzy inside and apologised again, taking both their drinks and ushering his excitable friend towards the door. Tony walked out backwards making ‘call me’ gestures and winks to James as he watched in disbelief. Natasha snorted.

There weren’t any customers left at the counter and those sitting at the tables had gone back to what they were doing. Natasha turned to James with a ‘what the actual fuck’ gesture. James just shook his head in disbelief. This had to be the weirdest day ever.