Summary:Bullies from the past make Elmo's life difficult. Thankfully, someone's nearby to break it up before the man has to bring down the lightning. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Elmo, like many other New Yorkers, is out walking even though it's a cold late-winter evening. Hey, everybody has things to do, and Elmo might have more things to do than most. He's got a fast paced stride like a real city native, shoulders projecting 'do not talk to me, I do not want whatever it is you're selling'. He's focused on the sidewalk in front of him. Three guys roughly his own age, and all bigger than him (not that it's hard) are following him and he doesn't realize it. The guys are snickering and nudging each other as they gain ground on him. Elmo is completely oblivious until one of them breaks into a run, followed by the other two, and shove him hard. He weighs more or less nothing and hits the sidewalk with a yelp—and a snarl.
*
On the other side of the street, a broad-shouldered man in a navy-blue sweatshirt beneath a leather motorcycle jacket walks just as briskly. He's got a gallon of milk in one hand and a small brown grocery bag in the other. With his hood pulled up, he's another anonymous face. However, even the passing traffic in taxi and local cars can't overshadow the sound of a sudden outcry, not to his ears.
The man pauses and quickly scans the area around him. His gaze flicks to the opposite side of the street and immediately picks up on the bevy of young men appearing to move into an act of surrounding someone splayed on the concrete. In his true-blue eyes, something hard flickers. Glancing left and right, the man in the hoodie begins to cross the street in alignment dead on to the blooming confrontation.
*
Elmo twists around fast, the heels of his hands skinned from contact with concrete. So fast that the blonde guy trying to kick his leg out from under him is taken by surprise and doesn't succeed. Teeth bared, Elmo's yelling at them, and yanks something out of a pocket that he holds like a knife. One of the other guys gets scared, lunges at him, and shoves him again. Into the street. Elmo stumbles, catching his balance too late and there's cars coming down on him.
*
"Geez!" The gallon of milk and the grocery bag fall to the middle of the road as the broad-shouldered man suddenly makes a dart out at the figure half-prone in the glare of headlights. A horn resounds shrilly and even as the taxi makes to crank sideways to avoid collision, there are strong arms wrapping around Elmo's chest. Pardon the sudden shift in direction and potential G-forces.
Darting between two parked cars, Elmo is then let go to do as he pleases. "Stay here a second." The voice is low and firm. No hand gesture is needed to imply that the electrician stay put. Thus, the man in the motorcycle jacket steps up onto the curb and begins a purposeful walk at the small grouping of young men.
"You punks thinking about an apology? Because it'd be a good idea any time now." Boy, that's a hell of a stentorian pitch and rumble of a near-growl.
*
Elmo yelps as he's scooped. A crackle of electricity leaps to life, crawling around Steve, prickly and bitey and making every hair stand on its end. It throws crazy dancing light and shadows across the entire block, which makes more cars swerve in panic. The short skinny guy with the big nose grips Steve's arm in terror that he'll deny later. When Steve sets him down, the electricity drops off, and Elmo nods mutely, sagging against the grill of a Buick while he shakes. The shakes don't stop him from staring pure loathing at the guys who pushed him.
As for those guys, one of them tries to protest, "He pulled a knife!" while his smarter pals, knowing trouble when it's 6'5" and wearing leather, break into a run.
*
The streetlight passes over the broad-shouldered man's head, revealing the refined balance of facial structure in cheekbone and jaw. The latter is gritted like a bulldog.
"You're lucky he pulled a knife and not some handgun. Now get! Don't gimme a reason to engage you further!" While the volume of the man's voice hasn't necessarily increased, the intensity of the loathing present in it has certainly become almost venomous. He closes with rapid grace upon the last one protesting, his fists closed at his hips. "Get. Stepping!"
*
"Come on!" yell one of the others, and it's not like this guy needs any further encouragement. The way Steve comes at him rolling up like a thunderstorm makes him stammer and bolt. They only wanted to pick on a short kid, not engage a dude built like the proverbial brick house.
Elmo watches this, panting, eyebrows up. He looks at Steve, eyes wide. "…Wasn't a knife," he gets out between breaths. He opens his hand to show Steve a screwdriver.
*
The man stops as soon as he can tell the jerks are in true and full retreat. His fingers flex white-knuckled one last time before he can be seen to let out a slow sigh. It ghosts before him before he turns and walks back towards Elmo. He stops sort of the young man between the cars and eyes the implement in his hand.
"You fooled them regardless." The man winces and scratches at his head through the fabric of the sweatshirt's hood. "And you did something funny there for a second. Thought I saw arcs of lightning or…static or something."
He can't quite reach the itch, so he flicks back the hood to reveal his face and then fixes the rumpled hair. Doing so reveals his face in totality and well…if the ESO bond posters didn't make him well-known, the retrieval from the ice a few years back did. "You okay?" he asks of Elmo, concern knitting his brows.
*
"Oh I was gonna jab 'em with it all right," Elmo says, breathless, half grinning ruefully. "Just…wouldn'ta done too much damage." He glances away when Steve lowers his hood, so as not to make any accidental eye contact, but looks back when he's sure he can avoid it. The eyebrows pop up again, tilted in a way that's part worried and part a complex mixture of touched and stunned and marveling. "You — you're — yyyyyeah. I-I-I'm okay." He's shaking still, but he makes a hell of an attempt to play it cool. Which utterly fails. One hand is flat on the hood of the Buick, like the cold metal is reassuring, and the other clenches around his screwdriver, pressed to his chest. "Um. Thanks." Elmo averts his face. Meanwhile the disturbance in traffic from the scene is somewhat straightening out as people figure out nobody died.
*
The man smiles both knowingly and ruefully. He briefly steps past Elmo to walk out into the road and collect his dropped groceries, intact gallon of milk and all. Upon returning, he places the brown paper bag and the milk on the hood of the Buick before looking back at Elmo.
"Glad that you're okay. Sometimes I overestimate the speed I'm running at when I grab up folks. Guess there's no point in being coy. Steve Rogers." He then offers out a hand callused from use over the decades, frozen or not. By his expression, he's expecting a name from the young man with the mysterious ability to make static dance.
*
One of the important rules of being a New Yorker, along with 'don't block the sidewalk' and 'never buy anything from a man in a trenchcoat', is 'don't act like you're impressed by celebrities, even if they're superheroes. Especially if they're superheroes'. Elmo swallows, trying to get his face back on. He looks at Steve's hand, has a brief internal debate with himself, and then shakes his hand, like he's a totally normal person who does totally normal-person things. "I'm, uh," what's his name again? "Elmo. Rosencrantz. It's uh, it's nice to meet you, Steve." He clears his throat—and hazards a joke. "You're pretty good at that carryin' people stuff, you ever think of making a career out of it?"
*
Patiently, Steve waits until his hand is grasped and returns the shake with gentle strength. No point in crushing knuckles, that would be rude. He smiles in understanding at the stuttering. The joke, however, earns an eyebrow briefly and then a quiet laugh.
"Well, Elmo, I'll certainly think about applying for a master's in it. About time I finished college anyways." He glances in the direction of the vanished bullies and he glowers in passing. "You know those punks?" he asks of the electrician.
*
Elmo flashes a brief but brilliant smile. Joke landed! His hand in Steve's is calloused and scarred; the guy clearly works for a living. "Uh, yeah," he has to admit, shooting a glance down the sidewalk where the other guys fled. "Yeah, unfortunately, I know 'em. Went to high school with 'em. They ain't ever forgiven me for that." Elmo rolls his eyes, spreading his hands. "Used to beat me up a lot. Nothing changes, huh?"
*
Pocketing his hands, Steve levels one last blistering and unimpressed glare down the sidewalk. The bullies are long-gone, of course, but if they feel the impression of eyes between their shoulders, all the better.
"Mmm. You got back up and that's the important part. Never let 'em get you on the run. They'll never stop chasing you." The Captain delivers this observation wryly. "You did good. Not your fault you ended up in the street. Surprised no one ran over my milk," he adds.
*
Elmo says, softly, not exactly to Steve, more to himself, "Learned that a long time ago." Mirroring Steve unconsciously, he slips his hands into his pockets too. Then laughs, over the milk. "Good thing, milk ain't cheap." All of Elmo's stress and adrenaline is emerging in the form of wisecracks and jitters. "…I did," he adds, abruptly. "The electricity. That was me."
*
A dimple shows up at the observation as to the price of moo-juice. It doesn't fade when the admission as to the source of the static follows and, instead, blends into an understanding and yet keen regard.
"It's a hell of a trick. No wonder you used the screwdriver. It probably conducts the energy." Steve looks between Elmo's eyes. "You're something more than just human, aren't you." It's definitely a statement rather than a question.
*
"I can hit harder through something conductive, and there were three of 'em. I had to make sure I could take 'em." Elmo dares to meet Steve's eyes. He blushes hot and fast, squinting a little as if he's looking into the sun. "Yeah. Takes one to know one, right?" He grins, lopsided and wry.
*
"You get a sixth sense for it after a while," Steve agrees quietly. "Might have been the static ball imitation though." The scrutiny is leveled in good-natured humor. In a rustling of leather, the Captain then reaches out to collect up his groceries. The gallon of milk is covered in condensation now; the rattling of the contents of the brown paper bag speak to basic necessities like bread and maybe potato chips.
"You take it easy, Elmo. Keep your chin up," says the Captain with a brisk nod.
*
"Eehhh, I was scared." Elmo rubs his neck bashfully, and tips his head, not quite a nod. "See ya around, Steve." He goes on his way—but as soon as the Captain is out of sight, he whips out his phone and starts frantically texting, whispering to himself, "Holy shit I met Captain America!"