"I can't see what it's doing wrong if you don't show me."
A/N: Hee. Writing this was fun.
Chapter Two
“You want some coffee?” Steve asked, accepting the pile of papers that Coulson had brought him. Then he frowned. “Oh, sorry, it’s cold.”
“That’s okay, I don’t mind it reheated,” Coulson told him.
“Yeah . . . that might be a problem.” Steve had the good grace to look somewhat chagrined as Coulson looked into his kitchen. Specifically, at the little cabinet where the microwave had been. ‘Had’ being the key word: the appliance was now gone. There was a potted plant sitting there instead.
Coulson viewed this for a few moments before saying, “Ah. Might I ask?”
“It, uhm, it kind of exploded,” Steve told him.
“Exploded,” Coulson said.
“Yeah.”
“What were you doing with it at the time?”
“Well, I was trying to make soup.” Steve saw the expression on Coulson’s face and hurriedly continued, “I remembered to take it out of the can. I wasn’t about to make that mistake again. So I took it out of the can and put it in a pot, and then the next thing I knew, there was smoke and little flashes of light. I unplugged it, but there was this really horrible smell, so, uh, I threw it out. I think it’s safer if I cook on the stove.”
“I see,” Coulson said. “Was it a metal pot?”
“Yeah,” Steve said, his face blank.
“You can’t put metal in a microwave,” Coulson said. “That’s why you can’t just heat it directly in the can.”
“Oh.” Steve considered this for a few moments. “Why not?”
“Because . . .” Coulson realized he didn’t know. “Because science.”
Steve laughed. “I guess it’s something of a relief to realize that you don’t know everything. Otherwise I’d be really embarrassed all the time. But I guess it makes sense. I mean, I knew how to use a radio, but I wouldn’t have been able to tell someone how one worked.”
“Would you like to get a new microwave?” Coulson asked him.
“I . . . think I’m okay with the stove,” Steve said. “I’m afraid I would burn my apartment down otherwise.”
Coulson was hard pressed to argue.
*~*~*~*
“Now, I know that you know how to drive a motorcycle,” Coulson said, “but New York City traffic is very different from what you’re used to, so be cautious. Take it slow if you need to. Remember that I’m right here behind you if you have any questions.”
“Right.” Steve gauged the flow of traffic around him. “Hold on tight,” he said, and zoomed off without another word. Coulson might possibly have made a noise that was something like ‘eep’, as his casual grip on the back of the bike became a death clutch around Steve’s waist. Steve rocketed through the dense lines of cars, squeezing into seemingly impossible spaces, ducking around obstacles, and narrowly avoiding solid objects at the last moment. They made it to SHIELD HQ in record time.
Coulson wobbled a little when he got off the bike. “You - your driving skills - seem to be - quite acceptable,” he said. “That was, uh, that was quite an experience. One which I hope to never repeat.” He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Forgive me for being unprofessional.”
Steve grinned at him. “Aw, Phil, I forgive you,” he said. “Someday I’ll teach you how to have fun.”
*~*~*~*
“Now click ‘okay’,” Coulson said.
There was a pause. Then, “Sorry, I accidentally hit cancel. That’s wrong, huh?”
“Yes.” Coulson massaged his temples, glad that he was in the privacy of his own living room and nobody would see him actually getting frustrated. “That’s okay. We’ll start over.” It had only taken half an hour to get this far, after all. He wondered what had possessed him to try to help Steve install Photoshop over the telephone instead of just going over to his apartment and doing it himself. Then he might have been able to get a photograph of Steve using his CD-ROM drive as a cup holder.
They started over. It was a little less laborious the second time, and they managed to get the program installed without further trouble.
“Whoa, what do all these buttons do?” Steve asked.
“There I can’t help you,” Coulson said. “Digital artwork isn’t my forte. Try clicking ‘help’.”
“Okay. Help . . . let’s see . . . okay, Photoshop help.” There was a pause. “It’s telling me I need to be connected to the internet.”
Coulson frowned. “You should already be connected to the internet.”
“Oh. I guess I’m not?”
“But you should be,” Coulson persisted. “Did you disconnect?”
“Not on purpose . . .”
“Okay. I’m going to have you take a look at your modem. You know, the little box that usually has green blinking lights on the front? It’s sitting right at the base of your desk. Do you see it?”
“Yes,” Steve said.
“Are there green lights?”
“Uhm . . . no.”
Steve sounded a little apprehensive. Coulson’s eyes narrowed. He said, “Look, we could troubleshoot for the next forty-five minutes, or you could just come clean and tell me what, exactly, you did to your poor, innocent modem.”
Steve cleared his throat. “I may, uhm, have possibly spilled grape juice on it. I cleaned it up really well, though!”
“I see,” Coulson said. “Okay. I’ll bring you over a new modem tomorrow. For tonight you’re on your own. I guess you’ll just have to play with Photoshop until you’ve figured out what it does yourself.”
“I’ve had worse evenings,” Steve said cheerfully.
*~*~*~*
“Excuse me, mister?” the little girl tugged at Steve’s arm and looked up at him with impossibly big eyes. “Our Frisbee went into the tree. Can you reach it?”
“Oh, sure,” Steve said, walking over to the tree in question. He shielded his eyes from the sun, looking up, and up, and up. “Wow, one of you has a good arm, huh?” he asked, jumping up to grab the first branch of the tree. They group of children oohed and ahhed as he pulled himself up onto it, then lifted himself up to the next branch. The Frisbee was lodged about twenty feet above the ground. Steve tossed it down to them, then carefully climbed back down.
“Thanks, mister!” the children chorused, before going back to their game. Steve noticed one of them sitting off to the side, not participating. He was a little skinnier and shorter than the others, and wore glasses, and Steve felt an immediate kinship with him. He walked over and sat down next to him.
“You don’t like Frisbee?” he asked.
“I have really bad aim,” the boy said, glum. He was scooting a toy car around. “And my toy’s broken. Today sucks.”
“Here, let me see it,” Steve said, and the boy handed it over. It looked like a simple windup toy, but Steve was sure that when he opened it, he wound find a mess of wires and electronics, all made in China and labeled in Greek - if they were labeled at all. Much to his surprise, he found simple gears and wheels. It was easy to see where the trouble had started, a little rock that had gotten wedged inside. He picked it up carefully, then put the car back together. This time, when he wound it up, it took off like it was supposed to.
“Whoa!” the boy said. “You fixed it!”
“So I did!” Steve said, almost as surprised as the boy was himself. It was good to see that not everything had changed. And the boy gave him a heartfelt, sunny grin. For the first time in a long time, Steve truly felt like a hero.
*~*~*~*
“Just try it,” Coulson said. “I can’t see what it’s doing wrong if you don’t show me.”
Steve cleared his throat, looked distrustfully at his phone, and said, “Launch internet.”
Coulson resisted the urge to reach for his aspirin and said, “Steve, your phone is always connected. You don’t have to tell it to launch the internet. Just tell it what website you want to go to.”
“Oh. I knew that,” Steve said. “Launch Hopstop.”
Coulson blinked at his phone as it loaded something completely different. “I think that’s Hotspot,” he said.
Steve growled. “Why would anyone name something so similar?” he asked. “I just want to get a cab.”
“Well, just use Taxi Magic,” Coulson advised.
“I don’t know if I have that one,” Steve said, poking buttons on his phone confusedly. “Why can’t they just make one app that does everything? This is so confusing! And now - whoa, what’s this screen, I don’t think I’ve ever been on this screen before - ”
“Ah, that’s for settings, don’t - ”
“Now all the text is tiny - ”
“Let me - ”
“Oh, here we go - no, that isn’t right - ”
Coulson resignedly reached for his aspirin.
*~*~*~*
“Steve, have you eaten anything besides Pop-Tarts since the last time I saw you?” Coulson asked.
Steve looked up at him with a smiling expression and declared, “There are so many flavors!”
*~*~*~*
The sound of music greeted Coulson as he opened the door. Steve had warned him that he might not be ready on time, and to just come on in. Coulson wasn’t sure whether he had specifically unlocked the door for him, or whether he just left it unlocked all the time. It wasn’t as if anybody would try to rob Captain America - although if they did, they would certainly be in for an unpleasant surprise.
Steve had gotten a real kick out of the ability to download music, and it was one of the few things he had picked up with relative ease, blaring jazz and swing music loud enough to occasionally have the neighbors knocking on his door. Coulson fully agreed with him in that modern music wasn’t worth listening to, and Steve seemed to have good time listening to what was familiar.
Currently what was playing was an upbeat tune that Coulson recognized as Bing Crosby, although he didn’t know the name of the song. He heard Steve singing along in a pleasant, if not professional, baritone. The superhero came bouncing down the hallway wearing only his socks and boxer shots, holding his hairbrush to his mouth like a microphone and belting out the lyrics at top volume.
He skidded to a halt when he saw Coulson, then rubbed his hand over the back of his head and said, “Hey, uh, hey, Phil.”
“Good morning,” Coulson said, as unflappable as always.
“I just, uh, I’ll just go finish getting ready,” Steve said, his cheeks flushing pink.
“Take your time,” Coulson said.
Ten minutes later, a somewhat embarrassed Steve was on his way to SHIELD headquarters with a typically reserved Coulson. He adamantly didn’t bring up what had just happened, watching the scenery go by instead.
“You know,” Coulson said, “next time you’re going to do that, let me know. If I could get a picture to sell to the tabloids, that would cover SHIELD’s entire quarterly budget.”
“Uh . . . okay,” Steve said. That was the one problem with Coulson: he could never tell whether or not the man was joking.
*~*~*~*
“I told the others we would stop and get coffee on the way to the meeting,” Coulson said, rather apologetically. “Sorry that we had to leave so early.”
“No, it’s fine,” Steve said. A trip to the coffee shop sounded more appealing than a meeting with the other Avengers, anyway. Not that he disliked them, but he sometimes felt awkward around them. Especially around Tony Stark. Especially since learning how to use the internet. “I could go for some caffeine, anyway. I’m out of instant at home.”
Placing a coffee order for the Avengers was complicated, but Coulson, the consummate professional, had everything stored in his phone. A skinny latte for Natasha. Double mocha espresso for Tony. (“Why does that seem like a bad idea?” Steve asked.) Plain black coffee for Nick Fury, who was fond of saying that the first time someone tried to get him anything frilly in his coffee, they would get an eye patch to match his. Unsweetened green tea for Bruce, for whom caffeine was never a good idea. A caramel frappuccino for Clint, who would probably never admit to ordering such a drink. Hazelnut coffee with a shot of vanilla for Coulson. (“Very classy,” Steve remarked.)
“For you, sir?” the barista asked Steve, smiling.
“Uh, can I have a . . . which one is medium again?”
“Grande,” Coulson told him.
“Can I have a grande . . . coffee . . . which one has the foam on top?”
“Cappuccino,” Coulson supplied.
“A grande cappuccino with . . . you know what, just a grande cappuccino. I don’t want to get too complicated when I don’t really have any idea what I’m ordering.”
“Coming right up, sir,” the barista said, with an amused look on her face, while Coulson quietly added Steve’s coffee order into his phone so he wouldn’t have to remember it.
~*~*~*~
“That’s a really nice new poster you’ve got,” Coulson said, admiring the framed picture on the wall. “Where did you get it?”
“Oh, it’s a picture I took,” Steve said. “Last time I decided to go to the beach.” He held up his phone and asked excitedly, “Did you know this thing can take pictures?”
“Er . . . yes,” Coulson said, and left it at that.
“I couldn’t figure out how to transfer them to my computer, but I did figure out how to email them to myself,” Steve said, clearly proud of this discovery, “so I was able to put them into Photoshop and play with them. Then there was a really nice guy at the Kinkos who helped me make that one into a poster.”
Coulson hoped he never found out about Instagram. There wasn’t enough wall space in the world.
*~*~*~*
“Here, I have something for you,” Coulson said, and handed over a new phone.
Steve sighed. “Just because I broke two already - I haven’t broken the new one yet! What’s this one?”
“It’s from Stark,” Coulson said. “He said that he’s developed a better voice recognition system for you, since you have trouble with the one you have now. It’s supposed to be better at interpreting loose commands, so you won’t have to remember how to specifically launch each app.”
“Oh, that sounds useful.” Steve accepted the phone and turned it on. The screen, rather than having the little boxes he had become accustomed to was blank except for a big red question mark. “Okay, that’s a little insulting,” he muttered, but tapped on it anyway.
“How can I help you, sir?” the smooth tones of none other than Phil Coulson immediately asked.
Steve jumped. “What - how - ”
“He must have given it my voice print,” Coulson said, rolling his eyes. “Tacky.”
“I have been programmed to help you navigate the twentieth century,” phone!Coulson said. “It seemed apt to use the voice print of the man that had been assigned to do the same.”
“No! It’s creepy!” Steve protested. “Use a different one!”
“Is this better, sir?” the phone asked, now using Jarvis’ typical voice instead.
Steve let out a quiet sigh of relief. “Yeah, that’s much better. Thanks.” He was surprised for a moment. “And hey, that works pretty well. It changed the voice print without me having to use a specific command.”
“Ask it something else,” Coulson suggested.
Steve considered for a few moments, then said, “I want to get a cup of coffee.”
“There are three coffee shops within a two block radius,” the phone replied. “I will display them now.” Three addresses, with little pictures next to them, popped up on the screen. Steve picked one, and the phone gave him simple, step-by-step directions. Both Coulson and Steve were impressed.
Then Coulson frowned. “Are you tapped into the SHIELD mainframe?” he asked, and the phone confirmed that it was. “What is the location of Director Fury?”
“Director Fury is currently overseeing operations on the helicarrier, which is located in the Indian Ocean, latitude - ”
“That’s enough.” Coulson sighed. “I really have to have a talk with Stark about what ‘classified’ means. Not that I haven’t already. If this phone fell into the wrong hands, I mean . . . only Stark would come up with something so reckless and inadvisable.”
Steve couldn’t help but smile a bit. “Okay, phone, I want you to unhook yourself from the SHIELD mainframe.”
“That will limit my usefulness - ”
“Just do it. And whatever, uh, chips or bytes or whatever you used to tap into it, get rid of it. Delete it.”
Sounding defeated, the phone said, “Yes, sir.”
Steve smiled brightly at Coulson and then said, “I’m starved. How do you feel about Italian food?”
“Sounds great,” Coulson said.
Steve tapped the question mark on the phone and said, “Find me a recipe for lasagna.”
“With at least four stars on review,” Coulson chipped in.
The phone again put a list up on the screen. “Choose from the following options.”
Looking at the pictures, Steve’s mouth began to water. “Finally,” he muttered, “technology I can get behind.”
*~*~*~*
“So!” Nick Fury barked, as Steve took his seat at the table. “Captain Rogers, I trust you’re ready to face the twenty-first century?”
“You know what,” Steve said, with a sidelong smile at Coulson, “I think I am.”
*~*~*~*