We were Best Friends

Chicken

With Tony leaving soon, a delivery Chinese order is made, and a simple request. "Buchanan until I teach you to cook, you're not allowed to be in the kitchen unsupervised."
"But I'm not a kid?"
"I know. However you don't know how to cook with this centenaries appliances, you're not used to them and I don't want you to burn down my house."
"Hey, it wasn't that bad."

The blackened pot and the smell of smoke are a good enough comeback that no one has to say anything. The redness on Buchanans face shows the fact that he knows he's not the best with the technology of this time yet.

With Pepper calling, Tony saying goodbye and taking Rhodes with him the house calms back down and it's almost quiet enough to hear someone breathing from the opposite side of the kitchen.

As the sun casts longing shadows the tv is once again on. Within nothing but reruns playing the owner of the home heads to the basement, doing her best to find anything to keep her hands busy and her mind just as.

The toys laying in the work bench makes her stop for a moment, staring and questioning why they are out.

Sandpaper found, the toy gun is smoothed down. Any paint that may have managed to cling to the wood after many years of play and disuse it's turned to dust in the air. The shield leans against the wall ignored but not forgotten.

A second person finds their way to the bottom of the home. Waiting patiently and watching with interest.

Three paint bottles are found, silver, brown, and black. A black barrel, a brown stock, and a few silver accents. Gentle and steady, a fake takes aim, paint still wet and muddling in a sweating palm, a fake shot taken.

"Who are you aiming at?" There's no flinching at the question or voice, she was waiting for Steve to talk. She knew he was waiting and trying not to distract her.
"No one and nothing. Just taking a shot because I can."
"Sounds dangerous, you shouldn't take a shot without knowing what's past the end of your barrel. You know that." She does. Both of them learned that at basic training. It was drilled into their heads, a reflex to check what was around them when not taking fire.
"Three feet of concrete. Then dirt. Don't think I'd manage to kill anyone if it was real. But it's a wood gun. No bullets."

As she turns away, Steve walks over almost towering over her. "This is a nice shield. Lightweight."

He stands there, turning the disk over in his hands, holding it up with a single finger but the arm straps.

"Aluminum. I'm amazed it's not fully covered in dents. But I think they got buffed out on a regular basis courtesy of Howard."
"Why would it be full of dents?"
"Do you have any idea how many times I got hit in the head by that thing? Or how many times it was thrown into a tree? We were kids, pretending to be our idols." Which was true. With how aunt Peggy and Howard talked about the duo they were our idols, our everything when we were kids.

"It's strange to hear that from you. Tony may have told us stories and you showed us pictures, but it's hard to believe. The things we did back then and even now I can't see how anyone thought of us as anything but assholes."
"Thought you didn't like that kind of language?"
"You're hilarious."

Dry smiles are shared. "I try. It's not often a person gets to meet their idol and still think of them as that. You and Buchanan have actually kept me believing in the both of you. It has been an honour Mr. America, to be your friend."
"You make it sound like you're dying."
"Everyone is. Now pass that thing over, it needs some fixing as well."

Steve hands the shield over a questioning look in his eyes. The leather straps that have been aged with use are removed and discarded for now. A gentle sanding before a silver spray paint is covering both front and back surfaces of the disk. The Red, White and Blue a slathered on, gentle and precise. It looks as if it could be Capitan Americas once more.