Chapter Text
He barely touched the damned thing.
He had forgotten to turn the projector off after his last class, which was good because he hated dealing with the it, so when he connected his computer to it, he hadn't given it a thought. The shower of sparks that the projector threw off and the loud BANG as soon as he touched it to pull up his notes had him throwing the laptop behind his desk and hitting the deck. Six years as a civilian did little to dull twenty years of special operations training. When there wasn't an explosion and he could convince himself that the classroom was not going to crumble around them, he slowly picked himself off the floor, stifling a groan as his body protested the fall. Standing, he cautiously peered over the desk, eyeing the machine with a wary eye.
“Is everyone alright?” he asked, turning to face his students, who were picking themselves off the floor as well. Nervous chatter answered him as they assured him and themselves they were okay. “I think that's been enough excitement for one day,” he said, still eyeing the wrecked computer suspiciously. “We can continue the lecture next week. Just make sure you read the chapters assigned in the syllabus and we'll go through it Monday.” He gave them a sheepish smile. “I might not be able to check email for a couple of days, but my phone number is on the syllabus if you have any questions. Go on, dismissed.”
There was the typical clatter and noise as the lecture hall cleared, the students unable to contain themselves about their “near-death experience.” There were several electronic pings! as phones were whipped out and they started posting about the malfunction on Facebook and Twitter and whatever other social networking sites were popular right now. Before long, he was left alone in the room, glaring at the computer.
One would think, that after twenty years in the army, he would be able to operate a simple projector without it blowing up. Steve Rogers considered himself a fairly intelligent man, But evidence to the contrary was staring him in the face. He sighed and rubbed his hands over his face, sighing before picking up his ridiculously high tech phone. The only reason he had the damn thing was because his son told him only old people used flip phones anymore and had snatched the phone he had been looking at at the phone store and handed him a sleek little piece of plastic and glass that he was half-convinced, even six months later, was going to shatter in his grip. But Tony had refused to let his father leave the store with the “abomination” and so Steve Rogers found himself with a smart phone. He smiled at the background picture, his son and daughter with their faces squished together, sticking their tongues out at the camera, before opening his contacts and scrolling through, trying to find the number of the maintenance department. Just as he found the number, the phone started buzzing and “Big Poppa” blared from the speakers. Steve rolled his eyes and tapped the screen.
“STEVE, WHAT DID YOU DO?!” Tony screamed into the phone, loud enough that Steve had to jerk the phone away from his ear. At eighteen, Tony was a full-fledged drama queen, complete with a why-does-the-world-hate-me attitude and loud rock music. Steve had adopted him when his parents, some of Steve's best friends, had died in a horrible plane accident when Tony was ten. Tony had no other family, and it was the Starks' wish that Steve and his wife care for him. Of course, they had had a rough time at first. Tony was a certified genius and the Rogers, Steve a career soldier and Peggy a M6 operative on permanent loan to the CIA, hadn't been quite sure how to handle him. It had actually been Natasha, their seven year old daughter, who had been able to reach him. Steve could still remember the first time Tony had joined them at the breakfast table, a month after he came to live with them, physically dragged into the room and shoved into the chair by the redhead with pigtails and a scowl on her pretty face. The two had been inseparable ever since.
But that was something to think about later. For now, he had to deal with the meltdown on the other end of the phone.
“Tony, calm down,” he said as calmly as he could, wedging the phone in the crook of his shoulder as he turned back to the overturned table and projector that had stopped smoking. Carefully, he edged around the table and poked at the machine with the edge of his shoe. When it didn't explode, he breathed a sigh of relief and picked up the laptop he had thrown on reflex. “No one is hurt, it was just a computer malfunction. But I think my laptop is broken. I threw it and the screen is shattered. I’m sure you can fix it.”
“Steve.” He could practically feel the eye-roll from the other side of the phone and smiled at Tony's drama. “I saw the video, the thing practically blew up.” Tony started in telling an elaborate story about how he had heard about the projector incident when Steve's attention was caught by door opening at the top of the stairs in the lecture hall. A woman walked in and skipped down the stairs, pausing a few feet away from him. He raised an eyebrow at her, but she merely smiled mysteriously and cocked a hip against his desk, obviously waiting for him to be done with his call.
“Hey, Tony, someone just came in, I've got to go. You can finish your rant when I get home.” He hung up before Tony could start another rant and turned to face his visitor. She was very young and pretty, a curvy brunette in a mint green skirt and cream lace heels, a halter top the same cream as her shoes peeking through a black leather jacket. A black leather cord strung with a medieval looking hammer and sparkly blue earrings were at odds with her worn burlap messenger bag covered in nerdy patches slung over her shoulder and the open-topped toolbox filled with cables and tools she held in her right hand. She gave him a smile and stepped forward to offer her hand.
“I saw the video,” she said before he could ask why she was there. “I figured I should head over here and see what I could do. Darcy Lewis, I.T. Extraordinaire.”
“Oh, nice to meet you. I'm Professor Rog...Steve, I mean. Just Steve.” Steve scolded himself for stumbling over his words. He was forty-four years old, likely old enough to be her father for fucks sake. He had no business being attracted to this woman who was, for all intents and purposes, coming to his rescue. Giving himself a shake, he tried again, this time leading with a chagrined smile and gesturing to the shattered computer. “Sorry, not a fan of things that suddenly go boom. I'm not even sure what happened, it just...well, exploded for lack of a better word.”
Her laughter rang through the hall, deep and bright. Steve found himself joining in her laughter.
“Well, Just Steve,” she laughed, poking the projector with the toe of her shoe. “I think its fair to say this thing is toast. I can take it back to my lair and try to fix it, but I think I’ll just go get you another one. That laptop took a heavy hit, hope you have insurance. You have everything backed up to the cloud, right?”
“Cloud? Ummm…” he felt himself blush, and wanted to jump out the window. Embarrassed by a simple question, really? “I think so? My son set it up, and he’s pretty tech savvy. I’m sure he did whatever it needed.”
“Oh? How old is he? Is he wanting to be an artist as well?” She bent to pick up the broken projector and Steve found himself swallowing hard.
“He’s uh, he’s eighteen. He would rather spend all his time in the garage tinkering with his gadgets and computers than pick up a brush.” He spread his hands and shrugged. He reached to take the broken computer from her and flinched when her hand brushed against his. Clearing his throat, he shoved the thing back in its case and fiddled with the zippers. “He uh, he was calling me when you came in.”
“Oh, I thought maybe it was a boyfriend,” she said, laughing. “In my experience, that tone of voice is used with an annoying lover.”
“Or to an overly-dramatic child,” he said quickly, nervously laughing. “So no, not a boyfriend. I’m straight, I promise.”
“My mistake.” She picked up her toolbox, tucked the projector under her arm and extended her hand for a handshake.”See you around, Just Steve.”
And then she was gone, flitting out of the room like she had entered. Steve found himself leaning against his desk, slightly flushed. What a girl.