Chapter Text
It’s entirely possible that this phone call will make me lose my job.
Shit.
I’m working mornings this week. They like to vary our schedules, probably in some misguided attempt at keeping us in the dark about who we’re listening to. I had to wake up at 4 AM on a Sunday to go to work, but it’s not too bad. He’s pretty cheerful in the morning.
Usually.
This morning (6:42 AM) he punches in numbers on his phone. It’s a wonder the touchscreen doesn’t break. I wonder if they reinforced it for him.
The phone makes a weird squeal, and a click, and a dial tone.
He punches the numbers again, same as before, and the squeal, click, dial tone repeats itself.
6:43 AM
“Goddammit.” He punches in something else, possibly a saved number, since it only took two punches this time, and the other end starts to ring.
“Are we assembling?” says a bleary voice. It’s a voice I’d recognize anywhere, even if it was filtered through a suit of robot armor. For example. I log it as ‘Unidentified Caller’. (6:44 AM)
“No, nothing like that,” says the subject. “I need you to fix my phone,”
‘Unidentified’ sounds amused as he says, “Uh, okay, I’ll just need you to hang up first.”
“All right.”
There’s a soft click. Silence. And the subject’s phone rings.
6:46 AM
“Did you get it fixed?” says the subject.
“It was a joke. Christ, is your brain still frozen? Your phone is obviously working, you’re using it right now.”
“I know it’s working for you, but it won’t call who I want it to call.”
“What? Why, who are you trying to call?”
“Uh, Lorne Michaels,” says the subject, obviously reading the name.
“The tv producer?”
“Yes, he created some stupid show that was mocking a friend of mine, and I intend -- “
“Wow, I figured you’d be all about the free speech thing.”
“I am. He’s allowed to say whatever he wants, and I’m allowed to tell him to go to hell. Don’t they teach that in school anymore?”
“Dunno, I probably skipped those grades. Uh, look, if that phone is from where I think it’s from, it’s probably blocking your calls on purpose, for exactly this kind of scenario. You know how One-Eyed Willie gets.”
I hold my breath as hard as I can, because there’s a microphone in my face that would definitely pick up the sounds of me howling with laughter. The best part is knowing that he actually would say that to the director’s face. It’s a beautiful thought, but I don’t have time to relish it properly.
“One-Eyed . . . It’s not his decision to make. That show was demeaning. They had some actress pretending to be Peggy, decked out in a damned bikini. She was a war hero!”
“Did they even have bikinis back then?”
“That is not the point! They sure as hell didn’t show Dugan or Morita in their skivvies.”
“Wait,” says Unidentified, and I can hear him smirking. “You want to call and complain that they didn’t show all your old war buddies in their underwear? Or maybe out of it? Is that why they called them -- ”
“You know what, fuck you. I should have known better than to think that you of all -- “
“Aunt Peg can take care of herself, champ. She’s been doing it all her life, with no help from you. But because I actually give a shit about her, I’ll get Pepper on it.”
“I -- “ the subject breaks off with a sigh that’s nearly a growl. “Thank you. For getting Pepper involved.”
“It’s whatever. You just stay out of it so you don’t embarrass us all. And by the way, next time you want tech support, you can start by using a Stark phone instead of just taking the first thing that the biggest spy network in the world hands to you.”
“Well, you’re not wrong,” says the subject. There’s a smile in his voice, like it’s a shared joke. “Really, thanks again, I -- “
There’s the sound of a dial tone.
“It was nice talking to you,” he says into the void.
6:48 AM
I consider deleting all of this. If anyone goes back to read the log, I doubt I could possibly convince them that I didn’t know who was talking, or what they were talking about. At best, I’d get reassigned, but this is so extremely classified, I don’t know what the worst case scenario would be. The only thing that stops me is that it seems like the kind of conversation he’d want to have on record.
7:02 AM
He’s dialing a new number.
It rings twice before it’s picked up. “Hello?” says a voice. Higher pitched, maybe a non-American accent, slight tremor. I log it as ‘Unidentified Caller 2’.
“Hello Peggy,” says the subject. “It’s me. Steve. I know I don’t usually call, but there was a television show -- “
“How dare you?” Definitely an accent. British. Posh. Angry.
“Excuse me?”
“You think you’re the first little wanker to try this stunt?”
“Stunt? No, I -- “
“You thought you’d be funny. Well I’m here to tell you that you are not. And I can say with some authority that Captain America would have been ashamed of your behaviour. Now go do something meaningful with your life.”
There’s a click. A dial tone.
7:04 AM
Silence.
Something very large crashes. I would guess that it was a couch hitting a wall. I debate whether to log it.
I don’t.
7:05 AM The entry door opens and closes. I log that, although it would have been more accurate to say the door slammed.
7:06 AM Silence, stretching through the rest of my shift.