Chapter Text
They kept his fucking rolodex.
It hardly seems like it should rank very high on the list of the indignities that have been heaped on Steve's head over the last 24 hours, but, for some reason, it’s the one that sticks in his craw as security frog-marches him out of the building.
They called fucking security! Like he's some kind or dangerous threat.
Had things gotten a little heated in Gary's office? Maybe. But, call him crazy, Steve thinks if the man who's been sleeping with your wife for the past eight months unceremoniously fires you without cause, you should be allowed to call him a gutless shit-dick at whatever volume you damn well please!
Security pushes him through the lobby while people stare and then shove him out the door, tossing a sad (rolodex-less) cardboard box of his effects after him.
He grabs it up and lobs the box at their retreating backs, but it’s already banged up from rough treatment, and the handle rips clean through on his wind-up. When he releases it it swings wide, arcing sharply downward, barely connecting with the lower third of the glass door before it disintegrates, vomiting out the sad collections of belongings they bothered to pack up for him across the paving stones.
A completely unsatisfying, pathetic showing. Which is consistent at least.
"Assholes!" he shouts at no one, everyone, himself, and that's a little more satisfying.
He straightens his rumpled-beyond-fixing suit, and goes to collect his things, even though he hasn't got a box to carry them in now. The very first item that he grabs happens to be a picture of him and Jill at last year's Christmas party, and it takes very little math to realize that she was already fucking Gary at that point in time. Steve looks for some kind of sign in her glossy, 8x10 smile, but it looks totally normal to him. She looks happy.
He really is fucking moron, isn't he?
He drops the frame, and, sure, it was already broken, but the further crunch of glass still feels kind of satisfying in his gut.
Steve had been aware of the sound of a machinery somewhere behind him, in the way you're vaguely aware of city noises around you. It's not until he turns around and sees his car that the sound resolves into the whir of a tow truck's hoist.
"No. Nonono, hey! No, That's my car!" he shouts as he jogs over.
The truck operator throws Steve an unconcerned glance over his shoulder, "And now you car is on my truck," he shrugs and turns back to their vehicles, "Life's a funny thing, ain't it."
"Right, but I'm here now, so can we get my car off your truck?"
"No can do, amigo," he doesn't even turn to face Steve this time, "Once the wheels go up it's a done deal."
"Oh come on, man, I'm already having a truly terrible day. I just got fired-"
"And your wife left you," Steve freezes, how the fuck..? "Your kid has pneumonia, your grandma died, your house burned down, your dog ran away, and anyway, you were only gonna be parked for a minute, honest."
Now the guy turns fully to face Steve. He's like a parody of an all American, blue-collar, man's man; thick arms folded across his broad chest, grey coveralls zipped down to the waist to reveal a white tank top stained with the marks of hard work, curly blonde mullet, shadow of a mustache plus faint 5 o'clock shadow, he's even chewing on a goddamn toothpick. "Does that about cover it, Doll?" he asks sarcastically.
Steve flushes hot with anger, where does this guy (Billy, according to the embroidered breast pocket on his coveralls) get off. "Look, pal, I'm not trying to pull something here. I actually just lost my actual job," he gestures at the glass and chrome high-rise he was just ejected from, "So stop screwing around and put my car down so I can go-" Steve cuts himself off before saying 'home' because he can't go home can he? He frowns at the thought, then shakes it off, "I am not in the mood for whatever little power trip you've got going on here. So just," Steve makes a grab for the weird remote thing the guy is holding that Steve's pretty sure controls the tow functions.
The guy takes a half step back and firmly smacks Steve's hand away with a snort, "Hey now, don't get handsy, Sweetheart."
God, what is with the pet-names.
"Were you dropped on you head as a child?" Steve snaps, "I'm saying put. My car. Down," Steve jabs him in the chest with two fingers.
"And I'm saying no," the guy shoves him back, hard enough that Steve almost stumbles, "Have you never heard that one before? Are you that used to always getting your way, Princess?"
Steve laughs, he can't help it. "My way? My way? You think any of this is going my way? Getting fired, from a job I never fucking wanted? The job my dad got for me because my wife thought it would be good for us? Maybe just so she could fuck my boss, and take the house, which i didn't pick anyway!" Somewhere in his head Steve is aware that he's ranting like a lunatic, "Her and my mother picked the house together. Didn't ask me anything except to sign on the dotted goddamn line! And they decorated it together too! Picked every single thing in it without consulting me, including the stuff in my fucking study! And hey, that's fine. 'Cuz I maybe I only married her in the first place because my mother thought she was a good match! She can have the goddamn house, and the job, and my fucking rolodex!
"And you know what else? I hate that fucking car! I hate BMWs I'd rather drive a fucking pinto! So take it!" Steve digs the keys out of his pocket and lobs them at the tow truck driver's face, "Take the fucking car you stupid, blonde, asshole!" Then he takes a wild, haymaker swing at the poor guy, to really put a cherry on top of his meltdown.
The guy dodges the keys and Steve's fist in quick succession, then he calmly cocks a fist back, and pops him one, right in the nose.
Steve’s on his ass on the sidewalk, almost before he knows what's happened. He claps a hand over his face, hissing through his teeth at the sting.
A shadow looms over him. Steve looks up, somewhat reluctantly, at the tow truck driver. He's got his arms crossed over his solid chest again, and he's looking down at Steve, wholly unimpressed with his shit. "You done?" he asks, exactly like you would ask a toddler if they're done throwing a tantrum.
"Yeah," Steve answers, nasal because he's pinching his nose, "Yeah, I'm done."
The guy uncrosses his arms, "You bleeding?"
Steve pulls the hand of his face with a wince, but there's no blood to be seen. "Doesn't look like it," he says, "God, I haven't actually been punched since, like, high school I think... hurts more than I remember."
Billy sniffs, "Yeah, it always does." There's a long beat where he just looks down at Steve silently, before he sighs and sticks a hand out to help him up, "Tell you what, you can ride with me to the depot. That way you'll get there before they close, and you can get your car back right away."
Steve stares at his rough, grease stained hand, "You're still going to tow me? I really did get fired, look," Steve points at his crushed box of crap.
Billy looks at it dispassionately, then looks back at Steve, hand still outstretched, he smiles, "No point in both of us getting fired."
Yeah, that's probably fair. Steve reaches out to take the proffered hand, but instead of helping him up, first Billy leans down into his space and says, "But, tell you what, afterwards, I'll buy you a beer. Okay, Bambi?"
"My name is Steve," he says as he's hauled upright, feeling a little dizzy, from standing too fast or from the knock to the head maybe.
Billy's grin widens, "Whatever you say, Pretty Boy."