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Latest revision as of 17:52, 30 July 2020

Cuz It's Root, Root, Root --
Dramatis Personae

Bruce, Sam, Steve, Tony


"What is more American than hate-watching the Yankees."


<NYC> Yankees Stadium - The Bronx

Outside it's a glorious evening for baseball, the sky clear but for a few cotton-candy clouds. It's 3-0 at the top of the third inning, with the Nationals in the field and the Yankees at bat -- though probably not for very much longer, judging by their current performance. This luxury suite is capacious, with an air conditioned inside lounge, its plush seats affording a commanding view of the game from above the third base coach's box. There's no wandering Cracker Jack venders here, but waiters circulate regularly to serve restaurant quality hot food and fine beverages. Laid out on the low table in front of the VIPs is a cheese and charcuterie board and a tray of fresh cut fruit courtesy of the stadium staff -- evidently someone had given them to understand one of the guests in this box might need to eat well before his food arrives.

Steve is working his way steadily through the snacks. He's smartly dressed but not too formally, his pale blue dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his navy slacks plain front, the matching jacket sleekly tailored and unbuttoned as well. His iconic shield leans against the couch beside him, gleaming in the slanting sunlight. He has been neglecting his expertly mixed Manhattan, his attention riveted on the game. "C'mon Fedde, get 'em," he mutters quietly as the Nationals pitcher fails to get 'em, this time anyway.

Beside Steve, Sam is a little more summery, lightweight white slacks and button down; the rich green-on-green plaid jacket he had paired with it is folded neatly in half and draped over the back of his chair. Stubbornly, despite the circumstances, he's obtained himself a pretzel and a box of Cracker Jack. He's just tossing a couple pieces of the latter into his mouth, leaning back comfortably in his seat. His cheek sucks against his teeth at Steve's muttering, a quick smile following. "Nah man, LeMahieu ate that." He has a cold Blue Moon near at hand and chases his snack with a quick swallow.

The door from the hallway opens, but the first man through is not a waiter. Bruce is wearing a purple-and-white striped seersucker shirt and light gray linen trousers, carrying a matching jacket over his arm and an attache case over his shoulder. "I'm not going to work during the game," he's assuring his companion. "I just want my team to be able to reach me if they have questions." He makes his way into the lounge area and stops short, peering at the men seated up at the front. Then at the massive shield visible sidelong. "Is this...coincidental?" But he does continue to the actual seating area, waving awkwardly at Sam and Steve before dropping himself into a seat. "Good evening, gentleman. Who's winning?"

"If they have questions about the score?" Tony is audible before he's visible, trailing Bruce into the box. He's empty-handed, casual, dark jeans and a plain grey tee. His brows hike as he glances to the shield. Glances to Steve. "First home game," he decides, taking a seat beside Bruce, "man's a patriot. 'Course he's gonna come make sure the Yankees crash and burn."

Steve groans good-naturedly as the Yankees score their first point in the game, perhaps not overly concerned about their prospects of a comeback just yet. "Well, they took their time about it," he retorts, picking up his own drink finally and taking a generous pull. He was not, perhaps, commenting on the arrival of the other VIPs, but it is about at this moment that he starts in recognition of the men's voices and turns to look. Nods to Tony and Bruce as they take their seats. "Good evening. Top of the third, Nats are up by two and Yankees just made their first run, may it be their last." He hesitates a moment, glances at Sam, then back at the newcomers. "This is my good friend and housemate, Sam Wilson. Sam, Bruce Banner and Tony Stark."

Sam tips his head backwards, looking over the back of his chair towards the door. Only sitting up, a little wide-eyed, when he actually catches sight of who has just entered. "Guys down at the VA are not gonna believe this." He lifts his beer in a salute, his smile easy. "Guess I'm outnumbered here. Bruce, was it? Tell me you got some hometown pride, at least."

Bruce bobs his head. "Nice to see you again, Cap--" He scrunches his face up a little. "--Steve. And pleased to meet you, Sam." He shakes his head slowly. "My team growing up was the Montréal Expos," he explains, a little sheepishly as he plucks his thick-framed classes from his face and cleans them, a bit perfunctorily, with a handkerchief from his coat pocket. "But they moved to DC a while back and ah..." He nods at the field as he puts the glasses back on. "That's them."

"See? Patriot." Tony reaches out to grab a toothpick and spear a tiny gherkin. "Huh. Housemate." He echoes this with a mild surprise before popping the pickle into his mouth. "You live with Captain America. That get you no points or does the novelty just --" His hand lifts, fingers spreading outward as he lets out a small puff of air.

"Oh, a real fan." Steve bows his head slightly in Bruce's direction. "But at least I'm not alone in being here for the schadenfreude." He quirks a quick smile in Tony's direction. "Thing is, guys down at the VA see plenty of me." He shrugs, nonchalant. "I think a lot of folks might be surprised you go in for baseball." He pauses half a beat, considering. "Mets?"

Sam's brows lift at Tony's surprised tone, but he only takes a swig of his beer, snorts lightly. "Yeah, being Captain America only gets them going the first fifty times." Sam's head shakes in exaggerated dismay at Bruce's reply. "I see, I see. It's good, I'm used to being the odd man out. -- Shiiit." His hand slaps against his knee. His groan now is not exaggerated. "Be less schadenfreude if they'd step their game up. -- You all do this regular? It's a whole different experience up here like this."

"Sorry," Bruce offers, happily enough now that the Yankees are relegated to the field yet again. "Still anyone's game yet." He tilts his head. "I just come along whenever Tony thinks I'm 'working too hard' and 'need to remember what fun means'." He frames Tony's imaginary parts of this sentence with finger-quotes. Then glances sidelong at Steve. "Are you allowed to hate-watch the Yankees, or does you have to ah--spin this? As rooting for America's team?"

"What is more American than hate-watching the Yankees." Tony tucks the toothpick between his lips. Spreads his hands in front of himself briefly before dropping them to his lap. "Yeah," whether the answer comes to Steve or Sam is a little ambiguous. "Old man was a big fan." He looks up as a waiter draws near, orders a Scotch and soda. "Some traditions worth keeping alive, I guess." His weight settles to one side, elbow settling on the cushy arm of his seat. He lifts a hand, twirls the toothpick absently between thumb and forefinger. There's a small twitch at the corner of his mouth, eyes skipping aside to Steve. "Lot of folks might be surprised you go in for it up here."

"I'm not actually sure this needed spinning. It just comes with the boy-from-Brooklyn package." Steve chuckles dryly. "Well, the Yankees-hating part, not the fancy box seating part. That's Captain America, who probably would root for the Nationals just on principle. I'm probably supposed to miss the nosebleed seats of my youth, but I don't miss that or the parade of autograph-seekers that would come with it." He shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over the back of chair while Tony orders his drink. Watches the teams changing sides out on the diamond. "You know, he didn't care much about baseball when I first met him. Your father. I'd like to flatter myself he learned one good thing from me."

Bruce tacks a polite request for a cup of coffee onto Tony's order. " He tilts his head at Steve slightly. "You say that as if Captain America were a separate person and not just--a hat you sometimes wear." He pauses, thoughtful. "I suppose fame has its own ideas about who the famous are, in public or in private life."

"What, you don't like your games filtered through a gaggle of adoring patriots?" Tony reaches forward to stack a slice of smoked salmon atop cheese atop a cracker. The flick of his eyes to Bruce is very quick; he's looking back out at the field soon enough. "Does have kind of a life of its own sometimes." He pops the snack into his mouth. Twitches his lips just slightly to one side as he chews it. "Huh." It's quiet, but his next words are light. "No wonder he always waffled when the Dodgers were at the Mets."

"Not my baseball games, no, and that would be awfully rude to Sam." The slash of Steve's smile is uncharacteristically quick here. So is his glance at Bruce. "I suppose that's true. I don't think of Cap as someone else, exactly, just an alter ego. Though I guess he could have been anyone, really." He shakes his head -- not very ineffectively disguising a rapid flutter of his eyelids, a brightness determinedly gathered back in. "Gosh, I had no idea." These words sound just a touch shaky, but he steadies and adds, with a sincere smile, "I'm honored, though."

"Tony, you don't even like that with--I'm not even sure how I'd collectively describe your fans." Bruce helps himself to a chunk of cantaloupe skewered on a toothpick. "Well, I don't know if anyone could have been Captain America, but I take your point. I have to apologize, though," This to Sam, sheepishly. "I kind of encouraged it this time, but I know it's not always ah--easy, being the famous guy's plus-one. You're probably as sick of hearing about Captain America as he is himself." This with a nod at Steve.

"I imagine someone likes that sort of thing, but I don't imagine he also likes baseball." He shakes his head. Takes a sip of his drink. "But you're right, of course. I'm supposed to be taking a break from ole Cap and just being a boy from Brooklyn." He breaks into an apologetic smile as he gazes back out to the field, the umpire taking his place. "Good thing the Nats are about to show these jokers how to swing a bat."