Dropping the Bass
Setting: Post-Avengers, Pre-Anything else.
Summary: He's Steve Rogers. He's a man out of time. He's got a rathole apartment and occasionally thoughtless neighbours. It's pretty obvious why he can't sleep. Contains Swedish EDM and French cursing.
Disclaimer: Contains brief moment of AU. You'll know it when you see it – if not, don't worry. Also, I'm okay with dubstep. I just think this is a hilariously plausible situation. Consider making an appointment with a neurologist should you think I own any of character you recognize.
Most nights, Steve didn't mind all-nighters.
There was a certain kind of poetry to returning home exhausted after working through a long night, as the rest of the world awoke from slumber to begin their day. There comes a certain satisfaction in driving against the flow of traffic, knowing that while others spent the night in dreamland, he had already been out and getting things done.
There was something precious about a night where you could see the sun set and rise once more.
But even he started to get bleary-eyed after watching the sun rise and set twice before his head hit the pillow. The Avengers had criss-crossed the East Coast three times in pursuit of the madman responsible for kidnapping three senators and a congressman on the night before a crucial vote. It was a long, gritty chase that he had done an unfortunate amount of the footwork for.
Steve expected a prima donna like Stark to shy away from the less glamorous parts of the pursuit. He had a tremendous amount of respect for Agent Romanov, but she still bore a bit of the princess air about her, and Agent Barton's equipment would have been damaged if he had taken the dive (or so he said). It was difficult enough to get Hulk to follow orders that the rage monster was in favor of, let alone unpleasant ones. Even a hardened Asgardian warrior experienced a bit of hesitation at pursuing an enemy into the sewers, but Steve had plunged in headfirst.
And when one person has to take a dive into a festering pit of excrement, nobody comes out a winner.
Steve spent the flight back to New York in a chemical shower instead of dozing. With the Slug cooling his heels behind bars and the politicians returned safely to DC, Steve sent his team home. Meanwhile, he headed back to SHIELD headquarters and put in another six hours filing preliminary reports and completing the initial debriefing. Fury had finally sent Steve home to rest up before another long night of tactical evaluation.
Desperately trying not to count the hours before he would have to be useful again, Steve passed the malfunctioning elevator in his apartment building and half-stumbled up four flights of stairs.
Gingerly he rotated his left shoulder, testing his mobility after a particularly bad landing. At some point yesterday (Maybe the day before that? What day was today?) Hulk had grabbed Steve by the arm and hurled him across a room like a ragdoll. The move saved him from death by disintegration, but even Steve's incredible healing ability took some time to knit together a decimated rotator cuff.
He withdrew his keys from his pocket and staggered into his apartment. He just wanted this day to be over with, but even he couldn't stand to be around his own stench.
Only halfway through his shower did he realize that the hot water in his building must be out again. But even the frigid stream couldn't dissuade him at this point. He rested his head against the shower wall and let the chilling waves pound the tension from weary muscles.
Steve was so completely done.
Blearily he dried off, catching his reflection in the mirror momentarily and starting at the bloodshot, shadowed gaze of his reflection. It had been a long, long day. Relief to see the end of it all flushed the last traces of adrenaline from him and he was nearly overcome by a wave of weakness. Steve clambered into a set of pajama bottoms, then collapsed on his bed. He didn't even have the strength to pull the covers over himself.
That was when he heard it.
WOBBA WOBBA WAAAAAAAA WEEEEEB WEEB BOODOO DOOWOO dat-dat-dat-dat-dat-dat-dat-dat WAHB WAHB baddabadda YEEE YEEE YEEE-
Muffled music from the bedroom above his. The melody was lost in the floorboards, aside from a faint cacophony of sound, but the bass carried clearly. It started softly and crept up until he could feel the low rumble in his chest.
Steve couldn't help the groan that escaped his lips.
Not again.
He fumbled about with his good arm and clutched a pillow over his head, praying that either his feathery defender would filter out a modicum of sound or he would smother himself.
He couldn't deal with it today.
WAHBWAHBbaddabaddaYEEEYEEEYEEE
The door was just as plain and drab as every other one in the hall. A sheet of metal painted white with a peephole and the number 529 engraved on a square of brass. This door, however, was unique in that it was the only one trembling from the soundwaves within.
Here on the fifth floor, he could actually discern some lyrics. But he was certain he must be hearing them incorrectly, because whatever he heard was completely nonsensical.
She pose for FHMShe like my black LV
We spinnin' LPR
Up on my APC
Steve knocked, long and slow so that the owner would be sure to hear him. Embarrassed and angry at the same time, he leaned against the doorframe resignedly as he wasn't sure that anything else could hold him up for long.
Finally, the door swung inwards. A gaunt-faced young woman with bleached blonde hair and dark roots stared up at him, wearing a sleeveless top and denim shorts that weren't quite long enough to cover her pockets. "What do you want?" She sneered, voice thick with a Brooklyn accent.
I'm in my PRPS
And my Nike SBs
Ravin' with SHM
London to NYC
Off balance, Steve attempted a charming smile, but his face wasn't quite cooperating. He'd settle for something better than a pained grimace. "Afternoon, ma'am. Hope I'm not interrupting – ah, I don't think we've met before. I'm Steve Rogers, the tenant downstairs."
The girl snapped her gum, unimpressed, and repeated herself: "What do you want?"
"Ah – well, I was just wondering if you could possibly turn down the music playing in there. See, I work nights every now and then and it's hard to sleep with –"
The girl turned away and hollered over her shoulder, "Hey, Grandma! Guy downstairs got a problem with your music!"
You can find me on a table
Full of vodka and tequila
Surrounded by some bunnies
And it ain't even Easter
An older woman's voice, raspy from decades of smoking, resounded from within the apartment, telling him exactly what he could do with himself.
And that's standard procedure
From Miami to Ibiza
As the door slammed shut in his face, Steve briefly wondered if that were anatomically possible. Certainly the goat would not agree.
WAHBWAHBbaddabaddaYEEEYEEEYEEE
Steve spent the better part of an afternoon attempting to hunt down his landlord, but the man could be more elusive than a Hydra agent when he wanted to be. The office was dark and the same 'Back in 30 minutes' sign sat in the window. It hadn't moved from than spot for the better part of a week.
The office mobile line went straight to voicemail, which encouraged him to leave a message before clicking and telling him that the inbox was full. He did some old-fashioned recon and traced the man's home address and phone number down in the yellow pages.
It was only after taking his bike from Bensonhurst to Mount Vernon that Steve discovered the phone book bore an old entry. The landlord had moved and according to the postmaster, he'd left behind no forwarding address.
Staring at the vacant building with disgust, Steve sighed deeply and pinched some of the tension from the bridge of his nose. As he turned about and prepared to head back, he mused that the landlord could probably teach SHIELD a few lessons in covering their tracks.
Back to the drawing board.
Lyrics Credit: "Miami 2 Ibiza," Swedish House Mafia. Warning for creepiness of the lyrics I didn't put in.
I didn't choose the apartment life. The apartment life chose me. Shout out to my brothas and sistas in the towers.
Please don't tell me off in the reviews about your favorite genre. I can't begin to tell you how much I don't care for that. This is about the perspective of a man from the forties encountering modern music.
Finally, this is a story in three parts. We have not yet seen the further woes of Sleepy Steve. Speaking of which, I'm off to bed. Night, y'all!
Don't write the story. Live the story.