Safety Nest

When the bell over the door chimed, Mila’s head shot up from the skeins of yarn she had been shelving. New York was in ruins, and the newcomer was her first customer in ages. Understandable, really –– post-battle shock, when the streets were still littered with debris and corpses, wasn’t the most auspicious time to visit a knitting cafe.

It was a small, cozy space, with one wall covered with bookcases and two others with shelves full of yarn, a couple of comfortable armchairs to knit or read in, and two tables in front of the front window. The other end of her cash counter was dedicated to a little display area for cookies, scones, and muffins, complete with a coffee maker and an electric kettle.

Before the world as she knew it had ended, Mila’s little shop had been, if not thriving, at least successful enough for her to make a decent living. Now, she opened her shop not because she expected customers, but because she needed the feeling of normalcy.

The customer took a couple of hesitant steps in and then stopped, like he wasn’t sure he had the permission to enter. Mila blinked and frowned. The man was well built and clad in a hoodie and jeans, both well-worn and frayed on the edges. A bit like their owner, she thought. With hunched shoulders and haunted eyes, he looked like death warmed over. Considering the current situation of the city, it wasn’t a presumptuous assumption.

As Mila watched, the man’s eyes darted quickly around, mapping corners and windows, like he was cataloguing the small space that her shop was, taking in the surroundings and assessing threats. To Mila, it was achingly familiar: her father had had the same look in his eyes after ’Nam.

”Hi there,” she greeted calmly, keeping her voice soft and steady and her hands visible. ”Would you like to sit down?”

The man jerked, surprised by her voice.

”I –– sorry… Didn’t mean to…” His voice was hoarse, and Mila didn’t want to speculate whether it was because of disuse or emotion. The man blinked and looked a little lost. ”It just looked so nice,” he mumbled.

Mila couldn’t help herself. Something about the man called out to her, compelling her to look after him, even for a little while.

”Why don’t you sit down, hmm?” She pointed at the armchair in the corner. It was unbelievably ugly, but it was heavenly to sit on, and something about the man told her he hadn’t had the chance to sit down for a while.

The man blinked again and shook his head slowly. ”I can’t,” he objected. ”I’m dirty.”

Mila tsk-ed and rolled her eyes. ”You sit down, young man. That chair has seen more life than you can imagine, and a little grime won’t scare it. If nothing else, it only adds its charm.”

Without actually touching him, she guided the man towards the chair and then gave a gentle push to make him sit. He didn’t resist, but sat stiffly on the edge of the chair, as if expecting to be shooed off any time now.

”When was the last time you ate?”

”What?”

Mila didn’t say anything, just raised her brow expectantly. The man curled inwards, trying to make himself smaller, and shrugged. The motion was so heartbreaking that it made something clench in Mila’s chest.

And, just like that, she made her decision.

Four days later, the man came back.

”Um, hi,” he said hesitantly from the door.

Mila put down her knitting project and gave him a wide smile. ”Good morning, sweetheart!” She called, and didn’t even bother wondering how easily the endearment rolled from her lips. ”Well, don’t just stand there –– come in!”

She beckoned with her head and nodded at the direction of the tattered armchair. The man blinked, but walked to it, and sat down without a word.

With a satisfied curl of her lips, she took a container of ready-made chicken soup, poured it into a bowl to the man. When he opened his mouth to protest, she shook her head.

”Nu-uh, young man. Not a word. You were absolutely ravenous last time, and by the look of you, you’re not doing that much better now. Eat up!” She shoved the bowl at the man who had no choice but to take it or letting it spill over his lap. Mila nodded before she walked behind her counter, and calmly picked up her knitting.

The scarf was a simple pattern, garter stitch combined with yarn overs and k2tog’s: easy enough to knit without a chart, but interesting enough to keep her awake. While her hands kept on working, she let her mind wander, glancing at her strange guest every now and then.

The last time, she had really had to put her foot down to make the man eat the tomato soup she had offered. It was only after using what her brother called her ”serious mother voice” that the man had bowed his head and practically inhaled the soup in big, hungry gulps, only to thank her before running out. She had been left standing in the middle of her shop with a smile on her face and an empty bowl in her hand.

The next day, she had gone to get more soup with the hope he would come back.

Now, the man was perhaps just as hungry, but he ate in a less of a hurry –– perhaps because this was chicken soup and he had a spoon. He was in a hoodie and jeans again, and Mila could see only a glimpse of dirty blonde hair from under the hood. His eyes were still as haunted as the last time, but this time, he was clean. At least he had a place to shower and change. That was good.

She was quite sure the man was more than aware of her scrutiny, but he kept his body closed and head down, concentrating on his eating. When he was done, he put the bowl on the floor and stood up.

”I –– uh. Thanks,” he said and left.

With a smile, Mila put her knitting down and went to fetch the bowl.

Slowly, it became a thing.

The man came into her shop a couple of times a week, always with the same hesitant air around him, never venturing further from the doorway before Mila invited him in. At her prompt, he sat on the armchair, ate the bowl of soup she heated for him, and left soon after.

After a couple of visits, Mila switched from small soup cans into bigger, almost family size cans, using the excuse of her being able to have her lunch with her guest. She ignored the fact that the man always ate everything she gave him.

After a month and a half, he started visiting more often. First, it was three times a week, then every other day, and, before Mila realized, the man was in her shop every day. But he still waited for her permission to enter, and, to be honest, it was getting on her nerves.

”Sweetheart, this is actually a shop, you know?” She said one morning, when she came from the back room to see him standing at the doorway, waiting for her to notice him. ”You can enter without my permission.”

He blinked, glanced at his boots, then shot a shy smile at her before walking to his armchair. (Yes, it was his now. Mila had ceased to sit in there because, for some reason, it felt odd.)

After that, she didn’t have to invite him in.

The first time the man fell asleep on his chair, Mila paused her knitting and frowned. What was going on in his life that he had to come into her knitting cafe to sleep and eat? He didn’t look like a homeless person, but Mila didn’t really know any homeless persons so she didn’t really have a reference. On the other hand, after the Battle so many had lost their homes, and ”homeless” meant something different that a year ago.

He looked very young when sleeping. The slumber didn’t smooth the lines from his face, erase the darkness from under his eyes, or fill the hollow of his cheeks, but it did make him softer, somehow. Perhaps it was because some of the tension leached out of him. Not all, though. Mila was pretty sure the man had lived in a more or less continuous state of alertness for a long time. She still didn’t know the man’s name, and she didn’t ask. He would tell her, if he wanted.

Shrugging a little, she continued knitting. It was another scarf, this time a silk cashmere blend. Someone might think it was perhaps a silly thing to knit in the heat of summer, but fall would come eventually, and the truth was there was never enough scarves. Her wooden needles clicked softly at times (so much more pleasant than the clinking of metal needles) and the yarn flowed smoothly. All in all, it was quite nice. It reminded her of the time when she had sat on her granny’s couch as a girl and watched while she knit a sock. The almost serene scene had always been one of her favorite memories as a child.

Was that the reason the man liked to be in her shop? Because it was silent and calm? Late July wasn’t the busiest, even at best of times, and now with the city still recovering from the invasion, there were almost no customers. Still, somehow the man always managed to time his visits so that they were alone. Mila didn’t mind. She enjoyed her customers, but she also enjoyed the silence and the chance to sit in peace and knit.

Mila cocked her head and took another look at the sleeping man. It was more than obvious that,like so many others, he had lost someone during the Battle. The sorrow was etched on his face and in the emptiness in his eyes. She wanted to give him a hug, to let him know that she cared, but she didn’t want to intrude. It was none of her business, anyway.

A couple of hours later, when the man woke, it was with a start, followed by a hasty retreat. Mila tsk-ed, shook her head, and continued to knit.

By August, they had developed a routine.

The man would come in sometime during the morning, looking absolutely exhausted. He would stumble into his chair, Mila would feed him a bowl of soup and a big mug of tea (and a cookie or a muffin), and then he would nod off. Sometimes he would catch only a couple of hours, frowning and breathing raggedly; other times he would sleep well into the afternoon, waking up slowly, blinking in confusion, reminding her of a bird with ruffled feathers with his hair sticking to every direction.

She still didn’t know his name.

One Wednesday, the doorbell chimed. Mila’s head snapped up and she instinctively glanced at the man sleeping on the chair. This was the first time her visitor was in her shop with someone else. He didn’t move, but something about him told Mila he was awake and alert.

The newcomer was a very handsome young man, clad in a sweater and jeans, and holding a sketchbook under one arm. He nodded at her and walked purposefully to the counter.

”This is a cafe?” He asked with an earnest smile.

”Technically, this is a knitting cafe with a literary sidekick,” she said, pointing behind the newcomer at the wall covered in bookcases. ”But a cafe in any case.”

”Oh. Okay. I would like a coffee?”

”I have no fancy drinks here,” she apologized. ”Your options are black, sugar, and cream. Or I have tea, if you’d like it better?”

”Coffee is fine. Thank you.” He took his coffee, walked to the table by the window, and sat down, his back at the man still not-sleeping in his chair. The newcomer sipped his coffee every now and then, concentrating on the people outside and sketching. There was something eerily familiar about him, but Mila couldn’t put her finger on it.

After about an hour, the newcomer closed his sketchbook, stood up, and nodded at Mila with a satisfied smile.

”Goodbye,” he said and left.

She felt like she had passed a test.

Next week, the man with the sketchbook returned. He bought a cup of coffee, sat at the same spot, drew about an hour, and left. Mila’s regular visitor never stirred in his chair, but she sensed he was a bit more relaxed than at the first time.

The next one was a man looking like a professor. He wandered in with an absent greeting and headed straight to the bookcases, picked a classic, and made his way to the table by the window. He, too, turned his back at the man in the armchair. He didn’t buy coffee, but somehow Mila knew that wasn’t why he was there, after all.

When a woman with red hair walked in couple of days later, Mila thought she sensed a pattern here.

”Merino,” the red-haired woman said on her third visit.

”Excuse me?” Mila asked from behind the counter, slightly bewildered. The woman had never said anything to her, opting to go and stand by the window like a statue for a while before leaving.

”Merino,” the woman repeated, like the mere concept offended her somehow.

The man in the chair snorted. It was so unexpected that Mila was left stunned for a moment, before she remembered she was a professional.

”Ah… any preferences? Weight? Color? What’s your gauge?”

The red-haired woman stared at her blankly. ”Purple. It’s for a scarf,” she then flatly stated.

Mila nodded. Then she asked, carefully, ”Have you knitted before?”

The woman pressed her lips together in a tight line. ”No.”

”Then I would suggest bulky yarn and thick needles. I can show you how to knit a simple garter stitch scarf, unless you have instructions you want to follow?”

The woman blinked once, slowly, and nodded. ”Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

It soon became like this:

On Mondays and Tuesdays, the professor wandered in, picked a book and read for several hours.

On Wednesdays and Fridays, it was the man with the sketchbook.

On Thursdays, it was the red-haired woman, who really didn’t know how to knit, but who made a formidable effort anyway. Sometimes Mila felt genuinely sorry for the yarn to be on the receiving end of the furious glaring, but she couldn’t help but appreciate the gesture. She guessed that the red-haired woman wouldn’t try to knit a scarf just for anyone.

Mila’s visitor sat on his armchair in the corner and slept, covered in a quilt Mila had received from her granny years ago. Since she had no use for it, she saw no reason to keep it at home. Besides, it sated something deep in her to see the man curled inside the blanket her granny had made.

On weekends, Mila thought how blessed this young man was, to have such devoted friends.

”No, Tony, you ar –– No! I forbid you to –– NO!”

Mila raised her brow at the hissed conversation the man with the sketchbook was having. He glanced guiltily over his shoulder at the man in the armchair, and his eyes flickered to Mila’s before he turned back to stare out of the window.

”I know you want to, but just leave it. Please?” There was a pause. ”Tony… what did you do?”

Mila had been waiting for her bills to arrive for some time. She was slightly worried how she would manage with her dwindling sales after her savings had run out. When she finally gathered up the courage to make some phone calls, she steeled herself for a shock.

It was a shock, just not the one she had anticipated.

As it turned out, the whole building had been bought. Also, all her expenses had been covered for the foreseeable future. She sat down carefully and frowned for a while. Then, she turned her computer on and opened Google.

The next Wednesday, she walked up to the man with the sketchbook and said, ”Please, thank Mr. Stark for me. I don’t know what I did to deserve his kindness, but I’m very, very grateful.”

A blushing Captain America was something Mila had never thought to see.

It was early October, when her young man stopped coming over, and, consequently, his friends stopped as well. Mila told herself not to worry –– the man was an adult and he had a group of devoted friends to help him. True, he had gotten slightly better over the months, but he was still far from alright. And, after five months, it was hard to stop caring about a person who had spent so much time in her shop that he had almost became a permanent fixture, a constant.

In her worry, Mila contemplated trying to contact Mr. Stark to ask after her young man, but then decided against it. Mr. Stark wasn’t only an important businessman but also the Iron Man, and most likely didn’t even know who Mila was.

So she let it be. She knit, kept glancing at the empty chair, and worried.

One Friday in November, the bell over the door chimed. Mila was in the back room going over the new lot of yarn that had arrived the previous day. She had finally been able to order more to fill her stock for the upcoming Christmas season, and she was eager to go through the contents of the boxes. But since she was the owner, she had no choice but to abandon the temptations of new hand dyed yarn and go meet her customers.

They were not what she had expected, though.

Her young man was standing in front of the counter. He looked better, healthier, and his eyes had lost the haunted sorrow that had become so familiar over the months he had spent in her shop. He was holding hands with a middle-aged man with a slightly drawn face of someone recovering from a long illness. Behind them were the Avengers.

Mila was quite sure she was dreaming. Not because the Avengers were in her shop, but because as soon as her young man saw her, his face split into a warm smile.

”Oh, I’m so happy you’re alright, sweetheart!” She nearly sobbed, as she hurried around the counter to give him a tight hug. He was slightly taken aback at first, but then his arms closed around her to hug her back.

”Sweetheart?” She heard someone ask, followed with ”Shut up, Stark.”

They hugged for a good while, and Mila knew she didn’t want to be the first to let go. There was something in the man that told her he needed the hug a lot more than he let on. When he finally let go and took a step back, his eyes were red and he was blinking hard. Everyone around them pointedly ignored it, opting to scatter around her little shop to give them some space.

”I like your scarf,” Mila said with a wink, touching lightly at the bulky and uneven purple merino scarf the man had looped around his neck.

The man touched it, almost reverently. ”I like it too,” he said with a fond smile.

”Thank you for taking care of Clint,” the older man said softly, reaching out for the young man's hand again. ”You have no idea how much it means to me –– to all of us.”

Mila looked around, took in the group of people who had came into her shop to watch over their recovering friend, and gave them a gentle smile.

”Oh, I think I do.”