.
Flashover
.
by BattleCryBlue
.
Disclaimer: I don't own shit.
Warnings for obviously extreme AU, NO superpowers, Tony/Steve pairings, and possibly a few others I haven't come up with yet. Further warnings for Steve!Whump, slash, side-character death, disturbing subject matter, etc.
Extreme warnings for a crass, sadistic, cuss-like-a-sailor kind of author who enjoys delving into all the darkest parts of human nature. Said author is also relatively immune to flames and may or may not believe in the probability of happy endings. Consider yourselves informed.
.
flash·o·ver
n.
The temperature point at which the heat in an area or region is high enough to ignite all flammable material simultaneously.
.
C1: Sparks
.
Dead silence.
You could have heard a pin drop in that big room, full of New York City's richest and most powerful socialites and businessmen, debutantes and politicians, reporters and paparazzi... Firefighters and cops. The same civil servants who had just heard Tony Stark present a proposition to cut funding to their departments.
Reed Richards, CEO of FF Inc. and owner of the Baxter Building in which they all stood now, felt his face flush in embarrassment for the brashly grinning billionaire. Tony stood his ground at that podium as the cameras flashed, waiting for some response to the bomb he had just dropped on them all.
His proposition included massive budget cuts to police departments, fire departments, and rescue squads the city over. He'd said some crazy things in his time, usually without bothering to consult the many available friends in his life who would gladly encourage him to... not say them, but this was anew kind of brash. For a man who had just announced his plans to become involved in city government, this really didn't seem like the wisest of career moves.
Reed adjusted his collar and made a move to step forward. He had to get Tony off that stage before the outcry began... or worse, before the billionaire said something worse.
Before he could take a step, the crowd erupted.
Into applause.
Incredulous, Reed searched the faces around him for some of the rage or indignation that he felt—and he wasn't even on the city payroll.
But he'd been wrong, as he so often seemed to be when he put his faith into the goodness of human hearts. Tony had proposed an answer to some critical city budget gaps, and those removed from the mean streets of New York by their money and fame couldn't possibly understand the implications of the cuts the socialite had proposed... to the men and women who kept those same streets safe, and fought night and day to do so.
Horrified by what he was witnessing, Reed looked up and met the eyes of Fire Chief Fury, head of Firehouse Nine, only blocks away. The big African American man's face was set, stony and grim, but he betrayed nothing.
Reed searched the room for others like Fury—the Police Chief, Henry Gyrich, Ambulance Chief Bruce Banner... scattered across the room, every Police Officer and member of Fire and Rescue he'd come to know over the years stood like statues, still in a sea of cheering billionaires.
Every one of them looked like they'd just been punched in the gut.
These people... these stupid, smiling, laughing people... they had no idea what they were doing. No idea what it would do to the entire city if they passed this proposition into reality. With their glittering necklaces and expensive suits, they could not possibly comprehend hardship or fear or pain or poverty. The same things that afflicted their city's citizens could not touch them.
Money was power.
And the power, Reed realized as he watched them with a sinking heart, was about to be stripped away from the men and women who really deserved it.
"This is bad," a soft, familiar voice at his side was accompanied by a warm hand on his back.
Reed Richards nodded and slipped his own hand over that of his wife's, Susan. Her beautiful features were marred by pained sympathy, her blond brows drawn together in worry.
"There's a dark time coming for our city," he murmured to her as he watched the Mayor congratulate Stark at the podium and pose for the cameras. "A very dark time indeed."
.
Eight blocks away, Captain Steve Rogers sat on his thin bunk at Station Nine, hands clasped and elbows on his knees.
On the ledge by his shoulder a small black radio crackled with the sounds of cheering people... the citizens of New York applauding a bill that would effectively cripple the departments that struggled daily to keep them safe.
Shoulders hunching, Steve let out a long breath and ran a big hand down over his eyes, dark with the shadows of sleeplessness and stress. Eighteen hours into his shift, he was exhausted—but knowing the kinds of critical decisions being made at the Baxter Building had kept him from sleep. He opted instead to sit with his radio, listening to the live press coverage as various city politicians used the open forum to make their opinions known, along with their plans to mend a widening budget deficit.
True to form, Tony Stark—the real star of the event—had closed the night off with a bang. Specifically, a radical budget proposition that would save the city billions of dollars every year. He proposed that city legislature consider adopting the new budget immediately.
It all sounded good on paper—just like the words rolling off the billionaire's silver tongue. It all sounded very, very good.
But the fact remained that all across the city firefighters, EMT's and law enforcement officers were sitting by their radios and televisions just like Steve. They were waiting for the ax to fall; hoping to hear Stark get booed off that stage.
Wouldn't that have been a relief.
Standing, his exhaustion settling down into his bones along with a gut-deep disappointment in the city he loved, Steve shook out his shoulders and headed for the door. He'd entered the long, dark hall filled with small compartments and cots over an hour ago, and it had been empty. He knew where his crew was.
Out in the mess hall, his shift stood in the dimmed lights, gathered around the old TV mounted high on the wall in one corner. They were muttering quietly among themselves, worry and anger drifting through their tones.
Lieutenant Clint Barton, Steve's second-in-command on rescue squad, turned as the door opened. Steve knew he hadn't made a sound, but Clint had always had a sixth sense like that. They'd been friends for years—knew each other better than anyone—and as their eyes met, Steve knew this was going to have a profound effect on each and every one of them.
"I guessed you weren't asleep. You heard?" Clint asked unnecessarily as the blond joined him, watching the TV with solemn eyes as a smiling reporter rattled off her observations of what might easily be called the event of the year.
Steve nodded tiredly, feeling hollow. He'd expected anger, or confusion or disappointment... but he felt none of those things. Just empty.
When you'd devoted your life to something as completely as he had... sometimes you tended to forget that there were so many outside of your enclosed little world that didn't feel the same. That didn't comprehend your passion or sacrifice; who didn't sympathize with the difficulties of a job where you rolled the dice on human lives every single day... and bet your own life to play the odds.
"Fucking bastard," a voice carried through the heavy stillness, and no-one was surprised that it was Loki was who was the first to voice all that they were thinking. "He sits up in his penthouse and smiles and waves down at the little people... and thinks he can make the rules he'll never have to live by?"
"Simmer down; maybe they won't pass it through," someone dared to suggest, but they didn't sound hopeful.
"Fat chance," Clint sighed. "Look at 'em. They're licking their chops for a quick fix. They're sold."
"Say goodbye to Station Nine," Loki smiled maliciously over at their baby-faced probationary crew member. "You know who's going to be the first one cut when that bullshit hits."
"Hey. No-one's getting cut," Clint said with a little more force than necessary, the first, as usual, to stick up for the youngest or newest crew members. "Not yet, anyway. And not without a damn good fight."
Their commentary was interrupted the all-too-familiar emergency tone. The long sound came on over the PA system at almost the same moment that the live news broadcast was interrupted by a jarred camera, screams erupting in place of cheers. The camera fell to the side to show polished dress shoes and tall heels as the crowd began to panic and run for the exits.
The crew never saw the footage. They were already halfway to the garage.
"Truck eighty-four, ambulance two, engine sixty-one," the familiar voice of the station dispatcher, Maria Hill, called out as the crew members headed for their apparatus. "Reports of structure fire at 42nd and Madison."
Hank Pym, filling in for Bruce as he attended the event at the Baxter Building, and his wife Janet were already pulling out in the ambulance, strobe lights lighting up the garage in the darkness.
Steve had his boots kicked off in the safety lane and was pulling his suspenders up over his shoulders as a short, stocky man bristling with thick dark hair and angry energy came storming down the lane between trucks, presumably from the direction of the gym.
Natasha, exuding the same dangerous energy, appeared at Steve's side a moment later, already in gear as she yanked angrily at the strap of her helmet.
"Cap, I swear to god I'm going to take his head off one of these days." The redhead glowered at Logan from across the room as the short man dressed and disappeared onto truck eighty-four.
"Take it up with Coulson," Steve instructed, nonplussed by the raging rivalry between truck and squad's lone female crew member; a conflict usually instigated by Logan. "Keep your head on straight and ignore him."
"He's a fucking sexist," she went on, following him up into the squad truck as if she hadn't heard a word. "If he asks me to make him a sandwich one more time I swear to god—"
"You're going to ignore him, and save the station another lawsuit."
"That wasn't my fault," she insisted.
Steve was saved from further words—repeating the same conversation he seemed to have with Nat every week—by Dane Whitman swinging into the driver's seat.
A larger figure hoisted his considerable frame up into the cab next, the seams of his bunker jacket stretched tight over his powerful form. Steve was generally considered impressively fit, but even he looked small next to the big Nord; the gentle giant of Station Nine.
"Captain," the hulking blond nodded formally as he settled into the seat beside Natasha, taking up his own chair and half of hers. She was small enough that it didn't quite make a difference, so he usually chose to sit beside her to avoid an argument with another seat-mate.
A native Norwegian who had changed his name to Donald Blake upon his arrival in the states, the rest of the station referred to the massive blond as Thor. They'd asked him for his native Nordic name once, but not a soul had been able to pronounce it. No-one but his Half-brother, Loki, who was on Truck with Lt. Coulson and by the standards of most, caused far more trouble than he was worth.
Clint arrived a heartbeat later, looking troubled. He pulled the door closed behind him and smacked the back of Dane's seat to let him know they were all in place. Speaking into his radio, Whitman informed dispatch of their departure, flicked on the strobes and sirens, and revved up the massive diesel engine to pull out onto the quiet streets.
"Cap," Clint leaned in from beside Steve, "This call. It's the Baxter Building."
"Fury," Steve breathed, every nerve suddenly on full alert. "And—"
"Bruce," Natasha finished from across the cab, her eyes wide. She'd transferred three years before from Ambulance squad, and her incognito romance with Bruce was easily the station's worst-kept secret.
Steve met her panicked gaze, but could offer no false words of comfort. They had more respect for one another here than that, and they'd all had to face reality more than once. They didn't run on chances or maybe's. The fact was, what they did was dangerous. There were no guarantees.
And there was nothing worse than someone trying to tell you that it would all be okay... those were the kind of empty sentiments they saved for victims.
The drive was made quick by emergency lights, but it still seemed to take too long. They arrived on scene to a sea of swarming people—both onlookers and attending socialites—all bathed in the flashing reds and blues of an entire fleet of cops cars. Apparently, when the rich and mighty called... the answers came quickly.
Before the engine had even come to a complete stop, Natasha was on the ground, her mask secure as she waited impatiently for Thor to join her. Steve couldn't exactly condemn her impatience—this one had them all on edge, simply on principle. It always seemed so different when their own were involved.
Coulson was the first out of the other truck, finding Steve immediately to formulate a plan. He looked as relieved as Steve felt to see that the flames were licking gently out of three windows on the second story. They could never be one hundred percent sure from first look, but the fire still looked manageable.
"I've got hoses on the windows," Coulson informed his companion without preamble, watching as Logan, Loki, and Luke Charles all piled out of the engine. "Putting the probie on water for this one."
Steve watched as Peter Parker, their probationary and youngest member, pulled a coiled hose out of the engine bay and was nearly knocked on his butt when it fell mostly on top of him.
"Probably a good plan," Steve sighed. "Fury and Bruce may still be up there, but the drill remains the same. Put your guys on attack. Clint and I will head in to evacuate the crowds. Nat and Thor will start sweeping the lobby and second floor."
Ironic, Steve couldn't help but think as he directed his crew members inside and headed into the lobby with Clint. The same people you're trying to strangle... are the ones who show up to save you.
Begging silent forgiveness for his lapse in faith, Steve took a deep breath and clipped his handheld radio to the canvas loop on the shoulder of his jacket. If he was going to keep doing his job... he needed to keep believing in people. There were others on the force—Logan came instantly to mind—who had long ago abandoned their faith in humanity as a whole. They'd been in a thankless job far too long; been kicked while they were down and spit on for risking their lives. They'd given up caring about the people they served and opted instead to see their work as just that. A job. Nothing more.
Steve couldn't live that way.
As they entered the lobby, fighting against the streams of panicked people in high-heels and white collars, Thor and Natasha made instantly for the stairwells. Clint stopped to argue with Dane about who was going to clear the elevators, and Steve pushed ahead into the massive conference hall the crew had been watching on the television. It seemed surreal to see the stage and lights and tables in person—especially now that the huge room was mostly emptied, half-wrecked by fleeing socialites.
"Bruce," Steve sighed in relief as he spotted their chief EMT across the room, looking tousled in the crowd, but none-the-worse for wear. The brunette quickly made his way to Steve's side.
"What's the situation?" He asked at once, all business even in a tuxedo. "Hank and Janet?"
"Setting up rehab," Steve answered, still scanning the room and trying to assess the situation. Turning partially away for a moment, he clicked onto his radio, knowing without communication that Nat needed to hear from him. "Bruce is here," he informed, "safe and sound."
Natasha didn't reply, but she didn't need to. At least now Steve could be sure her focus was in the right place.
"Fury's working on getting people out; he's safe too," Bruce went on, undoing his silver cufflinks and slipping off his suit jacket. He rolled up his sleeves and dropped the suit jacket on the nearest chair, ready to work. "I'll check the exits on this floor, make sure everyone evacuates safely."
"Thanks, Bruce." Steve clapped him on the shoulder, knowing it wasn't the paramedic's job, but thankful, as usual that Banner was always ready to to do his part. "If you and Fury have evacuation managed, Clint and I will head upstairs. Grab a radio from the truck when you get a chance."
"North and west hallways clear," Thor called over the radio just as Clint and Steve stepped onto the second floor.
"We'll take the east," Clint replied, frowning at the haze of smoke that hung below the ceiling.
"Heading south, then," the Nord replied before the radio fell silent.
"A little weird, isn't it Steve?"
"Fire department, call out!" Steve bellowed into the first room, hazy with smoke but otherwise intact. He paused a moment to listen, and shut the door behind him. They moved on to the next room before he answered his partner. "What's weird?"
Clint opened the next door and repeated the call. The rooms were empty, mostly offices and storerooms, but the smoke was getting thicker as they moved forward.
"It's weird that the building is empty, besides the party going on downstairs. And the kitchen is cooking for five hundred tonight, but the fire isn't coming from there... it's coming out of the second story windows."
"Call out," Steve yelled into an empty boardroom and shut the door. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying... what does this look like? Setting off any bells?"
Clint was right, and it wasn't the first time the thought had entered the captain's mind. The thought was troubling, but in a twisted sort of way... it made perfect sense. What were the odds of an accidental fire starting after that kind of announcement?
"Let's not jump to any conclusions," he muttered, lowering automatically into a semi-crouch as they turned a corner and found the smoke to be nearly impenetrable. "Could be a faulty electrical panel or... something."
"In the Baxter Building?" Clint scoffed, "Reed Richards is a technological genius. I doubt there's a wire in this building that isn't lightyears ahead of anything we've seen. Let's not even talk about outdated electrical panels... this place is made of money."
"Just trying to work through our options," Steve grimaced, knowing he was just going through the motions; playing the good little soldier and suspending disbelief for the sake of protocol. There was a part of him that agreed with Clint... but it wasn't his job to play investigator. Not when they had a job to do.
"Let's leave that to the police," he decided out loud, and he could almost hear Clint rolling his eyes over his shoulder. "Save your breath for clearing rooms."
"Yes mom..." Clint grumbled, but bellowed out a call for civilians into the next office they passed anyway.
They could hear the angry roar of the fire now; the sound alerted them that somewhere nearby the fire had passed from the exterior offices where it had started to the interior hallway were they now stood. The smoke was thick and dark now, warning the pair that time was running short. Elbowing Clint, Steve switched the headlamp on his helmet on, flooding the hallway with light. Clint did the same and they continued on, staying low to the ground. Steve stayed in front, checking the floor with the handle of his ax as they progressed.
Neither had the luxury of conversation now, and they continued their search in silence, punctuated by calls into the offices as they passed, alerting any trapped or hidden civilians that help was near.
"I've got one," Clint called, ducking into a small office on the right-hand side of the hallway. Steve followed, keeping a wary eye on their surroundings as Clint pulled the crying woman up from under a desk. She was coughing harshly, the smoke wreaking havoc on her unprotected lungs.
Steve took her other arm and helped Clint guide her out into the hallway where she seemed immediately steadier on her feet. Hesitating, he looked up the hallway. There were only three doors left to search. Thor and Natasha had already cleared the rest of the floor.
He glanced down to check his air supply. Two bars. He had approximately ten minutes left.
"Get her out of here," Steve yelled to Clint through the roar of flames, "I'll finish this hallway!"
Clint hesitated. "You call Thor for backup," he yelled back, "don't do anything stupid!"
"Go!" Steve ordered, pointing back towards the staircase.
Clint pulled the woman's arm over his shoulders and headed back the way they had come.
Licking dry lips behind his mask, Steve crouched down and headed for the next door. He ensured that it was clear, and moved on.
The next room was a long, narrow boardroom, the walls lined with expensive-looking screens. It was also rimmed in flames; chunks of the north wall had already crumbled in, igniting sections of carpet and decorative drapes.
"Fire department!" Steve yelled into the inferno, "Is anyone in here?"
He almost pulled the door closed. He almost moved on. He wasn't sure why he paused, but in the next breath he saw... something. Or someone.
Moving further in through the doorway, Steve frowned into the smoke, trying to make sense of the blurry figure that stood, seemingly unaffected in the falling ash. By the size of the shadow, the stranger seemed to be wearing some sort of heavy suit—likely flame-proof, if his ease in the roaring flames was anything to go by.
"What the—" Steve muttered to himself, taking a step forward. "Sir? Are you hurt—"
Another step, and the smoke cleared. Steve was met with his own reflection in a darkened faceplate, and that was as close as he got. The figure whirled and bolted away from Steve, towards a door engulfed in flames on the far side of the room. He dropped a gas can as he ran.
"Stop!" Steve bellowed uselessly, breaking into a run to follow.
There was that side of him that was a firefighter that wanted the man to stop because he was in danger; because Steve knew it was his job to protect human life, and leave the decision between guilt and innocence to the law.
But he hadn't always been a firefighter. Even most of his own department was unaware of where he'd begun—where his old self had died, or his new self had been born. They would never hear from his lips the horror stories of Afghan trenches, Iraqi suicide bombers and IED's on the roads of Tehran. They would never comprehend how easily he could rush into the flames of a burning building... because to his mind the fire was a predictable, obvious enemy. It hid no children with automatic weapons, it didn't offer a friendly smile to get close enough to push the self-destruct button. Fire was fire—fluid and destructive and something he knew how to fight.
That side of him—the side of him that had spent eight years doling out justice through split second decisions and the gray haze that made the rules in a warzone—that side of him wanted to bring the arsonist down. And he didn't know for certain who the man was, but he was willing to bet anything he was the culprit they were looking for. This fire hadn't started on his own—he'd suspected as much from the ground; Clint had voiced his suspicions. Steve was sure of it now.
He needed to bring him down; it was the decision of a heartbeat. Whatever it took.
He dropped his axe, every nerve kicking into overdrive as he sprinted for the door, the weight of his gear and airpac forgotten.
The arsonist reached the door, and pulled it open, releasing trapped oxygen into the room. The fire surged with new fervor as it was able to breathe and feed itself. Steve reached out for the door. He was only steps away.
Without warning, the room let out a roar as the gaseous layer near the ceiling burst into flames, igniting with enough force to knock him to the ground. He rolled into the door, covering his head with one hand as ceiling tile and ash began to shower down from overhead.
"Get the police on the exits," Steve called into his radio from the ground, even as his free hand grasped for the door handle uselessly, "I think I found our arsonist. He's headed for the stairs!" He cursed as he shoved his shoulder against the jammed—or locked—doorknob. "Door's blocked, I can't follow."
"Get after him, Rogers!" Fury's voice returned, indicating he'd made it downstairs to the trucks and fallen back into his natural role as chief and coordinator of his crews. "That's what your ax is for."
"Working on it," Steve hauled himself up. The carpet beneath his feet sagged, the floor soft and unstable as the room below degraded.
Cursing softly to himself, Steve staggered back, retrieving his ax from the carpet where he'd dropped to to run after the arsonist. With it's help and any manner of luck, it wouldn't take him long to get through the door and after the arsonist.
"The floor is unstable—" he began to say into his radio, hefting his ax for the first blow.
It never had the chance to land. He had a split second of warning as the entire floor beneath his feet simply shifted; softened, and gave way completely.
He didn't even have time to breathe before he was falling.
"Agh!" A cry of pain was torn from his lips involuntarily as he fell two stories down through the conference hall. One edge of the elevated stage broke his fell, catching his left shoulder with all the force of a hammer.
Fifteen seconds, he was left thinking to himself even as his head spun. Get moving, fifteen seconds...
It seemed to take a lot longer than fifteen seconds—minutes at least, in his head—but he finally managed to pry the thick chunks of ceiling off his chest and roll over, keeping his bypass alarm from going off and sending out the high-pitched alarm that would warn his department that he was injured or unresponsive.
He squinted up at the ceiling above him. Through the demolished floor of the room above, he could see that the room had flashed. In a way, the fall had saved him from a worse fate.
"Talk to me, Rogers." Fury's voice was distant and garbled from his radio. "Are you through?"
"Not exactly," Steve gasped, his chest and shoulder aching hard enough to make breathing difficult. Talking was a new agony altogether. "Floor gave out."
Fury didn't bother asking if Steve was safe; he would assume that he was if he was moving and communicating. So maybe Steve had left out the little detail about falling through to the conference hall, dark and hazy with smoke, but that was just a detail.
"Hey! Is anyone out there? Hey!" Someone was yelling from beyond the wreckage; a man's voice.
Steve was aching, sore, and disoriented. But he was still alive, and that meant he had a job to do. Remembering this gave him new focus, bringing him back to the present and his first priority: to make sure everyone was out and safe.
"Call out," Steve wheezed through his mask, wincing as his airpac shifted and his shoulder screamed in protest. He levered himself upright by using the wreckage of the stage to support his weight. His ax had landed nearby, but the idea of picking it up was agonizing.
Leaving it, he instead shuffled slowly in the direction of the voice he had heard, shoving aside overturned chairs and fallen beams. "Fire department," he called the familiar mantra, his voice stronger as he found his breath again. "Call out!"
"Here!" Came the voice again. "Ah, you finally made it... Just... take your time, buddy. Everything's cool here..."
Wading through the wreckage of the collapsed ceiling, Steve wasn't able to make out the owner of the voice until he was almost on top of him—like the portion of the half-collapsed stage that appeared to be pinning the man's leg.
"Fire department," he repeated stiffly, his head still spinning from his fall as he knelt clumsily beside the victim. "We're going to get you out of here..."
A precursory glance around the hall showed that it was empty of civilians, but debris was still falling from overhead. He didn't have time to call rescue in; he was going to have to find a way to free the man and get him out before something larger fell and trapped them both.
Steve looked up into his companion's face. Words of comfort and reassurance died on his lips, however, as he met the eyes of none other than the man who had, only minutes before, all but condemned his department to a slow death...
Tony Stark.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Author's Notes: (Steve always ends up falling in my stories, doesn't he?) In any case, allow me to answer a few FAQ's I can already see in my future.
Yes, I am a firefighter. No, I have no idea how a super-scaled department like those in NYC would function. Allow me a little room for creativity here, I'm doing my best. My department is volunteer-based and nowhere near as massive as those in New York. I may have been a little inspired by Chicago Fire and decide to steal a detail or two from them. Allegedly.
I am still working on Trainwreck Hearts, so... never fear. Just working out a little bit of writer's block with this one. I don't anticipate this story being very long, either. Maybe 3-4 chapters.
If you guys get confused about who is who, or who is on what truck/squad etc I can post a roster for you. As for the unknown names, Dane Whitman is Black Knight; Luke Charles is an alias of Black Panther from the comics. Hank Pym is Ant-Man and Janet Pym is Wasp from the comics. Sam Wilson is Falcon. Gyrich (Police Chief) is also comics book material, for those who have only seen the movie. Logan (James) Howlett is Wolverine, obviously... I may be bringing in more characters from the Marvel universe to fill up my rosters, but who the hell really knows.
If I need to tell you who Peter Parker is, your Marvel Fanclub Card is hereby revoked. Permanently.
As you have more questions, feel free to review or PM me and I'll try to answer them as we go.