Title: Credence
Summary: Tony insists he's fine. Steve insists he's full of shit. (Two-Shot) (Subject to change)
Characters: Steve Rogers (Captain America), Tony Stark (Iron Man)
Pairings: None.
Warnings: Language, some violence.
Time Period: Set Post-Avengers
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
A/N: This story was essentially a oneshot, however, due to it's massive length, I've decided to break it into two parts. Therefore, the next chapter will be posted in a few days; the second half is already written, though does need to be revised. Enjoy.
(1)
Steve excused himself from the group with a tired but polite smile, making his way towards the bustling bar at the corner of the large room. He had been talking to that group of men for forty five minutes. Forty five. Not once was he given the chance to contribute to the conversation, which, he knew, was about him.
The three men he was talking to – try as he might, he just couldn't remember any of their names – were disgustingly pompous. Yet, after spending about three hours at this party, he was quite accustomed to the vanity. They were the type of people that made him feel severely underdressed even though he was dressed just as formally as they were.
Their conversation began the same as every other conversation Steve had had this evening; First, they thanked him for his commendable actions during the Battle of New York, a conversation starter that everyone Steve had spoken had used. Then, they each discussed their careers – again, Steve couldn't remember what any of them did. He wasn't even sure he was listening. Something about lobbyists? – and how they contributed to the reconstruction. Eventually, the conversation turned to a subtle debate of who accomplished the most and who was the most distinguished. Steve took that as his cue to leave.
Politely pushing past some extremely well-dressed people, Steve secured a seat at the bar and sat down heavily. The bartender asked him for his drink of choice, but Steve shook his head. Enhanced metabolism aside, he was tired of drinking. Without the effects of alcohol, all that the drink left was a bad taste in his mouth. Instead, he remained in his seat and simply watched the party go on.
Stark really outdid himself, Steve thought, thoroughly impressed.
Apparently, when talk was going around on where the party would be held, Stark immediately offered his family mansion, stating that it was large enough to hold a copious amount of people, and because, as Stark put it, "might as well, seeing as I kind of wrecked every other potential option during the fight. Call it my civic duty." At least, that's what Steve heard second hand. He was sure Stark would have had more to say.
Stark's mansion was large enough to fit this party, and three more if the man had wanted to. The main hall was vast in size, and glamorous in sight. A large fountain in the center, tables in every corner serving only the most tasteful delicacies, and an extravagant band of more than twenty musicians playing a variety of music – jazz, rock, and a genre Steve had never heard of before but was slowly growing fond of.
Everyone who was anyone in the political and business spectrum was invited. As Steve liked to put it, the party was essentially an expensive self pat on the back to everyone who contributed to the reconstruction of New York after the battle.
The Battle of New York was a giant blow for the state, financially and politically. Federal, corporate, and private buildings were destroyed and landmarks were left in tatters. Most importantly, people – local citizens and wide-eyed tourists – were either hurt or killed. The looming question of whom to blame was left in the air, albeit quite low. The United States had to act quickly and worry about the specifics another time.
Reconstruction bills were passed, companies were hired to rebuild, foreign countries offered aid, and victim compensation funds were created.
The battle had taken about two hours to fight, but the repairs have taken six months, and are still ongoing. Steve had to admit, though, that six months of constant rebuilding really did produce results. Buildings that had fallen were now standing strong, although hollow on the inside. Streets were repaved, electricity and telephone reception have returned to the whole city, and sewers and drains were repaired and running.
Every large problem that affected the city as a whole was a priority and was dealt with immediately. Six months of hard labor later, the state of New York was finally satisfied, and decided a celebration was in order.
The sound of glass shattering erupted behind Steve, pulling him out of his reverie. He spun around quickly, eyes landing on the broken glass, and the sheepish bartender on his knees picking up remains of a glass cup.
Steve turned away, mentally shaking his head at himself. He was too tense. Too wary. This new world, this new time period, it held too many surprises and questions for his liking, making him always on his feet.
After the battle, when the wounds were licked and the thanks were accepted, the sounds of war refused leave Steve's ears when he sat in silence. He didn't know if he was hearing the war he fought at his time, or this new one. All wars sound the same, he thought morbidly. Fighting and dying fall on the same tune, regardless of time.
The people standing closest to the bar also turned their attention to the source of the sound, some disregarding it immediately, returning back to their conversations, while others stared on. Steve accidentally locked eyes with one onlooker, a small bald man with a bright blue handkerchief in his breast pocket, and Steve groaned inwardly (and perhaps outwardly? The music was too loud for him to hear it).
If Steve learned anything from his time at this party, it was that eye contact was akin to an invitation to talk.
Steve looked away immediately, pretending to admire the racks of bottled fine wine behind the bar, but it was too late. The deed was done. From the corner of his eye he can see the small man making his way towards him. Steve prepared himself for another mundane conversation.
"I'll be damned!" was the first thing out of the man's mouth as he took a seat besides Steve, slamming his drink on the bar stand to grab Steve's hand and shake vigorously.
"The Captain himself! Truly, truly, an honor, my friend. Let me tell you, when they told me you were invited to this bash, I thought to myself, 'good luck getting him here, pal! The Captain has better things to do than intermingle with a bunch of prissy politicians.' But here you are! Goes to show how much I know, huh?"
The man roared out laughing, which startled Steve, but nonetheless he laughed along with him, although not as enthusiastically.
The man pulled out his blue handkerchief and wiped it across his glistening forehead. "Ah, damn, where are my manners? Too much Champagne makes a man forget himself. I swear, Stark always gets the good stuff. I'm Mitchell Johnson, friends call me Mitch."
The name sounded familiar to Steve. "As in Secretary Johnson? Of Homeland Security?"
Johnson's smile broadened, "Now, I really am honored! God, Rogers, you're gonna make me blush like a school girl! Look at you, knowin' the President's cabinet already."
"Just trying to keep up with the times," Steve replied easily. When he had received his invitation to the party from Stark, the other man had warned him that there'd be a cluster of important political figures arriving. A few hours on the Internet and he had memorized the big names – the World Wide Web really was a wonder. "It'd be pretty embarrassing if Captain America didn't know who ran America."
That elicited another wave of laughter from Johnson. "Of course, of course! That must be some eye-opener, huh? Waking up in whole new age. Must have thrown you in some loop."
"I'm getting there, step by step," Steve responded casually. Another conversation starter he'd been seeing plenty of lately: the 'how are you adjusting?' question. Steve couldn't fault them on their curiosity, as long as they didn't treat him as some sort of caveman from the Stone Age. He suffered enough of that from Stark. "It's the technology that's really caught me off guard. Everything has buttons – too many buttons, if you ask me."
The other man laughed, and it didn't take a genius to figure out how drunk he was. The drink in his hand spilled a few drops as his body shook with laughter. "I've been using all this new technology for only a few years, and I still don't know how any of it works. But computers and all that aside, how are you likin' this New York? Big difference compared to the New York from the '40s, I'm sure."
"Expensive is the first word I can think of," Steve said. "It's louder and brighter, too, but, it's still New York. One thing I do like the most that stands out — the subway."
"No kidding."
He shrugged. "It's fast, cheap, and takes me all over the city. And the entertainment is nice, you know, the people that dance and sing in the train. I like it. I was a little disappointed that they raised the fare, but that was inevitable."
"You know," Johnson began. "I've been alive for a very long time, and believe me when I say this: you are the first person I've ever met that has actually liked the subways."
This time, Steve laughed. "I'm serious, I love it. It was a shame that most of them were damaged during the fight." Steve paused, pursing his lips, and then said, "It's a shame about all the damage. Looking back, maybe if I had taken into consideration all the collateral damage I might cause when I was fighting…"
"I don't think anyone can fault you on that, my boy," Johnson said, taking a swing from his drink. He shifted in his seat, moving closer to Steve. "Not with everything you've done for us, past and present. You've been the best help we could have asked for. I've seen the videos — no, not your old ones, the ones from the battle."
Johnson moved even closer now, their foreheads inches away from touching. Alcohol was radiating off the smaller man, and Steve suppressed the urge to grimace from the stench.
Johnson spoke quietly, but loud enough that he wasn't drowned out by the music, "I had some camera phone videos from people on the streets and building security tapes sent over to me. You fought like…like — I wanna say a true soldier, but I'm sure you've heard that a million times. Screw it, I'll make it a million and one times! You fought like a true soldier, Rogers."
"Thank you, sir. I appreciate that."
Steve hoped his formal tone was an obvious indication that he was finished with the conversation. Steve didn't want to be rude, he had manners, but this conversation was beginning to steer off into a different direction now that the pleasantries were done with. Johnson was beginning to slur his words, and his face was horribly flushed. This conversation could go on for hours if Steve couldn't get away.
But Johnson showed no sign of noticing Steve's reluctances to continue. "Not just you, too — there were the others fighting with you. Stark, Banner, the Widow, and — shit, I always forget his name. . .you know, the archer?"
"Barton."
"Right, Barton. I work pretty closely with S.H.I.E.L.D, you see, so I know a thing or two about you lot, but names escape me sometimes. Don't tell Barton that I forgot his name, he'd nail me to a board in a flash!"
Steve smiled when Johnson laughed. "I'm sure he won't mind. Secrecy and discreteness come with the job."
"Yes, yes, secret agents and their spy games," Johnson made a motion with his hand, but it was clumsy, making it look like his wrist was twitching. "But, see here, being secretary of Homeland Security makes me wary of secrets. I told Coulson this, too, rest his soul. I told him, why all the secrets from us? The government? S.H.I.E.L.D likes to operate on its own, it and its agents, but I don't."
He wiped his forehead with his handkerchief again. "See, I'm drafting this bill. Well, not me exactly. Got some senators and lawmakers doing it for me. It's good to have friends on the inside, eh? They — they're drafting this bill, see —"
"To be honest," Steve interrupted quickly. "I try not to get involved with politics too much. I don't really understand the inner workings, and. . .well, If I get involved with one party's beliefs, it might cause unwanted commotion, putting me in a tight spot. You understand?"
"Yes, of course, but listen, listen," Johnson said impatiently. "It's nothing too complicated. It's actually beneficial to you and your vigilante lot. Nothing complicated, a registration act of sorts. . ."
"Sir," Steve began. "I really don't. . ."
"Mitchy!" A voice sang behind Steve, and Steve didn't know whether to be relieved or to grimace at the familiarity of the voice.
Johnson picked up his head and looked past Steve. "Stark," he grumbled.
"Hello, beautiful," Stark, adorned in a suit and tie, strode over to the bar with a grin that was almost primal. He clapped a hand on Steve's shoulder, but directed his words to Johnson. "Thought I'd find you by the bar. You never could stay away from that Chardonnay, can you, buddy? Speaking of," He turned to the bartender. "Butterfingers. Yeah, you. Let me get the peach one."
"Stark," Johnson said again, sitting up. "I thought you were in Malibu."
"I was, but, get this — and you wouldn't believe it — they invented this thing called planes, and wouldn't you know it, these things can take you across the country in hours! Amazing, right? Technology has taken us so far."
"Funny," Johnson grumbled without mirth.
The bartender placed Stark's drink on the table and Tony grabbed it with one hand, the other patted Steve on the shoulder again. "Always am. Anyway, you've hogged our patriotic hero long enough; I think it's time to share. Let's go, Cap, I got some people for you to meet."
Steve didn't even hesitate to get up. Johnson stood up too, "Now, hold on, Stark. Rogers and I were speaking —"
"And I'm sure it was a fascinating conversation," Tony interrupted. "But — my house, my rules, my guests." He flashed him an arrogant smile, and turned with Steve in tow.
Hand on Steve's shoulder, Tony guided him to the other side of the massive room. When they were far enough from Johnson, Tony removed his hand to shove in his pocket and said, "You owe me one, Rogers. That guy is just," Stark made a face, then took a swing from his drink. "Yeah, a complete chatterbox. Had his position for, like, a year, and already he thinks he can make decisions. I definitely saved your ass there from the world's most boring conversation ever, you owe me big. I'm thinking, let me have your shield for week and we'll call it even."
Steve chuckled. "Did you just get here? I haven't seen you all night."
Actually, Steve hadn't seen him since they all went their separate ways after seeing off Thor. Last he heard, Stark was taking residence in his Malibu home, since the Stark Tower was under construction to repair the damage it sustained from the battle. Stark had called him to extend the invitation for the party, but that phone call only lasted a few minutes.
"Nope, been here all day and night. Like I said, flew in from Malibu."
"You came all the way from Malibu to New York just for a party?"
Stark took another sip of his drink. "Steve, Steve, Steve," he said, shaking his head. "So young, so naïve."
"I'm older than you."
"Only in body, not in mind." Stark placed his drink on a passing staff's tray when she walked past the two. He rubbed his hands together, then waved them in front of him, saying, "Look around you, Cap. What do you see?"
"Obnoxiously rich people?"
Stark ignored that. "I've got senators, ministers, CEOs, lawmakers, — you name it. All of them, in my house. Do you know how many favors I can get out of them? Deals I can make? Connections I can connect?"
"Connections you can connect?"
"Shut it, you know what I mean." He pushed his hands into his pockets. "See, I've got Pepper over in Shanghai doing the by-the-books, professional, CEO-type business, while I'm here, doing the more fun, casual, alcohol fueled CEO-type business stuff. It's a win-win. Jackpot. The whole shebang."
Steve looked back, and nodded towards the bar. "Is that why you invited Johnson? To connect some connections."
Tony's face pinched with a grimace. "God, no. That man's as delusional as delusional gets. I wouldn't invite him even if it would guarantee me a working heart," he said, tapping his chest, where his arc reactor lay. "And anyway, I didn't make the guest list; I didn't invite anyone."
Steve's brow furrowed. "You didn't? But it's at your house…"
Tony rolled his eyes, "Come on, Uncle Sam, keep up. I'm just providing the party with a location. This whole thing is a government function. I'm just giving them somewhere to put it."
"Who invited everyone, then?"
"The President — or his secretary or something. Though it's definitely someone working under him. He told me that almost every person he invited came, which is pretty impressive considering his poll numbers. Poor guy. Can't catch a break."
"The President's here?" Steve exclaimed, looking around.
Tony laughed, "You've been in the same house as the President and you didn't even notice? Steve, that's embarrassing."
"It's a pretty big house, Stark!"
"Damn right it is," Tony replied. "He's been asking about you, too. He's a pretty big fan of your's. Has all your comics in mahogany frames, hanging on top of his bed. I think he took it personally that you never came over and said hi. Looked pretty offended. Said he was gonna demote you to Lieutenant America."
"You're an ass."
"That's no way to talk to a superior officer, Lieutenant," Tony grunted in a mock drill sergeant voice. His head picked up when they closed in near a group of men that looked towards them expectantly. "Don't worry about the ol' Commander in Chief, Cap. You have all night to find him. I've got some people for you to meet now. Boys!"
They stopped in front of three men, and Stark began rapid introductions. They were three brothers, Steve surmised from their shared family name of Litmean. They operated a large textile company in North Carolina and had contributed a huge amount help during the rebuilding of New York. That was all Steve managed to gather before he zoned out of the conversation.
Steve immediately figured that this meeting was more for Stark's benefit rather than his own. The man looked like he was showing off his new toy to the impressed children of the playground. The men all looked at Steve like he was something out of a dream.
It struck Steve suddenly that perhaps Tony was using him to make himself appear more appealing. Tony Stark was a pretty infamous name, with an even more infamous reputation. From what Steve had gathered from the files given to him by S.H.I.E.L.D, Stark was a business shark — devouring the business world and leaving a wreckage in his wake. He was a formidable CEO, and his company was one that people either deeply despised or deeply (albeit begrudgingly) admired.
This Litmean trio might be the former, Steve guessed. Tony must have been trying to strike a deal with them and had reached some sort of standstill, and this was his 'Plan B': introduce them to Captain America, show them that if the Captain America can tolerate him, then he must be a trustworthy guy to do business with. He supposed this was one of the obligations of being teammates with Stark; putting up with his shit.
If that were the case, Steve decided right then that business and politics were definitely something he did not want to get wrangled in. Too much deception for his liking.
"The actual Captain America," one of the men breathed, completely in awe. He was shorter than the other two, and had a distracting mole on the tip of his nose. His staring was something Steve was used to, but it still made him uncomfortable.
"Shit, man, you're hell of a lot bigger than I thought," the other laughed, the gap between his two front teeth showing. "Shi — wait, can I even curse in front you? Feels like it could be a federal crime."
The third man hailed one of the members of the staff with a finger, "Bring some drinks over here!" His voice had a booming force behind it, and the staff member responded immediately. Drinks were passed around, and Steve reluctantly took the one offered to him, while the men resumed their loud, one-sided conversation.
Steve didn't say much. This was quite standard with him, at this point. The people in this room really loved the sound of their own voices, and were able to talk on and on about anything for any duration of time. It was exhausting to listen to. Stark, on the other hand, was eating it up. Eccentrically, with a lot of hand waving, Stark began steering the conversation in his direction.
Steve tuned out the exchange, choosing instead to stare at the artwork that hung on the wall in front of him. It was a painting of nothing in particular. Just a large canvas with splashes of elegant colors. No shapes or patterns. It was as if a person holding buckets of paint had tripped and spilled all the contents on the canvas and decided it was a masterpiece. For some reason, it reminded Steve of Howard. Probably because the painting made no sense.
Stark must have said something funny, because laughter erupted from the men. Steve laughed along with them to keep up the show that he was following their conversation.
Tony's arm wrapped Steve's shoulders, pulling the other man close. The motion jerked Steve, causing his drinking to tip from his grip, and the contents landed on Tony's shirt.
Tony jumped back. "Christ Steve," he exclaimed, looking down at his soaked shirt.
"Sorry, I —" Steve began, but Stark cut him off with a laugh.
"First the bartender, now you? Does no one here know how to hold a drink properly?"
"Your fault, Stark," one of the Litmean brothers quipped with a smirk. "No one told you had to buy such good liquor."
"You're right, I spoil you guys too much. Next party, everyone's drinking Bud Light."
"Now you're just being cruel," the man laughed.
Steve grimaced at the state of Stark's ruined shirt. "Really, Tony. I'm sorry, I didn't mean —"
"Forget it, Steve-O," he said, cutting him off again with a wave of his hand. "No one can fault you for losing your grip. I've got other shirts." He wiped his hand down his shirt and clicked his tongue. "Well, air isn't going to get this out. If you'll excuse me, boys."
Tony squeezed past the Litmean brothers and headed towards the door that led to hall. Once he left, the three brothers shared a knowing look. Steve felt like he was missing something.
"Typical Stark," one of the men chuckled, shaking his head.
Steve frowned, "What do you mean?"
"Oh, come on, Captain. Wasn't it obvious?"
When Steve didn't answer, the man continued, "He was making a getaway. Obviously, he didn't like where this conversation was going."
"Thought he wanted this deal," the other said.
"Apparently we aren't good enough for the great Tony Stark."
"The man does have some serious trust issues."
"Too bad. For a second there I thought we were about to shake hands and close the deal."
"Wait, no," Steve interrupted with a frown. "Stark would have just flat out refused you if that were the case. He wouldn't have made a whole show of it."
The man shrugged. "Who knows how Stark operates."
"He was always a bit on the dramatic side," the other said.
"A bit?" the third laughed. "Andy, the man came out of the womb with a top hat and cane."
The three brothers laughed at that. Steve remained silent. Any other time he would have found the joke amusing, but he wasn't in the laughing mood at the moment. Something wasn't right.
It was true that he hadn't spent enough time with Stark to say that he really knew the man, but he liked to think he had some idea on how his teammate conducted himself.
To abruptly leave in the middle of a conversation was not like Stark, especially in the matter on how he did it.
Steve looked down at the drink in his hand. Tony had wrapped his arm around his shoulder and pulled him, which was not unlike him. Stark had absolutely no regards for other people's personal space, Steve knew this, so it's never surprising to have him poking, patting, or grabbing other people. But, in this case, the way Tony pulled him, it was almost like he was deliberately trying to move Steve so that the drink would spill on him.
But that makes no sense, Steve thought. You're overthinking a simple accident. You're blowing it out of proportion. Still, an uneasy feeling was blossoming in the pit of his stomach.
"Sorry, you'll have to excuse me for a minute," Steve told the three men, stepping away before he could hear any of them reply. He walked towards the door Tony had went through, away from all the people and the jubilance.
He found himself standing in a wide hallway, grand doors aligned on each side of the wall. It was empty, no sign of Stark. The only sound he heard was the murmurs of the party behind him.
It occurred Steve that he had no idea where he was going.
Bathroom, he thought. Stark would have went to the bathroom to wash his shirt. But where was the bathroom? Steve looked around. This house was unnecessarily colossal. He looked at the doors in the hallway, then at the stairs that led to another hall, with more doors. You've got to be kidding, Stark.
He could just search every door and see where each one led, hopefully finding the bathroom, but Steve was tired. Serum or not, he didn't have the energy for something so tedious.
Instead, he walked back to the party, asked one of the staff where the bathroom was — "oh, there's a pretty big one down the hall, with stalls and everything. Fourth door, I think. They aren't private, so don't be shy if the door's closed, hon." — and followed the directions.
He walked down the hall, found the fourth door, and pushed it open.
Like everything else in the Stark Mansion, the bathroom was massive and elegant. Marble tiles, deep red walls, rows of stalls on one wall, and a wide sink with rows of faucets on the other side.
Stark was standing over the sink, hands on either side of it, back hunched somewhat. His jacket and tie were disregarded, hanging over one of the stall doors, leaving him with just his white dress shirt. His arc reactor glowed underneath it, and the stain of the spilled drink was still present.
Stark looked up when he heard the door open. "Hm, thought I locked it," he murmured. Then, louder, "What's up, Cap? Bored from the Litmean brothers already? I don't blame you, they can get pretty annoying pretty quick."
Steve stared. Tony looked. . .very different than he did a few minutes ago. His face was ashen, all color lost from it, and his eyes were glassy and glistening. The uneasy feeling in his stomach grew. "Are. . .are you alright?"
Stark held himself upright, running a hand over the front of his shirt. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"
"You don't look alright."
Stark grinned. "Aw, Cap, I'm touched," he crooned, placing a hand over his chest. "Your concern over me truly warms my heart."
"I'm serious, Tony." Steve deadpanned. "You're white as a sheet."
"I'm serious, too. Look, I'm fine." He gestured to himself, grin still present. Is this the smile that Clint calls Stark's 'Shit-Eating Grin'? Steve wondered. The name fits.
"That doesn't look fine to me. That looks like the opposite of fine."
Stark turned around, facing the mirror. Steve could see a trickle of sweat running down the other man's neck. He frowned but said nothing.
"I didn't know the title of Captain America also came with a medical degree, Doctor Captain America," Stark muttered.
"You do know that the more you deflect, the more my suspicion grows."
Tony rolled his eyes. He brought up his hands and fixed his collar while avoiding Steve's eyes, instead, staring ahead at the mirror. "You're hot on my case, aren't you, Detective Doctor Captain America."
Steve ignored his quips, and instead narrowed his eyes. When Steve remained silent, Tony glanced his way. When their eyes met, Steve knew he won.
Tony flung his hands in the air in exasperation. "Fine, God. Anyone ever tell you you've got a glare capable of melting the arctic? That's probably how you got out of the ice, just glared at it for seventy years."
"Tony. . ."
"Look," This time, Tony bodily turned towards Steve, shoes clicking on the marble floors loudly. "It's nothing. I just threw up, alright? No biggie."
Steve blinked. Stark had said it so bluntly that it caught him off guard. ". . .Threw up?"
"Yeah, you know, threw up. Vomit. Puke. Regurgitated -"
"I know what throwing up is, Tony. Why did you throw up is what I'm wondering. Are you sick?"
Tony raised both hands in a placating manner. "Take it easy there, Detective Doctor Captain America," he said, "It's nothing to worry about. Just had a little too much to drink, that's all."
Not even the super soldier serum would be able to fix the wrinkles Steve was bound to get from frowning as much as he was right this minute. "You," he said slowly, enunciating every word clearly in case he heard incorrectly. "Couldn't hold your liquor? . . .You?"
"It happens to even the best of us."
Steve continued staring. "Out of all the lies you could have thrown at me," Steve began. "That was the best you could do? That?"
Tony opened his mouth, ready to counter, but he paused. He closed his mouth and pursed his lips together into a fine line. A few seconds passed, then he said, ". . .shit, yeah, that wasn't one of my best. I could have done better there."
Steve shook his head, saying firmly, "Tony, honestly, no more games. What's wrong? Are you hurt?"
Stark ran a hand through his hair, sighing loudly. "Christ," he muttered, dropping his hand back to his side. "Christ, Ok. Alright, but you gotta promise you won't freak out."
Steve blinked. "Freak out — Why would I freak out? Did something happen?"
Tony jabbed a finger his way, "Ah! See — that right there? Freaking out. And what did I just tell you not to do? Freak out. I don't want any of that, alright? Promise."
"Alright."
Stark raised his eyebrows.
"Fine, I promise."
"Ok," Stark said, scratching behind his ear. He sighed, looking everywhere but Steve's eyes, then pursed his lips. "Nothing serious, it's just that. . . I'm a little nauseous. . .because my reactor is a kind of faulty."
"Faulty?" Steve repeated. Then, a thought occurred to him and he balked, "Is it because of the drink I spilt? Tony, I —"
"What, no!" Tony exclaimed almost immediately. "This has nothing to do with that. And frankly, I'm a little offended you would think some wine could damage something as inordinate as my reactor. It's not hard to make something waterproof, Rogers."
Steve ignored that. "It's damaged?"
"Ah, well, no. More like it's malfunctioning. Must have jostled something when I was cleaning it today, maybe a part is loose or the new element exhausted itself."
"Is it dangerous?"
Tony shook his head. "Like I said, just some nausea, nothing new to me." He glanced at Steve's face and added quickly. "Seriously, Cap, it's no big deal. It's not like I'm dying."
That wasn't reassuring. "You don't look so good from where I'm standing."
He waved him off. "Everyone's a critic, and apparently, a medical school graduate." He rolled his shoulders, and turned back to the mirror.
His body language asserted that he was finished speaking, but Steve was far from it. "Stark —"
"Look, go back to the party, enjoy yourself, go see POTUS before he really does demote you. If anyone asks, tell 'em I had to go back to Malibu for business or something." He pushed a strand of hair away from his forehead, and walked past Steve, patting his shoulder. "I don't know, make something up for me."
With that, he walked out the door, leaving a stunned Steve standing in an empty bathroom. He blinked twice, and turned, "Where are you going? Stark!"
He followed behind him out the door and to the hallway. Tony looked obviously annoyed when he saw that Steve was behind him, but Steve didn't care. "Where are you going?"
"Leaving." Stark said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. He pointed to his chest. "Have to replace it with a new one before it does some serious damage to me. Don't wait up."
He walked away again, but Steve followed, and it only took Stark three steps to realize that. He audibly sighed and turned around, "Steve, are we really playing this?"
"Where are you going?"
"I told you, I have switch this one out with a new reactor —"
"Where?"
"Where I keep my reactors! Jesus, I don't have time for this. Go back to the party, and just act cool, alright? Keep this," he gestured to his chest. "to yourself." He turned away again, this time more briskly. "And don't follow me!" He shouted over his shoulder.
Steve didn't. He remained where he stood, mentally absorbing everything that had just happened. His frown was deepening as he watched Tony walk away. Probably heading towards the backdoor, Steve thought. But to where?
He didn't like not knowing things — he couldn't stand it. Coming out from the ice, he was introduced to a whole wide world of unknowns, and it drove him mad. Nothing made sense, and trying to make sense of things only made them more confusing.
Tony was like that. The man's an enigma, Steve thought in frustration, moving back to the bathroom to grab Stark's discarded jacket. An annoying, pain in my ass, stubborn little shit of an enigma.
But even as he thought this, jacket in hand, he still found himself following Stark.
The uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach was throbbing now, spreading throughout his body. He identified it as worry.
There's nothing to worry about, Steve thought. Stark said he's fine. He said so himself. He can take of himself. That thought made him grimace. No he can't, he immediately thought afterwards.
He picked up the pace, trudging down the hall hoping it led to a backdoor.
Stark had no sense of self-preservation, Steve knew this. It was painfully obvious whenever the man did anything. He was also too damn proud, a trait Steve had seen in many men while in war. Just trying to make Stark admit something was wrong was a dance all to its own.
His instinct to help was kicking in, his adrenalin pumping.
The hallway walls were littered with exquisitely framed photos of the Stark family, and he felt like Howard's photographed eyes were glaring at him. I'm trying here, Howard, Steve mentally groaned. Your son's the one making it difficult.
Steve made a turn at the end of the hall, but Stark still wasn't in sight.
Arc reactor malfunctioning, Steve thought, mulling over Stark's words. No big deal. That lie was as naked as a newborn child. How could a malfunction in a device that was keeping him alive be no big deal? Steve didn't buy it. He adamantly didn't buy it, and, frankly, felt somewhat hurt that Tony would think he would.
Ahead of him, grand glass doors stood, adorned in a finely carved wooden frame, stone pillars on each side. Behind it was the night sky, wide steps that led down to the backyard that was littered with the guests' cars, and on the last of those steps, a lone silhouette. Bingo.
Steve pushed open the doors carefully. He could hear Stark speaking. Squinting through the darkness, Steve could make out a phone in the man's hand, pressed to his ear.
"You're still at Fulton, yeah?" Stark was saying. He stopped to listen to whatever the other person was saying on the other line, then responded, "Excuses, really? Come on, I know you guys are open 24/7. It'll only take a few minutes. . ."
Steve felt absolutely no guilt eavesdropping on the conversation. He took another step down.
"It's not, I swear," Stark said after a pause. "Really. . .Yes, really! Look, I'll just pop by for a second, Ok? A minute, tops — oh, don't give me that, I know you carry it around."
Tony began pacing back and forth, eyes glued to the ground. "It won't take long, I swear. Just a little hiccup. I'm sure you'll figure it out. . .great — fantastic, alright, I'll see you in a few minutes." He pulled the phone away from his ear and hung up.
"Who was that?" Steve asked.
Stark jumped. "Fuck!" He whipped around so fast, Steve was afraid he might topple over. "Fuck, Steve! Don't do that! You nearly gave me a heart attack — actually, I think you did give me a heart attack. Christ. Are you trying to kill me?" Stark was breathing fast, which made Steve feel somewhat remorseful for startling him. Sneaking up on people is more Nat's thing, anyway.
His expression didn't falter. "Who were you talking to?"
Stark said, "Just a friend of mine. You know, the nice kind, the one's that don't try to kill me. What do you want?"
Steve threw him his jacket. Tony caught it with the least amount of grace, fumbling with it before throwing it over his shoulder. "Well, aren't you a sweetheart," he muttered. "Is that all? I've got places to be."
"Stark. . ." Steve began. He stopped, licking his lips. Stark was staring at him with a mix of annoyance and impatience. He ignored those eyes and took in Tony as a whole. The man looked absolutely dreadful. Steve didn't like the way his face was pinched, almost like he was in pain. The reactor was definitely affecting him, and not in a good way.
Steve sighed, and tried a different tactic. "Tony, I'm worried, alright? About you. You really don't look well. Frankly, you look like shit — and that's sugarcoating it."
"Steve, I'm fi —"
"You're fine, yes, I know," exasperation dripped from his voice. "But our definitions on the word 'fine' are very different." At Stark's frown, Steve continued. "I just want to make sure you're alright. Just . . . let me help you with this, Ok? For my peace of mind. You said you have to go somewhere, right? Let me come with you. Just so I'm reassured that you're alright."
Tony stared at him, then exhaled slowly from his nose. He ran a hand down his face while saying, "I can't believe you're using the puppy eyes on me. Me, of all people. I fucking hate dogs." He huffed, then nodded. "Fine, fine, fine. You win, Cap. But I'm only letting you tag along because I know you won't leave me alone if I said no. You persisting bastard."
Steve smiled. "You know me so well. I'm touched."
"Yeah, yeah," Tony muttered. "Alright, let's go. I feel the nausea returning, probably because of your disgusting concern. Where'd you park?"
Steve frowned, looking at the sea of fancy cars, neatly parked side by side. "I didn't. I came by subway."
"You came by subway?" Tony balked. "You came to one of my parties in a subway? Jesus, Steve."
"First of all, it's not your party, you're just providing it with a location." Tony seemed personally attacked at having his own words thrown back at him. "And secondly, I'm sorry I didn't freeze my car with me when I decided to jump into the future," Steve shot back sarcastically. Which wasn't true — he never did own a car, but Tony didn't need to know that. "Why don't we just take your car?"
"I didn't bring one." He stated. At Steve's look, Tony defended, "What? I was driven here."
"So then call your driver. Tell him to come pick us up."
"And what, wait an hour for him to drive from the other side of the city to here?"
"I don't see you coming up with any better ideas."
Stark paused briefly. He looked like he was contemplating something and was silent for exactly three seconds. "That's because I already came up with one," Tony said vaguely, walking towards the lot. Steve suppressed the urge to groan in frustration but followed nonetheless.
Stark stopped in front of a roofless car (convertibles, Steve thought. That's what they're called. Top downs.) and gave it a once over. He frowned thoughtfully then nodded to himself. "This will do."
Steve felt a headache coming on when he realized Stark's 'better idea'. "No."
"You don't even know what my idea is," Tony bristled.
"We are not stealing someone's car."
Eyes to the sky, Stark pinched the bridge of his nose. "I swear to God, Rogers, if you start lecturing me on the moral dilemma of carjacking I will throw this car at you."
"The President of the United States is less than ten yards away and you want me to help you commit a crime!?" Steve hissed shrilly, pointing to the mansion.
"What are you going to do? Tattle on me?" Tony waved him off, and angled himself over the small, black two seater. "Relax, Captain Morality. I know who owns each car. I'll return it before they even realize it's gone."
Steve doubted that.
Tony bent over the car's locked door, upper body pointed to the steering wheel, and pulled something out of his pocket. Steve looked down over the man's shoulder. It looked like some sort of swiss army knife, only more high tech. Tony pressed a button and the thing lit up. Definitely high tech. He pushed it into the car's ignition keyhole, pressed a button, and the device began to hum. A click sounded, the car roared to life, all sorts of lights flashing in the interior, and Tony pocketed his gadget.
"Easy peasy," Tony sang. Hand on the door, he stood straight.
Once upright, however, he swayed dangerously, and all the color left his face. His knee buckled, and suddenly he was falling.
Steve was quick; he grabbed Stark under the elbow before he fell flat on his face.
"Tony! Are you alright?"
Stark blinked rapidly, brow furrowed. He brought hand up to his head, and swallowed. "Yeah, I'm just. . ." He trailed off, staggering slightly.
He exhaled, then weakly pushed away from Steve and straightened himself, one hand on the car to steady himself. He cleared his throat and said, "I'm good. Just stood up too quickly. Got dizzy."
Steve's hand remained hovering over Tony's shoulder, afraid the man might topple over again. Bells were going off in Steve's head. He's not alright. He's not alright. He's not alright.
"You're not alright," Steve said aloud.
Tony, true to his character, brushed it off with an eye roll. "Just a little headrush, Cap. It's no medical mystery. And stop looking at me like that, Jesus, you look like a lost puppy."
He yanked the car's front door open, but Steve stopped the motion halfway with his palm. "Maybe it's best I drive," he said slowly.
A flash of stubbornness gleamed across Stark's eyes, and Steve knew the man was about to fight him on it.
The expected argument never came, instead it looked like Tony was considering Steve's suggestion logically. "Suit yourself," he shrugged.
He made his way around to the passenger seat. Steve stood, watching. His eyes picked up on how Stark sluggishly carried himself, with extraneous effort to make himself seem like there was nothing wrong. But, Steve didn't miss it.
Stark threw his jacket into the seat first, then sat down heavily, and Steve followed, taking his own seat behind the wheel. The door swung close with a click.
"Where to?" Steve asked, remembering that Tony never actually told him where his destination was.
The rumble of the car's engine was low and soothing, like the sound of distant thunder. Tony had his eyes closed, his head leaning back against the leather seat. "Fulton Street. You know where that is, right?"
Steve racked his brain. "I think so. Is it downtown?"
A nod. "Yeah. Don't worry, I'll give you directions. There's a CVS Pharmacy on the corner of the street, that's where I'm heading — or, we're heading, because apparently I carpool now."
"You keep spare arc reactors in a pharmacy?"
Tony opened one eye and managed to shoot him a dirty look. "God, Steve. You never give me enough credit. And, no, I have a friend, who works there, that has it."
"Is that who you were on the phone with? Before?" Steve nodded behind him.
Tony scratched his eyes when he answered, "You object to carjacking, but eavesdropping is A-OK in your books? You need to sort out your morals, Rogers. But yes, for the sake of quenching your unquenchable curiosity, it is the same person I was talking to on the phone. She's a friend of mine that works in the pharmacy that sometimes comes in handy."
"A woman," Steve said apprehensively.
Tony scowled, "Don't give me that look. It's nothing like that. She's a college student."
Steve raised his eyebrows.
"God damn it, Steve, not like that," Tony groaned. Steve bit his tongue to stop himself from grinning. "Let me start over before you start thinking even lesser of me than you obviously already do," he said.
"Stark Industries holds an annual scholarship contest for young inventors, engineers, scientists, and so on, to see who can develop the most innovative contraption — it's basically a bunch of college kids competing for twenty grand by making the best toy. PR stuff, you know? The good ol' societal marketing concept. Dina, my friend, won. Blew all the money on a car. Made me so proud."
"What'd she build?"
"Some fancy schmancy portable blood tester," Stark said off handedly. "Helped me out last year with the whole palladium poisoning business, but that's a story for another day."
Steve knew he'd read about Stark's palladium fiasco from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s files, but the details were foggy at the moment. He'll give them another look later. "What does this have to do with her having your arc reactor?"
Tony scratched his neck with his index finger distractingly. "Her invention used palladium, I told her about the new element I created, and she came up with a way apply it in her gizmo. I had nothing better to do, so I helped her out. Gave her an old reactor to play with."
Steve was impressed by that. "Really? Huh."
"What, you don't believe me?"
"No, it's not that. It's just. . .well, I never thought you could be so. . ." Steve trailed off.
"Nice?" Tony supplied with a sarcastic drawl.
Steve grinned. "Paternal."
Tony looked absolutely repulsed, which made Steve snicker. "You're an ass," he stated, then huffed. "Alright, bonding time is over. Do you plan on driving anytime soon? Let's go, Cap."
Steve nodded. He looked down at the steering wheel and grimaced.
He hadn't noticed until now, but the interior of the car was an electrical circus. That's a lot of buttons, he thought desolately. Some of them were blinking while others remained lit. There was a screen in the center of the dashboard, which Steve hoped didn't hold any importance because he had no idea what it was for.
"Any day now," Tony muttered.
"Give me a second." He reached for the gear shift clutch, then stopped and bit his lip when he couldn't find it on the floor between the front seats, where it was supposed to be.
Stark was watching him, and had definitely noticed his aborted motion, because, suddenly, he groaned dramatically. "Oh my God," he covered his face with hands in dismay. "Don't tell me. . ."
"Shut up, Stark."
He dragged his hands down slowly, maintaining eye contact with Steve, which Steve knew he was doing intentionally just to rile him up. Tony said, with a very matter-of-fact tone, "You only know how to drive stick, don't you?"
Steve didn't supply him with an answer — for one, he didn't know what stick was supposed to mean, and also, 'only'? Does that mean there are other ways to drive a car? — and instead asked, with plenty of reluctance, "Just. . .tell me where the gear shift."
"This is historic," Tony was saying, more to himself, as he often does. "Iron Man teaching Captain America how to drive. The author of my biography is definitely gonna get a kick out of this. I think I'll dedicate a whole chapter to this momentous occasion, call it: Captain America Removes Stick Shift Knowledge, As Well The Stick Up His Ass. "
Steve glared, and Tony tiredly placated. "Fine. We'll save getting that stick out of your ass another day." He pointed, "You see that lever behind the steering wheel? Just flick it to Drive and you're good to go."
Steve obliged and tapped the small lever. The D print lit up, and Steve nodded to himself. Simple enough. He could get this.
He glanced around him. The cars parked in the backyard-turned-lot were all lined up horizontally, therefore, all he had to do was move forward. Easy. He placed both hands on the steering wheel, and pressed down on the gas pedal.
The car bolted forward in incredible speed, surprising Steve so suddenly that he slammed his foot on the breaks.
The car jolted to a stop, the sudden propulsion pitching both Steve and Tony forward, then back in their seats, hard.
Stark cursed. "The hell was that!?"
"Sorry," Steve answered quickly. "It's — The car's really fast!"
"What else would you expect from a sports car — ow," He rubbed his head. "If I get a concussion, it's on you. God damn, Cap."
Steve ignored him — he was getting pretty good at that, it seemed. He snuck a small glance at the brake pedal, hoping he didn't accidentally break it. It seemed undamaged, so Steve sat back satisfied.
"Put your seatbelt on," he said, reaching for his own. Tony grumbled, but did so.
With a huff, he tried again. He pressed down on the gas pedal, softly. The car obeyed, and Steve drove them out of the the mansion's backyard, and onto the road.
The streetlights filled the roads with yellow, and the car's glaring headlights provided more vibrancy in the somber night. Without a top, wind gushed into the interior of the car, flipping his and Tony's hair back. It's like driving half a car, Steve thought. What could possibly be the benefit of a roofless car?
He stopped in front of a traffic light. The streets were empty and quiet, contributed by the lateness of the hour. Steve glanced over at Tony, only to see that the man was resting his head on the window, eyes closed.
Steve frowned and thought the worst. "Stark. . ." he cautioned. "Tony."
The man reacted by furrowing his brows, then irritably acknowledged Steve with a "what?"
"What are you doing?"
"Sleeping."
"Don't." Steve said. "You're supposed to tell me where to go."
"Just go left," he murmured without opening his eyes. "Find the 9A, keep driving down."
The streetlights were illuminating off of Tony's face, exaggerating his features. The creases on his brow were more defined, and Steve worried that he was in more pain than he cared to admit or show. What ever the broken reactor is doing to him, it's doing it fast and hard.
The traffic light blinked green, and Steve rotated the wheel, turning left. He was slowly getting accustomed to the vehicle. It was definitely luxurious, and it rode so smoothly that it was as if it were gliding over pavement.
Large green signs hanging over the roads directed him on where to find the 9A, and in a few minutes he was on the wide highway, the Hudson River gleaming under the moon to his right, skyscrapers to his left.
He chanced a glance at Tony again, only to find him in the same position from earlier. "Stark," He called, maintaining visual on the road. "Stark."
"God damn it, what?" This time, Stark did open his eyes, only to glare at Steve with prickliness. His eyes were bloodshot, which Steve definitely didn't like the look of.
"I told you not to sleep." Steve knew that if he brought up how awful Stark looked to him, Tony would just deflect with jokes, curses, or vague retorts. Under different circumstances, Steve would have been quite proud of himself at how much better he now was at understanding Stark's character than compared to six months ago.
To Steve's frustration, however, Stark curled away from him, mocking, "What are you gonna do, court martial me for disobeying a direct order?"
That's how he wants to play? Alright. The streets were fairly empty. There were a few cars ahead of him, but none too close to his vicinity. Both hands on the steering wheel, Steve made a sharp swerve to the right. The car lurched to the right, and immediately Steve turned to the left, remaining in the same lane, making the car jerk as if it had a hiccup.
It caused the intended reaction; Tony bounced from in his seat, body swinging from right to left under the seat belt. As Steve determined, Tony was wide awake, eyes wide in indignation. "What the fuck, Rogers!?"
"I told you to stay awake."
"So you decide to go all Fast and Furious on my ass!?"
"Don't be a baby," Steve chided.
"I'm older than you!"
"Only in mind, not in body," Steve smirked.
Tony huffed, sitting up straight. He pulled his jacket from under him and tossed it underneath his legs, squirming in his seat to assume a more comfortable position. "You are, by far, the worst chauffeur I've ever had. I hope you know that."
Steve didn't let his movements go unnoticed, "Don't fall asleep, Stark. You're getting paler by the minute, and I don't know if sleeping will help or worsen your condition. I don't want to risk it." Not to mention, drowsiness was never a good sign. A thin sheet of sweat covered Stark's forehead, and he didn't miss how the man's breathing had somewhat become labored. He couldn't take any risks with Stark.
"Don't get all your feathers in a twist, Captain Mother Hen," Tony scoffed. "Besides, I can't help it; I'm tired. You're the most boring road trip buddy ever so it's no surprise you're boring me to sleep."
"Really? Blaming me?"
"I'm not going to blame myself, now am I?" Tony rubbed his eyes. "Do your part. Fill the silence, Cap. Talk. I don't know, tell me a story. Un-bore me."
Steve cracked a small smile. "You want me to tell you a bedtime story?"
"God, no. Bedtime stories are for children who can't sleep. I'm looking for the complete opposite; Tell me something to keep me awake."
Ahead of him, Steve could see the Brooklyn Bridge in the horizon. Almost made it, Steve thought. He steered the car to the inner lane. The exit must be coming up. He turned his attention back to Tony, "Alright. I've got a story. It involves Nat."
That definitely got Tony's attention. "Yeah?"
Steve nodded. "You'll definitely like this."
"That's a bold statement. What'd you do, try to fit into her catsuit?"
"Even better."
For the past six months, he'd been spending an awful amount of time with Romanoff and Barton, under the orders of Fury. He'd gone on a handful of missions with the pair, sometimes with each one separately. They'd spent so many stressful hours together working, that during their free time, they've been able to wind down together. Their chemistry was quite in tune, and Steve always enjoyed himself when he was in their company.
"Even better?" Tony repeated with obvious dubiety. "How?"
"I made her laugh."
"No way," Tony deadpanned.
Steve nodded, "Oh, I did. It wasn't even one of her fake laughs. It was a genuine, honest to God, bending over type of laugh."
"What'd you do, tell her you never actually punched Hitler?"
Steve laughed. "I've never said I did."
"You've never denied it, either!"
Steve grinned. "No, no. This happened a few months back —"
A shot cracked from behind him. Suddenly, his shoulder exploded in pain, and a bloody bullet slammed into the windshield, creating a spiderweb of cracks on the glass.
Steve gasped at the sudden agony, his vision bursting with white, his hearing obstructed by Tony's voice shouting "Rogers! Shit, Steve, Steve!" and his brain screaming "Danger! Danger! Danger!"
His right shoulder was both wet and flaming. His world was tilting to the left — no, the car was going left. Blinking harshly, he realized he must have accidentally turned the wheel, and just before the vehicle collided with the highway barrier, he maintained control and corrected the car.
Another bullet whizzed past him, hitting the windshield, cracking the glass more. Tony cursed loudly, and Steve shouted, "Get down! Get down!" Instincts were quickly kicking in and Steve slammed his foot on the gas pedal, speeding ahead.
He glanced at the rearview mirror; three motorcycles were on his tail. Each of the helmet wearing riders wielded a different type of firearm.
Steve's eyes widened in alarm when all their guns pointed at them — What the hell?
(TBC)