Crosspost from AO3, written to Pantomime - Imagine Dragons
Steve's neck hurt from craning all the way back to try and see the top of their hotel or any of the surrounding skyscrapers. It was impossible, and though Steve was no stranger to high-rises, it was still rather awe-inspiring. As Tony stepped out the passenger side of his Mercedes, however, he just took a few glances around and tapped his foot impatiently on the cracked sidewalk until a sharply dressed valet hurried over to park the car.
Tony had been completely silent the entire drive from Orlando to Atlanta, his eyebrows creased and his mouth a tight line across his face. About forty minutes into the seven hour drive, Steve had ventured to ask him what was bothering him, if he wanted to talk about it. Tony had just stared at him for a moment, then turned away to look out his window again without saying a word the entire time. No one could say Steve was inconsiderate; the remaining six hours and twenty minutes he left Tony well enough alone, which seemed to suit the billionaire just fine.
Steve, on the other hand, was bored out of his mind, and by the time they rolled into the Atlanta city limits, he'd already played the Alphabet Game by himself twenty-three times, had given much long, hard thought about the tattoo he wanted to get before he left for South Korea (he thought his name might be a rather practical thing, just in case something horrible happened and they wouldn't be able to positively ID his body just from looks alone), and had picked his brains to see if he knew anything about Korean culture (he didn't, except he'd heard they really enjoyed eating pickled cabbage and raw fish - well, maybe that was Japan, he really had no idea; he thought about asking Tony but the billionaire was still sulking or brooding).
The only time Tony spoke to him throughout the whole drive was to give him directions to the hotel. And even Steve had heard of The Four Seasons; he'd seen the one in New York, with the fancy iron wrought lamps and marble floor in the lobby, dozens of floors all decked out in glass and chrome and aluminum, stretching up as far as the eye could see. He'd often joked with his old high school friend Bucky Barnes that, when he got married, he'd have his honeymoon at the hotel, because one night would be about all he could afford. Bucky had laughed, looked him in the eye, and asked him if he was planning to make a reservation for an elevator or a janitorial closet.
Steve had always answered elevator, always. You had a good view of the surrounding skyscrapers and buildings, and sometimes the fog rolled in over the ocean and draped everything in grey, but you'd be above that, you'd be in heaven and you could watch the sun kiss the horizon in streaks of gold and pink and orange. Their guests could come in and hand them their gifts, and they'd pile them up along a corner of the elevator, because the elevators were positively massive.
Bucky had rooted for janitorial closet. He'd argued that you wouldn't have to really be worried about people walking in while you were consummating the marriage, there would only be the janitor. But all janitors, as Bucky had argued with all of his twenty-nine-year-old worldly logic, could easily be won over with a thermos of Jack Daniels whiskey and a fistful of pin-ups ripped from calendars, magazines, and some of those swimwear catalogues surely didn't hurt either.
Steve smiled fondly as he pulled up to the curb in front of the Four Seasons hotel in Atlanta, Georgia. If only you could see me now, Bucky, he thought with a tinge of nostalgia and regret. I'm going to be staying here in a room for a few nights. Now if that isn't something I wish you could see.
"Mr. Stark!" the valet called out, somewhat breathlessly. "Good to see you back in this part of the country again!"
Tony only fixed the valet with a blank stare as Steve held out the keys for the man to take. Tony remained perfectly motionless as a bellboy hopped around him to the trunk of the Mercedes, taking out their duffels and tossing them onto a golden luggage cart, hurriedly wheeling the bags up to the front door. The car's engine purred to life, and the valet signaled before pulling out into the street, gliding smoothly for a few dozen feet before signaling again and turning into an underground parking lot. Tony had his hands jammed in his pockets and was worrying his lower lip between his teeth, frowning out at the passing traffic.
The valet returned, clutching a pastel blue ticket which he handed to Steve before turning back to Tony. "Is this a trip for business, Mr. Stark?" he asked, arching an inquisitive brow. "Or maybe just for raising company and sales morale, that must be it. I can't imagine the Georgia base would need any more personal appearances, the company seems to be doing quite well if stock prices are any indication." Steve thought the valet looked like an overly enthusiastic dog, panting and foaming at the mouth, eager to please.
"Where's the missus, Mr. Stark?" the valet asked teasingly, craning his head around, to see if perhaps this woman was hiding behind Steve or something. "Decided not to come?"
Tony's frown deepened. He didn't reply, and instead walked towards the hotel entrance, the soles of his shoes clicking briskly across the concrete as he strode off without giving a tip. Steve looked curiously at the valet, who now appeared somewhat disgruntled, having just lost a significantly large tip. He decided not to ask, and apologetically handed the valet a slightly crumpled ten-dollar bill before running off after Tony.
The ride up to their penthouse suite (Tony certainly spared no expense, or maybe it was just because he was Tony Stark) was beautiful, just as Steve expected. The glass walls of the elevator opened out onto the glowing, blinking lights of the city, sparkling off the chrome support beams in little pinpricks of red, yellow, and white. The night sky was a deep indigo, and from this high up you could just start to make out a speckle of stars blinking from between the wispy clouds. The elevator was spacious, with enough room for at least twenty people and their bags to stand comfortably, and Steve grinned. An elevator honeymoon didn't seem so bad, no, definitely not.
When they exited the elevator, the bellboy was standing outside their room, smiling eagerly, like the valet had. Tony eyed him for a moment before pushing past him, and the boy's face turned quickly to hurt indignation as he glared at Tony's back. Steve frowned before pulling out his wallet and handing the bellboy the only bill he had left, a very crumpled $5 that had seen better days. The bellboy took it, but Steve could hear him muttering about rich people and self-entitlement all the way down the hall.
Tony stood staring out the wall-to-wall windows of the suite, and Steve wondered what he was thinking about.
"Tony," he finally ventured to say, "are you feeling alright?"
Tony didn't reply. The silence was overwhelming.
"I'm going to have dinner and then probably go to bed, I'm exhausted," Steve said. Tony still didn't say anything, and Steve could only take that as acceptance.
"I'll...I guess I'll see you later then, Tony," Steve said, backing out of the room. It was only after the heavy wooden door with gold plating had snapped shut with a soft click that Steve realised he didn't have a key card, the receptionist had given Tony both of them. He considered knocking on the door and asking if Tony could give him one, but decided against it.
After dinner in the hotel restaurant, Steve wandered over to the adjoining bar. In remembrance of you, Bucky, he thought, as he ordered a Glenfiddich on the rocks. As the amber alcohol wound its way down his throat in small sips and warmed his stomach and throat with soft heat, Steve remembered the day he'd gotten the news.
An officer had stopped by their house one wintry November morning, the frosty grass crunching underneath his standard-issue boots. Steve had darted out eagerly, ready to welcome his friend back home from his eight-month deployment in Afghanistan, but one look at the officer's stern, solemn features stopped him. It wasn't Bucky, and Steve finally took in the rest of the man, from the purple heart pin attached to his chest, to the way he was limping, to the folded American flag he carried in his arms.
"No!" Steve had shouted, his heart leaping into his throat. "No. No. No." As if he said it enough times, it would make it untrue.
The officer looked at him with pity, and extended the flag to Steve along with a small bundle of possessions that Steve figured must have been his. The officer cleared his throat awkwardly; he wasn't the best at delivering bad news. "Look, son, this is the address that Lieutenant Barnes had specified for delivery of his items in case of his disappearance..."
"So...he really is dead, is he?" Steve asked, feeling the tears creep into the corners of his eyes. "That's it, then?"
The soldier sighed. "We didn't find his body, or any remainder of it. I'm not saying exactly that he's dead, because we don't know that, but lots of soldiers die over there, you know, and we can't ID all of the bodies. Bombs, shootings, chemical warfare, stuff like that, it really messes up people. This is just the stuff we found in his bunk. I'm really very sorry, son."
Steve's hands were trembling as he accepted the flag and the small bundle. He wanted the officer to laugh and tell him it was all an elaborate joke, and Bucky would pop out from behind a car, the same old cheery twenty-nine-year-old Bucky that had left with his shirt untucked and his boot laces untied. He'd pop out from somewhere and shout at Steve and tell him how he should have seen his face, he was going to cry, he was twenty-six and twenty-six-year-olds didn't cry, how did he expect to get any girls like that, but that didn't matter, did it, now that Bucky was back and why don't we go and get some Glenfiddich, I haven't had any for months?
The officer laid a heavy hand on Steve's shoulder. "Lieutenant Barnes was a great man, a great soldier. He did a lot for his country. He did a lot for all of us."
Steve's mouth quivered, and he took a deep breath. "What happened to you?" he asked dully, trying to think of anything but Bucky.
The officer looked at him carefully, then shrugged. He bent down, rolled up his left pants leg, so Steve could see the gleam of black metal and plastic. "Hit a mine," the soldier said, almost nonchalantly. "Could have been a lot worse. Only had to get the lower part amputated."
Steve looked at the prosthetic, focusing on the dull gleam of the material. He didn't hear the rest of what the soldier said, and was still staring at the ground when the officer left, his boots crunching across the lawn.
He still kept Bucky's lighter in his pocket, the one engraved with his name: "James Buchanan Barnes" on the back and a spider on the front, because Bucky's favourite superhero was Spiderman, of course it was, he'd read all of the original comics and had watched the movies at midnight release. Steve had promised him that when he came back from Afghanistan, they'd go and see The Amazing Spiderman with Andrew Garfield, and Bucky had looked back at him as he walked up the stairs to the plane, held up his lighter and tapped at it, a reminder.
Steve rubbed over the engravings now as he sat at the Four Seasons hotel bar, nursing a whiskey and reminiscing. He jumped a bit when a voice came from his left: "Friend of yours?"
He turned to look, and saw the valet from earlier sitting next to him. His hair was ruffled, as if he'd been running his hands through it, his tie had been loosened, and his suit jacket was unbuttoned and hanging loosely around him.
"I'll have what he's having," the valet said to the bartender, who nodded and turned back to fetch another glass and whiskey. No, Steve wanted to say, that's my and Bucky's drink, you can't have that you're not him -
"James Buchanan Barnes, huh?" the valet asked as the bartender handed him his drink and he slid a ten across the table. The same ten Steve had handed him earlier, he could tell by the slight rip near the upper left corner. "A soldier's lighter, I'd be right in presuming. Probably dead. If not dead, disappeared. Good friend of yours. You drank..." - he examined his glass thoughtfully as he took a small sip - "Glenfiddich, is it? You drank this together. Am I right?"
Steve just stared at him before nodding tightly. The valet sighed and stretched, his dress shirt untucking itself from his slacks. He rolled his neck around to alleviate some knots in his shoulders, and the tension eased from his body in small increments.
"How did you know so much?" Steve asked cautiously.
The valet shrugged. "I'm good at guessing. It's not too hard, you try," he said, taking another swallow of whiskey.
Steve ordered another finger of Glenfiddich and took another swallow as the man beside him lit up a cigarette. The heavy scent of smoke wrapped itself around him, and perhaps it was the combination of that, the quiet murmurs of conversation around him, and the quality of the liquor that Steve found his throat loosening and words spilling out.
"You knew Tony earlier, you've met him before," Steve said, the ice clinking around in his glass as he swirled it around thoughtfully. "He stayed here before with a girl, I'm guessing. You called her his missus, so he...was married before? Or he was dating someone before?"
The valet laughed, finished his whiskey and cigarette, and checked his watch. "I would hope he wasn't dating her, I'm rather sure that's illegal across the country."
As the valet stood up to leave, he turned back to Steve. "You were right on almost all counts. All except for one thing. The missus in question was his daughter."
