Practically floor to ceiling, there's electronic guts and viscera. Beside you, Clint lets out a low whistle.
"Looks like a robotic autopsy in here."
Click of heeled shoes and Pepper comes into view, weaving her way through the mess with practised ease and natural grace.
"The thing you need to know about Tony," she says, apologetic. Comes closer, white pants suit at odds with the grease and pitch of scattered metal. "The thing you need to know about Tony is that when he doesn't understand something, he dissects it."
Pretty sure that counts as an autopsy, mutters Clint. You elbow him subtly. Pepper lifts an arm. This way please. You follow her strawberry ponytail through the maze of screens, crates, and carnage. Wires, pliers, and magnifiers. Big pieces of machinery and small nuts and bolts to hold it all together. You don't even know how to classify half of the wreckage cluttering the room.
"What brings you to New York?" Pepper asks, cheerful and polite in the face of the obvious answer.
Clint glances down at his uniform, your uniform. Looks back to Pepper. "SHIELD business."
"Oh, right. Classified, I imagine?" She deserves credit for keeping a dead conversation going, you have to give her that.
Clint nods. "You guessed it. But Stark'll probably tell you anyway. Must make for interesting pillow talk."
Uncomfortable now, and embarrassed on Clint's behalf, you clear your throat and flounder for a new topic. "This is a lovely home you have, Miss Potts."
She laughs, quiet and easy, not at all put off by Clint's comments or your blundering attempt to cover them up. "I have a lovely twelve percent of this home." There's some sort of hidden joke there. But you're not in on it and Pepper's smile is secret and genuine.
The tower is still under construction. The further in you go, the more apparent this becomes. You try to give it the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it will look better when it's finished. At the moment, you hate it. There's too much glass and steel. Everything is a slate gray color, lines sharp and defined. Despite what you told Pepper, it's not lovely and not even remotely like a home. Not that your opinion matters. This isn't for you anyway, which is for the best because your old-fashioned taste has no place in this pinnacle of modern architecture and technology.
Tony can be heard before he can be seen. He's pronouncing criticism and name calling but aside from a couple of robots, he's alone in the room. A quick glance at Pepper reveals this behavior is normal. She takes you behind a table and there's Stark. Cross-legged on the floor, blueprints spread like wings before him. When Pepper calls his name to get his attention, he seems not to have heard her.
"Tony," she repeats. "Tony."
He barely looks up. "Don't interrupt. I've almost cracked this." Voice commanding and dismissive.
Pepper purses her lips, displeased. Clint takes the initiative, crouching down and flicking a corner of the nearest paper.
"What are you working on? Self-tying shoes? A machine that can peel a grapefruit in under three seconds?"
"No, but now I know who to call next time I want stupid ideas."
Pepper tactfully digs the tip of her shoe into Tony's spine. He grunts, stands. "Tony, these two came all the way from SHIELD to talk to you. The least you can do is act like a grown up."
"Ever heard of a phone call?" Tony's eyes leap to you and stay there. Pin you like a butterfly to a display board.
You shift weight from one foot to the other. The movement's not quite enough to be squirming but it's definitely not a show of confidence. After her offer to get food or beverages is declined, Pepper leaves. The air tightens behind her, a sort of vacuum. Tony has yet to release you from the intensity of his stare.
At the desk, Clint pushes aside fragmented works in progress. Snaps his fingers impatiently. You gladly pass him the file. The lure of a stuffed manila envelope finally entices Tony away from you. He idly flicks through it while Clint summarizes the information. You feel the chill of air conditioning blowing across your neck and resist the urge to wrap your arms around yourself for warmth.
In the end, Tony agrees to design new helicarrier engines, though his motives are less altruistic, bending instead toward egocentric. But Clint is pleased knowing that Fury will be pleased. Which is the whole point anyway. Once the papers are back in their packet, Clint stretches his arms over his head, talks about getting something to eat on the way back. He makes for the door, you follow. A hand snatches your wrist. Tony holds it only long enough to get your attention before dropping it and shoving his hands in his pockets. Like he never touched you.
"You should come by my place in Malibu sometime. I think you'd like it."
You're not sure what prompted the invitation, even less sure on how to interpret it. Tony's face gives away nothing, posture casual.
"Pepper's got me scheduled for a symposium next weekend but after that, we're headed back to California. You should really drop by."
Clint pokes his head back in from the hallway. You give Tony a vague answer and leave. It's silly, but you imagine tally marks in your head. One for Stark.
OoOoO
You can't believe you actually did it. Yet here you are. Malibu, California. Cost a rare vacation day to do it too. Fury didn't ask where you were going but you've got a suspicion that he didn't have to. The man's got eyes and ears everywhere. He wouldn't be head of the world's greatest intelligence agency if he didn't.
Stark's AI lets you in at the gate and greets you at the door. Though no less ostentatious, the Malibu mansion is more tastefully designed than the New York Tower. Floor to ceiling windows give you a view of the ocean. The waves hypnotize you. Back and forth in an endless ebb and flow. Rolling motions, uniform only in their unpredictability. Water against rock and you nearly taste salt on your tongue, sea foam on your face. JARVIS's voice jolts you back to the sunlit living room.
It directs you down a set of stairs, conversing naturally despite your uncooperative silence. At the bottom, more glass. The view isn't oceanic but it's chaos nonetheless. It's repetitive - the scene. Same story, different setting. More electricity and machinery. Scattered and piled and boxed up. On tables and benches, chairs and stools. Even the floor. JARVIS opens the door and the waves sweep over you.
A man is screeching to the cacophony of aggressive guitars and belligerent drumming. There's a tang of hardware in your nose that sinks to the back of your throat. It reminds you of Germany. Of beans straight from the can at the end of a long day's grueling march. Marches designed to catch up with disaster and death, heading right for it, baiting and teasing and inviting it directly into your lap. The hardware smell burrows deeper.
Tony's hunched over what you recognize as his chest plate. He's handling a pair of thin pointed tools and whenever they touch the armor, sparks jump. The sleeveless undershirt he's working in unsettles you. It feels like an intrusion. Like barging into something intimate. Every other time you've seen Stark, he's been in a suit - Iron Man or Armani. He's too exposed this way, knobs of his shoulder blades clearly visible, rippling as he works. Back and forth in an endless ebb and flow. Rolling motions, uniform only in their unpredictability. Disturbed by the physical vulnerability, you turn your eyes to the rest of the room.
Beyond the gadgets and the tools, the sheets of metal and the crates of spare parts, there's a personality lurking around the edges of the room. Interspersed with a multitude of television and computer screens, there's a number of classic items you're surprised you recognize. A jukebox for one. Wine cellar and wet bar, paintings and memorabilia. And at least a half dozen luxury cars, gleaming under the lights.
You gravitate toward them, eyeing the sleek designs. If they didn't cost more than your life was worth, you might reach out and run a hand across the gorgeous models. As it is, you content yourself with admiring only. Looking without touching. It's as you are browsing the collection you notice, heavens above, Stark's got motorcycles too. You didn't take him for a biker but then again, you barely know the man. Fighting one battle together against aliens does not make you friends. But it does apparently get you access to his garage.
"Like what you see?"
Whipping around so fast, you almost lose your balance. You never heard him approach. Tony's wiping his hands on a grease rag, corner of his mouth quirked smugly.
"Of course you'd be interested in the bikes. I don't think I even know how to ride one."
The information is offhand. You try not to bristle. The economy today is unrecognizably improved from when you were growing up. People actually have money to waste. Billionaires, even more so. Doesn't change the fact that your instinctual response is indignation. Rather than argue, you move to a safer topic.
"Actually, the cars are what really caught my eye."
"You like those?"
You step around the bikes, moving closer to the luxury cars. "Yeah."
Tony mirrors your motion. He smells like sweat and electricity. "Too bad the Roadster's not ready. I'm not quite finished with it. Still tinkering." A tilt of his chin to indicate the Ford sitting in a separate section of the garage.
You saw it earlier. It's certainly familiar in build. But the flames aren't quite to your taste.
"1932. Custom, of course." Tony continues down the line of cars. "These might be more along the lines of what you're used to." He points them out as he names them. "'49 Mercury Coupe. '53 Ghia Cadillac."
You shrug. "Bucky's folks had a Model-T. Sometimes they'd drive us places."
While talking, you and Tony have walked the length of the garage. At this end there's a sleek white convertible that has you pausing for another look. Tony notices.
"One of my personal favorites." He glides his hand across the front fender.
You walk to the other side, leaning forward slightly to admire it.
"You want to take a ride?"
Startled, you glance up from the car to meet Tony's stare. He's got an eyebrow arched and the hint of a smile lurks near his lips. You nod dumbly. He claps his hands together once.
"Perfect. Just let me freshen up." He crosses the workspace. "Dum E, take care of our guest." The robot chirps. "Don't talk back to me or you're going in time out."
OoOoO
Wind in your hair. Sun on your face. The road stretching in front and the miles behind and it's freedom and speed and exhilarating. Stark drives fast, recklessly. It would be frightening, if it wasn't so thrilling.
"You know," you start. "The last time I was in a car going this fast, I was on my way to crash a plane into the ocean."
Stark tilts his head toward you, peering at you over the top of his sunglasses. "See, this is why no one likes you."
That's not the response you expected and you pull back ever so slightly.
He continues. "You don't just bring crap like that up in casual conversation. It makes you look desperate for attention. So you almost died. Big deal." He shrugs, faces the road again. "It happens. I mean, look at me. I've almost died multiple times but you don't see me crying about it, do you?"
He leans forward and flicks on the radio. More of the screaming man with the screaming guitars.
"Tony," you try.
He turns the volume up louder, cuts off any further attempt at conversation. Disappointed and somehow angry and guilty in equal parts, you settle back in your seat. You wait for the ride to end.
It should be a relief when Tony pulls into the garage. It isn't. He shuts off the engine and the both of you sit in silence for a minute. You're the first to move, climbing out and carefully shutting the door. After all, the car boasts a value with far too many zeroes for carelessness. Despite what happened earlier, there's no excuse to abandon manners so you thank him stiffly and turn to go. He calls after you, still at the wheel, arm thrown across the back of the seat so he can stare at you over the rim of his shades.
"We should do this again sometime."
You nod. God help you, you nod. You don't know what else you can do.