"Germany led the civilized world of physics in every aspect,
at the time the war set in... It was a very frightening time."
-Manhattan Project physicist Leona Marshall Libby
Casablanca, Morocco; October 15, 1941
Steve's impromptu going-away party, which had been thrown together in a frenzy by Clint's band of sailors, was already in full swing when Tony came back to the ship. Toilet paper that doubled as streamers had been cast around an empty storeroom. Clint had managed to arm-twist the mess attendant to fork over a few chocolate bars, and Sabin had somehow smuggled an entire record player from the ship's chapel to play some tunes while they ate. The mood was cheerful to the tones of Dinah Shore and off-key attempts at "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow." Steve's face was frozen in a smile as the sailors pow-wowed on the floor for a round of drinks.
The party had been a total surprise, and it warmed Steve's heart to think that the sailors had gone out of their way to celebrate. They insisted it was their way of giving back to him. An empty storage hold had shed its spartan appearance in favor of homespun decorations and limited refreshments, but Steve couldn't ask for more. The sailors had teamed up to regale him with their tales from boot camp, which had made for an entertaining evening.
"So I told him," Clint began, taking a swig of a flask Owen had passed to him, "Look, sir, it doesn't matter which model of plane is flying at you at the moment, you just goddamn shoot! And that, my friends, is how I pissed off a petty officer who made my boot camp a personal hell."
"Our boot camp was short. They made sure we could all swim, gave us some training on the guns, and sent us on our way in a few weeks," Farley added, passing the silver flask on to Sabin."I've been meaning to ask you, kid, how's it that you managed to get past enlistment? Underage as you are, of course."
"I've been meaning to ask you, kid, how's it that you managed to get past enlistment? Underage as you are, of course."
Farley flushed a brilliant red and looked to Clint, who shrugged in response. "I didn't tell 'em."
"How old are you anyway, Far? C'mon, you can tell us." The circle tightened as the sailors leaned in conspiratorially. Farley ducked his head, embarrassed by all the attention.
"If you gotta know, I'm fifteen," he admitted sheepishly, and Sabin howled with laughter.
"You've got guts, son! When I was fifteen all I cared about were girls and cars, not the Navy!" Sabin reached across the circle and ruffled Farley's hair with his knuckles.
Farley reached down and pulled off one of his boots, smiling at the group as he rapped his fist against the plastic sole. A scrap of paper fluttered to the ground and Farley snatched it up, holding it in the light for the sailors to see. Steve could make out the number 18 written in thin pen on the well-worn paper.
"When I went to enlist, I stuck this piece of paper in my shoe. I got up to talk to the man at the desk, and he asked me if I was over eighteen, so I told him I was."
"Over eighteen!" Owen fell backward cackling on the ground, and the circle dissolved into laughter as Farley grinned at them. "Well, he's not wrong, is he?"
"So I wasn't technically lying!" Farley protested, pulling his shoe back on with the slip of paper inside.
"I'm going to miss you, Farley, and the rest of you as well," Steve admitted, and Tony frowned with confusion across the circle.
"What's going on here? Did I miss something?"
Steve turned to Tony and nodded, ready to tell him the reason for their impromptu party before Sabin butted in. "So the English chick wanders right into our barracks during free time, interrupting a nice game of acey-deucey, and asks for Stevie here. He follows her out, love-struck all the while, and he's not back for a while. When he gets back he's crimson red and tells us he's getting transferred off the Reuben James!"
"To set the record straight, I was certainly not love-struck." Steve defended himself, but Clint shook his head knowingly.
"Don't try to hide it, Steve. All that private time during officers' meetings... Anything could happen y'know?"
"You're impossible."
"So naturally, the next step was to throw a going-away party! I decorated." Farley grinned, and Steve saw Tony cast a critical eye over the decorations.
"I can tell," Tony replied, lifting a roll of toilet paper with his finger, and Farley ducked his head to scrutinize his shoes.
Clint's eyes narrowed for a moment, then he stood and thrust his half-eaten chocolate bar in the air. "I propose a toast to Steven... What's your middle name, Steve?"
"You're gonna toast the guy and you don't know his middle name?" Owen snickered, and Clint aimed a kick at Owen's head.
"To Steven Rogers, the best goddamn unofficial Navy PE teacher that ever walked the face of the earth. You saved some folks in London, whipped us into shape, and you get the girl. Cheers!"
Slightly embarrassed, Steve tapped the wrapper of his chocolate bar against Owen's like a wine glass, tearing open the paper to reveal the candy inside. It had been so long since he had had chocolate the cheap sugary bar seemed like a delicacy. There was a moment of silence while everyone inhaled their chocolate bars, then the room dissolved back into boisterous chatter.
"Go on, Steve, tell us why you're getting transferred," Farley begged.
"Sure, this is how it really went. Agent Carter brought me up to the bridge because Lieutenant Commander Edwards had received a telegram concerning my position on the ship. They asked me if I wanted to serve my country, and I said I did, so they told me I had been reassigned back to the States. I'm flying from Casablanca tonight."
"They can't do that to you!" Farley pouted, crumpling his chocolate wrapper beneath his toe. "You shouldn't have to leave us here. It's not fair!"
"He is in the Army, after all. I reckon they can do pretty much anything to a fella if they want to," Owen added sagely, tipping his head back to take another swig from the flask. Clint snatched it from him before he could, pocketing the container in one swift sleight of hand. Steve was glad he did so – even for a going-away party, he didn't want things to get too out of hand.
Standing and straightening his collar like a proper gentleman, Clint grabbed Tony's jacket from the far corner and swept it over his shoulders. He cleared his throat in a dignified manner and pulled down on the suit's sleeves, wrinkling his nose in what Steve guessed his impression of an aristocrat. "C'mon, guess who I am!"
"Oh!" Farley's hand shot in the air. "You're Agent Carter."
"A good guess, but nyet." Clint shook his head, taking a long step forward and drawing his hands up like a conductor. "I enjoy women, new cars, expensive alcoholic beverages, women, being better than everyone else, showing off my technical expertise, women..."
"I think you forgot about the women part!" Sabin hollered, and Tony rolled his eyes.
"Real funny, Barton. Can I have that back?"
Turning on his heel, Clint mimed taking a sip from the flask. "How do we say it in France? C'est magnifique!"
Steve glanced to the side and noticed Tony had gone very pale; he stared intently at the jacket with clenched teeth and white-knuckled fists. Clint and the sailors seemed oblivious to his change of mood. Emboldened by drink and the cheery atmosphere of the room, they continued with their charades.
"Okay, here's a new one." Clint drew his brows in a pondering expression, then spun on his heel to the rhythm of the record. "If you're slow on your feet in combat you're as good as knackered! Nevermind how much your comrade screams, just slap a bandage on his arse and move on... God save the Queen!"
"Now that's our very own Queen Victoria! Steve's spent so much personal time with her, though, I bet he could give a better impression." Sabin waggled his eyebrows at Steve.
Tony shot to his feet and stormed over to Clint, reaching forward to tear his jacket from the seaman's shoulders. Clint dodged underneath his lazy swipe, much faster and stronger than Tony could hope to be, and patted something in the breast pocket of the suit. "What's this, then? Have you been holding out on us, Stark?"
"I said give that back!" Tony shouted, but his cries were drowned out by the hooting and hollering that filled the storeroom.
"Go on, then! Are they love letters?"
"Liza's gonna be jealous!"
"Read us a bit, Barton!"
Lurching forward, Tony made another desperate grab for his jacket, but Clint held him away at arm's length while he fished a packet of paper from the inner pocket. Steve leaned forward to see what the parcel was – most of the papers were bound in twine and manila paper, but a few loose sheets stood out from the bundle. Clint seized these eagerly and began to read with a grin on his face, ignorant of Tony's furious expression, and began to read in a booming voice for all to hear.
"Dear Mr. Stark, we have received your inquiry and have corresponded to express interest in your creations for the flourishing of Germany's Thousand-Year Reich. As correspondent for scientific claims, I speak for the Uranverein science team when I say your mechanical mastery has brought great joy to the heart of the German state. Our focus on nuclear physics will be greatly aided by your contributions..."
The record squealed to a halt on the record player, spinning soundlessly as the final strains of swing jolted off track. Clint looked up from the paper, eyes flickering from face to face and back at the lines again. Steve could see clearly the top of the stationery on which the letter had been penned. The eagle of the Reich was emblazoned in black ink on the top corner of the creamy sheet.
There could be no mistaking the intention of the letter. Realization sunk into the room in a clammy pallor, and paper crinkled between Clint's fingers as he balled them into fists.
"You traitor!" he roared, lunging for Tony and landing a punch across the jaw before Steve leaped to his feet and dragged him back. He fought against Steve's restraining hold, twisting and tugging to release his arms as the other sailors got to their feet. Dragging his own arms back, Steve shuffled back a few steps as Tony wiped a smear of blood from his lips. His hands raised into the air in the gesture of surrender, and Tony took a slow step away from the group into the corner of the room.
"Lemme go, Rogers, I swear to God I'll kill the bastard myself," Clint growled, and Steve pushed him aside.
"You're drunk, Barton. Stay out of this." Steve replied in a placating tone. The seaman huffed and crossed his arms, eyes smoldering as stared at Tony's trembling frame, but he made no effort to attack again. Turning away from him, Steve turned his focus to Tony. He stood with shoulders slightly hunched like a wounded dog, eyes flickering from face to face and to the distant door.
"That's right, Rogers, call off your pack dogs. It's what you do best, isn't it?" Tony called back through panting breaths, flexing his jaw. A mottled bruise had already begun to form where Clint had struck him. The sailors bristled behind Steve, but he cast them a look and a small gesture with his hand. Stand down.
"Tony, I wouldn't recommend insulting people in your situation. Can you explain the letter?"
Eyes widening, Tony raised his hands again. "Look, it's not what it looks like, okay? My dad and I were doing some correspondence with German scientists before the war started – boring stuff about atoms and the like. I never got into it, but now the Reich wants us to help them out! They think we're in cahoots with those dirty Nazis because we were doing some research beforehand! That's all this is!"
Steve balanced this claim with what Clint had read. Tony was a smart guy, and Steve didn't doubt he would spin up any yarn to save his own skin. His eyes fell on the packaged parcel on the ground, dropped and left unopened during the scuffle. He wanted to believe Tony, he really did, but he had to consider all of his options before jumping to conclusions.
"Assuming what you've said is true, then you won't mind us looking in here?" Stepping forward and reaching down to the floor, Steve raised the parcel. Tony visibly paled but nodded, reaching forward instinctually as Steve unwound the twine to open the package.
"Please, be careful with that!" he called as Steve peeled away layers of wrinkled paper and plastic to reveal a thick wad of folded papers. Steve unfolded the paper on the top, a series of blueprints for what he could only guess to be some sort of mechanized boot. Every segment was broken into individual parts and labeled with painstaking detail in a nearly indecipherable scrawl. Page after page followed, with blueprints ranging from guns to jet engines to electronic bombs that could be programmed with coordinates. One common theme stood out for all of the blueprints: they were all weapons of war.
A heavy silence hung over the storeroom as Steve perused the documents. He handed a few off to the other sailors to see but spent extra time examining the letters included in the bundle. Typed in bold ink against luxurious off-white paper, the letters detailed the exchange between Stark and scientists, government officials, grassroots organizations, and everything in between.
"Dear Mr. Stark, your letter has been returned as I cannot operate as a free radical apart from the government..."
"Mr. Stark, we regret to inform you that HYDRA had no interest in your blueprints, regardless of how "bloody incredible" they are..."
"Mr. Stark, your revolutionary concepts promise incredible change and a bright future for the beleaguered souls of the scientific community..."
"This don't sound like research to me. What do you think, Sab?" Owen raised his eyebrows and lifted the letter he had been reading. Held aloft, the paper bore the resemblance of a white flag snapping in surrender.
"Now, I'm no educated professional, but this looks like the selling of war materials to the enemy," Sabin confirmed.
Farley's head whipped back and forth as he followed the conversation, from Tony to his friends and back again. "Wait a minute. Why would you sell stuff to the Germans? We're fighting them!"
"We're not at war yet, Farley."
"Don't talk to him," Sabin seethed, stepping forward and pushing Farley behind his back, out of harm's way. "You get out of here, you here me? Get off this ship now. Or should you call your Kraut friends to give you a lift to Berlin?"
Tony's gaze locked with Sabin's, a blistering stare that could burn through steel, but neither responded. Planting his feet, Tony shoved his hands in his pockets and glared at the crowd, as if daring them to move him from the spot. Steve stepped up and Tony flinched, but he only meant to talk.
"Why did you do it, Tony? Why give your designs to the Germans?"
"They're not just Germans, they're scientists. Some people are more than where they're born. We're all people too, aren't we? So what if one of us flies under a different flag? I'm helping accelerate science, and people are recognizing me for what I've accomplished. Or does none of that matter to you?"
"It matters to me when those people fly under a flag that kills innocent people. Hell, they attacked your ship and nearly killed your dad! Does that not matter to you?" Clint scowled, and Tony raised his chin, proposing no counterargument. "I'm with Sabin. Get outta here."
Eyes black with rage, Tony snatched his jacket from Clint's hands and tore the parcel out of Steve's grip, storming out of the room without another word. The door slammed behind him as he left, and the vibrations lurched the record player back on track. Smooth trumpets sounded again, tinny against the blood rushing in Steve's ears and the bated breaths of the sailors.
"I never would have pinned him to be a spy or nothin'!" Farley exclaimed, looking near tears as he stared at the door where Tony had exited. "Gee, is it real? Is he really...?"
"Yeah, kid. Really." Clint released a resigned sigh, leaning against the wall and resting his forehead on the steel.
He was gone, Steve knew it. Shock still pumped through his veins, disbelief etched in his mind despite the evidence he had held in his very own hands. The world of spies and war had seemed so far away, and yet...
Tony Stark had entered their lives in a blaze of glory, and had exited with a rather inglorious finale.
Uranverein - "Uranium Club," German secret program to develop atomic weaponry begun in 1939.
(Happy Fourth of July to my American friends! To my non-American friends, wish you were here. Why not update on the most patriotic day of the year? If you want to, drop in a review and tell me what you think so far!) :)