.
C2: Ignition
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Thought stopped.
Something inside of Steve stumbled, faltered, hesitated. More emotions were warring for control of his soul than he had the capacity to recognize, and his first instinct in the face of such a tumult was to shut down completely.
So he did.
"Are—are you hurt?" He managed to ask; managed beyond all reason to forge ahead, operating on training and instinct and the basic need to get out of here alive.
He managed to forge ahead, even reeling from the surreal atmosphere of the situation—aching and disoriented, ash falling like dark snow from above, a massive room lit by the glow from above... and dark, familiar eyes meeting his own. A man he knew only from television, staring him in the face. A man who had the ability and the motivation to do such damage to his life without a second thought.
The billionaire coughed out a mirthless laugh and dropped his head back against the tile floor below, blinking away the sweat that streamed down his face. "Oh, no. Pinned by a fucking wall, but otherwise, I'm just dandy. You?"
Undaunted by the sarcasm, Steve turned his attention to the smashed portion of stage that held the billionaire immobile.
"I'm going to try to move it," he monotoned, still running on auto pilot, still trying to assess the ever-worsening situation. "Cover your head."
Cursing, the brunette did as instructed, pulling his forearms over his head as Steve crouched, set his shoulder into the wood, and heaved with all of his might.
Letting out a shout that was as much from adrenaline as the sudden pain that spiked, white-hot and breathtaking down his spine, Steve was able to heft the wreckage up and several feet to the left before his strength gave out and he dropped to his knees. His shoulder was throbbing in earnest now, sending little pulses of warning through his shaking limbs. Whatever the adrenaline had tried to convince him of before, he had definitely not made it through that fall unscathed.
Stark was cursing again but moving, pulling himself slowly backwards and away from the wreck that had held him trapped.
Trying to catch his breath, Steve pried himself up. His airpac was making him dizzy, flashing yellow in his peripheral vision to warn him that his air supply was about to become a critical issue. He should have been headed out already; should have headed for the door while he still knew he had time. He swayed on his feet for a moment; disguised it by reaching for the two-by-four that still lay partially over the billionaire.
"Can you walk?" Steve asked when he'd managed to clear the rest of the debris and form something of a narrow path towards the door, praying for a little luck. He ducked his head as a loud crack resounded throughout the hall, followed by a fresh shower of ash.
"Of course, Of course. That leg bit was all just for show."
Another day, Steve might have snapped something back at the other man—something about cooperating long enough to see them both out alive—but the mere idea seemed to drain his energy now. The fact of the matter was that the fire overhead was roaring, the ceiling collapsing, and his air running low. The temperature was climbing and they both needed to get out of there... fast.
"Up," he commanded, leaning down to pull the brunette's arm over his good shoulder. "Come on. You've gotta help me out here."
Grumbling and cursing, Stark did.
A fragment of plaster dropped from above, lighting the hall with a fountain of sparks. Steve entertained the brief hope that it was just another warning sign, urging them on and out of the ever-rising heat, but it was not to be.
The room groaned around them like a wounded beast, a sound that seemed to amplify with every passing moment. The walls were igniting, flammable materials combusting with loud whooshes of air.
They had mere minutes.
"Come on, come on," Steve kept up the mantra for his own sake as much as for Tony's.
Beneath his turnout coat, the blond's shirt was soaked with sweat and his arm shook with the exertion of continuing to bear weight through the damage that had already been done. But it would hold... for no other reason, perhaps, than that it simply had to.
Steve moved just slightly in front of his unwilling passenger, kicking at the smaller pieces of debris in an attempt to clear a path toward the door. The wooden floor, once beautiful and polished, was warped and creaking now. The remains of dinner and wine crunched beneath his feet, decorations and singed tablecloths obstructing his path. He stepped over the strewn contents of a woman's purse, tubes of lipstick rolling away in front of his boots.
"Hey buddy," Stark was saying, coughing, batting at Steve's arm like a boxer tapping out of a fight. "Hey. You might wanna—"
It became obvious what Stark had been trying to warn him about an instant later as the long overturned table beside them burst into flames, the draped tablecloth and spilled alcohol inhaling the fire into a small inferno. It reached out towards them, licking and dancing in deceptively graceful little tendrils of flame.
Steve jerked his burden away from the flames, hurrying the billionaire on past the immediate danger. At almost the same moment, his respirator let out a warning tone and began to vibrate against his jaw. The low air pressure warning was a dangerous sign. He should have been clear by now. He should have been out.
Things went downhill from there.
Stark caught his bad leg on something. He let out a yell and slipped in the firefighter's grasp.
The blond didn't think; didn't need to. Instinct took over and he tightened his grip, sacrificing his balance to throw both arms around the billionaire and keep him from going down.
A blinding, white-hot bolt of lightening, spiking out from his shoulder and down through his chest was his reward. There was an audible pop as something gave out and nausea rolled through his body like a tidal wave.
He couldn't completely stifle the cry of agony that was ripped from his lips. It was a sound muted by his mask, together with the roaring blaze and Stark's many colorful adjectives. He bit it off quickly, knowing it didn't matter. But he needed to at least appear strong. He was the one in control here. He was the one here to rescue people. And the victim, whether it was Tony Stark or someone whose name he would never know, needed to have complete confidence in his ability to do that.
Standing frozen for a long series of seconds, Steve ground his teeth and fought against his body's every instinct to drop to the floor. Stark was struggling in his grip, trying to right himself but managing only to make his rescuer's job almost impossible.
Somewhere in the distant fog of sensation he could hear Fury's voice coming from his radio, and if he'd thought about it he really should have answered. Fury was telling him to get out; demanding an instant retreat because the room was going to ignite and they didn't have long. They didn't have the seconds he needed to stand there, to recover and simply breathe.
Fury was calling for him. Over, and over.
But to reach for his radio and answer would mean letting go of Tony. And if he dropped the billionaire now, Steve's shaking muscles and throbbing arm would not be able to haul him upright again. Of that he was certain.
"Up!" Steve roared to the almost immobile man hanging on his arm, sending little rivers of fire screaming up the injured limb. "Get up."
Steve didn't know where the strength came from, because his adrenaline was gone and his eyes stung with sweat and he felt like doing nothing more than dropping to the floor and hitting his bypass alarm and waiting for someone to come haul him out.
He didn't.
Instead he hefted his passenger's dead weight up in his arms, set his shoulder hard into a tuxedo-clad stomach, and took one agonizing step after the other towards the door. He didn't have the mental capacity to flinch as the ceiling rained down around them, couldn't focus long enough to worry that they were seconds away from death themselves. He could faintly glimpse the strobes of ambulances and police cars appearing sporadically through the thick smoke, and they became brighter with every step he took towards those massive double doors. His radio was still screaming; he knew.
He could hear only his own breaths. He could feel only the labored rise and fall of Stark's chest against his neck.
And then a roar of smoke closed in around them and something massive fell behind him and he was stepping off that polished floor. He stumbled just slightly as his footing changed, and he stepped out into the clean air.
The floodlights set up outside the building were blinding, and after a few moments of blinking owlishly upwards Steve realized it wasn't just the emergency floodlights, set up by the truck crew. The press from inside the hall had only doubled in the wake of this new development, and the cameras going off from every side were like strobe lights, disorienting and unfamiliar.
He was outside. He was safe.
The body wedged against his shoulder coughed and began to move, and that was all it took to upset his fragile balance. Steve sagged to one knee, half-dropping the wheezing billionaire to land mostly on his feet. Stark was suddenly surrounded by a wave of EMS personnel, whisked away to safety.
And a familiar black helmet, complete with a singed white falcon decal on the front, was suddenly in front of him, blocking out those damn flashing lights and cameras. Clint. Good old Clint.
Before Steve had even finished recognizing his friend Barton was in action, moving, talking to him in low, steady tones, sliding off his friend's helmet and mask, shutting off his screaming air tank. Steve pulled in a long, tortured breath as the crisp night air hit his lungs like ice.
"Talk to me, Steve," Clint was repeating, working at the heavy material of the blond's turnout coat, pulling it away from his neck and chest to help the stunned firefighter breathe. "Come on, you're okay. Just breathe." Satisfied that Steve was not in immediate danger of asphyxiating, Clint turned to bellow over his shoulder and call for a paramedic.
Steve's good hand was shaking violently as he lifted it to wipe the sweat from his forehead; Clint reached out without being asked and help work the heavy black gloves off his hands.
Bruce was the first to Steve's side, perhaps because he was the only EMT on scene not wholly preoccupied with their celebrity victim. He frowned at the paleness of Steve's face, taking in the glazed eyes and harsh tremors that wracked his exposed hands.
"Where are you hurt, Rogers?" Bruce cut right to the chase, holding Clint back when he moved to help Steve stand.
It took a moment of dazed, blinking stupidity for Steve to even remember. "I might have sprained my shoulder," he rasped, leaning hard on his knee and allowing his head to fall forward for a brief moment. The simple admission seemed to bring the pain rushing back, and he was suddenly hyper-aware of the sea of faces surrounding him.
"Okay, okay," Bruce soothed, back in full professional swing. Steve distantly noted that he'd exchanged his black bow tie for a dark blue EMS jacket somewhere in the melee. If not for the pressed black slacks, he almost looked the part now. "Is that the worst of it? Which arm is hurt? Let's get you over to the rig."
Managing bare monosyllables in answer, Steve tried his best to be helpful as Clint hauled him to his feet and under Banner's supervision, assisted him over to an unoccupied ambulance. The nearest rig was surrounded by a small swarm of EMT's and cameramen, jockeying for a chance to be a part of the commotion that always seemed to surround Tony Stark.
As they passed, Steve's exhausted gaze came to rest, by pure chance, on the dark-haired man sitting upright, looking haggard and irritated in the back of the ambulance. Dark brown eyes met his own, but the expression on Stark's face was not one that Steve was able to interpret. Gratitude, maybe? It could have been resentment, or irritation or fear, or nothing at all.
That was it. It was probably nothing at all, Steve decided as he was eased down to sit on a stretcher and Clint and Bruce carefully stripped him of his turnout coat.
He allowed them to work, exchanging words and tools and strapping a blood pressure cuff to his good arm. His eyelids fluttered shut as he concentrated on simply staying upright, not allowing his crashing adrenaline and weary body to lull him into too deep a comfort.
It didn't mean anything, he told himself, because this was just another fire; just another night.
Odds were good that he would never see Tony Stark again.
.
The odds were, apparently, not on his side this time.
Or maybe they were. He really couldn't tell, at this particular point.
Bruce had quickly discovered the problem with Steve's arm... namely, that he had manged to very badly dislocate his shoulder and cause no small amount of damage to the surrounding tendons with the repeated strain that had followed. After a painful relocation of the joint he was packed away into an immobility sling and given two large bottles of water to consume before he was allowed to stand again. Under these conditions he would be spared the indignity of a trip to the hospital, but Bruce made it clear that he was in no condition to finish out his shift.
Fury had a few words for him, too—many of them had to do with dressing him down for attempting a search without a partner, on low air and without communicating with command. Steve managed to inform him that he had just finished falling through a floor and may not have been thinking clearly, and that at least gave the big man pause. He backed off with instructions for Bruce to patch the captain back together, murmuring something about hearing it all in Steve's official report. As far as Fury went, that almost counted as affectionate.
It wasn't until the next morning that the full impact of the fire really began to sink in. Bruce had given in after a certain amount of cajoling and allowed Steve to hit his own thin cot in the room adjoining the bunk hall instead of heading home, but only after Clint jokingly remarked that the blond was in no condition to drive.
Clint was covering for his friend and Steve knew it; he met the lieutenant's green eyes in silent thanks. Clint was maybe the only person on the his crew who knew how much Steve hated going home to his own dismal apartment.
In Steve's mind, Firehouse Nine was his real home. And despite the frequent alarms that kept them on their toes at all hours of the day and night during their twenty-four hours shifts, it was also the only place he ever got any real rest.
So it was that he woke to the muted chaos of C shift coming in, always a full hour before B shift left so updates could be made, officers informed of any changes, and task lists managed.
He lay on his cot for a moment, eyes closed, and contemplated sleeping longer—god knew he could have—but his mind was quick to catch him up on the still-hazy events of the night before. That was all it took to pull him to his feet, catching his breath as his arm creaked in protest. He pulled a fleece sports jacket with his squad insignia on over his good arm, leaving it hanging awkwardly over his immobilized left arm and sling. It would have to do, he decided regretfully. He pulled open the plexiglass door that separated his small sleeping quarters from the long row of cots in the main bunk room, and shuffled wearily out towards the noise.
He was taken aback by the sheer chaos that greeted him in the mess hall.
Several of his crew were laughing as corks went flying; champagne fizzled and spilled as it was poured into approximately two dozen plastic flutes set out on one of the tables. Both TV's were on—loudly—and C shift was adding to the ruckus as they were caught up on the night's events.
"Where'd this come from?" Steve asked, bewildered, voice still scratchy and hoarse from the night's abuse.
Your new best friend," Loki grinned at him, raising a plastic flute and taking a sip, "and apparently he only springs for the expensive stuff."
"Are you old enough to be drinking that?" Natasha demanded as Peter Parker reached for a glass.
"Are you stupid enough to be drinking it?" Wilson countered from a few feet away, swatting away a hand in disgust when he was offered a glass. "I won't touch any shit that comes from that asshole, Stark. Last night didn't change his policies, but maybe I'm the only one who remembers that."
If the murmurs of disapproval were any indication, Wilson was not the only one who remembered. It was fairly obvious that a good number of the crew were shunning the offerings from Stark Industries, while others only looked like they wanted to—but free food and champagne was free food and champagne. Few of them could resist the temptation.
Thor was laughing loudly with Logan, because he seemed to be the only one in the whole station who actually liked the angry Canadian, and Whitman was popping another bottle open. Hank and Janet Pym were already on their second glass, sharing good-natured toasts, and the rest of the crew seemed transfixed by the nearest television.
Steve turned his attention to the screen in kind, feeling like he was sleepwalking as he watched frenzied, shaky cell-phone clips alternate across the left half of the screen, the only documentation of the earliest moments of the Baxter Building Fire. This footage quickly segued into the steadier, higher-resolution film from the news cameras, showing the flames licking from the second story. Presumably, this footage had come from the news crews that had made it outside after the initial evacuation. As the camera panned, Steve could catch brief glimpses of his own truck parked across the street; could catch glimpses of Peter and Logan pulling hose and hooking it up to the nearest hydrant. Steve and Clint had disappeared inside long ago, and the captain's only thought was that he had never logged the loss of that stupid ax he'd been carrying.
The newscaster was narrating in excited overtones, pointing out local celebrities and politicians as they were evacuated, keeping up her running commentary as she hypothesized on the cause of the fire and constantly asked the cameraman if he'd seen Stark come out yet.
It always seemed surreal through the eyes of a stranger, Steve thought, mystified as he bore retrospective witness to the growing panic that spread through the crowd when it became obvious that Stark was still inside. From this view, it became clear that the fire on the second story had spread, becoming fully involved room by room, and smoke was beginning to seep out of the third story in places, too.
"Sure different from this angle, huh?" Luke Charles remarked from Steve's side, shaking his head. Steve didn't have the energy to answer, still transfixed by the footage. It was not, apparently, the first time that most of the B shift crew members had seen it, and they were far more interested in the champagne and the gift baskets that had presumably accompanied it.
The film from the night before was occasionally inset into the corner while the morning news hosts commented on the night's events, their conversation rife with such expected phrases as "the cause of the fire is still being investigated" and "at this time, we do not have confirmed press releases from the Fire or Police departments."
Still aching, exhausted and half-asleep, it took a few beats too long for Steve to connect the dots and begin to to piece together the other things they were saying... namely, that Stark had been pulled from the wreckage and flame by an injured firefighter.
Steve blanched, unable to help stiffening as he watched footage of himself staggering out of the thick smoke. He looked drunken, barely able to stay upright, his mask fogged with his own breath, Stark gracelessly settled across his shoulder. He watched himself as he fell to one knee, and after that the cameras had eyes only for Stark. Thank god for little mercies.
"Not sure if I should congratulate you or ask you what the hell you were thinking," Clint grinned, approaching to gently nudge Steve's shoulder and offer him a plastic flute. "You're one crazy son of a bitch sometimes, you know that?"
Feeling a little sick to his stomach for reasons he couldn't begin to fathom, Steve waved him away weakly. Clint shrugged and helped himself to the glass.
"You alright?" Barton pressed, clearly reading the distress in Steve's features. He kept his voice quiet and confidential, his eyes still fixed on the television. He knew Steve hated to make a scene, and as always, did his best to respect that.
At this particular moment, it seemed that the whole city was more than intent to make a scene... at the center of which was not only Tony Stark, but also Steve Rogers. Thank god they didn't have his name yet; thank god they didn't know anything about him. He wondered how long that could possibly last.
"I just—yeah—" The blond fumbled, unable to really elucidate his chaotic emotions. "Um. This is just... all this is a lot."
"Damn straight." Clint took a long, deep drink of the champagne, clearly wishing it was beer but unwilling to be too picky when it came to free alcohol. "I don't think you've seen the worst of it either. Fury's been fending off reporters all night."
"Don't those bloodsuckers ever sleep?" Natasha piped in dangerously as she heard the comment, holding an untouched glass of champagne and standing a little too close to Bruce to avoid suspicion. The EMT's hand came to rest soothingly on her shoulder as he sensed her anger, because at that particular moment tact really didn't seem to be the most important thing on anyone's mind.
"I should probably go talk to him," Steve tried not to let it sound like an excuse to retreat from the noise and laughter and conversation, somehow more disorienting than a raging inferno.
"Good plan," Clint commented vaguely to no-one in particular, shaking his head as he watched the rescue play on repeat.
Steve shouldered his way around the clusters of crew-members gathered in the mess hall and made his way out to the wide main hall. He almost rethought his entire plan when he spied another small suit-clad mob gathered at the farthest end, near the glass front doors in the lobby, but it really seemed like too late to back out now. Instead he kept his head down and walked quickly forward, ducking into Fury's office on the right before he attracted too much attention. Their receptionist wouldn't let the reporters through those doors without direct permission from the chief, and hopefully, that wouldn't be given anytime soon.
Saying a silent prayer of thanks that he had managed to avoid that particular encounter and finally attain some peace, Steve turned to face the familiar, dark oak desk that the Fire Chief of Firehouse Nine usually occupied.
Instead he met a handsome face standing too close for comfort, took in slicked dark hair and breathtaking brown eyes.
The Tony Stark of today was immaculate, looking fit for television in a pressed suit and sleek black tie. This Stark, the man standing just inside the door of Fury's office, was suave and polished and put-together, looking to be in complete control of the atmosphere despite the small row of stitches above his eyebrow, the light brace on his leg, and the expensive-looking cane on which he leaned.
The Tony Stark of today, much like the Tony Stark of last night, had in those piercing brown eyes the complete and unchallenged power to stop Steve's breath in in his lungs and his heart in his chest.
"Rogers, you're up," Fury didn't sound as surprised as he probably meant to. "I wasn't going to wake you, but... since you're here, you have a visitor. I hardly think I need to introduce him."
"Captain Rogers," Stark stepped forward, and Steve was distantly glad to note that he didn't really seem to need the support of his cane at all, "I never got the chance to properly thank you last night. Or even say a word to you that didn't include expletives, as I recall."
A hand was extended, and then Steve's good arm was in a firm, warm grip. He had no control over himself at this moment; for the life of him he couldn't even remember reaching out for the billionaire's hand.
If he was completely honest, in fact, Steve was struck dumb, utterly overwhelmed by the moment. Tony Stark stood before him, real and warm and breathtaking in a way that suggested TV cameras did him no justice at all. It didn't seem to matter that he'd been in the same space as the man only ten or twelve hours before. In fact that event seemed as if it had occurred in another decade, another reality even... in fact it seemed entirely likely that Steve had only been dreaming, and it had not really occurred at all.
"I meant to find you last night after I was checked out, but you know—those damn paramedics broke out the book," Stark was still talking, still rambling on with his silver tongue and charming smile. "I think they were pretty determined to find something wrong with me, actually."
"I'm glad to see that you're—" Steve hesitated, fumbling for a smoothness he had never really possessed, "—looking well. Unharmed, that is. Mostly."
The blond's half-coherent fumbling only served to make Stark grin wider, as if he found something more than usually amusing about Steve's sad attempts to keep up with the powerful brunette's wordplay.
For a brief, ridiculous moment, Steve almost felt outnumbered—much like he had found himself a beginner playing a game of chess against a grand master. When it came to their use of words, he supposed the analogy wasn't entirely off the mark.
"Anyway," Stark went on, hardly looking like a man who had been moments from death the night before, "I took the liberty of sending a few gift baskets in for your crew."
"I saw that, and they really appreciate it, Mr. Stark," Steve felt he had finally lit on a subject he could address without sounding like a complete idiot, even if it meant leaving out the detail that more than one of his crew had refused to partake of the gifts strictly on principle—the man who sent them was on their blacklist, and no convenient fire or expensive gift basket was going to be enough to erase that grudge.
"Good, very good," the brunette breezed on. "Least I could do. For now. And please, by all means—call me Tony."
Something inside of Steve's chest did a funny little skip at that, a sensation that was as unexpected as it was inappropriate. Fighting not to blush at his own idiocy only made him more aware of it—including the fact that he was still wearing very little more than sweatpants and socks and a white t-shirt, his hair mussed and his eyes dark with exhaustion. Not exactly the new first impression he would have gone for with proper warning, and as if reading his mind, Stark was quick to jump on the blond's insecurities.
"How's that arm?" The billionaire asked suddenly, his direct gaze so bright and intense that Steve felt, ridiculously, that he almost had to fight not to wilt under it.
"Fine," he answered mechanically, and this time he was sure that he blushed. The attention was not what he was used to and he was desperate to deflect it. In his current state, that didn't seem likely, and so he glanced around his charismatic guest to Fury, trying to get a feel for what was going on in his superior's head.
Fury met his eyes and nodded once, directing the blond's attention back to Stark. "Mr. Stark has a rather interesting proposition for you," the big man drawled, and his ease somehow only worried Steve.
"Ah yes, yes." Tony perked up as if he had just remembered, "I know this is all quite sudden, and of course you don't need to commit to anything right away—but that's the main reason I stopped by. I want to hold a dinner for you."
"Me?" Steve blurted dumbly before he could remind himself not to sound too much like an idiot in front of the billionaire, who despite all that he had been through, seemed to be completely unshaken and quite ready to move on with his life.
"Yes," Stark nodded simply, and only the barest quirk of his lips betrayed his amusement as he watched the firefighter flounder for a grip on the situation. "To thank you for all that you've done. You did save my life, after all, Captain. In honor of your entire crew, but in particular... you."
"Oh, no," Steve held up his good hand placatingly, taking a physical step back towards the door. "Mr. Stark—"
"Tony."
"Uh. Tony... I was just doing my job. No more and no less, and I assure you, you owe me nothing."
"See, you're wrong," Tony took a step forward, maintaining the burning intensity, not allowing Steve to retreat. "I owe you my life. Let's be honest here: it was a miracle I made it out of that mess and you..." he held out a hand to indicate the blond, "you were that miracle. This is the least I can do. I insist."
Feeling cornered, Steve lifted his eyes to Fury for help.
Smiling amicably, an expression unfamiliar to his features, Fury shrugged. "I don't see why you shouldn't accept, Rogers," the Chief went on, sounding suspiciously like had had an ulterior motive for the whole thing. If he did, Steve couldn't for the life of him discern it. "Mr. Stark has made a kind gesture by reaching out to our firehouse today."
"This is my private line," Stark was saying as he scribbled on the back of a business card, nonplussed by the awkward atmosphere he seemed to have sparked in the small office. He didn't hesitate when Steve didn't immediately take it, but reached out and tucked it into his sling. "I want you to think about it, and give me a call. I don't want to pressure you into anything, of course. But you know there are a hell of a lot of people out there right now who are dying to meet you."
Steve must have visibly blanched, because Tony laughed at him. And it might have been that sound, more than any charming words and dazzling smiles that really told Steve that he couldn't refuse.
"Jesus, kid, it's just a dinner," Tony reached out and clapped Steve on the good shoulder, the heat of his hand burning through the thin jacket. "I swear I'm not going to stick you up there in front of a firing squad. Just a simple little banquet to say 'thank you' to the guy who pulled my ass out of the hotseat."
Steve tried to smile back; tried to look like he meant it, but the expression was feeble and delayed. He wasn't sure why Stark had this effect on him, but it made his palms clammy and his heart beat too fast and damnit he'd faced down much worse than this with barely a flinch. He was ashamed of his own reaction—or lack thereof—and if he pulled it together long enough to answer the smiling billionaire with a complete sentence, he might be able to salvage this disaster and walk away with some shred of dignity intact.
"Chief Fury, thank you for your time," Stark was nodding respectfully to the other man, and then Steve was back in his cross-hairs. "And you," he was touching again, one hand moving from Steve's shoulder to grip his good hand again, strong and warm, "get yourself some rest. You look like hell. Gotta have you looking pretty for that, dinner, eh?"
Forget dignity, Steve decided quickly. He'd be lucky to get away from Stark with his heart intact.
And just like that, the brunette had breezed out of the office and away into the dim morning.
"What was that?" Steve demanded of Fury as soon as the door shut behind Stark, trying not to sound accusatory and failing miserably. "You really think it's a good idea to let him host a dinner for us?"
"Calm down, Rogers." Fury eased himself down into the chair behind his desk, gesturing for the blond to do likewise. "You're not looking at this the right way. And by the way, Stark is right. You do look like hell."
Steve sighed and tilted his head in concession, unable to really argue. He reluctantly took a seat and ran a heavy hand over his eyes, trying in vain to smooth the worst of his tousled bed-head without the aid of a mirror. He was really wishing he'd taken the time to make a pit-stop before padding out into the station in socks and pajamas.
If he'd known what he'd be facing at eight o' clock in the morning, he certainly would have thought twice about getting out of bed at all.
"How is that arm of yours?" Fury asked after giving the blond a moment to try to pull himself together, "no bullshit, this time."
"Hurts like hell?" Steve tried to write it off as a joke; it fell miserably flat. Primarily because it was entirely true.
"Get Bruce to look you over before you head home," the chief sighed, leaning back in his chair. "If he even suspects there's more to it than the swelling, I want you headed straight to the ER. You got it?"
Steve nodded tiredly, wishing his exhausted brain would catch up the seemingly chaotic events of the forty minutes he'd already been awake.
"As I was saying," Fury leaned forward and brushed a stack of paperwork out of the way of his elbows. "You're going to accept this gracious offer and let that man put this dinner on for you. You're going to put your best foot forward and court Stark's good graces in whatever way you have to."
"Why?" Steve asked, bewildered, and tried not to read too much into Fury's unintentional imagery.
"Because you—" Fury pointed directly at the the blond, "are currently the only man in this city who has a break here. Last night was a disaster, in a lot of ways, really, but it gave us one thing... a chance. A chance to knock a little sense into that thick, stupid, money-addled brain of Stark's."
"What are you saying?" Steve frowned, even though he was afraid he knew exactly what Fury was saying... even if Steve was probably the last person who could see such a plan to fruition.
"I'm saying you might be our little flicker of hope, kid," Fury smiled mirthlessly. "Because you might be the only one who can open Tony Stark's eyes to how much this city needs us."
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Questions? Comments? Suggestions? Have at me!
Thank you a million times over to reviewers SirVacuumThe3rd, arienperry, hinkirin, Clack-WWBM-Lover, and Tacpebs. This chapter is for you.
