Iron Man: It's A Wonderful Life

Chapter Eight

December 24, -:-

Colonel James Rhodes did not resemble Rhodey as Tony remembered him. Determined not to stare, Tony might not have noticed were it not for the head of astonishingly salt and pepper hair. After that, Tony couldn't look away. Rhodey's cheekbones were as sharp as flint. His uniform hung limply on his frame, giving him the air of a boy playing dress up. Worst of all, his hands trembled slightly as he made notes from the file he held up so that he could see.

Then Tony noticed his eyes.

"Have a seat," Colonel Rhodes invited mildly, lacking the confident tenor Tony knew. This man sounded distracted, and as though he were concerned about disturbing the neighbors.

He set aside the notes from his last interview and when looked up, Tony half expected to see recognition animate his face, but it didn't. The colonel, reach for Tony's file and gave it a cursory glance.

Those eyes. They haunted Tony, and he couldn't stop watching them over the top of the manila folder. He knew exactly what hid behind the wall he saw there, as clearly as though they were his own. That too-wide stare, the emotionless gaze.. He was recently back from the war, and – Tony looked at his hands more closely – yes, scars. Dammit. He'd been taken captive, too - only Rhodes hadn't yet taught himself to fake it. To hide from the world the damage inflicted, not physically, but mentally

"Excellent condition. Better than most. Have you ever considered a career in the Air Force, Mr… Potts?" He spoke in a murmur, and didn't look up until he absolutely had to.

Instead of answering, Tony asked him, "What was it like? When you were there?"

He could see, in the uncomfortable twist of Rhodes' body in his chair, unconsciously trying to escape the question. He wasn't accustomed to the potential recruits questioning him, and probably wasn't used to discussing his tour of duty at all.

"I was just happy to serve my country," he demurred.

"That isn't what I asked," Tony pressed.

A long silence passed between them, during which Tony was certain Rhodes was both trying to find a way to avoid answering, and weighing the benefits of doing so.

At last, he exhaled heavily. "You'd know I was lying if I told you it was a walk in the park. It wasn't. It's dangerous, and at times, downright terrifying. What makes it tolerable is that you're fighting for something that matters, and that you're not doing it alone. You fight with your Wing, you train with your Wing, and as long as you stick to the book, things generally go fine."

By the book. Tony gaped. When they had first met, Tony had not made friends easily, preferring to work on his inventions, and spent a lot of time in self study. People didn't think the way he did, and he didn't think the way they did. Rhodey had been the one to help him over that hurdle, young as he was, until Sunset came along. In return, Tony had forced Rhodey to take chances; to be a little spontaneous; to trust his gut.

To not always go by the book.

Tony's eyes flicked down to the mottled scar tissue on Rhodey's trembling hands. He almost hated to do it. "Is that what happened?" he asked. "You stuck to the book?"

Rhodes' hands curled into weak approximations of fists, not in anger, but in self-defense, and he pulled them closer to his body. Tony watched to see if he would hide them in his lap, but the colonel refrained. Glad to note the confrontational fire in Rhodes' eyes, Tony held them without challenge, but without backing down from the question.

"I think this conversation is over, Mr. Potts." Rhodes shut his file.

"Did you crash? Were you captured? How long did they hold you?" A cold rush of anxiety swept through Tony, and it wasn't just about finding answers anymore, it was about his friend, about finding out what had happened, because Tony knew what it meant to be held hostage.

"You need to leave. Now." Rhodes stood and made to go around the desk toward the door.

Tony leapt to his feet. "Wait, Rhodey-"

The colonel stopped. Pivoting slowly on his heel, Rhodes looked at Tony more clearly than he had since Tony had come into the room.

Tony had made a mistake.

"I haven't heard that name since college." He searched Tony's face for some sign of recognition, tension still in every muscle in his body. "Do I know you?"

It took Tony a long time to answer. What was there to say? "Not anymore."

As far as answers went, it was cryptic, and did not satisfy Rhodes' curiosity.

"You go to M.I.T.?"

Slowly, Tony nodded.

"Smart guy."

The way Rhodes said it, Tony wasn't sure if it was a compliment or not.

The colonel's hand twitched a fraction of an inch closer to his sidearm, like a clockwork toy running low. "What else do you know about me?" Tony could now hear paranoia beginning to underlay Rhodes words that had not been there earlier. Demons Tony knew only too well were coming to the fore in the colonel's mind, and if they were anything like the ones Tony fought so hard to ignore, they would make Rhodes erratic and dangerous.

"I know that you're too good to be stuck here pushing papers," Tony said, searching for a calm he did not feel, watching his friend struggle against pain he fought more frequently than anyone would ever know, even Pepper. "You're one of the best pilots in the whole damn Air Force, what the hell happened that you-" Tony saw it. In a brief, unguarded moment as Rhodey's dark eyes cleared in reaction to his words, Tony saw the answer to his question and his mouth dropped in surprised dismay.

"Oh, Rhodey. Not you, man." He had no confidence. Rhodey, one of the only people who regularly stood up to Tony; who stood up for Tony against the entire military; who had flown the War Machine armor into battle. His lack of confidence, and over-reliance on the rulebook, had ruined his career.

The disappointment writ large on Tony's face must have been worse than any expression of pity could have been, and equally as confusing, coming from a virtual stranger. Rhodes' nostrils flared and his eyes were suns in his head, radiating his anger. He'd expected the paranoia, but not the escalation that immediately followed.

"You weren't at M.I.T. I'd remember you. Are you a spy? Working with Them?" The 'T' was clearly capitalized, and Tony noted that yet again, he was being accused of conspiracy and treason, and in a different world no less.

"I'm not a spy," he practically rolled his eyes. "I just know you. I know you love Aston Martins, because of James Bond. I know you'll drink Pabst Blue Ribbon, unless you have company, then it's Sierra Nevada. I know you like anchovies on your pizza, your parents are Nora and Samuel…" he looked around, eyes settling on the desk. "And I'd bet money that there's a stash of Kit Kat minis in the top drawer that no one knows about."

Rhodes had gone still; so still, in fact, that he appeared to have stopped breathing.

"You didn't tell them any of that, did you?"

When he didn't answer, Tony felt his stomach drop. "Please tell me they didn't-"

"No." The word left him in a rush, like air escaping a balloon. "No, I didn't tell them that. I didn't tell them anything." Nearly all black eyes dared Tony to challenge him, but Tony didn't have to. He could see in every aspect of Rhodes' bearing that he had broken. He had given them all they had asked for, and probably more – so much, he didn't even remember, the mind providing him with a necessary shield to protect him from the horror of whatever he'd been through.

Tony knew what he'd been through. How had he endured where Rhodes had not? It couldn't be as simple a factor as Tony's influence. "You survived."

The words, or something Rhodes saw in Tony's face, twisted Rhodes features into a mask of pure hatred, and he wrenched the door behind him open, shouting down the corridor, "I need a hand here! Captain!"

Tony hurried forward, but the hand on the butt of Rhodes' gun was steadier now as he whirled around, and Tony raised his hands and halted six feet away. "I told you, I'm not the enemy. I'm a friend. You shouldn't be here."

Broad shoulders and the personification of Justice filled the doorway, and Tony faltered. Steve Rogers stared at him with a look Tony knew intimately, and had never found himself concerned with until this moment.

"This would not be a good time for a crack about the spangles, would it?" The joke was out before he could stop it, and he could have swore that Steve actually looked a little hurt.

"What's the problem, Colonel?" Rogers' voice was as reasonable and commanding as always. The man had been chosen, and then built, to lead armies, and Tony couldn't help finding that slightly mechanical quality just a little bit irritating. Even his 'bots were more natural. Of course, the man was also his friend, so you took the good with the bad.

Those were the facts of life.

Rhodes didn't take his eyes off of Tony. "I have reason to believe this man is a spy."

Rogers turned his attention to Tony, who was willing to swear he was giving him an opportunity to speak in his own defense. "Not a spy. I know Colonel Rhodes, his talents are wasted here."

"I don't know this man. I don't know how he knows about me." Tony noticed Rhodes avoided revealing that Tony had any information that could have been obtained from Rhodes under torture.

Following their conversation intently, Rogers asked the significant question: "How do you know the colonel, Mr…?"

"Potts, and we both went to M.I.T." Not a lie, though if they did a background check on Harold Potts, they'd find nothing. Where was his father?

"Do you know why Colonel Rhodes would say he doesn't know you?"

This required a moment of careful consideration, and finally, Tony said, "Hey, sometimes when you've been through something traumatic, it takes a little time to get all the parts running again. I heard you struggled with it a little, too - although that was different, since almost everyone you knew was dead. Also that friend of yours who wears too much Maybelline."

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. Tony knew it the moment the words escaped his lips, even before he saw the shock on Steve's face. Rhodes, stunned, simply stepped aside to allow Rogers a clear path as he took Tony's arm and directed him into the hallway.

"How do you know?" he echoed the question that had been put to Tony more than once that night. "About the Winter Soldier?"

Tony's body slumped in a physical sigh and went for the truth. "I know because I've worked with all of you. Fury, Romanov, Barton, Banner, Thor – Agents Coulson and Hill; you just don't remember."

In the world they worked in, it was entirely plausible. It was a scenario someone like Steve Rogers, Captain America, would at least consider. Instead, he lifted Tony off his feet and slammed him against the wall, hard enough that Tony heard the plaster crack. "Fury was murdered one year ago, trying to prevent the bombings. No one believed they were coming but him. Natalia Romanova, if that's who you mean, is a Russian spy, former KGB, still at large; Barton was blinded trying to bring her in. The army tracked and killed Banner four months ago after he refused to work with the military – and the only Thor I've heard of is a myth. I don't know Coulson or Hill, but if you mean S.H.I.E.L.D., it was disbanded after the attack. Most of the former agents are probably in Afghanistan.

"I don't know who you are, but mentioning even one of those names earns you a trip to Fort Hamilton for a meeting with some people who'll want to ask you a few questions. You go quietly, there won't be any trouble. If not, I'll get a little angry."

Stunned, Tony still raised a sardonic eyebrow. "And I wouldn't like you when you're angry?"

Steve stared at him in confusion, heavily laden with suspicion. "What?"

His heart ached. The callousness of Roger's regard for those Tony considered their friends felt like a bucket of cold water against his skin. Tony just shook his head, answering only, "Nothing."

But no, it wasn't 'nothing'. Not when it came to Banner, who had been murdered, not just because he was different, like the Captain, but because unlike the Captain, he was unpredictable, and they couldn't convince him to bring his unique skills, such as they were, to their reindeer games.

"He was just like you," Tony observed as he was suddenly airborne under Steve's mistreatment. Rogers ignored Tony, marching him at a clip that Tony almost had trouble keeping up with. "Only he didn't choose to be the way he was, that was done to him. Bruce was a good man."

"He was a monster," Rogers spat. "A danger to anyone and anything in his path."

"Yeah, I guess that would justify turning a man into weapon, wouldn't it, Captain?" Steve paused, swiveled his head to Tony, and Tony was certain he saw a flicker of remorse before anger replaced it. "That's what the Super Soldier program was all about, right? Human weapons? Looks like they've got you-"

The punch was so fast. If he hadn't been anticipating it, counting on it, Steve might have broken his jaw. Popping his head down with all the urgency of a small mammal in avoidance of a predator, Tony let the force of Steve's blow carry him forward and send his fist splintering through what Tony had correctly judged to be shoddily constructed walls.

There was a whine, and a shriek of metal, and Tony's mouth dropped open in a surprised grin. "Huh. It worked." Rogers attempted to pull his fist from the wall with quick jerky movements, and Tony stood to his full height, leaning against the wall just far enough away that he was beyond the Captain reach. "You probably don't want to be doing that." Steve's response was a scathing look that clearly indicated he didn't care much what Tony believed he should or should not being doing. Tony sighed, and rapped on the thin plasterboard with his knuckles. The space beneath sounded hollow, but for a deeper feedback that indicated something occupying the space.

"Those are pipes. I'm guessing plumbing, but could be gas. Muscle your way out of there, the Historical Society is going to want some answers."

"You hold it right there."

"You know, I'd love to?" Tony backed away down the hall. Other people were still crossing back and forth between rooms, but none of them could seem to figure out what was going on, and merely cast furtive glances in the direction of the two men, or stopped to openly watch their confrontation. 'The defenders of the nation', Tony thought wryly. "The hospitality's been great, but I've gotta jet. Hey, Mavrick." Tony smacked a boy – too young to be called a man – in the stomach. "Keep an eye on this guy, alright? Make sure he doesn't break anything. He's a war hero, you know. A goddamn national treasure."

Just his luck, the lemmings responded to his words en masse, and turned their worshipful eyes upon Steve as though he were a living relic. Tony turned and ran, just in time for Steve's voice to rise behind him, barking orders and rallying the troops into action. Tony had to move.

More doors lined every corridor, all of them of the same shoddy, identical, craftsmanship of the first. There was no way to tell, other than looking within them, what lay beyond each medicinal yellow panel. Getting trapped inside a windowless room would only be prolonging the inevitable.

The hallway flowed down and emptied into the vast ocean of the chapel. Deceptively small on the outside, the church could have easily accommodated up to six hundred worshipers before its altar on Sundays, sat shoulder to shoulder. It was a breath-taking work of architectural splendor, with vaulted ceilings, exposed beams, and clearstory windows, all hidden from view like a pearl within wood and stone.

There was no time to marvel, not when noises behind him told Tony that Steve was free and would be following him all too soon. With no practical place to go but the altar, Tony plunged ahead, searching for a means of escape, ignoring the obvious symbolism in his search for sanctuary in this place, never mind on a night when his life quite literally lay in the hands of the angels. Or whatever his father happened to be, he wasn't clear on that fact.

There was a room behind the altar with no other exit. Otherwise… Tony thought hard. He had never been a religious man, just as his father had not, relying only on the gods of science to guide their minds and hands in all their endeavors. His mother though… Tony's mother had been Catholic. She had ensured that her son attend at least a few cursory services, enough to grant him the ability to decide for himself to which religion he would cleave.

His choice was not in question, but his memory – that was another story. Something had become fixed in his mind and, as he could not hear Steve Rogers coming any nearer from beyond the hall door, Tony stopped to concentrate.

The tombstones. Sinking. Tony looked at the floor.

Eyes raked the length of the chapel to the point at which he stood upon the altar, and a cry of triumph escaped him. There was, he was certain, an undercroft here. The church of his childhood, his mother's place of worship, had made use of theirs, for meetings, activities, and day care. Basements in New York were practically unheard of, and in a church like this, would be considered dangerous for public use. But he just bet…

It took exactly two tense minutes of crawling on his hands and knees before he found the trapdoor in the stage, a hairline crack with two holes that looked like tiny careless gouge marks to the unobservant. Another minute was devoted to finding the key in the little room behind the altar, and then he was in, out, and the door slid into place over his head not a minute too soon, as the door to the chapel slammed open and voices filled the room.

Belatedly, Tony realized he had nothing in his pockets. No phone, no flashlight, not even the arc reactor on his chest to alleviate the darkness. He waited, letting his eyes adjust, and realized there was some light to be had. Half covered with dirt from the outside, a window filtered in the light from a streetlamp, and the moon beyond. Tony hoped it wasn't blocked.

It wiggled free, and he pulled himself through, toeing the pane back into place behind him.

"If it takes you that long to fight someone you know, I'd hate to see what you're doing against that Doom fellow, or those other costumed characters."

Tony's heart nearly stopped, a sensation he was familiar with, until he realized it was his father standing beside him. "I didn't exactly see you helping. Where the hell were you?"

"This is your trip, I'm just the tour guide." Howard looked completely unconcerned. "And people who need help, generally ask for help, son."

Voices, now from outside the church. "Yeah, well, we can talk about that after we're not getting caught by Fredrick from the Sound of Music. This way."

Cutting through the graveyard, an alley cut behind the next group of businesses and Tony hurried down the row until he found what he was looking for – an open gate, with what he took to be an employee all but smothered in a plush navy blue coat and matching ski cap, depositing numerous trash bags into a large receptacle.

"Did you learn anything?" Howard made only an obligatory attempt at whispering, earning a scowl from his son.

"That war changes people." This was not, he knew, a particularly original sentiment, but the alterations in Rhodey and Steve had unsettled him on a deeply painful level.

Howard overlooked the obtuse statement in favor of the obtuse behavior. "So you don't believe you've had any affect on your friends' current conditions?"

'By the book.' Tony shook it out of his mind. "Maybe I didn't prevent the war." He was growing agitated. "But Rhodey's a good pilot, he always has been, with or without me."

"Too good."

Howard let that hang there, and Tony chewed it over. "First time I flew, it was to save my life. Second time – it was like having sex."

Howard made a face, but nodded his understanding. "Rhodey flew like he was meeting the parents. He was in love, he did everything right, but he never – he didn't push dad's buttons, you know?"

"I think I might have some understanding," Howard said wryly.

"I pushed him. Challenged him. He'd be exhilarated. Still an ass-kisser, but with a wild streak no one expected."

Steve – Steve was just a victim of circumstance. They all were. Tony was the linchpin of the Avengers, and without him, there was no Avengers. With the war, they were all just weapons.

Tony crept around the fence, staying out of the light and away from the dumpsters, heading toward the open door. The clang of metal made by the trash as the puffy coated employee continued dumping bags, was deafening, and both men made it inside without drawing attention.

The corridors were deserted, but it was late. Tony still kept his voice down, looking for signs of life as he passed through grey carpeted hallways with mint green walls that made him feel slightly ill. In an adjoining hall, the skeletal figure of medical equipment answered his question – this was some sort of medical facility. Likely, there were patients on the other side of the doors they passed.

"They were changed," he reiterated, but thinking of they way they'd behaved. The men he knew weren't like that. Had that been his doing, or the war? Anticipating a war in their own world, this concerned him. He couldn't believe Steve would think killing Bruce acceptable, for the greater good, but what if he did? He couldn't bare the thought of Rhodey suffering the same hell he did, but it was more than possible.

If that were the case, Tony was sure he'd rather not-

A woman in nurse's whites appeared at the end of the hall, and Tony slid back, silent as a ghost, along the wall to his left and grasped the nearest doorknob. It turned in his hand, and he pulled his father inside after him. He listened, ear pressed against the door, until he was certain they hadn't been noticed, before exhaling in relief.

"Who's your dad-" He turned to Howard with a grin, and for the first time, noticed the room behind him.

It was a bedroom. A single bed, flanked by a nightstand and lamp, with two plush chairs to one side. A closet stood to the right of the door, and a dresser to the left, and what Tony presumed was a bathroom beyond. Altogether, it was a cozy room, were it not for the patient lying in the bed.

He was hooked up to the usual monitors: heart, blood pressure, so on. An I.V. drip provided him with what Tony figured were nutrients, given the man's vacant stare. His head was vaguely misshapen by a depression in his temple around which his hairline receded, and a crooked nose indicated that the guy had been in more than his share of fights. The television was on, and though he was propped up by pillows, Tony was pretty sure it was an empty gesture of goodwill, intended to make someone happ-

Tony frowned and moved closer. The eyes. Again, it was in the eyes. Though his were without animation, Tony knew them. He scanned the face more closely, and recognized the jaw beneath two days worth of stubble, and the mouth, though it drooled without attendance.

"No," Tony moaned.

He couldn't bear to draw closer. Only hours ago, he had fired this man. One of his closest friends.

Happy.