Note: Writing has slowed, but it's still happening! While I'd planned for this to go for about 20 chapters, I'm upping that estimate to 25, as this has basically morphed into a superhero origin story for Emory as well as a romance, and there need to be a few more chapters to cover that thoroughly.
I can't believe I ever disliked this story or worried about how good it was. I love it again! Sometimes when you're so close to something, you can't value it the same way, maybe? Thanks for sticking with me, folks.
For you folks on FFN, I thought you'd like to know that I've come up with a pairing name for these two: Autonomy. Tony and Emory Autumn are struggling in their own ways with their sense of autonomy, and this story and its subsequent planned sequels are definitely a reflection of that.
Chapter Fifteen: Disinfectant
"You have been lying to me ever since I woke up," Emory says to Fury. "Why should I believe you now?"
"So, don't," Fury tells her, shrugging and sliding one hand into a pocket of his trenchcoat. "Walk out of here, pick up your life. Three, maybe four weeks from now, you'll feel sick. Maybe it's the flu. Maybe not. Maybe that is why there's a note in the paperwork you got along with the shots. The one that says to get back in contact after four months."
Emory can't help pushing back. "But, I didn't buy them. I don't have-"
"I do."
"Convenient," she observes with a thin smile. Inside, her mind is racing. Tony had warned her about consequences just like this when he'd tried to stop her from taking the injection, but she's not completely under Fury's thumb yet. They'd dressed her in scrubs for the flight. Would the medics have kept the piece of paper in her bra with Yinsen's address on it?
Emory can't do anything about that right now. The familiar phrase floats up: This is a problem for tomorrow. What can she find out while Fury's in the room? She's watched spy thrillers. This is the moment when a bargain is struck.
The problem is she's not a spy. She's barely a protagonist. People don't write stories about the unknown girl kidnapped with the billionaire. They write stories about the billionaire. Thinking about Tony shrugs a layer of power to life, just enough to give her the strength for this new role she's been cast in. Emory throws back her blankets and stands up to head toward Fury, walking past him with her heart in her throat. Channeling Tony's outrageous confidence, she leans her back on the false wall, drawing up one leg to set her bare foot flat against it. Letting out a breath that she hopes doesn't look like a release of terrified tension, she turns her head to look at him.
"So, you're saying we can help each other?" she offers.
Fury nods solemnly. "We can."
"So why all the lies, what did you think the benefit would be?" Emory asks, frustrated. 'Why all the lies' would have been punchier, and she can picture Tony standing behind her murmuring something about overdoing it. The surge of happiness she feels just thinking of him adds another layer of power, but this time it adds to her audacity, too. The Emory who flew to Afghanistan with Rory Fall would never have the guts to just ask these kinds of questions. "You can't figure out what my powers are unless I'm awake, can you? That's why I woke up here, instead of on the plane."
Fury's voice is cutting. "Can you safely travel in an airplane?" The emphasis he places on that first word tells her what his conclusion is.
"You're fishing," Emory accuses, her anger pushing her off the wall. The way it wobbles tells her it's far more flimsy than she'd first thought, just like Fury's plan. "Did you really think you're going to reel me in with this approach? With lies, threats, and false fronts?"
"In a word? Yes." His phone rings from his pocket, and Fury steps aside to answer it.
As she takes in his admission, Emory realizes what must have happened. If Fury looked into her life at all, that research will have led him astray. She's not Rory's meek little shadow anymore. And even when she was, Emory had commanded respect from the people that mattered. She'd kept Rory Fall from self-destructing for years behind the scenes, all subtly enough that even Emory herself hadn't recognized her own worth.
It's hard to see yourself as a doormat when someone like Tony Stark stands up to men with guns to save your life. It's easy to gain confidence when he delays building the helmet that would keep him alive to make you something protective instead. Of all the people in the world, Tony Stark has said he loves her, and that's the kind of thing that makes a girl want to prove she's worth it.
The power she's flooded with from those thoughts is strong enough to ripple around her, ruffling her hair.
Fury walks over to stand in front of her, a move that she reads as a concession to what she's said despite his uncompromising words. He slides the phone into his pocket and pulls a Blackberry device out instead, taps it a few times, and starts reading. "'Emory Autumn. A kind, accommodating young woman whose propensity for loyalty can be both an asset and a drawback. She is likely to respond obediently to medical and moral necessity.'"
Emory blanches at this, particularly at the word 'obediently.' While accurate, it feels fairly bleak as a summary of her hard work managing Rory's life.
Fury holds up the device. "My analyst also predicted that you would shift allegiance from Ms. Fall to Mr. Stark. Do you disagree with that, as well?"
It's on the tip of her tongue to tell him that the manipulation he's attempting is so obvious it could be taught to his rookie agents. That is probably the point, though.
Tony would lean into his own assessment, play it up, but his would include things like confidence and conceit. Leaning into obedience isn't Stark-like at all. So what would Tony say, here?
Fuck politeness.
"So you've commissioned a profile of me. That means you know my job was basically all PR, and as a PR professional? Your first impression sucked. But, your report is right, I am kind. So, want to try again?"
It's more polite than she'd intended, but some things are just ingrained.
"All right." Fury smiles, and it's the most authentic expression she thinks she's seen so far. "We need your help. People are dying, people with no recourse. Embedded in that serum is a dependency that either nets the scientist who created it money or minions. When he doesn't get either, the world ends up with desperate, dying people with the power to act in terrible anger."
It seems ridiculous to ask what she can possibly do to help while she's sheathed in multiple layers of invisible energy, but she's gotten accustomed to the unusual over the past few months. "So, not to flog the fishing metaphor, but am I meant to be the bait for whatever you're planning?"
"You're no worm, Miss Autumn. You're the golden nugget," Fury says, looking at her appraisingly. "You're physically non threatening. Your capture with Stark was well documented, which will help in persuading this guy you're legit. The fact that you haven't resurfaced at the same time as he did implies that you may already be suffering from the sickness built into the serum."
She's listening, but her power buildup is probably starting to be noticeable. There's only so long that she can play with the ends of her hair without it looking suspicious, and it's not like she can constantly toss it to make up for its magic-induced buoyancy. Fury continues, but she can tell that he's caught on that her behavior is masking something.
"Rough plan is to see what you're capable of, get you some rudimentary training. You'll contact the scientist with a sob story that your contacts are unwilling to provide funds for your poor decisions, you're at his mercy, and so on. Truth is we'll be there as backup, and once you're in, you'll hang back while our team completes the mission." The confidence in Fury's voice is almost contagious, but there are two things Emory had noticed in his run-down that conflict with her priorities.
"You want me to stay here. Long term."
"Yep." Fury's tone has turned flippant, almost condescending. It's enough of a shift that she is immediately on guard. "Now would be a good time to demonstrate your abilities. I imagine if you're able to control them well enough, we could be persuaded to alter the living situation-"
The man's been direct throughout every part of their conversation, and now he's prevaricating. There are levels to his behavior that remind her of her early days with Rory, the way everyone they met seemed to have multiple motivations. They'd needed to either figure it out or get out. Emory needs to think fast if she is going to gain permission to breathe (or live) freely. She refuses to spend four weeks confined to this room with its stupid fake wall and obscured window.
Would they rebuild it, if it 'just so happened' to be destroyed? That's a valid question, given that she's already gotten to the point of shedding energy. Above her, the ceiling tiles are shaking in their housings, drawing Fury's attention.
"'Demonstrate your abilities?' You must be pretty sure of what they are, if you're not worried about being mind controlled or having your blood boiled as you stand there," Emory points out. Fury simply stands still, looking at her.
The door opens, and Nurse, or rather, Agent Kate walks in, stepping close to Fury to speak to him privately. She has shedded her nurse's clothing in favor of what's essentially a black catsuit. Emory has a moment of unreality as she pictures herself in such a garment, but that's just the thing.
If this were part of Rory's seven-episode soap opera run, it would be time for her character to break out and head toward her lover at all costs, and to hell with this shadowy government agency. Fury's report on her is correct, though. She is swayed by the moral argument. She wants to help.
But she won't stay in this room.
Emory closes her eyes, picturing Tony in a rich looking bedroom looking out over the ocean. Fury had complained that Tony was blocking access to some of her files, meaning that he's either hacked them or he's gotten in touch with her family to do it for him. He's still looking after her, which at least makes that part of Fury's plan a very welcome lie she'll have to convincingly tell.
The surge of energy these thoughts bring sends her hair whipping around her head. The headlong, inevitable feel of the wind's tug fills her with a nervous excitement that she can't peg as good or bad. Emory plucks a few small packages of air to send spiraling around her body, because even if she's right, and Fury was encouraging her to do something drastic, Agent Kate will definitely try to stop her. It won't be much protection, this cyclone armor, as Tony had called it, but it's something.
Before she loses her nerve, Emory gathers all the force she can muster and propels a wedge of air toward where the false wall meets the ceiling, but it doesn't budge the wall at all. Instead, the bulk of the energy forces its way up into the weak points of the drop ceiling and blows out all of the ceiling tiles in the entire room.
Emory can see someone rushing towards her, so she desperately pulls in everything she can access and sends a rushing wave of power into the ceiling to crash down between the window and the false wall. The force of the blast dislodges the wall from its mooring, scooping it up to send it rocketing sideways towards her. At the last second, Emory projects a barrier around herself as she throws herself to the floor. The angle of the shield launches the entire collapsed wall up and over both herself and Agent Kate.
Emory is dazed for a few seconds, but then Kate is on her, reaching for her wrists before being knocked sideways by the arcing air Emory had set up to protect herself. She lifts her head to see whether the woman is okay, but Fury steps in to block Emory's view.
He nods.
All of her energy is spent, and a dampening fear is rising up in her throat, threatening to choke her. The last time she'd felt this way was when she was buried in the sand she'd riled up and spun to stop Tony's fall. Emory had tumbled between the ridges of lifted sand, losing all understanding of where up was- until she'd heard Tony's voice. He'd sounded so desperate as he'd shouted that he loved her, selfishly demanding that she had to survive for his sake!
Just thinking about Tony's declaration is enough to reinvigorate her. Emory nods back at Nick Fury, pulls a wide column of air around herself like a cloak, and launches both it and herself toward the window. The leading edge of her cocoon of air breaks the window when she's a few feet away, and Emory projects the broken glass safely out and away from the room and herself.
The second she crosses through the window frame, she starts dropping like a stone. It's terrifying, but Emory's got Tony's voice in her head. I love you! Spin yourself out of there! Fight! The open air around her is fodder for her power rich hands, and she gathers it, layering the air around herself until she's no longer falling but rising. It only takes a little bit of adjustment to figure out how to manage her rate of climb, with Tony's words ringing in her ears and her triumph at escaping confinement yet again to bolster her.
As if she's obeying Tony's exact words, she spins in midair, but that gives her a good view of her surroundings. The building is on a narrow stretch of land protruding into a river, but the structure itself blocks her from seeing the far bank. Emory almost feels drunk with the giddiness of this controlled float, enough to direct herself back toward the large window she'd escaped through. She drifts right up to the open space and hovers there.
Fury is standing up against the empty window frame, looking out at her, with Agent Kate beside him. He's got his hands on his hips.
"Thank you," he calls out to her. "It was about time to remodel this suite of rooms."
Without really thinking it through, Emory snaps, "Glad I could do your dirty work for you, I guess."
She still wants to help, but not if this is the kind of partnership they're going to have. The biting sting of having been manipulated causes her to dip slightly in the air, but Emory pulls in another ribbon of air to counterbalance the feeling of shame.
"You look a little down, Miss Autumn. Don't worry- we could get this boarded up by the evening." Fury's expression is hard, but there's a gleam in his one eye that tells her this is a challenge. Emory's heard of 'power creep' before, but she never thought to apply it to being in over her head more and more until she's drowning!
Emory's so discouraged at the idea of having to be trapped in that room that she forgets herself and drifts too close to the window. Agent Kate stretches out to try to grab her, presumably to drag her back inside. Emory pushes off hurriedly, and Agent Kate smirks and shrugs.
"Barton's in position, right?" she says, her gaze locked to Emory's. Fear freezes her in place for a few seconds, but she's got a deathgrip on the memory of Tony looking up at her after they'd ended their kiss and saw the vortex of sand and dust swirling around them. That look of pride, affection, and respect she'd seen in his face is a power generator of fairly epic proportions.
"Locked and loaded, yes," Fury says pleasantly.
"I hope you also have a bead on your next possible dupe, because all tranquilizer darts will do is reset your current plans to zero when I hit the ground, you know that, right?" she says, her voice tremulous.
"No darts, just an offer. Quid pro quo."
Emory looks up at the roof a few stories above them. There are a few seemingly random protrusions visible at the edge of the building, but no people visible. She's pretty far from any other rooftop or shooting location, but by the time it would matter, there wouldn't be anything she could do about it anyway.
"I can stay somewhere reasonable?" she asks, pushing away a feeling of unreality. She's hovering in midair beside a huge agency complex she'd never heard of before, negotiating with a one-eyed badass about her participation in a covert operation against a mad scientist. 'Reasonable' has long since flown the coop.
Fury nods.
"I want contact with my loved ones." As she says this, Emory wonders if Rory would consider herself one of those people anymore. Their bond has obviously suffered (and not just due to the kidnapping), but she still cares about Rory, even if the intensity of that care has changed. Taking care of Rory had carried Emory into a life that was distant from her parents and family out of necessity, but she'd never gone this long without talking to them.
"Within reason."
A stab of dismay weakens her hold on the air swirling around her. "What is that supposed to mean?"
"This guy tracks his buyers. Your name is linked with his in news reports. You can't pick your life back up and still claim financial hardship with any kind of credibility."
She's sinking, and instead of being available to bolster her when she most needs it, Emory's layers of power are dissipating in the face of her fear. Desperately, she fills her mind with the picture of what she and Tony had spoken of looking forward to while plodding along in the hot sand after they'd escaped. It's enough to surge up to where she was before.
Fury's holding out his hand to help her back into the room. "We'll talk about it, if it's that important."
"It's not my job to find the compromise anymore," she says stubbornly. Every molecule of her body is screaming at her to find safety, but she's grown used to pushing past the edge of what feels right. "I want to see Tony. In person."
Agent Kate is speaking into her wrist and turning to walk away from the window, but Emory refuses to let herself get distracted.
"Seems you found your courage in that cave, but this is something I can't give you. We need you to be apart for this to succeed."
The words are like a death knell.
Emory throws her arms out beside her, reaching, begging for the air to listen to her commands, but she's out of control, shooting up above the window on a last burst of dying energy. She reaches for the edge of the building, feet away, and sees that there is a person standing there. He's got a giant black recurve bow in his arms, drawn back to point at her. The arrow doesn't look like a tranq dart, but that wouldn't matter now. Terrifyingly, she starts falling.
"I've got you!" a voice shouts as her cushion of air dissipates around her and she gathers speed.
Above her, the man shoots- not at her, but back at the roof, twisting in midair as he does so. He's speeding toward her, moving much faster than she is, his arms outstretched, and he uses them to grab her in a bear hug right as they collide. Emory's winded, as much from fear as the impact, but she struggles, gasping, as she thanks him.
"Don't speak too soon, we haven't bottomed out, yet," he says, his voice in her ear sounding strained but amused. There are multiple clicking sounds, and Emory realizes that while she was trying to catch her breath, her rescuer had been strapping part of his harness around her.
The mechanism he's wearing to arrest their fall kicks in seconds later. The jolt tears a scream from her throat despite her best efforts.
"Right there with ya," the man says, groaning.
8888888888
Rhodey is on Tony's side.
After triple-checking to make sure he's muted, Tony leans back in his chair and listens quietly on the multi-line call. That Rhodey's doing this at all is a testament to how angry he was when he found out that Emory Autumn was 'commandeered' and taken to D.C. instead of California. There are probably laws set up to prevent a private citizen (civilian contractor, really, at least until they cancel his ass for not making weapons anymore) from listening in on military business, but that's not Tony's problem.
"If it's a matter of national security, why were we not notified of the danger, given our close physical proximity to the subject for extended periods of time during the rescue?"
The response to Rhodey's question is so disrespectful Tony sits up in his chair so he can hear his friend put the kid in his place.
"Don't you invoke 9/11 and aircraft safety to me, young man! I was involved in Operation Vigilant Guardian that morning. You're going to tell me on whose authority this was done, on what shift, by which commander, and you're going to give me your name so it's your ass on the line instead of mine when I pass this information along. Yes, you do that."
Rhodey systematically works his way up until he's speaking to someone who claims that they're a liaison to the 'Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division.' All they'll do is take a message, but the name sounds familiar, so Tony sets down the phone he'd been listening in with and reaches into his pocket.
The card Pepper had given to him in the car is from the same agency.
Tony scrambles to hang up the phone so he can dial the number.
8888888888
Emory learns that her knight in black leather and tek gear is named Clint Barton. His flippant sarcasm keeps her sane as they are winched down from the roof, and once they're on the solid ground of the river bank, she finds herself fascinated by the dynamic between him and Fury. Agent Kate hasn't accompanied the director to greet them, but he is flanked by a few dour looking men in black suits.
"If that rope was any longer you'd need workman's comp for that drop!" Fury tells Barton in a voice just shy of stern.
"If it'd been shorter you'd have a lot more paperwork," Barton says, grinning. He unfastens Emory from his harness in three swift motions and steps back, pulling the thick straps free of their entanglement with her hair gently. With a respectful but brusque nod, he says, "Nice to meet you," and heads into the building.
Emory Autumn and Nick Fury look at each other for a full minute in silence.
"You knew I could fly." Emory finally says. She crosses her arms, feeling dreadfully exposed.
"I knew you could fall," Fury retorts. "Glad to see it wasn't immediate."
"Me too," she sighs. "I'm used to negotiation, okay? But I'm also used to knowing where my bed is at the end of the day. Can we pretend I'm threatening to walk up the fifty-odd flights of stairs to toss myself back out that open window again only to be caught by a second muscle-bound archer?" Her chest hurts from needing to let out a shaky breath, but Emory holds it in, sure that it'll weaken her position. Every part of her body is screaming that she's not physically cut out for this. "How about we just skip ahead to the part where you agree I can have contact with Tony, and I agree to help you?"
Fury regards her with a forbidding, narrow-eyed glare for a few seconds before relaxing into a thoughtful nod. "It's a deal."
Her relief curves a layer of energy around her like a caress, and Emory impulsively decides to thank him in kind, sending a tiny twist of air toward him. Because he's in the process of turning toward the building, it makes his trenchcoat furl out behind him dramatically.
"Don't push it," he says, but she can hear the amusement in his voice.
Emory feels underdressed in her scrubs when they walk into the dark grey staircase the back door opens onto. There's a level of sophistication to the architecture that is completely missing in the room she'd partially wrecked less than an hour before.
"Do you seriously have a 'throwback to a sterile generic government agency' wing of this place, but everything else is in a more modern design?" she asks as they start up the single flight of stairs.
"Actually? Yes. You'd be surprised how much difference that can make in certain situations," Fury says. "To our benefit, of course."
"Of course," she agrees, kind of impressed. The way that this place and its people seem to have layers upon layers is intimidating, though. Emory had been hoping she could leave that kind of hidden meaning social manipulation behind her after getting a 'break' from it, of sorts. Show business is an underhanded, double-talking environment, and she'd become good at dealing with that as self defense. The only silver lining she has to look forward to right now is that all of this counts as a great excuse to continue avoiding the inevitable confrontation with Rory.
Fury takes her through a hallway and into an elevator, turning to give her a slightly impish look, hovering his hand between them as he speaks. "Too bad the staircase that leads where we're going doesn't have a gap in the middle. You could just float your way up. Good practice."
She backs up so the wall of the elevator is behind her and she's mostly looking at Fury's back. "Why even bother with the charade when you're this well informed? Couldn't you just hand me my script?"
"We needed to see how you'd handle disappointment."
That has her speechless for the rest of the short elevator ride. When they emerge, it's to a high-ceilinged room with various hallways branching from it. Sounds of people exercising and practicing fighting each other can be heard from the large gym area separated from them by a glass wall with a shoulder-height window running the length of it. Emory throws Fury a wry look; she's short enough that she doesn't see as much through that window as he can. He leads her to the leftmost hallway and pulls out a keycard, holding it up.
It has her picture on it, featuring a candid photo taken before Afghanistan.
Fury scans the keycard and the door unlocks. He steps inside halfway to look around, then moves back and gestures for her to go in. His confidence and the pre-made keycard he hands her are a powerful indicator of both his trust and his confidence in his own decisions. She can't help but wonder if he understands Tony Stark's influence on her, or if she's so far managed to keep Fury on his toes in that regard.
Emory pulls in a steadying breath and walks into the room. It's a self-contained apartment, complete with stylized room dividers that don't quite reach to the ceiling.
She turns around to look at Fury. "You sure you want me so close to the elevator?"
"Better than the end of the hallway. Look out the window." She walks over to it and understands what he means. This part of the building is round, with protruding sections that curve around the outside. Her room is on the edge of one of those built out sections, making her window barely functional. It looks out at the building, for the most part, rather than the view, and its cramped position would make gathering air for a quick exit tricky. Fury's probably got a whole report on the probabilities.
"Better than bars," Emory observes, walking into the center of the room to stand next to the grey-patterned loveseat.
"Indeed." He raises his chin to regard her sternly for a few seconds, then nods at various parts of the room as he mentions them. "Kitchen is self-explanatory. Bathroom has a stand-up shower, picture window has a button to turn it opaque. Computer is locked down- data comes in, not out. Arrangements are being made to contact your family-" She draws in a deep breath to mention Tony, and Fury holds up a hand to stop her from interrupting. "I am working on something for Stark. Give me twenty-four hours."
"Are there even any clocks in here?" she asks pointedly, welcoming the tiny pinpricks of energy starting to flare on her skin at the thought that she'll talk to Tony soon. The heartache from not doing so is a worrisome counterbalance, though. She's going to need to come up with another generator.
Fury starts for the door. "Foot of the bed."
"Fury?" The absurdity of her situation is kicking in, and her voice is ragged, desperate. He turns. "Tell me why. Nearly everything you've said to me started out as a lie, but you're sticking to this separation thing like it's life or death."
He stops, turns his head. "It very well might be. You spent time with the man, do you think Tony Stark will listen if he's told he can't help with the mission?"
Emory sags against the back of the loveseat. "Shit." She hugs her arms around herself, but they're a pathetic substitute for Tony's. "There has to be something we can…" Her voice trails off.
"Time will tell." He walks over to the door and opens it, turning toward her. You should have contact with your family in the morning. Agent Harris will be in touch about the other things."
"Is that Nurse Kate?" Emory asks, frowning.
"Her real name is Sharon."
"Oh what a shock, more lying!" she gripes. Is she really expected to trust these people when it takes two or three passes to get to the truth every time?
"It's not always about you," Fury says before pulling the door shut behind him.
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Agent Phil Coulson of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division doesn't try to play hardball with Tony when he calls. The man simply agrees to meet in less than an hour, sending over the address to a nearby business complex. It's nearly seven in the evening when Tony buttons up his dress shirt, dons the suit coat, and adjusts the velcro for his sling.
Then he takes it off, shaking his head- he can't drive while he wears it, and Happy is out for the night. The arm hurts, sure, but he should be able to handle that for the short distance. When Tony slides into his seat and buckles, the act hurts like hell, and all he can see is Emory's face scrunching up in adorable, chastising disapproval. She'd give him so much shit for this, but it's part of the steps he must take to find her, so she's just going to have to deal.
He spends the drive smiling, thinking about how she'd berate him for driving injured, without asking for help. Tony arrives at the small office building and parks in an open spot in front; he eyes the sling in the passenger seat but locks the car up without grabbing it. His internal Emory tsks at him.
No one is at the sparse receptionist's desk, but a balding man with a bland suit and a friendly expression leans out of the cubicle area to see who has walked in.
"Ah, Mr. Stark. Phil Coulson," he says, raising a hand in greeting. He angles his head toward the only private meeting space visible, an office that seems built out into the rest of the room as if an afterthought. Tony is pretty sure they've rented the space solely to speak to him. It puts him on edge, because if this agency has the authority to redirect military planes because of their human cargo, they're not accurately represented by this shoddy bureaucratic facade.
Coulson sits down at the (again, almost empty of personal or business items) metal desk without reaching out for a handshake. Tony settles into the cheap, armless chair across from him and schools his face into an expression of equal blandness.
The man's eyes trace Tony's right arm. He obviously knows about Tony's injury, which isn't that surprising considering he was at the press conference to give his card to Pepper. What Coulson doesn't do is look at his chest, even though Tony hasn't chosen his dress shirt with enough care to conceal what's embedded there. The light blue color allows a faint glow to shine through. Has someone from his agency talked to Emory about what happened in Afghanistan? Tony hadn't asked her to keep it a secret, after all, but to him, it's so private that this would be a given. Tony wishes he could get a read on Coulson.
Is he a sloppy paper pusher checking boxes by meeting with Tony to get any additional information about their new captive? Or is he one of their best agents, sent out to assess Tony while simultaneously concealing their true weight as an agency?
"Thanks for meeting with me," Coulson says. "You must be doing well, to have driven yourself here."
"Sure," Tony agrees easily. He's certain that this man's genial demeanor is actually rife with hidden threat, and he can respect that. He's not going to back down, though.
He's not leaving this place without Emory's location.
"So our purview is rather broad," Coulson says, as if apologetic. "To start, I'd like to ask you some questions about your escape from captivity in Afghanistan."
"I can't imagine I'd have anything to add to Ms. Autumn's account of the event, which I'm sure you've already gathered?" Tony lifts his chin and dons the 80/20 stern/smug expression that Pepper bitches to him about.
"As you might imagine, it's important to gather any and all accounts, as eyewitness testimony is often distorted by emotional entanglements," Coulson says smoothly.
"Pesky, aren't they?" Tony says, pouring on the charm. He leans forward in his chair and offers Coulson a tight smile. "Here's how this is actually going to go: you have my friend. You took her, which I take personal offense to, and I gotta tell you, after recent events? I find myself much less inclined to care about first world inconveniences. I have a considerable fortune and very few shits to give. Where is she?"
"She's staying at our headquarters in D.C.," Coulson says, relaxing back in his chair. "As you might imagine, her safety was at issue, initially, so we took measures to-"
"Careful," Tony interrupts through nearly clenched teeth.
"Are you under the impression we intend to hurt her, Mr. Stark? I assure you, that is not the case. Her condition is classified, as I'm sure you understand, but it's not our intention to fulfill the role of scientist boogeymen, here. She's not being examined or tested, beyond routine care." Agent Coulson pauses, then raises his eyebrows. "That has been more difficult than we expected, as her medical records have been locked down by unknown, outside forces."
So, they know he locked down her files, somehow. How much latitude does this agency he's never heard of before actually have? Tony keeps his expression neutral and says, "That shouldn't be a problem, should it? Can't you override that with her verbal permission?"
"Once she is awake, yes."
Tony shoots out of his chair and leans over, slamming both of his hands palm down against the empty desk. It hurts so much that he has to grit his teeth not to cry out, rather than immediately speaking. Coulson does throw himself back, which is gratifying, but he doesn't look afraid.
"You drugged her? Give me an address. Now."
"Please don't further injure yourself, Mr. Stark. We're on the same side."
"Like hell we are! We rescued ourselves from that cave, and her reward is a dressed-up American version of the same fucking thing?" Tony pushes off and walks away from the desk so he doesn't punch the guy in the face and send himself to the hospital for real.
"I'd really prefer she be the one to explain the situation to you, sir, but the short version is that the injections she took while in captivity carry a fairly large drawback that our agency has been trying to find a way to mitigate. She's in the best possible place to deal with that drawback." Coulson's tone is soft, compared to Tony's raging harshness. Tony hears his chair push back from the desk.
This is exactly what he'd been afraid of. As much as he'd love to reject Coulson's words as fake and manipulative in the same way he rejects that the shabby office building they're meeting in is real, there's a ring of truth to his tone. Yes, he wants her to be safe, but 'safe' is relative, when there's both a real problem to deal with along with the artificial problem of red tape standing between them.
Tony's mind races, trying to come up with leverage.
"Mr. Stark?"
Tony wheels around, pins the man with a glare. "I assume you'd like to keep her condition secret? And that your so-called mitigation is classified?"
Coulson nods, one hand out as if awkwardly trying to soothe a raging beast. He has no idea.
"Put me in touch with her or I'll do it my way. I'll send her messages with your help or I'll post them in every newspaper, on every news program, every publication that has begged me for an interview in the past day. I can assure you, there are hundreds."
The agent blinks, which Tony supposes counts as 'shocked' for him. "Do you really think it's best to subject her to that kind of scrutiny?"
"What's best is for her to be in contact with me," Tony bites out. They look at each other for a long minute, neither blinking. The ache in his arm helps to keep him focused.
"I'll pass that along," Coulson finally says.
"You do that." Tony turns to leave. Right as he reaches out for the doorknob, the agent speaks again.
"Oh, one more thing. Should I contact Ms. Potts to reschedule?"
He doesn't want to stop. He almost doesn't, but Tony's not ignorant to the fact that he's just threatened someone who can make a call and have Emory moved out of D.C. before Tony has a chance to get home and arrange a flight out there, much less actually landing.
"Good idea. Do it tomorrow, would you? I gave her the night off."
With that, Tony walks out. He slides into the driver's seat wishing he hadn't chosen a convertible. Either he tries to buckle up without his right hand and Coulson sees it, or he bears the agony and fucks up his arm by buckling himself. If he chooses the latter, he'll have to sit until the pain subsides enough to actually fucking drive away. So much for a power move.
Tony rests his forehead on the steering wheel in lieu of doing anything. As he has every time he isn't actively working on something, Tony thinks about what Emory might be going through. Did they lock her up as if she's some kind of dangerous monster? Have they tried to force her into using her powers? Interrogated her? He already knows she'll have asked to talk to him, and Coulson has probably known where he is since before he crossed the ocean.
Tony's startled by the sound of the seatbelt unspooling and jerks sideways to see that Coulson is standing beside the car, pulling on the buckle.
"What are you doing?"
"You're not the only one making threats regarding a loved one's safety. Be glad I'm not commandeering the car and sending you home with an agent, instead. Drive safe, Mr. Stark." As he speaks, Agent Phil Coulson leans over and buckles Tony in, taking the time to tighten the belt. That just so happens to allow the man to press the back of his hand against the center of Tony's chest, where he has to have felt the hard shape of the ARC reactor.
Tony chuckles, shaking his head. "Well played."
"We'll be in touch about contacting Ms. Autumn," the agent promises, straightening up and walking away.
He deliberately does not turn to see Coulson's expression, choosing instead to watch his progress back to the sidewalk in the rearview mirror. He knows it's reckless, he knows it's going to hurt, but Tony throws the car into reverse with an exaggerated gesture that stabs pain through his right arm, before swinging the car out onto the road and speeding away.
8888888888
The sound of a phone ringing wakes Emory up. She squints at the clock with bleary eyes, only recognizing the time because the hands of the analog device form a straight line, top to bottom. Scrambling out of bed, she makes her way to the telephone and picks it up, pressing the old-style device to her ear.
"Hello?" she asks, hearing the scratchy, just-woke-up tone and wincing.
"It's me."