Chapter Sixteen: 5:44 AM to 8:27 AM in Washington, D.C.
"It's me."
"Tony, oh my God!" Emory bursts out, clutching at the receiver with both hands. She has so much to tell him, but she shouldn't start with the heavy stuff. "You're safe, right? It must be three in the morning! Did you get dehydrated too? How much longer before-"
"Well at least they're not using some secret government tech to pretend to be you," he interrupts. "Though, it wouldn't take more than an hour to learn how caring you are. I'm at home in Malibu and it's quiet as hell," he says, proving in his transition from the compliment into a gripe that it's really Tony she's on the phone with. "I had to jump through some bullshit hoops to make this call, and if they could hear my thoughts they would cut it off right now. You should be here. With me."
The sexy sternness in his voice makes her catch her breath in ways he probably didn't intend. Then again, it's Tony. "I wish I was," she says, perching on the front edge of the loveseat. "I kept thinking there was something wrong every time I rolled over in bed-"
Tony breaks in again, low and teasing. "Someone's missing? Agreed."
"Wellyes," she says, pleased and flustered, "-but I mostly meant it was strange not to feel the cot shake. Took a long time to fall asleep."
"I fell asleep in my computer chair. Drifted off, fell forward, and somehow commanded the computer to lock down your medical records for another week," he says.
Emory has to cover her mouth with her fingers not to laugh and further inflate his ego. He sounds insolent and challenging, and it's for her benefit. The thing is, she knows Tony, at least a version of him. He's got to be coming apart at the edges a little.
"I can picture you right now," she says. "You're near a window, looking out on the ocean, and you can't stand the view. And I bet you've barely eaten anything."
"You just can't turn it off, can you?" Tony observes. Emory winces, but he's right. She's trying to take care of him from across the country, when in reality, he's free and she's not. It's ignoring herself in favor of someone else again, but his voice doesn't carry censure. It's kind and encouraging, a tone she suspects most people never get to hear. She doesn't know whether to laugh or cry.
"Darnit, Tony, now is not the time!"
"Look at that." He's smug, but there's an indulgent curve in his voice that's slaying her. "Our first fight on US soil. Looking forward to the makeup sex, sweetheart. Or any kind, really."
"That's assuming they change their mind about letting us anywhere near each other," she grumbles, pulling her feet up and shoving herself back onto the loveseat with her heels.
"They will."
His statement has an element of certainty that feels significant. "Tony, did you…" she hesitates, then goes for it, "Did you threaten-"
He interrupts right away. "I deeply resent the surprise in your voice, Jailbird. I didn't slave away at being born rich to never misuse my influence! If they don't want me to ask public questions about your whereabouts, they should keep me informed."
Emory sinks further into the loveseat, grinning behind her knees. Jailbird! She reaches up and pulls out the ponytail she'd slept in so her hair can block her face from the cameras that are definitely monitoring the room.
"So, what? You told them you'd start making a fuss in the media about where I am?" Emory remembers Fury's admonition about Tony and feels its importance in a new way. A zap of fear courses through her, but she mentally swats it away. If SHIELD had wanted her to follow rules rather than her own judgment, they should have let her know. The mental swat isn't really working to repel her feelings of dire responsibility, though. How is she going to let Tony know what's going on without him wanting to wade in with both feet? Just the thought of figuring that out is making her feel like she's drowning.
"Stop freaking out. They told me," Tony says.
"...what?" Emory almost drops the phone receiver and her knees slide down. Surprise has overridden all muscle commands. Surely he wouldn't sound as calm if he knew they were planning to send her on a mission-
"Breathe," Tony's voice says from the phone in her lap. She snatches it back up.
"I- I am, I was just- what exactly did they tell you?"
"I don't like the influence those assholes have on you, for the record. You're prevaricating, like you're not sure what to reveal, and I can tell," Tony snaps. He continues, less harsh but still unhappy; "I met with the CIA's version of Jeff Bezos yesterday, complete with cheap office supplies and a superior attitude. He said the injections are doing something to you, and they can fix it, and I should stay the hell away if I want the best for you. You can imagine how well that went."
"Flamethrowers?" she guesses, trying to breathe slowly and deeply to calm her racing heart.
"That's a great idea. JARVIS, make a note of that, will you?" Tony says, sounding pleased.
"Certainly, sir. Shall I add that to the growing pile of possible criminal charges you'll be facing since your return?" a British voice asks dryly.
"Who is that and what do they mean 'criminal charges?'" Emory demands, the slow breaths abandoned.
"That's uh, don't worry about that," Tony says. She can somehow hear his dismissive gesture. "JARVIS is my AI, I programmed him to be snarky. He's trying to get you upset, it means he likes you, and wants to punish me. Anyway, the only reason I haven't unleashed hell yet is, it sounds like you need their help."
"I haven't felt any effects yet, withdrawal, or whatever, but yes, I think so." Emory weighs what to say and decides that Fury or some other agent is probably listening in, and if they are, they'll find a way to stop her if she says something she shouldn't. "They might need me, too. The scientist who developed the injections is bad news. My jailors-" Tony snorts at this reference to the nickname he'd used. This boosts her confidence as she searches for a careful, 'you don't have to get involved' way to explain everything. "Basically, they think I'm not the only one. If there's a chance to stop people like Yinsen from being medically dependent on an unscrupulous opportunist, it's worth doing, don't you think?"
"That's 'handler' language, Emory," Tony complains. "But, yes."
"They think if I tell you anything you'll turn Bryan Mills or decide to throw your money around trying to fix things, and it won't be by tucking it into their bikini bottoms," Emory points out. "So you get what you get."
Tony bursts out laughing. "Listen to you! That was practically Stark-ian. Is that all the info I get?"
"For now, until I know more," Emory tells him, biting her lip against the white lie. It's almost everything, but the thing she's holding back is big. Time to fall back on deflection again, she decides. "So this 'JARVIS' guy, can he be reached at the same phone number as you? For if things don't work out."
"I am going to make you incoherent when I finally get to see you in person. Nonverbal. It's my new goal in life, right after I figure out how to get there," Tony says, enunciating every word in that way he does when he wants all of a person's attention.
"Not much of a challenge, just take your shirt off so I can see your arms," she teases.
"As much as I love where this is going, I make it a policy to never have phone sex when the government is listening in."
Emory throws her head back to grin helplessly at the ceiling. Then she sits up in dismay. "Oh shit!"
"What? What happened?" Tony asks, instantly alarmed. "Em?"
"Gimme a sec."
Everything lighter than her desk is airborne. Like their kiss on the cave floor, there's a column of air spinning around her, and she hadn't even realized she was doing it. Instead of feeling the layers of power build up, Emory had simply let them loose into the space around her. She watches as the pen that used to be beside her journal spins around at head level. Stabbing her hand into the danger zone, Emory snatches it out of the air.
Before she can really let herself think about what could have happened if doing that had destabilized the entire cyclone, she writes 'lack of control when first wake up?' on the back of her hand, in case it's relevant.
The objects spinning around her are much heavier than the dust and small rocks they'd knocked out of the cave whirlwind. Somehow she's got to get them down without knocking herself out.
"Okay. Remember when we had the sand and dust fight? Well, instead of sand, it's a computer chair! And my new journal! A laptop, books-" Emory breaks off and takes a long breath. There's nothing Tony can do from where he is, and her inner PA needs to calm the talent. Maybe if she reminds him of… "I think we should consider renting an open field for any extracurricular activities," she teases.
"First of all, those activities are a permanent part of the curriculum," he says firmly. "Second of all, it sounds like you ought to be relocated somewhere that won't put anyone else in danger." Tony sounds officious, and his voice has gotten louder. He's not talking to her anymore. "I recall multiple instances in the cave where I could have feared for my life. There's a warehouse that my family used to use for the most dangerous stuff, very remote, out in upstate New York. It would be an extreme hardship, but if it would help, I'd gladly offer to house Ms. Autumn there for as long as is necessary. I would even allow you to use my technology to monitor all of ou-" he breaks off. Even though this could backfire on them, Emory can't help but start laughing silently as Tony starts the last sentence over again. "I would allow you to use my technology to monitor most of our activity."
"I swear, Tony, if you end up getting me confined to some crazy bunker-"
"Me?"
The base of the phone starts rattling against the screws that hold it onto the side table, and she reaches out a hand to steady it. There's a definite lateral force she can feel, which means that not only is her own personal tornado gaining power, but it's tightening up.
As soon as she thinks this, the side table starts to lift up.
Desperate, Emory throws her legs over to weigh the table down. Based on the way her power had been completely sucked away by disappointment the day before, Emory makes a split second decision.
"Tony, I need to shed power!" she yells into the phone. "Break up with me. Make it sound real. The call might cut out, but-"
"This isn't going to work if I spend days waiting to hear from you and right when I get the chance, you destroy the room your hosts have provided! I should have known better than to get attached," Tony says after a few seconds of silence on the line. She'd asked for this, but it's crushing. "Look," he says, sounding implacable, apologetic. "I was trying to find a way to do this anyway. You're just not-" he breaks off, and there's a crashing sound that steals away all of her breath. Tony's voice sounds pained as he growls, "JARVIS?"
"He seems relieved, Miss Autumn. This is probably best for everyone." His AI's voice sounds almost regretful, which for some reason hurts almost as much as what she's already heard.
There's a thud behind her. The dread at the back of her throat transmutes to bitter relief as Emory rolls her body sideways, pulling in her knees. At least the awful plan is working, right? she tells herself. Her journal glances off of the loveseat, the pages fluttering as it spins away. With the phone still in her hand, she drags herself up to look over the back of the loveseat at what had landed behind her, even as more items fall around the room.
Suddenly, the receiver is yanked from her hand and Emory shrieks as she's pelted with stinging pieces of old plastic. The computer chair has crashed into the side table, obliterating the telephone. Terrified, Emory huddles up and covers her head.
The next thirty seconds are full of crashing and thudding noises until finally, blessedly, there's silence. She's busy gathering her courage to see how much of a wreck the room will be when the door bursts open.
"I feel like there's been some missed communication about where to practice your powers," Clint Barton observes.
Without lifting her head, Emory asks in a hushed voice, "Is it really bad?"
"That depends on your definition of bad, and which version. Do I think you were naughty? No."
"Please never use that word in this building again!" It's a woman's voice, and she sounds both disgusted and amused.
Emory sits up and sees that Clint and a red-headed woman are standing at the door, frowning. Clint's looking at the state of the room, but the woman is looking at Clint. Both are wearing similar outfits to what she'd seen the 'nurse' agent wearing, black and grey tactical gear.
"Is it a mess? Yes. Should you avoid causing room-destroying air currents? Probably, but who am I to say?" he continues.
Emory lifts her chin. "We all have our flaws. You need to work on your mess-side manner."
Clint inclines his head and says something to the woman that Emory can't discern except that it starts with, 'See?'
"Fine," the woman says. The word sounds like it's said between gritted teeth, but when she turns to look at Emory, her expression is neutral. She flicks just her eyes up at the ceiling to remind Emory they're being monitored before nodding toward the room at large. "You're saying this was an accident?"
"Yes. I did not willfully destroy government property," Emory says, standing up. She'd willfully destroy government property now, if it would bring Tony back to reassure her it was all fake.
"That sounds like a prepared answer to me," Clint coughs, standing at an insolent parade rest.
"That's why you're the muscle and I'm Psy Ops," the redhead says drily. "Start cleaning while I talk to her?" It isn't actually a question.
"Yeah, I deserved that," Clint sighs. He walks over to pick something up. "That's Natasha, by the way, and this-" he holds up the bottom half of a laptop, the empty hinge spiking up where the screen should be. "-looks like it was your laptop. Sorry."
"It wasn't really mine," Emory says. "I actually don't have any of my stuff." She's done without belongings for so long that it hadn't struck her as strange. Emory had moved from being a captive in one place to a captive in another, really, with no in between.
Clint and Natasha look at her and then each other with wide eyes that shift to irritation simultaneously. Even having just met them, Emory can tell that they have a professional shorthand.
Clint points over his shoulder. "So, I'll just-" At Natasha's nod, he sets the laptop shard down on the heavy wooden dresser and heads out the still-open door.
"Sometimes Fury misses essentials for the big picture, doesn't see what's right in front of him," Natasha explains, her lips pressing together as if trying not to react to her own joke.
Psy Ops indeed, Emory thinks to herself, but she can't prevent her own smile. This time the Psy Op is directed at whoever is assigned to watch my room. Aloud, she says, "Is Clint going to go threaten him with arrows?"
"We need to get you up to speed, because no, but he could," Natasha says, going from object to object picking up some and kicking others into a pile. There are quite a few pieces of yellowed phone plastic, the shattered screen to the laptop, and many, many chunks of the computer chair. "I've seen your file. You've just spent three months without luggage. Withholding it isn't going to motivate you, it's just going to make you smell bad when you wear the same clothes to training day after day."
"Training?" Emory asks. She knows Fury has more to tell her, and possibly naively expected she'd be getting a detailed rundown of expectations, just like she'd had to prepare for every venue Rory performed at. Now that she's looking at this fit woman in her Serious Business clothing, though, Emory's starting to worry that everyone is winging it, including Fury.
"Don't worry, you're through the tough part already," Natasha says, flashing Emory a quick smile as she ducks into the tiny kitchen. Seconds later, she comes out with the garbage can and a broom. She sets the can on its side and sweeps in the debris, her black knee-high boot holding it in place.
"The tough part?" Emory says. The last ten minutes have been so eventful that her muscles feel like they haven't quite come out of their nightly shrink-wrap. It doesn't help that she's tried to shrink-wrap her mind to avoid some things she doesn't have the ability to deal with right now.
Natasha moves her foot and kicks the can upright in a slick move. "Diet changes."
"Oh." Emory laughs. "I don't even remember what they gave me last night. I think it was a sandwich." Tony had spent a lot of their walk in the desert talking about food, mostly hamburgers, but all she'd wanted was a real bed. In retrospect, she should have specified one in her apartment or his.
Natasha's eyes narrow. "But you've had good food since the rescue, right? Something more interesting than bean stew?"
"How do you know about that?"
"Is that what they gave you to sleep in?" Natasha asks briskly. "Where's your- right, no suitcase." She throws up her hands. "All right, come with me."
Bemused, Emory looks down at her bare feet. "Uh…"
"You have got to be kidding me. Not even socks?" The red haired agent marches over to the loveseat, sitting down with so much force that it slides back an inch. She unzips her black leather boot and thrusts it toward Emory. "Put it on."
Emory takes it gingerly, sitting down beside the other woman carefully and sliding the boot on. She can feel Natasha looking at her. "Close enough for government work?" A hand holding a black sock shoots into her line of sight.
"Put this on the other foot, the asphalt can get really hot."
Emory waits for her to hand her the second boot, but Natasha stands up, having put it back on her own bare foot, the matching black sock on the other.
"With just the sock and careful stepping, they might not even notice," the agent tells Emory, starting for the door.
"They?" Emory feels incredibly out of her depth.
"Anyone who tries to stop me from treating you like an actual person. I read your file on my way back from-" she pauses in the doorway and gestures for Emory to hurry up. "Come on, now. I've been awake for about twenty-six hours. I'd like to be in bed before thirty." Privately, Emory wonders if she means hours or years.
Natasha leads her past the elevator to the stairwell. "Elevators are too easy to control," the other woman explains. "Just don't rush and sprain your ankle. Nothing's worse than Fury getting to say 'I told you so.'"
It takes a lot of concentration to safely descend the stairs, which is a relief. One step after another, everything else can wait until you're safe. When they reach the ground floor, all of the thoughts Emory has pushed away press in at once. To shove them away again, she asks Natasha what she means about Fury.
Natasha smiles. "You really don't want to know."
88888888
A half hour after his call cut out so abruptly, Tony's in one of his cars on the way to Stark Industries. He's called back multiple times, only to be fobbed off with increasingly desperate and insulting excuses. The problem with shadowy government agencies is that they're designed to obscure the difference between a genuine lack of information and utter fucking incompetence.
Emory is probably okay, but that doesn't help much. The things she asked him to say right before losing the connection had been both cruel and effective. Tony needs to tell her he loves her and he'd only said them because she'd asked him to. She'd screamed that it needed to sound real, and, well, Tony's an overachiever.
The bitch on the phone at SHIELD probably isn't making enough money for her spectacular talent at giving zero information in the most neutral tone of voice possible- and now they've stopped even picking up. The thing is, it's nearly seven in the morning. Tony has all day to use his not inconsiderable influence to find out what the fuck is going on. He's going to tie up every single available phone line at the company, for starters.
When the phone company opens for business, Tony will personally call their marketing department and find out how many lines he can rent for the day. If SHIELD wants to waste time blocking thousands of California numbers, they're welcome to. If they sic the law on him, Tony can blame the kidnapping for his criminal harassment, offer to pay for a full ride for a hundred children disadvantaged by terrorist acts or kidnapping or telephone mishaps. Whatever is necessary.
Tony parks in his designated spot, lets himself in the building, and jitters his way through the elevator ride. Ten minutes later, every single external line at SHIELD headquarters is busy with long-distance calls, and the two remaining fax machines that are still hooked up start printing.
88888888
They get surprisingly far before they're challenged.
To Emory, it seems like whoever Natasha is, she's got the kind of seniority that is both earned and granted from on high. The person who finally does stop them from reaching the front doors of the building is a young security guard whose Adam's apple is bobbing so quickly it could inspire a techno beat.
"Pardon, I mean, excuse me, Agent Romanoff. You're, you're not authorized to leave the build- the premises."
"You want to back that up with some kind of proof?" Natasha says, crossing her arms.
"Come on, Nat, you know what he means." Clint saunters up from behind the large metal statue that serves to break up the vastness of the large entry area. "You're welcome to leave. By yourself."
"I don't see how taking her with me will be much different. She's got no training, has no knowledge of the mission- she doesn't even have any clothes or personal belongings. She's a nobody. A ghost."
"Nice to meet you too," Emory mutters under her breath.
"Unless she can dematerialize, she's going to need authorization. Unless…" Clint grins and winks at Emory, still directing his words at his partner. "Did you know Howard Stark was one of the founders of SHIELD?"
Emory's heart leaps at the last name, only to crash like a lead weight through the rest of her organs, leaving bile and pain in its wake. A cruel voice in her head taunts her. 'Tony wasn't lying about not wanting to be around you. He's probably grateful that you're not in California!' Stop. Stop! she tries to tell herself, mentally struggling to slam the storm doors shut. Clint is still talking, and she refocuses on what he's saying.
"-embedded a clause in the code of conduct. Trial by combat. So, you want to leave with her? Kick my ass."
"The floor here is marble, Barton. I have no specific desire to make an omelet out of your head, I actually like working with you," Natasha says, sounding supremely irritated.
"You won't get that far," Clint shrugs.
Natasha's shoulders slump for a moment in seeming defeat before she leans over and rips the sock off of her foot. Clint's expression is initially baffled, but he performs an impressive dodging spin backwards to avoid Natasha's sudden leaping kick. That slight delay is enough for her to connect, grazing him with the toe of her boot. She drops to a fighting stance so fluidly that Emory despairs of ever being helpful to either of these people.
What follows is the kind of fight sequence that people pay millions to choreograph, light, film, and edit. A small crowd gathers, cheering each hit no matter who connects. Rather than being a liability, Natasha's bare foot is an asset, allowing her increased traction on the smooth marble as she steals lightning-fast jabs at her partner. For his part, Clint seems to know everything about Natasha's outfit, enough to flick open two separate pockets that cause objects to fall out while they fight. She kicks both of them away, but the distraction is powerful both times.
Their battle is clearly a joy rather than a dispute. Both are smiling, and when Clint gets a phone call, the two back away from each other so he can answer it.
"Am I supposed to use this as a diversion?" Emory hisses over to Natasha.
The redhead smiles enigmatically. "No, it's for-"
"What in the Sam Hill is going on?"
Director Fury's voice booms in the wide open lobby space.
"-him."
A few suited agents scatter to reveal a frowning, trenchcoated figure stalking towards them from the glass doors.
"You going to make me repeat myself?" he demands.
"Phone call," Clint says lightly, holding up his smartphone and actually wiggling it back and forth to reveal the 'call ended' screen. Behind the words is an image of purple flames.
"Does hell want you back? Because I'd be happy to oblige," Fury says ominously.
"Nah, Janice over in research wanted to know if field ops' landlines were tied up too, but I told her I wasn't up there." Clint seems like he's just immune to the oppressive, fondant-thick tension wrapped around all of them, but it seems more like his behavior is the icing on Fury's anger cake.
"All of them are," Fury says, jerking his arm forward to reveal that he'd been pulling a suitcase.
...Emory recognizes it. It's hers, the one she'd taken to Afghanistan. She shoots a begging, terrified glance toward Natasha. The other woman's expression softens as she nods; it's almost too subtle to notice, unless you're a frightened, demoralized kidnapping victim in desperate need of both reassurance and clean clothing.
Emory takes a deep breath to fortify herself for the task of pulling focus, but Clint's phone rings again. Instead of the default ringtone this time, though, it's a custom one. Bon Jovi's Shot Through the Heart.
Everyone looks at him.
"I need to take this," Clint says, grinning.
"Get the fuck out of here. All except you and you," Fury growls, pointing at Natasha and Emory. In less than ninety seconds, they are the only three in the lobby. He turns to Natasha. "Do not make me repeat myself."
"Sir, you pulled me off of a mission halfway across the world so I could start training her three days early. That extraction definitely cost more than a pair of shoes, so I'd say 'what in the Sam Hill is going on' is an excellent question," Natasha notes.
Emory has spent years knowing how to watch Rory Fall's body language for signs that she was anxious, at her emotional limit, or fronting, and for the first time, Emory has that sense about Natasha. There's a twist in the angle of her hips, like she's planting her foot not to show her seriousness but in preparation to dash away to safety. Unlike Clint, whose blithe unconcern had seemed both manic and strangely self-assured given the circumstances, Natasha is uncertain.
She's sticking her neck out for Emory, even though Natasha's probably spent more time reading her file than talking to her.
"Money isn't the problem. Policy is. Her belongings were recovered from the attack site, but once the platoon was informed of her-" Fury's expression twists into disdain. "-'release,' military guidelines allow the owner seventy-two hours to claim their items before they can be destroyed."
"What if I had spent that whole time unconscious?" Emory asks, aghast. Fury turns the rolling suitcase so he can push it toward her. When she rests her hand on the handle, its warmth is somehow comforting. "They didn't inform us about that. I would have thought that Rory-"
She breaks off, grief surging unchecked upwards through the chasm her sinking heart had created. Rory had left the country without her, without anything that belonged to her, and she'd probably done it in an angry huff, too. She would have seen Emory's absence as a betrayal.
A surge of guilt now chases the grief. There isn't much point in asking if there have been messages left for her, because after years of working with Rory, Emory has pulled back from everyone. Even her parents have been trained to accept minimal contact, and isn't that one of the most awful silver linings one could come up with for a long-term kidnapping?
The mental suitcase she's been shoving inconvenient truths into is going to burst open pretty soon, if she keeps this up.
Natasha has stepped closer to Fury and is now speaking quietly to him. Emory doesn't blame them; she's overwhelmed and overstimulated and basically useless, right now. Even standing in the lobby area with its huge expanse in either direction and high ceilings is making her feel nervous. She almost wants to ask if there's a chance they can just forget everything and send her back to her room for another sandwich. Not for the first time, Emory wonders what the fuck she's doing here. At least I've been too confused and upset to generate power, she thinks to herself. Natasha's spare sock is nearby, and impulsively Emory grabs it, turning her suitcase sideways to sit on it and take off the agent's boot, replacing it with the sock.
"Agreed," Fury says to Natasha, his voice raised loud enough for Emory to hear it. "Emory?"
"Present," she calls out, channelling Tony, but she gets up, holding the boot out for Natasha to take.
"Agent Romanoff would like to take you out for breakfast and to speak to you about the mission," Fury says sourly. Emory gets the impression that this had been a compromise.
"I'd like that, but… can I talk to Tony first?"
"No you may not," Fury snaps. She steps back, stung, and he holds up a hand. The gesture is part frustration, part consolation. "I don't care what tricks he picked up in Afghanistan, I don't negotiate with terrorists. Stark's shut down every single phone line in the building, and access to you is the only leverage I've got."
"You could ask her for advice about that," Natasha suggests, her face hidden as she zips her boot.
"It's too early for this shit," the director mutters. "You two: go eat, get caught up. I've got a threatening email to compose."
"Does Stark Industries make cell phones?" Emory asks, right as Fury starts to walk away. She can feel a tiny buzzing hum at the fact that Tony didn't just give up trying to reach her. It could barely blow out a match, but it's something.
Fury stops, but he doesn't turn.
"I guess bribing him to stop is more like a reward for bad behavior," Emory realizes aloud, blushing.
"If your boyfriend hasn't shut down our internet, you can order some shoes when you come back. Maybe that'll prevent you from putting your foot in your mouth."
With that, Fury stomps off.
"Welcome to SHIELD," Natasha says with an elegant shrug. "If it helps, my orientation was worse."
88888888
When Tony finally does get through on one of his 492 rented phone lines, it's ninety infuriating minutes later and he's bought and canceled three different cross-country flights on two separate airlines, having waffled between the in-person brute force approach and a remote one.
"Stark, I am not a relationship counselor," Nick Fury says in exasperation. The speakers in Tony's office really do capture a lot of nuance in tone.
"You don't like that job? Put her back on the phone."
"I don't care if you buy up the entire telephone network, Stark. I said once a day, I meant once a day! You'll be down to once a week if I get one more goddamned call-"
Tony makes a cut-off gesture, but even JARVIS can't prevent an already-ringing phone from continuing to ring.
"Well, look at that, a call from Stark Industries."
"That was initiated ten seconds ago, Director Fury. Sir," Tony tries, but Fury is having none of it.
"You heard me. Once a week."
"It was already ringing!" Tony explodes.
"All those phone lines, and what did it get you?" With that, Fury hangs up.
Exactly thirty seconds later, Tony gets an email with a weekly fucking schedule of times for their calls, all set to occur at 6 AM EST. There's also an admonition that SHIELD will be monitoring his travel and will adjust the attached schedule should Tony take a plane (or train, or bus, or motorcycle, or, or, or) to Washington.
"Keep calling, JARVIS," Tony grits out. "All day. If anyone answers, blast them with something really annoying." He snaps his fingers a couple of times, trying to remember the song Captain America sold war bonds with. His dad had always said that hearing it a few times in a row was enough to drive a person crazy. "The one about Captain America and his…" Tony makes a gesture that's unintelligible, even for him, as he searches for the right word. It's right on the tip of his- "Bling," he finally says.
"Could it be 'The Star-Spangled Man,' sir?"
"Yes! That's it. Every time they answer, blast 'em. No one gets to use the phone at SHIELD today."
"I'll add criminal harassment to the list, then."
He doesn't tell JARVIS he'd already planned on that one. There isn't much point.
Tony drops into his chair and stares at all three monitors. As he watches, the status bars showing the call progress blink on and off as they attempt to connect. Vindictively, he wants to add other SHIELD offices to the list, maybe even shut down the entire agency, but there's a kernel of value in what Emory said about stopping that scientist.
He blows out a frustrated sigh and spins the chair sideways so he isn't looking at the evidence of his tantrum. When the consequences are a value dip in his stock, that's something he can bear. It'll go back up. When he loses a business deal because they're too uptight to deal with his arrogance, that's fine. He'll make a better one with someone else. None of the people he really cares about, none of the people he loves have been at risk like this before.
Tony can almost hear Rhodey's chuckle. "I thought you liked learning new things?" he'd probably say.
He doesn't want to learn new things anymore. He wants to enjoy the new thing he's already learned, how to love someone and want the best for them. He wants to learn how to be better at doing that. Taking something he is already pleased with and improving it is one of the things he truly enjoys.
He has never tried to do that with a relationship before.
That thought brings up a different one. According to the email from Director Nick Fury of the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division, Tony Stark is being told not to use airplanes, trains, busses, cars, motorcycles, horses, or mules to travel to Washington to see Emory Autumn. If Fury had simply written that Tony was to stay out of the city, that would be one thing. But the man had gotten cute.
Tony can get cute, too.
"JARVIS, clear this stuff off my monitors, it's time to reconstruct the tool I used to escape that cave, see if I can't enhance its flight capabilities for the Mark II version."
"As you wish, sir."
"Why does that feel like snark to me?" Tony asks, stretching his arms out and twisting his wrists to limber them up for the schematic-drawing he's about to engage in.
"I can't imagine where I might have picked up that trait. You wrote me to be a model of respect and decorum."
"Just for that, do an analysis of any and all footage of Agent Phil Coulson. Figure out his shoe, shirt, and suit size. Even if I get this thing built within a week and get out there, that's still a week of not knowing what's going on with Emory. I need to sweet-talk that information out of somebody, and it's not going to be Nick Fury."