Note: I hope everyone had a lovely holiday season! Over the course of 2021, across two fandoms, starting in February, I posted 611,942 words of fanfiction last year! I wrote just a touch over 12k more than that which is unpublished. It's been a delight to share my stories with all of you, and I'd love to know what you think!
Chapter Twenty-One: Mirage
Tony's comment about Rory and the luggage makes Emory feel warm and cold in equal measures. Warm because of Tony's outrage on her behalf, cold because while she'd expected as much from Rory, the sheer breadth of her boss's outraged abandonment stings.
Emory hadn't let herself think much about Rory since the kidnapping, first out of guilt, then out of confused loyalty and bitterness. Rory would want an apology and she'd probably demand to know exactly where Emory was. Failure to do either would result in… exactly what was happening now: a temper tantrum resulting in conjecture in the media.
"Em? Gonna need to start breathing again at some point," Tony says.
"Argh! The only way to avoid this is to have never met her at all!" Emory groans in frustration. Tony makes the 'c'mere' gesture, but she's stiff with regret, so he comes around behind her and pulls her close, his front to her back.
"I don't follow," Happy says, brows furrowed.
"I'm sure something could be arranged using the suit. For Science," Tony mutters.
Emory spins around and pokes her forefinger right against his shirt-covered arc reactor. "No! You've spent enough of your time in confined spaces, you're not allowed to do something to her and end up with the armor confiscated and yourself thrown in jail!"
Tony's completely unrepentant. He looks over at Happy and says, "See that? She knows my priorities!"
"Damnit, Tony! You are more important than that suit!" Emory flares.
In a hushed voice, Happy leans towards Tony and says, "You were right, I do like her."
"Emory, you've seen what happens when bad guys get ahold of my tech!"
"I have! And I don't want to see you become the 'bad guy!'" Emory pleads. She turns away from the stubborn look on his face and addresses Hogan. "I'm sorry, I'm sure you had more to tell us."
"Two different government agencies called me today-"
"Was one of them the Strategic Homeland Inappropriate Expectations blah blah agency? You'd think they would have my number- they do have my number, right, Em?" Tony asks in a playful voice.
"Hush now," Emory tells him. "Info now, irreverent later."
"Promise?"
"Tony, be serious! Rory accused you of murder!"
He's unrepentant. "And you're alive, standing here grouching at me! This is easily disproved. If the FBI shows up wanting to talk to me-"
"Which they will, today, at 2 PM," Hogan interjects. Tony raises his voice and starts stridently arguing with him, but Emory's mentally transported back to a time when everything that goes wrong is up to her to fix. If Rory spoke to both government agencies and the media, and SHIELD hasn't gotten in touch yet, they've either dropped the ball, or they're not paying diligent attention.
It seems that she's once again misplaced her (however grudgingly given) trust.
Her throat closes up. Her chest feels like five bags of rice from that cave are stacked on top of it. When her knees begin to buckle and her ears start ringing, she staggers over to a piece of furniture and sinks into it. Emory wants to bury her face in her hands but the signals she's sending to her muscles don't work, so she slumps like a ragdoll, miserable.
Time passes, marked only by the sound of arguing male voices until they're halted by a sharply worded rebuke from a female one- Tony's PA, Pepper Potts.
"Are you two kidding me? Look how pale she is! Harry, water and a warm washcloth, please?. Tony, there's a call, I sent it to the bedroom phone." The loveseat Emory's sitting on sinks with the weight of another person, and a cool, reassuring hand reaches out to pat hers. The pat turns into a squeeze when Emory struggles to sit up. "No, please, take a minute, if you need to."
"I'm just out of practice, I guess. Haven't had to manage anything other than my own fear and Tony's teasing for a while," Emory says apologetically as she finally succeeds in sitting up. She smoothes the wrinkles out of the borrowed dress shirt with her sweat-damp hands. It's hard not to be aware of the difference between herself and the immaculately dressed woman beside her. Pepper Potts probably never got stress pimples.
"From what I have heard, keeping Rory Fall in line was good practice for your ordeal," Potts says wryly. "What did Happy get to tell you before they started butting heads?"
"Hardly anything, and it was more than enough, apparently."
"From what I could piece together, your boss was looking forward to a fame bump from a reunion. When that didn't happen, she started putting out feelers. The military won't tell us anything, so I doubt they answered her, either. It looks like her initial statement of 'Stark is safe, but where is my assistant?' turned into 'what did Tony Stark do to my assistant?"
Emory recognizes the behavior pattern, and she feels responsible. "Argh! I should have been able to see how selfish Rory was getting and headed it off. She wasn't always like this! It was just… I don't know. Easier? To always smoothe the way, I mean."
"My uncle Morgan once told me, 'Treat regrets like your next-door neighbors. You can peek through the curtains at them- but you shouldn't pay their mortgage.'" Her smile brightens, and she shakes her head. "That perspective really helped me stop letting my regrets live rent-free."
"I can't imagine you having many!"
"Thank you, but you'd be surprised. 'We are, all of us, a work in progress.'
"Uncle Morgan again?" Emory guesses.
"Yes. I get to talk to him once every six months or so. The last one was yesterday, and I guess he just stuck with me this time. Back to business, though-" Potts says, reaching into the slim shoulder bag she'd walked in with. She pulls out an object but holds it against the black skirt fabric of her thigh as she offers Emory an apologetic expression. "Mr. Stark wanted to make sure you didn't have to worry about anything breaking in the car, so instead of cleaning out one of our New York limos, he rented one, which means…" She hands Emory her flip phone. "Leaving it behind was a good tactic for privacy, I'm sorry it didn't work out the way you'd hoped."
"I imagine you're going to have to clean out one after all, when it's time for me to go back," Emory sighs, opening the phone to see that she's gotten at least twenty missed calls from an unlisted number.
"He left strict instructions to leave you both alone, and you'd set 'Do Not Disturb' on the phone itself," Potts says, sounding apologetic, but Emory waves her off.
"I appreciate that, but-"
The phone starts ringing.
"Go on," Potts says, holding up her own phone, one of the 'smartphone' ones that Rory always had. There's a text from Tony displayed on it.
Is the tête-à-tête over? I've got some bad news.
Emory closes her eyes, feeling for the button on her phone that will answer the call as she lifts it to her ear. Her energy generation right now is different from usual; rather than being sheathed from head to toe with layers that thicken as they power up, the energy is snowballing around her, gathering speed and potential in a tight, widening mass. The difference between this and her usual 'layering' is fascinating, but without any time to examine the phenomenon, Emory drapes herself in a dampening cloak of mental static and answers the phone.
"Hello?" She knows better than to use her name on a SHIELD-issued phone. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Potts let herself out of the room.
"Sorry Em. Vacation's over," Clint Barton says.
If it had been Natasha, Emory would have begged for more time. If it had been Fury, she'd have bitterly hung up and had a panic attack about what she'd just done. But Clint? She'll listen to Clint. SHIELD knows exactly how to handle her when it counts, damn them.
"I figured," she says glumly.
"I knew you would."
His tone is grim, but there's an edge of pride to it that washes away most of her circling, fear-based power surge. Cynically, she wonders if he knew that would happen, but he continues before she has a chance to ponder further.
"So, the plan is: in a half hour, a car will drive up to Stark's mansion. Inside is an agent dressed up in flashy clothes and sunglasses, which you'll put on once she goes inside. After an hour or whatever, you'll walk out and get into the car, the agent driving will take you to a pre-arranged meeting place and you'll take a helicopter back to D.C."
"And the agent-"
"She'll have to talk Stark down."
"I meant how she'll avoid the photographers, but that's also true," Emory says, scrunching up her nose in amused dismay. The agent would undoubtedly get an earful, unable to walk away from his ire without risking the decoy deception. She feels an ache at the back of her throat that feels metallic and wrong, similar to the tang she'd tasted when she'd first been injected with the serum.
"She's a professional, she'll think of something." Barton clears his throat. "Better go say your goodbyes. I'll see you later." With that, he hangs up.
"Bye," she says to the empty line, thick disappointment clogging her sinuses.
"Marching orders?" It's Tony. Emory turns and sees that he's standing against the wall by the door, shoulders hunched, hands buried in his pockets. "I think you left your jackboots in the bunker, but I can go get," he adds bitterly, before pulling in a deep breath and closing his eyes. With them still closed, he grates out, "That was unfair."
"Yeah, it totally was," she says. Tony's eyes pop open in surprise, and she explains, "I'm too junior for jackboots."
The triumphant half-smile on his face grows slowly, but she can see it coming, and its warmth and affirmation is as inevitable as the sunrise. They look at each other, the time they have left ticking away in her head until his expression suddenly blinks into stubbornness.
"I have to go, Tony," Emory says, hoping to head him off. Each word is a knife-stab to her own heart.
"No, no, I know that. We've got-" he looks at the expensive watch on his wrist. "'Not Enough' minutes left, now. I was trying for that last guitar solo, wanted to build some kind of armor for you, since I've got two of these," he taps the reactor in his chest. "But back when I took out the one I'd made with Yinsen, I asked Pepper to put it somewhere I didn't have to look at it."
The bleak look on his face matches the ache in her heart. She nods in complete understanding.
"That was in Malibu. It's in Malibu." Tony spreads out his hands. "We're down to 'persuasion,' here."
"Or patience," Emory says, standing up. "Natasha and Clint were trying to get my physical prep work done before the symptoms start up. Serum withdrawal, I mean. They're expected to start in the fourth month since injection, and we're there. The sooner that happens, the sooner we can get the mission over with." She rubs her upper arms, knowing the room hasn't suddenly become cold, it's just her body shrinking from the task ahead of her. Her fear is already threatening to spool up her power generation, so to prevent that, Emory says, "I really think I can see the light at the end of this tunnel," and hopes she sounds convincing.
Tony scrubs his hand through the hair at the back of his neck. "What if it's a freight train?" She winces, surprised at the defeatist attitude, and he says, "Metallica. Never mind."
"Well, either way, it's too late to run, isn't it?"
"Yeah. Gonna need a plan B."
88888888
Their last minutes tick past with zero fanfare.
Realistically, there's not much Tony can do, not now, not when he knows that the woman he loves has so much riding (both morally and physically) on the mission that's in so much jeopardy. Even the little things, like hoping to send Emory back in clothes he bought for her -after making crystal clear to SHIELD what 'back' can't mean in terms of her treatment- has gone all to shit.
He's starting to take it personally. What good was buttering up the agent in California if everything is decided on the East coast? Tony resolves to make toast out of the guy in revenge if things don't go well enough today, just to make himself feel better.
When the knock comes, it's right on time. Tony watches from the receiving room doorway as Happy lets in the agent, who is dressed in a tight-fitting black miniskirt, fishnet stockings, and chunky heels. She's blonde, and her oversized black sunglasses cover much of her face, leaving the impression of deep red lipstick over a plunging neckline barely covered by a stunning red leather jacket that hangs lower than the skirt. They've done their homework, at least.
Tony has to admit he's looking forward to seeing Emory wearing all of it, but he can't help but feel a twinge over the way SHIELD is framing their agent as 'Tony Stark's Kind of Girl.' There's no way that isn't going to shake Emory's confidence.
Is that their secondary objective?
"Fuck," he swears under his breath as Happy leads the agent his way. Tony lets the door fall shut and turns to see Emory anxiously hovering by the window, trying to peer at the car parked in front through the gap in the curtains without twitching them sideways and risking being seen.
"What is it?" Emory asks when she glances over and sees the look on his face.
"They went a little overboard on the outfit," Tony lies. There's a rap on the door. "Stark's Gibbet, 'You Bring 'Em, We Swing 'Em!'" he calls out.
Happy opens the door anyway.
"Not overboard," Emory murmurs when she sees the woman. That stings, but she's right.
"Here you go," Happy says to the woman, handing her a black leather bag that seems to be made out of the same amount of fabric as her miniskirt. Tony waves Hogan off, dipping his hand into his pocket to show him the edge of his cell phone so he knows that Tony will send him further instructions. Frowning, Happy nods, turns, and leaves, pulling the door firmly shut behind him.
"Okay, these are a pain," the agent says, pulling off her sunglasses and stepping out of her shoes all at the same time. "I know why they designed them like this, I mean, our heights are pretty different, but man." She sets the sunglasses down on a nearby table and digs in the black leather bag until she pulls out a fabric-wrapped bundle.
"Tony Stark, I'd like you to meet- Oh, I'm sorry, all I can remember is the name from your fake name tag, from the day we met," Emory says with obviously forced politeness. Tony notices that she has positioned herself between Tony and the agent, just like she'd done in the field. He wonders if it's SHIELD tactics, then wonders if it's standard SHIELD tactics or if they've trained Emory to be a barrier between SHIELD's assets and their target. Sour, impotent resentment rises in his throat, different from Afghanistan, but similar enough.
"Agent Sharon Harris," the agent says without acknowledging Emory's slight in any way. She holds out a hand to shake Tony's.
He sees Emory's face fall as she realizes that the two of them might not have touched at all had she not pushed the introduction. Just in case, he goes for as macho a handshake as he's ever attempted, holding back just enough not to injure.
Agent Harris doesn't give any indication that his vise-like grip is anything more than a regular shake. If it hurts her, he can't tell when he lets go. Hell, it hurt him a little.
"Director Fury told me to send her back out after anywhere from twenty minutes to an hour and a half," she says, a slight challenge in her eyes. She reaches up and digs her fingers impossibly into her scalp, coming away with a very convincing blonde wig. Underneath, her own blonde hair is neatly pinned down. "I was thinking seventy-five minutes would be just fine, though it might depend on how difficult it'll be to walk in those things." Setting down the wig, she unwraps the fabric bundle, revealing solid-looking shoe inserts. "May I?" Harris asks, indicating that Emory should sit in a nearby chair.
Emory walks over with an air of wounded dignity that Tony finds adorable. He knows better than to ever tell her that, of course.
The SHIELD agent tucks the inserts into the platform heels she'd worn into the building, snapping them into place and holding them up. "Try them on?"
Tony can't help but admit that her agency has done their due diligence at very short notice, here. After enlisting his help to move some furniture around so the two women can sit close to each other, Agent Harris starts doing Emory's makeup. As she tells the two of them a bit more about how SHIELD plans to get Emory out past the paparazzi, Harris constructs the same look that she walked in with, even using a thick gel to conceal the red in Em's eyebrows.
When it comes time for Emory to change, Harris asks him to step out. They're taking Emory away from him and the two of them won't be allowed to be in the same physical space until after the mission, and he's supposed to just accept that? The idea that's been angrily forming in his mind will fail if he gives any indication of it, so Tony just walks over and kisses Emory, tongue and ass grab, the whole nine yards. Minutes later, when he pulls back, he can see sadness in her eyes. She thinks it's a goodbye kiss.
It can't be helped.
As soon as the dining room door shuts behind him, Tony races up to his bedroom. He doesn't have much time to change.
88888888
Once she's fully dressed except for the blonde wig, Emory gets a look at herself in the mirror over the sideboard and sees… Rory.
This is the kind of outfit that her friend performed in for years. Beyond that, Rory has worn something similar to hundreds of premieres, parties, and press events. Over the years, Emory had sometimes wondered what might have happened had the competition show chosen her as the winner instead of Rory.
Now, Emory has a glimpse of what that alternate life would look like on her, and she doesn't like it.
"You okay?" Agent Harris asks from across the room.
"Yeah. Kind of look like my boss, it's freaking me out a little." Emory admits, walking back toward her.
"Wow, you actually do. That could come in handy," Harris says, her voice gentling a little. She pats the back of the chair and holds up the blonde wig. "Rory Fall has broadcast to our target that you two haven't been in touch. If there's a question about your proximity to Stark, you could explain it away, say she was posing as you."
Agent Harris's ninety minutes come all too soon, and she starts asking where Tony is. Emory had been expecting him back, if not to ogle her, then to say goodbye, but she can't find him. She can't find anyone, meaning that she has to leave without saying goodbye. Emory keeps her head down when she walks out the front door, both because she's trying to hide her face and because Tony Stark's Slippery Stairs + DeathHeels = undoubtedly a recipe for tabloid coverage.
For two horrible minutes, Emory stands outside the back passenger door waiting for the driver to open it for her. Finally she flings it open and throws herself inside, channeling an inconvenienced Rory Fall for authenticity.
"Real fancy car service, thanks," she grumbles to the closed panel that separates the passenger compartment from the driver's cab. The driver says nothing as he expertly navigates the expensive car back out of the grounds, past a sea of paparazzi. All at once, her fury and frustration about being forced to leave without even saying goodbye to Tony floods out. "Where are we going? Hello? I swear, if that's Clint, I will find a way to mess with your arrows, I'm literally shaking back here!" Then, her face flushing so hot she's sure it's beet red, Emory whispers to herself, "Oh, shit, of course that's not Clint, you're berating some random agent, good job!"
The panel between the two spaces starts lowering, but she can't see anything but the black suit and pilot-style black hat the man is wearing.
"Just pretend I didn't say anything, please?" she asks, hating the vulnerability she can hear in her voice.
"No can do, Miss," the man says.
It's TONY.
"Tony, oh my GOD." Emory falls back against the seat and focuses on slowly dissipating the surge of power that her anger and adrenaline has generated.
"Not my favorite way of rendering you speechless, but it'll do. To answer your very rudely phrased questions, the car has a built-in GPS that was pre-programmed for each location. We're five minutes away," Tony tells her. "Did you think I'd let you leave without saying goodbye?"
She opens her eyes and meets his in the rear view mirror. "Maybe."
"Well, I wouldn't. Especially not dressed like that." The depths his voice reaches sends an entirely different awareness through her, especially when she can see him taking in what little of the outfit he can see from his vantage point.
"Eyes on the road."
Tony chuckles. After a few minutes pass but before her heartbeat is back to normal, he says, "So, why do you hate that blonde agent they sent as a decoy?"
Emory sighs. She'd hoped he had managed to forget that. "She was the first SHIELD agent I saw, after Afghanistan. She's-"
"Say no more," Tony says knowingly.
Emory bites her lip. It's more complicated than that, but she also doesn't want to waste whatever last moments of alone time they have on Sharon Harris, so she lets it go.
"You shouldn't have done this, but thank you," she tells him, leaning forward to rest a hand on his shoulder through the gap.
Tony shrugs her hand up against his cheek before she pulls it back so they aren't seen through the windshield. "Just wait," he says. "I'm not done yet."
If she could have swirled air around him in a power-driven hug, Emory would, but it's not their car, and they're not supposed to be seen together, so she hugs herself instead, grinning, grinning, grinning.
Their destination turns out to be a fancy apartment complex with an underground garage. Tony barely has to tap the brake before the scanner picks up whatever permission they're displaying and opens up the gates.
"Here's where it gets tricky- or does it?" Tony says, pointing.
A figure is walking towards them, dressed in black. As they creep forward in the half-light, Emory recognizes who it is. Natasha Romanoff.
"They sent in the big guns to pick you up," Tony observes.
"Yeah, I'm ninety percent sure she's here for you."
Following Nat's hand signals, Tony parks in an even darker section of the mostly full lot, rolling down the window and shutting off the engine.
"Exactly how quickly will you kill me if I make a Rocky and Bullwinkle joke, Natasha?" he asks the SHIELD agent, emphasizing the villain's name.
Natasha doesn't even dignify this with a response. "I seem to recall listening in on one half of a conversation where my half told yours to stay put. Is it pathological, this need to be the center of attention? Wait, look who I'm asking!"
"Who gave SHIELD the monopoly on swapping outfits? Ooh, was it Boris?" Tony asks with mock enthusiasm.
"Get out of the car, both of you. We're in a surveillance dead zone."
Emory takes her shoes off before she steps out, tucking them into the black bag and holding the hem of her skirt as far down as she can. Natasha directs Tony to stand in front of the grey tiled wall as she punches a code into a hidden keypad. The tiles slide away revealing an elevator whose doors open immediately.
Once they're all inside and the doors close, Nat turns around to face them. She looks like she's waiting for an explanation from Tony. Undaunted, he smiles and reaches up to poke his stolen driver's cap into a jaunty angle. Emory appreciates his bravado, but she's at her limit. Anything further and she'll be looking to curl up in a corner somewhere in the fetal position.
"What's your plan, Stark?" Natasha finally asks, angling her head as if intensely curious, her long curls falling sideways in their ponytail. She hasn't commanded the elevator to move yet.
"Alone with two redheads in a tiny elevator? There's no question," Tony says, starting to unbutton his dress shirt. Emory knows this has to be a bluff, but Natasha doesn't react. It's only after the fifth button that Emory sees that he's wearing something more than his typical black tank top underneath. Whatever it's made of, the electric blue shirt doesn't show the arc reactor through it. Tony takes off his suit jacket before he finishes with the shirt, deliberately pulling its sleeves inside out to reveal a silver metallic fabric she hadn't even noticed.
"You already had a reversible jacket that looked like the driver's?" Emory asks, incredulous.
"No one really looks at black suit jackets. Ask Sydney Bristow here, she knows," Tony says, nodding at Natasha, who shakes her head. "As for your agents, Ms. Romanoff, they'll be fine. My financial records are sealed for privacy, and as long as they leave together, they'll be assumed to be employees. Besides, in about an hour, the paparazzi will be more interested in finding me. Problem solved, you're welcome." As he says this, Tony's still undressing. Under the slightly baggy black trousers, he's wearing a tight, shiny silver pair of pants that match the fabric of the jacket, which he puts back on. Emory has to admit, the outfit works somehow. He looks eccentric and handsome, definitely too rich to care.
"This is the opposite of what Fury asked you to do," Natasha says testily, crossing her arms.
"Yeah, well. I have more experience in distracting the paparazzi. He'll forgive me." He digs a finger into the tight pocket of his pants and pulls out a small jar of something, opens it, and swipes some of it onto his middle finger. Tony closes the jar, balances it on Natasha's crossed arm, and starts applying whatever it is to his hair with his fingertips.
Emory doesn't know whether to laugh or die on the spot.
"Breathe, Emory," Natasha says, without looking at her.
"Shouldn't have stuck her in a corset then," Tony says, taking back the jar. He holds it up with a little wiggle and nods his thanks before tucking it back away. Crossing his own arms, he leans (lounges, really) against the wall across from Natasha and fixes her with a steady look. "That corset should be the most confining thing she has to deal with from you people from this point on, and I will be making sure of that." He pulls out his phone, taps it a few times, and then looks up, ready to type. "Where will she be staying?"
"Mr. Stark-"
"Before you answer, I should make clear: I have no stake in your mission. What I do have is footage of Miss Autumn arriving at my residence and spending several hours there. With me."
Emory still can't breathe, but now it's his fault. "Tony?" she chokes out, utterly shocked.
"If I can use a pale copy of my current suit to escape from fifty terrorists attacking me with my own weapons, I can probably get my hands on that serum without leaving you in high tech government custody," he snaps.
"Which part is the dealbreaker, Stark? Not seeing Emory? Or her confinement?" Natasha asks.
The very fact that Natasha is asking gives Emory some lung power, but she's spending almost all of her effort on not power generating them all into an elevator accident at best and a high rise collapse at worst.
"¿Por qué no los dos?" Tony spreads out his arms in an extravagant shrug. "Truthfully? The latter. I need assurances." He reaches down and picks up his discarded dress shirt and pants, keeping his eyes on Natasha as he tries to fold them with a serious expression on his face. His efforts fail repeatedly, and finally Emory reaches out and snatches both of them from him, balls them up, and crams them into the black leather bag she's carrying. "Well?" he prompts the SHIELD agent.
"I was just waiting to see how that little business was going to end," she admits, one corner of her mouth lifting in a smile. "I'll see what I can do."
"Not good enough. Get behind me, Em." Tony steps toward Natasha, his gaze clearly on the doors and walls of the elevator, looking for the controls.
In a blur of speed, Natasha darts a hand forward to take Tony's wrist and the next thing Emory sees is Tony pressed up against the wall. Natasha's standing with one knee digging into his back, holding his twisted arm behind him, with her other leg positioned so that if Tony shoves back, they'll both fall over. Emory's rooted to the spot, just hoping they don't hurt each other.
"If this is the kind of force your team uses to protect Emory, we're good," Tony says, his voice sounding slightly strained. "But now that you're there, I've had a tight spot in my lower back for weeks, and if you just lift your knee one inch-"
Nat lets out a swear word in another language and steps back just as quickly as she'd stepped forward. Tony topples but corrects for it, turning the move into a swaggering motion that carries him back against the wall of the elevator, facing them this time. Tony winks at Emory, but Natasha's looking at a device on her wrist with frustration.
"We need to leave. Stark, can you give me five hours before you start blowing up two years of work?"
"Five hours," Tony confirms. "And it won't just be the mission, it'll be the agency."
Frowning, Nat commands the doors to open again. To Emory's surprise, there's a car idling in the single space beside the one that had brought her here, and Happy Hogan is clearly visible through the windshield.
"That's my ride," Tony says, grinning. "What's wrong, Agent Romanoff? I thought you wanted me out of your hair?"
"Ten hours," Natasha says harshly.
"Okay. But I get to send Em a phone to replace that ancient monstrosity you've given her."
"Agreed."
"I'll call you as soon as I get it," Emory says softly, feeling like she's being pulled five ways at once. "We have to go."
"Okay." Tony takes one step off of the elevator, then swivels to meet her eyes, concern creasing his eyebrows. "Don't believe anything you see written about me from here on out. Promise me."
"I promise," she whispers, pressing a hand to her chest- not over her heart, but over where an arc reactor would be, if she had one. Tony does the same and steps out. The doors close before he can turn around again.
Natasha groans, pinching the bridge of her nose in extreme irritation. "Next time, get kidnapped with Justin Hammer, will you? The guy's an idiot, it would be a lot easier on me."
"I'll get right on that," Emory says, slumping back against the wall of the elevator. The other woman silently taps her fingers against her thigh as the car lifts them to the roof, the doors opening on a helipad with a waiting helicopter, its blades already spinning. "Oh god, how many nightmares do I have to relive at once?" Emory blurts out. It's not really her nightmare as much as Rory's, but hearing the details of multiple 'death by rotor blades' dreams over the years has planted the fear pretty firmly.
"Did you forget how short you are? You'll be fine, but if you're still worried, lean over so far your boobs start to fall out," Nat says, taking her hand and starting to drag her. Emory barely remembers to grab the leather bag with Tony's clothes and her shoes in them. She does stumble on the way, cutting the top of her foot on the helipad asphalt, which she doesn't discover till their pilot gets them airborne.
"Great. You're bleeding within ten minutes of Tony Stark threatening to unleash armageddon unless you're kept safe," Natasha sighs. "I'm great at my job."
"If only we could get him to unleash armageddon on the bad guys SHIELD fights, with that flying armor of his," Emory says, trying to change the subject away from watching Natasha Romanoff worry about doing something less than perfectly. "Though, I guess Stark Industries doesn't do that now. No more weapons."
"His dad helped start SHIELD, from what I was told," Natasha says, holding up the first aid kit she'd been rummaging around to find. "All ties were cut off in the early 90's, with his death. His buddy Stane wanted to keep the inventions lucrative and public. That's when a lot of the in-house SHIELD tech development started up." As she speaks, Nat expertly and gently cleans Emory's wound, binding it up and offering her a loose white pill, which she declines. "Yeah, I wouldn't take drugs from me either. You can get one when we get back to-"
Natasha cuts herself off and doesn't continue speaking, seemingly lost in thought.
"Nat?" Emory says, when it's been a couple of minutes.
"I know where to put you," the agent says, turning and meeting Emory's eyes with actual happiness for the first time that day. She pulls out her phone, taps at it, and swears under her breath in a different language than the other two times Emory had heard her swear today. "Dead, great. Can I borrow yours?"
"Uh, yes?" she says, handing it over. To her surprise, Natasha hits three buttons and puts the phone to her ear. There's only one person she could be calling. Clint Barton.