Fic :: Avengers :: A Very, Very, Very Fine House :: 4b/5
A Very, Very, Very Fine House [4b/5]
Fandom: Avengers (movie)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Steve/Tony pre-slash (background Tony/Pepper)
Spoilers: post-movie
Summary: The Avengers take initiative. Or, the story of how a group of remarkable people came together to drink cocktails, eat ice-cream and wait for Fury's call.
A/N: Title from Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young's Our House, because it seemed appropriate. AO3
Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five
*
Part 4a
“That was fun, right?” Tony says, later, leaning against the railings.
Half the folks who followed them to the police department followed them to the park, although they’re still keeping a wide berth. Steve figures the Hulk with an ice cream sandwich is still the Hulk, and nobody but them wants to stand too close to the Hulk, so it’s almost peaceful. He can focus on the trees and the grass and the glimpses of the Hudson, and the Hulk can focus on his fifth ice cream sandwich, and Clint’s balancing on the handrail, looking extremely focussed too. Steve isn’t sure at what.
Tony has his faceplate up and he slides his newly acquired shades down his nose to peer at Steve. He traded them from a fan by the ice cream stand, in exchange for a picture of the fan kicking Iron Man between the legs.
“That was fun. I particularly enjoyed the part where the chief of police asked for your autograph. Right? Yes?”
“That kind of thing’s happened before.”
“Authority figures love you. You’re the anti-me. You could probably get Obama to eat a cookie out of your hand. I mean it. Clinton, too.”
“I... don’t want to feed the President a cookie.”
“Really? You sure? ‘Cause we’re gonna get invited to dinner at the White House sooner or later and I know a place that does a great chilli and chocolate.”
Steve frowns across at Tony - Tony, who is leaning back with his elbows on the handrail, his ankles crossed, his shades on the end of his nose, holding his ice cream cone up high to lick melted ice cream from the juncture between finger and thumb. He’s so casual you could almost forget he’s wearing a red and gold robot suit.
Steve can’t really forget it.
“Don’t lick it,” he groans.
Hand still up and tongue still out, Tony lifts his eyes to stare at Steve. He licks the last of the ice cream up pointedly and says, “It’s my highly advanced armour and I’ll lick it if I want to.”
“You wouldn’t lick an airplane, would you?”
“I would,” Tony says. “I will. I own a jet, you know. I could get it over here specially.”
“Please don’t do that.”
Tony grins at Steve, wide enough and bright enough that Steve wouldn’t be surprised to find a picture of him licking a jet in his mail tomorrow. Steve sighs, propping his elbows up on the railing, and he smiles out at the Hudson. It’s only when mint choc chip drips onto his fingers that he remembers to lick his own cone.
“I remember them building this,” he says. “The construction workers were like superheroes to me and Bucky. One of them gave me a dollar once.”
“I got in a fist fight with a spy up here,” Clint says, around a mouthful of his own ice cream sandwich. He smiles fondly, ice cream in the cracks between his teeth, and points into the nearby bushes. “Right there. About ten years ago, when the place was a dump. Bit his ear.”
Tony snorts. “Why didn’t you, oh, I don’t know, shoot him with your bow and arrow?”
“He snuck up on me from behind. I’m Hawkeye, not Hawkears.”
“Wow, congratulations, I think you just discovered a codename that makes even less sense than the one you’ve got.”
“I’ve read your file, Stark. I know your suit’s not even made of iron.”
“I never said it was,” Tony says, pointing his finger at Clint. “Never said that, actually. Not my fault my legions of adoring fans didn’t check their facts before they named me. Anyway,” he adds, taking a large, messy bite of the cone that leaves chocolate ice cream smeared on his nose, “watch your step, Barton. The Maria Stark Foundation helped fund this project, so I could legitimately tell you to get off my lawn.”
“You’re not the king of the High Line, Stark.”
“You’re in denial. It’s okay, I understand.”
Clint grins at him and, balling up the sandwich wrapper, he tosses it with precision at the upturned faceplate. It lands smack dab in the centre and gets stuck in one of Iron Man’s eyes.
On the other side of Clint, the Hulk roars and smacks the railing with the palm of his hand, quite gently for the Hulk, as if just to remind them all that he’s still there and still - presumably - hungry. The railing crumples. Clint has to grab hold of the Hulk’s hair to keep from bowling over the edge.
“What?” Tony says. “What, you never heard of clearing your throat? Sending a passive aggressive email? No?”
“Ice cream!” the Hulk roars.
Down on the street below, tourists are starting to look up at the disturbance, pointing and raising their cameras. Steve smiles at them, waving awkwardly.
“Come on, big guy.” Clint pats the Hulk on the head and leaps back down off the railing. “Let’s go get you another ice cream sandwich or two.”
Lifting his shades up to get a better look at the dent in the railing, Tony says, “Tell them to add the damage to my tab.”
Clint waves a hand and mutter something that might be, “Tab my ass,” as he goes, jogging to keep up with the Hulk. Tony turns to Steve.
“This was fun, though, right?” he says.
Steve mentally rewinds, licking ice cream from his thumb. When he looks up again, Tony is staring intently at Steve’s hands. Steve runs his fingers through his hair and Tony’s gaze follows them.
“Sure,” he says. “It was good. I figure not many folks outside the police force get to say they helped stop a bank robbery.”
“Yeah, yeah, well done us, fighting the good fight, but-” Tony snaps his fingers as best he can while they’re encased in metal. He taps Steve on the wrist; the gauntlet is surprisingly warm. “We did it all without Fury telling us to jump and specifying how high. No being sent out like his extremely handsome flying monkeys. No near death experiences, or nuclear missiles, or Nick. Just us, doing our extremely handsome thing.”
“I guess,” Steve says, slowly. “It all worked out pretty well, but...”
“No, no buts. Eat your ice cream, my god, you’re going to miss another seventy years if you keep going at this rate.”
“Sorry.” He takes a big bite, hisses at the coldness, and then shakes his head. “No, there is a but. We can’t run off and - and do whatever it is you’re beating around the bush about, just because we happened to run into a robbery.”
“Okay, well, how about you tell me why not and I’ll counter it with a brilliant argument.”
“We were just in the right place at the right time-”
“Oh, come on,” Tony says, gesturing between them. “Are you hearing this? This, the words coming out of your mouth? Remember when you told me you were in the wrong place at the wrong time - and now this? What are you waiting for, the okayish place at the so-so time?”
“I’m waiting for my orders.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not a soldier.”
“I remember that too,” Steve says. “Look, can it, would you? For now. We can’t just the two of us decide to break away from SHIELD, anyway. We’d need to talk it through with the team.”
They stare at each other. Tony lifts his chin up, head back, as if he’s an alley cat ready for a scrap, and Steve - well, Steve always got into a lot of fights. He can feel his hackles rise. He looks away.
“You’re getting ice cream on your suit,” he says.
Tony looks down at himself, huffing out a breath. “That does it, I’m going home via the car wash.”
He wipes uselessly at himself, metal fingers scraping against his metal chest, until Steve passes him a paper napkin. He watches Tony dab at himself, having to hold the napkin so delicately to keep it from tearing in the Iron Man’s too-strong grip. He watches Tony scrunch the napkin up once he’s done with it; sure enough, his fingers go straight through it. Tony tuts and tosses the balled-up napkin at the trash can and misses.
Still looking at the napkin, Tony says, “You know, the one time in my life I really was in the right place at the right time was because it was the time and place my oldest friend had arranged for terrorists to kill me.”
“What?”
Steve chokes and starts to cough, dropping his ice cream. He presses his fingers over his mouth and stares until Tony glances up at him.
“Okay, that didn’t come out right. That - was a joke. Funny ha-ha, remember? No? No, I guess not. In-joke. Pepper and Rhodey would be rolling in the aisles right now. It was funny in my head.”
“I’ll bet,” Steve wheezes.
Smiling wryly, Tony drums his fingers on the handrail. He flexes his fingers, curling and uncurling each joint individually. The suit whirrs with every small movement, barely audible unless you know what to listen for.
“Look at that,” Tony murmurs. “Precision engineering. Sometimes I stun even myself.”
“I’ll bet,” Steve says again. He looks down at the mess of half-eaten ice cream at his feet, kicks the cone to the side, then looks up at Tony again. “You’re pretty hard to please, yourself, you know.”
“What?”
“You said - about Howard-”
“I heard you. I am so easy to please. Look at me, I’m in a park, I’m eating ice cream, I’m pleased.”
“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.”
Tony looks at him. “Huh,” he says.
He eats the pointy end of his cone in three quick bites, ice cream dripping onto his gauntlets, and then he grabs the hem of Steve’s sweatshirt and wipes his fingers clean on it.
“Look,” he says. “Listen. Engage all your senses, in fact-”
Behind them, there’s a strange sucking noise - like someone trying to drink the very last dregs of their milkshake through a straw - and a few people shout in surprise as the air seems to shift, and Steve turns around just in time to see Bruce Banner flop down onto the grass by the ice cream stand.
There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then Tony starts to laugh and the tension breaks. Steve can see people tugging their cell phones out and turning them in their direction.
“Good to see you again, Dr Banner,” he says.
“I dropped my ice cream,” says Bruce.
“But how does that make you feel?” Tony says, still snickering.
“Angry,” Bruce says. He wipes his hands vaguely on his bare legs. “And sticky. Mainly sticky, I guess.”
He glances up at Clint, who is standing next to him with his mouth hanging open and an ice cream sandwich in each hand. Clint wordlessly passes one down to him.
“Thanks,” Bruce says, taking it. He pauses, frowns and reaches into his mouth to a pull a bit of twisted metal out from between his teeth. “I can’t believe you let him eat a gun.”
“I didn’t let him,” Clint says. “I just didn’t fight the giant, angry mutant’s decision to put a gun in his mouth and chew.”
Running his tongue along his teeth, Bruce pulls a face, but seems satisfied. He makes to stand, reaching out with his gunmetal for a nearby trashcan, before he thinks better of it. He sits. He clears his throat.
“Oh, geez,” Steve says. “Sorry, here.”
He tugs his sweatshirt off over his head and holds it out to Bruce. He’s got his undershirt on beneath it, but it rides up and someone wolf-whistles. A kid shouts, “Where’s your shield, Cap?”
“I, uh. I left it behind, sorry.”
Someone else shouts, “Now take the rest off!”
At that, Tony steps forwards, clapping his hands together - the sound is very loud with his armour on.
“O-kay,” he says. “Touching as this whole scene has been - a man, reunited with ice cream sandwich-” Bruce, sweatshirt half on, waves his ice cream sandwich in the air in acknowledgement. “-But now’s time for the audience participation. Who’s got clothes? Come on, pants, shoes, step right up. You all know who I am, come by my tower later and we’ll get them right back to you. You can sell the story to TMZ after.”
“I’ve got some flip flops,” says a guy, holding up a shopping bag.
“I’ve got some sweatpants,” says a woman. She pulls a face and shrugs, as people turn to look at her incredulously. “I mean, I don’t know if they’ll fit great, but we’re not getting him ready for the catwalk, here, right? Just getting him less... naked.”
“Pragmatic, I like it.”
Tony grabs the offered flip flops and tugs the sweatpants out of her open gym bag and he tosses the bundle to Bruce. Bruce raises his eyebrows but, passing his ice cream sandwich back to Clint, he carefully tugs the pants on. There’s a vague cheer from the onlookers when they fit.
“Great. Good job. Everyone pat yourselves on the back from me. Flip flops, sweatpants.” Tony points at each of the donors. “Stark Tower. Big, beautiful, right over there. My personal tip? Sell them on Ebay. I mean it, we’ll sign them, I’ll whip up some kind of certificate of authentication, bam, you’ve got yourself a fresh slice of American history.”
Steve drifts away while Tony does his thing. He leans back against the railing again and watches Clint and Bruce chatting as Bruce puts on the flip flops, too far away and surrounded by the hustle and bustle for Steve to make out their words; Tony signing autographs and posing for pictures and spreading his fingers to show curious kids the most intricate joints. Although everyone had kept their distance from the Hulk, now he’s gone the show seems to be over and the crowd is starting to disperse at last. A few people linger on the peripheries of his vision, pointing and staring at him, and Steve lifts his hand and smiles, though they come no closer.
Tony, pen cap between his teeth as he signs a young lady’s t-shirt, looks up and around until he spots Steve. He caps the pen and says something to his fan, who says something back that makes him smile broadly, and then Tony moves away. He leans next to Steve, lowering his shades.
“So, Captain America bares all,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m just thinking of headlines. You know, for when those pictures of you stripping hit the gossip sites.”
“I only took my sweatshirt off!”
“And flashed the world your six pack.” Tony pats him on the stomach. “God bless America. Wave goodbye to your anonymity.”
Steve sighs. “I already had. I’ve seen what those - ‘gossip sites’ are like, these days. They’ve probably found out where I live already. It’s under a false name, but I haven’t exactly been hiding.”
Tony drums his fingers on the side of the railing. “You could move back to SHIELD. I’ve seen their accommodation. It’s, you know, it’s bearable. If you like Spartan. Do you like Spartan?”
“I’m not a huge fan,” Steve says, glancing sideways at Tony. Tony isn’t looking at him.
“Well, I suppose the tower’s got plenty of room, if you don’t wanna stay in your shoebox and you don’t have anywhere else - what? What? What’s so funny?”
Laughing, Steve shakes his head. “You aren’t as subtle as you think you are. Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...” He schools his features. “What were you saying?”
Tony pauses. He tugs his shades off completely and glowers up at Steve. “I don’t want to say it now. You’ve ruined the moment.”
“No, go on.”
“Move into the tower, you asshole,” Tony says. “You could at least pretend to look surprised. Christ, I take it back, you’re not invited anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Steve says, although he isn’t, really. He ducks his head, still laughing, and he sees Tony crack a smile out of the corner of his eye. When Steve straightens up again, Tony’s looked away.
“Well?” Tony says.
“Sure. It’d be swell, thank you.”
“Gee willikers,” Tony murmurs. He straightens up as Bruce and Clint approach, and claps Bruce on the shoulder.”
“I think this is one of the stranger days I’ve had,” Bruce says.
“And that’s saying something, coming from you.”
Clint pulls himself up onto the handrail again and sits there, looking pleased with himself. “If every day of my vacation’s like this, it might just be bearable.”
“Stop trying to make us into role models for your twisted ideas of civilian life, Barton,” Tony says. “It won’t work. Cap’s - well, Cap’s not a civilian, anyway. I’m too cool for you. Bruce is too everything for you. We’re the worst role models.”
“Steve’s a good role model,” Bruce says.
“Well, obviously. Next you’ll be telling me water’s wet and I’m attractive.”
“One of these days,” Steve says mildly, “I’m going to lose my rag with you all.”
“Please do. In fact, let me know in advance. Send me a memo, write it in my calendar, I want to have a camera ready when it happens - Hang on, phone call. Pepper.” Tony frowns, tugging off his shades and closing the faceplate. It’s a strange sight, Iron Man’s eyes blazing blankly out at them while Steve can hear, faintly, the sound of Tony’s voice coming from inside the suit.
He tries to ignore it, turning to Bruce. “So, you and the Hulk...?”
“We’re reaching an understanding,” Bruce says. He smiles lopsidedly, if a shade sarcastically. “I’m letting him stretch his legs, he’s getting less angry. It’s as close to win-win as I’m ever going to get.”
Steve looks him up and down, then clasps him on the shoulder. “Close to win-win sounds like a real step up from the old situation. Also, the Hulk said you had to speak with me?”
“Yes, um.” Glancing around, Bruce draws Steve to one side, lowers his voice and leans in closer. “I was in Chile last week. I’ve actually been following a lead on a group trying to recreate... well, me, which is never a - very good idea. I didn’t find them, anyway, but what I did find were a lot of rumours about something like a HYDRA base in the Atacama desert.”
Steve breathes out heavily through his nose. An almighty sinking feeling.
“Okay,” he says. “That’s - what else did you find?”
“Not a whole lot. When I’m me, I’m just a scientist, and when I’m not me, I’m... ebullient, so reconnaissance isn’t either of our strong points.” Bruce huffs out a breath, scratching the back of his neck. He’s had to roll up the sleeves of Steve’s sweatshirt to fit. “What I’ve got, is back in the tower. I didn’t think it’d be wise to try sending it to you.”
“Right, mail can be intercepted.”
“And email, too.”
Steve laughs shortly. He’d forgotten about that.
“Guys, I’ve got to head back to the tower,” Tony says. Or Iron Man says it, really, the faceplate down, the voice robotic. “Have another ice cream on me. Hell, go to Le Bernadin, they know me there, they’ll even let Mr Flip Flops in if you tell them I sent you. Cap, try the red snapper, it’s great.”
“What, no personal recommendation for me?” says Clint.
“Don’t get dessert or else you won’t be able to fit into your prom dress.”
The flight stabilisers hum and flare into life and Iron Man shoots up into the sky. Steve has to shield his eyes to watch him fly away, in the bright sunlight.
Clint rubs his hands together with glee. “I wanna see how much we have to spend for Stark to actually notice - or not,” he adds, lowering his hands and straightening up as he takes in Steve and Bruce’s serious expressions. His face shifts into the man who shot who shot an arrow at a demigod, rather than the man who wants to spend large amounts of a billionaire’s money on what - Steve suspects - would be very small portions of food.
“We need to go back to the tower, too,” Steve says. “There’s something Bruce needs to show me.”
*
Bruce spreads his map over the coffee table, weighing the edges down with empty glasses and, when nothing else is readily to hand, his borrowed flip-flops, casting a sheepish look and a murmured, “I figure everything we do with these now will only add to their value, right?” at Steve.
He runs Steve through the locations he visited and the gossip he heard - a convoy of unmarked vans in the middle of the night; soldiers in the desert with strange uniforms; mysterious lights over the desert at night - and, “If Red Skull knew about the Tesseract then it’s possible he knew about other things too, right?” Bruce says.
“Like the bifrost?”
“And that’s just for starters.”
They share a dark look.
As Bruce begins to mark locations on the map, still speaking, a door slams somewhere in the heart of the penthouse and raised voices drift down to them from overhead.
“Chacabuco is most likely, I think,” Bruce is saying.
Steve clears his throat, refocusing. “And none of this is substantiated, right? Nothing you saw with your own eyes?”
Bruce hesitates, tapping his finger against the town while he thinks. “I saw strange lights. The rest, just hearsay, but there’s enough of it something is going on there. Or...”
“Or it’s a trap.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Bruce says. “Either way, I’m thinking that’s worth checking out.”
They lapse into a silence, and Pepper’s voice floats through it.
“I thought you were in the basement. I thought you were working, and then I get a call from the publicist trying to find out your favourite flavour ice cream because two dozen different publications were all asking.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” and there’s Tony’s voice. “I should have brought you back an ice cream sandwich.”
“Well,” Steve says. “Trap or not, there’s only one way to find out.”
“No, Tony! No, what you should have done is not put me in a position where I - I have to act like your PA again! I’m your girlfriend and your CEO, I can’t-”
Tony says something too soft for Steve to make out, but Pepper responds to it with a noise of pure frustration. He can picture her hands thrown up into the air at the sound of it.
“I’m not saying that! Have you ever thought about what this is like for me? Has that ever crossed your mind? You almost died, Tony! In space! And now I’m so busy, and you’re so busy, and lately when we actually, occasionally manage to be in the same building at the same time, you’re so distracted-”
“Distracted? Pepper, I’m not distracted, I’m more focussed than I’ve ever been-”
“Yes, Tony,” she says softly, “but you’re not focussed on me.”
Steve stares down at his hands, spread very carefully over the map of Atacama. Chacabuco, he tells himself. Across the table from him, Bruce murmurs, “Times like these, I almost wish the other guy would come out and climb out the window.”
They pause, listening, but things in the corridor seem to have quietened down. Steve clears his throat.
“So, uh, Chacabuco,” he says.
“Oficina Chacabuco,” Bruce agrees. “It seems the most likely fit. It was used as a detention camp, so there are military facilities. Lots of abandoned mines in the area, too.”
“It’s a bit close to the highway though, isn’t it?”
As Bruce responds, Steve can hear Tony’s voice pick up again, softly. He tries to tune it out, but he’s always had sensitive hearing and the serum only made it even better, and, “You’re right,” Tony’s saying. “I’m sorry, you’re right. As per usual. I haven’t been - Let’s get out of town next week. Come on, turn that frown upside down. Just you and me, okay? We’ll both turn our cells off.”
“Tony...”
“Where do you wanna go?”
“Steve?” says Bruce.
“Iceland,” says Pepper. “We haven’t been to Iceland in a - in a while.”
“Sorry.” Steve looks up and meets Bruce’s quizzical gaze. He looks back down at the map again, focussing on the red circle Bruce has drawn in the fork of that junction. “I didn’t catch that. The highways?”
“The desert’s practically inhospitable. I think... if I were gonna set up a secret terrorist base in the driest place on the planet, I’d sacrifice some of that secrecy for easier access, right? It’s still surrounded by miles of empty desert. How many people are gonna drive through that in a week? I’m thinking not a lot.”
Steve stares down at the desert. It stretches uninterrupted for miles and miles. “And if anyone did get too curious, attract HYDRA’s attention, that’s a whole load of room to hide the bodies in.”
He smoothes the map down again, ignoring the quiet sounds of Tony and Pepper’s voices fading away, and he says, “Show me again where you heard the rumours.”
*
Once the talking - and planning - is done, Steve goes down to fetch his shield from the workshop and say goodbye to Clint, still shooting angrily at his targets, and then he heads back up to the guest room - his room now, maybe - to grab some clothes. When he gets back to the living room, Bruce has disappeared and Tony is tinkering about behind the bar, humming to himself - a tune Steve recognises but can’t yet name.
“Everything alright?” Steve asks as he approaches.
“Who, me?” Tony looks around the room exaggeratedly, and then points at himself. Steve nods. “Never better, Cap. Fine and dandy. Peachy and keen.”
Steve hesitates, uncertain how much to admit of the conversation they heard and the fact that he listened to it. He crosses over to the couch and leans his shield against the cushions, dumps his bag on the floor next to it, and he looks down at the map still spread across the coffee table.
“Drink?” Tony says. “Or, mouthwash, in your case?”
Steve looks around to see Tony waving a bottle at him. He doesn’t look troubled, and for all Tony skates around his emotions as if they belong to someone else, Steve’s rapidly learning how bad he is at hiding them. He does look fine.
Steve opens his mouth and says, “I have to go to Chile. Bruce thinks there could be a HYDRA base there. I have to see.”
“Okay.” Tony shrugs, putting the bottle away again. “Good thing I didn’t start the party without you. Are we going now? Should I suit up?”
“Don’t. No offence, but whether you’re Tony Stark or Iron Man you’re extremely - noticeable. This needs to... not be noticeable. Bruce is taking me to the edge of the desert and then I’m going alone.”
Tony taps his fingers against his chin. He wends his way out from behind the bar and leans over the coffee table to study Bruce’s map upside down and he says, softly, “Huh. Wait here.”
Steve expects him to leave the room at that, but instead Tony goes over to the work stations in the corner, pulling a small black box out from under one of the desks. He flips the lid.
“Prototype. One of a kind so far, but it’s about time we put it to the test. Here, catch.”
Steve catches. He turns the thing over in his hands to look at it - it’s shaped like a small tortoise, flat on the bottom with three rotating wheels, and rounded on the top with a shell of shifting, overlapping metal plates. The whole thing is dark grey, matte and not much bigger than the palm of Steve’s hand.
“What-” he begins, but before he can get another word out Tony’s plucked it from his hands again and dropped it onto the floor upside down.
“Look,” he says, sitting on the arm of the couch and crossing his arms. “Come on, you little bastard.”
He nudges the robot with his toes and the thing whirrs into life, its wheels spinning uselessly in the air. Although it looks completely unfamiliar, there’s something about the noise it makes that Steve recognises.
“Tony,” he says. “Wasn’t this robot cleaning your shoes a couple months ago?”
He watches as the metal plates start to shift beneath it, opening like the petals of a flower and slowly, quietly, levering the little robot up onto its side.
“Two months is like two years for technology. Get with the program, Cap.” Tony nudges the robot with his toes again, although there’s a hint of pride in his voice. “Useless hunk of junk. The great thing about being me is that when my shoes are dirty, I can just buy more shoes. You know how hard it is to program a bot to tell the difference between shoes and, I don’t know, hands, bottle, Mjolnir?”
“Very hard?”
“Very, very hard.”
The robot flips itself over onto its wheels again, the plates fluttering shut as it spins in a circle, reorienting itself.
“Atta boy,” Tony says. “The code’s practically the same. Navigation, basic decision making, programming it to seek out whole humans instead of distinguishing between body parts was practically a downgrade. 360 degree cameras, smoke bombs in the rim - teaching it to recognise threats was a fun weekend, let me tell you, you really missed out on that one.”
“You - want me to take it with me?”
Tony raises an eyebrow at him. “Obviously. No more stupid questions, pay attention - this bit’s important. New feature.”
He tugs his communicator out of his pocket, activates it with his thumb and then, as the pictograms light up across the screen, swipes his palm across it. The pictures disappear, leaving the screen blank except for the Iron Man helmet in the corner.
“Activate video bastard-cam-zero-zero-one. Did you get that?”
The communicator fills up with a view of their feet from ground level as the robot rolls almost silently across the floor. Tony drags his finger back and forth across the screen and the view moves with his motions, spinning the full 360 degrees as promised, and when he taps a spot on the screen the robot turns and heads in that direction.
“Got it,” Steve says. “You named it... that?”
“It was annoying me at the time,” Tony says vaguely, but then he pauses. He lowers the communicator and lifts his head. “Is that bad? Are you shocked and horrified? I can rename it if you like, something Captain America friendly. Chuck? Earl? Larry?”
“Tony, I was in the army.”
“You don’t say? I’d never have guessed.”
“I mean, folks didn’t curse around civilians, and I was filmed a lot so I always had to be careful, got into the habit of just not if I could avoid it, but...” Steve shrugs. “Some of the fellas I knew woulda probably shocked and offended you.”
“Well, now I just want to hear you swear.”
“No.”
“Go on, say something naughty. Just this once, I promise. For me. For America.”
“Definitely no.”
Tony stares at Steve, eyes narrowed, as if he’s trying to will a curse word past Steve’s lips with the power of his mind. Steve only clenches his jaw tighter, meeting his gaze unflinchingly until Tony huffs out an amused breath and looks away.
“Fine,” he says. “Fine, remain pure, you stubborn bastard.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting something,” says Bruce.
Tony’s head whips around and he leaps to his feet, shoving his communicator back into his pocket. Steve turns too, to see Bruce standing at the top of the stairs with a bag slung over his shoulder, looking down on them with a vaguely amused expression.
Tony spreads his arms.
“Bruce. Bruce. Brucie-goosie. Get over here.”
He beckons with both hands impatiently, while Bruce makes his way down the staircase. He grabs Bruce’s bag from him as soon as he’s within reach, and balances it on the back of the couch, propped against his hip, so he can tug the zipper open. “You all packed already? What have you got in here?”
“Shirts,” Bruce says with a shrug. “Mainly shirts.”
“You wear too many shirts” Tony says, pulling a shirt sleeve out of the bag and holding it up to Bruce’s arm to compare. He gasps theatrically. “These are the same colour. Did you buy them in a pack?”
Shoving the bag back at Bruce, with the zipper still half-open and the sleeve still dangling out, Tony straightens Bruce’s shirt collar.
“I like my pack of shirts.”
“You’re an eternal disappointment, Brucie,” Tony says, patting Bruce on the side of the face. “Be good, eat your vegetables, if the other boys say mean things step on them.”
“I always do those things anyway.”
Well, do them even more this time.”
Bruce refolds his shirt and zips his bag back up, shouldering it. He squeezes Tony’s arm. “I’ll see you in a couple weeks, Tony.”
Tony nods. Bruce squeezes his arm again and then turns to look at Steve, his eyebrows raised.
“Steve, you ready?” he asks.
Before he can answer, Tony snaps his fingers and exclaims, “Nope! Hold it! He’s not ready,” and dives under a side table, emerging a second later with the little reconnaissance robot clasped tightly between his hands. He sticks it back into the box still open on the floor, closing the latch tightly, and then he picks the box up and thrusts it out at Steve.
“Take it, then,” he says. “And wear your damn earpiece, for god’s sake. I know when you don’t. I know everything. Look, it’s easy when you get used to it, just pretend you’re talking to an imaginary friend.”
“I’m finding your advice particularly sage today,” Bruce murmurs from the sidelines, but Tony’s eyes barely skate towards him before they’re snapping back to Steve.
“I’ll try,” Steve says.
He takes the box from Tony’s hands and leans over the couch to slide it into his bag, slides the bag over his shoulder. Then he picks his shield up from its place on the cushions and holds it out to Tony.
“Could you keep ahold of this for me?” he says. “I figure if I carry it through the desert with me, it’ll attract some unwelcome attention and - well, this tower is probably the safest place I know. So if you could just - keep it somewhere safe till I’m back for it?”
“Sure.” Tony takes the shield and holds it awkwardly, running his fingers along the rim. “I can do that.”
“Please don’t experiment on it,” Steve adds.
“Spoilsport.”
Tony says it automatically, absent-mindedly, with no real bite. Ignoring the colourful face of the shield, he flips it over and gazes down at the back, where the joins are visible. Steve watches him run his finger along the fastening of one of the straps and give it a tug, testing the give.
Behind Steve, Bruce clears his throat, and Tony blinks out of his reverie.
“Pepper!” he calls. “Pep, two of our birds are flying the nest already! I think I’m menopausal!”
Pepper shouts something back that might be, “I’m working.”
Tony grins at them. Balancing the shield on his hip, he throws them a mock salute. “Gentlemen.”
Already heading for the elevator, Bruce waves vaguely over his shoulder, but Steve lingers. He fiddles with the bag strap over his shoulder. It feels as if all he has done since he came out of the ice is move from point to point. The urge to stand still is sudden and overwhelming.
“You can’t helicopter parent a shield, Cap,” Tony says. “That’s creepy and wrong.”
Steve clears his throat.
“Look after it,” he says.
“Go get in that elevator or I’ll let Clint use it for target practice.”
Steve goes, and he gets in the elevator. Bruce is holding its door open, leaning against it while he waits, looking as quietly patient and amused as ever. He steps back to let Steve pass and shoots him a look that Steve can’t read.
“What?” Steve says.
Bruce just shakes his head and smiles, pressing the down button.
Steve glances back over his shoulder as the door closes. Tony is still standing where they lift him, holding the shield up to the windows to examine it all the more closely, running his palm along the shield’s edge in the bright sunlight. Steve looks away again.
Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five
*
Fandom: Avengers (movie)
Rating: PG
Pairing: Steve/Tony pre-slash (background Tony/Pepper)
Spoilers: post-movie
Summary: The Avengers take initiative. Or, the story of how a group of remarkable people came together to drink cocktails, eat ice-cream and wait for Fury's call.
A/N: Title from Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young's Our House, because it seemed appropriate. AO3
Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five
*
Part 4a
“That was fun, right?” Tony says, later, leaning against the railings.
Half the folks who followed them to the police department followed them to the park, although they’re still keeping a wide berth. Steve figures the Hulk with an ice cream sandwich is still the Hulk, and nobody but them wants to stand too close to the Hulk, so it’s almost peaceful. He can focus on the trees and the grass and the glimpses of the Hudson, and the Hulk can focus on his fifth ice cream sandwich, and Clint’s balancing on the handrail, looking extremely focussed too. Steve isn’t sure at what.
Tony has his faceplate up and he slides his newly acquired shades down his nose to peer at Steve. He traded them from a fan by the ice cream stand, in exchange for a picture of the fan kicking Iron Man between the legs.
“That was fun. I particularly enjoyed the part where the chief of police asked for your autograph. Right? Yes?”
“That kind of thing’s happened before.”
“Authority figures love you. You’re the anti-me. You could probably get Obama to eat a cookie out of your hand. I mean it. Clinton, too.”
“I... don’t want to feed the President a cookie.”
“Really? You sure? ‘Cause we’re gonna get invited to dinner at the White House sooner or later and I know a place that does a great chilli and chocolate.”
Steve frowns across at Tony - Tony, who is leaning back with his elbows on the handrail, his ankles crossed, his shades on the end of his nose, holding his ice cream cone up high to lick melted ice cream from the juncture between finger and thumb. He’s so casual you could almost forget he’s wearing a red and gold robot suit.
Steve can’t really forget it.
“Don’t lick it,” he groans.
Hand still up and tongue still out, Tony lifts his eyes to stare at Steve. He licks the last of the ice cream up pointedly and says, “It’s my highly advanced armour and I’ll lick it if I want to.”
“You wouldn’t lick an airplane, would you?”
“I would,” Tony says. “I will. I own a jet, you know. I could get it over here specially.”
“Please don’t do that.”
Tony grins at Steve, wide enough and bright enough that Steve wouldn’t be surprised to find a picture of him licking a jet in his mail tomorrow. Steve sighs, propping his elbows up on the railing, and he smiles out at the Hudson. It’s only when mint choc chip drips onto his fingers that he remembers to lick his own cone.
“I remember them building this,” he says. “The construction workers were like superheroes to me and Bucky. One of them gave me a dollar once.”
“I got in a fist fight with a spy up here,” Clint says, around a mouthful of his own ice cream sandwich. He smiles fondly, ice cream in the cracks between his teeth, and points into the nearby bushes. “Right there. About ten years ago, when the place was a dump. Bit his ear.”
Tony snorts. “Why didn’t you, oh, I don’t know, shoot him with your bow and arrow?”
“He snuck up on me from behind. I’m Hawkeye, not Hawkears.”
“Wow, congratulations, I think you just discovered a codename that makes even less sense than the one you’ve got.”
“I’ve read your file, Stark. I know your suit’s not even made of iron.”
“I never said it was,” Tony says, pointing his finger at Clint. “Never said that, actually. Not my fault my legions of adoring fans didn’t check their facts before they named me. Anyway,” he adds, taking a large, messy bite of the cone that leaves chocolate ice cream smeared on his nose, “watch your step, Barton. The Maria Stark Foundation helped fund this project, so I could legitimately tell you to get off my lawn.”
“You’re not the king of the High Line, Stark.”
“You’re in denial. It’s okay, I understand.”
Clint grins at him and, balling up the sandwich wrapper, he tosses it with precision at the upturned faceplate. It lands smack dab in the centre and gets stuck in one of Iron Man’s eyes.
On the other side of Clint, the Hulk roars and smacks the railing with the palm of his hand, quite gently for the Hulk, as if just to remind them all that he’s still there and still - presumably - hungry. The railing crumples. Clint has to grab hold of the Hulk’s hair to keep from bowling over the edge.
“What?” Tony says. “What, you never heard of clearing your throat? Sending a passive aggressive email? No?”
“Ice cream!” the Hulk roars.
Down on the street below, tourists are starting to look up at the disturbance, pointing and raising their cameras. Steve smiles at them, waving awkwardly.
“Come on, big guy.” Clint pats the Hulk on the head and leaps back down off the railing. “Let’s go get you another ice cream sandwich or two.”
Lifting his shades up to get a better look at the dent in the railing, Tony says, “Tell them to add the damage to my tab.”
Clint waves a hand and mutter something that might be, “Tab my ass,” as he goes, jogging to keep up with the Hulk. Tony turns to Steve.
“This was fun, though, right?” he says.
Steve mentally rewinds, licking ice cream from his thumb. When he looks up again, Tony is staring intently at Steve’s hands. Steve runs his fingers through his hair and Tony’s gaze follows them.
“Sure,” he says. “It was good. I figure not many folks outside the police force get to say they helped stop a bank robbery.”
“Yeah, yeah, well done us, fighting the good fight, but-” Tony snaps his fingers as best he can while they’re encased in metal. He taps Steve on the wrist; the gauntlet is surprisingly warm. “We did it all without Fury telling us to jump and specifying how high. No being sent out like his extremely handsome flying monkeys. No near death experiences, or nuclear missiles, or Nick. Just us, doing our extremely handsome thing.”
“I guess,” Steve says, slowly. “It all worked out pretty well, but...”
“No, no buts. Eat your ice cream, my god, you’re going to miss another seventy years if you keep going at this rate.”
“Sorry.” He takes a big bite, hisses at the coldness, and then shakes his head. “No, there is a but. We can’t run off and - and do whatever it is you’re beating around the bush about, just because we happened to run into a robbery.”
“Okay, well, how about you tell me why not and I’ll counter it with a brilliant argument.”
“We were just in the right place at the right time-”
“Oh, come on,” Tony says, gesturing between them. “Are you hearing this? This, the words coming out of your mouth? Remember when you told me you were in the wrong place at the wrong time - and now this? What are you waiting for, the okayish place at the so-so time?”
“I’m waiting for my orders.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not a soldier.”
“I remember that too,” Steve says. “Look, can it, would you? For now. We can’t just the two of us decide to break away from SHIELD, anyway. We’d need to talk it through with the team.”
They stare at each other. Tony lifts his chin up, head back, as if he’s an alley cat ready for a scrap, and Steve - well, Steve always got into a lot of fights. He can feel his hackles rise. He looks away.
“You’re getting ice cream on your suit,” he says.
Tony looks down at himself, huffing out a breath. “That does it, I’m going home via the car wash.”
He wipes uselessly at himself, metal fingers scraping against his metal chest, until Steve passes him a paper napkin. He watches Tony dab at himself, having to hold the napkin so delicately to keep it from tearing in the Iron Man’s too-strong grip. He watches Tony scrunch the napkin up once he’s done with it; sure enough, his fingers go straight through it. Tony tuts and tosses the balled-up napkin at the trash can and misses.
Still looking at the napkin, Tony says, “You know, the one time in my life I really was in the right place at the right time was because it was the time and place my oldest friend had arranged for terrorists to kill me.”
“What?”
Steve chokes and starts to cough, dropping his ice cream. He presses his fingers over his mouth and stares until Tony glances up at him.
“Okay, that didn’t come out right. That - was a joke. Funny ha-ha, remember? No? No, I guess not. In-joke. Pepper and Rhodey would be rolling in the aisles right now. It was funny in my head.”
“I’ll bet,” Steve wheezes.
Smiling wryly, Tony drums his fingers on the handrail. He flexes his fingers, curling and uncurling each joint individually. The suit whirrs with every small movement, barely audible unless you know what to listen for.
“Look at that,” Tony murmurs. “Precision engineering. Sometimes I stun even myself.”
“I’ll bet,” Steve says again. He looks down at the mess of half-eaten ice cream at his feet, kicks the cone to the side, then looks up at Tony again. “You’re pretty hard to please, yourself, you know.”
“What?”
“You said - about Howard-”
“I heard you. I am so easy to please. Look at me, I’m in a park, I’m eating ice cream, I’m pleased.”
“I’m not saying it’s a bad thing.”
Tony looks at him. “Huh,” he says.
He eats the pointy end of his cone in three quick bites, ice cream dripping onto his gauntlets, and then he grabs the hem of Steve’s sweatshirt and wipes his fingers clean on it.
“Look,” he says. “Listen. Engage all your senses, in fact-”
Behind them, there’s a strange sucking noise - like someone trying to drink the very last dregs of their milkshake through a straw - and a few people shout in surprise as the air seems to shift, and Steve turns around just in time to see Bruce Banner flop down onto the grass by the ice cream stand.
There’s a moment of stunned silence, and then Tony starts to laugh and the tension breaks. Steve can see people tugging their cell phones out and turning them in their direction.
“Good to see you again, Dr Banner,” he says.
“I dropped my ice cream,” says Bruce.
“But how does that make you feel?” Tony says, still snickering.
“Angry,” Bruce says. He wipes his hands vaguely on his bare legs. “And sticky. Mainly sticky, I guess.”
He glances up at Clint, who is standing next to him with his mouth hanging open and an ice cream sandwich in each hand. Clint wordlessly passes one down to him.
“Thanks,” Bruce says, taking it. He pauses, frowns and reaches into his mouth to a pull a bit of twisted metal out from between his teeth. “I can’t believe you let him eat a gun.”
“I didn’t let him,” Clint says. “I just didn’t fight the giant, angry mutant’s decision to put a gun in his mouth and chew.”
Running his tongue along his teeth, Bruce pulls a face, but seems satisfied. He makes to stand, reaching out with his gunmetal for a nearby trashcan, before he thinks better of it. He sits. He clears his throat.
“Oh, geez,” Steve says. “Sorry, here.”
He tugs his sweatshirt off over his head and holds it out to Bruce. He’s got his undershirt on beneath it, but it rides up and someone wolf-whistles. A kid shouts, “Where’s your shield, Cap?”
“I, uh. I left it behind, sorry.”
Someone else shouts, “Now take the rest off!”
At that, Tony steps forwards, clapping his hands together - the sound is very loud with his armour on.
“O-kay,” he says. “Touching as this whole scene has been - a man, reunited with ice cream sandwich-” Bruce, sweatshirt half on, waves his ice cream sandwich in the air in acknowledgement. “-But now’s time for the audience participation. Who’s got clothes? Come on, pants, shoes, step right up. You all know who I am, come by my tower later and we’ll get them right back to you. You can sell the story to TMZ after.”
“I’ve got some flip flops,” says a guy, holding up a shopping bag.
“I’ve got some sweatpants,” says a woman. She pulls a face and shrugs, as people turn to look at her incredulously. “I mean, I don’t know if they’ll fit great, but we’re not getting him ready for the catwalk, here, right? Just getting him less... naked.”
“Pragmatic, I like it.”
Tony grabs the offered flip flops and tugs the sweatpants out of her open gym bag and he tosses the bundle to Bruce. Bruce raises his eyebrows but, passing his ice cream sandwich back to Clint, he carefully tugs the pants on. There’s a vague cheer from the onlookers when they fit.
“Great. Good job. Everyone pat yourselves on the back from me. Flip flops, sweatpants.” Tony points at each of the donors. “Stark Tower. Big, beautiful, right over there. My personal tip? Sell them on Ebay. I mean it, we’ll sign them, I’ll whip up some kind of certificate of authentication, bam, you’ve got yourself a fresh slice of American history.”
Steve drifts away while Tony does his thing. He leans back against the railing again and watches Clint and Bruce chatting as Bruce puts on the flip flops, too far away and surrounded by the hustle and bustle for Steve to make out their words; Tony signing autographs and posing for pictures and spreading his fingers to show curious kids the most intricate joints. Although everyone had kept their distance from the Hulk, now he’s gone the show seems to be over and the crowd is starting to disperse at last. A few people linger on the peripheries of his vision, pointing and staring at him, and Steve lifts his hand and smiles, though they come no closer.
Tony, pen cap between his teeth as he signs a young lady’s t-shirt, looks up and around until he spots Steve. He caps the pen and says something to his fan, who says something back that makes him smile broadly, and then Tony moves away. He leans next to Steve, lowering his shades.
“So, Captain America bares all,” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, nothing. I’m just thinking of headlines. You know, for when those pictures of you stripping hit the gossip sites.”
“I only took my sweatshirt off!”
“And flashed the world your six pack.” Tony pats him on the stomach. “God bless America. Wave goodbye to your anonymity.”
Steve sighs. “I already had. I’ve seen what those - ‘gossip sites’ are like, these days. They’ve probably found out where I live already. It’s under a false name, but I haven’t exactly been hiding.”
Tony drums his fingers on the side of the railing. “You could move back to SHIELD. I’ve seen their accommodation. It’s, you know, it’s bearable. If you like Spartan. Do you like Spartan?”
“I’m not a huge fan,” Steve says, glancing sideways at Tony. Tony isn’t looking at him.
“Well, I suppose the tower’s got plenty of room, if you don’t wanna stay in your shoebox and you don’t have anywhere else - what? What? What’s so funny?”
Laughing, Steve shakes his head. “You aren’t as subtle as you think you are. Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...” He schools his features. “What were you saying?”
Tony pauses. He tugs his shades off completely and glowers up at Steve. “I don’t want to say it now. You’ve ruined the moment.”
“No, go on.”
“Move into the tower, you asshole,” Tony says. “You could at least pretend to look surprised. Christ, I take it back, you’re not invited anymore.”
“I’m sorry,” Steve says, although he isn’t, really. He ducks his head, still laughing, and he sees Tony crack a smile out of the corner of his eye. When Steve straightens up again, Tony’s looked away.
“Well?” Tony says.
“Sure. It’d be swell, thank you.”
“Gee willikers,” Tony murmurs. He straightens up as Bruce and Clint approach, and claps Bruce on the shoulder.”
“I think this is one of the stranger days I’ve had,” Bruce says.
“And that’s saying something, coming from you.”
Clint pulls himself up onto the handrail again and sits there, looking pleased with himself. “If every day of my vacation’s like this, it might just be bearable.”
“Stop trying to make us into role models for your twisted ideas of civilian life, Barton,” Tony says. “It won’t work. Cap’s - well, Cap’s not a civilian, anyway. I’m too cool for you. Bruce is too everything for you. We’re the worst role models.”
“Steve’s a good role model,” Bruce says.
“Well, obviously. Next you’ll be telling me water’s wet and I’m attractive.”
“One of these days,” Steve says mildly, “I’m going to lose my rag with you all.”
“Please do. In fact, let me know in advance. Send me a memo, write it in my calendar, I want to have a camera ready when it happens - Hang on, phone call. Pepper.” Tony frowns, tugging off his shades and closing the faceplate. It’s a strange sight, Iron Man’s eyes blazing blankly out at them while Steve can hear, faintly, the sound of Tony’s voice coming from inside the suit.
He tries to ignore it, turning to Bruce. “So, you and the Hulk...?”
“We’re reaching an understanding,” Bruce says. He smiles lopsidedly, if a shade sarcastically. “I’m letting him stretch his legs, he’s getting less angry. It’s as close to win-win as I’m ever going to get.”
Steve looks him up and down, then clasps him on the shoulder. “Close to win-win sounds like a real step up from the old situation. Also, the Hulk said you had to speak with me?”
“Yes, um.” Glancing around, Bruce draws Steve to one side, lowers his voice and leans in closer. “I was in Chile last week. I’ve actually been following a lead on a group trying to recreate... well, me, which is never a - very good idea. I didn’t find them, anyway, but what I did find were a lot of rumours about something like a HYDRA base in the Atacama desert.”
Steve breathes out heavily through his nose. An almighty sinking feeling.
“Okay,” he says. “That’s - what else did you find?”
“Not a whole lot. When I’m me, I’m just a scientist, and when I’m not me, I’m... ebullient, so reconnaissance isn’t either of our strong points.” Bruce huffs out a breath, scratching the back of his neck. He’s had to roll up the sleeves of Steve’s sweatshirt to fit. “What I’ve got, is back in the tower. I didn’t think it’d be wise to try sending it to you.”
“Right, mail can be intercepted.”
“And email, too.”
Steve laughs shortly. He’d forgotten about that.
“Guys, I’ve got to head back to the tower,” Tony says. Or Iron Man says it, really, the faceplate down, the voice robotic. “Have another ice cream on me. Hell, go to Le Bernadin, they know me there, they’ll even let Mr Flip Flops in if you tell them I sent you. Cap, try the red snapper, it’s great.”
“What, no personal recommendation for me?” says Clint.
“Don’t get dessert or else you won’t be able to fit into your prom dress.”
The flight stabilisers hum and flare into life and Iron Man shoots up into the sky. Steve has to shield his eyes to watch him fly away, in the bright sunlight.
Clint rubs his hands together with glee. “I wanna see how much we have to spend for Stark to actually notice - or not,” he adds, lowering his hands and straightening up as he takes in Steve and Bruce’s serious expressions. His face shifts into the man who shot who shot an arrow at a demigod, rather than the man who wants to spend large amounts of a billionaire’s money on what - Steve suspects - would be very small portions of food.
“We need to go back to the tower, too,” Steve says. “There’s something Bruce needs to show me.”
*
Bruce spreads his map over the coffee table, weighing the edges down with empty glasses and, when nothing else is readily to hand, his borrowed flip-flops, casting a sheepish look and a murmured, “I figure everything we do with these now will only add to their value, right?” at Steve.
He runs Steve through the locations he visited and the gossip he heard - a convoy of unmarked vans in the middle of the night; soldiers in the desert with strange uniforms; mysterious lights over the desert at night - and, “If Red Skull knew about the Tesseract then it’s possible he knew about other things too, right?” Bruce says.
“Like the bifrost?”
“And that’s just for starters.”
They share a dark look.
As Bruce begins to mark locations on the map, still speaking, a door slams somewhere in the heart of the penthouse and raised voices drift down to them from overhead.
“Chacabuco is most likely, I think,” Bruce is saying.
Steve clears his throat, refocusing. “And none of this is substantiated, right? Nothing you saw with your own eyes?”
Bruce hesitates, tapping his finger against the town while he thinks. “I saw strange lights. The rest, just hearsay, but there’s enough of it something is going on there. Or...”
“Or it’s a trap.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Bruce says. “Either way, I’m thinking that’s worth checking out.”
They lapse into a silence, and Pepper’s voice floats through it.
“I thought you were in the basement. I thought you were working, and then I get a call from the publicist trying to find out your favourite flavour ice cream because two dozen different publications were all asking.”
“I know, I’m sorry,” and there’s Tony’s voice. “I should have brought you back an ice cream sandwich.”
“Well,” Steve says. “Trap or not, there’s only one way to find out.”
“No, Tony! No, what you should have done is not put me in a position where I - I have to act like your PA again! I’m your girlfriend and your CEO, I can’t-”
Tony says something too soft for Steve to make out, but Pepper responds to it with a noise of pure frustration. He can picture her hands thrown up into the air at the sound of it.
“I’m not saying that! Have you ever thought about what this is like for me? Has that ever crossed your mind? You almost died, Tony! In space! And now I’m so busy, and you’re so busy, and lately when we actually, occasionally manage to be in the same building at the same time, you’re so distracted-”
“Distracted? Pepper, I’m not distracted, I’m more focussed than I’ve ever been-”
“Yes, Tony,” she says softly, “but you’re not focussed on me.”
Steve stares down at his hands, spread very carefully over the map of Atacama. Chacabuco, he tells himself. Across the table from him, Bruce murmurs, “Times like these, I almost wish the other guy would come out and climb out the window.”
They pause, listening, but things in the corridor seem to have quietened down. Steve clears his throat.
“So, uh, Chacabuco,” he says.
“Oficina Chacabuco,” Bruce agrees. “It seems the most likely fit. It was used as a detention camp, so there are military facilities. Lots of abandoned mines in the area, too.”
“It’s a bit close to the highway though, isn’t it?”
As Bruce responds, Steve can hear Tony’s voice pick up again, softly. He tries to tune it out, but he’s always had sensitive hearing and the serum only made it even better, and, “You’re right,” Tony’s saying. “I’m sorry, you’re right. As per usual. I haven’t been - Let’s get out of town next week. Come on, turn that frown upside down. Just you and me, okay? We’ll both turn our cells off.”
“Tony...”
“Where do you wanna go?”
“Steve?” says Bruce.
“Iceland,” says Pepper. “We haven’t been to Iceland in a - in a while.”
“Sorry.” Steve looks up and meets Bruce’s quizzical gaze. He looks back down at the map again, focussing on the red circle Bruce has drawn in the fork of that junction. “I didn’t catch that. The highways?”
“The desert’s practically inhospitable. I think... if I were gonna set up a secret terrorist base in the driest place on the planet, I’d sacrifice some of that secrecy for easier access, right? It’s still surrounded by miles of empty desert. How many people are gonna drive through that in a week? I’m thinking not a lot.”
Steve stares down at the desert. It stretches uninterrupted for miles and miles. “And if anyone did get too curious, attract HYDRA’s attention, that’s a whole load of room to hide the bodies in.”
He smoothes the map down again, ignoring the quiet sounds of Tony and Pepper’s voices fading away, and he says, “Show me again where you heard the rumours.”
*
Once the talking - and planning - is done, Steve goes down to fetch his shield from the workshop and say goodbye to Clint, still shooting angrily at his targets, and then he heads back up to the guest room - his room now, maybe - to grab some clothes. When he gets back to the living room, Bruce has disappeared and Tony is tinkering about behind the bar, humming to himself - a tune Steve recognises but can’t yet name.
“Everything alright?” Steve asks as he approaches.
“Who, me?” Tony looks around the room exaggeratedly, and then points at himself. Steve nods. “Never better, Cap. Fine and dandy. Peachy and keen.”
Steve hesitates, uncertain how much to admit of the conversation they heard and the fact that he listened to it. He crosses over to the couch and leans his shield against the cushions, dumps his bag on the floor next to it, and he looks down at the map still spread across the coffee table.
“Drink?” Tony says. “Or, mouthwash, in your case?”
Steve looks around to see Tony waving a bottle at him. He doesn’t look troubled, and for all Tony skates around his emotions as if they belong to someone else, Steve’s rapidly learning how bad he is at hiding them. He does look fine.
Steve opens his mouth and says, “I have to go to Chile. Bruce thinks there could be a HYDRA base there. I have to see.”
“Okay.” Tony shrugs, putting the bottle away again. “Good thing I didn’t start the party without you. Are we going now? Should I suit up?”
“Don’t. No offence, but whether you’re Tony Stark or Iron Man you’re extremely - noticeable. This needs to... not be noticeable. Bruce is taking me to the edge of the desert and then I’m going alone.”
Tony taps his fingers against his chin. He wends his way out from behind the bar and leans over the coffee table to study Bruce’s map upside down and he says, softly, “Huh. Wait here.”
Steve expects him to leave the room at that, but instead Tony goes over to the work stations in the corner, pulling a small black box out from under one of the desks. He flips the lid.
“Prototype. One of a kind so far, but it’s about time we put it to the test. Here, catch.”
Steve catches. He turns the thing over in his hands to look at it - it’s shaped like a small tortoise, flat on the bottom with three rotating wheels, and rounded on the top with a shell of shifting, overlapping metal plates. The whole thing is dark grey, matte and not much bigger than the palm of Steve’s hand.
“What-” he begins, but before he can get another word out Tony’s plucked it from his hands again and dropped it onto the floor upside down.
“Look,” he says, sitting on the arm of the couch and crossing his arms. “Come on, you little bastard.”
He nudges the robot with his toes and the thing whirrs into life, its wheels spinning uselessly in the air. Although it looks completely unfamiliar, there’s something about the noise it makes that Steve recognises.
“Tony,” he says. “Wasn’t this robot cleaning your shoes a couple months ago?”
He watches as the metal plates start to shift beneath it, opening like the petals of a flower and slowly, quietly, levering the little robot up onto its side.
“Two months is like two years for technology. Get with the program, Cap.” Tony nudges the robot with his toes again, although there’s a hint of pride in his voice. “Useless hunk of junk. The great thing about being me is that when my shoes are dirty, I can just buy more shoes. You know how hard it is to program a bot to tell the difference between shoes and, I don’t know, hands, bottle, Mjolnir?”
“Very hard?”
“Very, very hard.”
The robot flips itself over onto its wheels again, the plates fluttering shut as it spins in a circle, reorienting itself.
“Atta boy,” Tony says. “The code’s practically the same. Navigation, basic decision making, programming it to seek out whole humans instead of distinguishing between body parts was practically a downgrade. 360 degree cameras, smoke bombs in the rim - teaching it to recognise threats was a fun weekend, let me tell you, you really missed out on that one.”
“You - want me to take it with me?”
Tony raises an eyebrow at him. “Obviously. No more stupid questions, pay attention - this bit’s important. New feature.”
He tugs his communicator out of his pocket, activates it with his thumb and then, as the pictograms light up across the screen, swipes his palm across it. The pictures disappear, leaving the screen blank except for the Iron Man helmet in the corner.
“Activate video bastard-cam-zero-zero-one. Did you get that?”
The communicator fills up with a view of their feet from ground level as the robot rolls almost silently across the floor. Tony drags his finger back and forth across the screen and the view moves with his motions, spinning the full 360 degrees as promised, and when he taps a spot on the screen the robot turns and heads in that direction.
“Got it,” Steve says. “You named it... that?”
“It was annoying me at the time,” Tony says vaguely, but then he pauses. He lowers the communicator and lifts his head. “Is that bad? Are you shocked and horrified? I can rename it if you like, something Captain America friendly. Chuck? Earl? Larry?”
“Tony, I was in the army.”
“You don’t say? I’d never have guessed.”
“I mean, folks didn’t curse around civilians, and I was filmed a lot so I always had to be careful, got into the habit of just not if I could avoid it, but...” Steve shrugs. “Some of the fellas I knew woulda probably shocked and offended you.”
“Well, now I just want to hear you swear.”
“No.”
“Go on, say something naughty. Just this once, I promise. For me. For America.”
“Definitely no.”
Tony stares at Steve, eyes narrowed, as if he’s trying to will a curse word past Steve’s lips with the power of his mind. Steve only clenches his jaw tighter, meeting his gaze unflinchingly until Tony huffs out an amused breath and looks away.
“Fine,” he says. “Fine, remain pure, you stubborn bastard.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting something,” says Bruce.
Tony’s head whips around and he leaps to his feet, shoving his communicator back into his pocket. Steve turns too, to see Bruce standing at the top of the stairs with a bag slung over his shoulder, looking down on them with a vaguely amused expression.
Tony spreads his arms.
“Bruce. Bruce. Brucie-goosie. Get over here.”
He beckons with both hands impatiently, while Bruce makes his way down the staircase. He grabs Bruce’s bag from him as soon as he’s within reach, and balances it on the back of the couch, propped against his hip, so he can tug the zipper open. “You all packed already? What have you got in here?”
“Shirts,” Bruce says with a shrug. “Mainly shirts.”
“You wear too many shirts” Tony says, pulling a shirt sleeve out of the bag and holding it up to Bruce’s arm to compare. He gasps theatrically. “These are the same colour. Did you buy them in a pack?”
Shoving the bag back at Bruce, with the zipper still half-open and the sleeve still dangling out, Tony straightens Bruce’s shirt collar.
“I like my pack of shirts.”
“You’re an eternal disappointment, Brucie,” Tony says, patting Bruce on the side of the face. “Be good, eat your vegetables, if the other boys say mean things step on them.”
“I always do those things anyway.”
Well, do them even more this time.”
Bruce refolds his shirt and zips his bag back up, shouldering it. He squeezes Tony’s arm. “I’ll see you in a couple weeks, Tony.”
Tony nods. Bruce squeezes his arm again and then turns to look at Steve, his eyebrows raised.
“Steve, you ready?” he asks.
Before he can answer, Tony snaps his fingers and exclaims, “Nope! Hold it! He’s not ready,” and dives under a side table, emerging a second later with the little reconnaissance robot clasped tightly between his hands. He sticks it back into the box still open on the floor, closing the latch tightly, and then he picks the box up and thrusts it out at Steve.
“Take it, then,” he says. “And wear your damn earpiece, for god’s sake. I know when you don’t. I know everything. Look, it’s easy when you get used to it, just pretend you’re talking to an imaginary friend.”
“I’m finding your advice particularly sage today,” Bruce murmurs from the sidelines, but Tony’s eyes barely skate towards him before they’re snapping back to Steve.
“I’ll try,” Steve says.
He takes the box from Tony’s hands and leans over the couch to slide it into his bag, slides the bag over his shoulder. Then he picks his shield up from its place on the cushions and holds it out to Tony.
“Could you keep ahold of this for me?” he says. “I figure if I carry it through the desert with me, it’ll attract some unwelcome attention and - well, this tower is probably the safest place I know. So if you could just - keep it somewhere safe till I’m back for it?”
“Sure.” Tony takes the shield and holds it awkwardly, running his fingers along the rim. “I can do that.”
“Please don’t experiment on it,” Steve adds.
“Spoilsport.”
Tony says it automatically, absent-mindedly, with no real bite. Ignoring the colourful face of the shield, he flips it over and gazes down at the back, where the joins are visible. Steve watches him run his finger along the fastening of one of the straps and give it a tug, testing the give.
Behind Steve, Bruce clears his throat, and Tony blinks out of his reverie.
“Pepper!” he calls. “Pep, two of our birds are flying the nest already! I think I’m menopausal!”
Pepper shouts something back that might be, “I’m working.”
Tony grins at them. Balancing the shield on his hip, he throws them a mock salute. “Gentlemen.”
Already heading for the elevator, Bruce waves vaguely over his shoulder, but Steve lingers. He fiddles with the bag strap over his shoulder. It feels as if all he has done since he came out of the ice is move from point to point. The urge to stand still is sudden and overwhelming.
“You can’t helicopter parent a shield, Cap,” Tony says. “That’s creepy and wrong.”
Steve clears his throat.
“Look after it,” he says.
“Go get in that elevator or I’ll let Clint use it for target practice.”
Steve goes, and he gets in the elevator. Bruce is holding its door open, leaning against it while he waits, looking as quietly patient and amused as ever. He steps back to let Steve pass and shoots him a look that Steve can’t read.
“What?” Steve says.
Bruce just shakes his head and smiles, pressing the down button.
Steve glances back over his shoulder as the door closes. Tony is still standing where they lift him, holding the shield up to the windows to examine it all the more closely, running his palm along the shield’s edge in the bright sunlight. Steve looks away again.
Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five
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