Fic :: Avengers :: A Very, Very, Very Fine House :: 4a/5
A Very, Very, Very Fine House [4a/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
*
Steve’s pocket starts to beep and vibrate a couple weeks later, in the middle of the grocery store.
SHIELD had been keeping his shelves stocked and presumably, although Steve doesn’t like to think about it too much now it’s dawned on him, also getting rid of anything that went bad while he was out of town for weeks at a time. It was one of the more surreal moments of Steve’s life - and that includes the Red Skull, and Dr Banner, and the helicarrier - when he got home from a jog, a few days after visiting Tony, to find an agent unpacking groceries onto his neglected shelves in his neglected kitchen.
He made the agent take it all to the nearest homeless shelter. If Steve’s really going to be here, in Brookyln, in the twenty-first century, then he’s going to buy his own darn groceries.
Although he did make the agent a cup of coffee first. He figures being self-reliant doesn’t mean being rude, wherever you might be.
Steve fishes his communicator out of his pocket and makes a vague attempt to dig out the ear piece without dropping anything. It still feels so strange, having something in your ear like that. He gives up and answers it like a telephone, standing in the middle of the cereal aisle.
“What do you know about breakfast cereals?” he says.
There’s a pause.
“They come in boxes,” Tony says. “Good with milk, better dry. Traditionally eaten with spoons. I mean, what, what do you want from me here? A research proposal?”
“I’m just trying to... I thought I’d try something new, but there’s such a lot. Do you have a favourite?”
“Pepper eats muesli so now I... eat muesli. Uh, it’s not bad, if you like chewing. You seem like a guy who appreciates a good, healthy chew, right? Am I right? But before Pep, I always told the personal shopper to get whatever looked the most like actual candy.”
“That’s disgusting.”
Tucking the communicator tighter between his ear and his shoulder, Steve picks up a box of oatmeal. He drops it into his basket and then, looking around him - Tony has satellites and highly advanced robots, Tony could probably watch his every move he wanted to - grabs a box of what looks like tiny cookies and marshmallows and frowns down at it. It doesn’t look much like breakfast food.
“Yeah,” Tony says, wistfully. “Disgustingly awesome. Anyway, get your ass over here.”
“Excuse me?”
“Perambulate your buttocks to my place of residence. Bring the shield. It’ll be fun, I promise.”
“Okay,” Steve says, dropping the cookies and marshmallows into his basket too. He carefully juggles communicator and shopping basket to tick cereal off his shopping list, as he moves on to the next aisle. He pauses. “Wow, there sure are a lot of different kinds of milk.”
“What? No, come on, I happen to know for a fact that cows were invented before you were born. They were at least turn of the century, right? Cars, cows, cinema, the three Cs.”
“You know, you’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Steve says. He picks up a bottle of 2% and examines it closely, while Tony splutters with laughter in his ear. “I couldn’t drink milk before, so I never paid much close attention. It made me sick.”
“Why am I not surprised? You really were the life and soul of the pre-war party, huh?”
“I got in a lot of fights.”
Tony hums thoughtfully into his ear. “That doesn’t surprise me either,” and then there’s the sound of something exploding in the background and Tony breathes, “Oh, now that’s interesting,” and hangs up.
Steve takes the communicator away from his ear and looks at it for a little while.
Then he buys milk.
*
It’s a sunny day and Steve hums to himself as he jogs up the steps of Stark Tower, nodding to Mark and waving to Ms Clark and smiling at all the business folk in the lobby who shoot confused looks at him and his oddly-shaped gym bag - all he could find to fit his shield in at short notice - as he passes them by.
He hums Memphis Minnie during the ride up in the elevator and something catchy he heard on the wireless as the doors slide open and he steps out into the familiar sight of the living room. The place seems empty at first glance, but as Steve walks further inside he spots Ms Potts sitting in the corner, at a desk covered in paperwork. She looks tired, and as she lifts her head to look at him without enthusiasm, Steve feels the spring fall out of his step.
“He’s down in his lab with the others,” she says before Steve can ask, and then, huffing out a breath and shaking her head, brushing her hair out of her eyes, she says, “Sorry. Hello, Steve. It’s good to see you again. Bureaucracy makes me rude.”
“It happens to the best of us, Ms Potts, ma’am.”
“No, it doesn’t, but thank you for pretending. And call me Pepper,” she adds. “I mean it. Ms Potts sounds like someone’s maiden aunt, and god knows I’m neither of those things.”
Steve coughs. He clasps his hands behind his back. “I’ll try. Pepper. “
Ms Potts - Pepper looks up at him thoughtfully, her head on one side, and then she smiles. A proper smile. It makes her look a lot less tired.
“At ease, soldier. You’re too cute. Go play with your friends. Actually, you might want to go change into something else first, if you value your shirt. Playdates with Tony usually end in explosions.”
“Uh.” Steve glances down at himself. He’s only wearing a simple button down, but he likes it. “Tony only said to bring my shield.”
She purses her lips, frowning. “He didn’t tell you-? Of course he didn’t. After that night with the towels, Tony took your - well, JARVIS took your measurements and ordered some spare clothes for you. They’re in your room.”
“That’s...” Steve pauses, searching for the appropriate words. “News to me,” he finishes lamely.
“I’m sorry. He only stalks the people he likes, I swear. It’s affectionate really. He kept turning up in my department for weeks before I accepted his job offer. Oh god, that sounds awful, doesn’t it? It wasn’t as awful as it sounds.”
“Well, I don’t think he’s looking to hire me.”
“No,” Pepper says. “Even worse.”
She laughs, and then - at Steve’s quizzical look - laughs harder. She shakes her head, waves a hand. “Forget I spoke. I’m sorry, I - I’m not fit for human company today anyway. And I’ve got all this paperwork to sign, so you should just get out while you can.”
“It was nice talking to you, all the same.”
“Oh, Steve?” Pepper calls him after when he’s halfway to the elevator. Steve turns quickly, to see her half rising from her desk, her hands braced on the edge of it. “Could you remind Tony the board wants the new designs by Friday? I won’t hold my breath, but I guess the more people tell him the higher the likelihood he might remember. This deadline’s important.”
“Board, designs, Friday. Important. Got it.” Steve nods and at Pepper’s quick thumbs up, he heads back towards the elevator. “Have a nice day, Ms - Pepper.”
He hears her laugh and say, “You, too.”
When Steve looks back through the elevator doors, Pepper is still standing behind her desk, her arms crossed loosely over her stomach, watching him. Steve hesitates.
“The labs are on floors twenty to thirty,” she says. “But he’s probably down in the basement workshop. When in doubt, ask JARVIS.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He presses level three on the number pad when it appears. As the doors slide shut, he looks up. Pepper’s smiling faintly with her head to one side, as if she’s thinking of a private joke, but her smile widens when he catches her eye. She lifts a hand in goodbye then lets it drop back down to her elbow.
She looks smaller than she ought to, standing alone in that cavernous room with her arms around herself.
*
Sure enough, up in that same, familiar guest room with the terrific view, there are a few spare sets of clothes in Steve’s size. He carefully unbuttons his shirt and leaves it draped over the back of the desk chair, and he pulls a soft, grey sweatshirt on over his undershirt. Then he just sits down on the edge of the bed and stares out the windows. Tony sure knew what he was doing when he put him in a room with a view like this.
After a little while, Steve gets up and heads back to the elevator, where he hits the button for the basement.
It’s familiar down here as well, from the times he’s gone down to collect his motorbike. Steve steps out of the elevator into the vast, grey parking lot and the rows of expensive cars, but he’s never seen the workshop. There is the row of other elevators, and at the end of the parking lot there’s the tunnel that leads back up to street level, the rumble of overhead traffic echoing down through it; the only other door is huge and metal, big enough to drive a truck through, set into the wall halfway between the elevators and the exit tunnel.
Steve jogs over to it and presses his thumb to the panel at the side. The door slides open into a room just a bit smaller than Steve’s apartment, with regular sized doors on either side and another, even bigger metal door in the wall opposite.
He steps into the room. The door shuts behind him, and for one brief moment Steve’s at a loss, until he hears faint noises coming through the giant door before him. If the metal’s as thick as he thinks it is, then the noises must be very loud indeed, and that sounds like Tony Stark.
There’s no panel to touch this time, so he just walks forwards and hopes for the best.
“Sir, I must warn you-” JARVIS begins to say, even as the door slides open.
Steve barely has a chance to step inside before someone shouts and he’s aware of a whistling sound heading straight for him. He flings himself to the side, ducking and rolling into a crouch, and above him the whistling is cut off by an abrupt crunch.
Steve looks up to see a giant green fist, bigger than his head, the broken remains of an arrow poking out from between its fingers.
“In retrospect, I should probably aim away from doors,” Clint Barton calls from the other end of the workshop, lowering his bow.
“Yes,” Steve says. “Good idea.”
He slides out from under the Hulk’s fist and straightens up cautiously. The Hulk stares down at him, breathing out through his nose hard enough to ruffle Steve’s hair. Without blinking, he crushes the arrow in his fist and lets the shards spill out onto Steve’s head.
“Little captain,” he growls.
“That was some catch, big guy. Thanks.”
The Hulk grunts, but he tilts his head in what could be a nod and says, “Small man wanna talk to you.”
Steve glances sideways at Clint and Tony. By no stretch of the imagination could you call either of them tall.
“Uh... which?”
The Hulk growls, “Mine,” and the force of it blows arrow dust back out of Steve’s hair again in a great, angry gust.
“Well, okay.” Steve combs his hair with his fingers, brushing the remaining shards out of his hair, and he looks up at the Hulk, adding - when the Hulk remains giant and green and not Dr Banner - “Now?”
“Hulk busy. Later.”
He turns and knuckles away towards Clint and Tony. Steve lets out a breath and then draws in another, slowly, and he takes a look around. The basement seems to be a cross between an engineering workshop and a workout room; there are archery targets secured to the wall at the far end, sparring mats on the floor. Tony seems incongruous on the edge of it, sitting at a whole array of desks, with his welding goggles on, pushed up to his forehead so his hair sticks up over the top. He waves Steve over.
“The reflexes on this guy,” Tony says, reaching over his desk to pat the Hulk on an arm twice as thick as Tony’s body. “He could be a whack-a-mole world champion.”
“He’d crush it beneath his fists,” Clint says.
“Theoretically world champion.”
Snorting, Clint turns away from Tony and nods at Steve as he approaches. “Captain.”
“Agent.” Steve nods back. “Good to see you again. How are you? And Natasha? She’d injured her arm last time I saw her.”
“Nat’s fine. We’re both fine. Physically, anyway,” Clint adds, darkly.
Tony groans without looking up from his work, focussed on the notes he’s writing straight onto the surface of his desk. “Tone down the dramatics, Barton. You’re on vacation.”
“Forced vacation,” Clint insists. “Nat got stabbed because she got made. Turns out it’s hard to be a spy once you’re a world famous, alien-ass-kicking hero. Sooner or later, someone puts two and two together and gets stabby. So we’re both benched while SHIELD figures out what to do with us.”
“I suggested plastic surgery,” Tony stage whispers to Steve.
Steve ignores him, patting Clint on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, that’s a tough situation.”
“You’re telling me. I have all this free time, now. What do civilians do all day?”
They both turn towards Tony, until Tony lowers his pen and looks up at them, spreading his hands.
“Don’t look at me. I’m sitting in an underground bunker with a bored superspy, the Big Sleep and the not so jolly, green giant, working on some of the most advanced - and coolest - tech in the world. I’m unique. Have you tried making new friends? Getting a new hobby? Developing an addiction to internet porn and-or World of Warcraft?”
“I sketch,” Steve suggests.
Clint makes a noise of profound disgust. He stalks away, drawing an arrow from his quiver as he goes and firing it straight into the target without a hitch in his step. And then, and again, a whole row of bull’s-eyes forming. The Hulk lumbers after him and swats at the arrows in the air, until Clint turns and starts firing them for him to catch - and to crush.
“Remember, kids,” Tony calls. “It’s all fun and games until Captain America loses an eye.”
“Is this why you called me here today?” Steve asks, swinging his gym bag off his shoulder and leaning it against the side of the desk. “To play catch with the Hulk? Not that it doesn’t make for an interesting change, but...”
“No, that wasn’t it. Although that sounds like a whole heap of fun. It’d be the ultimate ultimate Frisbee, right? Never mind,” Tony adds, as Steve shakes his head in confusion, and he spins in his desk chair, pushing a case towards Steve with his feet. “Look, upgrades.”
He kicks the lid open, revealing a half dozen more communicators packed inside. Steve raises an eyebrow and pulls one out, examines it from all angles.
“It doesn’t seem any different.”
“That’s the magic of it - no, screw magic, that’s the science of it. Microfine coating of a titanium-steel alloy,” Tony says, grinning. “Keeping the touchscreen responsive was hell. Took my entire Black Sabbath playlist to fix it.”
“So it’s - what? Really strong?”
“Yes, Victoria, it’s ‘really strong.’ Not perfect - who wants to carry things around in battle? You, I guess. And Black Widow has all those scary little knives. Where does she keep those? In her hair? I need to work something into your suits. Give me your gloves one day, I’ll see what I can do with that-”
Steve, letting Tony’s voice wash over him, looks back down at the communicator. He tosses it from one hand to the other, weighs it in the palm of his hand, and then reels his arm back and throws it as hard as he can at the opposite wall.
He’s not one to brag, but his weapon of choice is a big metal disc. Throwing as hard as he can is pretty darn hard. Even Tony falls silent to watch it sail through the air and hit the wall. It bounces off and clatters onto the floor, the sound echoing through the workshop.
Clint jogs over and nudges it with the end of his bow.
“It’s scratched,” he says. “But so’s the paint. I call it a draw.”
“Terrific.” Tony claps his hands together. “Cap, toss your shield at it. Hulk, if you would...?”
The Hulk grunts and knuckles across the floor, flicking Clint out of the way - Clint yelps and almost falls over - and he picks the communicator up between finger and thumb. It looks tiny in his hand.
“We attached it to one of the targets first,” Tony says, “but that got old fast. I’ve had more convincing battle simulations in my bed, and I mean while sleeping, not - Anyway, what’s the point in having a teammate who turns into the mean green smashing machine if you can’t shoot arrows at him sometimes, right?”
“Hey,” Clint says, “Hulk should balance it on his head, see if Cap can knock it off with his shield-”
The Hulk growls at him.
Clint backs up, lifting his hands. “Or don’t, it’s cool. I respect your choices. The choice to not put things on your head is - is totally valid.”
The Hulk, Steve swears, actually rolls his eyes at that and he lifts the communicator up higher pointedly, glaring at Steve.
“O-kay,” Steve says slowly.
He kneels down and tugs his shield out of the distorted gym bag, wincing when he hears something rip, and then he rubs the face of the shield gently with the cuff of his sweatshirt. As he straightens up, Clint begins to hum the national anthem.
Ignoring him, ignoring Tony’s sniggers and the low, constant rumble of the Hulk’s growl, Steve focuses on the communicator in the Hulk’s hands.
“I don’t normally throw it in confined spaces-” he starts to say, but they all groan, Tony flapping his hands, Clint shouting, “Come on!”
Steve breathes in slowly, and draws his arm back, and throws.
There’s a moment of perfect silence, as he lets his breath out again and his shield cuts through the air. It’s swiftly followed by an almighty racket: the shield hits the communicator and both go flying; the Hulk roaring; communicator rattling across the floor; shield ricocheting off the wall, off the ceiling, off the floor, until it slides to a halt at Steve’s feet.
Tony lets out a long, low whistle through his teeth. “Well, that was fun.”
Clint jogs over to the communicator and picks it up, turning it over and over in his hands and then lifting it up to the light and studying it some more.
“It’s cracked,” he shouts back to them. “I think that puts you in the lead, Cap.”
“I don’t think it’s really a competition.”
“Of course it’s a competition,” Tony says. “It’s always a competition. Come on, Barton, get your butt back here. Lemme see.”
He holds out his hand, opening and closing his fingers impatiently as Clint jogs back with the communicator. Clint throws it at him, but Tony catches it. He runs his fingers over the crack.
“Again!” roars the Hulk.
Tony looks up at Steve, smirking. “Well, come on, Captain. Have you got what it takes to break the damn thing?”
*
What it takes, it turns out, is two more throws of the shield, at which point the communicator as good as explodes out of the Hulk’s hand, parts lying everywhere with the smell of burning. The Hulk roars - really, really roars, leaving Steve’s ears ringing, and he stamps on every last little piece of the communicator he can find until the floor shakes.
“Yeah, you really showed it who’s boss,” Tony says. “You big baby.”
The Hulk sits down heavily on the floor and puts his fingers in his mouth, glaring at them all. After a moment’s pause, he punches the ground with his free hand. The concrete cracks under his fist.
“I’ll give you something to cry about,” Clint says, reaching into his quiver.
“Don’t blame me when you run out of arrows,” Tony says.
“I’m SHIELD’s kept boy right now. They’d build me a statue of myself out of arrows if they thought it’d keep me occupied.”
As if to prove his point, Clint fires his arrow at the Hulk. It’s just a basic arrowhead and it bounces off the Hulk as uselessly as if it were made of cotton candy, but the Hulk stares down at it in surprise. He takes his fingers out of his mouth.
“Pointy little man,” he growls, lumbering to his feet.
Steve picks his shield up again, checking carefully for scratches or scorch marks in the paintwork. He rubs it down with the cuff of his sweatshirt again as he crosses the room, back to Tony at his desk.
“Is it safe,” Steve murmurs, “having him Hulk out in here? Not that I think he’ll hurt us,” he adds as Tony lifts his head and shoots him a scandalised look. “He saved your life, I know he won’t hurt us anymore. But he could damage the tower, couldn’t he?”
Tony, lips curling up at the corners, lowers his head again. “You know I’ve essentially got a teeny, tiny nuclear reactor in my chest, right? Just saying. Pretty dangerous. Anyway, I damage this tower on such a regular basis I put the builders on speed dial.”
“Uh huh. Is that before or after the pizza boy?”
“Hah!” Tony declares, pointing his pen at Steve. It has a glowing tip. “Below. Towers come and go, but pizza is forever.”
“All I’m saying is, I’ve never seen your arc reactor punch a, a - giant snake from space in the head and win.”
“Give me time. Time and a giant space snake.”
Chuckling despite himself, Steve drags a stool closer and takes a seat, half watching Clint and the Hulk taunt each other and half watching Tony scribble onto his desk - onto, Steve realises, looking twice, a black panel set into the surface of the desk, like a giant computer monitor. He leans in closer for a better look, and Tony rolls his chair sideways to give it to him.
“Oh,” Steve says. “I almost forgot. Pepper asked me to remind you, uh, the board wants the designs on-”
“On Friday, yeah, yeah. They only nag me because they’re embarrassed, you know. The board. When we stopped making weapons they were all weeping in the showers, defecting to Hammer, preparing for ritual suicide. Obviously we’re more successful than ever now. I think I’ve given them all complexes.”
“I can imagine,” Steve says. “Though Pepper did say this deadline was important.”
“They’re all important to her. That’s why she’s the CEO and I’m.” Tony hesitates, lowering his pen to mull it over. His mouth slips into a slow grin. “I’m the man behind the curtain.”
“I understood that one.”
“I did it all for you.”
There’s a pause, punctuated by Tony’s scribbling. Resting his chin on his hand, Steve watches Clint fire another arrow at the Hulk. It explodes when he catches it, and the Hulk roars indignantly, beating his chest while Clint laughs.
“Pepper....” he says. “She must work hard.”
“Yeah, she does. Pepper’s a powerhouse - a whirlwind of organisation with an iron fist. She runs the company so hard it’d probably make even my old man weep with joy, and god knows he was hard to please.”
Turning around, Steve looks at Tony properly. “He... wasn’t. Not how I knew him, anyway. Hard-working, sure. Dedicated. But he always had time for...” He pauses, searching for the words. He hasn’t thought about Howard in a while. Time for rescue missions. Whiskey. Costume redesigns. “For fun. He always had time to help a fella out, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Tony says. “Maybe.”
“What do you mean?”
Tony shrugs, not looking up from his computer.
“Well, you sure as hell lived up to his expectations, didn’t you? Pleased him enough he never shut up about it till the day he died. Hell, maybe his last words were ‘Captain America could drive better than you.’ Wouldn’t surprise me. Though, to be fair, that guy crashed the car five seconds later, so Captain America could drive better than him.”
“Tony-”
“Cap. I’m just saying, maybe he was always a hardass and you just never saw it, because you’re - you. Being perfect is part of your whole shtick, isn’t it?” Tony shrugs again. He’s still making a show of staring at his work, but his back is very straight, and he’s holding himself very still.
Steve sighs and then, on the same breath, shaking his head, he starts to laugh. “Sometimes I honestly can’t tell whether you’re paying me a compliment or insulting me.”
At the sound of Steve’s laughter, Tony swivels around to stare at him incredulously, until he too begins to smirk. It looks a little pained, but it’s there, all the same.
“It’s all part of the Stark mystique,” he says, shaking his head. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”
Steve breathes out slowly, quietly. It’s good to know that they can do this, just about; talk about Howard and come out the other side still breathing. He watches the tension bleed out of the line of Tony’s back as he returns to his work.
Steve watches the quick movements of Tony’s hands.
“What’re you working on?” he asks, after a moment of silence.
“I - will show you,” Tony says. “In - just - a...”
He makes a couple more notes. Then, with a dragging motion, he lifts his glowing pen up away from the computer panel and-
“Holy moly!” Steve exclaims, as the bright blue lines lift up off the panel and into the air.
The diagram blows apart like a floating jigsaw of circuitry. He reaches out a hand.
“Ah, ah, hold it!” Tony exclaims, though he’s smirking. “Touch responsive.”
Steve scoots closer, craning up and ducking down till he’s eye-level with every part of the hologram he passes. Even up close, he has no idea what it’s a diagram of, but it’s one heck of a show. He can admire the shapes and the lines and the way it’s floating in midair, if nothing else. Tony twists his hand obligingly so the hologram spins in the air, components passing inches from Steve’s eyes.
“Wow, you’re great for my ego. Or terrible, Pepper’d vote terrible. I need to have a time traveller in every workshop. From the past, anyway. I’m probably only slightly impressive in the future. You got any friends from the nineteenth century? Cavemen, any cavemen? I could probably convince cavemen I’m a god...”
“No,” Steve breathes. “What is this?”
“Hands free for the terrible twins,” Tony declares. At Steve’s quizzical look, he makes a complex gesture and the exploded parts pull back together into the shape of something a bit like Steve’s ear piece, but a lot more complicated. “For Bruce and his roomie. Putting things in people’s ears, easy. Getting things to stay in while people turn into angry green giants - well, also easy. For me. I’m a genius. But slightly less easy.”
“How’d you solve it?”
“I... haven’t, yet. What? Even easy things take effort, sometimes. I’m an engineer, not a wizard. I don’t conjure, I build, and I’d be building a whole lot quicker if somebody didn’t keep crushing the prototypes. Yeah, I’m talking to you, mister,” he adds, raising his voice, as the Hulk roars in their direction. “You’re a menace! You should be locked up!”
The Hulk roars again, the strength of it making Steve flinch despite himself, but Tony just laughs and shakes his head, turning his attention back to the hologram.
“Making something expand when pressure decreases is simple. I’m talking clicky pen simple, here. Even you aren’t impressed by clicky pens, right?”
“The novelty wore off pretty quick,” Steve admits.
“Right.” Tony nods and, lifting up his hands, tug the blueprints apart again, flinging layers of technology away. Steve automatically dodges as bits of it fly past his face at a wave of Tony’s hands, and when he lifts his head again Tony is smirking at him and all that’s left of the Hulk’s ear piece is a simple framework of springs hanging in the air.
“It’s easy,” Tony says, “except for how the Hulk is a big ol’ grumpy gus with sensitive ears. I should probably just quit being clever and bribe him.”
He snaps his fingers, and the discarded parts snap back into position. Like magic.
Steve reaches out his hand again. “Can I?”
“Sure. Look, for a beginner, this is probably the easiest...” Tony beckons and Steve begins to step forward before he realises the hologram has moved too, sailing in the direction of Tony’s gesture and disappearing as smoothly as if it just stepped off camera. A new set of blueprints slide into place.
“Works with either hand in either direction, we’re not talking rocket science here. You’re a smart guy, in your own special way. Then, just spread your hands if you wanna expand the schematics, pull for a closer look. Safe mode, JARVIS. For the love of god and science, the safest mode.”
“Of course, sir.”
Stepping forwards, Steve cautiously lifts his hands and draws them apart and he can’t suppress his burst of laughter as the lights respond to his motions, the diagram expanding and then - as he quickly claps his hands together again - just as quickly retracting.
“Now you,” Tony says, pointing at him, “are easy to please.”
“I’m not so sure of that.” Steve pulls the hologram apart again, slower this time, just admiring the way that the lines move and the light follows his fingers. Maybe it’s more beautiful not knowing what it is. “I just know a good thing when I see it.”
“Sweet talker.”
“Can I get one of these?”
“Ha, see, there we go. You were just buttering me up to get your hands on my awesome tech. This - this isn’t actually available for the public-”
“Oh. Well, I-”
“Ah, ah, let me finish, come on. Geez. Aren’t you meant to be the polite one? You want one, you can have one. Have two. I’ll build you two.”
“What would I do with two?”
“Feel smug? That’s what I usually do.”
Steve smiles, spinning the hologram in a slow circle. Through the other side of it, Tony grins at him, blue light shifting and dancing all across his face. He lifts a hand and pulls a couple sections away from Steve and towards himself, separating parts with practiced flicks of his fingers and making them spin.
“You don’t even know what it is you’re playing with, do you?”
“No idea.”
Tony snorts, and then they both jump as a giant hand swats through the air before them. The light scatters and shuts off and the Hulk frowns down at his fists, uncurling his fingers and peering under his arms and feet.
“Smash?” he says uncertainly.
“You sure did, buddy.” Tony pats him on the arm, turning back to the computer in his desk - Steve recognises the diagram that was just floating in the air, now turning slowly on the screen. Just like magic, he thinks again.
Clint props his elbows on the edge of the desk, peering down at them.
“If you two are done finger painting,” he says. “Hulk’s bored. I’m taking him out for ice cream.”
“You crazy kids have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Stark, what wouldn’t you do?”
Tony draws in a breath, straightening up and lifting his finger as if he’s about to answer Clint. He hangs like that for a moment, then begins to tap his chin in deep concentration, mouthing the question.
Clint rolls his eyes and waves Hulk out the door.
“Now, wait just a second,” Steve begins, as the door slides shut behind them.
He turns to Tony, who has already turned back to his work.
“That exit leads right out onto the street, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does.”
Steve pauses. He crosses and uncrosses his arms.
“Agent Barton’s a highly trained professional,” he says, more for his own benefit than anything else, but Tony lowers his pen and frowns at the door as well.
“You’re right,” he says. “Why should he have all the fun?”
“That’s not what I was getting at.”
Tony shoots him a sceptical look. “Don’t you want ice cream? I want ice cream.”
“I want to make sure those two don’t do any damage,” Steve says, resting his hands on his hips. Tony grins up at him, and grins, and grins, until Steve lowers his hands and adds, “I guess I could go for some ice cream as well.”
“It’s the American dream. JARVIS, hold all current projects, keep the homefires burning, try not to pine for us while we’re gone.”
“I shall endeavour, sir, though I might not succeed.”
Tony snaps his fingers and the computer screen goes dark. He turns on Steve with that effervescent smile.
“Want a lift, Captain?” he asks.
*
“This is incredible!” Steve shouts over the roar of the wind.
It’s not at all comfortable, being lugged through the sky like a sack of potatoes while he clings onto the all-too-smooth armour for dear life. He can’t even keep his eyes open long enough to admire the view, but it’s worth it for the sensations alone. For the wind in his hair.
“I mean,” he shouts, “I feel ridiculous, but-”
“You feel ridiculous? I’m the one hugging you closer than a body pillow.”
Despite the velocity, Tony’s voice comes through close and clear, thanks to the ear piece he forced on Steve, insisting “hitching rides with robot armour is stupid enough; hitching a ride with the robot armour without being able to hear what I’m saying is a whole new level of moronic.” Much as Steve hates the feel of it in his ear, he can’t deny that Tony had a point.
Opening his eyes a fraction, the reflection of sun off the skyscrapers is dazzling. He squeezes his eyes shut again and laughs, and the wind snatches the sound of that away too.
“Hey,” Tony says. “Money.”
“What?”
“There’s a traffic jam the size of Texas down there and - oh, would you look at that? I spy with my little eye something beginning with ‘H’.”
Steve squints, but all he can is movement and light. “The Hulk?”
“We have a winner.”
“What’s that got to do with money?”
“Let’s find out.”
The suit descends.
Loose pieces of paper money drift past their faces. Steve, blinking dust and cold tears out of his eyes, squints down at the tableau Tony’s lowered them into: the street has ground to a standstill, the cars stuck at the back honking their horns angrily, although the drivers at the front all seem to have gotten out and joined in the show. The crowd must be at least a hundred strong, and in the middle of it Clint has half a dozen men on their knees, their hands on their heads while he points an arrow at them almost lazily.
“You brought your bow?” Tony calls. “Who goes out for ice cream with a bow and arrow?”
Clint twists, craning to look up at them.
“Glad you could make it, Cap,” he shouts. “Stark, you’ve missed the party.”
“Barton, I am the party.”
Hovering ten feet over the crowd, Steve’s feet are level with the Hulk’s face - the Hulk, who is sitting quite calmly by his standards on the roof of a thoroughly crushed car, twenty and fifty dollar bills spilling out of the busted trunk and getting caught in the breeze. He’s holding a weeping, trembling man by the ankle, swinging him back and forth.
“I don’t know what you’re crying about, pal,” Clint throws over his shoulder, without taking his eyes off his own captives. “He got you out of the vehicle before he sat on it, didn’t he? That makes you one of the lucky ones.”
The guy cries harder.
Steve sighs. Ignoring all the cameras that turn to flash in his direction the second he moves, he jumps down onto the Hulk’s shoulder and from there springs to the ground. Someone cheers, but Steve straightens up and rests his hands on his hips, and he frowns. At the on-lookers, and the Hulk and Clint, and at the men cowering at Clint’s feet.
“Would someone please explain to me what the heck is going on?”
“We’re very sorry,” says one of the men kneeling before Clint and Clint’s bow and arrow, “and we won’t do it again.”
“I never wanted to in the first place,” another insists, and then yelps as Clint kicks him in the knee.
“None of that, please,” Steve says.
Clint has the decency to at least pretend to look contrite. “The big guy and me just thwarted a bank robbery, Cap,” he says. “No peace for the wickedly cool.”
“Is anyone hurt?”
“These idiots-” Glancing at Steve, he nudges one of them with his toe. “- fired off a few rounds to scare folks in the bank, but nobody got hurt. My favourite part was when Hulk ate the getaway driver’s gun.”
“He spat the bullets out,” the first speaker says, weakly.
“And then he tried to eat the car,” Clint adds, with a beatific smile.
The Hulk snarls, shaking his captive by the ankle, and says, “Yuck.”
“All the menace of a pissed off gorilla, all the vocab of a two-year-old.” From behind Steve, there’s a familiar whine and a thud as the Iron Man suit makes it landing, and then Tony lifts his faceplate and in his own voice adds, “Let him down now, Hulk. He’s learned his lesson. You’ve taken him to a whole new level of learning his lesson, by the look of him.”
“Gently,” Steve adds, seeing the Hulk begin to draw back his arm as he lets out a long, low growl.
The Hulk shoots him a disgusted look, but whatever he was about to do, he - doesn’t do it. Instead, still growling, he turns the getaway driver the right way up again and lowers him carefully to the ground. The man’s legs fold underneath him and he sits down in the road, staring up at the Hulk, and the Hulk - leaning forwards on his knuckles and bending down, down - lowers his face to stare right back into the man’s eyes, their noses squashed together.
“Boo,” says the Hulk.
The man makes a small, soft noise and flops back onto the tarmac in a dead faint. To the side, Steve can see Clint’s shoulders shaking with almost silent laughter, the point of his arrow remaining utterly steady regardless.
“Okay,” Steve says, turning away. He claps his hands together. “Where are the cops? Didn’t anyone call the cops?”
“JARVIS has me tuned into the police radio,” Tony says. “Seems they can’t make it through. Something about a traffic jam and a huge crowd of people come to watch superheroes take down a bunch of incompetent bank robbers? I know, I know, I’m as surprised as you are.”
Steve pauses, thinking. Learning the new layout of the city was strange and confusing, and even when thinking of then and now as two separate cities it’s hard not to sometimes muddle the two, but he’s always had a good sense of direction.
“The station’s not far,” he says. “It’s a nice day. We can walk. First things first, ma’am, sir? Are you folks from the bank?”
The group he points to just stare at each other, and then at him, in shock, until Steve motions to his chest and adds, “You’ve got the logo on your... Look, we need to get this tidied up, and I figure you’ve got more authority than me to handle this.”
He tugs the black duffle out from under the crumpled trunk of the car, shoving bills that spill out back inside, and holds it out to them.
“Well?” he says.
A woman steps forward and takes the bag from him with a nod.
“Yes sir,” she says.
Steve nods at her, and at the other who start to grab the flyaway notes and shove them back into the bag. He looks round at everyone else.
“Could everyone who took any of the money floating around here hand it back to these folks here, please?”
There are boos from the crowd, and Tony looks askance at him, murmuring, “Good luck with that, Cap.”
Steve frowns. He climbs up next to the Hulk on the roof of the crushed car - it’s not much above ground level, it’s so flattened, but it’s the best he’s got - and he cups his hands into a makeshift megaphone, and he says, “Come on, folks. I know it’s not easy - heck, I know getting by in a Depression’s not easy, but this isn’t like finding a nickel in the gutter. Money in a bank is money that belongs to someone else. Sure, maybe it’s the bad guys or the folks with plenty to spare, but maybe it’s your friends, or neighbours, or your mom. That $20 you grabbed today could make the difference whether someone goes hungry or not, later down the line.”
Lowering his hands, Steve tries to meet as many eyes as possible, and while some people stare stonily back at him, others look away. He can hear people start to murmur, see them nudge each other. Right at the front, a kid pushes another, scrawnier kid forwards and that kid holds out a crumpled $50 bill.
“Thank you,” Steve says, climbing down from the car to take it from him. “That’s a brave thing you just did.”
He passes the bill to the bank employees, and as more people start to shuffle forwards, avoiding each other’s eyes, he takes a step back to watch. He hears Tony’s heavy, metallic footsteps behind him and turns.
“I’m not sure banking works quite like that,” Tony says, with an odd little smile on his face.
Steve shrugs. “There are always repercussions and, no offence, it’s not usually billionaires bearing the brunt of them.”
“No, it’s true, none taken. I was born with a giant silver spoon made of other, normal-sized spoons in my mouth, I admit it.”
Tony pauses, and they both turn to watch the line of people handing back their grabbed-up dollars. Not everyone will give it back, Steve knows, and maybe not even most will, but maybe it’ll be enough to make a difference.
Tony nudges him in the side
“Hey,” he says. “Nice speech. I think I saw a biker gang crying at the back there. Big, hairy, tattooed, blowing their noses. It was moving, I was moved. Do you have a touching speech prepared for every occasion or did the super-duper serum come with a bonus SAT Writing paper?”
“I spent the first twenty-five years of my life with not much to do but read,” Steve says. “So, neither.”
“Forget Thor, you write my next press release. You speak, people cry and give you money. It’ll be great.”
“Do you offer everyone jobs?”
“Nah.” Tony shakes his head. “Only my favourites.”
They drift back into silence, watching the bag fill back up with its lost money. It’s a sunny day still, despite the approach of fall, and Steve can feel the Iron Man suit giving off heat next to him like a warm body.
“I think we’ve got as much of it back as we’re ever going to,” Tony says at last.
They share a look.
“I think you could be right,” Steve says.
He steps forward and raises his hand, drawing the rest of the team’s attention.
“Iron Man, go at the front, keep our path clear-” He sees Tony nod as the faceplate slides back down, and Iron Man shoots up into the air. “Hawkeye, get them on their feet, get them in line. Single file. We’re going on the sidewalk, so I want you between them and the road at all times. If any of you fellas try to make a break for it,” he adds, pointing a finger at the bank robbers as Clint hustles them to their feet, “the Hulk will catch you.”
They all nod shakily, although none of them look particularly fit for a daring escape. Satisfied, Steve turns to the Hulk.
“You heard me,” he says. “Come up the rear. Catch anyone who makes a break for it, but don’t hurt them. Can you carry the car? I don’t know what use it’ll be as evidence since you sat on it, but we’re better safe than sorry.”
The Hulk snorts, heaving the car up onto his shoulder as easily as if it were a punching bag. It shakes and creaks. Without the Hulk sitting on it, Steve can just about make out bite marks in the bumper.
“Why did you try to eat it?”
The Hulk grins. His teeth are like paving slabs. “Hungry.”
Patting Steve on the head with his free hand - Steve’s knees buckle - he stamps away to the end of the crocodile Clint has arranged. Up ahead, Steve can see Iron Man drifting over everyone’s heads, shouting, “Make way, make way, crime-fighting in progress! Superheroes coming through!”
Steve tucks the bag of money under his arm and heaves the getaway driver - starting to groan - over his shoulder and he glances at the bank employees, still huddled together nervously but with the beginnings of grins on their faces now.
“Sorry about all this,” he says. “I don’t know how long this whole thing’s going to take to get straightened out, but you’re welcome to come along if you don’t mind walking.”
They look at each other.
“I love walking,” one of them says.
Hands full, Steve jerks his chin towards Iron Man, flying low and visible and better than any street sign.
“Then follow us,” he says.
*
As he wends his way through the path Tony’s cleared, to the front of their impromptu crocodile, Steve nods at Clint and at the Hulk - idly spinning one of the car wheels with the tip of his finger while he waits, which is a definite step up from aimless punching - and shields his eyes to gaze up at Iron Man.
“Did you invite the whole street along?” Tony says, lifting the faceplate to peer incredulously down at him. “Are we gonna have a parade?”
Steve looks over his shoulder. The crowd doesn’t seem to be dispersing so much as joining the back of the line. “I said the folks from the bank should come along, but I guess everyone else... wanted to come too.”
Tony flips the faceplate down and swoops off back down the line, circling overhead.
“Well, at least everyone’s staying clear of the Hulk,” he says into Steve’s ear piece. “That’s what I love about New York, the self-preservation instinct. Except for us, I guess.”
“We helped save the world. I think that counts.”
Iron Man flies back into view, drawing to a halt to hover over Steve’s head, but he keeps the faceplate down this time as he says, via the communicator link, “Lot of people, taking a lot of photos. It’s trending on twitter. We’re gonna be internet famous. Even more internet famous, I mean. Bigger than kittens level of famous.”
“I know. I mean, I don’t know quite what you just said, but I got the gist of it.”
“You’re not in costume. Honestly, I gotta say, that hat of yours wasn’t hiding anything. What was that hat? It had wings painted on. If you were trying to mask your identity with that, then it wasn’t working, but I guess the rest of the suit was so spangly people weren’t looking at your face.”
“I know,” Steve says. “I know.”
“You ready?”
“I guess so.”
As he starts to walk, he glances back over his shoulder. Clint catches his eye and nods, and past Clint - the man with the highly conspicuous bow and arrow - there’s the giant green man carrying a car, and past that the crowd of people who want to find out how the day’s excitement ends. They’re still holding up traffic, because now drivers keep slowing down to stare and stare at the procession passing by. People, pointing at him.
Steve keeps his eyes up front and focuses on the march, and on the gleam of Iron Man’s flight stabilisers floating just overhead, just out of reach.
Part 4b
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
*
Steve’s pocket starts to beep and vibrate a couple weeks later, in the middle of the grocery store.
SHIELD had been keeping his shelves stocked and presumably, although Steve doesn’t like to think about it too much now it’s dawned on him, also getting rid of anything that went bad while he was out of town for weeks at a time. It was one of the more surreal moments of Steve’s life - and that includes the Red Skull, and Dr Banner, and the helicarrier - when he got home from a jog, a few days after visiting Tony, to find an agent unpacking groceries onto his neglected shelves in his neglected kitchen.
He made the agent take it all to the nearest homeless shelter. If Steve’s really going to be here, in Brookyln, in the twenty-first century, then he’s going to buy his own darn groceries.
Although he did make the agent a cup of coffee first. He figures being self-reliant doesn’t mean being rude, wherever you might be.
Steve fishes his communicator out of his pocket and makes a vague attempt to dig out the ear piece without dropping anything. It still feels so strange, having something in your ear like that. He gives up and answers it like a telephone, standing in the middle of the cereal aisle.
“What do you know about breakfast cereals?” he says.
There’s a pause.
“They come in boxes,” Tony says. “Good with milk, better dry. Traditionally eaten with spoons. I mean, what, what do you want from me here? A research proposal?”
“I’m just trying to... I thought I’d try something new, but there’s such a lot. Do you have a favourite?”
“Pepper eats muesli so now I... eat muesli. Uh, it’s not bad, if you like chewing. You seem like a guy who appreciates a good, healthy chew, right? Am I right? But before Pep, I always told the personal shopper to get whatever looked the most like actual candy.”
“That’s disgusting.”
Tucking the communicator tighter between his ear and his shoulder, Steve picks up a box of oatmeal. He drops it into his basket and then, looking around him - Tony has satellites and highly advanced robots, Tony could probably watch his every move he wanted to - grabs a box of what looks like tiny cookies and marshmallows and frowns down at it. It doesn’t look much like breakfast food.
“Yeah,” Tony says, wistfully. “Disgustingly awesome. Anyway, get your ass over here.”
“Excuse me?”
“Perambulate your buttocks to my place of residence. Bring the shield. It’ll be fun, I promise.”
“Okay,” Steve says, dropping the cookies and marshmallows into his basket too. He carefully juggles communicator and shopping basket to tick cereal off his shopping list, as he moves on to the next aisle. He pauses. “Wow, there sure are a lot of different kinds of milk.”
“What? No, come on, I happen to know for a fact that cows were invented before you were born. They were at least turn of the century, right? Cars, cows, cinema, the three Cs.”
“You know, you’re not nearly as funny as you think you are,” Steve says. He picks up a bottle of 2% and examines it closely, while Tony splutters with laughter in his ear. “I couldn’t drink milk before, so I never paid much close attention. It made me sick.”
“Why am I not surprised? You really were the life and soul of the pre-war party, huh?”
“I got in a lot of fights.”
Tony hums thoughtfully into his ear. “That doesn’t surprise me either,” and then there’s the sound of something exploding in the background and Tony breathes, “Oh, now that’s interesting,” and hangs up.
Steve takes the communicator away from his ear and looks at it for a little while.
Then he buys milk.
*
It’s a sunny day and Steve hums to himself as he jogs up the steps of Stark Tower, nodding to Mark and waving to Ms Clark and smiling at all the business folk in the lobby who shoot confused looks at him and his oddly-shaped gym bag - all he could find to fit his shield in at short notice - as he passes them by.
He hums Memphis Minnie during the ride up in the elevator and something catchy he heard on the wireless as the doors slide open and he steps out into the familiar sight of the living room. The place seems empty at first glance, but as Steve walks further inside he spots Ms Potts sitting in the corner, at a desk covered in paperwork. She looks tired, and as she lifts her head to look at him without enthusiasm, Steve feels the spring fall out of his step.
“He’s down in his lab with the others,” she says before Steve can ask, and then, huffing out a breath and shaking her head, brushing her hair out of her eyes, she says, “Sorry. Hello, Steve. It’s good to see you again. Bureaucracy makes me rude.”
“It happens to the best of us, Ms Potts, ma’am.”
“No, it doesn’t, but thank you for pretending. And call me Pepper,” she adds. “I mean it. Ms Potts sounds like someone’s maiden aunt, and god knows I’m neither of those things.”
Steve coughs. He clasps his hands behind his back. “I’ll try. Pepper. “
Ms Potts - Pepper looks up at him thoughtfully, her head on one side, and then she smiles. A proper smile. It makes her look a lot less tired.
“At ease, soldier. You’re too cute. Go play with your friends. Actually, you might want to go change into something else first, if you value your shirt. Playdates with Tony usually end in explosions.”
“Uh.” Steve glances down at himself. He’s only wearing a simple button down, but he likes it. “Tony only said to bring my shield.”
She purses her lips, frowning. “He didn’t tell you-? Of course he didn’t. After that night with the towels, Tony took your - well, JARVIS took your measurements and ordered some spare clothes for you. They’re in your room.”
“That’s...” Steve pauses, searching for the appropriate words. “News to me,” he finishes lamely.
“I’m sorry. He only stalks the people he likes, I swear. It’s affectionate really. He kept turning up in my department for weeks before I accepted his job offer. Oh god, that sounds awful, doesn’t it? It wasn’t as awful as it sounds.”
“Well, I don’t think he’s looking to hire me.”
“No,” Pepper says. “Even worse.”
She laughs, and then - at Steve’s quizzical look - laughs harder. She shakes her head, waves a hand. “Forget I spoke. I’m sorry, I - I’m not fit for human company today anyway. And I’ve got all this paperwork to sign, so you should just get out while you can.”
“It was nice talking to you, all the same.”
“Oh, Steve?” Pepper calls him after when he’s halfway to the elevator. Steve turns quickly, to see her half rising from her desk, her hands braced on the edge of it. “Could you remind Tony the board wants the new designs by Friday? I won’t hold my breath, but I guess the more people tell him the higher the likelihood he might remember. This deadline’s important.”
“Board, designs, Friday. Important. Got it.” Steve nods and at Pepper’s quick thumbs up, he heads back towards the elevator. “Have a nice day, Ms - Pepper.”
He hears her laugh and say, “You, too.”
When Steve looks back through the elevator doors, Pepper is still standing behind her desk, her arms crossed loosely over her stomach, watching him. Steve hesitates.
“The labs are on floors twenty to thirty,” she says. “But he’s probably down in the basement workshop. When in doubt, ask JARVIS.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He presses level three on the number pad when it appears. As the doors slide shut, he looks up. Pepper’s smiling faintly with her head to one side, as if she’s thinking of a private joke, but her smile widens when he catches her eye. She lifts a hand in goodbye then lets it drop back down to her elbow.
She looks smaller than she ought to, standing alone in that cavernous room with her arms around herself.
*
Sure enough, up in that same, familiar guest room with the terrific view, there are a few spare sets of clothes in Steve’s size. He carefully unbuttons his shirt and leaves it draped over the back of the desk chair, and he pulls a soft, grey sweatshirt on over his undershirt. Then he just sits down on the edge of the bed and stares out the windows. Tony sure knew what he was doing when he put him in a room with a view like this.
After a little while, Steve gets up and heads back to the elevator, where he hits the button for the basement.
It’s familiar down here as well, from the times he’s gone down to collect his motorbike. Steve steps out of the elevator into the vast, grey parking lot and the rows of expensive cars, but he’s never seen the workshop. There is the row of other elevators, and at the end of the parking lot there’s the tunnel that leads back up to street level, the rumble of overhead traffic echoing down through it; the only other door is huge and metal, big enough to drive a truck through, set into the wall halfway between the elevators and the exit tunnel.
Steve jogs over to it and presses his thumb to the panel at the side. The door slides open into a room just a bit smaller than Steve’s apartment, with regular sized doors on either side and another, even bigger metal door in the wall opposite.
He steps into the room. The door shuts behind him, and for one brief moment Steve’s at a loss, until he hears faint noises coming through the giant door before him. If the metal’s as thick as he thinks it is, then the noises must be very loud indeed, and that sounds like Tony Stark.
There’s no panel to touch this time, so he just walks forwards and hopes for the best.
“Sir, I must warn you-” JARVIS begins to say, even as the door slides open.
Steve barely has a chance to step inside before someone shouts and he’s aware of a whistling sound heading straight for him. He flings himself to the side, ducking and rolling into a crouch, and above him the whistling is cut off by an abrupt crunch.
Steve looks up to see a giant green fist, bigger than his head, the broken remains of an arrow poking out from between its fingers.
“In retrospect, I should probably aim away from doors,” Clint Barton calls from the other end of the workshop, lowering his bow.
“Yes,” Steve says. “Good idea.”
He slides out from under the Hulk’s fist and straightens up cautiously. The Hulk stares down at him, breathing out through his nose hard enough to ruffle Steve’s hair. Without blinking, he crushes the arrow in his fist and lets the shards spill out onto Steve’s head.
“Little captain,” he growls.
“That was some catch, big guy. Thanks.”
The Hulk grunts, but he tilts his head in what could be a nod and says, “Small man wanna talk to you.”
Steve glances sideways at Clint and Tony. By no stretch of the imagination could you call either of them tall.
“Uh... which?”
The Hulk growls, “Mine,” and the force of it blows arrow dust back out of Steve’s hair again in a great, angry gust.
“Well, okay.” Steve combs his hair with his fingers, brushing the remaining shards out of his hair, and he looks up at the Hulk, adding - when the Hulk remains giant and green and not Dr Banner - “Now?”
“Hulk busy. Later.”
He turns and knuckles away towards Clint and Tony. Steve lets out a breath and then draws in another, slowly, and he takes a look around. The basement seems to be a cross between an engineering workshop and a workout room; there are archery targets secured to the wall at the far end, sparring mats on the floor. Tony seems incongruous on the edge of it, sitting at a whole array of desks, with his welding goggles on, pushed up to his forehead so his hair sticks up over the top. He waves Steve over.
“The reflexes on this guy,” Tony says, reaching over his desk to pat the Hulk on an arm twice as thick as Tony’s body. “He could be a whack-a-mole world champion.”
“He’d crush it beneath his fists,” Clint says.
“Theoretically world champion.”
Snorting, Clint turns away from Tony and nods at Steve as he approaches. “Captain.”
“Agent.” Steve nods back. “Good to see you again. How are you? And Natasha? She’d injured her arm last time I saw her.”
“Nat’s fine. We’re both fine. Physically, anyway,” Clint adds, darkly.
Tony groans without looking up from his work, focussed on the notes he’s writing straight onto the surface of his desk. “Tone down the dramatics, Barton. You’re on vacation.”
“Forced vacation,” Clint insists. “Nat got stabbed because she got made. Turns out it’s hard to be a spy once you’re a world famous, alien-ass-kicking hero. Sooner or later, someone puts two and two together and gets stabby. So we’re both benched while SHIELD figures out what to do with us.”
“I suggested plastic surgery,” Tony stage whispers to Steve.
Steve ignores him, patting Clint on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, that’s a tough situation.”
“You’re telling me. I have all this free time, now. What do civilians do all day?”
They both turn towards Tony, until Tony lowers his pen and looks up at them, spreading his hands.
“Don’t look at me. I’m sitting in an underground bunker with a bored superspy, the Big Sleep and the not so jolly, green giant, working on some of the most advanced - and coolest - tech in the world. I’m unique. Have you tried making new friends? Getting a new hobby? Developing an addiction to internet porn and-or World of Warcraft?”
“I sketch,” Steve suggests.
Clint makes a noise of profound disgust. He stalks away, drawing an arrow from his quiver as he goes and firing it straight into the target without a hitch in his step. And then, and again, a whole row of bull’s-eyes forming. The Hulk lumbers after him and swats at the arrows in the air, until Clint turns and starts firing them for him to catch - and to crush.
“Remember, kids,” Tony calls. “It’s all fun and games until Captain America loses an eye.”
“Is this why you called me here today?” Steve asks, swinging his gym bag off his shoulder and leaning it against the side of the desk. “To play catch with the Hulk? Not that it doesn’t make for an interesting change, but...”
“No, that wasn’t it. Although that sounds like a whole heap of fun. It’d be the ultimate ultimate Frisbee, right? Never mind,” Tony adds, as Steve shakes his head in confusion, and he spins in his desk chair, pushing a case towards Steve with his feet. “Look, upgrades.”
He kicks the lid open, revealing a half dozen more communicators packed inside. Steve raises an eyebrow and pulls one out, examines it from all angles.
“It doesn’t seem any different.”
“That’s the magic of it - no, screw magic, that’s the science of it. Microfine coating of a titanium-steel alloy,” Tony says, grinning. “Keeping the touchscreen responsive was hell. Took my entire Black Sabbath playlist to fix it.”
“So it’s - what? Really strong?”
“Yes, Victoria, it’s ‘really strong.’ Not perfect - who wants to carry things around in battle? You, I guess. And Black Widow has all those scary little knives. Where does she keep those? In her hair? I need to work something into your suits. Give me your gloves one day, I’ll see what I can do with that-”
Steve, letting Tony’s voice wash over him, looks back down at the communicator. He tosses it from one hand to the other, weighs it in the palm of his hand, and then reels his arm back and throws it as hard as he can at the opposite wall.
He’s not one to brag, but his weapon of choice is a big metal disc. Throwing as hard as he can is pretty darn hard. Even Tony falls silent to watch it sail through the air and hit the wall. It bounces off and clatters onto the floor, the sound echoing through the workshop.
Clint jogs over and nudges it with the end of his bow.
“It’s scratched,” he says. “But so’s the paint. I call it a draw.”
“Terrific.” Tony claps his hands together. “Cap, toss your shield at it. Hulk, if you would...?”
The Hulk grunts and knuckles across the floor, flicking Clint out of the way - Clint yelps and almost falls over - and he picks the communicator up between finger and thumb. It looks tiny in his hand.
“We attached it to one of the targets first,” Tony says, “but that got old fast. I’ve had more convincing battle simulations in my bed, and I mean while sleeping, not - Anyway, what’s the point in having a teammate who turns into the mean green smashing machine if you can’t shoot arrows at him sometimes, right?”
“Hey,” Clint says, “Hulk should balance it on his head, see if Cap can knock it off with his shield-”
The Hulk growls at him.
Clint backs up, lifting his hands. “Or don’t, it’s cool. I respect your choices. The choice to not put things on your head is - is totally valid.”
The Hulk, Steve swears, actually rolls his eyes at that and he lifts the communicator up higher pointedly, glaring at Steve.
“O-kay,” Steve says slowly.
He kneels down and tugs his shield out of the distorted gym bag, wincing when he hears something rip, and then he rubs the face of the shield gently with the cuff of his sweatshirt. As he straightens up, Clint begins to hum the national anthem.
Ignoring him, ignoring Tony’s sniggers and the low, constant rumble of the Hulk’s growl, Steve focuses on the communicator in the Hulk’s hands.
“I don’t normally throw it in confined spaces-” he starts to say, but they all groan, Tony flapping his hands, Clint shouting, “Come on!”
Steve breathes in slowly, and draws his arm back, and throws.
There’s a moment of perfect silence, as he lets his breath out again and his shield cuts through the air. It’s swiftly followed by an almighty racket: the shield hits the communicator and both go flying; the Hulk roaring; communicator rattling across the floor; shield ricocheting off the wall, off the ceiling, off the floor, until it slides to a halt at Steve’s feet.
Tony lets out a long, low whistle through his teeth. “Well, that was fun.”
Clint jogs over to the communicator and picks it up, turning it over and over in his hands and then lifting it up to the light and studying it some more.
“It’s cracked,” he shouts back to them. “I think that puts you in the lead, Cap.”
“I don’t think it’s really a competition.”
“Of course it’s a competition,” Tony says. “It’s always a competition. Come on, Barton, get your butt back here. Lemme see.”
He holds out his hand, opening and closing his fingers impatiently as Clint jogs back with the communicator. Clint throws it at him, but Tony catches it. He runs his fingers over the crack.
“Again!” roars the Hulk.
Tony looks up at Steve, smirking. “Well, come on, Captain. Have you got what it takes to break the damn thing?”
*
What it takes, it turns out, is two more throws of the shield, at which point the communicator as good as explodes out of the Hulk’s hand, parts lying everywhere with the smell of burning. The Hulk roars - really, really roars, leaving Steve’s ears ringing, and he stamps on every last little piece of the communicator he can find until the floor shakes.
“Yeah, you really showed it who’s boss,” Tony says. “You big baby.”
The Hulk sits down heavily on the floor and puts his fingers in his mouth, glaring at them all. After a moment’s pause, he punches the ground with his free hand. The concrete cracks under his fist.
“I’ll give you something to cry about,” Clint says, reaching into his quiver.
“Don’t blame me when you run out of arrows,” Tony says.
“I’m SHIELD’s kept boy right now. They’d build me a statue of myself out of arrows if they thought it’d keep me occupied.”
As if to prove his point, Clint fires his arrow at the Hulk. It’s just a basic arrowhead and it bounces off the Hulk as uselessly as if it were made of cotton candy, but the Hulk stares down at it in surprise. He takes his fingers out of his mouth.
“Pointy little man,” he growls, lumbering to his feet.
Steve picks his shield up again, checking carefully for scratches or scorch marks in the paintwork. He rubs it down with the cuff of his sweatshirt again as he crosses the room, back to Tony at his desk.
“Is it safe,” Steve murmurs, “having him Hulk out in here? Not that I think he’ll hurt us,” he adds as Tony lifts his head and shoots him a scandalised look. “He saved your life, I know he won’t hurt us anymore. But he could damage the tower, couldn’t he?”
Tony, lips curling up at the corners, lowers his head again. “You know I’ve essentially got a teeny, tiny nuclear reactor in my chest, right? Just saying. Pretty dangerous. Anyway, I damage this tower on such a regular basis I put the builders on speed dial.”
“Uh huh. Is that before or after the pizza boy?”
“Hah!” Tony declares, pointing his pen at Steve. It has a glowing tip. “Below. Towers come and go, but pizza is forever.”
“All I’m saying is, I’ve never seen your arc reactor punch a, a - giant snake from space in the head and win.”
“Give me time. Time and a giant space snake.”
Chuckling despite himself, Steve drags a stool closer and takes a seat, half watching Clint and the Hulk taunt each other and half watching Tony scribble onto his desk - onto, Steve realises, looking twice, a black panel set into the surface of the desk, like a giant computer monitor. He leans in closer for a better look, and Tony rolls his chair sideways to give it to him.
“Oh,” Steve says. “I almost forgot. Pepper asked me to remind you, uh, the board wants the designs on-”
“On Friday, yeah, yeah. They only nag me because they’re embarrassed, you know. The board. When we stopped making weapons they were all weeping in the showers, defecting to Hammer, preparing for ritual suicide. Obviously we’re more successful than ever now. I think I’ve given them all complexes.”
“I can imagine,” Steve says. “Though Pepper did say this deadline was important.”
“They’re all important to her. That’s why she’s the CEO and I’m.” Tony hesitates, lowering his pen to mull it over. His mouth slips into a slow grin. “I’m the man behind the curtain.”
“I understood that one.”
“I did it all for you.”
There’s a pause, punctuated by Tony’s scribbling. Resting his chin on his hand, Steve watches Clint fire another arrow at the Hulk. It explodes when he catches it, and the Hulk roars indignantly, beating his chest while Clint laughs.
“Pepper....” he says. “She must work hard.”
“Yeah, she does. Pepper’s a powerhouse - a whirlwind of organisation with an iron fist. She runs the company so hard it’d probably make even my old man weep with joy, and god knows he was hard to please.”
Turning around, Steve looks at Tony properly. “He... wasn’t. Not how I knew him, anyway. Hard-working, sure. Dedicated. But he always had time for...” He pauses, searching for the words. He hasn’t thought about Howard in a while. Time for rescue missions. Whiskey. Costume redesigns. “For fun. He always had time to help a fella out, I guess.”
“Yeah,” Tony says. “Maybe.”
“What do you mean?”
Tony shrugs, not looking up from his computer.
“Well, you sure as hell lived up to his expectations, didn’t you? Pleased him enough he never shut up about it till the day he died. Hell, maybe his last words were ‘Captain America could drive better than you.’ Wouldn’t surprise me. Though, to be fair, that guy crashed the car five seconds later, so Captain America could drive better than him.”
“Tony-”
“Cap. I’m just saying, maybe he was always a hardass and you just never saw it, because you’re - you. Being perfect is part of your whole shtick, isn’t it?” Tony shrugs again. He’s still making a show of staring at his work, but his back is very straight, and he’s holding himself very still.
Steve sighs and then, on the same breath, shaking his head, he starts to laugh. “Sometimes I honestly can’t tell whether you’re paying me a compliment or insulting me.”
At the sound of Steve’s laughter, Tony swivels around to stare at him incredulously, until he too begins to smirk. It looks a little pained, but it’s there, all the same.
“It’s all part of the Stark mystique,” he says, shaking his head. “Gotta keep you on your toes.”
Steve breathes out slowly, quietly. It’s good to know that they can do this, just about; talk about Howard and come out the other side still breathing. He watches the tension bleed out of the line of Tony’s back as he returns to his work.
Steve watches the quick movements of Tony’s hands.
“What’re you working on?” he asks, after a moment of silence.
“I - will show you,” Tony says. “In - just - a...”
He makes a couple more notes. Then, with a dragging motion, he lifts his glowing pen up away from the computer panel and-
“Holy moly!” Steve exclaims, as the bright blue lines lift up off the panel and into the air.
The diagram blows apart like a floating jigsaw of circuitry. He reaches out a hand.
“Ah, ah, hold it!” Tony exclaims, though he’s smirking. “Touch responsive.”
Steve scoots closer, craning up and ducking down till he’s eye-level with every part of the hologram he passes. Even up close, he has no idea what it’s a diagram of, but it’s one heck of a show. He can admire the shapes and the lines and the way it’s floating in midair, if nothing else. Tony twists his hand obligingly so the hologram spins in the air, components passing inches from Steve’s eyes.
“Wow, you’re great for my ego. Or terrible, Pepper’d vote terrible. I need to have a time traveller in every workshop. From the past, anyway. I’m probably only slightly impressive in the future. You got any friends from the nineteenth century? Cavemen, any cavemen? I could probably convince cavemen I’m a god...”
“No,” Steve breathes. “What is this?”
“Hands free for the terrible twins,” Tony declares. At Steve’s quizzical look, he makes a complex gesture and the exploded parts pull back together into the shape of something a bit like Steve’s ear piece, but a lot more complicated. “For Bruce and his roomie. Putting things in people’s ears, easy. Getting things to stay in while people turn into angry green giants - well, also easy. For me. I’m a genius. But slightly less easy.”
“How’d you solve it?”
“I... haven’t, yet. What? Even easy things take effort, sometimes. I’m an engineer, not a wizard. I don’t conjure, I build, and I’d be building a whole lot quicker if somebody didn’t keep crushing the prototypes. Yeah, I’m talking to you, mister,” he adds, raising his voice, as the Hulk roars in their direction. “You’re a menace! You should be locked up!”
The Hulk roars again, the strength of it making Steve flinch despite himself, but Tony just laughs and shakes his head, turning his attention back to the hologram.
“Making something expand when pressure decreases is simple. I’m talking clicky pen simple, here. Even you aren’t impressed by clicky pens, right?”
“The novelty wore off pretty quick,” Steve admits.
“Right.” Tony nods and, lifting up his hands, tug the blueprints apart again, flinging layers of technology away. Steve automatically dodges as bits of it fly past his face at a wave of Tony’s hands, and when he lifts his head again Tony is smirking at him and all that’s left of the Hulk’s ear piece is a simple framework of springs hanging in the air.
“It’s easy,” Tony says, “except for how the Hulk is a big ol’ grumpy gus with sensitive ears. I should probably just quit being clever and bribe him.”
He snaps his fingers, and the discarded parts snap back into position. Like magic.
Steve reaches out his hand again. “Can I?”
“Sure. Look, for a beginner, this is probably the easiest...” Tony beckons and Steve begins to step forward before he realises the hologram has moved too, sailing in the direction of Tony’s gesture and disappearing as smoothly as if it just stepped off camera. A new set of blueprints slide into place.
“Works with either hand in either direction, we’re not talking rocket science here. You’re a smart guy, in your own special way. Then, just spread your hands if you wanna expand the schematics, pull for a closer look. Safe mode, JARVIS. For the love of god and science, the safest mode.”
“Of course, sir.”
Stepping forwards, Steve cautiously lifts his hands and draws them apart and he can’t suppress his burst of laughter as the lights respond to his motions, the diagram expanding and then - as he quickly claps his hands together again - just as quickly retracting.
“Now you,” Tony says, pointing at him, “are easy to please.”
“I’m not so sure of that.” Steve pulls the hologram apart again, slower this time, just admiring the way that the lines move and the light follows his fingers. Maybe it’s more beautiful not knowing what it is. “I just know a good thing when I see it.”
“Sweet talker.”
“Can I get one of these?”
“Ha, see, there we go. You were just buttering me up to get your hands on my awesome tech. This - this isn’t actually available for the public-”
“Oh. Well, I-”
“Ah, ah, let me finish, come on. Geez. Aren’t you meant to be the polite one? You want one, you can have one. Have two. I’ll build you two.”
“What would I do with two?”
“Feel smug? That’s what I usually do.”
Steve smiles, spinning the hologram in a slow circle. Through the other side of it, Tony grins at him, blue light shifting and dancing all across his face. He lifts a hand and pulls a couple sections away from Steve and towards himself, separating parts with practiced flicks of his fingers and making them spin.
“You don’t even know what it is you’re playing with, do you?”
“No idea.”
Tony snorts, and then they both jump as a giant hand swats through the air before them. The light scatters and shuts off and the Hulk frowns down at his fists, uncurling his fingers and peering under his arms and feet.
“Smash?” he says uncertainly.
“You sure did, buddy.” Tony pats him on the arm, turning back to the computer in his desk - Steve recognises the diagram that was just floating in the air, now turning slowly on the screen. Just like magic, he thinks again.
Clint props his elbows on the edge of the desk, peering down at them.
“If you two are done finger painting,” he says. “Hulk’s bored. I’m taking him out for ice cream.”
“You crazy kids have fun. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
“Stark, what wouldn’t you do?”
Tony draws in a breath, straightening up and lifting his finger as if he’s about to answer Clint. He hangs like that for a moment, then begins to tap his chin in deep concentration, mouthing the question.
Clint rolls his eyes and waves Hulk out the door.
“Now, wait just a second,” Steve begins, as the door slides shut behind them.
He turns to Tony, who has already turned back to his work.
“That exit leads right out onto the street, doesn’t it?”
“It sure does.”
Steve pauses. He crosses and uncrosses his arms.
“Agent Barton’s a highly trained professional,” he says, more for his own benefit than anything else, but Tony lowers his pen and frowns at the door as well.
“You’re right,” he says. “Why should he have all the fun?”
“That’s not what I was getting at.”
Tony shoots him a sceptical look. “Don’t you want ice cream? I want ice cream.”
“I want to make sure those two don’t do any damage,” Steve says, resting his hands on his hips. Tony grins up at him, and grins, and grins, until Steve lowers his hands and adds, “I guess I could go for some ice cream as well.”
“It’s the American dream. JARVIS, hold all current projects, keep the homefires burning, try not to pine for us while we’re gone.”
“I shall endeavour, sir, though I might not succeed.”
Tony snaps his fingers and the computer screen goes dark. He turns on Steve with that effervescent smile.
“Want a lift, Captain?” he asks.
*
“This is incredible!” Steve shouts over the roar of the wind.
It’s not at all comfortable, being lugged through the sky like a sack of potatoes while he clings onto the all-too-smooth armour for dear life. He can’t even keep his eyes open long enough to admire the view, but it’s worth it for the sensations alone. For the wind in his hair.
“I mean,” he shouts, “I feel ridiculous, but-”
“You feel ridiculous? I’m the one hugging you closer than a body pillow.”
Despite the velocity, Tony’s voice comes through close and clear, thanks to the ear piece he forced on Steve, insisting “hitching rides with robot armour is stupid enough; hitching a ride with the robot armour without being able to hear what I’m saying is a whole new level of moronic.” Much as Steve hates the feel of it in his ear, he can’t deny that Tony had a point.
Opening his eyes a fraction, the reflection of sun off the skyscrapers is dazzling. He squeezes his eyes shut again and laughs, and the wind snatches the sound of that away too.
“Hey,” Tony says. “Money.”
“What?”
“There’s a traffic jam the size of Texas down there and - oh, would you look at that? I spy with my little eye something beginning with ‘H’.”
Steve squints, but all he can is movement and light. “The Hulk?”
“We have a winner.”
“What’s that got to do with money?”
“Let’s find out.”
The suit descends.
Loose pieces of paper money drift past their faces. Steve, blinking dust and cold tears out of his eyes, squints down at the tableau Tony’s lowered them into: the street has ground to a standstill, the cars stuck at the back honking their horns angrily, although the drivers at the front all seem to have gotten out and joined in the show. The crowd must be at least a hundred strong, and in the middle of it Clint has half a dozen men on their knees, their hands on their heads while he points an arrow at them almost lazily.
“You brought your bow?” Tony calls. “Who goes out for ice cream with a bow and arrow?”
Clint twists, craning to look up at them.
“Glad you could make it, Cap,” he shouts. “Stark, you’ve missed the party.”
“Barton, I am the party.”
Hovering ten feet over the crowd, Steve’s feet are level with the Hulk’s face - the Hulk, who is sitting quite calmly by his standards on the roof of a thoroughly crushed car, twenty and fifty dollar bills spilling out of the busted trunk and getting caught in the breeze. He’s holding a weeping, trembling man by the ankle, swinging him back and forth.
“I don’t know what you’re crying about, pal,” Clint throws over his shoulder, without taking his eyes off his own captives. “He got you out of the vehicle before he sat on it, didn’t he? That makes you one of the lucky ones.”
The guy cries harder.
Steve sighs. Ignoring all the cameras that turn to flash in his direction the second he moves, he jumps down onto the Hulk’s shoulder and from there springs to the ground. Someone cheers, but Steve straightens up and rests his hands on his hips, and he frowns. At the on-lookers, and the Hulk and Clint, and at the men cowering at Clint’s feet.
“Would someone please explain to me what the heck is going on?”
“We’re very sorry,” says one of the men kneeling before Clint and Clint’s bow and arrow, “and we won’t do it again.”
“I never wanted to in the first place,” another insists, and then yelps as Clint kicks him in the knee.
“None of that, please,” Steve says.
Clint has the decency to at least pretend to look contrite. “The big guy and me just thwarted a bank robbery, Cap,” he says. “No peace for the wickedly cool.”
“Is anyone hurt?”
“These idiots-” Glancing at Steve, he nudges one of them with his toe. “- fired off a few rounds to scare folks in the bank, but nobody got hurt. My favourite part was when Hulk ate the getaway driver’s gun.”
“He spat the bullets out,” the first speaker says, weakly.
“And then he tried to eat the car,” Clint adds, with a beatific smile.
The Hulk snarls, shaking his captive by the ankle, and says, “Yuck.”
“All the menace of a pissed off gorilla, all the vocab of a two-year-old.” From behind Steve, there’s a familiar whine and a thud as the Iron Man suit makes it landing, and then Tony lifts his faceplate and in his own voice adds, “Let him down now, Hulk. He’s learned his lesson. You’ve taken him to a whole new level of learning his lesson, by the look of him.”
“Gently,” Steve adds, seeing the Hulk begin to draw back his arm as he lets out a long, low growl.
The Hulk shoots him a disgusted look, but whatever he was about to do, he - doesn’t do it. Instead, still growling, he turns the getaway driver the right way up again and lowers him carefully to the ground. The man’s legs fold underneath him and he sits down in the road, staring up at the Hulk, and the Hulk - leaning forwards on his knuckles and bending down, down - lowers his face to stare right back into the man’s eyes, their noses squashed together.
“Boo,” says the Hulk.
The man makes a small, soft noise and flops back onto the tarmac in a dead faint. To the side, Steve can see Clint’s shoulders shaking with almost silent laughter, the point of his arrow remaining utterly steady regardless.
“Okay,” Steve says, turning away. He claps his hands together. “Where are the cops? Didn’t anyone call the cops?”
“JARVIS has me tuned into the police radio,” Tony says. “Seems they can’t make it through. Something about a traffic jam and a huge crowd of people come to watch superheroes take down a bunch of incompetent bank robbers? I know, I know, I’m as surprised as you are.”
Steve pauses, thinking. Learning the new layout of the city was strange and confusing, and even when thinking of then and now as two separate cities it’s hard not to sometimes muddle the two, but he’s always had a good sense of direction.
“The station’s not far,” he says. “It’s a nice day. We can walk. First things first, ma’am, sir? Are you folks from the bank?”
The group he points to just stare at each other, and then at him, in shock, until Steve motions to his chest and adds, “You’ve got the logo on your... Look, we need to get this tidied up, and I figure you’ve got more authority than me to handle this.”
He tugs the black duffle out from under the crumpled trunk of the car, shoving bills that spill out back inside, and holds it out to them.
“Well?” he says.
A woman steps forward and takes the bag from him with a nod.
“Yes sir,” she says.
Steve nods at her, and at the other who start to grab the flyaway notes and shove them back into the bag. He looks round at everyone else.
“Could everyone who took any of the money floating around here hand it back to these folks here, please?”
There are boos from the crowd, and Tony looks askance at him, murmuring, “Good luck with that, Cap.”
Steve frowns. He climbs up next to the Hulk on the roof of the crushed car - it’s not much above ground level, it’s so flattened, but it’s the best he’s got - and he cups his hands into a makeshift megaphone, and he says, “Come on, folks. I know it’s not easy - heck, I know getting by in a Depression’s not easy, but this isn’t like finding a nickel in the gutter. Money in a bank is money that belongs to someone else. Sure, maybe it’s the bad guys or the folks with plenty to spare, but maybe it’s your friends, or neighbours, or your mom. That $20 you grabbed today could make the difference whether someone goes hungry or not, later down the line.”
Lowering his hands, Steve tries to meet as many eyes as possible, and while some people stare stonily back at him, others look away. He can hear people start to murmur, see them nudge each other. Right at the front, a kid pushes another, scrawnier kid forwards and that kid holds out a crumpled $50 bill.
“Thank you,” Steve says, climbing down from the car to take it from him. “That’s a brave thing you just did.”
He passes the bill to the bank employees, and as more people start to shuffle forwards, avoiding each other’s eyes, he takes a step back to watch. He hears Tony’s heavy, metallic footsteps behind him and turns.
“I’m not sure banking works quite like that,” Tony says, with an odd little smile on his face.
Steve shrugs. “There are always repercussions and, no offence, it’s not usually billionaires bearing the brunt of them.”
“No, it’s true, none taken. I was born with a giant silver spoon made of other, normal-sized spoons in my mouth, I admit it.”
Tony pauses, and they both turn to watch the line of people handing back their grabbed-up dollars. Not everyone will give it back, Steve knows, and maybe not even most will, but maybe it’ll be enough to make a difference.
Tony nudges him in the side
“Hey,” he says. “Nice speech. I think I saw a biker gang crying at the back there. Big, hairy, tattooed, blowing their noses. It was moving, I was moved. Do you have a touching speech prepared for every occasion or did the super-duper serum come with a bonus SAT Writing paper?”
“I spent the first twenty-five years of my life with not much to do but read,” Steve says. “So, neither.”
“Forget Thor, you write my next press release. You speak, people cry and give you money. It’ll be great.”
“Do you offer everyone jobs?”
“Nah.” Tony shakes his head. “Only my favourites.”
They drift back into silence, watching the bag fill back up with its lost money. It’s a sunny day still, despite the approach of fall, and Steve can feel the Iron Man suit giving off heat next to him like a warm body.
“I think we’ve got as much of it back as we’re ever going to,” Tony says at last.
They share a look.
“I think you could be right,” Steve says.
He steps forward and raises his hand, drawing the rest of the team’s attention.
“Iron Man, go at the front, keep our path clear-” He sees Tony nod as the faceplate slides back down, and Iron Man shoots up into the air. “Hawkeye, get them on their feet, get them in line. Single file. We’re going on the sidewalk, so I want you between them and the road at all times. If any of you fellas try to make a break for it,” he adds, pointing a finger at the bank robbers as Clint hustles them to their feet, “the Hulk will catch you.”
They all nod shakily, although none of them look particularly fit for a daring escape. Satisfied, Steve turns to the Hulk.
“You heard me,” he says. “Come up the rear. Catch anyone who makes a break for it, but don’t hurt them. Can you carry the car? I don’t know what use it’ll be as evidence since you sat on it, but we’re better safe than sorry.”
The Hulk snorts, heaving the car up onto his shoulder as easily as if it were a punching bag. It shakes and creaks. Without the Hulk sitting on it, Steve can just about make out bite marks in the bumper.
“Why did you try to eat it?”
The Hulk grins. His teeth are like paving slabs. “Hungry.”
Patting Steve on the head with his free hand - Steve’s knees buckle - he stamps away to the end of the crocodile Clint has arranged. Up ahead, Steve can see Iron Man drifting over everyone’s heads, shouting, “Make way, make way, crime-fighting in progress! Superheroes coming through!”
Steve tucks the bag of money under his arm and heaves the getaway driver - starting to groan - over his shoulder and he glances at the bank employees, still huddled together nervously but with the beginnings of grins on their faces now.
“Sorry about all this,” he says. “I don’t know how long this whole thing’s going to take to get straightened out, but you’re welcome to come along if you don’t mind walking.”
They look at each other.
“I love walking,” one of them says.
Hands full, Steve jerks his chin towards Iron Man, flying low and visible and better than any street sign.
“Then follow us,” he says.
*
As he wends his way through the path Tony’s cleared, to the front of their impromptu crocodile, Steve nods at Clint and at the Hulk - idly spinning one of the car wheels with the tip of his finger while he waits, which is a definite step up from aimless punching - and shields his eyes to gaze up at Iron Man.
“Did you invite the whole street along?” Tony says, lifting the faceplate to peer incredulously down at him. “Are we gonna have a parade?”
Steve looks over his shoulder. The crowd doesn’t seem to be dispersing so much as joining the back of the line. “I said the folks from the bank should come along, but I guess everyone else... wanted to come too.”
Tony flips the faceplate down and swoops off back down the line, circling overhead.
“Well, at least everyone’s staying clear of the Hulk,” he says into Steve’s ear piece. “That’s what I love about New York, the self-preservation instinct. Except for us, I guess.”
“We helped save the world. I think that counts.”
Iron Man flies back into view, drawing to a halt to hover over Steve’s head, but he keeps the faceplate down this time as he says, via the communicator link, “Lot of people, taking a lot of photos. It’s trending on twitter. We’re gonna be internet famous. Even more internet famous, I mean. Bigger than kittens level of famous.”
“I know. I mean, I don’t know quite what you just said, but I got the gist of it.”
“You’re not in costume. Honestly, I gotta say, that hat of yours wasn’t hiding anything. What was that hat? It had wings painted on. If you were trying to mask your identity with that, then it wasn’t working, but I guess the rest of the suit was so spangly people weren’t looking at your face.”
“I know,” Steve says. “I know.”
“You ready?”
“I guess so.”
As he starts to walk, he glances back over his shoulder. Clint catches his eye and nods, and past Clint - the man with the highly conspicuous bow and arrow - there’s the giant green man carrying a car, and past that the crowd of people who want to find out how the day’s excitement ends. They’re still holding up traffic, because now drivers keep slowing down to stare and stare at the procession passing by. People, pointing at him.
Steve keeps his eyes up front and focuses on the march, and on the gleam of Iron Man’s flight stabilisers floating just overhead, just out of reach.
Part 4b
Part one | Part two | Part three | Part four | Part five
*