Work Text:
February 21st, 2016; Outside Stark Tower, NYC
CNN News correspondent Whitney Coleman and her team of cameras shoved through a crowd of what seemed like a few hundred New Yorkers, all writhing and clamoring in a soggy heap of umbrellas and wet rain jackets. The sky was dark, overcast with cumulus clouds of grey and strikes of thunder that sent tremors in the city with each rumble they gave in the sky. Only when the 'CNN' came into view on their devices did anyone make room for Coleman's team. Some of the defiant ones would stand their ground, continuing to crane their necks toward the scene at Stark Tower for the few moments they weren't turning over their shoulders to shout profanities at them. The trek to the scene seemed to last for miles under the pounding rainfall, but Coleman's attitude seemed to lift when they reached the mouth of the tower, the middle of the scene.
Standing yards from Coleman's soggy figure in a crowd of news correspondents was Tony Stark in a rain jacket with the hood pulled tightly over his ruffled brown hair. The glow of the arc reactor was ever so visible though the black plastic as he turned to walk away from a bothersome journalist from FOX news who didn't seem to know when enough was enough. She was a woman who stood at about his height and hid her dirty-blond hair under a black umbrella she refused to share with her male counterpart. Something she said through the smirk on her face made Stark stop for a moment in his footsteps. He stood in silence and paid the woman's words the attention they probably didn't deserve. The lines on Stark's face made Coleman feel bad for the billionaire. Stark, who was once so eccentric, he was almost annoying to interview, was now a solemn, brawny, unrecognizable man in the lazy wardrobe of Tony Stark. The billionaire grit his teeth and stormed toward the entrance of the tower just as Coleman took a breath to speak to him.
If it wasn't for the S.H.I.E.L.D agents blocking their paths, each of the reporters probably would have charged after the genius, devices in hand, shouting more questions for him to ignore. Coleman neglected yelling after the Iron Man in favor of examining the pieces she had left to work with. Her eyes landed on the line of agents, the men with stern, stony faces and muscled arms they kept extended to as to block the way of reporters who tried to shove their way though. They all wore suits of black that kept them soaked in the rain that pierced the ground, and Coleman tried not to give their poor choice of wardrobe a second thought as she tugged her raincoat tighter over her chest and turned to interview someone else.
A crowd of people began to pool by the other man in Stark's absence; the man who had been standing beside Stark, taking questions the entire time. The man was reasonably tall, with ebony skin and a black leather coat that matched the patch he wore over an injured eye that had healed long before. He was taking interviews with a stern, level-headed attitude, his hands clasped in front of him, a look of interest on his face as he listened and answered. Coleman should have gone to him first. In the face of tragedy, the director was one of the only people S.H.I.E.L.D. could rely on to keep a level head about himself.
Her team of cameramen at her heels, Coleman weaved through the crowd, bowing her head at the fall of rain, which only seemed to be growing thicker. She came to a spot a few feet in front of the director. A soggy lace of blond was pushed from her eyes by one of her cameramen as she raised the microphone to her lips. "Director Fury. Reporter Whitney Coleman with CNN News," she levelly told the agent. The rest of her team of cameras collected around her, and she was pleased to see they'd acquired the director's full attention. "In the wake of such a terrible war, if anything were to happen next that would put the lives of mankind in further danger, what would you be willing to do to stop it at this point?"
Fury gave a pause, but it wasn't a pause for thought. His mud-brown eye scrutinized Coleman's gaze for a moment as heavy as the rain, and the stone-coldness of his expression didn't quiver in the slightest. "Whitney, right?" Coleman gave a solemn nod and held his gaze with bright hazel eyes. "Well Whitney, you let the folks down at the CNN headquarters know that we at S.H.I.E.L.D would do anything for the good of humanity. Whether our mission is to relocate the population or to cure the planet of a rampaging disease, we will not hesitate to get on our feet and make certain that is the first thing we do. Do I make myself clear?"
Coleman strained her eyes. A few dozen yards away at the entrance of the tower, Stark was taking off an expensive pair of shades worth five of her paychecks as he pushed past the tinted glass doors. Steve Rogers gave him a concerned glance as he pulled a tan trench coat over his plaid button-down shirt. He made his way to a crowd of reporters with a tired expression and quick, moving strides into the rain.
Coleman returned her gaze right back to Fury, whose eye was still trained on her, and hadn't left. She dared another glance at Rogers, who had joined an interview with some man with CBS. "And the Avengers?" She asked Fury. Something in the director's face seemed to fall, like concern, or uncertainty. "The Avengers, even with their new additions, are always still the Avengers we trust, correct? Morally, I mean. "
There was a pause. Fury's eyes fell to the ground as the clamor of reporters continued around them. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his trench coat, and for whatever reason, pursed his lips at the side and created a thin line of his ebony-skinned mouth. "At this point... what with all the worldwide damage... the fear and mourning people are going through..." Fury raised his eye from the ground, watching the anticipation drain into the hazel of Coleman's eyes in his pause, "...I'm not so sure the public will be able to handle the truth about the Avengers' mentality."
As he pursed his lips at her, something like guilt shone in his one seal-brown eye. The clamor of the swarming crowd grew twice its former size in volume, shrieks and hollers overpowering the noise of the pounding rain. Coleman could only catch the director's apology by the movement of his lips before he turned away with a sweep of his coat around his dark leather boots. Steve Roger's eyes were bewildered blue pools under the brows he had furrowed. "Alright, that's enough. Wrap it up!" Fury tossed over his shoulder. He was almost to the tower doors when he turned again to the crowd. His face looked colder than usual. "Hey!" He twitched his eyebrows, and ever so suddenly, the crowd had grown silent. "I said, 'wrap it up.'"
He glared seal-brown daggers at the media in the harrowing moment. The pounding of raindrops, heavy breaths, and the far-away noises of road rage were the only sounds to be heard in the cool air. Rogers was pushing himself away from the reporters with mannerisms much too firm and polite to be believable. As Director Fury pushed past the tinted doors of Stark Tower the droop of his head was disturbing, morose, even. Coleman had been looking as the day's very last picture was taken. She saw how whiteness reflected gently against the tower's polished glass, how it shivered over the puddles that danced along the ground of stone. If she closed her eyes, she could almost pretend it was a TV program, or an old film she was watching. A dream. Anything. Just not this strange, twisted reality that was.