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Rhodey returns from three months of near-constant ops, so much time spent in the suit that War Machine’s HUD is all he can see when he closes his eyes.
Jarvis lets him into the Malibu house with no more than a quiet greeting, the scanners confirming his biometrics before he’s even closed the door of his car.
‘Hey, Jarvis,’ Rhodey says. A quick glance at the living room shows no sign of life, but there’s a tell-tale rhythmic vibration through the floor that even the best sound-proofing can’t ever quite conceal.
‘How’s he doing?’
‘Sir has been in the workshop for twenty-one hours, Colonel,’ Jarvis reports, sounding both more put-upon and more concerned than mere circuitry should allow. ‘The noise level has not dropped below ninety-five decibels in that time, leading both Ms Potts and Mr Hogan to abandon the premises.’
Rhodey winces. No wonder he can feel it through the floor! ‘How the hell is he not stone deaf, J?’
‘I suspect there are many audiologists who would like to know the same thing, Colonel. Any assistance you can give would be appreciated.’
Rhodey nods, and heads for the stairs. ‘Start bringing the volume down now. I’d like it at conversational levels when I get in there.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Through the glass walls of the workshop, Rhodey can see Tony flitting about like a caffeine-fuelled hummingbird, DUM-E trailing after him with an oversized toolbox clutched in his claw.
There are pieces of two different battle-damaged Iron Man suits scattered across several benches, in addition to the retired ones standing sentry behind glass along the wall. The 1932 Flathead Roadster has once again fallen victim to Tony’s urge to fidget and tinker; its engine block and cylinders are laid out in some haphazard pattern on a tarp beside it, leaving a forlorn cavity where its heart ought to be.
Rhodey pulls the door open and finds that the noise level is low enough for civil conversation – and low enough for him to immediately pick up the low stream of chatter Tony is directing at his oldest bot.
‘Hey, hey, I asked for a socket wrench, you oversized tinker toy! That’s a pipe wrench. No, that’s a monkey wrench. Are your optical feeds fucked up again or are you just an engineering travesty on wheels? No, don’t answer that, just gimme! God, I can feel my brain screaming and smacking itself against my skull in sheer despair at you...’
‘That might have more to do with lack of sleep, excessive noise and caffeine poisoning,’ Rhodey says, over the sad little noise DUM-E makes as Tony takes the wrench.
Tony’s head whips round, and he breaks into a worryingly manic grin when he spots Rhodey. His hair is stiff with what might be two-day-old product or might be engine grease. Given that his white tank top is liberally smeared with black gunk and other less-identifiable grime, Rhodey would bet on the latter. In utter violation of all common sense and workshop safety, his feet are bare against the concrete floor, and as Rhodey walks over to him, he sees that there are dark circles under Tony’s bloodshot eyes. His iconic goatee is looking rough around the edges, and his olive skin is paler than ought to be possible in the middle of a Californian summer. It’s no wonder Jarvis sounds worried.
I’ve got to start taking shorter deployments, Rhodey thinks, picking his way around a small mountain of mouldy coffee cups and half-finished green smoothies that U is either guarding or trying ineffectually to clean up one cup at a time.
‘Hey, Rhodey! Rhodey Rhodey Roo! Where’ve you been? Well, ok, I know where you’ve been – spreading the fear of God and apple pie across the globe. I loved your work in Basra last month – which I totally saw on the news, by the way, because I absolutely don’t have a satellite tracking the suit twenty-four seven, or not one that the military needs to know about,’ he babbles. ‘Speaking of which, where the hell’s my suit? I know you got it shot to shit in Colombia a few days ago. You better not be giving it to anyone else for repairs!’
Rhodey just smiles and squeezes Tony’s bare shoulder, in one of the few spots not too coated with grime. He learned his lesson about letting anyone else touch War Machine after Hammer and Vanko turned him into a passenger and nearly made him blow Tony’s head off. It’s Tony’s hands on the armour or nothing. ‘It’s being shipped home. The brass weren’t happy at the thought of me flying it up here and falling out of the sky somewhere over Mexico.’
‘Aw, you banged it up that badly?’ Tony groans. ‘What the hell, honey bear? That suit can laugh at tanks!’
‘It’s probably not that bad,’ Rhodey says, raising a placatory hand. ‘They’re all just really paranoid at the Pentagon.’
‘Don’t I know it,’ Tony agrees.
‘So, what’re you working on?’ Rhodey asks.
Tony grins and launches into a rambling explanation for the dismantled suits, talking about new alloys and EMP-proof wiring and half a dozen other improvements that absolutely cannot wait long enough for him to eat, sleep or breathe.
Rhodey lets him talk, adding no more than the odd “Hmm” or “Uh huh”. He’s genuinely interested, but this isn’t the time to actually engage with the projects. Tony didn’t notice him coming into the shop, doesn’t seem to be aware that his deafening music has been reduced to no more than a background buzz, both of which mean he’s too far gone to be working.
He lets Tony’s babble wind down a little, then stops him as he darts between two benches and wraps him in a hug, resting his chin on Tony’s wiry shoulder.
Tony shudders and drops his head against Rhodey’s collarbone, his hands twitching and catching in the soft fabric of Rhodey’s casual button-down, too restless to hold still. Hugging Tony when he’s this manic is like holding a rocket with a lit fuse; all radiant energy and barely contained twitching. The arc reactor is a comforting solid pressure against Rhodey’s chest, humming just on the edge of hearing, reassuring him that Tony is alive, and here with him. He misses that hum when he’s away, sometimes jerking awake in his bunk on some base thousands of miles from home because he can’t hear the reactor. No reactor means no Tony, or worse, Tony dying beside him, blue-lipped and cold.
‘I’ve got you,’ he says into Tony’s hair. The man stinks of stale coffee, sweat and metal, the unmistakable fug of Tony at the end of his rope.
‘Can you stay?’ Tony asks, so quietly that Rhodey’s sure he’s not really meant to hear it. ‘God, I need you to stay.’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Rhodey tells him softly. ‘I’m on stand down for at least a month. I thought I might go north and visit my mom, but not just yet, and you’re coming with me when I do.’
‘No escaping Mama Rhodes’ urge to feed that scrawny Stark kid,’ Tony mumbles, with fond exasperation. ‘Do you think she’ll finally notice I’ve grown up when I go entirely grey?’
‘I doubt it,’ Rhodey says with a chuckle. ‘And anyway, don’t act like you haven’t been dyeing your hair for years.’
‘Slander!’ Tony complains, finally stilling his hands enough to clutch at Rhodey’s shoulders. ‘In my own house! J, call my lawyers.’
‘Regrettably, sir, I doubt any jury would convict,’ Jarvis says, already sounding less stressed than he did when Rhodey arrived. ‘Shall I order some food, Colonel?’
‘Chinese,’ Rhodey says. ‘All the usual stuff, and make sure there’s some extra chicken noodle soup in there.’
‘Ordering now.’
‘I’m not sick,’ Tony complains, smart enough to hear the addition and feel Rhodey’s arms clutching at him and put two and two together.
‘God only knows how,’ Rhodey says at once. Going by the state of the workshop, anyone else would be dead from malnutrition, flu or sheer exhaustion by now. ‘And chicken noodle is comfort food. You don’t have to be sick to need it.’
‘One of these days you’re going to swap places with your mother and I won’t be able to tell the difference,’ Tony says.
‘I’m pretty sure you’d be able to tell,’ Rhodey points out, then makes a face. ‘And now you’ve made me think about my mom in bed with you. God, you’re awful!’
Tony makes a self-satisfied, amused noise, then finally leans back in Rhodey’s arms. ‘Aw, don’t worry, sugar plum. You’re the only mother-hen for me,’ he says, and tilts his head up.
They kiss, slow and lingering, Tony’s chapped lips and scruffy beard so familiar that Rhodey could cry. He always forgets just how much he misses Tony until there’s no mission ahead, no danger to face, just Tony, warm and electric in his arms.
He breaks the kiss after a long, achingly tender welcome home, and looks Tony in the eye.
‘You smell like the dumpster outside a garage,’ he tells him. ‘If I didn’t know Pepper would’ve murdered you by now, I’d say you hadn’t washed since I last saw you.’
Tony rolls his eyes. ‘There’s no way I smell worse than a barracks full of guys in a desert.’
‘I wouldn’t know, Tony, I don’t get close enough to those guys to tell,’ Rhodey says, rolling his eyes right back. ‘And you don’t have the excuse of limited water supplies.’
‘Well, you know,’ Tony says, waving a hand. ‘Water is a limited resource and blah blah blah. I’m all about saving the planet these days.’
Rhodey grins. ‘I know you are. But it seems you have a choice between saving the planet and your boyfriend getting within ten feet of you ever again, so which is it going to be?’
‘Wow, when did you turn into a Bond villain?’ Tony says, already backing off and heading for the stairs and the enormous shower in his suite. ‘I knew I should’ve been more worried when you stole that suit.’
‘Keep talking, Tony,’ Rhodey says, following him out. Behind them, Jarvis is already saving Tony’s projects and shutting down the projection systems. ‘And I might change my mind about washing your back for you.’
Tony grins widely. ‘Oh, in that case the planet can take care of itself. In fact, I think I hear the sweet, sweet call of supervillainy.’
Rhodey smirks and takes the stairs two at a time. It’s good to be home.