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Phil Coulson paused a step beyond Howard Stark's ARC reactor. The lobby was deserted at this time of night, but the office lights were still on above and below. He lifted his chin to gaze at the two-storey portrait cradled between the stairs ascending up to the balcony left and right.
Being the agent he was, he noted the omission of Maria Stark first. On the left stood Howard Stark, facing out, arms crossed, Mona Lisa smile in place. On the right grinned Stane, cigar between sausage fingers. His near hand rested paternally on the centre of attention. It was a full portrait of Celeste Maria Stark, hands on her hips and face completely blank.
Phil didn't quite pause, but slowed to take it in. Hundreds of professional photos and surveillance snapshots concerning Stark had crossed his desk. In most of them, she was in motion, but in all of them she emoted. Smirking, sneering, talking, frowning, baring her teeth. Never had he seen her blank. Not that it made her less of a cipher.
Stark had swaggered into her own benefit gala in a three-piece suit and a bow-tie made up of two diamonds set in silver, with silver-leaf for eye shadow and silver piping on her jacket.
She had scarcely glanced at Coulson when he had approached her, requesting a debrief, both haughty and harried. Only because she wanted to get away from him had she agreed to their appointment. He fully expected to have to present his case to Ms Potts tonight.
Was it Stane or Senior who brought out that expression, flat lips and thousand-yard stare?
The question was barely a blip across the surface of his mind, filed away when clicking heels and a flash of flame hair heralded the arrival of Pepper Potts. Her composure was shaky, steps hurried and stare fixed straight ahead.
“Agent Coulson!” She hailed him.
He stepped further forward. “Ms Potts, I had expected Ms, ah, Mr Stark as well? Did you forget our appointment to debrief?” Remind the opponent of his purpose, imply blame on their part, and wait for the salvo to hit.
To Coulson's surprise, it didn't seem to land. Instead, Potts hooked her arm through his and dragged him along in her wake. “Nope, right now, come with me.”
“Right now?” When she and her boss had completely stonewalled him?
“We're going to have it right now,” Potts affirmed, hysteria edging into her tone.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the spectre of Stane hovering, one hand on the balustrade of the balcony. Ah. He was being used as a shield. Appropriate.
“I'm going to give you the meeting of your life. In your office,” she continued, tone descending again into determination. He nodded and escorted her to an armoured vehicle. She breathed a sigh of relief as she slid in. Well. This should be interesting.
*~*
Coulson observed the barely-there wince on Stark's face when he told her to stick to the cards for the press conference. The bitterness curling her lips when she said, “Well, I am hardly an Iron Man.”
“Stark,” he spoke over Potts, who had moved in to fiddle with Stark's steel tie, fastened underneath the reinforced collar of her button-up with three fine chains. Both faces turned to him. One made up to hide bruises. The other with the warpaint of a civilised woman.
Shit, Black Widow was getting to him. He was starting to think like her. Yet it was his exposure to her that helped him now.
“Listen. This is not just about you.” Oh, Fury was going to give him hell for stealing his thunder. He sent up a quick hail-mary and continued. “There are more like you, Stark, and they're going to look to Iron Man, to you, to pave the way for them.”
Between one blink and the next, Stark dropped her belligerence and pointed at him, eyes deep and serious. “You, my place, tomorrow. Bring scotch. A good one.”
Coulson breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he said, and meant it for once.
Stark leafed through the cards again -“Yeah, this is not gonna cut it” - and tossed them aside.
Coulson rubbed at his temples and glanced at Potts, who grinned at him. “Welcome to the wild side,” she said.
Onscreen, Stark ascended the platform with her shoulder-length hair slicked back. Her face war only slightly powdered, to keep her complexion smooth. Some thumbs were already flying over phone screens, live-tweeting about the tomboy, the Androgenius, the Brass-Balled Bitch.
Never one to disappoint a crowd, Stark fished a cigar case from her jacket and selected a cigar, inserting it into her movie-star grin. She lit it and didn't speak until after she'd blown a perfect circle of smoke. “The rumours of last night are all true,” she announced, gesturing with the cigar. A hush fell over the press
“Stane died in a stand-off with a mysterious figure. Early indications are that Stane had been trying to use Stark resources to rebuild the armour of my rescuer, Iron Man,” Coulson watched Stark bind the press to her with her spell, spinning a lie made up completely of truths. He turned his head to Potts, who raised a reproving eyebrow at him.
“I regret to announce the office will remain closed during the investigation. Even more so, I regret the loss of my beloved mentor, Stane. He was not the man I thought he was.” Stark paused to smoke, blowing two more circles over the heads of the furiously writing press, resuming when hands started to rise. “We will make every effort to cooperate with the authorities who have started an investigation into Stane's illegal arms dealing.”
Coulson clenched his hands. She was implying what about them? Oh, Fury was going to kill him.
“He taught me how to smoke cigars, you know. Said every businessman needed to know how, even one who had the misfortune to be a woman.” she continued, letting the last of the cigar burn up with several generous pulls. “We would often take a smoke break during long meetings to discuss the course of our company. I like to think I learned to be man enough to please even an old dog like him…” Stark shook her head, rueful. The soprano murmur of sympathetic feminists rippled through the room. “Now, I can only smoke this cigar in memory of him and imagine what he would have wanted, or rather, what the man he should have been should have wanted.”
Coulson felt the buzz of an incoming message come from the encrypted phone in the reinforced jacket pocket that sat on top of his kevlar vest. He put his hand over it, not taking it out. He had to see his mission through before he put himself on report.
Her face hardened now. “Stark Industries will not stand to be abused by corrupt war profiteers, as long as I live. Anyone coming forward with information for this investigation I will personally reward, generously. Any suspect who cooperates with the investigation will receive legal support.” Stark let her eyes slide across the crowd.
Coulson inhaled. Potts chuckled at him, not unkindly. He raised an eyebrow in her general direction, but kept his eyes on the screen. That had been the carrot. Now… now came the stick. A classic trick, but effective in the mouth of a magician.
Stark tucked in her chin so shadows pooled around her eyes in the overhead light. “Anyone who stands in our way, well. This is a matter of national security, a big threat in our war on terrorism, as my kidnapping made very clear. We will not leave any stone unturned in protecting our country . I will bring the traitors who abused my company to give weapons to terrorists to justice.”
The press, even Stark's detractors, shot up and gave Stark a standing ovation, a raucous cheer filling the conference room. Stark bit on the stub of her cigar and made a peace sign. Cameras flashed. Oh, this was no less than a declaration of war. Coulson laced his fingers and rubbed his thumbs against one another in thought, relaxed enough to let the tell slide in Potts’ company. The support of a major cooperation to such a cause could either end very well or very badly, for SHIELD.
When the noise finally died down, she continued, more subdued. “Now you all know why I said what I did before. Stark Industries will no longer sell weapons, until I can be sure they go to the right people,” she let her eyes scan over the crowd.
“You also understand why Stane tried to paint me as a hysterical woman in the press and upend my decision. I am not. He nearly succeeded, anyway.” She glared at all of them. The front row seemed to shrink back a little. “I and Stark Industries count on your support in these troubling times.”
Coulson winced when she didn't step down. Potts patted him on the back. “Have a little faith,” she whispered and when he stared at her in disbelief, “And never tell her I told you to have it.”
“Now. Iron Man -” She silenced the crowd with a single finger pressed to her lips. “Was crucial in the fight against Obadiah Stane. Iron Man rescued me -” Like taking the lid off a boiling kettle, Stark's hand wave took head off the steam building up among the murmuring press. “In Afghanistan. We realised we have some common enemies. The rest,” Stark honest-to-Cap pouted. “I'll leave to your imagination. No more questions.”
Not a single blatant lie. A complete cover and most of it truth. Coulson stood in awe. Stark had already moved to jump off the side of the podium when one reporter's shout stopped her.
“What I am going to do?” Stark repeated. “Well.” She grinned the grin of the Brass-Balled Bitch, the statue of her a prankster had erected in Times Square. Stark on a throne, completely nude, with a gaudy crown on her head and a set of male genitalia squeezed in her fist. She had had it moved to the courtyard of Stark Industries’ New York headquarters, rather than sue the artist. “I ain't no damsel in distress. I'm going after every single weapon that's mine and ask nicely if they'll give them back to me. If not.” She shrugged and gave the crowd a finger wave.
Coulson nodded at Potts in recognition of Stark’s rhetorical prowess. “I believe you have this in hand.” She gave him her close-lipped professional smile.
He had a Fury to face.
*~*
Phil Coulson had a 1984 Laphroaig shipped to their temporary base overnight and drove Lola up to an Antique store to buy two crystal tumblers. He had them gift-wrapped. He took the lot over to Stark's West Coastmansion at eight on the dot, because Stark had failed to set a time.
Fifteen minutes later, the lady of the house opened up for herself, ratty band shirt and cut-off jeans and bird-nest hair. “Agent. The hell kind of hour do you think this is? Engineers are supposed to go to bed at dawn, you know,” she yelled.
Coulson only smiled and held her eyes until they strayed to the cherry-red Corvette that sat in the driveway. “Her name is Lola,” he said, and held the bottle and gift-wrapped glasses up as Stark approached the car.
He sucked in a breath when Stark put her hands on the car's hood, tense, but nodded a go-ahead when the genius glanced up, askance. He held still during her scrutiny of him, of his car. He'd dressed down in a polo and slacks that were an unfortunate yellowish tan meant to hurt the eyes, a gift from a grinning Clint.
“She needs a check-up,” Coulson said, when Stark straightened, hand fluffing her bangs.
“You did your research,” Stark said dryly, pointing between the Corvette and the scotch. “And you're not subtle.”
Coulson inclined his head. “Neither am I insincere.” He held out the gift. Stark stared at him for a long moment before accepting the package. She ripped it open.
She held one of the glasses up to the sun, rainbow spots dancing over her olive face. It emitted a clear 'ting' when she flicked a nail against the rim. “ Really not subtle,” she muttered.
He hummed in agreement.
She blinked back to reality. Just like that, she was on the move again, his gesture considered, saved and no doubt factored into Cap-knew-what plots she was brewing. That was fine. For now, Coulson just needed to be in on them. Fury had assigned him semi-permanently to Stark. As punishment for his sins.
“Drive her into the garage, will you? Let's see what you've put the poor girl through.” Without any action on Stark's part, a blank wall at the end of the drive-way lifted up and revealed a basement garage the size of a warehouse.
Coulson obeyed happily. If nothing else, Lola would be in the best hands she'd been in since his dad had let Howard Stark make her fly.
*~*
“You told me I'm not the only one…?” was what Stark opened with, both of them slumped in beach chairs on the mansion's roof, sore from crawling all over Lola all day. Oh, but she purred so sweetly now, Coulson mused happily.
“Hm?” He realised Stark was waiting for an answer. He must be more sloshed than he thought. “Yes, It's well, one of the things we do-”
“-we being the Strategic Homeland-”
“SHIELD. Yes. It's called the Avengers Initiative. Only an idea at this point, to bring a team of exceptional individuals together to defend Earth.”
Stark straightened and, unlike the few others he had told this, didn't try to guess at a terrestrial threat countries might need to band together against. She also didn't immediately deny Earth needed defending from the extraterrestrial. Instead, she only asked, “From who? And what?”
Coulson took a few seconds to register that she was practically sitting at attention. That she had, more or less, asked to be briefed. “Stark. This isn't a request for you to sign on. You're already a woman on a self-imposed mission to-”
“- my mission to protect the planet from what I thought was the biggest threat on Earth, namely my weapons,” she interrupted, grim. “Which won't mean anything if I don't also protect it from external threats.” She pointed a finger at him. Then, sucking a hissing breath in between clenched teeth, said Stark, “Also, not a woman. Exactly.”
What? Coulson’s mind blanked, rebooted. Nevermind. Priorities, he needed to keep them straight. Come back to this later. He blew out a breath. “Well, at least let me tell you about your potential allies first.”
*~*
Many glasses of liquor later, Coulson remembered to ask, “Whassa mean, nodda woman?”
Stark, body a languorous shadow in the starlight, grunted. “Not not a woman. Just. Not only. Not always.”
Coulson contemplated this. “Trans-?” He’d barely gotten the first syllable out when a hand landed on his lips.
“We do not utter such words in this household,” she said, with the intonation of an impatient patriarch’s command. “I’m a Stark.” And decidedly more satisfied, “THE Stark.”
Minutes of drunken contemplation followed, in the mellow silence of a cool Californian night.
“Why mister?”
A barely-visible hand batted at the air above Stark’s prone body. “S like Mr. Uhura, see? Engineers, my people, ‘s like a starship crew. We’re engineers. That’s all.”
In a strange way, and this side of midnight, it made sense. Coulson imagined a younger Stark, a prodigy at MIT, trying to fit in with much older guys. Sheer skill would not have been a bad strategy. The amount of parties she threw didn’t hurt either.
Howard Stark had donated a research wing to MIT. Celeste Stark a sorority and several dozen scholarship earmarked for women and people with queer gender identities.
Fury had asked him to look into Stark’s sympathies for that minority. So they could be prepared for any… embarrassments. Coulson contemplated what he’d learned. Stark seemed to be at peace with herself, and seemed to be out only to her closer associates. Nothing that posed an immediate security risk.
Coulson poured the last of the Laophraigh into their tumblers. “A toast.”
“To what?” Stark asked as she sat up, somewhat tense.
Careful, Coulson, he told himself. “Fighting to live another day.”
They clinked their glasses together, and drank.
*~*
When Coulson entered Fury's office, the man stood staring out the windows, arms crossed. “ Agent Coulson. You had strict orders to make first contact with Stark and Potts, get the lay of the land and contain Iron Man. Then your orders were to keep an eye on Stark. NOT to go blabbing classified information. Where the hell do you get off briefing a civilian about a Level 6 project without permission?”
Coulson settled into parade rest, stared straight ahead while Fury made an about-face so he could stalk around him in a circle that narrowed. “I saw an opportunity to make contact with an asset, sir.”
“Make contact, I said. We had established contact. That was handled. There was a plan. Which you ignored. Are you angling for a demotion as well as a reprimand in one week, you fool? 'Cause I'm of a mind to have you scrub toilets for a decade or so.”
Coulson drew himself up and made eye contact. “If it means successfully acquiring the single most valuable asset so far for the Avengers Initiative, yes sir.”
The tableau held for seventy treacle-slow seconds.
Fury grunted and relaxed. “ Don't go off script like that again, agent. And I'm assigning someone else to make the character assessment to prevent any bias.”
“Yes sir.” Only a warning. That was a relief.
Fury moved to sit behind the desk. He glanced up. “And Phil? Well done.” Coulson inclined his head and let himself be dismissed.
As soon as he left the black-out area, his phone buzzed. “Agent C. I've got three tickets to Il Trittico in LA this Sunday. You in?” The number consisted only of stars, rather than a more regular 'number withheld'.
“Dress code?” he texted back.
“Black tie and incognito, 007.”
Coulson smiled. His favourite.