Work Text:
I just finished repairs to the Ironman suit—had to pry my left hand out of the gauntlett. It was only a little dented. The gauntlet, not the squishy bits inside it. No need for some overbearing team leader to insist I have my hand looked at. Genius at work here. No time for that. I have lists of projects and a few bruises aren’t a big deal. Gauntlett done. Next task.
I was waffling between Legolas’ arrow upgrades (more control over the timing of a delayed explosion after firing) or continuing to tweek the battery life in the solar panels that SI was close to starting production on. Batteries would be the responsible choice, but—explosions.
“DUM-E, explosions or batteries?” DUM-E picked up an arrow from the table and brought it over. “Excellent choice, Buddy,” I say as I give him a high-five. I startle and try not to jump out of my skin when I hear a small chuckle from behind me.
I should not have let Cap have free access to the lab. He is a sneaky bastard; I keep forgetting that. He’s still not sleeping—looks like shit leaning against the doorway, okay fine, he still looks damn good just . . . Tired. Worn. He has that faraway, hollow look in his eyes he always has when he intrudes on the lab at night. I don’t know why he comes here. I barely talk to the guy. Again, genius at work. No time for pep talks or whatever.
It’s always the same. He watches from the doorway—waits until I notice him. He doesn’t enter until I at least acknowledge his presence. I’m pretty sure he considers that good manners. I consider that looking up to see him lurking in the doorway startles the shit out of me—every damn time. Damn super soldier stealth. I should install a chime to the motion sensor in the hallway. Maybe I’ll get JARVIS on that. I could start keeping the door closed again. He never comes in when the door is shut. He just walks on by—doesn’t intrude at all. I’d get more done. Once I look at him, he’ll enter. We have a few words and then he reads or sometimes sketches on the couch. He doesn’t seem any happier when he leaves. Well, maybe a little less bleak.
Tonight, he is doing his usual doorway lurking, but there is a glimmer of a smile in that faraway gaze. It reeks of nostalgia and is aimed right at me. It could only mean he was thinking of Howard. The better Stark of better days. No, just no.
“You remind me of—”
“Howard. I know,” I interrupted Cap before he could get started. I can deflect about Howard on autopilot—flat tone and a roll of the eyes—works every time. Why bring up Howard? I was going to try to be nice. Try to be civil, boring, mind my language, talk slow enough for geriatrics to follow the conversation and everything.
“That’s not who—” he paused, then continued, “I was thinking of . . . nevermind.” Was that a sigh? Is he walking away? Damn, that’s not the response of righteous indignation. That sounds like resignation and defeat. God, now eagles are drooping in a 100 mile radius.
“Cap, hold up. Come on, spill it. Blast from the past. Who could I remind you of, if not Howard?”
“Stark, I know you don’t like being compared to him and I wasn’t going to bring him up.” He gave a sigh at the floor and stumbled out, “I shouldn’t have said anything. I didn’t really mean to say that outloud. You can just ignore me. I’ll let you get back to work.” Steve looked uncomfortable, like he was ready to bolt.
“Oh, no. No way, Cap. You started this and now all this backpedaling has me interested. I have to know now. Anyone I’ve heard of? Must be or you wouldn’t be so reluctant to tell me. Someone you didn’t like? Some nefarious, billionaire, genius from the 40s? That why you don’t want to spill?”
“No, Stark. Although right now you remind me of Howard—like a dog with a bone.”
I was suddenly just done with the conversation. Curiosity dead. The Howard/Captain mutual appreciation reminiscing could go on without me. Cap looked up at me and I saw concern on his face. This just pissed me off more and he read that expression on my face just fine. I could see him starting to get pissed off too. I can always make Cap mad. It’s a gift.
“Stark.” He paused. I saw him push his irritation down and gather himself together like he did in battle right before an offensive move. He had a look of determination now. Shit, I did not want this conversation. I took a breath to start a fight. I know what I’m doing. A good verbal spar would stop this line of conversation dead. But Cap beat me to the first punch.
“Stark, please just hear me out a minute. I have to say this. I didn’t want to talk about him tonight and I’m not really up to a fight. But here we are. I know when I mention him it upsets you and because you won’t actually talk about him, I can only guess why. And you don’t owe me any explanations, but I don’t know how to go forward without setting this straight. I’ve tried to explain before, but you always cut me off. I’m not letting you distract me by pissing me off this time.” He continued the offensive and I couldn’t get a counter word in edgewise. Me. He pressed on without a pause, “I’m pretty sure you have the wrong idea about how I felt about Howard.”
“What—” that was all I could get out before he continued the verbal assault.
“Howard achieved amazing things, that is true. But, with Howard, it was always the puzzle, the science, the challenge and the recognition. I think Howard mostly saw me as a laboratory experiment. Howard—sometimes he looked at me and I—well, I could feel that he thought everything special about me came out of the serum he helped create. He made a human into a war machine—he built another weapon. And don’t get me wrong, I am grateful to him for that. I wanted to join the war effort and they just wouldn’t let me go as I was. Also, I never could have rescued Bucky if Howard hadn’t dropped me behind enemy lines. But even that was just another Captain America experiment to him. He wanted to know what the serum could do. I just wanted Bucky . . .
Finally he paused, but for once I had no words. That Howard—that was the Howard I knew. Only, I hadn’t felt like an experiment, more like a flawed project. A set of data points that just wouldn’t be manipulated into the desired outcome. A project rejected.
And Captain America just wanted Bucky? No, they can’t have been. I’m reading too much into that. Even if he had been with Bucky, he wouldn’t tell me. I mean, modern historians had speculated. I had wondered. I had one of my sudden big picture moments when ideas just click together. Cap might have lost his whole world a bit earlier than people thought. Would Cap have tried harder to get out of that plane if Bucky had still been alive? I didn’t have any more time to speculate. Cap still wasn’t done.
“Before I met you, Howard was the smartest man I had ever known. It was obvious to me from that first day we met that you were a genius like him. But now that I know you? Tony you—you are on a higher level than he ever was. He just made weapons and machines. And yeah, you make weapons, but also you create machines and give them life. You treat them like humans. No matter what insults you’ve been throwing out at me, for whatever reason, and I’m not saying you didn’t have good reasons, you have never looked at me like he did. I’ve never, no matter how you felt about me, seen you look at me and not felt human. Like a person.”
He smirked as he continued, “I guess you’re right, I have been comparing you to Howard. That first day we met I was a misinformed, assuming, jerk. I read a file and got the SHIELD briefing on you and well, they don’t really know you, do they? After the invasion, after what you did to save us all, I knew what you were made of. So yeah, I do compare you to Howard sometimes. And, you should know you always come out on top. You’re a better person than he was. You’re a good man Stark.”
“Umm, Stark?”
“What? Oh, ummm yeah . . . I just, I—I think . . . Gimme a . . .”
What the hell just happened? I can’t make anything intelligent come out of my mouth. How long did I just stand there? How can Steve look worried yet smug at the same time? This conversation is not in our script. Howard was obsessed with Captain America. Never stopped looking for him. Always was quick to spout on and on about how great he was. And that wasn’t mutual? I’m beginning to think dear ol’ Dad didn't really know Steve at all. Those big picture moments I have? My brain is realigning every interaction Steve and I have ever had.
I finally look up again and Steve is no longer in the doorway. He has followed the usual pattern. He’s sitting on the couch, sketch book in hand, so I walk over and just kind of flop next to him, lean back on the couch and stare at the ceiling.
I finally look over at Steve. He is still sketching, but pauses when he sees he has my attention. “So, uhhh, Steve, I seem to have reached false conclusions on erroneous data. In my defence, how would I know that someone Howard could never shut up about wouldn’t feel the same as he did? I don’t think you should hold it against—”
“Tony,” Steve interrupted. And thank God he stopped me. I was going into a full heartfelt rant. Feelings are the worst. And he called me Tony. It's all good, no big deal. “It’s fine” he continued, “you weren’t the only one with, what did you say? False data?”
“Yeah, Okay,” I say. Then I notice the drawing in his sketchbook. “What is that, can I see?”
He turned it towards me and I took it from him for a better look.
“It’s not really that good, I’m still out of practice and it’s not done yet,” Steve said. It was a pencil drawing of me and DUM-E. The scene Steve had walked in on at the beginning of this whole ordeal. I was looking at DUM-E, my hand raised up to its arm holding the arrow. There was a speech bubble that read, “Excellent choice, Buddy.” It was cool. This is how Steve saw me. I looked happy. And DUM-E looked happy.
“DUM-E looks happy; you made my robot look alive,” I think my voice must have sounded surprised.
“Well, he is alive. That’s what you do, right? Make things that are alive. You gave him a personality. I’m glad you could see it in the drawing. Like I said, I’m out of practice. I wasn’t sure I had really captured the moment.”
The real answer is, no. I mean sure, I’ve made a few awesome AIs. Doesn’t mean I’m not also the merchant of death. Just because Steve never knew that guy doesn’t mean he isn’t still part of me. I don’t see that guy anywhere in this picture though. It’s a nice lie. “I love this. Can I have it when it’s done?”
Steve is looking a little skeptical at my praise of his art, but smiles and replies, “Yeah, if you really like it, of course you can have it.”
“Cool, thanks.” And I am done. That antsy feeling is telling me it is time to get back to work. I stand up, DUM-E hands me the arrow and I get into my groove.
I don’t know how long it’s been, but the arrow timer is just about done, just a few adjustments left to make when Steve interrupts me with a soft, “ ‘Night, Tony.” Like he wasn’t sure that he should say anything that could distract me.
I don’t even pause in my work, just give him a quick, “ ‘Night” back. But, when I hear him moving away, I can’t help it. I look up and there he is in the doorway again. Only this time on his way out, and it hits me. I still don’t know the answer to the question that started this whole thing. I’m curious again, although still not sure I really want to know. “Wait. You never did tell me. Who did I remind you of?”
He turns and that smile, God how can a smile exist in such a sad face. I’m not even sure how to read this emotion I see.
“One evening we were just starting to make camp. I remember we were exhausted. It had been a long day. A stray dog wandered into camp. It picked up a stick and started looking for someone to play with. Everyone just ignored it as it wandered around. Finally, Bucky went over and threw the stick a few times. The dog was so happy, and I think it was the first time I saw Bucky smile since I had got him out of that prison camp . . .” Steve gave a little shake of his head and said in a warm, soft voice, “It was Bucky. You reminded me of Bucky.” Steve turned and left.
When I got over my blue screen of death moment, I noticed Steve’s sketchbook on the couch and picked it up. It’s not snooping—this is my workshop. If he didn’t want me to look, he wouldn’t leave it. The first drawing was the one I looked at earlier. Farther along, but maybe not finished yet. I turned the page and it’s good there wasn’t anyone around because there is no way I would live down being speechless this many times in one night.
It was a sketch of Bucky and the dog. The illustration to the story he had just shared. I could see it, what Steve meant, in the two drawings. Alternate versions of the same type of interaction. The poses were the same. Bucky and I are happy, looking at the dog or in my case, DUM-E. He captured the joy radiating from the dog just like he had with DUM-E. DUM-E holding the arrow, the dog holding the stick, both of us reaching out to take what they had. The speech bubbles were also a variation on the theme. It read, “Good work, Buddy.”
It’s so easy to forget that history—all that stuff that happened before I was even born—isn’t history to Steve. It was yesterday. Steve was only rescued a few months ago. He lost Bucky only a month before that. And I remind him of Bucky. Of a friend. Of someone who was maybe more than a friend.
What am I supposed to do with this? I’m not that guy. The guy you go to when your whole world is gone. I’m not the comforting type. I’m loud, sarcastic and obnoxious. I’m not the guy to rely on for ugh—emotional support. But, I don’t see him lingering in anyone else’s doorway.
Guess I‘ll have to keep leaving it open.