Work Text:
The infamous Avengers Tower stood before you, looming in front of the sun and casting you into the shade. It didn’t just demand attention, it commanded it. Every person that passed by had to look up at the huge letters reading out the genius’s name, and admittedly, you were one of them. There must be thousands of people inside, hurrying back and forth from one task to the next getting paid wads of cash doing things you didn’t understand.
And there you were, waiting for the bus to head downtown for the evening shift at the diner. You sighed and turned, looking down the street to see your bus approach. You hiked your backpack higher on your shoulder, wishing you had sewn the second strap back in it’s rightful place.
What must it be like to work at Avengers Tower? To not worry about paying rent, missing a bus, or getting enough hours to simply survive.
You stepped onto the bus, taking one last look at the tower.
It was almost two in the morning and you were so close to locking the front doors of the diner. You’d gotten lucky and the partiers that liked to snack between clubs had cleared out. It was a miracle that this time nobody threw up on a table. You watched the clock above the door, waiting by the counter for the long hand to finally reach 12.
You heard the back door open and shut, making you jump. You held the keys in your hand and peered through the window to the kitchen to see the chef had already vamoosed. It was a habit he had, one you were always covering for with the boss. There was a reason you had to wait until exactly two to lock the doors.
“Come on,” you muttered. Just as you fell back on your heels the front door opened. You whirled, expecting to see the chef there but instead found yourself staring at red and gold armour. Iron Man. As in Tony Stark. As in the Tony Stark.
“Good, you’re still open,” he said, his voice filtering through the mask. He stepped inside, footsteps thumping against the tiled floor. You jumped as his mask flipped up. “You are open, right?”
You glanced at the clock. Thirty seconds to two. “Yes,” you said. You managed to keep your sigh quiet, too distracted by your late night customer. You suddenly felt like the grease stain on your mustard yellow uniform was huge, and your hair was way too frizzy. You straightened your apron and stepped over to Iron Man as he sat down in a booth, making it creak, as he took off his helmet. He set it on the table.
You picked a menu off the nearby table and held it out to him. “Welcome to the Diner,” you said.
His eyes fell on the menu, the colour matching your uniform. “Oh, I don’t do that--just set it down. Right there.” He gestured to the table and you did as you were told.
Stupidly, you stood there and gawked at the billionaire. He looked exhausted, but other than the bags under his eyes healthy. Saving the world looked good on him, no longer the playboy he was portrayed as in the media.
He picked up the menu and glanced it over before dragging his eyes to meet yours. Without looking he grabbed the small ceramic mug and jiggled it in the air. “You gonna stand there all night or…?”
“Right, sorry,” you stammered. You quickly hurried behind the counter and grabbed the half full pot of coffee; you’d been planning on bringing it home with you, since it was slightly burned and going to be dumped anyway. But now it was going to Tony Stark...you felt bad you didn’t have anything fresher.
Wouldn’t he be used to drinking something expensive? Probably with bottled water flown in from somewhere overseas, and only the highest quality beans. Now he was drinking something you weren’t even sure was real coffee, made with tap water that sometimes turned brown. You thanked the powers that be that today it had turned out okay. By your standards at least.
You returned to the table and poured him a cup, the steam wafting up.
Before he could open his mouth again you said, “There’s no cook here.”
Tony’s eyebrows raised. You quickly added, “I can make something though! I mean...I can make something simple like bacon and eggs...or pancakes if you wanted that.” If your boss found out you turned away the richest man in probably the world you would be fired for sure.
He eyed you a moment, scrutinizing your image. You had never felt so judged in your life and you fought the instinct to cross your arms while holding a pot of coffee. He said, “All right, bacon, eggs, pancakes.”
You nodded and hurried back to the kitchen, tossing the coffee pot back on the burner. You managed to get the eggs and bacon out of the fridge, and mix up a bowl of pancake batter when you heard metal footsteps approach the counter. They stopped and you peeked out the window as you poured a ladle of batter onto the stovetop. Iron Man stood on the other side, pouring himself another coffee as he looked around the diner. Before he could face you you ducked back and stared hard at the pancake, waiting to flip it.
You began to place down strips of bacon on the left of the stove when you heard metal clink on the window counter.
“You work here every night?” Iron Man asked.
You began to poke the spatula beneath the edge of the pancake. “Most nights.”
“Paying for school?” He took a gulp of coffee.
“No, just you know...rent and stuff.” Your face started to heat up. Everyone always asked if you were in school, going on to better things that a simple diner waitress. They would always get this sad expression when you said you were just trying to pay your rent--like they realized you weren’t going to amount to anything and suddenly you weren’t worth talking to. So you didn’t look up at Tony Stark to see what kind of face he might make.
“How old are you? 18, 28? 40?” he asked.
You glanced up at him as you flipped the pancake, grabbing a pair of tongs and then flipping the bacon. “What does it matter?”
“Kids?”
“No,” you said, voice strained. Your grip on the spatula tightened. “What, a person can’t work a job just to survive? They aren’t going to school because they must have someone to provide for other than themselves? God, you rich people are all the same--I’d go to college if I could afford it but guess what? It’s thousands upon thousands of dollars, and I can barely afford to feed myself let alone take time out of my day to go to a class that costs me a thousand bucks to take!”
Tony didn’t back away, but you couldn’t stop the onslaught of words pouring from your mouth. It had been a long enough day as it was, all you wanted to do was get out of work on time for once and go home. But no, some stuck up billionaire with nothing better to do than fly around in his super suit had to stop in and ask for some coffee.
“I work sixteen hour days for less than minimum wage because apparently the government feels servers will make enough in tips to make up the difference,” you went on, “and nobody here tips. I’ve been here for eight hours and you know what I’ve gotten?” You reached into your apron pocket, pulling out what was supposed to help you pay for a bus ride tomorrow morning. “68 cents, a button, a used Subway gift card; I know because I actually checked! And oh yeah, that’s not including the condom from some creep who suggested I take a break with him in the bathroom because it might put a smile on my face.” You tossed the loose change on the counter.
The pancake and bacon were beginning to burn but you didn’t care. Tears were forming in your eyes. “You people--you super people go around saving the world and stuff and that’s great, thanks a bunch. But at the end of the day it doesn’t really matter. If some crazy psycho took over the world, killed the president or God, I don’t even know what they’re planning anymore, would it matter? I’m still gonna be working here. I’m still gonna have to put up with people slapping my ass as I walk by or cleaning up puke in the booths.”
You raised the spatula and slapped at Iron Man’s armour. He lifted his arms to protect his face from the attack but you only kept whacking at his shoulder. With each hit you added a word, “I am so sick of this job and you damn people saving the world!”
By the time you stopped you could barely breath. You were panting, face red and heart jackhammering against your ribs. You stared angrily at the pancake while Iron Man watched on in silence. You didn’t let him say anything as you untied your apron and threw it to the ground. You tossed your hands in the air, letting the spatula fall next to your apron and huffed.
“I’m going home, make your own damn pancakes.”
And with that you spun on your heel and headed out the back door, leaving the billionaire to fend for himself for what you imagined was the first time in his life.