Champagne Problems
Pepper Potts was equipped to deal with a great many things.
When you’re the personal assistant to a self-destructive teenage billionaire with a genius intellect but no brain and access to city-leveling weaponry, you get accustomed to chaos. And when you acquired said position with said teenage billionaire by impressing him with your ability to evade security and threaten him with pepper spray during a protest, you especially learn to live with unpredictability.
So, in conclusion, Pepper made a conscious decision to ignore Tony when he called her at ten-thirty a.m. on a Tuesday, hungover as shit and locked and loaded to whine. He has it coming.
“Pepper, Pep, darling, light of my life, I think I’m dying.”
“Tony,” she sucks in a breath, “you’ve been missing for four days.”
“My mouth tastes like Bacardi and Gatorade, I might have been poisoned.”
“Where the hell have you been? Actually, I don’t care, and you probably can’t remember anyway. Where the hell are you now?”
“I’m handcuffed to a shopping cart, and my pants are missing.”
She’s going to do it this time, she’s going to force Tony to deal with the consequences of his actions. “I’m going to hang up on you.”
“A hobo is actively stealing my watch.”
Pepper has it all planned out. She’s going to ignore Tony, leave him to have his legs broken by strippers or be seduced by debt collectors or whatever other situation he’s found himself in now, and go out for a pedicure. Maybe buy herself a pair of Manolo Blahniks on the Stark black card if she’s feeling particularly put out. She’s going to-
“Antony Edward Stark shut the hell up and listen to me, you outed yourself as Iron Man.”
Tony doesn’t speak for a long moment, but that might just be because he’s vomiting. “Shot in the dark here, but is the vague memory I have of repulsors blasting the Lafayette statue perchance not a fever dream?”
Pepper flips through the morning news channels, the same headline decorating each and every site. This was a Stark scandal for the ages. “One guest reports you quote “must have been really in your feels about shit because you kept shouting ‘I’m a superhero too, fuck you dad’ while doing loop-da-loops, and knocked down a ten-thousand-dollar chandelier.””
“Sounds like me.”
“The damage is mixed.” Running damage control, Pepper could do. “NPR is calling you a menace, CNN a hero, and Fox still refuses to speak about you after the incident with Donald Trump. Your stock is practically a roller coaster. The historical society is posting death threats against you. As are most Hamilton fandom blogs.”
“Ugh, not the Hamilfans again.” he groans.
“Ignore the fandoms, they’re too frightening and dangerous. We’ll focus on calming the military first. Where are you?”
“Some parking lot,” he pauses, “Pepper, what’s a Wal-Mart?”
She sighs, “Just call Bruce.”
*
The last time Tony got shitfaced and disappeared for several days, only to wake up in some precarious location and demand Bruce rescue him, Bruce had promised to let Tony choke on his own vomit next time. And yet here Bruce was, roused from sleep by the insistent ringing of his cellphone, the contact name Tony had programmed in his phone, Science Bro, flashing across his screen.
“No,” he said, “Absolutely not, Iron Man.”
“Okay, so everyone knows I fucked up, but Brucie, please,” Tony pleaded, drawing out the “e” for maximum patheticness, “I’m begging you.”
“Yeah, Tony, you fucked up, even more than usual. So I’m not saving you from your benders or bailing you out of county jail or pretending to be a mortician to break you out of the morgue anymore. This isn’t healthy.”
“I am aware exactly how much of an incredibly hot, sexy mess I am, but I'll give you five hundred bucks to come get me.”
Bruce considers. “I don’t have a car.”
“Phone a friend. Or steal one, Youtube has bunches of illuminating content on hot wiring.”
He sighs. “Where are you?
“Really?” Tony gaped, tone immediately dropping its helpless, regretful quality, “I’m loaded, Brucie, you could have held out for thousands.”
“Nevermind.”
“I take it back, I take it back, I’m in the parking lot of a “Walmart” in Atlantic City. Toodles, love you.” Tony says, slamming a thumb over the end call button before Bruce can respond.
Bruce contemplates just leaving Tony. Really, he’d probably have less near Hulk-outs without Tony’s constant insane behavior, but Tony’s tech is also the only thing stopping in case of a full-scale Hulk attack. And, tragically, Bruce happens to be very attached to Tony. Stupid magic of friendship.
Besides the overwhelming annoyance, the logistics of finding a car also pose a problem. Bruce scrubs his hands over his face, the red numbering running down his arm blurring at the proximity to his eyes. Oh right, that. During Tony’s ill-fated party, Thor had been enraptured by Bruce’s extensive knowledge of several branches of science, so much so he’d scribbled down his phone number to, as he’d so earnestly proclaimed, “discuss the merits of science”. Bruce hasn’t been able to wash the sharpie off since.
If Tony’s eccentric behavior and popular theory is anything to go off, Thor is most definitely rich, and rich people always have a plethora of cars. Ignoring his dislike of phone calls, Bruce dials the half-smudged number on his arm.
“Hello, Banner, this is Thor.”
Bruce ignored the remark about caller ID bubbling in his throat and pressed on. “I’m really sorry, Thor, but I need a big favor.”
“Okay.”
Well, that was exceedingly easy. “Are you sure? I haven’t told you what the favor is yet.”
“I’m always happy to be of assistance.”
“Right, okay, I need to borrow your car to collect Tony from Atlantic City.”
“Understandable. I shall arrive as soon as possible.”
Thor shoots him an “on the way :)” text a few minutes later around the same time Bruce realizes he didn’t give Thor his address. Right, better not to know. And, true to his word, Thor is over in less than twenty minutes later, honking impatiently from the driveway.
Bruce doesn’t know what he imagined Thor’s car to be, but he certainly didn’t imagine a fucking minivan. Gaping, Bruce throws open the passenger door, only to find Thor filling it, and a child in the driver’s seat.
“Thor,” he says dumbly, “why is there a child driving your car?”
“Because I am unable to drive,” Thor states flatly, as though this is a perfectly reasonable situation.
“Children can’t drive either.”
“Oh, is there some sort of law against it?”
Bruce envisions his brain liquifying and dribbling out his ears. “Yes!”
“I am not a child.” The child sniffs. “And I shall not be treated as such.”
“Sorry, Loki, but Banner claims you aren’t of age to drive in this place. He must take your place.”
Fantastic, a road trip with Thor and his homicidal kid brother to rescue his idiot best friend. What an immeasurably great way to spend a Tuesday.
Loki slides out of his seat after a moment, sending Bruce an intense glare, unsettling on the face of a tween. Then again, this is the brother who’s always stabbing Thor.
Speaking of- “This is Loki?”
Loki catches his gaze in the rearview window. “I see my reputation precedes me.”
Bruce knows firsthand how violent families can be, and yet still, he can’t comprehend this. “Why would you stab your brother?”
“Which time?”
Thor laughs, “Loki is certainly one for mischief.”
Bruce sputters, he can’t believe he’s allowed himself to be lured back into this bonkers argument. At least his desire to scream endlessly in the void distracts from his usual road rage. “Stabbing your brother isn’t normal! And being okay with your brother stabbing you is even less normal!”
Thor looks sheepish for a moment. “Well, sometimes these stabbings do wound me emotionally.”
Loki scoffs, “You are a sensitive fool.”
“Yesterday you cried over snakes.”
“They have no arms!”
“You have no arms.”
Loki kicks the back of Thor’s seat. “I have many arms! You command no sense.”
Thor strains to reach behind his seat and bat at Loki. “No, you, brother.”
“Erg! I will stab you, bitch.”
“No stabbing in the car!” Bruce shouts, “Loki! Put that knife down now!”
*
While she has no scientific basis for her theory, the overwhelming evidence doesn’t lie: Natasha Romanov naturally repels brunettes and attracts blondes.
For example, this exact moment, when Natasha enters Stark Tower with the intention of gathering more intel on Tony Stark and also to work on the partner art project Coulson assigned and finds him still missing, a perfectly put together blonde in his place.
The blonde stands but doesn’t move from her position behind the kitchen counter, eying Natasha with cool suspicion. “And you are?”
“A friend—well, an acquaintance—of Tony’s from school. We have a project together.”
“Did security let you through?”
There’s no point in lying, a building as advanced as Stark Tower must have dozens of security cameras. “No, but it wasn’t very good security.”
To Natasha’s (invisible) surprise, she laughs, “Virginia Potts, personal assistant to Tony Stark. You might as well call me Pepper though, everyone else does.”
“Natalie Rushman,” a strange feeling pangs in her stomach, “but Nat is fine.”
“Well, Nat, you’re here about a project? When is it due?”
“Today is a professional day, so the project is due tomorrow. With any materials, we have to create a three-dimensional model of our “inner self”, as literal or abstract as we want.”
“Tony doesn’t take an art class?”
“No, but we’ve been placed in a “your antisocial behavior causes your trouble-making us befriend each other or else” group. Expressing our true inner selves to each other is just one of the many baby steps you can expect for the next several months.”
Pepper abandoned the safe distance between them to approach Natasha. “I’m afraid Tony is quite busy being an idiot, but perhaps I can help.”
Natasha keeps her tone level. “Do you often have to clean up Tony’s messes?”
“Have you ever babysat a superhero?” Pepper remarks with dry amusement.
Yes, Natasha thinks, super villains too, but instead, she offers, “Difficult?”
“Refines self-destructive. And a moron.”
Natasha nearly smiles at that, “I suppose that’s one way to become an expert on someone’s “truest inner self.”
“Yes, and as the resident expert on Tony Stark, I say we’re going to need glitter.”
*
Tasha’s going to be so pissed.
Her instruction had been simple, she was off to gather information on Tony Stark, while he was tasked with sloughing out any information Steve possessed. Easy as pie plan, made even easier by Phil’s—ignore the feelings there, so what if he lied to you, what else did you expect, idiot—art assignment, as he now had a logical reason to spend time with Steve. Clint didn’t want to reveal the location of his apartment with Tasha, and after Steve had unconvincingly lied about his home being fumigated, Clint had agreed to meet in a public place.
But why the ever-loving fuck had he decided their meeting place would be the history museum.
Because instead of spilling all about his “true inner self”, Steve had spent the last twenty minutes rambling nervously about WWII in explicit detail. Sitting before the Captain America exhibit, information rattling around his brain like screws in a tin can, Clint was about ready to spill something else.
“Steve,” he says, “it’s not that the position of cannons at the battle of Cow Walk isn’t absolutely fascinating, but there’s art afoot.”
“Bull Run,” he corrects, and then, “sorry, right, the project.”
Sometimes, prying information from a person could be as easy as lending a sympathetic ear. As Steve was in some way affiliated with Phil and SHIELD, he was guessing Steve was harder to crack than a soccer mom. Still, the guy looked stressed, running his hands through his hair as he babbling on about historical nonsense.
“Steve,” Clint softened his features, “you alright?”
“Oh yeah,” Steve shook his head, “I’m fine.”
Clint could feel it, the way Steve was tottering on the edge of opening up. “You seem-” Clint pretended to search for the right word, “-worried is all.”
“It’s just,” Steve sucked in a breath. “Why did you choose the Captain America exhibit of all places to meet up.”
Clint laughed. “I think you know why.”
Steve stiffened, the muscles of his jaw ticking with tension. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh come on, everyone knows. Hell, I half expected Phil to have spilled directly already.”
“Everyone?” Steve’s eyes widened. “Coulson told you?”
“Phil implied, but Tasha was the one who confirmed it. God knows how, but she always knows things like that. She’s got everyone's secrets.”
“Have you known from the beginning? That I’m Captain America?”
Clint blinks, then he gapes, and then blinks some more. “That you’re what?”
*
“I desire Starbucks.”
Bruce elects to ignore Loki.
“Thor,” Loki says, “I agreed to assist you in finding the petty little man who is unable to hold his liquor, and you will not even provide me with beverages?”
“I already promised you theater classes in return for your cooperation.”
“That is then, my thirst is now.”
“No.”
Loki huffs, “Eat a dick.”
Silence lapses again for several minutes as Bruce contemplates every choice he’s ever made and also why Loki knows how to curse but not how to use contractions.
“Banner,” Thor says, almost tentatively.
“We’re not making any stops.”
God, Thor’s nearly pouting. “But this Starbucks place sounds so delightful.”
Bruce is absolutely not going to fall for Thor’s pitiful puppy dog eyes, no matter how big and blue and dejected they look. No, he can definitely weather the utterly devastated, heartbroken look Thor’s turned on him. He can— fuck
*
With absolute contentment, Thor slurps his ungodly pink frappuccino, “Many thanks, friend Banner.”
Loki, pissy as ever, takes a long sip of his venti oat milk matcha tea latte. “Are we there yet?”
Four Walmarts deep and still unable to locate Tony, Bruce is more than a little ticked.
“What is a “Walmart”?”
“A retail store for the insane.” As impossible as it seems, Thor might actually be in worse rich-kid condition than Tony. “Where are you from again?”
“Norway.” Thor says at the same time Loki says “London.”
Thor’s face displays a wide range of emotions before he pretends to be occupied with his nails. “Father often travels for work. My brother simply took a liking to London.”
Well that’s in no way suspicious
“Oh, is New York a temporary situation then?”
Loki mumbles something suspiciously like “no, Thor’s father is a massive prick” before Thor flicks whip cream in Loki’s direction and smiles so wide it must hurt. “I am unsure, Loki and I are getting better acquainted with our sister, Hela.”
Bruce is torn between gut reactions of “oh God there’s more of you”, “Loki, please elaborate on your incensed mumblings”, and “wow your parents really went hard on the Norse mythology-themed names”, but he’s saved from his spiraling in favor of making a sharp turn into a Walmart.
Tony, sitting crossed-legged on the hood of a Jeep Wrangler, ceases vomiting into someone’s purse to wave casually at Bruce.
“Great to see you, Brucie, Point Break, and a random angsty tween.” Tony flashes his brilliant, front-page-news smile. “So, I may or may not have alcohol poisoning. Lite.”
*
Natasha specializes in thinking on her feet, in making snap-second decisions that teeter the very line between imminent death and living just a bit longer in even the most unexpected and uncharted situations. Still, she falters a moment when Pepper orders her into the car because they’re making a run to Michael’s for crafting supplies.
(“This tower hasn't anything but enough booze to drown Belarus, an excessive amount of robots with artificial intelligence, and explosives.”
“Explosives? Robots with artificial intelligence?”
Pepper shrugs. “Blame the second things on the first.” )
Natasha also had carefully—and painfully—learned to assess people as quickly and thoroughly as possible. And the first thing she noticed was Pepper trying to do the same thing to her. Normally, Natasha would avoid anyone trying to employ her own tricks, but Pepper’s actions were without discipline, she was cautious on her own merit. Natasha could hold respect for that. Pepper seemed capable, no-nonsense yet compassionate, but so far she couldn't find Pepper's angle. There was always an ulterior motive.
Nevermind that a childish voice mewling in her chest dared to suggest Pepper could be trustworthy. That Pepper could be good.
No, what nonsense, Pepper was a potential asset, who, at the very least, could provide a window to Tony.
Natasha’s own personal mission was the one and only reason she found herself pushing a shopping cart through the aisles of Michael’s.
“Clear glue or white glue?” Pepper asks, before shrugging, “Oh well, Tony can afford both.”
Natasha casts a glance at their cart, already brimming with an extravagant supply of paints, fabrics, and clay. “Try glitter glue.”
“Brilliant.” Pepper tossed all three into their cart, “I spend all day attending business meetings with straight, white men, and let me tell you, nobody has worse ideas. It’s nice to be in the company of someone with sense.”
Natasha has often seen Clint disarm people through his goofy smirks and by cracking awful jokes. As Natasha isn’t exactly easygoing and or renowned for her overwhelming friendliness, her best option in following Clint’s example is to be generous and fun.
Natasha snatches a pair of fluffy feather boas off a nearby shelf, wrapping a black one around her neck and offering the pink in Pepper’s direction. Fostering friendship. “Your first mistake was expecting men to— well, expecting anything of men.”
Pepper hums her agreement, tossing on her own boa. “Any idea what your inner self looks like yet?”
Twisted. Monstrous. Wrong. “Sparkly, I suspect.”
She stops the cart in front of a sprawling display, bottles and bottles of glitter of every conceivable color lining the massive shelf from top to bottom. As Pepper sets about buying approximately everything, Natasha wanders across the aisle, lured by an advertisement for discount candy. Be fun. Natasha selects a bag of candy and tears open the top.
She pours a few candies into her hand, offering them to Pepper. “Gummy bear?”
Pepper accepts, tossing a red bear into her mouth. Her face immediately twists.
“Oh shit, does this have strawberries? I’m allergic.”
Natasha blinks at the label, but the writing isn’t in any language she knows. Fucking Clint and his ideas about friendship. “Deathly?”
“No, but I need an injection at the hospital.” she says, but the words are muffled, tongue swollen, sounding more like “I neeth en imjexsion dat the lospithul”.
“Give me your keys.”
Pepper rummages hastily through her purse and then pats down her pockets with more urgency. “I must have blethed dem in da caw.”
There is no mission protocol for this. Fuck it. “Get in the shopping cart.”
Pepper eyebrows shoot up. “Dwat?”
“A cart’s faster than walking.”
The swelling must be getting worse because Pepper’s just loudly mumbling now, but from the look on her face, Natasha assumes her remark was something along the line of “Are you serious? This plan is about to make accepting the Trojan Horse look like a brilliant move”.
“Pepper,” Natasha forced her face into a reassuring smile, “you wanted to know what my “inner self” looks like, well here she is.” Natasha whips her feather boa over her shoulder. “Now hop in this Michael’s cart full of glitter so I can roll us down Mainstreet to the hospital.”
*
“What the fuck.” Clint says, “What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuuuuck.”
If possible, Steve, no, Captain America, is even more shocked. “You didn’t know?”
After dragging each other onto the roof of the museum, where there's no one to overhear their exchange of information, nothing is stopping Clint from a total meltdown.
“No! Obviously not!” Clint shouts, decidedly not sotto voce.
“You said Coulson told you.”
Clint barks out a laugh, he feels hysterical, and maybe he is. “Phil implied you like history, Natasha confirmed it. I figure this was a neutral meeting ground, considering I'm banned from most other public spaces in New York for one reason or another.”
“Oh,” Steve mumbles, quite to the point of a whisper, “my mistake then.”
“Fuck I should have known. Well, not known, but dammit I should have known there was something special about you with how desperate SHIELD is to keep you.” Clint flexes his bow arm, calming. “They didn’t even bother to change your name, Steve Grant Rogers. Phil was practically handing out false identities before, but no, not with you.”
“What do you know about SHIELD?”
Fuck, Clint got too worked up, and now he’s gone and blown his anonymity. He already revealed too much, but maybe it’s for the best, a little taste of information to reel Steve onto his and Tasha’s side.
He backtracks, “Not much, but I know Phil worked for SHIELD. And I know it can’t be a coincidence he stuck Captain America and Iron Man in the same fucking group.”
“Do you think Coulson is-”
“I don’t know. I don’t fucking know anything. Hell, I don’t even know if you’re really Captain America or if this is some trick.”
Steve scans the gap between this roof and the next, some ten-plus feet. “I could jump.”
The atmosphere shifts, tension leeching. “I could make that jump, Steve. Not really a super-soldier feat.”
“Oh?” Steve asks as if a whole other side of him has been awakened at the thought of a reckless wager for little gain other than bragging rights.
Really Clint should be focusing, should be mentally adjusting the information he thought he knew, should be cycling through every defensive tactic he ever learned. Clint should call Natasha and run, Budapest be damned.
Instead, he grins. “Certainly.”
After all, Clint still happens to be seventeen and a world-class idiot.
*
“...so now I’m being investigated in conjunction with two “young women” who fought security at a Michael’s and escaped into the sunset in a shopping cart with two-hundred dollars of art supplies just because my unattended car was parked in the lot and my credit card was found at the scene.” Tony rants, “What even is a Michael’s? An art museum?”
“Tony,” Bruce says, “what the fuck do you mean you might have alcohol poisoning.”
Tony waves a hand dismissively. “Oh yeah, that. No biggie.”
“No biggie? No biggie?” Bruce fumes. “Did you learn nothing in rehab?
“Pfft. Don’t be so dramatic, Brucie, it’s not like I’ve been shot or have rabbies or a pimple. This isn’t something that requires medical intervention. Besides, it was rich people rehab. You spend fifty grand for thirty days of staring into a horse’s eyes and zen gardening and generally contemplating your sins, and then you go on Oprah and talk about how you’re a changed man.”
“Tony,” Bruce says, voice icy in its tonelessness, “If you survive, I’m going Tanya Harding on your knee caps.”
“Ooh, kinky,” says Tony before proceeding to vomit into Loki’s empty Starbucks cup.
Nothing will ever parallel Loki’s expression of unbridled disgust. “Thor, kindly remove this liquored peasant from my sight.”
“You got Starbucks without me?” Tony protests, “and I’ll have you know my company has been called delightful by both The Rock and Alex Trabek.”
“Brother, play nice with Antony.”
“This creature is the Man of Iron? He smells like a distillery.”
Tony gasps. “Wow, harsh words from the stabby eleven-year-old dressed like 2005 Pete Wenz. Really? A thin scarf?”
Loki’s eyes glitter with wrath. “I do not understand your words, boozehag, but make no mistake, I will end your bloodline.”
“Loki!” Thor shouts, “How many times must we discuss this! No more death threats!”
“He started it.” Loki protests.
“Me? You called me a boozehag! What even is that?”
Loki juts his chin. “You.”
Idly Bruce considers the ramifications of swerving into the nearest tree just for a few minutes of silence. “Tony, you’re arguing with a child. There is no outcome to this scenario where you win.”
Tony crosses his arms over his chest and slumps in his seat, but his fit of very mature sulking is ended a few moments later when his phone rings.
“Ugh, it’s Howard. I thought he’d blocked my number.” Tony declines the call. “He must have heard about the whole “me outing myself as Iron Man in a drunk haze” thing. Kidding, kidding, he’s probably mad about my “scandalous behavior” affecting our stock.”
Bruce knows better than to get involved in whatever billionaire medium Tony’s fight with his father has taken on now. Thor’s bits at his lip, gazing at Tony with a bizarre mixture of horror and confusion, and something Bruce would peg as recognition if he didn’t know better. Meanwhile, Loki seems content to watch this unfold like his favorite soap opera.
“Oh well, it’s not like Howards actually going to bother coming to New York to talk to me. At worst he’ll send me a strongly worded letter about how much I’ve fucked up and I’ll throw another party. Que sera sera.”
Tony continues to throw up. “On second thought, the hospital would get me out of a meeting with the military.”
Bruce is satisfied not to ask. All in all, this may be his most successful Tony rescue mission yet.
Thor's eyes widen near comically as Loki’s hand twitches. Well, it would be comedic if Bruce didn't suspect Loki was attempting more murder.
“Brother, no.” Thor soothes.
“Fine, but do not expect my sympathy when Hela finds out you let your pet boozehag vomit in her car, and she removes your spine to use as a leash for Fenrir.”
“Enough with the boozehag!”
*
“I called for an ambulance.” Steve crouches over Clint’s prone form. “Truce?”
“Truce.” Clint moans from the pavement, “Sounds like a downright party, Cap.”