Crazy Men
Stark kept his kitchens well stocked, it seemed. Grim neatly packed four salads, three ham sandwiches, (fully loaded) and loose bags of fruit or veggies while Rogers looked on in mild concern as they waited for the kettle to boil.
He considered the drinks in the fridge for a second. He had two water bottles, one for water he could refill, and one for those instant coffee packets he had in case he was dependent on coffee when he had to ditch. But something else for flavor wouldn’t hurt.
Two orange and apple juices join the origami pile in his backpack, carefully packed between school supplies he doesn’t use for school and clothing, toiletries, emergency stashes, burner phones, (three, because he was paranoid and those things broke way too easily) and first aid.
He really wouldn’t be able to fit much more, so he zipped up the bag and prayed to a god he didn’t believe in that the weird looks wouldn’t last too long.
Luckily, Rogers dropped it when the water started to boil, busying himself with mugs (he got Grim a stupid little goth one with black roses, it was… nice) and honey and tea packets with his back turned and very pointedly not scruitinizing him.
He despaired at where this was going when Captain turned around with the mugs in hand, shooing him over to a giant, gleaming wooden table. There was no escape now.
“So.” he said as they both sat down. “Talk to me.”
Oh no, this was going to be horribly awkward, wasn’t it?
He stirred his tea and stared into the faintly golden depths as he internally panicked. He could go with the mugging, that should fly. No, I’m not injured sir. Not a scratch. Yes, I was just scared because of a past experience with knives. Haha, you know, foster system, amiright?
“I was mugged. Wasn’t really a big deal.” Can’t tell them he knows how to fight cause of a small pack of street rascals… “Kicked ‘im where the sun don’t shine and booked it. He was making it a bit of a scene so I kept runnin’. Ran into the coffee shop, and well. Yeah.”
Rogers looked like he half-believed him, which was never a good sign. And he had even been telling the truth! (very unfair)
But he nodded along, so at least he was polite about it, even if he had a deplorable poker face. “Right. Very smart of you, good job.”
Grim nodded along, and took a sip to buy himself time in case this was going somewhere.
It was.
“But- Well. I don’t know the modern terms, but you had the thing I would call the hundred yard stare-”
Oh no-
“And I just got concerned is all. I’d like it if you could tell me the truth, that’s it.”
Oh no-
The elevator dinged, and for the second time today he nearly dropped the extremely hot liquid all over himself. He was too twitchy right now for any of this.
“Oi, Mr. ‘Merica, up for another round? You’re getting better my guy.” Climt Barton, Avengers name Hawkeye strolled into the kitchen and immediately snagged a bag of m&m's from seemingly nowhere along with a red gatorade and a bag of chips, he rounded on Grim with a searching expression.
“Who’s your friend, Wonder Boy?” Rogers sighed at the nicknames.
“A kid I meant in a coffee shop. Just having a chat, is all. And no thank you, I’m really not.”
Clint pouted. “Turning down the wonders of Mario Kart, a true sin. So, you wanna play then? Don’t leave me hanging, kid.”
Was this some weird interrogation tactic? He liked it better when the superspies were upfront.
He should have seen this coming. He had been stalking him across the rooftops for hours, of course he would follow him onto home territory.
Stupid, stupid, stupid-
“Sure.” He faked a smirk (now was not the time) and Barton led him over to the massive couch.
It was far too plush. He felt like he could sink into it, become one with upholstery.
But no. Life is disappointment and there was no escape.
Barton booted up Mario Kart and handed him a controller. As the title loaded up, Barton glanced over at him. Rogers plopped down a bit down from the man, probably trying to give him space or whatever.
“So. What’s on your mind?”
Just repeat it from earlier. You’ll be fine. There’s no way he’ll press you on that completely true story over a video game-
“Got mugged. Really wasn’t a big deal, shouldn't have been so touchy about it. Ran, ended up in a coffee shop with Captain America, and was just shaken up enough to strike up a conversation.”
He had been so dumb. Why hadn’t he just quietly ordered and moved on? He already had enough to deal with without this mess-
Barton snorted, and picked Rainbow Road without asking him, then Yoshi. Clint scanned the character screen, most of the people he was unfamiliar with, and felt a hint of irony at the cartoonish ghost of to one side.
He picked it with a shrug.
“Right, kid. I know that look. What else?”
Well, f*ck.
Maybe he could force him to be more upfront?
He set his jaw and took a breath. “Look, could you just be straightforward, I know you were following me. Black Widow’s my next door neighbor, man, I’m not dumb. I’m a person of interest, right? Someone to keep an eye on? Godamn it, I barely have a criminal record. Are you guys bored or something?” Once he opened his mouth, it wouldn’t stop. By the time his brain caught up to his tongue, he had successfully dug his own grave.
Barton stared at him thoughtfully, then clicked the start button and cackled when Grim startled to attention. “Yeah, command thinks your some big player because you’ve been at all these crazy events. I think that’s bull, though, so no sweat. And according to our favorite spider-” he waved his phone, a sleek StarkPhone he would never be able to afford for him to see. “You’ve got a really fun set of fosters. So, spill.”
Mission failed. This was going to crash and burn horribly.
He grinded his teeth a bit to ground himself again. “The Samsons are a political family. I’m their ticket to good ratings this election, and I’m not allowed out until they get a shiny new headline. I mean, that’s fine. I get food and a good bed and all. But…” He trailed off, hoping the spy could put the puzzle together without him putting it all together.
“But they suck and there’s no out, so you ditched, probably with a deal to come back with social events so you wouldn’t have a tail.”
Grim’s mind flashed to the note left on his dresser with that exact offer, and barrelled into the abyss in his cart. The ghost would be fine, it wasn’t like he could die again or something. And winning was the last thing on his mind.
Grim swallowed as he realized just what he had gotten himself into. F*ck.
They both ignored Roger’s shell-shocked expression, and Barton finished his first lap with subdued cheering.
They finished the race in shaky silence. At the end of it Barton handed him the unopened bag of chips.
They looked at each other for a second, Grim trying to figure out if this was some sort of apology for the ultra-awkward confession, Clint considering his options.
“Ya know we can handle a few senators, right? Can even sweep it under the rug if you like. Look, kid-”
“I haven’t been a kid for a long time, Arrow Man.”
“-sleep in one of the guest rooms. Tony’s stressed about something for he won’t even notice if you keep on the down-low. And Jarvis won’t tell, won’t ya buddy?”
“Not unless specifically prompted according to my programming.”
Clint did finger guns at the ceiling while Grim had a heart attack and realized that all could have been on camera and also he was in a super intelligent AI’s f*cking home.
Rogers jumped on the bandwagon without a hint of hesitation. “He’s right. There’s tons of guest rooms, and Tony takes in kids anyway.” Clint cackled, and mumbled something about science children. Grim decided he didn’t want to know, and let himself be steered in the direction of the elevator.
Next thing he knows, he’s inside a five-star hotel-ish room with an armload of snacks, his bag, a couple of goodnights from the Avengers duo, and assurance that the door was locked from the AI.
Grim blinked at the window, which had plain grey curtains pulled, hiding a probably fantastic view, for a few moments, before cutting his losses. (losses and winnings. A mixed bag of a day, truly)
He set his bag carefully on a foot rest thing on the foot of the massive bed, dumped the snacks on the oak desk, didn’t bother to change out of some weird fear of being recorded, and laid down stiffly on the too-comfortable bed.
What even was his luck.
But he was no fool. He would take the bed and food for the price of a few awkward conversations, easy. He just needed to scram real quick and disappear for a while. It’d be harder without the Horsemen’s help, but he knew a thing or two as well. He’d be fine.
‘Yeah, command thinks your some big player because you’ve been at all these crazy events.’
Or maybe not.
Who on earth did the Avengers report to? The President? He was half-sure he had saved him from like murder and all, so maybe if he got a false charge after all he could use that little bargaining chip. Maybe he should just leave this sinking boat of a country. But how?
He groaned into the pillow, which felt like pressing his head into a cloud.
He was doomed.
He had a hard time sleeping, what with the omnipresent AI possibly watching his every move, plus all the coffee in his system, (he played stupid phones games for like half the night) and got up at seven with a solid five hours of sleep. Overall, not too bad.
He still desperately needed that instant coffee, but he was prepared for that.
He ate a sandwich and some fruit and felt like he was back in elementary school, before watching some cat videos to cheer himself up on his phone. No one can judge someone for watching cute cats play tag.
The day passed with an odd quality of timelessness. Time didn’t matter, it being noon or four didn’t change what he was doing. It was a weird feeling, but not unwelcome. The lack of stress from the isolation paired with a game plan made him relaxed enough to enjoy it. He had canned soup for lunch, and looked around for cameras. (he found none)(he eventually gave up and went back to watching medical, phycology, political, and self-defense advice videos.)
Then at five in the afternoon Barton swung down in a perfect backflip form the air vents.
He stared in dumb shock. He hadn’t considered that. How did he even fit in the vents? How did they hold up his weight? Did Stark specifically design his tower to be spy-friendly or something?
Nope, he didn’t want to know, he was not thinking about that right now.
“Okay, kid. Whatever’s bothering Tony must’ve hit the road, because he’s fine today. He’s been in his lab until now, so don’t come out to the kitchen, yeah? I’ll bring up I dunno, adoption to him.”
Grim felt like he was having heart palpitations. Not from a risk of being caught, but the idea of being adopted into the Stark lineage. The media attention alone would kill him.
He nodded dumbly and watched the archer jump right back into the vent, hoist the grate back into place, and scurry off on his merry way without a sound.
He didn’t know whether to be impressed or weirded out.
He looked up into the siler-painted metal grate, which blew cold air innocently into his face.
And then he decided that he wasn’t doing that right now, and drank an apple juice to make himself feel better. Again.
Tony Stark stormed in at about three AM. That timeless feeling had only increased into the early hours of the morning as sleep evaded him (his body was starting to process after his mind had finished up, makes sense) so he had been chilling in bed within convenient reach of the exit and also snacks. This means that when the billionaire idiot extraordinaire barged in with all the grace of a drunk walrus, he took a page out of Barton’s book and was in the vents before either of them could fully process it.
He peeked down at the weirded face of the man, considering his options. Had Jarvis snitched? He didn’t know the floorplan of the regular tower, let along the ventilations. Maybe Barton was coming to bail him out? Maybe he should try the window? (no that’s too risky, what if Kala doesn’t catch him properly?)
Neither of them seemed to know how to proceed in this situation, which was kinda nice; they were on equal footing. Kinda.
They stared at each other before a soft chime echoed in the silence. “If I may, sirs.”
Tony blinked. “Hey, J-man?”
Grim didn’t know how to feel about any of this.
“I would advise you both stay calm and talk this out civilly. For both of your sakes.” Hearing Jarvis while in the vents was an interesting experience. The sound of his lilting voice echoed and was coming from two spots at once, creating a spooky effect that let him know exactly where each part of his body was. The steel of the grate dug uncomfortably into his palms as he eyed the billionaire with the power to functionally blacklist him from existence.
Stark swallowed and grimaced, then schooled his features briefly before it once again melted into a tired frown.
“Right, right. Sorry, kid. I didn’t mean to scare you. I-uh.” He shook his head probably to himself before getting back on track. Grim could physically feel the awkwardness in the air. Would it go away if he left the vents? That might work…
“Look, I’m sorry for earlier. With your parents.”
He blinked, and absorbed that. “Foster parents.”
Stark nodded. “Clint filled me in. I could- sue them? If you want? I mean, I was already going to weasel you away from them and hopefully with a job with me, but uh…”
Grim stared into his eyes and tried to find a hint of malice. The papers would have you believe he was a manic mess of man hopped up on god knows what and riding the highest high possible of life. But he was just… a guy. A rich one, sure. But also incredibly awkward and protective in that weirdly nice way and shockingly pleasant company over bad coffee.
He reluctantly dropped out of the ventilation. He grabbed his bag and flung it over his shoulders, then straightened up and waited for Stark to start talking.
He would have preferred another round of Mario Kart with Barton at this rate.
Apparently Stark indeed was a serial adopter. He learned of Peter Parker, a shy nerd at a local honor’s school that also happened to be Spiderman, Shuri, a princess running a whole country he had never heard of, (what kind of madness was this-) Harley, nickname ‘Potato Boy’ by Stark, and mentioned something about turning his garage into a workshop after Stark met him, and something about Ohio, and Riri, who had been inspired by his suit to make her own and then things had kidna just spiralled out of control or reasonable logic.
Clint grinned at him from where he was making an omelette at the stove, and winked. “Welcome to the family, kiddo.”
Stark started. “Right! Paperwork! God, I’ve wanted to take the foster system by storm for years Pep just wouldn’t let me without a reason but now-!”
Grim didn’t want to know where this was going anymore. He made himself a smoothie with lots of fruits and some kale and yogurt and sipped it every once in a while while watching Stark mess around with holograms. He hadn’t even known those existed, but sure, yeah, let’s just keep going down this absurd rabbit hole.
They set up shop in the kitchen/living room/lounge area of the tower for a few hours. Clint picked Mario Kart back up while rambling about future prank plans, and Stark was up to his eyeballs in a mixture of holograms and important-looking-papers at the bar. He kept making different drinks every hour or so.
He glanced over from the breakfast bar when the elevator dinged, and the doors opened. And out strode one Miss Black Widow.
They looked at each other. She looked at Barton, then Stark. Back to him.
And she silently walked down the hallway in the direction of the bedrooms.
He saluted her with his half-empty glass (now full with cherry coke, since he never had this stuff, like, ever-) in understanding.
He didn’t want to be in this nonsense either.
Did that mean her weird stalker mission on him was done? That was nice. He could work with that. Ya know, not being hounded by the government and all. And he’d be able to see his friends, too.
He eyed the way-too-intense video game match with mild interest. Could he swipe some candy bars for them? They used candy as a currency in their weird betting/gambling network within themselves to be less bored all the time. Maybe Stark has a stash somewhere? If he had chips, he must have chocolate, right? Unless Barton had those in his back pocket by some miracle, but he didn’t exactly see him pull them out of a cabinet either.
This was hurting his brain far more than it should.
He wondered where the other Avengers were. Granted it was about four in the morning, but if he was willing to bet on any group of people having crippling insomnia, it would probably be these guys. (or his fellow foster suckers) Rogers had holed up in his room hours ago, and he had yet to lay eyes on Banner since the attack. Thor was probably off in his freaky alternate dimension, he seemed like the type to just scram if something wasn’t actively going on. War-mongering god and all. Scarlet Witch was famously introverted, completely stone-walling any interactions with the public at every turn, which he could work with. Stony silence was familiar, more so than any of this mess.
He was still a bit sour about how Banner reacted at the attack. He knew from experience concussion were like a drug trip and a dream/nightmare combo all at once, and the man had been driving. Into a verifiable war-zone.
So yeah, he’s a slight bit salty. Just a little. (he just threw himself into danger as his super persona, absolutely no worries about himself the idiot-)
Kala appears, bringing with her an armload of sweaters, wool socks and stuff, and winter pants, along with what looked like the basic set-up for a hammock.
He raised an eyebrow, unwilling to sign ever since he caught sight of the aides in Barton’s ears an hour or so ago and she grinned conspiratorially. “Relax. They’re chain store stuff. I got warm and cold. And fidget.” She held up a cheap-looking fiddle cube proudly, and he wasn’t about to start complaining. He would have trouble with this if she was robbing some mom-and-pop shop blind, but he was perfectly fine swiping something from Target in an emergency.
Stark was out of his mind. He’d probably be gone soon enough, and the goodies would be well appreciated. Besides, his feet were always cold, and he liked being able to get that nervous energy out before he snapped at someone and started risking his well-being for zilch and nada.
But at least he wasn’t dying anymore. Maybe he should ask about that, actually. That seemed important. He just didn’t know who he’d go about it. He didn’t have obvious health problems you might see after a poisoning, (nature held no true antidotes. You might pop the anti-pill, but you still probably had to be rushed to the hospital for emergency care anyway. It’s so much easier to kill someone than to save them, biologically anyway) like vomiting or hair loss, or an unwillingness to eat stuff he himself hadn’t made, which was always good.
What, had someone been blowing darts at him then? Maybe putting gas in the vents?
Maybe he wasn’t a main character. Maybe he was just some schmuck who wandered in and out of plots for the comedy of it. Well, f*ck that. (wouldn’t that make him a protagonist anyway? Maybe in a spin off??)
Instead of sleeping how he probably should, he decides to properly investigate the expensive-but-make-it-minimalist lounge he’s found himself in. The U-couch is leather, and totally pristine, which is almost unholy. The table is less magazine-ready; larger than what’s ‘stylish’ to be more practical. There’s abstract art on the walls, and a wrapping wall of windows split into dozens of panels. Tabloids are sprinkled liberally around the entire place; the cork board off to one side with a headline declaring ‘AVENGERS: HEROES OR HAZARDS?’ has a few darts sticking out of it and a comforting number of holes. There’s a couple printed-out pages of Avengers memes, which is weird but he’ll let it slide, and coffee cups are everywhere you look. There’s also knives laying around on the couch, and tucked in between books? He presumes Barton is going to dramatically pull a knife out of ‘nowhere’ later, Widow didn’t seem the type.
The walls are that usual beige color you would find in a designer photo, but the crown-molding running around the place up against the ceiling is a fun mixture of neon red and gold, and black.
He suspects an inside joke here. In fact, he sees one staring him in the face.
He blinks groggily, and the limited amount of sleep hits him like a train, which is very rude. He sighs, and peers over at Crazy Man One and Two. Barton was on five out of fifteen rounds, and Stark was making a bloody mary with his back turned. Good.
He slipped back towards the bedroom he had claimed earlier, and opened it cautiously. Nothing. Certainly no vengeful Black Window for stepping on her territory.
He crashed into the bed and loosned up, letting every muscle relax to get his mind to calm down as well.
Yeah, he could use this. Wasn’t so bad.
Maybe.