Chapter 4
Chapter 4
He comes awake abruptly to the sound of a car door being slammed shut, and he blinks in sleepy confusion as his surroundings slowly come into focus. It takes his brain a few seconds to realize that he has not, in fact, dozed off on the leather couch in his office again, that what he is currently sprawled on is, in fact, the backseat of the car that Stark had so unceremoniously shoved him onto last night after their hurried dash across the hospital parking lot, and that the oddly concave light gray ceiling he’s looking up at is the roof interior of said car. It’s already light out, and a brief check of his wrist watch informs him that it is already half past 8 in the morning. He frowns at that, because, as best he can recall, it was close to 11 at night when they left DC, which would mean he got at least 9 hours of uninterrupted sleep – something that hasn’t happened to him once since he took the office. The realization is both unexpected and guiltily welcome.
He sits up, wincing as his neck and back muscles protest the less than ideal sleeping arrangement. Looks around.
They are at a gas station of some sort, on the outskirts of town, judging by lack of traffic and the near bareness of their surroundings. Stark is standing outside, punching in the selection on the gas pump. He turns back toward the car, hose in hand. Winks at James through the rolled down window.
“Sleep well, Your Chieftainship?”
James rolls his eyes at the ridiculous moniker, but chooses to ignore it in favor of the more important things. Such as…
“Where are we?”
Stark looks out at the depressingly sleepy landscape, shrugs minutely. “About an hour out from Terre Haute, Indiana,” he supplies and goes to finish up refueling the car, missing the incredulous look that James shoots his way.
“Indiana?” he sputters, his mind whirring because Indiana – that’s… that’s about 9 hours away. “You mean you’ve been driving all this time?”
Stark turns away from him wordlessly, replaces the hose. “The first objective was to get you to a safe house,” he says finally as he walks around the car to the passenger’s side door. “The only way for me to meet that objective is to keep driving until we get there.” He pulls the door open, reaches inside. “The second objective was to make you disappear,” he adds, grabbing a large shopping bag that James only now notices is lying on the front seat. Stark leans further into the car, tosses the bag at James through the gap between the seats. “This should help with that a bit for when we’re out and about.”
James opens the bag, glares unhappily at the contents. “What is all this?”
“A few clothes I picked up for you at one of those 24-hr strip malls we passed by while your Executiveness was drooling all over the backseat,” Stark explains, motioning at the blue and white “RESTROOMS” sign hanging off the side of the gas station building. “You can change in there, but put that hat on before you leave the car – this place may not exactly be teaming with customers, but there’s still a camera above the front door. No way to tell if it’s operational or not, but we don’t need the risk.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing now?” James grumbles, wincing at a genuinely petulant note that creeps into his voice.
Stark raises an eyebrow at him, looking prohibitively amused. “Nothing at all, Sourpatch, if we were trying to schmooze a bunch of foreign dignitaries at some stuffy dinner function. We’re going for less conspicuous here, remember?”
James doesn’t deign him with a response. Pulls out the hat, slams it on his head and gets out of the car, grumbling unhappily under his breath.
He’s still grumbling ten minutes later when he returns to the car, the bag now holding his haphazardly folded suit. Stark looks up when he approaches, tosses a Visitor’s Guide he’s been leafing through onto the back seat.
“What is it now?” he asks with a kind of confused exasperation, as James yanks open the back door to throw the bag inside with a bit more force than necessary. “Did I not get your size right?”
James favors him with a glare from under the brim of his hat. No, the size isn’t the issue. The clothes Stark got him fit almost too well, enough so that it makes James uncomfortable to think that Stark has observed him so intimately as to be able to approximate his size and build with such precision. Still…
“A blue polo and a fedora? Really, Stark?” he gripes, as the man stares back at him, eyes wide with seemingly genuine confusion. “I look like goddamn Perry the Platypus from that stupid cartoon my nephew likes to watch. Did you–”
He cuts himself off as Stark makes a strange choked noise at the back of his throat, doubling over with laughter a second later. And James watches helplessly, lips pursed in annoyance, as Stark heaves and sputters through an uncontrollable fit of laughter, gasping ineffectually for breath.
Eventually he gives up. Waves his hand in resignation and walks around the still giggling man to demonstratively plop onto the passenger seat up front. He’s had enough.
Stark slides into the driver’s seat moments later, brown eyes sparkling with mirth. “Buckle up, Platypus,” he tells him with a wink, and James fights the urge to groan out loud for giving this headache of a man yet another way to irritate him.
“You’re a real ass, you know that,” he mutters, angrily clicking the seatbelt into place as the car begins to move.
Stark smirks brightly, slides on a pair of sunglasses. “Jury’s still out.”