Chapter 5
Chapter 5
“You know, this is a pretty decent family restaurant,” James points out, watching with a mildly disapproving frown as Stark tears into a plain-looking cheeseburger, all but moaning with pleasure as though he were savoring a most exquisite gourmet meal. “You could have ordered some real food.”
“What’s wrong with cheeseburgers?” Starks looks almost offended.
“Nothing,” James shrugs, shifting his attention back to his own plate with its piece of herb-roasted chicken seasoned to mouth-watering perfection. “I just figured that after getting our breakfast and lunch orders at drive-through windows you’d want something a bit more sophisticated than a meal that usually comes in a greasy paper bag with an optional toy for customers 12 and under.”
“I like cheeseburgers.” It’s Stark’s turn to shrug as he takes another hungry bite that drips grease and ketchup onto his chin. He reaches for a napkin, dabs it at his chin. “S’comfort food,” he manages around a mouthful, winking at James over the remainder of his sandwich.
James shakes his head, goes back to cutting up his food. “Wouldn’t have pegged you for a junk food kind of guy. Given where you come from, I figured you’d have a more… sophisticated palate,” he says, snagging a piece of chicken with asparagus onto his fork and sending the combination into his mouth.
It’s good. It’s so fucking good and so welcome after the questionable-quality fast food Stark had forced on him earlier that he simply closes his eyes for a moment and lets himself enjoy the flavor, the texture and the aroma of actual, human food.
It’s why he doesn’t notice right away that something’s amiss. Not until he opens his eyes again and finds Stark looking back at him, his expression guarded, tense.
“Where I come from?” There’s an unpleasantly cold challenge in Stark’s tone, and James wonders what particular can of worms he inadvertently opened with this conversation, but the words are out now and it’s too late to take them back.
“You’re Howard Stark’s son, aren’t you?” he asks, trying for nonchalant as he goes to cut himself another piece of the chicken. “Millionaire inventor? One of the biggest names in weapon manufacturing? I didn’t make the connection right away, but I just haven’t seen any Stark tech around in years. Our military contract had been picked up by Senator Hammer’s company after your father–”
“Passed out drunk while working on an arc reactor prototype and blew up the entire mansion?”
He frowns at the glacial callousness of Stark’s interruption, blinks uncertainly at the man. “I’m sorry,” he tries.
“Don’t be,” Stark waves him off with an ugly grimace of a smile. “Blowing himself up was the best thing he could have done with his life. Although,” he drops his unfinished cheeseburger onto the plate, leans back in the chair, dabbing the napkin at his lips, “I heard rumors that he may have had some help leaving this world.”
It’s so casual the way he says it, so matter-of-fact. It makes James’ skin crawl.
“You’re saying someone had him murdered?”
Stark crumples up the napkin, tosses it onto the plate. “Don’t know that for a fact,” he admits with a dispassionate shrug.
“But?” James prompts, intrigued despite himself.
Stark hums. “Howard was many things – stupid wasn’t one of them. Being drunk wasn’t new for him, but he knew his limits. He wouldn’t have gone down to his workshop if he was that hammered.” He chuckles unkindly. “Hammered. Now that’s a thought.”
James feels a cold unpleasant shiver trickle down his spine. “You’re not suggesting…”
“The good senator?” Stark’s smile is positively predatory now, and he seems pleased somehow by James’ deduction even if he shakes his head in the negative. “I’ve had the displeasure of observing Senator Hammer quite closely for ten very long and sadly irretrievable months of my life. He’s a vulgar little shit with no sense of morals or civility. But he doesn’t have enough brains or balls to pull off something like this.” He cocks his head, winks conspiratorially at James. “Now if we assume that he was not acting alone, and we combine his financial means and his unbridled enthusiasm for fattening up his own pockets with, say, Vice President Stane’s formidable ruthlessness and an unhealthy craving for power–”
“Stop!” James hisses, putting up his hand to shut the man up even as he glances furtively to the sides to make sure their conversation has not attracted any unwarranted attention. “Do you even realize what you’re saying? Accusing a high-ranking senator and the goddamn VP of conspiracy to murder?”
Stark watches him calmly, seemingly unperturbed by his agitation. “I’m not accusing them of anything, Sugar Plums,” he deflects easily, the sharp piercing gaze of his amber-brown eyes pinning James in place. “Don’t have enough facts for that. I’m merely pointing out that together those two individuals have both the appetite and the means for any sort of hostile takeover.” Stark’s eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Such as, for instance, the removal of an undesirable president.”
For a brief moment James forgets how to breathe. Just sits there, blinking owlishly at Stark, his heart stuttering like a scared animal inside his chest. “You...,” he chokes out, fingers tightening convulsively around the handle of his knife. “You’re insane. Do you even hear yourself?”
Stark snorts quietly, picks up his glass of water, leaving a ring of condensation on the wooden surface. “Relax, Platypus,” he responds easily and takes a long drawn out sip before setting the glass back down onto the table. “This is all purely hypothetical at this point.” The mask of feigned impassivity slips for a moment, his eyes flashing steel like the metal of a drawn sword. “Believe me,” he says, leaning forward into James’ space, and his voice, though quiet, has that same unmistakable edge of steel as well, “if I had any concrete proof that they had anything to do with that bomb that landed Happy in the hospital, they both would have been dead by now.” He waits a beat, lets the words sink in. Then pulls away, settling back in his chair, the already familiar plastic smile firmly in place. “Now, what was it you were saying about my… palate?”
James blinks rapidly, thrown completely off balance first by the wild accusations bordering on seditious and now by the dizzying change of topics. He needs time to think, to process everything that Stark just said. Because it can’t be right what he’s implying. It’s crazy. It’s the words of a madman. And yet… and yet…
“Um…,” he begins inarticulately, looking down at his poor unfinished chicken as though somehow hoping to find inspiration there for something meaningful to say when his mind is drawing a complete stunned blank.
“Hold that thought, Buttercup,” Stark interrupts him unexpectedly, and the subtle change in his tone, a slight but unmistakable strain of warning, draws James’ attention back to the man.
Stark’s whole demeanor has changed. He still sits sprawled against the back of his chair, looking for all the world like he’s relaxing over a meal and a friendly chat, but James can see a kind of battle-ready tension in him now, a cold wariness of a professional on the job.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, knowing instinctively that he needs to whisper this part.
Stark flicks a lightning quick glance somewhere past James’ shoulder, reaches once again for his water glass. “Seems like your secret admirer wasn’t quite happy with you leaving Washington so abruptly,” he murmurs into the glass.
“He’s here?” James straightens out in his seat, fighting the urge to look around. “Who is he?”
“It’s not the puppet master himself,” Stark shakes his head, setting the glass back down. “But I will bet good money that the merry little group that just sat down at the table behind us is not overly interested in today’s specials.”
James swallows tightly, rubs his suddenly sweaty palms. “How many?”
“Five that I can see. Probably more waiting outside.” Stark shifts forward a bit, casually leaning his elbows on the table, bringing him that much closer to where James is sitting. Smiles a wide artificial smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Listen to me very carefully,” he says, his voice so low that James has to strain to hear him even at this short a distance. “You’re gonna excuse yourself now and get up to go to the restroom – it’s in the back of that hallway behind me. The moment you step inside that hallway, you take the first door to your left – that’s the kitchen. You’re gonna go in and you’re gonna keep walking until you reach the back door. Don’t open it, just stay there and wait for me. Understood?”
Stark’s gaze bores into his, intense, burning, demanding, and James wants to object, wants to know what exactly is it that Stark plans to do while he makes his escape to the kitchen, wants to insist that he stay and help, but there’s a grim urgency in Stark’s expression that makes him hold his tongue. He nods once, mutely, and finds himself oddly comforted upon seeing something in Stark’s posture relax slightly at his assent. Decided now, he puts both hands on the table, takes a deep, steadying breath and pushes up, plastering on a painfully artificial smile of his own.
“I’ll be right back,” he hears himself say, holding Stark’s gaze for a brief moment before gesturing widely in the direction Stark had indicated to him earlier. “Just gotta use the little boys’ room.”
And he walks off, silently repeating to himself that Stark is a professional, that he can handle himself, that it’s his job…. And tries very hard to stop himself from turning back around when he hears the first telltale crash of splintering wood behind him.