Chapter 9
Chapter 8
He shifts awkwardly under Pepper’s steely glare, drops his hands from Stark’s arms, moving to stand from his less than comfortable crouch.
“Why do I feel like I’m about to be court-martialed here?” he tries, his forced smile turning sour at the unimpressed quirk of the perfectly manicured eyebrow he gets in response.
Potts straightens her shoulders, cants her head to the side, spearing him with a look of a scientist examining a bug pinned to a microscope slide.
“The doors of the September Foundation are open to anyone who comes to us seeking a safe place to stay,” she says finally with the tone of someone reading information off an advertisement brochure. Her lips thin momentarily, blue eyes growing hard. “But I would very much like to know what the President of the United States was doing fishtailing onto our property in a shot-up car with my best friend unconscious in the driver’s seat.”
There’s an acidic undercurrent of blame in her words, and James bristles at it. “Look,” he begins, fighting to keep irritation out of his voice, “I’m sorry Stark got hurt, I really am, but–”
“Tony,” she cuts in, an open challenge in the steel-blue eyes, and he blinks in confusion, the unexpected interruption making him stumble over his next words, losing his stride.
“Tony,” he nods his acknowledgment after a moment of awkward silence as he tries to gather his thoughts once more. “I don’t like it when people get hurt on my behalf, Ms. Potts, but Sta-… Tony knew the risks of the job when he signed up for it, and–”
“The thing is, Mr. President,” Potts interrupts again, and the smile she gives him is just a tad too sharp to be genuine, “Tony quit that particular job ten years ago and, as far as I know, he never had the desire to go back. There is no love lost between him and Washington.”
“Oh, believe me,” James scoffs, remembering their first meeting, “I got that message from him loud and clear.”
She hums in agreement. “So why the sudden change of heart?”
James thinks back to the hospital, to the haunted look in Stark’s eyes, to the cold fury seething under the man’s words…. “It became personal,” he murmurs, his hands itching to curl into fists. Because it isn’t just personal for Stark – it’s personal for him, too. Happy was… is a friend. And with the insanity that’s been the last two days, he hasn’t really had time to process the fact that he had nearly lost him.
He cuts a quick glance to Potts, who watches him with patient expectation. Closes his eyes briefly, heaves out a heavy sigh. “I’ve been getting these threats for the past … month or so. Standard stuff. Someone taking issue with my attempts to push a gun control bill through.” He shakes his head, letting out a bitter huff of disappointment. He’s so tired of this, so, so fucking tired. “My Chief of Staff and my Head of Security became concerned that the threats were escalating, so they suggested I hire a specialist.”
“Tony.”
James nods, staring blindly at the floorboards. “He refused. Quite adamantly, too,” he adds, recalling the way Stark strutted out of his office like a goddamn royalty while his security detail lay writhing on the floor. Smiles, amused, at Potts’s quiet, knowing, “I can imagine.”
Then the smile falls. “A couple weeks later someone put a bomb in my limo and my Head of Security got caught in the blast and…”
“Happy?”
James looks up at the gasped out name, frowns at the now decidedly pale woman before him, at her wide-eyed stare, dark with undisguised worry. “You know him?”
Potts blinks her gaze away, her hands twisting the edge of the blanket. Nods toward the nearby end table. “You could say that.”
He turns to look where she’s pointing and his heart sinks as his eyes land on a simple 5x7 picture frame that holds a slightly faded photo of three teens in high school graduation gowns: tousled hair, bright smiles, arms thrown around each other with careless intimacy of close friends. He recognizes them all, despite the passage of some twenty-odd years: Tony Stark with those big doe eyes and baby cheeks and an unruly mop of brown hair falling messily over his forehead, Happy – skinny and tall and curly-haired, eyes sparkling with amusement he rarely sees in his always serious security chief, and Pepper Potts – the adorable freckle-nosed redhead in the middle with her arms slung playfully around both boys’ shoulders and her head resting against Stark’s.
Shit.
“I’m sorry,” he repeats, contrite. “If… if it’s any consolation, he’s alive. Was alive last I checked.”
She huffs, bitter, reaches out to place her hand on top of Stark’s. “You are a dangerous man to associate with, Mr. President,” she remarks, her voice forcedly even. “At the rate you’re going, you might cause me to run out of friends.”
James ducks his head again, runs a weary hand over his face. “At the rate I’m going, I may not be president for much longer,” he jokes darkly. Because he has to be realistic here, has to understand the odds. The people that have been sent to kill him are professionals – ruthless and wholly unbothered by collateral damage. They’ve tracked him down, followed him across state lines and they won’t stop just because that tracker is now disabled. Not until they finish their job, no matter what it takes.
He can feel Potts staring at him again, her questioning gaze burning holes in the side of his face. “The people that are after you… is there a chance they can track you down here?”
“Probably,” he hedges, thinking of the smashed Bulgari lying somewhere on i-70. Shrugs, defeated. “Yes.” And it isn’t fair, he thinks. Not to these people, whose lives he had so unceremoniously interrupted. He can’t have any more collateral on his conscience. No way. He’s gonna take the car, drive back to Washington, call Coulson. Put an end to all this nonsense once and for all.
“You don’t have to leave, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
The simple pronouncement snaps him out of the frantic spiral of his thoughts and he looks up, startled. Frowns when he finds no more anger, no judgment in the calm, clear gaze that meets his.
“Has Tony told you anything about the September Foundation, Mr. President?”
“James, please,” he waves her off. “I think we’re way past formalities at this point. And no, uh, he hasn’t. He just said to find Pepper… you, that is, and…” He hesitates, adds with a wince, “He was barely conscious at the time. I still can’t believe he managed to drive that far.”
She smiles tightly at the awed note that slipped unbidden into his voice. “Tony’s good at that – exceeding people’s expectations of him,” she says, her expression momentarily turning wistful, fond. “This place,” she waves her free arm at their surroundings, “it’s Tony’s brainchild. His atonement, he calls it,” she adds with a rueful twist of her lips. “He wanted to create a safe place for those who couldn’t protect themselves: victims of abuse and violence, people who had nowhere to go, people who needed a second chance. Every person you’ll meet here – Tony took them out of a bad situation and brought them here, gave them a home. A safe home.”
“All the more reason for me to leave,” he nods, determined now. “I’m putting all of your lives in danger simply by being here. Tony wouldn’t want–”
“Tony is the one who brought you here,” she reminds him, unflappable. “If he chose to take you under his protection, the least I can do is honor that choice.” She shrugs, nonchalant. “It is his house, after all.”
“Miss Potts…”
“Pepper.”
“Pepper,” he concedes with a sigh, feeling more and more like he needs to sit down before his legs give out on him completely. He can’t remember the last time he felt this wrung out – both physically and emotionally. “Two people, two good people already got hurt because of me. I can’t ask you all to risk your lives like that.”
“You let us worry about that,” she brushes off his concern. Then stands, leaning over to place a quick kiss on Stark’s brow. “I’ll go help set up a room for you. One of the boys will be by to get you when we’re done. There’s a bathroom down the hall, if you want to freshen up. You’ll find towels and supplies in the closet inside.”
She moves to walk out, her hand already on the door handle, when he stops her – one of the many questions that have been swarming around in his mind spilling forth.
“Atonement for what?”
“Excuse me?” She half-turns back toward him, her brow furrowed in confusion.
“You said earlier that this house, the Foundation, is Tony’s atonement. What is he atoning for?”
She hesitates, her eyes narrowed in thought as she assesses him silently, wondering, perhaps, if James deserves the right to hear whatever she has to say next. “His mother was murdered by her abuser,” she discloses finally, her voice too-too careful, as if she’s still testing him, waiting to see what his reaction would be. “Tony thinks it’s his fault that he couldn’t save her.” Her eyes glaze over momentarily – a memory that makes her lips twitch into an ugly, bitter grimace of a smile. “He was twelve years old,” she adds dully and walks out, leaving James to blink after her numbly, his legs folding despite himself as he sinks heavily onto the edge of the mattress.