Preposterous!

On the ground level floor of the Wakanda Consulate, Everett Ross stares at his reflection in the window as he waits for the meeting going on in the room behind him to end. Voices that were raised in irritation a few moments ago have settled into a more appropriate hush. Though he cannot hear specific words, he listens to the rise and fall of the noise in case he may be needed. In between that he stares out at the New York City darkness and adjusts his khaki tie several times. When he hears the dull click of the door being opened behind him he quickly brushes a stray lock of hair that has fallen over his forehead back where it belongs. He takes a quick look one last time before turning to greet the Prince of Wakanda.

“Good evening, your highness.” Ross shakes the taller man’s hand.

“Hello, Mr. Ross, it is good to see you this fine evening.” T'Challa says, his deep voice only slightly strained from the long meeting.

“Good, sir. I have a cab waiting for you if you are ready to return to your hotel?” Everett leaves the question politely hanging in the air between them. Though they have formed a fast friendship, they are both aware of the need to stand on proper etiquette.

“Actually, I’d like to grab a bite first, Mr. Ross.”

“What would interest you, your highness?” Everett asks.

“I’ve heard all about New York style pizza, so I think I’ll have that.” T'Challa chuckles as they step out into the crisp night.

“Alright,” Everett agrees as the two men slide into the back seat of a glossy black private cab. A divider slides up between the driver and his passengers as they pull out into the street.

T'Challa leans back against the seat and closes his eyes for a few seconds before speaking. “Did you learn anything new, Everett, my friend?”

Everett shakes his head, picks a piece of lint from his gray jacket sleeve. “No, I have no more facts that we had a few days ago. The FBI and the CIA have traced…” here Everett pauses, taps at the glass between them and the driver as if to be sure it is soundproof, even so he chooses not to say the name, “…him to New York, but since then his trail has gone cold.”

T’Challa frowns at his friend and shakes his head. “I do not understand this.” He closes his eyes again and folds his hands in his lap. After a few seconds’ silence, he announces, “I need to see Stark. You can get me there, correct?”

“Yes, your highness, I can. Would you still like pizza? We can stop on the way?” Everett taps the divider glass again and gives directions to the driver when T’Challa agrees. The driver nods and Everett rests back against the seat.

For a little while there is silence in the cab as each man considers his own thoughts. T’Challa is quiet, as comfortable in the back of a cab as he is on the back of a horse. He studies his friend’s face for a moment before speaking, each word carefully thought out.

“You are missing him tonight?” Dark brown eyes flash with the passing traffic as he turns to face Everett.

Everett tightens his mouth, seems about to speak and changes his mind, instead only nodding sharply.

“Ah, I understand being separated from your heart.” T’Challa smiles and turns to look out the window.

Everett, a bit unsure, almost wants to talk about it but he really, really would rather not. His life is complicated enough without explaining how he literally straddles two continents and how his work lately has left little time for relaxation and relationships.

He is glad when they finally pull up in front of one of the best pizza parlors in the city. Outside the place looks small, but inside it smells like heaven. Most of the kitchen is taken up by a massive brick fire oven that is so clean the stone shines. Everett has been impressed with the place since he discovered it the first time he came to the city. He orders what they agreed on in the cab, then adds two more extra-large pies for Tony.

Fifteen minutes later, four boxed pizzas in his arms, Everett is ushered into Avenger’s Tower, T’Challa walking a few steps behind him. They ride the lift to the penthouse and soon find themselves waiting in front of a shiny white door. Tony himself opens it, grabs the first pizza box of the top and waves them into a brightly lit kitchen. He tosses the now opened box of pizza onto a table cluttered with papers and steps behind the counter. The pie bounces like its been injected with some of Stark's energy, but it stays in the box.

“Drinks, boys?” he asks, completely refusing to stand on ceremony.

Everett asks for a beer; T’Challa accepts a glass of Zinfandel. The three men soon relax around the dining table and it doesn’t take long for them to polish off the pies.

In typical Stark fashion, as soon as he tosses down his napkin, he asks point blank, “They’ve lost him?”

Everett nods. T’Challa states, “I have heard the best people America can provide are looking for him, so I do not understand how he has disappeared in such a fashion.”

Tony grins and scratches at his goatee. “No, they aren’t.” He picks up and chomps the hard end of a piece of crust.

“I do not understand.”

“None of the Avengers are working on this problem,” he states, chewing.

On the opposite side of the cluttered table from Tony, Everett frowns, tightens his fist against his thigh and says, “That’s because the Avengers no longer exist, right Tony?”

Tony laughs at Everett’s tight voice, as always indirectly answering questions about the superheroes. “Well, they’re kind of spread out right now, but there’s a bit of a rumor in the grapevine that there’s some sort of consultant coming into town to look into it. Someone Strange has discovered.”

T’Challa considers this. “I do not see how one man is going to be able to do what your team has been unable to accomplish, Stark.”

Tony drains the glass of rum and cola in front of him. Everett notices that he neither admits to nor denies that he’s been involved with anything other than tinkering in his workshop. The clink of the remaining ice cubes seems incredibly loud in the quiet kitchen; as loud as any unanswered question is found to be. For once he seems to be thinking over an answer.

“To be honest, I don’t either, but you know how Strange is when he’s got a bug up his butt. Besides, it’s his turn to show us what he can do here in the real world. I don’t know anything else tonight except for a name.” He rattles the ice in the cup, the shiny gold watch on his wrist artistically catching the low light from over their heads.

“Look, why don’t you two crash here tonight and tomorrow we’ll take a stroll down to Bleecker Street and see what kind of voodoo Strange is cooking up?”

T’Challa agrees immediately, it is not only a chance to find out more but also a chance to be away from all his babysitters for a little while. Everett, however, is feeling more on edge. He’s got a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach and as much as he doesn’t want to, he’s got to ask. He suddenly feels like the floor is going to open beneath his feet and swallow him any second.

“Tony, what’s the name you’ve got?” he asks, trying to sound reasonably curious and not terrified.

Tony looks up from the schematic he’s produced seemingly from nowhere. “Holmes,” he says before turning back to the drawing.

Everett feels all the blood drain from his face. T’Challa eyes him warily, tilting his head to one side in a rather feline manner. “Are you alright, my friend?”

Everett shakes his head, completely ignoring the question. “I need to wash up. Tony?”

Tony waves his hand gracefully without looking up. A short robot scoots into the room on small wheels. “Right this way, sir,” it says to Everett, who looks incredibly relieved to say nothing else.

As soon as Everett is out of the room, T’Challa turns to Tony and inquires, “What was that all about?”

Tony looks up from his drawing and laughs. “I have no idea, but I have a feeling that tomorrow is going to be hella fun!”