Cruel Vengeance

Stark Tower

May 2011

Tony paced the lab, waiting. “Dummy, come on, this isn’t rocket science.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Well…”

“Shut up,” Tony said.

Steve shut up.

The tension hadn’t bled out of Tony’s frame once since the battle. Even when Steve or Jane occasionally found him passed out in his lab, he was rigid and nervous in his sleep, often twitching and muttering.

Now, Tony was jerkier and more impatient than Steve remembered him being on the helicarrier, in the short time they’d known each other before the battle. He was working on improving Steve’s suit in some way. Or possibly it was the quiver project for Clint. Steve wasn’t sure. He had noticed that Tony usually had at least five ideas in various stages of production at any given time, and somehow he managed to finish all of them eventually.

“There we go,” Tony said, and snatched something from one of the robot assistants constantly hovering around him. It was small and had several lights on it in different shades of green. Steve watched Tony walk briskly over to his holotable-

Tony’s phone rang.

He whipped it out of his pocket and fumbled with the screen. Steve’s heart went out to the man for the desperate hope showing clearly on his normally-controlled face.

He wondered if Bruce had made any headway on the PTSD thing. Steve had taken Darcy’s advice and roped Bruce into the effort, but so far Tony had brushed off Bruce’s initial efforts.

Tony raised the phone to his ear. “Stark,” he said.

There was a pause.

His face whitened. The device fell out of his hand and shattered on the floor.

“Tony,” Steve began, and then Tony ran from the room.

The Avengers were sprawled around the hospital waiting room in various disguises.

Predictably, Clint and Maria blended in perfectly, Clint with a coffee and a blind man’s sunglasses and cane, Maria with an old-fashioned dress that Steve found somewhat endearing, glasses, and a magazine. Somehow they also managed to alter their posture and bearing and became so differnt Steve might not have recognized them in a casual environmental scan.

Darcy managed it quite well, becoming quite unassuming between her demeanor and a baggy hoodie and loose hairstyle that obscured her eye-catching looks. She sat back and tapped away on her StarkPhone, the picture of a bored young woman.

Bruce and, Steve suspected, himself hadn’t been so successful. Bruce looked uncomfortable, possibly because he’d once been a doctor, and he was definitely attracting some odd looks. Luckily, it was mainly footage of the Hulk and not Bruce that dominated the newsfeeds, so people didn’t really recognize him. Steve, on the other hand, knew that his tall, muscular frame and his face were widely known. He’d put on a large leather jacket and a baseball cap and kept his eyes down, but he could tell that people were staring. One of the “perks” of being an enhanced person.

Tony was the most obvious of them all.

He’d made no attempt to disguise himself; his eyes were bloodshot and his face pale and hard as granite. Steve hadn’t seen him blink in several minutes. Tony simply sat with his hands gripping each other tightly enough to turn his knuckles white and stared blankly at the linoleum floor. He’d tried to get into the back of the hospital, where Pepper had apparently had some kind of seizure and been rushed into surgery; it had taken Steve, Maria, and two nurses to hold him back until he quit fighting and sat down. Now Steve, Maria, and Clint were all keeping a close watch on him.

The door to the visitor’s lounge opened.

They all turned their attention that way, some more subtly than others. Steve did an automatic scan of the doctor in the doorway - six foot even, fit but not a fighter, African American - and turned his attention back to his team.

Tony was on his feet, staring at the doctor.

“Mr. Stark?” the doctor said. “I’m Dr. Paine.”

“Pepper?” Tony said hoarsely.

Paine’s lips thinned. “We did all we could, but the cerebral trauma was… too severe.” He took a breath. “She’s… she’s gone. I’m so sorry.”

He was, Steve could tell. He decided that must be the worst part of this profession. It wasn’t so different from Steve’s occupation, really: no matter how many people you saved, it was always the few you couldn’t that haunted your dreams. The people who died because you weren’t fast enough, strong enough, skilled enough to keep them alive.

Tony was trembling.

“Thank you,” Steve said to Paine, stepping over to Tony. “Is there anything else…?”

“Not at the moment,” Paine said.

Ask about her body, Steve mouthed to Maria. She nodded briskly, and Steve guided Tony out of the lounge, eyeing him sideways. Tony showed no sign of resistance or awareness, moving robotically. The tap of Clint’s cane followed them down the hallway until Steve found a staff exit and left the building.

He heard Darcy murmuring into her phone, asking JARVIS to send their cars down around to this corner of the building - for security, Tony had installed a highly advanced autonomous system in all their vehicles and upgraded each car’s internal computers. Steve had been grateful, as he could use the voice control for help while he figured out how to drive cars that were seventy-five years more advanced than he was used to.

“Tony,” Steve said gently. “Tony, can you get back to the tower?”

That seemed to snap him out of it. Tony turned and raised an eyebrow at Steve. “Tower? Why would I go there?”

There was a fierce and uncompromising energy glittering in Tony’s eyes, born of grief and pressure and stress and worry and collapsing hope. He was caving in and retreating inside his shell for protection, burying all of it beneath the playboy facade. For the first time, Steve realized that false image was as much to protect Tony from himself as it was to shield him from others.

“No, we’re going back to the tower,” Darcy said firmly, grabbing Tony’s other arm.

He jerked away and glared at them both. “You don’t give me orders,” he hissed, and as his orange Audi pulled up to the curb, Tony jumped inside and saluted them both.

“JARVIS, stop him,” Darcy said.

“JARVIS, don’t let them follow me,” Tony countered, and floored it.

Steve bolted after the orange sports car, but its modern engine accelerated faster than he could, even in the parking lot.

Darcy cursed and jumped in her vehicle. Bruce hauled open the passenger door of Steve’s car - they’d come together - and Clint and Maria ran for their motorcycles.

Steve slid into the driver’s seat and gunned the gas pedal after Tony, but when he tried to turn after the scientist, the wheel locked and the car stopped. “I’m sorry, but I cannot allow you to follow Mr. Stark,” JARVIS said. “He has commanded that I return you all to Avengers Tower. I am sorry for the inconvenience.”

“Damn these cars,” Steve hissed.

Bruce cast a worried look at Steve. “He’s not going to… hurt himself, do you think?”

Steve bit back his shock. Self-harm and suicide had been taboo subjects, shameful actions, back in the forties. He remembered what a shock it had been that such things were so much more freely acknowledged in modern times, although he admitted it was good that people were aware of such issues and better at helping people recover. “I… don’t know,” he said slowly.

“If Mr. Stark engages in behaviors that seem designed to inflict physical harm or deliberately lead to his death, I will notify the Avengers and the police and do everything in my power to stop him. Will that suffice?”

“It’ll have to,” Steve muttered. “Why I ever let him give me a car…”

Bruce sighed and tipped his head back.

The city lights washed over the silent interior of Steve’s little unassuming car. Darcy’s car and the two motorcycles trailed behind. It reminded Steve forcefully of his mother’s funeral and the train of vehicles following the hearse.

He wished he’d been able to know Pepper. They hadn’t met before the battle, but from what everyone said about her, from what Tony said about her… She must have been a remarkable woman indeed, to command the fidelity of Tony Stark, to run Stark Industries as she did. As strong as Peggy, in her own way.

Steve shoved aside his grief. He needed to go see Peggy soon.

But not yet. Not yet. Not while he was still adjusting. And not while Tony needed him here.

Clint found him in the parking garage after three hours with a silent nod and something wrapped in a plastic bag labeled SubWay. Steve examined the logo briefly, committing it to memory, and discovered that a footlong sandwich loaded down with toppings and condiments.

His stomach growled.

Clint smiled. “Thought you’d be hungry.”

Steve nodded. He didn’t think he could talk with his mouth this full.

Clint passed over a water bottle and sat down next to Steve on the cold bench by the private elevator to the Avengers’ floors. “When do you think he’ll be back?”

“Soon, I hope,” Steve said. It came out as sss, I (gurgle). He swallowed hard and repeated himself, adding, “JARVIS still not saying anything?”

Clint shook his head. “Apparently Tony ordered JARVIS keep our vehicles out of service and not tell us where he is. Darcy said something about searching social media for him, but she hasn’t had any luck, which is admittedly odd. She’s in a terrible mood. So’s Maria. Bruce went to bed and I still don’t know where Tasha-” He broke off, looking frustrated.

“Natasha’s fine,” Steve said. “I miss her too, but - you know what she’s capable of. She can look after herself.”

“Tasha’s not who I’m worried about,” Clint said, but didn’t elaborate.

“You gonna wait with me?” Steve asked after several minutes of silence.

Clint shrugged. “I’m not sure how I ended up den mother for a bunch of superheroes, but since Darcy and I are the only people who remember to feed ourselves regularly, looks like that’s my job. So yeah.”

“Well, thanks for the sandwich,” Steve said. “It definitely doesn’t taste like it has Tony’s ego on it.”

Clint laughed, but the brief levity faded quickly, and they lapsed back into silence.

For two and a half more hours.

At last, the rumble of the private parking level door brought Steve and Clint to their feet. Steve winced and stretched stiff, cold muscles and caught Clint doing the same.

The orange Audi purred into view and parked perfectly in Tony’s usual spot.

Clint and Steve exchanged a glance when Tony didn’t immediately get out and started walking toward the car.

They were almost there when the driver door opened with a hiss and Tony staggered out. He had changed out of his T-shirt and khakis at some point, into a designer suit and dress shoes. The suit and shoes were both ruined. He stank of alcohol to Steve’s enhanced nose and was clearly extremely drunk. Something that looked suspiciously like olives was mashed in his damp hair.

Clint’s eyes widened. “Man, it’s a miracle you didn’t crash.”

“I was responsible for operating Mr. Stark’s vehicle,” JARVIS said from the car’s speakers. “I have a protocol instructing me to lock manual vehicular controls when Mr. Stark is in a state of intoxication.”

“That’s smart,” Clint muttered, and glared at Tony. “What have you been doing?”

“Living the life,” Tony slurred, and almost fell over.

Steve and Clint caught him at the same time. Steve wrinkled his nose at the stench of body odor and alcohol that was coming off Tony in waves. It reminded him of the hours he’d spent trying to get drunk after Bucky’s death, and he fought hard to keep a mixture of jealousy at bay. Tony still had this escape. Some people’s only way out was a punching bag.

Although, judging from Tony’s admittedly impressive fitness level, it seemed he used the punching bag coping method somewhat regularly himself.

“Come on,” Clint grunted. Tony managed to keep himself upright long enough for Clint and Steve to each sling one of his arms over their shoulders and awkwardly led him toward the elevator in a strange and unbalanced clot.

“JARVIS, does he have a breathalyzer anywhere?” Clint asked.

“Clint,” Steve said. “That’s not necessary.”

Clint shrugged. “It’d be interesting. I haven’t seen anyone this drunk since Tasha slipped extra alcohol in the Hungarian ambassador’s drinks all night in Austria five years ago.”

“Tell me that shsstory later,” Tony mumbled. “Ssounds f… unny.”

“Oh-kay, yeah, let’s get him to bed,” Clint said.

Tony raised one hand and poked Steve hard in the back of the head. “What arrre… you doing here?”

“Taking care of your sorry drunk ass,” Steve snapped, and took a breath. You would’ve gotten just this drunk after… after Bucky… if you could’ve. It was less than two years ago by his mental clock that he had lost his best friend. Sixty-seven years separated Bucky from today, but Steve couldn’t forget.

Tony squinted sideways at Steve as they got on the elevator. “I… hated you,” he said. “When I was a kid. Alwayssss… the one Dad liked.”

“Agent Barton, there is a breathalyzer located in Ms. Potts’ and Mr. Stark’s bedroom. Would you care for me to direct you to it?”

Is that worry in JARVIS’ voice?

“Not ssssleeping in there,” Tony mumbled, pawing at Clint. “N-no…”

“Fine, you can sleep on the couch,” Steve sighed.

The elevators dinged open onto the level above the penthouse - Tony’s private floor. Steve, Clint, Maria, and Bruce had all been given a suite on the floor above, but Tony kept this floor to himself and Pepper.

Just himself now.

Darcy was waiting on the couch.

Tony squinted her direction as Steve and Clint helped him out of the elevator.

“Thought this might happen,” she said. “Do you guys think I’m psychic?”

“You being psychic would be the least weird part of the last month,” Clint said.

Darcy jerked a thumb over her shoulder. “Bedroom’s that way.”

“He wants the sofa,” Steve said.

Darcy raised an eyebrow. “All righty then.

Steve’s lips tightened and he and Clint dumped Tony onto the nearest sofa. The scientist squinted up at them and tried to roll over, but he just collapsed back down with a moan.

“I’ll find some water,” Clint said.

“Aspirin, too,” Darcy said. “Check the fridge.”

“I’ll find the breathalyzer,” Steve said, and they split up. Clint headed in the direction of the kitchen, and Steve heard him begin to rummage around as he pushed open the door to the bedroom. Darcy was shifting things around in the living area, probably pillows and blankets.

Steve hesitated on the threshold. It was another difference between his childhood and modern behavioral patterns: a couple’s bedroom, unless they were your parents, was more or less off-limits, depending on how close you were to one or both members of the couple. Steve’s enhanced senses picked up a faint aroma that was a distinct mix of Tony and something else, slightly more feminine. It was dark, private, and not nearly as ostentatious as Steve might’ve expected. But then again, neither was the rest of Tony’s floor.

Unable to shake the feeling that he was intruding somewhere he shouldn’t, Steve pulled the StarkPhone out of his pocket. “JARVIS, where’s the breathalyzer?”

“It is located in the top drawer on your left side of the bed,” JARVIS responded.

This side of the bed was flat, the smell fainter. Pepper’s, probably. Steve guessed she kept the breathalyzer nearby to check on Tony when he was like this.

The small black device rested neatly next to a 9mm Glock, a magazine loaded with hollow points, a flashlight, and a heavy book with a title in Spanish. Steve squinted at it - he hadn’t ever really focused on learning Spanish, since it was mostly German, Russian, and French that he had to deal with.

“She was reading that,” Tony said hoarsely.

Steve turned. Tony was standing in the doorway, grief and exhaustion hammered into every line of his body.

“For… the company,” Tony added. “It’ssss a famous… business…” He trailed off. Steve noticed that his gaze had landed on the one photograph in the room, a glossy eight-by-twelve of Pepper and Tony by an airplane with the words Stark Industries on it. Pepper was looking at the plane, focused and determined but with a little smile playing about her lips. Tony in the picture was looking at Pepper with as much intensity as Steve had ever seen on his face. It was one of those candid moments that always left outsiders feeling like they should step away. Steve’s discomfort increased.

“Come on,” he said, and led Tony out of the doorway, closing the room firmly behind them. Tony offered no resistance as Steve dragged him back to the sofa.

He examined the breathalyzer in his hand. There was a nozzle - presumably that went in the person’s mouth? And several rubber buttons, and a light-up screen. Steve still didn’t know how they made the colors so bright - Bruce had called it an LCD display.

“What does LCD stand for?” he asked Tony.

“Liquid cryssstal display,” Tony said.

Steve pushed the button with a “power” symbol on it and the screen flickered to life.

“Okay,” he muttered, and stuck the nozzle in between Tony’s lips. “Breathe.”

Tony obligingly took a few deep breaths.

Nothing happened.

Clint walked out of the kitchen with a tall glass of water and something else in his hand. “Bastard hid the aspirin way in the back of the fridge,” he said.

Darcy popped out of the bathroom with a wet towel.

Steve looked up. “How do you, ah…?” He held up the breathalyzer.

“I got it,” Darcy said, set down the towel, and glanced at the device. “You have to press ‘start’ first, Cappie.” She pointed to a little button on the side.

Steve nodded and watched Darcy repeat the process with expert skill, except she pressed the ‘start’ button as soon as the nozzle was in Tony’s mouth.

There was a beep about forty-five seconds later, and Darcy glanced at the screen, then angled it to face them. Clint’s eyebrows shot up. “Point twenty-one? Man, what in the hell were you drinking?”

Steve cast his eyes upward. “Tony-”

“‘Mmm fine,” Tony said. “Lemme sleep.”

“Hold up, cowboy,” Darcy said, and stuffed two little red pills into Tony’s mouth. She followed them with the water so quickly that Tony had no choice but to swallow and held it at his lips, forcing him to continue swallowing. The towel was ready in her left hand when Tony sputtered and a bit of water dripped down his cheek.

Darcy plunked the mostly-empty glass on the table and wiped at Tony’s face, neck, and hair. She was brisk, but not ungentle.

Steve’s eyebrows furrowed. There was… an element of practice here - of well-established routine to Darcy’s movement pattern. When had she learned to do this so easily?

A glance at Clint told Steve that he was thinking the same thing.

Darcy blew hair out of her face and cast Tony a look that was part irritated, part fond. His eyes were closed.

“Get his jacket and shoes off,” she told Steve and Clint. “I’m going to find more blankets. There’s like two pillows out here and that one blanket looks like a shawl. Why people choose aesthetics over function I do not understand…”

She wandered off in the direction of the bathroom.

Steve and Clint began wrestling Tony’s suit jacket, belt, and shoes off. Clint handled the belt and shoes with dexterity while Steve struggled with the jacket.

At last, he got the sweat-stained, damp garment off, and put it on the floor by the shoes and belt.

Tony was sound asleep on the couch, mouth open and eyebrows tight.

“What do you know about Darcy’s past?” Steve asked in a low voice.

Clint glanced toward the bathroom. “Not much,” he admitted quietly. “She got into Boston University on a full ride and majored in political science. Picked up that internship with Jane the summer after her last year of college to finish off her science credits, and… you’ve probably heard the rest.”

Steve nodded.

“She seems pretty familiar with people drunk out of their minds,” Clint added. “Didn’t bat an eye at the breathalyzer reading.

“I noticed,” Steve said grimly.

“My dad was an alcoholic.”

Both men whipped around guiltily and found Darcy standing behind them. Her face was fierce and uncompromising. She held a stack of blankets and pillows in her arms.

How did she manage to sneak up on us?

“I was the oldest of three kids. No mom in the house. I’m pretty sure at least one of us was only a half sibling. Lizzie. I ended up the default washer-of-drunk-faces.”

Steve didn’t know what to say.

“I don’t want your pity,” Darcy said sharply, glaring at both of them.

Clint raised his hands. “Wasn’t going to offer any.”

Darcy nodded once and started tucking the blankets in neatly around Tony.

Clint and Steve waited awkwardly until she was finished and then walked with her toward the elevators.

“Darcy,” Clint said quietly. “You know you can… talk to us. If you want to. Honesty helps.”

Darcy glanced at him dismissively. “Tell that to the mirror.”

Clint flinched.

Steve watched them closely. Was Clint hiding something that Darcy had picked up on? She was intuitive, good at reading people and social maneuvering; she’d proved that already.

When they arrived on the Avengers’ residential floor, Darcy called “Nighty night,” over her shoulder and vanished into her room almost immediately.

Steve lingered by his door until Clint had shut himself away as well before he at last went inside.

The suite provided by Tony was larger than anywhere Steve had ever stayed, even as Captain America, when he was hosted by some of the most posh hotels in the country. He had a bedroom with a walk-in closet, a living room, a full bathroom off his bedroom and another smaller one off the living room, a conference-slash-dining-room, a full kitchen even though there was one in the penthouse where they often ate together, another room that Steve thought was supposed to be an office or study of some kind, and an exercise room. It was ridiculous, but kind of nice, to have this much space to himself.

Although the bed was way too soft.

Steve decided there wasn’t a point in trying to sleep - even if he could, it would be restless and leave him just as tired as if he hadn’t slept at all. He grabbed the wraps for his knuckles and walked into the small gymnasium, where a hundred-fifty pound punching bag waited patiently.

Steve took a deep breath, stilled his mind, and started hitting.