Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Pepper Potts faces her newest, biggest problem with the strongest show of professionalism she can muster. Back straight, eyes clear, expression neutral. 

Pacing up and down a hospital corridor. 

Her heels click on the linoleum flooring, louder than the murmurs of the crowds she passes every time she circled back around. She's checked herself in the mirror four times in the last hour and found nothing, not even a hair, out of place. She looks the same as she did when she walked into this hospital building: hair in a neat ponytail, immaculately pressed suit jacket and skirt, Tony's favourite of her pink blouses (no, she didn't forget, even when everyone else did), and grey pumps to complete the simple look. Even so, she feels horrendously underdressed. 

She smooths the front of her jacket down again, refusing to admit she's as nervous as she is. Though, if she’s perfectly honest with herself, she has every right to be. It’s not as if she was expecting to get a call from some shady government agency telling her that they’ve got her dead boss in their custody, could she please keep this a secret and maybe come talk to him so they can figure out if she can make him cooperate? 

So here she is, standing tall and proud and terrified of seeing Tony Stark again after nearly four years, in front of the mirrors of the women’s bathroom. 

Get ahold of yourself, Potts. 

It’s just Tony Stark, after all. She spent ten years wrangling him into submission. There’s no reason to be anxious about it now. 
Except it’s been three and a half years and from what she’s heard from Agent Coulson, this Tony Stark is an entirely different creature. 

Oh god, Pepper moans internally, she can’t do this. 

But isn’t this what she wanted? A miracle? She spent all these years under Stane wishing she could put Tony in a headlock and drag him out of the shop. She’s daydreamed about the banter between them down in the lab. Hell, she’s even longed for the days where she had to drag him hungover out of bed to sign some papers. And now that she’s gotten her wish, she should be happy. Thrilled, even. But all she can work up is worry. 

Because she’s standing in a hospital, on a floor with many doctors and high security. Nobody’s been able or willing to answer any of her questions, Tony’s in a room thirty feet away, there are people everywhere, and Pepper can’t figure out what she should say to him. What do you even say to a man who’s been out of your life for so long? Much less your ex-boss?

In a non-romantic sense, she reminds herself. There may have been something there three and a half years ago, but now there’s only confusion and worry. 

Pepper takes a deep breath.  Procrastination doesn’t get people anywhere. 

One step. Another. She steps away from the mirror on the wall and marches back into the fray. Look at it like a business meeting. Get in, say what needs to be said, visit again if necessary.

Right. 

All her determination grinds to a halt, however, when she hears someone call her name. 

"Pepper!"

It's a familiar voice, even through the rasp and the faint accent around the 'r'. It's tired, different, and she spent ten years listening to it. 

Pepper turns, and there he is. 

She'd like to say she recognizes him the moment she lays eyes on him, but she doesn't. It takes her a long moment to connect what she sees--a thin, sickly-looking man with too-long hair, a week's worth of stubble, and a shaky grip on his IV stand--to her memory of Tony Stark. But it is indeed him, looking in her direction and smiling. She stares a few seconds longer before hesitantly returning that smile. She can't parse any real emotion from the chaos raging in her heart. 

Fear. Surprise. Excitement. Anticipation. A thrill of something undefinable crawling up her spine. 

Say something, she urges herself. He's standing twenty feet away from you. Open your mouth and speak!

But then he looks down and oh. There's a real smile spreading across his face now, as he stares at her ankles and Pepper is so horribly confused-- 

Until a ginger bundle brushes past her legs to sprint in his direction. Tony welcomes it with open arms, releasing the IV stand to crouch next to it. The thing tackles him in the chest, visibly knocking the air out of him but he's grinning so hard it looks like it hurts. His arms curl around the small creature and it purrs loudly enough for Pepper to hear, twenty feet away and apparently invisible. 

"Ah, Pepper," he's saying, holding her close, but that's all she understands; everything else that comes out of his mouth is spoken in a language she doesn't understand. 

It's a cat, she realizes. A cat named Pepper, crawling all over his chest and shoulders and pressing its nose to his neck and cuddling up in his arms, and Tony seems to be perfectly content with sitting on the floor and hugging it. 

It's clear the cat is named after her, and she isn't sure whether to be honored or hopelessly envious of the little ginger beast. 

Has that cat been there for him these last few years? 

She should go talk to him now. While he's right there in front of her. There's no way to avoid it any longer. She can just go up and-- 

"Excuse me," she hears, and automatically steps aside for a huge bald man with a SHIELD t-shirt. He smiles kindly at her. "Thank you," he says, and ducks past other people to approach Tony. "Acervi," he says sternly, still smiling. Another jumble of words in a language she's heard once today and then, "Tony."

Tony cringes theatrically, peering up at the stranger with a sheepish smile. He responds in the same language. The large man shakes his head and bends down to help Tony up, hands on his arms for support with the cat still cuddled up to his chest. Tony shifts to hold the cat (Pepper) in one arm, the other reaching out to the IV stand, still chattering away with this man who seems to know him as they make their way slowly down the hall. Pepper watches them turn into a room and close the door behind them. 

One deep breath. Another. Mind made up and feelings a mess, she ducks back into the bathroom to collect herself. 

It takes nearly an hour for her to compose herself and work up the nerve to talk to him (again). Pepper runs a hand through her ponytail one last time, detangling one last snag, before stepping out of the bathroom and walking straight to Tony's room. 

It's a closet-sized place, with clean white walls and silver machinery. Tony's sleeping in the only bed, set along the opposite wall. He looks pale and disheveled, hospital gown damp with sweat. The covers have been pulled up to his chest, where the same cat from before has curled up. It looks up as she opens the door, fixing her with a hard, blue-eyed stare. Pepper (herself, the human) glances between the cat and its human. The cat yawns, showing sharp white teeth. 

In the hallway, a soft voice announces over the intercom that visiting hours are over for the day. 

She sighs, inching out and closing the door as quietly as possible. It hurts a little, to not have been able to see him. 

Tomorrow, she assures herself. It never hurts to have another day to plan things out. 

Besides, she decides, he's already got a Pepper by his side. 

It just goes to show, she supposes. Tony can't go on for long without a Pepper to lean on. 

Chapter Text

He wakes to a white eggshell ceiling. There’s a quiet, rhythmic beeping echoing in the small room he’s found himself in. His whole body is curiously numb, yet hypersensitive, so he can safely say he’s on a lot of drugs; then again, maybe it’s just the absence of pain for the first time in months that’s causing the disorientation. He moves his arm, slowly, just to prove he can. The sheets are scratchy, a cheap polyester blend unique to military hospitals. He always suspected they’re so stiff and uncomfortable to make bleaching out the bodily fluids easier.

Tony wonders when he’s going to see Sarvankar next. The man had sat with him the first time he awoke, ready to explain everything he’s been told. Doctors are unsure of what to do about your arc reactor , he reported, and have been scanning it in an attempt to understand it. By all rights, he’s heard, the reactor should be impossible: not just what it does, but its very existence baffles the best engineers.

“Did you tell them I’m a genius?” Tony had asked, eyebrows raised. It’s about the only thing he can physically do with any confidence.

Sarvankar smiled. “I did,” he promised, “but I don’t think they really understood it until that moment.”

SHIELD, they call themselves. No one seems willing to share any details other than that. It’s an acronym, he knows that much, but his old boss doesn’t remember all of it. One Agent Coulson had told him, Sarvankar mentioned, a couple of weeks ago when he’d been taken in.

Tony remembers SHIELD. They’re the people who were after Bruce, the reason the pair had gone on the run in the first place. They’d talked about danger, confinement: these people had no good intentions when it came to the Hulk.

The Hulk. That was the last time he’d seen Bruce. Possibly the last time he ever will. The guilt burns in his chest and eyes. He was horrible to his friend in their last moments together. The fact that they had to split up at all is his fault, too.

He stares up at the ceiling and wonders when Bruce will give up looking for him.

Visitor hours are once again over for the day, but he’s allowed to keep Pepper with him. That fact still confuses him, just a little, because what hospital allows cats to run rampant around the place? He’d had to go looking for her yesterday, for Christ’s sake, and it wasn’t fun. The doctors have him hooked up to nine different machines, and he’d had to unhook himself and drag his IV stand along to go find her. The nausea alone had almost put him back on his ass, but fuck these doctors anyway for not telling him what sort of tests they’ve been running on him.

Outside his room is a cacophonous disaster of white coats and professional suits and eyes in his direction. He’d just managed to spot Pepper amongst the uncaring masses; his blurry gaze had caught a flash of ginger at eye level, but he’d reasoned with himself that cats wouldn’t be allowed to climb people’s shoulders and refocused on the floor. When he finally spotted her, he called her over, scooped her up, and got Sarvankar -- who’s been wearing SHIELD-issue attire since they took him in weeks ago -- to help him retreat back into his room, where it’s nice and quiet and bland as hell.

Pepper has since taken to pacing the length of his bed several times before jumping up and curling up on his chest, the way she did in India. It’s one soothing thing in a world of stress and loss. A world he’d thought he’d be free of.

A knock on the door draws his attention. It’s sharp and professional, as much as a knock can have a tone. He calls out to welcome them in, voice harsh and weaker than he’s strictly pleased with. Hospitals are terrible.

His doctor opens the door and slips in, followed by two nurses and an agent that closes the door behind them and stays there. Doctor Garcia is an older man, with salt and pepper hair and smile lines for wrinkles. He hunches over his clipboard a little, but seems friendly enough.

“Hello, Mr. Stark,” he says in a good-natured voice, and offers a smile. Tony’s lips press into a thin line. After years of living the way he has, he’d sort of mentally shaken off the name Stark. It’s not the most pleasant feeling to be hearing it again. “How are we feeling today?”

Tony takes a pointed look around at the beeping machinery and says nothing.

“Good point!” Garcia says, hefting his clipboard. He flips through a few pages and pulls a pen out of his pocket to scribble a few notes with. “Do you feel like telling us exactly what that machine in your chest does?”

As if. He watches the nurses check the readings on the machines and stays quiet.

“Fair enough,” the man concedes. “After all, from what we’ve been able to discern, it’s acting like a pacemaker for you. Your heart’s taken a lot of damage these last couple years, hasn’t it?”

He’s been speaking clearly in English the whole time. The sound grates, just a little.

Garcia hums. “Well, Mr. Stark, I’m going to be frank.” He looks up from his clipboard to stare at Tony. “It doesn’t look good. You’ve been suffering from heavy metal toxicity for a very long time. It’s been building up for years and at this point, it’s almost too late to repair the damage.

“That said, our machinery has been doing its best to combat the poisoning. With your permission, I’d like to try dialysis as an aid in cleaning the palladium from your bloodstream. This means, Mr. Stark, that you won’t be getting up and chasing after your cat for a little while.” This last part is added with a quick grin and a flash of humor.

“It won’t stop it,” Tony finally says in Spanish.

“Well no,” Garcia switches to the same language without missing a beat. “But it’ll give us enough time to try to figure out how to take another step further. That is, removing the problem entirely.”

“You can’t,” Tony states.

“We can’t take out the machine itself, no,” the doctor concedes, making a note. “But we can try to find a way to eliminate the palladium. I take it you’ve been thinking about this problem yourself?”

“Endlessly.”

“Right. Well, what we really want are results, right? And the quickest way to get them would be to take out the problem. For this specific issue, the machine in your chest is not the problem, it’s what’s powering it. If you’re willing to work with our engineers, we can find an alternate power source to keep you going until we reach a permanent solution.”

“And what happens after?” Tony demands. The doctor pauses in his note-taking to listen. “What happens after, if you somehow manage to fix the problem, which, so far you’ve all done a great job of that, thanks, dragging me away from the actual solution. You’ve been dogging Bruce for who knows how long, and then you started chasing me, too. I want to know why, I want to know how, and I want to know now. ”

“Of course, Mr. Stark.”

The answer didn’t come from Doctor Garcia. Rather, it came from the unassuming agent who’s been standing by the door for the last several minutes. Tony turns his head to glare at him, but the agent’s poker face doesn’t so much as flicker.

“I’m Agent Coulson,” the agent says. “And I think we have a lot to talk about.”

Chapter Text

Coulson holds a travel cup of coffee in one hand. Tony loathes him for it.

Their seating is as equal as Tony could manage: the adjustable base of his bed has risen enough that he’s sitting relatively upright, propped up by pillows. Agent Coulson at first seated himself in one of those incredibly uncomfortable plastic visitors’ chairs at the end of Tony’s bed, but it got awkward pretty quickly so he shifted closer, sitting at one side of the bed instead. Tony’s bed isn’t suited to supporting him at an angle to face the man, so he’s settled for turning his head a little. It’s a small concession, but somehow it still stings a little. Once upon a time, he wouldn’t have stood for it at all.

They watch each other for some time. Coulson takes a sip of his coffee.

Agent Coulson — presumably his first name isn’t actually Agent, but Tony wouldn’t put it past him. SHIELD is all about the cloak of mystery, isn’t it? — is an unassuming man of average height and complexion. His age lines speak of both stress and laughter, and his eyes, while shadowed, aren’t soulless like many of the people Tony has met in his life. He’s tempted to start off this whole conversation with a jab at y’know-what-his-first-name-is-probably-actually-Agent’s receding hairline, but he doesn’t think it’ll actually take him anywhere. The man’s expression, calm with a vague Customer Service smile, is inscrutable. As is his business suit: entirely nondescript, likely cheaper than it looks, probably government issue. No personality to it at all. The man is, top to bottom, bland mystery with shiny shoes. Had hepassed him on the street, Tony wouldn’t have even looked at him.

But here, that level of mystery is dangerous. He’s very sure that Agent Coulson has a file on him a foot thick, while Tony has almost nothing to work with in turn. Not that he’s really feeling up to all these mental acrobatics, honestly. Agent better not expect much from him.

Another sip of coffee. Tony’s about as bitter as the smell of those beans at this point, even if he knows that so much as a sip of it would probably kill him with his health the way it is.

“Mr Stark,” Coulson begins. Tony is quick to cut him off.

“Tony,” he interrupts with a flash of irritation. He doesn’t ever want to feel like a Stark again.

“Tony,” the agent acquiesces, a hint of sincerity creeping into his neutral smile. “We find ourselves in a very unique situation, here.” An infinitesimal pause, as though he’s expecting another interruption. Tony is very tempted to give him one, but then that’ll probably be playing into whatever he’s trying to pull right now, and tired as he is, he’s not willing to give them what they want. He stays silent, eyebrows raised. “The situation being,” the agent continues seamlessly, “your status as both wanted and deceased in the eyes of our country. You can’t really be both. We’d like to help you fix that.”

“Fix which?” Tony deadpans. “The death bit or the wanted bit? Because you pretty much guaranteed the former all by yourselves.”

Coulson’s smile ticks up another notch. He takes a sip of his coffee. “By taking you into custody? We have very good doctors.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Tony responds, gesturing to the array of machines along the wall. He doesn’t even know what they all do.

“I can have Doctor Garcia reassigned if you’re not satisfied with your care. However, I don’t think we’ll be able to provide the doctor you’re used to.”

Tony narrows his eyes, sensing a trap.

“Doctor Banner,” the agent clarifies. “Unless you’d like to help us out and get ahold of him for us.”

“Is that a threat?” Tony asks, mildly incredulous.

Agent Coulson seems to consider this over another casual sip of coffee. “I can see why you’d think that. My mistake. We genuinely want to know what he’s been treating you with. Talk it over, synthesize our own, you know. Make sure he’s not dosing you with anything extremely suspect.”

“Suspect,” Tony scoffs. They’re not about to get Bruce through him. The sometimes-Hulk is smarter than that, he hopes. SHIELD is the whole reason they went on the move in the first place; if he had any sense at all he wouldn’t approach them for anything. “He said it was whatlithium dioxide. That should be enough for you and your very good doctors .”

“Hmm,” Coulson replies, noncommittally. “I’m not particularly science-minded, but last I checked lithium dioxide wasn’t a thing.”

Tony shrugs gingerly.

“Okay,” says the agent. “That helps a little, sort of. Thank you for your cooperation.”

“What,” Tony demands as the agent gets to his feet, dusting off his jacket with one hand. “Is that it? All this dramatic, we need to talk , vaguely threatening noises about Bruce, sipping your coffee in a way that makes me want to reach across this bed rail and strangle you , and for what? To confirm that Bruce made a thing that stopped me from dying so soon?”

“Oh,” Coulson responds, pausing mid-step on his way towards the door. “We knew that. We just didn’t know if he was sticking you full of a bastardized super soldier serum to keep you going.”

“ What?”

“Tell me,” the agent says suddenly. “Did you ever get a proper look at this lithium dioxide? Did he actually show it to you? Did he make it himself?”

“Yes?” Tony says, affronted. “He kept them in a case. Showed them to me when he first got ahold of them.”

“That’s good,” Coulson replies. “What color was it? So our scientists can know what to look out for.”

Here, Tony falters. He’s running out of steam in both respects, and falls into a moment of silent contemplation. “The syringes were opaque,” he offers, finally. “Solid plastic, except for the needle.”

“Interesting. And did he have to keep these syringes chilled, by any chance?”

“There wasn’t exactly A/C everywhere we went,” Tony says scathingly.

Coulson shrugs. “Fair enough. He can’t have been storing blood, then.”

“ Blood?”

“Or.” A contemplative expression crosses his face. “He was drawing it on a case by case basis, and the case full was just for show. I’ll have to bring it up to the higher-ups.”

There are way too many -- entirely wrong -- implications about Bruce’s integrity and… blood? In that statement. “What the hell are you trying to say here?” Tony demands.

“Did Doctor Banner ever tell you anything about the Hulk?” Coulson asks conversationally.  

“We might’ve talked about it,” Tony responds with a scowl “not that it’s any of your business.”

“Of course not. We’ll be in touch.” And with that parting shot, Coulson walks out the door, leaving Tony to think about everything that was said.

A few minutes later, Doctor Gabriel walks in, clipboard in hand, trailed by a nurse. He’s a lot less smiley than he was earlier. Tony watches them warily.

“Mr Stark,” the doctor says, clearing his throat and slipping into easy Spanish. “We’d like to request a blood sample.”

Chapter Text

“Name?”

“Tony?”

“ Full name?”

“Tony.”

“Blood type?”

“A positive.”

“Place of residence?”

“Not here.”

“Occupation?”

“Mechanic.”

Here the agent pauses, humor contorting the edges of her otherwise flawless professional mask. Tony smirks.

“You like that one, huh?”

“I’m just not sure how accurate of a statement that is.”

“It’s plenty accurate. I fix cars for a living.”

“So you don’t moonlight as an anti-military vigilante?” she responds, dry as dust. “In a tin can?”

“Hmm,” Tony says, noncommittal. “They call that guy Iron Man, right? So, not tin.”

“Not iron, either,” the agent counters. Tony offers her a gentle shrug, feeling a little wobbly around the edges himself. They’ve started the dialysis. It’s taking a lot out of him (and hopefully putting some back), so clearly SHIELD has decided to strike while he’s down. The agent seated next to him has a fucking clipboard of all things, and continues to use it with extreme prejudice. That is, she’s sitting with one leg over the other, making quick, quiet notes while staring him down. He’d mistook her for a shrink for about point-two seconds, but she doesn’t have the bearing for it. Coulson is dangerous. This woman is so far from scary that he can’t help but poke fun at her.

“We looked into the shop in question,” she continues, barreling over his muttered what shop was in question? ruthlessly with the answer. “The owner, one Nikhil Sarvankar, mentioned that you also processed cars for scrap for a small fee. However, he was unable or unwilling to give us more information: as a result, we have him in protective custody for further questioning. Tell me, where did you dump all the cars you stripped for parts to make the Iron Man armor?”

“Is it legal for you to do that to the guy?” Tony inquires. “Detain him for questioning? What did he do?”

Her smile is razor sharp. “Protective custody.”

“No, but I’m pretty sure there are laws about this sort of thing. What are those laws, again? I never paid attention in class.”

“SHIELD,” she says imperiously, “is a government body. Sometimes we follow the law. Sometimes we operate above the law, and sometimes, on the really fun days, we make them.”

It takes Tony a long time to digest that arrogant bit. “Okay, sure,” he says finally. “Can I get that in writing? Do you have it recorded? You lot are sketchy enough that you’re probably watching me sleep. I feel like I’ll be able to use that against you at some point. Not just the sleeping thing, but also what you just said. Heavy stuff.”

The smile drops off the agent’s face. Playtime’s over, he supposes. “Mr Stark.”

“Tony,” he chimes, with an extra irritating smile.

“You don’t seem to understand the situation you’re in here.”

“Oh, I sure do. Agent Agent and I had a good, if vaguely ominous, chat about it. I’m cleared to go, didn’t you know? Just waiting on you to sign those release papers.”

“I’m sure,” she says dismissively. “So about those cars.”

This is clearly a leading statement. Tony raises both eyebrows and waits for her to continue.

She prompts, “What did you do with them?”

“Well, you seem to have it all figured out,” Tony answers drily. “Why bother asking me?”

Her fingers flex on the clipboard. Her first true sign of irritation. Tony’s gonna report her to Coulson, just to be petty. If SHIELD agents are going to maintain that stone-cold reputation around him, she’s gonna need some extra training.

“And anyway, can you actually detain my buddy there if he’s not actually a US citizen?”

“We are SHIELD,” she repeats.

“Yeah, see, that doesn’t tell me anything. In fact, that specific non-answer makes me think the answer is no, it is very illegal and you should let us go.”

“Us?” The agent scoffs. “Even if we were to release Mr Sarvankar, you wouldn’t be going anywhere--”

“Why not?” Tony interrupts. “I’m not a US citizen, either!”

“Yes, you are?”

Got her. “Actually, I’m dead in the eyes of the US Government.”

“But you’re not,” she retorts. “You’re right here, alive and breathing on US soil, receiving life-saving care by our best medical services. Something you sorely needed.”  

“I wouldn’t need life-saving care if you’d have just left me,” Tony hisses, stung.

“No, you wouldn’t, because you’d be dead.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” the agent answers scathingly, “because when Captain Rogers brought you in you were on your deathbed.”

Tony’s first (regrettable) instinct is to associate Captain Rogers with Captain America. The thought quickly gives way to a general sense of indignation. “Oh, of course. Why don’t you bring Captain Rogers down here so I can thank him personally for my newfound indefinite imprisonment?”

The SHIELD agent sniffs, getting to her feet and brushing off the front of her navy jumpsuit. “I hardly think Captain America has the time to come down and visit you, Tony. He doesn’t negotiate with terrorists.”

“What -- did you just say Captain America? ” Tony demands, caught entirely off guard. He sits up straighter in bed, an abrupt action that tugs on the complicated string of tubing attached to his arm. The pain that follows is sudden and sharp, causing him to freeze involuntarily, but it’s nothing in the grand scheme of things. That is, the idea that SHIELD has created a new Captain -- or at least, a figurehead that looks like him.

“And what if I did?” the agent taunts on her way out the door. She looks unbearably smug about the whole thing, wearing that little I know something you don’t know sort of smirk that Tony wants to punch off her face with an Iron Man gauntlet. “That’s SHIELD business and highly confidential. Rest well, Tony. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

The door closes behind her with a click. Tony stares blankly at the sheet of painted metal, furiously replaying their conversation in his head in an attempt to figure out whether or not she was lying about everything.

Captain America?