Chapter Text
Act I
Steve doesn’t quite know what he expected when he decided to set foot on Tony Stark’s immaculately striped backyard, but it certainly wasn’t a teenaged runt rolling around in the grass and screeching with laughter while a Tibetan mastiff leaps on top of him and slobbers his face with its tongue.
“Grumpy! Grumpy! Ow--ow--ow--okay, you win! I give up! You win!” The boy shrieks out another peal of laughter as the dog’s paws dig into a particularly ticklish spot in his side. Bobbing its head in triumph, the dog sits back on its haunches, still tangled on top of the boy’s limbs, and pants with a contented cock of its head.
“Good girl. Who’s a good girl now?”
The kid sits up, wincing slightly, and encircles the dog’s untrimmed floof of fur around her neck with both his arms. His denim jacket is patchy in spots with dew and dark grass clippings. The dog takes advantage of his vulnerability just then to sneak attack him with another lick to the face.
“Ew! Gross! Grumpy.” Still, his voice holds only fondness. He continues to comb his fingers through her fur and scratch her behind her right ear, when suddenly she turns in Steve’s direction with a whine.
The boy follows her gaze. He doesn’t scramble to his feet like Steve originally assumed he would, but there is no mistaking how his stance tenses a second later. His eyes lock on Steve’s and maintain the contact while the man makes slow strides toward him across the lawn.
“Afternoon, son,” Steve says in what he hopes sounds like an affable greeting. “You live in the compound?”
The kid’s eyes narrow infinitesimally. “Funny that you ask that, Mr. Rogers,” he says, tone casual and light. “I don’t think you do.”
Steve’s steps slow to a halt. His hands begin to curl at his sides--habit, he chides himself--before he wills them to loosen again. He’s unsure what to say to that. He glances to the side, toward the reflection of the sun bouncing off the glass panes of the top floors of the compound. When he returns his gaze to the teenager, he realizes with a jolt he’s towering over the kid, who hasn’t budged an inch from his seat in the grass. If the sun were to shift just a bit to the west, Steve’s own shadow would be thrown over the boy’s form like a metaphor for the threat that he clearly is from the kid’s eyes.
The boy’s grip on the dog’s neck fur tightens ever so slightly. The only sign that, perhaps, the glint in his irises is not fear--not intimidation--but mistrust. A thinly veiled aggression. And the dog must be restrained, lest she pick up on the signals radiating from her owner.
“Glad to say I haven’t heard that one before,” Steve finally quips back. The dry jest falls flat between them. Too many seconds have already passed.
“Easy, Grumpy,” the kid mutters, as the dog surges forward at the sound of Steve’s voice. To the man he replies: “The compound’s closed.”
Steve makes a noncommittal hum. “I definitely called before I came over. Heard there’s still folks living in there.”
For whatever reason, that particular statement of Steve’s seems to make the skin around the kid’s eyes tighten. “Not anyone who you should be seeing, sir.”
“Right. War criminal and all that,” Steve says evenly, nodding.
The dog lets out another low whine. The kid shushes her and wraps both arms around her again to bring her head toward his chest. The gesture distinctly reminds Steve of a father calming a child against a storm. He supposes the comparison isn’t completely unwarranted.
“Does Tony know you’re here?”
Tony. First name basis? Steve files that tidbit away for later analysis.
Instead, he blinks and finds himself raising his head again to the top floor of the compound beside them. Habit. Each one is still hard to break, even after a year of absence. He shakes his head. “I didn’t exactly give him a heads up.”
“Wrong, Mr. Rogers,” the kid says quietly. The man glances back down at him. “He knows you’re here. You think he wouldn’t have doubled the security and perimeter alarms?”
A muscle in Steve’s jaw twitches. The kid may not have uttered it, but the other half of his sentence still rings clear. You think he wouldn’t have done that, after everything that went down between you two?
“Well, then, I guess if he wanted to take me down, he would’ve had the technology to have already done that by now.”
The kid raises his chin with lips pressed into a thin line, as if to acquiesce: You’re not wrong.
“What’s your name, son?”
A beat. “Peter.”
“Nice to meet you, Peter. Beautiful dog you’ve got there.”
“She’s not mine, but I’d fight anyone who tried to hurt her.”
Steve can’t help the creeping feeling that somehow, the kid’s words were meant to bear a double meaning.
He changes the subject. “You still in school?”
Peter nods. “High school.”
“Freshman?”
“A rising junior, actually,” Peter corrects him. Though Steve has known the kid for barely two minutes, something tells him that Peter’s answering smile is tight. Forced.
“My bad. So...is school nearby?”
Peter crosses his legs underneath Grumpy. He gives Steve a look that resembles You and I both know there are no schools for almost fifty miles around here. His gaze is too calculating for the man’s comfort.
“No,” Peter answers at last. “I go to school in the city. Midtown Tech.”
Steve wonders just then where his hunch came from. “That’s in Queens, isn’t it?”
“For science geeks, yeah,” Peter cuts him off. He hasn’t exactly answered the question. “And before you ask, I’m an intern for Mr. Stark.”
Mr. Stark. Steve suddenly decides there is nothing casual at all to the swing from first name to surname, and he can’t shake the sensation that there is something slightly deeper behind it.
“He’s taking interns now?” Steve lets his hands hang loosely on his hips, opening up his stance a little. “Sounds like a lot has changed in the past year.”
“Mr. Rogers. That’s the understatement of a...century.” The kid’s tone is dry--excessively so. He stands this time, slowly, with a hint of caution, and even though Steve knew from the start the boy is small, he can’t deny that he does have presence. If not for the frayed edge on his hoodie and the grass stains all over his denim jacket which belie his painful youth, Steve might almost venture to say Peter could stand like a man.
And Steve definitely doesn’t miss the jab at Captain America’s upcoming centennial birthday.
He lifts his baseball call to smooth back his overgrown hair before placing it back down on his head again and lifting a chin toward the compound. “Well, it’s been a pleasure talking to you, Peter. I’ll...see you around.” And he starts moving toward the closest entrance he remembers.
A few seconds later, he glances back. The kid is matching him stride for stride, hand buried in the fur of the Tibetan mastiff’s neck.
“Are you following me?”
“Not at all, sir,” Peter replies without missing a beat, as he blatantly follows Steve to the glass door.
FRIDAY’s lilting voice startles the man from somewhere above. “Captain Rogers. I’m afraid you do not have clearance to access the compound.”
“Uh...that’s all right. Can you ask Tony?”
“I will ask, but--” Suddenly FRIDAY pauses, and then resumes in an unmistakably sullen voice: “Boss has temporarily overridden my protocol. Access granted, Captain Rogers.”
There is markedly no “Welcome back, Captain Rogers” tacked on at the end of that, but Steve’ll take whatever he can get. The blue lights on the pathway ahead of him lead him straight to the communal kitchen. The habits pounded into him by years of military training still have him scanning the area from his peripheral vision. It’s open, no tight corners, flooded with light, surrounded with ceiling-to-floor glass windows. Steve doesn’t doubt the choice of first meeting place is no coincidence.
Tony’s voice drifts out from behind the bar. “Parker. Back in from your break?”
Peter stiffens a little. “Yeah. Y-yeah, Mr. Stark.”
“Good. Because I need you to get back on fixing that pixelation bug with the StarkPhone 6.7. The one we were discussing last week.”
Steve slides his gaze sideways just in time to catch the boy furrowing his brow. “Sure. Of course, Mr. Stark.”
“Lab 4. The schematics are already pulled up.”
“Key code?”
Tony leans over the bar then, for the first time offering Steve a glimpse of the side of his face. The goatee is still as impeccable as ever, eyes dark and expressive as he remembers them, but something’s shifted in his visage. A kind of fondness. A tentative relief that Tony doesn’t yet want to believe in, as he makes eye contact with the kid.
“Don’t worry about it. FRIDAY’ll let you in.”
“Thanks, Mr. Stark.”
“Ah-ah-ah, no furry mammals in any of my labs.”
“I know. I’ll drop her off outside.”
“Happy’s just pulled up in the west garage. You can swing by there and then head on up.”
“Sounds good, Mr. Stark!”
“Parker, hold up.” Tony grabs a fruit from the wire bowl on the counter and unceremoniously tosses it at Peter’s retreating back. Steve bites back a grunt of surprise when the kid simply turns around and catches it in one hand with what could almost be described as a bored expression on his face.
“An orange? Really, Mr. Stark? You won’t let Grumpy in but the sticky fruit juice is A-okay--”
“Clementine. Know your citrus fruits, kid.” Tony clears his throat and sniffs. When Grumpy starts nosing around the fruit in Peter’s hand with an eager whine, Tony waves the two off with a dismissive hand. “Okay, Parker. Up you go. I want a full and detailed report by the time you come back down here in an hour.”
Only then, for the first time in the past five minutes, does Peter flick his gaze up at Steve. It would be difficult not to, considering the man is standing directly in his line of vision between him and Tony now. Peter’s gaze swerves sideways to lock on Tony’s. “Mr. Stark, I can be quicker than that.”
Tony rubs a hand over his chin. The unmistakable hint that what he is about to say is coded. “It’s all right. An hour should be good.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Yeah, I’m sure.” Tony points at thin air in the direction of Peter’s retreating form. “Remember, Lab 4.”
“I don’t know what you call that, but that sure as heck isn’t an intern,” Steve remarks in a low voice, once the boy and his oddly fluffy dog are gone.
“I don’t care what you think, but my intern is not the reason for your visit,” Tony shoots back. He grabs a bottle of scotch from under the counter and pours himself a generous glass. He doesn’t verbally offer one to Steve, but he does leave the bottle and another dry glass there on the granite within the soldier’s reach.
“You’re right. It’s not. I’m...surprised you didn’t take longer to let me in.” Steve huffs and looks down at the worn aviators he has been absently toying with in his hands. “I appreciate it.”
“Well, you obviously only have two guns on your person right now, so it would be preposterous to suggest I couldn’t handle that.” There’s a tightness around Tony’s eyes--it strikes Steve as jarringly similar to the expression on the boy back in the yard not more than five minutes ago--but his mouth quirks upward in a coolly controlled smirk.
“They’re not for you, Tony. I hope you know that.”
Tony doesn’t answer for a minute as he swirls the remainder of his drink in the bottom of his glass. He knocks back the last of it and quickly reaches for a refill. “I hope you know the facial hair isn’t for you, either. Can only be pulled off by one Midgardian Avenger, unfortunately.”
Steve huffs out another little laugh under his breath. He shakes his head and pulls off his cap to part his overgrown locks with a hand. “Yeah, well, you don’t really have a choice when you go into hiding. Speaking of which, recent events lead me to believe…we have more reason than just Ross to stay in hiding. Except we can’t. Not any longer.”
Tony stiffens. Slowly, he lowers the glass to the granite surface with a clink. He doesn’t need to clarify to know that ‘we’ refers to the Rogues. “Details. Now.”
“They call themselves AMMO, short for American Mutant Management Organization.”
“Acronym’s got a ring to it, but the actual name’s a bit of a letdown,” Tony interjects in a mutter.
“It’s short and to the point. Because that’s exactly what their mission is, Stark. There’ve been attacks--messy operations, really--but from what little intel we could get, we’re positive they’re targeting mutants. Especially the ones that live on their own or have no real protection, no higher affiliations. We didn’t know concretely at first that AMMO was behind the attacks, but...after the third one, everything clicked. Especially since just two days prior, AMMO made a quiet announcement that Phase 1 of their research on ‘containment methods for dangerous humanoid mutations’ had just been completed.”
“Why the hell is this the first time I’m hearing about this?” Tony’s left hand is suddenly shaking. He curls it viciously into a fist.
Steve physically sways backward half a step at the other man’s tone. He raises a hand placatingly. “Look, I know it’s shocking to know about this only now, but--”
“Rogers.”
“Right. Technically, their base is just across the border to Canada. It’s not like they’re trying to gain publicity. Quite the opposite. We only knew about the private announcement because one of us managed to get in undercover--after she got a hunch and acted on it, of course.”
“So Natasha gets to ‘act on a hunch,’ poke around with her spy skills and then let you know that yeah, it’s about ten times more serious than you first imagined, before you decide it’s time to let me know?”
“Tony--”
“Rogers.” The edge in Tony’s voice makes even the supersoldier suppress a flinch. “How many were hurt? Where are they now? How old are they?”
“Nobody was killed. One was injured, a bit more severely, but we’ve got her under surveillance and--”
“How old are they?”
“Ranging from sixteen to twenty-seven,” Steve answers quietly.
“Christ. Fuck.”
“Tony. I…” Steve sets the aviators and the cap down carefully on the counter. “I get that you’re upset, but you gotta understand, the attacks happened in different states across the country. One in Washington, another in Minnesota. We weren’t on--you and I--well. You know what I mean. We had it handled, and besides, involving you in something thousands of miles cross-country would have left New York without a major defender.”
At that, Tony visibly deflates. He slumps against the bar, elbows on the edge and his hands gripping the back of his neck as he hangs his head. When he speaks again, he sounds marginally mollified. “Still wouldn’t have hurt to have a heads-up.”
I guess. Steve doesn’t voice the thought. Instead, what comes out is: “Our team was handling it.”
This time, it’s Tony who flinches. He yanks at the hair at the base of his skull. Our team. Your team. Not the Avengers.
“So why now? Why bother coming to me today? Ah, I know. You’ve realized your technology is outdated compared to what this--this AMMO has in store for you. Is that it?”
Steve’s jaw shifts, and he doesn’t reply with an immediate denial. “Tony, if they really are starting to grow into a major threat, every superhero needs to know.”
“Where was the last attack?”
“What?”
“You said the other two were in Washington and Minnesota. You never said where the third one was. So where was it?”
A frightening, heart-shattering beat follows before Steve clears his throat. “New Jersey.”
“Fuck,” Tony says again. “This--this is--I can’t. I can’t do this.” He straightens and paces back and forth behind the confines of the bar with the look of an almost rabid animal. He waves clumsily toward the door. “You have to get out, Rogers. Leave. Out of my house.”
Steve ventures a step closer. “Tony, there’s more details to--”
“Out. Now.”
The other man hesitates.
Tony opens his mouth, once, twice, like a fish, but nothing comes out. His voice leaves him tight and strangled. “This is exactly how we ended up like this in the first place.”
Steve lets his gaze fall to the floor. He turns his head to the side.
“This,” Tony says again. He gestures expansively. “This whole not-telling-me bullshit thing. This is what caused our problems from the start.”
“...I know.”
“New Jersey is too fucking close to my hometown, Rogers. I may have the technology and know-how of a genius billionaire, but there are actual real people out there I need to protect. There are young people--kids--” His breath hitches and his voice cracks, ending in a ragged silence before he can continue. “Kids I know whose DNA would catch the attention of these AMMO fuckers sooner or later. Yeah, you’re lucky no one died, but there shouldn’t even be anyone so exposed and vulnerable to these attacks in the first place. This is why you need to tell me shit when it happens, before it happens. That’s what we do.”
Once again, all Steve can offer him is another subdued, “I know.”
“I know you know!” Tony explodes. When the only response he gets from Steve is a low clearing of his throat and a shift in his position to press his hands into the pockets of his jeans, Tony turns away and busies himself with rinsing out his glass unnecessarily under the tap.
Not even an I’m sorry.
Steve clears his throat again. Tony has the urge to scream at him to just get to the fucking point already, but he swallows it down along with the bile rising at the back of his tongue. “Tony...do you think Ross has anything to do with this?”
Tony’s hand crumples around the neck of the bottle of scotch. “I didn’t let you in to hear you throw speculation at me just to throw shade at the Accords. They’re not perfect, but they’re not the point of discussion here.”
“But do you think?”
Tony doesn’t miss the way Steve has phrased it--twice now--as a question, not as an accusatory statement. Some measure of progress, he supposes. “I haven’t spoken to him in a couple months,” he hedges. “It’s not like he was going to be hounding you guys forever, what with other foreign military issues to worry about. Most of the discussions have been redirected to the UN. Appropriately, I might add.”
“So you’re implying that Ross is basically fading from the picture.”
Tony risks a glance upward at him. “There does tend to be an expiration date for every major...political…”
“--Scandal?”
“Event,” he corrects Steve, waving a hand. They both clearly know they’re referring to Sokovia. “When other threats come up on the horizon, earlier disasters get pushed to the back burner. I didn’t imagine you would have to stay in hiding for that much longer.” Tony tacks on the last part more softly, almost strained.
Steve matches the lowness of his tone this time. “Believe me, it would be a relief to me too if Ross weren’t involved. This isn’t about proving anyone right or wrong. I just want to do a clean job. A seamless takedown. Together, we have the resources to do just that--quickly and efficiently.”
“Assuming there’s a ‘we’,” Tony mutters.
“I don’t see how you are in a position to hesitate on this,” Steve says, suddenly steely. His former patience has frayed thin in the past year. “You yourself said there are young mutants out there who--”
“If we do this,” Tony interrupts, “it’s going to be on my terms. You already screwed the pooch coming to me at this late hour. We’ve established that, okay? I am not going to be operating in the dark again. That’s over. That’s done. I’m providing the tech, I’m providing the surveillance power, so I get to know everything before it even gets formed into a plan.”
“That’s reasonable.”
“It isn’t reasonable, it’s right.”
“Sure.” Steve nods.
“I need--I need--look.” Tony releases a heavy breath like the weight of the wind has been battling against his ribs the entire time. “I need time, to...to--to think things over, decide what’s the best way to go about this. Prepare my labs. Build shit. Gird our loins, so to speak.”
“I’d say take all the time you need, but we both know we don’t have that luxury.”
“Two days,” Tony responds. “Let’s meet up back here in two days. Text me whatever other details you think are important, in the meantime.”
“I’m bringing Natasha.”
The narrowing in Tony’s eyes reads I’d really rather you not, loud and clear, but he nods anyway. Once, stiffly.
“FRIDAY.” Tony raises his voice ever so slightly.
“Yes, boss.”
“Pull up all results from private servers within the past year about AMMO. Date the files and send them to my lab.”
“Already on it, boss.”
“I’ll text you,” Steve says, reaching for his cap and shades again. He moves toward the door. “I actually have an audio file of Natasha’s report. She still keeps those things around. I can have her forward it to you for me.”
“Whatever you like,” says Tony. He’s already tapping at his watch and swiping through dozens of hologram displays in front of him. He doesn’t even glance up once as the supersoldier makes his silent leave.
Unsurprisingly, Peter is at his side like a shadow the instant Rogers is out and can be seen crossing the perfect green landscape through the wide glass windows.
Tony frowns at one of the more recent folders FRIDAY has just sent him. Without looking up, he remarks: “You didn’t even bother going upstairs, did you.”
“Hard to take the elevator up to a Lab 4 when there is no Lab 4 to begin with,” Peter rejoins dryly.
“I thought the message was loud and clear. What part of ‘don’t eavesdrop on the adults’ was so hard to understand?”
The kid’s voice pitches up a little. “I’m pretty sure you meant ‘don’t let Mr. Rogers know you’re eavesdropping on us,’ Mr. Stark.”
“Fine.” Tony closes the hologram and turns to him with a feigned sigh of exasperation. “So what exactly did you hear, Spiderling?”
“Um...actually not much because I did actually go down to the garage to give Grumpy back. But I heard Ms. Black Widow is coming. And that you apparently watch The Devil Wears Prada.”
“How does every conversation with you somehow always center back to pop culture references.”
“Because you’re in denial about how old you are, Mr. Stark.” At Tony’s faux glare, the kid visibly deflects. “So w-what exactly is it that’s coming?”
“Nothing that needs worrying about just yet,” Tony says, though the glint in his eyes says anything but. “Hey, why don’t you go find Happy again and let him know you’ll be heading on home early?”
“You--you want me to--go home now?”
“Sorry, bud. Long night in the lab and it’s not even going to be fun projects for you. I’ll get you some takeout before you leave, though. Enough for both your metabolism and Aunt May and then some.”
The kid is even more confused than ever, and Tony’s heart twinges for him, but this is for his own good. Sure, he’ll be letting Peter out of his sight for several hours, but the alternative--telling the kid everything about AMMO and knowing full well that Peter will fling himself quite voluntarily and theatrically into danger’s arms to protect the other mutants--is most definitely a no-go.
“C’mon, Peter,” Tony says softly. The kid’s gnawing at his lip, but the rare use of his name gets him to look up at the man. “I’ll have you over in like three days’ time, how’s that? We still need to go over that bug in the drone that you mentioned to me.”
Peter gives a resigned nod. As he starts to cross the kitchen to the living room where his backpack is slung across the couch, Tony stops him with a hand on his shoulder. He’s holding out a wad of cash.
Peter’s eyes widen. “W-what’s this for, Mr. Stark?”
“Babysitting for Happy, obviously.”
Peter frowns. “That was hardly a favor. You know he was about to behead me for asking if I could even come near Grumpy.”
“Fine. Then this is for managing not to sic her on Cap when you had a chance and a clear shot. I appreciate it, kid.”
“I wasn’t planning on siccing her on Mr. Rogers…”
“Oh, come on, buddy. You’re not fooling anyone.”