Chapter Text
The team — Steve, Natasha, Clint — were already in the SHIELD briefing room, waiting. The air was thick, a mix of exhaustion and restless silence, every one of them turning over the last two days in their minds.
The door opened. Maria Hill walked in first, datapad in hand. Eric Davenport followed, all smooth edges and practiced charm, like he owned the place.
“Morning,” he said brightly, giving Clint a quick nod, Natasha a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Then, pat-pat, his hand landed on Steve’s shoulder as he passed.
“Rogers,” Davenport said warmly, like they were old friends. His voice carried just enough for the whole room to hear.
Steve sat a little straighter, jaw tightening, but didn’t answer right away.
Clint’s gaze flicked to Natasha; she returned it with a sharp brow-raise. Both of them saw it—the deliberate way Davenport positioned himself as Steve’s ally, like it had been rehearsed.
Hill was setting her datapad down, ready to begin, when Davenport chuckled and filled the silence.
“Looks like we’re missing the loud one,” he said, faux-amused. “Almost peaceful in here, isn’t it?”
The words dropped heavy. Clint’s jaw ticked. Natasha’s stare sharpened. Steve stayed still, but his silence was poin
ted this time.
Steve’s jaw flexed, but he kept his tone even. “Tony was injured, hes on the way in.”
“Yes, of course,” Davenport replied smoothly, not missing a beat. His smile widened just a fraction. “Poor boy does try when he wants to.”
The word boy hung in the air. Natasha’s eyes flicked up, sharp as a blade. Clint’s mouth pulled into something dangerously close to a snarl. Steve said nothing, but the muscle in his cheek jumped once, hard
Steve sat straighter, replaying his own moments: Davenport’s shoulder-pats, the half-joking sympathy, the little seeds about Stark being volatile, hard to manage. And Tony—Tony withdrawing, colder, sharper, snapping quicker in the past few weeks. Around the Tower things had been fine, but at SHIELD briefings, Tony had started holding Steve at arm’s length.
Steve thought back to one day—they’d planned to grab a coffee after a meeting. Then Davenport, all smiles, had clapped Steve on the back, talking about “guys like us, old war dogs.” Tony had heard it. And five minutes later, Stark had bailed. Raincheck, Cap. Got something to sort.
Now Steve saw it clearly.
Tony had seen it coming from day one.
And Steve—he’d let it happen. He’d smiled back, endured the shoulder-pats, even humored a few of Davenport’s “old war dog” comments, thinking it was harmless small talk. It wasn’t harmless. It had been part of a game, and he’d played his role without even knowing it.
The realization left a cold weight in his chest. He’d been part of a psychological attack on his teammate. On his friend.
Worse, Tony knew it. Tony had been wary around him these past weeks, keeping just that little bit of distance. Steve hadn’t understood why. Now he did. Stark probably thought he’d side with Davenport if things ever came to a choice.
The thought made his stomach sink.
Hill started the meeting briskly, already half-aware Stark would sweep in late with some excuse. Clint leaned back, arms folded, eyes sharp. Natasha’s gaze flicked over the files. Steve sat forward, palms braced on the table.
the sound of Stark’s voice carrying down the hall—sharp, bright, and unmistakably alive. He was talking to a pair of SHIELD agents, tossing out some quip that earned genuine laughter. A beat later, the door swung open.
Tony walked in, moving slower than usual—one crutch under his arm, sling holding the other, brace strapped tight around his ribs. The borrowed SHIELD sweats didn’t look like him, but he wore them like a tailored suit, head high, eyes bright, mouth already crooked in that half-smirk. Bruce was beside him, steady and quiet, hovering just close enough to catch him if he stumbled.
He moved with practiced stubbornness, not waiting for help, eyes bright as if nothing in the world could slow him down.
“Morning, campers,” Tony greeted, sweeping the room with a crooked smile.
Davenport cut in before anyone else could answer. “Mr. Stark. Didn’t expect you to dress down for us. It’s… different.” His gaze flicked over the hospital-issue clothes, the crutch, the sling. Condescending.
Tony didn’t stop moving toward his seat, firing back without missing a beat. “Says the gargoyle cosplaying middle management. Careful, someone might believe it.”
Bruce’s lips twitched; the others hid their reactions less well. Davenport’s smile faltered, just for a second.
Hill cleared her throat. “Let’s proceed.”
As Hill tried to redirect , but Davenport lifted a hand. “If I may, just before we begin, I’d like to clear the air—”
“Oh good,” Tony cut him off instantly, leaning back. “He’s leaving.”
A ripple of laughter—Clint openly, Natasha under her breath.
Davenport chuckled, but his eyes sharpened. “I feel bad if I startled you yesterday in the hangar. I didn’t mean to, I was—”
“Sure you didn’t,” Tony interrupted, voice bright but edged.My bad, right? Because I’m…” He tapped the table with his fingers, pretending to search for the word. “…jumpy. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the line?”
Davenport froze, mouth opening and shutting once like his lines had vanished from the script. He forced a chuckle a beat later, but it was thin, awkward, too late to land.
Hill, to her credit, didn’t linger on him. She moved straight into the files. “Alright. Let’s go over this cleanly. Romanoff, start us off.”
Natasha launched into her report with clinical efficiency: enemy positions, extraction timings, hostages secured. Clint chimed in with a few clarifying details, Steve adding short, precise notes where they mattered. Davenport sat stiff, hands folded, silent for once.
Fifteen minutes in, Hill shifted gears. “Aftermath. What Stark was hit with?”
“Type-seven missile,” Tony said, tone brisk. He hadn’t looked at his notes once; he didn’t need to. “EMP payload on impact. Pretty little fireworks display—killed half the circuits before I could even swear about it.”
Hill’s gaze flicked to Clint. “Damage?”
Clint leaned forward, forearms on the table. “Knocked out both primary engines, fried guidance and comms. He kept life support going, but barely. The jet was a brick.”
There was a beat of silence, weight settling as the scope of it registered.
Hill looked between them, sharp. “Then tell me how the hell you flew back.”
Clint raised his hands, both palms up in theatrical surrender, and jabbed a thumb toward Stark without hesitation.
All eyes swung back to Tony.
Tony tapped a finger against the tabletop, as if the question bored him. “Simple. I corrupted the system.”
Hill’s brows pinched. “You what?”
“Tricked her into thinking she could still fly.” Tony shrugged, casual as if he were describing changing a password. “Borrowed a few functions from the nav core, repurposed a life-support regulator, slapped together a Frankenstein protocol, and—presto—our brick thinks it’s a jet again. Half the diagnostics were screaming at me, but if you yell louder, they shut up.”
Bruce closed his eyes briefly, like he was praying for patience. Clint smirked, biting back a laugh. Natasha’s lips curved faintly — equal parts impressed and disturbed.
Hill blinked once, twice. “You… corrupted your own system in midair. While injured.”
Tony leaned back in his chair, smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Hey, don’t undersell it. I corrupted my system and lied to it. Relationship built on trust and manipulation — my specialty.”
Davenport leaned forward, fingertips resting neatly on the table, tone smooth as ever.
“I need more from you than what you’ve given, Stark.”
Tony didn’t even blink. “What else is new,” he said lightly, voice dry, almost bored. To anyone else it landed like typical Stark sarcasm — but Bruce caught the edge. He felt it land like a knife.
Davenport’s smile didn’t slip. “You corrupted your own jet. I’d just like to understand how you—”
Tony cut him off before the sentence finished.
“Well, forget it. Your brain’s not able.”
The words dropped sharp and clean, not shouted — just true.
Bruce inhaled, short and tight, because he understood immediately: this wasn’t just Tony humiliating him in front of SHIELD brass. This was Tony saying I know what you’re doing, I see you, and you’ll never touch what I can touch.
Natasha’s eyes narrowed. She knew double-meanings when she heard them, and Stark’s line landed too clean to be accidental. She clocked Davenport’s mask — the split-second stall before the smile reassembled.
Clint shifted in his chair, one brow arched, recognizing the weight even if he didn’t know the history. Stark wasn’t just bantering; he was burying him.
Steve sat straighter. Hyperaware now of every flicker between the two men, realizing Stark had been speaking like this for weeks and he’d missed the undertone.
Davenport froze again Just a fraction. His pen stilled against the folder. The faintest hitch before he smoothed his face back into composure. He chuckled softly, but it was too thin, the warmth a half-second late.
“Classic Stark,” he said finally, like it was a joke. Like he hadn’t just been gutted in front of the room.
But the team had seen the crack.
Davenport smoothed a page of his notes, voice too casual. “Well, I suppose we can call this another Stark success story. You always did manage to land on your feet, little live wire.”
The words dropped like acid.
Every head at the table snapped toward him. Natasha’s eyes went knife-sharp, Clint froze mid-slouch, Steve’s jaw locked hard enough to crack. Even Hill’s pen stilled over the page. The weight of their collective stare was murderous.
Tony didn’t even blink. He just tipped his head, voice smooth as glass. “Speaking of live wires—when someone is partly inside a live exploding jet, you do not touch them.” He leaned back, crutch balanced easy against his chair. “I’m all for your demise, Davenport, but you don’t get to take me with you.”
Bruce’s chest eased, tension bleeding out in a quiet, private relief. Tony had taken the word, turned it, burned Davenport with it. Controlled it.
Hill’s lips thinned. “That should be common sense.” She reached for the slim notebook that had stayed closed all meeting, flipped it open just long enough to jot something, then snapped it shut again.
Davenport’s smile flickered.
Hill cleared her throat, sliding back into the agenda. “All right. Damage control. Stark—what’s the repair timeline on the jet?”
Tony leaned back in his chair, crutch propped against the table like an unwanted guest. “Rough cut? Four days to have her purring again. And that’s Stark work days, not your nine-to-five coffee-break-every-hour schedule.” His mouth curved into a thin smirk. “But she’s not staying here. She’s coming to the Tower.”
Hill’s brows lifted. “We’ll need her ready for deployment on the tenth. That’s six days out.”
Tony didn’t blink. “Done. She’ll be waiting with a bow on top. Just don’t breathe on her till then.”
Beside him, Bruce frowned, arms folding tight across his chest. “That won’t work, Tony. You’re still injured.”
Tony waved him off with a dismissive flick of his hand. “I can work around it.”
“You can’t work around stitches and a dislocated shoulder.”
“Sure I can,” Tony shot back, too fast, too smooth. “I’ll just juggle with the other arm. Adapt and survive, remember?”
The line earned a couple of tired huffs around the table, but Bruce didn’t crack. He just stared, seeing the tremor in Tony’s good hand that nobody else seemed to notice " that time frame will set you back"
Tony leaned back in his chair, smirking just enough to annoy. “ it wont, if you help.”
Bruce blinked at him. “Jet repairs aren’t exactly my field.”
Tony waved his free hand. “Everything’s your field. You’re a one-man Swiss army knife of science.”
Across the table, Natasha clocked the twitch in Davenport’s jaw. He didn’t like that ease between them—Stark tossing Banner lines with that unguarded grin, Banner meeting him without missing a beat.
Hill cleared her throat. “Stark, even if you have the jet moved to your Tower, will your injuries slow the repair down? Because if it prolongs recovery—”
“Nope,” Tony said instantly.
“Yes,” Bruce cut in, sharp and unshakable. All eyes went to him—he almost never spoke like that in these rooms. “If he pushes on his schedule, he’ll be back in medbay. At best. At worst, he tears something open and we’re set back even further. You want the jet fixed? Fine. Give him more time.”
Tony frowned at him, caught between irritation and surprise.
Davenport’s smile didn’t move, but his grip on the table did. Banner had just taken control—of Stark, of the timeline, of the room. Stark didn’t fight him, not really. That easy surrender burned. Davenport had spent weeks trying to wedge himself in, to shape Stark’s narrative, to get that kind of pull. And yet Banner—quiet, awkward Banner—got it in a single stroke.
Hill studied them both for a beat, then nodded. “All right. Six days is unrealistic. Stark, you’ll have eleven. SHIELD will adjust. That’s final.”
Tony blinked, glancing at Bruce, then back at Hill. “Wait—what just happened? What was that?”
Bruce, calm but with a ghost of a smile, said, “That was me putting my foot down.”
Tony blinked at Bruce, then tipped his head like he was evaluating a painting. “That’s what that looks like? Huh. Kinda liked it.”
Bruce rolled his eyes, muttering, “Don’t get used to it.”
But the grin Tony shot him had already cracked through the tension. “Banner, remind me to draft you a Stark Industries contract. Negotiator. Problem-solver. Swiss Army Banner. You’d look good on a brochure.”
Bruce groaned into his hand, but Clint snorted, Natasha shook her head, and even Hill fought off a smile. Steve actually laughed out loud.
The room felt lighter—except for Davenport. For a split second, he wasn’t laughing. His eyes flicked straight to Steve, gauging him, waiting for his reaction. When he saw Steve laughing easily along with the others, Davenport pasted on his own too-bright chuckle a beat late, the sound hollow in comparison.
Natasha clocked it instantly. Clint did too. Both filed it away without a word, but the calculation in Davenport’s delay was impossible to miss once you were looking for it.
Hill closed her notebook with a decisive snap. “Alright. Jet repairs are settled, hostages accounted for, casualty reports filed. Unless there’s anything else—”
Tony raised a finger. “Yeah. If SHIELD could maybe try that new language called listen to the guy shouting clear the floor next time, that’d be swell.”
Hill’s jaw twitched, but she gave a short nod. “Duly noted.”
Steve, still simmering, leaned forward. “Noted isn’t enough. That kind of mistake nearly got half a squad killed. I don’t want to hear ‘miscommunication’ again.”
Hill didn’t argue. “It won’t be. Procedures are already being revised.” Her gaze flicked—pointedly—to Davenport, who sat with his arms folded, smile pasted on.
Tony smirked faintly, catching it. “Translation: someone’s getting a time-out.”
A ripple of laughter from Clint and Natasha, even Bruce’s mouth twitched. Davenport didn’t laugh—he glanced first at Steve, as if checking whether he found it funny, then forced a chuckle a beat too late.
The moment soured.
Hill pushed on. “If there’s nothing further, we’ll reconvene when Stark provides his timeline. Dismissed.”
Chairs scraped. Natasha and Clint stood together, low-voiced. Steve gathered his notes. Bruce lingered close to Tony, clearly waiting to help him up.
And Davenport—smooth as ever—rose last. He clapped Steve lightly on the shoulder on his way past. “I’ll call you later,” he said with practiced ease, pitching his voice just right for the whole room to hear. “Want to tell you about that fly rod we were talking about. Finally got the one I mentioned.”
He smiled like they were old friends.
Tony didn’t flinch. He didn’t even look up from gathering his crutch. But Clint, Natasha, Steve—all three caught it, the deliberate plant. And their faces said it all.