8/3/12 - Coulson, Stark

[aa_coulson]

There are nights where Agent Coulson does not return to SHIELD headquarters at the end of the day.

“Sorry I'm late,” he says. “Got stuck in an elevator.”

Apology accepted, takeout received, she rocks up onto her toes for a kiss at the door only to flinch back before he can lean to meet her.

“Phil!” Her whole demeanor has changed; he hesitates. Uncertain. Takeout wrinkles papery between them when it's pushed back into his hands.

“...Have you been drinking?”

=NYC= Upper Floors - Stark Tower - Midtown
Glass, stone, and metal frame a space of wide views and clean lines. The style is strongly architectural and explicitly modern -- modern enough to be rustic with stacked wood by the fireplace and rough-hewn rock. A detached balcony paths around in wide overlook of the city to lead down to the helipad; above, the Iron Man landing pad leads to wide stairs that track past the bar into the main living space. The alcohol is both plentiful and expensive. A recessed seating area is centered on an open fireplace. Large windows (shatter-resistant, thank you, Loki) admit plentiful light. Stark's private lab is one level below and reachable by an open staircase. The private quarters above are an exercise in indulgence with technology pushing at every feature.


Tony Stark is busy. When the phone rings, he glances at it just long enough to hit ignore. When the phone rings again, he begins to tell Jarvis to block future calls from that number -- but he stops. He turns his phone off in silence.

It isn't the smartest thing he could do, but then, he's drunk. It excuses all manner of lapses in judgment.

New York City stretches beyond the newly unbreakable (let's hope, anyway) windows in a scatter of brilliant light. The light within is brighter yet, however, with every screen or projector lit with lines of code, file trees, and directory information. Stark stretches, loose-limbed and lazy in denim and Led Zeppelin shirt. He flicks through the screens with a lazy gesture. Flick. Flick. A tumbler emptied of all but melted ice stands near his right hand while a bottle of good Scotch is just a little farther to reach.

There are no footsteps to announce SHIELD's presence in Stark Tower. Somewhere, an indicator blinks that the passenger elevator is in use, with three warm bodies aboard. All human. For the most part.

Only one of them proceeds on past the well once it's drawn to a halt on the relevant floor, and only one set of eyes slices keen into the back of Tony's neck upon arriving in the doorway behind him. Agent Phil Coulson watches for a solid minute before he paces into the mix. As habitually undeterred as he is habitually uninvited.

"Nice night," he greets, once he's walked his way around into Stark's line of sight. Harder to ignore, that way. "Any progress on your personal assistant?" The artificially intelligent one, he means.

"Ugh." Stark is legendary for his charm. It's so easy to see why. He rolls a red-rimmed glance at Coulson that settles as though he eyes something unpleasant on the bottom of a very expensive shoe. "What is it that makes you so persistent? Is it some kind of obsessive-compulsive thing? You should get that checked out."

Stark clears the displays with a broad gesture. The holographic projections fade; the physical screens respond to a second gesture of his fingers on a tablet in his lap and then go dark. The ambient lighting warms as the blue and green tech glows fade to a softer, more natural light. Stark looks agitated and poorly rested; the bruise on his jaw is a fair way to healed, but some discoloration lingers. He does not answer the question. He says, with no particular effort or volume, "Security. Intruder." That's you, Phil.

"It's my job," is the easy and obvious answer, insult parried impassively away without riposte.

"You've been drinking," he observes, which is more polite and less of an accusation than the equally true: You're drunk. There is no lilt to it, or question while Tony systematically minimizes his night's work out of easy view and the light changes across his face. He doesn't need to know why, personally or professionally. It's just an inconvenience.

"If you require assistance, we have technicians on standby who are familiar with a number of Jarvis's protocols."

Stark lifts his glass. Melting ice slides to chime light against the edge when he points the glass at Coulson in a sloppy gesture. "You should get a new job. Your current one is demonstrably bad for your health." His words do not slur, nor does he particularly appear to struggle with them. Either he isn't that drunk, or he has practice. (Guess which.) "And mine, come to think of it. Irritation is a stressor. Bad for the heart." He places his palm over his chest where the quieter light of evening allows a faint glow to shine past the fabric of his shirt. Dropping his hand, he leans forward and turns. "Wouldn't trust your clumsy butchers anywhere near Jarvis. Or worse, you'd let Pym at it, and then Jarvis would download himself into a suit and start walking around reading trashy novels. Jarvis is fine. Nothing wrong. I might even recompile him tonight." Alcohol leads to responsible decisions!

Phil follows the veer of the glass with his eyes, measuring tilt and angle the same way normal people measure out the level of picture frames. Dog houses. Bookshelves. He didn't move to stay various programs being closed out of his sight and doesn't move now. He is gestured at.

"You won't," he says, once he's given Tony a moment to think about what he's saying. Something else he gives him is enough credit to believe it's possible that he ever thinks about what he's saying. "Malignant artificial intelligences are bad for everyone's health."

So Jarvis isn't yet operational. He doesn't sigh.

"I'm told your new windows are resistant to penetration."

Stark's eyes narrow when Coulson doesn't sigh. He twists away to pick up the Scotch and pour another glass. "Ye-e-es. Feel free to throw yourself up against them, though." He gestures with his glass toward the windows, and when it slops, sucks a few drops from the back of his hand. He is a man of delicate manners.

"There's nothing wrong with Jarvis. It was a precautionary measure, not a reactionary one." Stark sounds ... very reasonable. That's vaguely worrying, right? "I'm not stupid. I haven't found anything. I'm not even sure there's anything to find. I hope SHIELD's been running similar precautions." His eyebrow makes that a rather pointed question. HAVE YOU.

"We have." Coulson also sounds very reasonable. Especially when he smiles. Like now, hands idle at his sides through the process of Tony pouring himself another glass. One of them twitches.

"Have you given any thought to how you intend to escape should you accidentally summon another undead terrorist into your workspace?" he has to ask helpfully in turn. Encouraging those critical thinking skills. "Supposing that SHIELD is for some reason unable to respond as promptly next time."

His smile is so far unshakeable.

It's a big pour for a big glass, but Tony's a big man (no he isn't) with a big thirst (that much is true). He takes another sip. "Find anything?"

Stark pushes to his feet with one hand braced on the chair. He sways his way upright and then his feet firm, planted more or less solid. "There are conventional exits, you know: stairs, doors. Some people use them. Maybe not SHIELD, maybe not undead terrorists, maybe not alien divas -- but /some/ people."

"No." Nothing.

Not exactly a comfort.

Coulson is meanwhile unimpressed by Tony's list of contingencies, lines flexed across the flank of his jaw behind his smile. No judgment. Just looking. Inscrutable.

"Me either." Stark flashes Coulson a smile and paces closer. Although he does not stumble, he /is/ moving with particular care. He smells of very expensive Scotch, and not all of that is coming from the glass he loosely carries in his right hand. He smile lingers in the narrowing of his eyes and a tension at his lips. It doesn't necessarily hold much humor.

Stark stops just close enough to be a little annoying about it, pushing at the boundaries of Coulson's personal space. "Me /either/. Not a thing. So it's time to place your bets, right? Clean--." He pokes at Coulson with his glass. "--or--" Poke, poke. "--compromised." He settles on his heels, which is a mistake. He slightly unbalances before correcting.

The stink is remarkable, actually. Sharper and even more acrid than Coulson had imagined. But.

Coffee and aftershave at this range to Stark's Scotch and Scotch, he does not stifle his own breath and he yields no ground. Furthermore, finer resolution reveals no secrets: he does not appear to be tired and he is not agitated. It may be extrapolated that he isn't necessarily happy, either. "I don't gamble."

Poke. Poke. Poke. He is in very real danger of being spilled on.

"Please don't do that," he says after the third time, polite enough for Tony to remember where his feet are first.

So of course Stark does it again, harder, and spills on Coulson's very nice suit. "Wrong," he says, firm and a little overloud. "You gamble. We all gamble. I have no problem gambling. Easy to win again if you lose."

Stark lifts his chin so that he can look down his nose at Coulson, just possibly a bit on tiptoe. He can't pull that with any of the other guys he hangs with. Good thing Coulson's a midget. "Did you know what that gun did when you fired it? Hadn't heard they were extensively tested. That was a gamble. The Avengers Initiative. A gamble. Trying to revive a lost legend. Gamble. Trusting Bruce to be man, not monster. All of it, Agent. So you gamble. We gamble. Clean or compromised."

Of course.

Coulson's suit is spilled on.

"Gambling is a serious addiction," he says, finally, matter-of-fact when he says anything. It feels like it might be a long time before he does. "To use the term in this context implies that you consider human life to be an acceptable sacrifice in a game of long odds." Correct? A twitch of his brows prompts for agreement without there being room for any. "That makes you dangerous."

"But I know that isn't true. I know that Doctor Banner is a man, I knew the gun would hurt and I knew that the Avengers Initiative was the only choice. Not just the right one."

He has to pause there for a breath and takes the time to decide whether or not he is going to continue. His decision is that it isn't necessary.

"If our systems are currently compromised, we need you at your best. If you haven't arrived at a concrete conclusion regarding Jarvis by tomorrow night, I will be back."

The twist of Stark's expression suggests some ambivalence on what stakes he would play -- on what stakes they all /have/ to play -- but /however/ much he's had to drink, he has wisdom enough to keep that behind his teeth, if not entirely off his face. His brow furrows. It is true he disapproves of shooting nukes at Manhattan. That puts him firmly on the side of the angels, don't you know?

"You," he says, with a laugh that could fail a breathalyzer test at ten meters, "are an /optimist/, Agent. Idealist. Suppose I should've known that. Cards and all." Stark falls back one step, two. His hands open wide in a loose, grand gesture. "No. I'll throw now. Save you a trip. I've looked. I've /searched/. There's nothing there. Clean. I'm recompiling tonight and executing in the morning."

Coulson smiles. Not at all sincere. Whatever he needs to be, to suit Tony's tastes.

"If you attempt anything more consequential than going to sleep after I have left, I will have power cut to every system in this building, starting with the air conditioning." Now that Stark has taken the first steps back, the agent opposite him angles himself away for the door.

"Alcohol impairs judgment."

"I'm pretty sure your IQ is more of an impediment than my blood alcohol level." The fact that Stark accompanies this with a /finger gun/ gesture does absolutely nothing to lend any weight to the idea of him as intelligent, but his tone is a bit -- sharp.

He'll call that bluff, by the way. Or that ... non-bluff.

"Always a pleasure, Agent. I enjoy these little chats."

"That hurts my feelings," says Coulson, who is an easy target, all neat and lined up in Tony's finger sights. His pace is brisk but it usually is.

A, "Goodnight," accompanies him through the door.

He wants to be out of here before the cool air cuts off.

You have one minute, maybe two. Coulson is no sooner in the elevator than Stark is bringing his screens back up and readying the code to run.

When the power cuts, he just says, "Fuck."

With the arc reactor in his chest the lone glow in the room, Stark flops back down in his chair and finishes his drink. Priorities.



how did this get here i am not good with computer