#just that the next Sim to mold it is probably going to hurt their hands on all those sticks | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

somethingjustsouthofbrilliance · 6 years

Text

I Got You (Tony/Rhodey secret service AU) Chapter 3

For the purposes of this chapter, I borrowed a bit of dialogue from... well, you’ll know where I borrowed it from ;-) Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

Links to chapter 1, chapter 2

Tagging @jamesrhodey @supernaturalyloki @chanderefk @aimeeroot21 @markedplaces @mostly-marvel-stuffs @matre-dee @le-ephemere @lo-anlurui @savedbyholmes @kimmycup @typicalcampbell

Chapter 3

The next time he runs into Stark it’s at the hospital in an ICU cubicle – a fittingly surreal diminuendo to a harrowing nerve wreck of a day.

Happy. Happy is in the hospital. ICU. Barely clinging to life after getting thrown halfway across the parking garage by a bomb that tore apart the presidential limo and damaged the nearby vehicles. A bomb he’s pretty sure was meant for him. And James can’t process it, hasn’t even begun to process it, what with being whisked away from the scene by overeager agents and all but hauled down into the bunker while the police, ambulance and security stormed the scene. And it isn’t until much later, until after things calm down a bit, his own minor cuts have been tended to, the scene is secured and plans are being discussed (nay, shouted) all around him about increasing security and possibly putting the entire White House on lockdown for the time being until the perpetrator is identified and neutralized, that he announces loudly and unequivocally that he will agree to whatever security measures they deem necessary as long as he can get to check on his bodyguard.

A cacophony of outraged worry meets his request, but he stands firm on that, he won’t budge. Because it’s Happy’s crumpled, bloodied form he sees whenever he closes his eyes. Because he can’t help thinking that if he hadn’t stopped to answer his mother’s text, leaving Happy to go on ahead of him, he would have been the one spilling blood all over the floor of the parking lot.

He has to go check on the man. He owes him at least that much.

Surprisingly, it’s Obadiah that comes to his defense, bringing up the point that another attempt in such a short time span is unlikely, that the perpetrator has probably gone to ground, waiting for things to settle down, that nobody would be expecting the president to be out and about so soon after this incident.

It’s settled after that, and James spares but a cursory glance to his Chief of Staff, who shakes his head in disapproval before walking off to the side, phone glued to his ear, and then he’s off, huddled between two stone-faced agents in the back of a nondescript sedan on his way to the hospital.

It’s well past visiting hours, but his office carries a certain clout and he is led through to the ICU without much hassle and directed by a sleepily flustered nurse to the room that has two security agents posted outside the door. He nods to them as he approaches, motions for his own detail to wait with them, and walks inside, allowing himself the barest of hesitations to prepare for what he’s about to find there.

The room is quiet save for the faint whirring of medical equipment, the comfortable semi-darkness broken only by the flickering of a muted TV screen on the wall opposite the bed. It strikes him as odd –having the TV on when the person for whom it is intended lies there so completely unaware of the world around him. He reaches for the remote, intent on turning the useless device off.

And whips around, nearly dropping the remote, when a slightly raspy and vaguely familiar voice calls on him to stop.

“Leave it on, please.”

The shadows behind the bed move, a human shape molding itself out of the blackness, stepping forth into the feeble light.

“Stark?” he blinks, trying to reconcile the rumple-clothed hollow-eyed man before him with the sharply dressed confidence exuding professional that had sauntered into his office a few days ago. “What–?”

“Sunday nights. PBS. Downtown Abbey,” Stark continues as if James hasn’t spoken, arms crossed with an almost defensive awkwardness on his chest. He looks tired, drawn, a suspicious glint in the dusk-hooded eyes. “It’s his show. He thinks it’s elegant.” There’s a barely audible catch in his voice, and Stark covers it up with a cough, hitches his shoulders up in a shrug that seems a bit too forced to be nonchalant.

It unsettles James seeing him like this – so uncharacteristically vulnerable, so decidedly human. He wants to say something, to reassure the man, to apologize for getting his friend hurt. But something in the way Stark holds himself, in the tension James can feel emanating from his body, stops him short.

“How did you get in here?” he asks instead. Because there are agents posted outside the door, and he can’t imagine them letting anyone in.

“I have ways,” Stark replies enigmatically. Throws an almost derisively disapproving glance in the direction of the door. “Your agents aren’t as good at their job as they believe themselves to be. If they were, your bodyguard wouldn’t be lying here right now with a fucking tube down his throat.”

James flinches at the barely disguised venom in the man’s voice, bristles at the unprovoked affront. “I’ve always been under the impression that secret service agents are the best of the best,” he counters coolly, hoping to rein the man in with his words. Because, yes, Stark is upset, understandably so. But that is no reason to take it out on his men.

It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.

Stark takes a step toward him, eyes flashing hot with fury. Stabs a hand blindly in the direction of Happy’s bed. “You just lost your best man, Mr. President!” he hisses, chest heaving as he sucks in a sharp breath, as if preparing to say more.

And then he stops, steps back, blinking as though coming awake after a trance. Snaps his mouth shut, visibly forcing himself to relax. A mask slides over his face – cold, calm, professional.

“That’s why I’m here,” he says simply, and James gapes at him, brow furrowing in confusion.

“I’m sorry, I don’t–”

“I’m taking the job, Mr. President,” Stark cuts him off bluntly. “I’ve changed my mind.”

James considers him silently for a long moment, trying to get a read on the man before him, to gauge what his motives might be. He comes up blank.

“Why?” he wants to know.

Stark shrugs, looks over at the bed, seeming to study Happy’s slack face, half obscured by the breathing tube. “Because that bomb was meant for you,” he responds, fury still thrumming a quiet beat through his words. “Because this person, whoever they are, will try again, and if they succeed,” he points at Happy again, “then he went through all of this for nothing. And I can’t accept that.” He pauses, fists clenching at his sides. Takes a deep breath. “Whoever this person is, they made it personal now.” He turns his gaze back to James, the dark, menacing intensity of it nearly causing him to recoil. “And as far as I’m concerned, they’re already dead.”

James swallows tightly, finding himself completely at a loss as to what to say. On the one hand he’s thrilled to have this guy finally come around, especially now that these death threats he heretofore considered a mere annoyance, a product of someone’s sick imagination, have suddenly become all too deadly and all too real. But Stark seems to be wound up so tight that he wonders if the man is even gonna be up to the task.

He is about to express his concerns when the door to Happy’s room opens and his Chief of Staff walks in, a small bag in hand.

“Ah, the ever-unruffled Agent,” Stark enthuses before James can even wonder out loud what Phil is doing here. “Just the man I wanted to see. Did ya bring what I asked?”

Coulson nods, face unreadable as ever. Opens up the bag to pull out a credit card, a flip phone and a set of car keys. “Untraceable prepaid card,” he recites as if checking off items from some invisible list, “clean phone with new SIM card and no GPS tracker, and a car parked out back.”

“Good boy,” Stark praises with a smirk, pocketing the items. Pulls out his own cell phone and drops it into the bag still held open by Coulson. “Your turn, Mr. President.”

James shakes his head, puts up both hands like a shield. “Would someone, please, explain to me what the hell is happening here?” he snaps.

Coulson cocks his head at him, throws a mildly disapproving gaze Stark’s way. “You didn’t tell him?”

“You interrupted me before I could… Agent,” Stark defends, winking at the man, and grins at Coulson’s exasperated eye roll.

“I called Stark earlier, Sir. Asked him to take over,” Coulson explains, and James thinks back to that moment in the bunker when he watched Phil walk away, phone pressed to his ear. “He was already at the hospital, so it worked out.”

“Take over how… exactly,” he wonders, scowling at Coulson’s bag.

“I’m gonna take you to a safe house, Mr. President,” Stark cuts in, all business. “This person that’s after you, they know your schedule, they know your itinerary, they have access to your office. That leaves too many suspects that are in too close of proximity to your person. Trying to protect you in Washington would be like trying to protect a bucket of chum in shark-infested waters. I wanna increase your chances of survival.”

“By making me go on the run.”

“By making you disappear,” Stark corrects patiently, reaching his hand toward him. “Your phone, please, Mr. President.”

“I got everything under control, Mr. President,” his Chief of Staff intervenes once more. “The media will have a cover story – you’re taking some personal time in the wake of the tragic incident. Vice President Stane will temporarily take over your duties. All you need to do is follow Mr. Stark’s direction and stay safe while we take care of things here. The police and secret service will continue their investigation and we’ll hopefully have our guy behind bars or on a slab before you know it.”

James gapes at the two of them, his head spinning from the unexpectedness of it all. It’s madness, he thinks. Utter madness. Woodenly he pulls his cell phone out of his pocket, placing it in Stark’s waiting palm. “How do you even… how do you propose we disappear? There are agents all over this hospital, I-”

“The hallway and the stairway are clear,” Coulson interrupts, and Stark nods to him in approval as if he was expecting this exact response. “The cameras will be down in exactly…,” he glances at his watch, “one minute thirty-two seconds. The cameras at the parking structure will be down exactly 5 minutes after that. You will have about 7 minutes altogether to get out unseen.”

“This is insane,” James huffs out, feeling a stab of irrational anger at such definitive loss of control. “You two, you’ve got this whole… this thing plotted out behind my back and you never even bothered to…”

“All due respect, Mr. President,” Stark steps closer, pushing far into his personal space, “you wanted to hire me because you heard that I’m the best at what I do. Right now you’re the guy with a large bullseye on your back and I’m your only chance of surviving into your next term. So it’s up to you, Mr. President. If you want to live, you come with me, you do as I say and when I say it. No questions, no arguments, no complaints. If not, you walk out of here with your man Phil and you take your chances in the shark pool. Understood?”

James grits his teeth, struggling against a near-overwhelming urge to break Stark’s nose.

“Twenty seconds, Mr. President,” Coulson calls out, and James closes his eyes briefly, forces himself to exhale, to relax.

“I don’t seem to have much choice at the moment,” he grinds out, admitting his temporary defeat. Takes a deliberate, threatening step toward Stark, bringing the two of them virtually nose to nose. “But let me make something clear, Mr. Stark: I don’t like your attitude and I don’t like you. And if you overstep your bounds with me one more time, I will not hesitate to punch you in the face. Understood?”

Stark flashes him a plastic-looking smile. “I think we’re gonna get along great, Mr. President,” he asserts with enthusiasm that seems entirely out of place. Heads to the door, pausing in front of Coulson. “You take care of my boy Happy there, alright?” he tells him, and it sounds more like a warning than a request.

Coulson, for his part, doesn’t bat an eye. “You take care of mine, I take care of yours,” he deadpans and Stark grins in response.

“It’s a deal.” He grabs the door handle, motions to James over his shoulder. “Mr. President, follow my lead.”

#tonyrhodey #ironhusbands #secret service au #special agent tony stark #president james rhodes #hurt/comfort #angst #intrigue #somethingjustsouthofbrilliance writes

87 notes · View notes