Chapter Text
May 4, 2012
Manhattan
The Asset is being prepped for cryo when the shit hits the fan.
The fan in question is the Manhattan base of Hydra operations, currently housed in the experimental laboratory of a government-funded bioengineering company near Central Park. The shit takes the form of a gigantic alien whale, which crash-lands to a slow, skidding halt with its front end lodged firmly in a top-secret vault. It gives a few weak death throes, makes a noise like a deflating blimp, and dies.
One of the Asset’s handlers screams his stupid head off and bolts, just as the power cuts out; the other was presumably crushed to death on impact, because all the Asset can see of him is a corner of his clipboard poking out from a mess of rubble and whale carcass.
The Asset, who is strapped into the memory-wiping chair, glares down at its cuffed wrists and then around at the remains of the room. It heaves a sigh up at the half-demolished ceiling and says, “Goddammit.”
The wreckage of downtown Manhattan is starting to bustle with emergency services, rescue crews organizing with impressive efficiency considering that the dust hasn’t even settled. Tony’s been cleared by Dr. JARVIS, MD, so he waves off the EMS workers who keep trying to shine penlights in his eyes. He does accept a bottle of water that somebody offers him. He feels like one big bruise and he really wants to call it a night, but he can see Steve across the street, hefting massive chunks of concrete out of the way like they’re styrofoam, and it’ll be a cold day in hell when Tony admits he can’t keep up with that asshole.
“Stark,” comes a deep growl from behind him, and Tony whirls so fast he gets dizzy.
“You’re Batman,” he says blankly.
The dark-caped figure inclines its chin very slightly in agreement. “I’m Batman.”
“You’re here,” Tony says, squinting in the direction of the sun to make sure he’s not imagining it. “I thought you were nocturnal.”
A sharp, childish giggle rings out from somewhere in the vicinity of Batman’s knees. Tony blinks down at the tiny stoplight in human form.
“Meet Robin,” Batman says. “Robin –”
“Yeah, B, I know who that is, it’s Tony fuckin’ Stark,” the kid says, in a thick Jersey accent.
“Language,” Batman sighs, with the intonation of someone who knows they’re fighting a losing battle.
“Nice to meet’cha.” Robin proffers a hand for him to shake. Tony ignores it, and the kid flips him the bird instead and says, “Fine, be that way. Hey, does this mean we’re honorary Avengers? I’ve never done any hero-in’ anywhere other’n Gotham. I heard you guys don’t even have to worry about plant attacks or killer clowns here, is that true?”
“Nightwing and Robin both have first aid training,” Batman interrupts. “They can begin checking for survivors in some of the low-risk buildings while I assist with high-risk efforts, if that’s alright with you.”
“Aw, you’re no fun,” Robin mutters.
“Uh.” Tony glances around surreptitiously for Steve, while simultaneously trying to give the impression that he knows what he’s doing and has never needed assistance from Steve Rogers in his entire life.
Too late. Batman is already heading over toward Steve, who’s talking to a guy in black-and-blue Spandex.
"Think I could pull off a cape?" Tony wonders out loud. Robin snorts, but doesn't bother to dignify that with a verbal response.
What a little shitbird. Tony kind of loves him.
The Asset was really looking forward to a nice nap. As much as it hates the electric shocks and the painful seconds after it’s placed in cryo, it really doesn’t mind the stasis, or the peaceful blankness post-wipe.
Seems like the world gets more exhausting every time it wakes up.
Back in my day we didn’t have to worry about giant fuckin’ space-whales, he thinks, and winces at the jarring pain that always accompanies these not-memories. It’s been out of cryo too long; the not-memories are starting to crowd its skull, even louder than the distant shouts or the constant cracks and groans of rebar and concrete in the whale-battered building around it.
It takes a few seconds to register the high-pitched shout: “Hello? Is anybody alive in here?”
“Here,” the Asset calls.
“Hang on! We’re gonna rescue you!”
A few seconds later, a tiny figure comes tumbling out of the wreckage.
Emphasis on tiny. That is a goddamn child. Much too small to be – well. Here, for damn sure. Away from his parents at all, probably. The Asset is abruptly certain that little siblings should not be crawling around in half-demolished buildings on their own, but that thought is accompanied by a spike of migraine pain in his temple.
“Holy inconvenient bondage, Batman!” the child chirps.
“What,” the Asset says flatly.
A wicked grin, and then: “Oh, man, you picked a really bad time to get kinky, didn’t you?”
The Asset stares at the child. The child is, presumably, staring back from behind the creepy white lenses of his domino mask, but it’s impossible to know for sure.
“Where in the everloving shit are your parents?” the Asset demands.
“Dead,” the kid says promptly, and grins at him again before darting forward to examine the restraints. “I got this, don’t worry.”
“I got questions for your legal guardian,” the Asset growls.
The kid giggles. He’s got a set of lockpicks out now, and he’s wiggling them very confidently around in the locking mechanism. “Hey, I got some questions too. Where are we? What is all this stuff? Who are you?”
“I am the Winter Soldier,” the Asset says stiffly, as the first cuff opens. “And this is a Hydra base.”
“Hydra?” the kid asks. “Dude, this lock mechanism is actually super simple, you coulda picked this so easily if you had a paperclip. Didn’t anybody ever teach you how to get outta cuffs? Want me to teach you?”
The Asset blinks. Before it can answer, the second cuff opens, releasing its left wrist.
“Cool,” says the kid, staring at the metal hand. “Hold the fuck up, what — how does that even work?”
Another voice comes filtering through the rubble: “Robin! Robin, check in! Christ, B’s gonna skin me alive.”
“In here, Wing!” Robin hollers back, attention turning to the cryo pod. “Whoa, fuck, what the hell?"
While his gaze is elsewhere, the Asset slides off into the shadows and out of sight, just in time to avoid the figure who slithers through a narrow opening in the debris.
“What did I tell you about running off?” the new guy asks, exasperated, and then he stops short, gazing around the room. “Holy secret lab, Batman, what am I looking at here?"
“It’s a Hydra base, obviously,” Robin says, in an incredibly snotty tone.
“Hydra?” comes the incredulous reply.
The Asset slips away in search of a quieter nap spot while their bickering fades out of earshot.
Tony’s got a crush. The bossiness and the clenched jaw are really doing it for him, which he isn’t thinking too hard about, but also: if he doesn’t get a closer look at some of that fancy tech, he might literally die.
“So,” Tony says. “Want to get dinner sometime?”
Batman stares at him. “Excuse me?”
“You, me, food,” Tony clarifies.
“Are you asking me on a date?” That Bat-growl has pitched up significantly.
“Yep.”
“When –” Batman starts.
“Now? How’s now work?”
Steve pinches the bridge of his nose. “Tony, is now really the time?”
“Now is the perfect time.” Tony just saved New York City from a fucking nuke; if that’s not enough to woo a guy, he doesn’t know what is.
“I could eat,” Batman admits.
“How do you feel about shawarma?” Tony asks, with a winning grin.
“Did somebody say shawarma?” Robin pipes in out of nowhere. “Fuck yeah, I’m starving. Come on, B, can we get some shawarma? I could eat a fuckin’ horse.”
“Language,” Batman says despairingly. “Where did you come from? Where’s Nightwing?”
“Dude, seriously? Ask him yourself, you got an earpiece just like I do,” Robin points out impatiently.
“Hn.” He touches his ear and barks, “Nightwing, what’s your status?” He listens intently for a moment, frozen, before he replies, “Are you sure?”
He turns on his heel and strides off. Tony gets a glimpse of an ass you could bounce a quarter off before it’s hidden behind the swirl of his cape.
“I know that ass from somewhere,” Tony muses, under his breath, but hell if he can figure out where. “Rain check on the shawarma, then!”
“Tony,” Steve sighs.
“Wing’s probably tellin’ him about the Hydra lab,” Robin says conspiratorially. “For the record, I found it first.”
“Did you say Hydra, son?” says Steve, looking more constipated by the second. “Can’t be. Hydra is gone.”
“Not according to the secret fuckin’ Hydra base a couple blocks down,” Robin retorts.
“Way to bury the lede,” Tony tells the kid, as Steve speeds after Batman. “Hey, kid, don’t suppose you want to put in a good word for me with your dad?”
“Not my dad.” A beat, and then a frown. “Wait, like — you actually wanna ask him out?”
“That’s the general idea.”
“No, but — him? For real?”
Tony raises an eyebrow. “Uh, yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Dude, you work with Black Widow,” Robin says, as if that could’ve possibly escaped Tony’s notice. “And Hawkeye.”
“Hawkeye,” Tony says. “Hawkeye? That’s the male specimen you go with? I’m the last person in the world who’s gonna say anything nice about Steve Rogers, but any human with eyeballs can see –”
“Dorito isn’t my type,” the kid says disdainfully, and Tony’s so busy laughing hysterically that he almost misses the muttered, “Archers are cool, fuckin’ sue me.” He clears his throat and says, louder, “What’s it worth to ya?”
“Wow,” Tony says, almost impressed. “Opportunistic little shitbird, aren’t you?”
Robin shrugs unrepentantly. “Yup.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“I want you to develop gas masks that can unfold like your suit,” the kid says promptly. “So they can automatically re-size to kids’ faces as they grow. ‘Cause most families can’t afford to get new ones every year when their kids outgrow ‘em, and then – boom, Scarecrow attack, and none of the kids have masks that fit.”
Tony blinks. Robin folds his arms and scowls.
“Done,” Tony says bemusedly. Robin spits on his palm and holds out his hand, and Tony says, “Seriously?”
“Dead-ass,” Robin says. The mulish set of his jaw reminds Tony of Steve.
They shake on it.