brovengers | House Calls

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House Calls

"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Stark is currently unavailable and unannounced house calls are highly discouraged. Please contact Ms. Potts to make an appointment."

Standing at the doorway of Stark's Malibu home, Clint gives the interface on the wall a mildly annoyed glance. The well-mannered rejection isn't unexpected, but Clint would stake his life on the fact that Stark's computer knows exactly who he means by "Mr. Stark". Only Stark would give his AI an attitude problem on purpose.

"No, not your Mr. Stark. I'm here for Stark Senior. I just need to speak with him, don't even need to step inside. Just patch me through."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I am not authorized to allow-"

“Stark, I know you're listening. S.H.I.E.L.D. has some questions for your dad, I'm here to relieve you of babysitting duty. Let me speak to him and we'll both be out of your hair within the hour."

The buzz and click of the door lock releasing comes almost before he's finished the sentence. The smooth English accent follows a short second later, all polite efficiency. "Mr. Stark is in the second guest bedroom on the first floor."

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Howard overhears the conversation play out downstairs, so by the time Clint knocks on his bedroom door he's had plenty of time to discard whatever emotions still linger from the night before.

"Come on in, pal." He calls, standing in front of a nearby mirror, working on fastening the last few buttons of his shirt.

Clint's not sure why he's expecting to step into the 40's when he walks into the room - maybe something to do with Howard's transatlantic lilt - but he's a bit disappointed to find this room is as sleek and modern as the rest of the house.

He waits patiently while Howard finishes dressing, then offers a hand in greeting. "Agent Barton of S.H.I.E.L.D. You interested in a job offer?"

"Good to meet you, Agent Barton."

Luckily for Clint, the 40s are still present-- just contained instead in Howard's dress habits. After giving him a quick, polite grin and returning the offered handshake, he picks up a set of suspenders right out of his old WWII era wardrobe and begins snapping them in place.

"I'm willing to hear it."

"Likewise."

Retro doesn't quite cover Howard's fashion sense or body language - definitely looks like the guy walked off of a black and white film. The clash between Howard's appearance and demeanor and the cool lines of Stark's home is a bit harsh, to say the least.

Then again, Clint isn't exactly blending in either with his all-black S.H.I.E.L.D. uniform. Retrieving a phone from a chest pocket of his jacket, he sweeps his thumb across the screen before holding it out for Howard's inspection.

Despite the small screen, the striking blue square is easy to recognize - the tesseract.

"We were wondering if you'd be interested in consulting on a few research projects."

The cocky little half-smile on his face fades once he takes the phone from Clint's fingers. Part of the reason why he agreed to hide away in Tony's spare room was to get away from the Tesseract and reminders of what its interference had cost him.

He spends only a few seconds lost in consideration before the facade is up and running again, and the phone returned.

"Sure, I'm interested. But you're going to have to tell me a bit more about what I'll be getting out of it." Howard tilts his head towards the rest of the house. "After all, I still have a say in how things are run around here, and I do want to keep an eye on my legacy."

Clint doesn't seem bothered by Howard's brief hesitation, observing quietly as his self-assured expression falters before accepting the phone and slipping it back into its pocket.

"An official position in S.H.I.E.L.D., salary and funding, your own residence on base." He pauses momentarily, trying to get a read on Howard's motivations, what that hesitation meant. "A chance to figure out how exactly that cube pulled you through time."

Howard leans forward towards the mirror on his wall, running his still bandaged hand through the waves in his hair to straighten them out. He fixates on this task the same way he fixates on his work, because the last thing he needs is one of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s agents getting a glimpse at the cracks in his personal life, and the best way to cover his tracks is to keep his actions simple on the surface.

Anthony has things well in hand. Not to his standards, of course, but the company is still standing, still outperforming the competition. And Howard knows he can't keep pretending to be useful taking up space in a stranger's house any more than he can pretend to be the guy's father. Because he's not. He's not that Howard Stark. He's not certain he ever will be.

"Deal." He says as he turns on his heel to reach for his jacket, checking to make sure his phone is tucked neatly inside one of its pockets. "But I want more than just the usual setup. If you want me to hit on all sixes, you need to make sure I have everything required to get the job done. Including a flat that's not some hole in the wall with a bed."

Back to wheeling and dealing; Clint suspects that it's a cover, is positive of it, but he doesn't push it. He's gotten what he needs and it's not his business to pry - at the moment, anyway.

"I'm sure that won't be a problem, sir." Howard's complaints about his previous housing arrangements weren't exactly a secret. They hadn't built him Stark tower in the desert to compensate, but they were prepared to give him the nicest residence on base. Looks like they were right to assume Tony got his "diva" from his dad's side of the family.

Without wasting anymore time, Clint clicks his radio to life. "Ready for pickup. Meet us out front in fifteen."

By the time they get moving, Tony's already upstairs, back to the front door as he digs around in a bag of Lays.

"Looks like a party. Any reason I wasn't invited?"

Clint's mostly just surprised that Tony hadn't interrupted already, so finding him blocking the door isn't a shock.

"No reason you're authorized to know." Even though the words are technically a professional "buzz off", Clint's tone is entirely nonchalant.

"That's never stopped me before," he said, probably unnecessarily. S.H.I.E.L.D. knew what they were getting into by taking the world's foremost technological genius into the fold. If he wanted info, he'd get to it.

Eventually.

Howard stuffs his hands into his pants pockets, giving Tony a direct stare.

"Look, buddy, drop the act and let it go. I'm doing you a favor by getting out of your life."

"What? You're leaving for good? Please. You already did me that 'favor' a long time ago." He crunches a chip between his teeth. "What makes you think the second time around's going to turn out any better?"

Well this is going downhill fast.

"Sorry to interrupt family time, but our ride's here. You can move away from the door, or I can ask my friend outside to make a new one." The streak of the jet's engines dovetails this announcement as it makes its swift descent onto the helicopter pad out front. His tone is friendly - he's probably not serious about the making a new door thing, but the message is still clear.

Tony's words hit him hard. Hard enough that he sputters out a barely audible attempt at a sentence just before Clint cuts in.

He wants to tell Anthony that he'll be fine-- that he already is fine. That if the future of his company rests on his shoulders, despite all his fears and frustrations, it has nowhere to go but up. But the words just don't come; they knot up in his chest and slow his thoughts to a halt, so when Howard finally does speak there's not a drop of emotion left to spare as he pushes past Tony to reach the exit.

"Sorry kid, I'm not him."

Howard doesn't necessarily need to say anything; Tony's perceptive enough to see his parting words have nailed their mark.

A twinge of guilt makes it impossible for him to lock eyes with Howard when he presses past him. So he shrugs, crumples the empty potato chip bag in his hand, then slaps the other one on Barton's shoulder as he steps aside.

"Hey, nobody's stopping you. But take good care of the old man, huh? Don't forget this guy's from the stone age."

"Right." The look Clint gives Tony as he steps past makes it clear he actually means, 'right, because you're doing such a bang-up job of taking care of him here'.

Not two minutes later, the jet is in the air. It's not until they've reached altitude that Clint moves away from the cockpit, having exchanged a few words with the pilot, and sits down on the bench opposite Howard.

Leaning forward, elbows rested on his knees, he clasps his hands together before speaking over the sound of the jet's engines.

"I may have forgotten to mention that we've got to make a quick stop to pick up your new co-worker." He pauses a beat. "Have you heard of Dr. Banner?"

Howard's eyebrows lift at the mention of Banner's name. As brooding as he looked before Barton started talking, he's not so far checked out that he can't register exactly what's being asked.

"Buddy, who hasn't?" He sets his hand against his chin. "So why do I get the feeling that you didn't decide to pick me up first just because I'm the most important part of this project?"

Clint smiles slightly at Howard's phrasing. Tony definitely got it from him.

"The cube has started to give off traces of gamma radiation. You're our best expert on the cube, he's our best expert on gamma radiation." He pauses again to give Howard a pointed look. "You still on board?"

It's reasonable to assume that even if Howard says no, S.H.I.E.L.D. will be very convincing. But if Clint knows anything about the Starks, he won't say no. The chance to work alongside the biggest (literally) scientific and medical conundrum in human history is probably to Starks as a carrot is to horses.

"I never said no," Howard replies, quickly enough to make it obvious that he's more than a little intrigued by the prospect. "I just generally prefer to be told there's a storm coming before I'm already jumping out of the plane."

"Which, I would like to remind you, is exactly what any other sane person on this planet would probably be doing right now if they were in my shoes."

Clint smiles at Howard's enthusiasm. He should probably say something professional and placating, but instead he goes with a friendly, "I guess we're lucky you're not sane."

"I suddenly get the feeling that I should remind you that was more or less a joke, pal. I'm not actually insane, I just don't spook easily. Can't say I know any innovator worth his salt that doesn't jump in head first."

His eyes shift, scanning the cockpit of the plane-- or at least what's visible of it. "So, Agent, you spend a lot of time in these birds, right?"

Clint doesn't comment on the not-insane defense, but his amused smile lingers. When Howard takes in their surroundings, he follows his gaze, attention lingering on the cockpit while Howard speaks.

"Right." The momentary distraction of whatever he spotted in the cockpit ends, gaze shifting back to Howard. "They a bit smoother than the ones you used to fly?"

"Like night and day, though I could level out a hangar queen in the worst of it without a problem." He sighs with a dismissive wave. "Ever take the helm? You don't strike me as the type of guy that's meant for running errands till it's time to punch out. Those eyes of yours aren't nearly dead enough."

"I run errands when I'm told to." There's no spite in his tone - just the same relaxed balance of professional and amicable. "But yeah, I know how to fly. I'd be flying now, but for some reason they insisted the cargo shouldn't be left unattended."

And by cargo, he mostly means Bruce Banner. S.H.I.E.L.D. isn't particularly concerned about Howard Stark doing damage, at least not while he's so far from a lab.

"Jumpy bunch of fellas, aren't they? The guy can't be that unstable or they wouldn't have picked him for the job."

He hopes. But they wouldn't drag in Dr. Jeckyll If he was so out of shape that he couldn't function...or at least they wouldn't send one agent and Howard Stark.

"Maybe later you can take me out for a spin, huh? Let me see what this thing can really do."

Clint just offers a quiet smile as Howard chats, not bothering to offer any words of confirmation on Banner's status. He does seem awfully casual about the whole 'let's put the Hulk in a jet' thing, though, so maybe he knows something Howard doesn't. That or he's just disturbingly okay with it.

"I'm sure that can be arranged. If you can convince the boss it's essential for your research, you can probably even fly one yourself."

"Part of being who I am is the ability to sell anything to anyone. There's a reason why the name Stark was the name in every house in the USA--including the white one. Give me a month and a manual and we could have some real fun."

Howard doesn't fidget the way thay Tony does while talking, but his attention is still divided between Clint's pleasant little smile and the various nuts and bolts holding the plane together. Whenever there's a small pause in the conversation he reaches over to give one a solid little tug as if connecting the schematics in his head.

"So are our conversation topics limited here, or are you authorized to tell me about yourself?"

Howard may not fidget much, but compared to Clint, almost anyone looks antsy. The S.H.I.E.L.D. agent doesn't look tense, but he's barely moved since he sat down.

"Depends. What do you want to know?" Short and direct as the question is, it's still friendly. Clint has no problem with chatting - in the past people who know him well have called him too chatty - but he's not really one to volunteer information at random, either.

"You could start by telling me what it is that you do aside from picking up old men like me and bussing us around."

He doesn't expect much information from any agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., but he's not looking for much more than a few bits of gold in the desert; one tiny scrap of information should be more than enough for him to pick at before unearthing the rest. It's just more fun that way.

Where Clint gets his information by watching and listening, it seems Howard gets his by verbal interrogation. Gaze drifting to a few of innocuous looking storage boxes near the end of the plane - one holding his collapsible bow, the others his quiver and arrows - Clint offers Howard a grin.

"I'm a pretty good marksman. Sometimes they ask me to shoot things."

"Oh yeah?" He asks, eyes scanning Clint's side, his belt, even his boots before his attention refocuses on the conversation. No firearm. Huh.

"So what do you shoot with? I've always been a fan of the 1903 pocket hammerless, myself. At least when it comes to the civilian quality stuff."

Vintage guy using an even more vintage gun. For some reason, Clint's not surprised. He's still grinning when he answers, obviously entertained by Howard's chattiness and curiosity. "I'm more of a bow and arrow guy."

"I should have known." Howard sighs with a shrug. "All the signs were there right from the start. You walked right into Anthony's house without batting so much as an eyelash, you're on your way to pick up Robert Louis Stevenson's famous little fairytale and you fight high risk military targets with a bow and arrow."

"You're officially crazy."

"You're probably not wrong." It's not the first time Clint's been called crazy for bringing a bow and arrow to a fight, but most people usually change their tune after he starts shooting. Actually, they probably still think he's crazy, they just keep quiet about it.

"But then I'd say anyone with a job that involves Norse gods and time travel is probably a bit crazy."

"Hmph." He snorts, more a laugh than anything else.

"Well pal, I sure am glad you're a friendly. Just promise me you won't go off and join Hydra or anything. For the record, they like the bad kind of crazy. And the bad kind of Norse nonsense. Mostly they're just bad."

"Not that you kids even remember what Hydra even is anymore, do you?"

"I may have read a few things. Nazis, red guy, wacky occult theories that ended up not just being theories. You and your contemporaries are in a few of our history books."

He pauses a moment for thought, giving a slight shrug. "Well, top secret history books anyway."

Howard nods his head, looking more than a little impressed. Sure, most people know the basics, but the way Clint spits out his short little quips tells Howard the guy's done his homework. And that? Well, that earns him a little respect, because feeling like the world's forgotten what you've done for it is a pretty bitter pill to swallow.

"Agent, you're all right in my book."

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House Calls

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