Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Tony’s last assistant quit. That’s why Obadiah buys Steve.

“At least this one can’t quit,” he grumbles as he pushes the thin young man closer. He’s dressed in a white dress shirt and grey slacks, each embroidered tastefully with the SI logo as all indentured servants at the company wear. Usually though, the company hires blue collars. Students who work for five to ten years to pay off their loans, or people paying off their houses. For Steve though, his red collar is easy to spot around his neck.

Tony is not pleased. “I don’t need a babysitter, Obie!” he complains, throwing up his hands. Stuck in the middle of two shouting masters, Steve holds completely still, his eyes focused on the cushions of the couch where Tony sits.

“You do, my boy,” Obadiah says flatly. “If your behaviour at the last shareholder meeting was anything to go by. Your brilliance at weapons’ design won’t make them overlook the namesake of the company showing up drunk and half-dressed.”

Tony sinks back and folds his arms, muttering irritably under his breath. “Well, at least I went.”

“And Steven here will make sure you keep going.” Obadiah says, clapping a heavy hand on Steve’s shoulder. Steve locks his knees to keep from buckling under the weight and nods.

“Of course, sir,” he says quietly.

“Oh great,” Tony grumbles.

It becomes clear to Steve very quickly that Tony has no desire for a servant in his space. He hasn’t become violent, not yet, in any case, but he is not cooperative in any sense of the word.

Steve comes up every morning from the barracks set aside for indentured servants without their own homes and usually finds the penthouse in the same state. All his cleaning and organising from the day before has been undone during Tony’s nightly adventures.

On partying nights, the mornings dawn with bottles of booze on the counter and clothes scattered about, shed by the latest catch Tony has taken to bed. Other nights leave Tony passed out in the lab, diagrams and half-finished sketches surrounding him.

It’s Steve’s job to get him up, get him fed and hydrated and somewhat coherent and presentable. It’s a difficult balance. Tony resents when Steve lays out his clothes for him, and more often than not chooses something else out of spite, but Steve knows Obadiah will have questions that need answering if he fails at his job.

Still, he can’t push Tony. He’s a red collar. More slave than indentured servant in most peoples’ eyes. This is his fifth or sixth master, and he knows how things go at this point. It’s easier for people to get comfortable hurting him with a red collar on. Conscious or not, he’s less of a person in their eyes. Even his kindest masters had no issue ordering him around like a thing. Blue collars have to deal with it too, but it’s much more likely his masters will ‘forget’ about collared protection laws and ‘acceptable forms of discipline’ when it comes to red collars.

Because the red collar is never coming off. He can never pay his debt. Not with the paltry ‘wages’ paid to indentured servants. It’s only a few dollars an hour, a bonus for companies like Tony’s, who get a cheap, motivated workforce. Blue collars have hope of being free one day. It might take five, ten, even twenty years, with hardly a day off or a second of relief. But barring any new disaster, it will happen.

Not so for Steve, and people know it. His first master was a loan shark who bought people’s contracts and more or less rented them out to other people. The first place he actually worked was an orchard. He was fifteen, terrified and grieving. His whole life had been turned upside-down and Sarah hadn’t been dead for two months yet.

At the time, he spent most of his nights crying himself to sleep, and most days in a shell-shocked haze. But looking back, the orchard was probably one of the best positions he could have gotten at that stage. The orchard was run by a strict, but not cruel man, and the servants were left to themselves for most of the day, so long as they picked their quota. It was a mix of blue and red collars, and the older ones took him under their wing, teaching him what to expect and how to behave.

But when the season was done, the orchard downsized their staff and Steve was returned to the loan shark. The next person to buy his contract was a woman who owned a laundry business. She was a bitter, spiteful woman who resented having to ‘pay’ the measly wage he ‘earned’ towards his debt.

“I don’t see why it matters,” she complained to the loan shark as she signed his contract. “He’s a reddy, he’s never going to pay it off anyway. If it weren’t for me he’d be a drain on society, and I have to pay for that?”

She was still willing to buy him though, because she could never get the amount of work out of a non-collared employee that she got out of him for the pennies she was paying. What was worse, is he lived at her house after the workday. At the orchard all the servants had bunks in a large, warm lodge on the property. Not so for the Sanderson family.

The Sanderson’s had an old house, built with a servant room squeezed into a corner, but it was full of junk. So, after Steve was finally finished the chores, cooking, cleaning and minding of the three shrieking children, he was sent down to the basement to sleep on a rickety bed in the dark.

The Sanderson household was miserable. The three children were all young and undisciplined. They all knew they could get away with so much more with Steve than with their parents, since Steve would be the one in trouble if they didn’t behave. And the two adults of the house hated each other. Not a day didn’t go by without bellowing arguments and slamming doors.

It was like walking on eggshells. Steve was the scapegoat for the bitter marriage crumbling apart. Mrs. Sanderson took out her frustrations on him during work, and more often than not, Mr. Sanderson came down to the basement at night to do the same.

It was the first time Steve was ever beaten by a master, but it wouldn’t be the last.

When the couple finally divorced a year and a half later, Steve was sent back and contracted out once more. In a way, his new assignment with Stark and Stane reminds him a lot of the Sanderson household. Tony is like a child who never grew up, and Stane is clearly bubbling with bitter resentment over the irresponsible heir. Leaving Steve caught in the middle.

“How much do I have to pay you to leave me alone?” Tony grumbles into his pillow when Steve comes in and begins opening the blinds. Steve doesn’t answer. Tony is probably one of the few people who could pay off his debt without noticing, but he doubts Tony means it, or cares.

“I made you breakfast,” Steve says evenly, keeping his face blank and his body language neutral. It’s better that way. Even with masters that teased and joked with their indentured servants, you never knew what they might be like when they got mad. It’s better to stay distant. It’s a skill Steve has perfected over the last ten years, like a switch inside himself he keeps off.

Tony groans into his pillow, throwing a hand over his face. “JARVIS, please tell me it’s not kale smoothies again.”

“Steve has prepared bacon, eggs, and fruit salad,” JARVIS replies as Steve goes about the room, picking up discarded socks and crumpled pants. He likes JARVIS. They’re a lot alike. Sometimes it feels as though Steve is just a physical body for the AI Tony built to manage his life.

When he first arrived here, JARVIS was a godsend once Steve got comfortable asking him things. Tony wasn’t inclined to teach him any of the specifics he was expected to know. It’s not the first time masters have simply expected him to intuitively know exactly how they take their coffee, and what setting to put the washer on, but it’s probably the first time he hasn’t been punished for not knowing.

Tony continues to moan and grumble as he drags himself out of bed to the bathroom, and Steve slips into the closet. His palms grow sweaty as he looks over the racks of clothes. Tony hates wearing anything formal, but Obadiah is insistent on it. More than once, when Steve has picked something, Tony has rejected it entirely, and then when he arrived at a meeting in a band t-shirt and grease-stained jeans, Obadiah blamed Steve.

Tony seems to enjoy winding up Stane. To him it doesn’t matter if he offends the board members with his clothes or off-colour comments. It’s his company, and they need him. He’s got nothing to lose.

Because it’s Steve that gets called to Stane’s office after.

Steve shakes his head sharply, sucking in a breath. He can hear Tony finishing up in the bathroom and wandering out to the kitchen to eat. It’s already ten o’clock, and the media interview Stane wants him to do is at eleven.

Steve runs his hands over the jackets and blazers, stopping on the softest one. He picks a charcoal grey pair of slacks to match and a warm brown shirt and black belt. No tie today, he’s aiming for business casual. Something smart, but comfortable. Something Tony might actually wear.

He lays the outfit on the bed, his heart pounding in his chest. He checks the clock on the bed side table. If Tony finishes eating and gets dressed without a fuss, it should be just enough time for him to get down to Happy, and if traffic is good, they should be on time. Maybe he should have woken Tony up earlier, but it’s nearly impossible to get him out of bed before ten.

Tony comes in to change and Steve despairs because he hasn’t done anything with his hair. It still sticks up wildly and he knows Tony’s done it on purpose. With no sense of urgency, Tony ambles over to the clothes, raising an unimpressed eyebrow at them.

Steve wants to tell him he picked the most comfortable ones he could find. How he picked the brown to match Tony’s eyes and how this is really the most casual he could allow and could you please just get dressed because the venue is at least half-an-hour away... But he keeps his mouth shut. It’s better to stay quiet.

“The bacon was good,” Tony says, reaching for the slacks. “At least you can cook, even if you seem to hate jeans.”

Steve once spent some time contracted out as a dishboy in a restaurant. It was one of the worse experiences of his life. The head chef Rumlow was a bitter blue collar who enjoyed taking out his frustrations on Steve. But one of the sous chefs, Sam, taught him a thing or two about cooking. Sam was the only good thing about that job. His heart still aches over what happened to him.

Steve presses the nail of his pointer finger into his thumb. No, he doesn’t want to think about that.

To his relief, bacon seems to be the payment needed to get Tony dressed and out the door with just enough time to spare. Steve takes a few minutes to tidy everything up in the penthouse, before steeling himself and taking the elevator down to the main floor of SI.

Because Tony only barely tolerates having him around, he expects Steve to keep busy elsewhere most of the time. Steve is only really in the penthouse in the mornings and evenings for breakfast and supper. The rest of the time, Tony has him working for the company with the rest of the employees.

Some of it isn’t so bad. The other blue collars, about eight or so servants working off various loans, are nice. Peter waves at him from his desk where he’s working on a piece of coding. He’s a graduate student, hoping to stay at SI once his contract is done. SI pays a few dollars above minimum wage for collared employees, meaning most can pay off their debt faster than expected. It leads to happy employees, and SI is still paying less than a regular employee, so a happy company too.

Steve nods at Peter but doesn’t get a chance to say anything before he’s accosted by his least favourite employee, Quintin Beck. Beck isn’t collared, no one in his family has ever been collared and he takes clear pride in his so-called superiority from that fact. Steve might as well be his personal slave with the way he expects Steve to answer to his beck and call. He’s snappish and rude to the blue collared employees as well, but to red collars he’s a nightmare.

“Hey, reddy.” Steve clenches his teeth but turns to face Beck. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Peter roll his eyes and scrunch up his face. No one really likes Beck. “I spilled coffee on my desk,” Beck says as he checks his watch. “The idiot at the cafe made it too hot. Go clean it up. Some of us have more important things to do.”

Steve breathes in shallowly. “Yes, sir,” he says, because Beck gets pinchy when he isn’t treated with the ‘proper respect’.

He slips out of the office and heads for the janitor closet, seeing Janessa with her cart inside. He smiles. Janessa is another red collar like him. She’s wearing SI branded clothes like him, though her shirt is a polo shirt, and she wears a red handkerchief over her short locs.

“Hi, Janessa,” he says as he reaches for a roll of absorbent towels. He’s hoping the spill isn’t so bad that he’ll need a mop.

“Morning, Steve,” she says pleasantly as she checks over her cart. She raises an eyebrow at him. “What is it this time? You want me to take care of it?”

Steve shakes his head. “Beck assigned me personally.” Janessa’s mouth twists and she scoffs.

“Honestly, that man,” she mutters, shaking her head. “God give me strength.”

Steve chuckles. “Amen to that.” He tucks the roll under his arm. “Gotta go before he gets in a snit. But I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”

The rest of the day continues as usual, with Steve running around the office, assisting wherever he’s called. He makes copies of things, he fixes the copier, he delivers those copies to other floors, he grabs coffee, he fixes the coffee machine, he digs through company records to find that one thing someone wanted, he grabs a delivery from the front desk and lugs the fifty pound box to three different desks until it finally finds its home.

By the end of the day, his joints are screaming at him but at least his lungs haven’t seized up on him. He takes a puff of his inhaler to keep it that way and makes his way painfully for elevator. By law, the company, his owners, are supposed to cover his medical care. It’s ironic to him, because that’s part of what got him into this mess in the first place, and now his inhalers are basically free.

The asthma isn’t the current problem though. As long as he has his inhaler and can find a moment to stop and breathe throughout the day, he’s usually okay. But over the years everything in his body has steadily grown more painful. He doesn’t know what the issue is. He’s never been diagnosed with anything past the age of fifteen, and the one time he mentioned it to a master, he was told to suck it up and push through.

He does, but at the end of a long day, when he’s slumped in the elevator, waiting to be taken up to the penthouse, it gets hard to ignore. It’s worse in his back and arms. Tingles run up from his fingers into his elbows, and his muscles in his forearms burn. It’s like there’s acid flowing through his veins. It pulses, the pain ebbing and flowing, sometimes subsiding for a few minutes, before coming back full force with a wash of pain that rolls all the way up to his shoulder.

His back twinges when he moves, the same acidic pain spreading down to his hip. He was told once when he was young he might have scoliosis. But they didn’t have the money to get it treated without risking blue collars, so he isn’t sure if that’s really the case.

It doesn’t matter, he supposes. Whatever the pain is, it’s constant. And despite all of their sacrifices and careful budgeting, he ended up in a red collar anyway.

The elevator door opens, and Steve pushes off. Just a few more hours before he can rest. He’ll need to make something to eat that doesn’t require chopping or vigorous mixing. Maybe a casserole. And then Tony will complain about eating it instead of take-out like he wants and then Steve will be allowed to go down to the servant barracks and pretend he can sleep through the pain.

oOo

Obadiah is undoubtedly the worse part about working at Stark Industries. Steve could deal with Tony’s antics and random whims a lot easier if he wasn’t worried about Stane’s temper after the fact. More often than not, he ends up in Stane’s office for something Tony did, and those are never good days.

Today though, it’s entirely Steve’s fault.

He’s finished making breakfast and Tony isn’t needed for anything today so he gets to skip the battle of clothes. He’s feeling good, the pain in his hands isn’t too bad today and he has a recipe he’s excited to try for supper tonight. Lately Tony has been telling him to finish off whatever is leftover, which is a lot tastier than what the cafeteria serves collared employees and he figures he can’t get in trouble for it if Tony says it’s okay.

Even Beck doesn’t seem inclined to ruin his day. Steve knows he spots him as he comes in, Beck meeting his eyes over the cubicle as the elevator doors open. Beck opens his mouth, ready for the first inane order of the day, but then strangely, he closes it, an odd gleam in his eye.

Steve ignores it, breezing past him to go check on the coffee machine and fill it if necessary. There’s a few murmurs around him but he focuses on the empty pot. He swears no one else in the office thinks it’s possible for a non-collared employee to fill the filter and press a few buttons.

“Steve.”

It’s a hiss of a sound, and he turns to see Peter poking his head around the corner of a cubicle, looking white in the face. Steve furrows his brow at him, but before he can say anything, he spies Beck again by the elevator doors, this time talking to Stane.

Steve’s heart skips a beat. He always hates seeing Stane around the office. He seems to take up all the space in the room, looming in his grey suit and watching Steve with ice blue eyes. Beck is whispering something in Stane’s ear and the man’s head comes up, catching Steve’s frightened gaze instantly.

Beck pulls back, an impish smile on his face and Stane storms forward, his face dark with fury. Steve steps back instinctively, but all he does is bump into the coffee table, little spoons rattling in a ceramic cup.

“Rogers,” Stane growls as he stomps forward. “What is the meaning of this?” In no time at all he’s crowding into Steve’s space, towering over him as he barks out the question.

“I—” Steve’s heart beats against his chest, his lungs squeezing with fear. He has no idea why Stane is so mad. Everything went well with Tony this morning. He can’t think of anything amiss. There are no meetings, no public appearances. Tony hasn’t even made trouble in the gossip rags recently. “I don’t—”

Behind Stane, Steve’s eyes land briefly on Peter, and he sees the man raise his hand up to touch his blue collar. Steve’s hand flies to his neck, and his heart drops to the floor.

He forgot to put on his collar this morning.

After so many years wearing it, he doesn’t even feel it anymore, unless he’s developed a sore under it. He’s allowed to take the collar off at night when he sleeps, and during showers. It’s part of the laws, so people don’t get infections. It’s not like it’s locked. He can take it off, but he’s required by law to wear it during the day.

“I—” Steve can’t breathe. He’s never forgotten his collar before. It’s such a constant part of him he doesn’t even think about it when he puts it on anymore. He doesn’t need to remember to do it. He always puts it on. But he forgot today. “It— it was an accident.”

Stane growls and grabs Steve by his upper arm, dragging him after him. “Unbelievable,” he snaps. “Do you know the kind of fine we could’ve gotten if someone saw you?”

Steve can barely keep his footing, stumbling after Stane with his heart pounding a mile a minute. “I’m sorry— I didn’t— I forgot.” Stane’s hand is squeezing a bruise into his arm as he pulls him past Peter, who looks devastated.

“Seems like you need some reminding,” Stane sneers as they reach the elevator and he stabs the button with one finger.

Steve’s breaths are thin and shallow by the time he gets to Stane’s office. Usually he has better control of himself when it comes to punishments. But usually he can guess they’re coming. The time Tony changed into a hot pink shirt right before a meeting just to see the vein in Stane’s forehead pop out, or the time he talked about drunkenly peeing in an alley on TV. Those times he knew Stane’s rage would find their outlet on his skin. This time he had no preparation.

Stane shoves him towards the dark wooden desk. His office is all dark wood, shelves of books lining the walls. Two large windows look out on the city behind the desk and Steve can see tiny cars moving down below. In the corner of the room by the window is a large metal globe table that opens up into a mini bar. Sometimes, when the punishments are late in the evening, Stane will make Steve kneel and wait as he pours himself a drink, usually muttering and ranting about the company’s namesake.

Steve is gasping as he catches himself on the edge of the desk, Stane’s name plate staring up at him. His whole body is shaking and he remains frozen like a prey animal as he hears Stane moving around behind him.

His breaths are starting to get strained and he has just enough time to worry about an asthma attack before Stane’s voice cuts in.

“I suppose you weren’t stupid enough to forget your inhaler?”

“No, sir,” Steve wheezes, his sweaty palms leaving prints on the gleaming wooden desk.

“Take it,” Stane snaps. “We can’t have you dying in the middle of your punishment.”

How generous. Steve’s trembling fingers find his pocket and he pulls out the inhaler. It takes several seconds to administer it properly and by the end of it he’s still shaking like a leaf, but not as risk of asphyxiating right there on the floor.

His eyes meet Stane’s where he’s leaning impatiently against a bookcase. He wants to beg, wants to stutter out explanations and promises and apologies. But he’s been long enough with Stane to know none of that will help. If anything, it will only make Stane angrier.

“Shirt off,” Stane says coldly.

Steve’s fingers shake on his buttons, his mind rapidly spiralling towards blankness. It’s a numb sort of fear, a rushing in his ears that makes everything else feel far away. He hears the click and swish of Stane removing his belt.

“Turn around.”

Mr. Sanderson used to beat him. There was an extension cord in the basement he used most often. Steve was still young then, still terrified every time he heard the basement door open late at night. Usually the reasons for the beatings were slight, and it took him months to realise that no matter how hard he tried to manage the house and control the kids Mr. Sanderson would always find a reason to hit him.

He braces himself against the desk and hears the wind whistle as the first blow comes cracking down across his back.

Smack!

In the kitchen, chef Rumlow didn’t have time to get fancy with implements. He’d hit Steve with whatever he had on hand. Wooden spoons, spatulas, a metal bowl thrown at his head. And once, when he tried to drown him in the wash water.

Smack!

It’s hard to decide what hurts more, the belt or the cord. The cord was thin, cutting sharply into his skin. But Mr. Sanderson wasn’t as handy with it. He usually hit Steve anywhere he could reach in a frenzied fit of energy that left Steve curled up in a ball trying to shield himself.

Smack!

Stane on the other hand hits hard and heavy, landing blows up and down Steve’s back with furious precision. They knock the air out of him, drawing grunts and moans of pain as lines of fire lance through him.

Smack!

Pain, acid red across his shoulders. Somehow he’s never prepared for it. He braces himself against the desk, widening his stance as Stane draws his arm back again.

Smack!

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and waits for it to be over.

Tony is working at the kitchen island when Steve comes in. His tablet displays a projection of a car engine as JARVIS runs a simulation using his latest revisions to the arc reactor. It’s a side project, nothing Obie would be happy about, but a guy’s got to have his hobbies. He’s churned out enough weapon prototypes the board should be happy, he can slack off a little and fiddle with his energy converter.

Steve’s face is blank as ever as he comes in and begins pulling dishes out of cupboards in the kitchen. “There you are, little chef,” Tony says cheerily. “I was beginning to wonder.”

Steve turns stiffly, seeming to brace himself against the counter. “Sorry, it won’t happen again.”

Tony shakes his head, holding in a sigh. Talking to Steve can be about as boring as talking to a brick wall. It was what he feared when Obie shoved him on him. All his other assistants he could usually get to crack a smile or roll their eyes in exasperation, depending on the day. Steve never gets ruffled by anything.

Perhaps that’s Obie’s plan. Bore Tony into compliance.

Whatever. He’s sure Steve has a personality somewhere, buried deep down. If he’s going to have to live with a babysitter, he’s going to find it.

“What can I say?” Tony says breezily. “I’ve gotten used to home-cooked meals. Your skills have made me a changed man, Rogers. I’m impressed.”

Flattery doesn’t do anything either. Steve only nods, his back rigid as he moves to the fridge.

Tony sighs.

oOo

“We could tell someone.”

Steve looks up from where he’s cleaning up the printer ink stain Amanda from accounting has managed to create on the copy room floor. Peter is standing in the doorway, a coffee mug in hand and a fierce look in his eye.

“What?” Steve asks, fighting against exhaustion. Yesterday Tony got into a shouting match with one of the older board members. Something about the quarterly budget and the need for a new wonder weapon from Tony. Steve heard all about it from Stane in the office, and then again from Tony later that night.

“They’re all antiquated!” Tony raved as Steve grated cheese and breathed through his nose at the burning touch of his shirt on his back. “We can do more than just weapons if they would just let me.”

To be honest, Steve is on Tony’s side of things. He’d much rather work for an energy company or whatever Tony wants to do than the weapons’ company that helps fund the war that— He catches himself. It’s easier not to think about that.

He tries not to think about people from his old life. Not his mother, not even Sam, and definitely not Bucky. Even though working at SI and hearing the ins and outs of the people making decisions behind the war that Bucky joined makes that nearly impossible.

Against his will, memories rise up. The Barneses family's devastation for him, Mr. Barnes nearly getting the cops called with the way he shouted at the agents sent to collect Steve from their house. He had nowhere to stay after Sarah died, and only a few days after her funeral to accept his fate.

Bucky didn’t accept it. “Don’t worry,” he murmured to Steve the night before he was taken. “We’ve all been talking. We’ll save up. We’ll buy your contract. We’ll get you out.”

“There’s no way,” Steve said. He knew already what colour his collar would be. Red collars never get out.

But Bucky was insistent. “No, listen. I have a plan. I’ll join the army when I’m old enough. They’ll pay to keep me out of a collar after I’m done so I can go to school. I’ll get a good job. Some high paying snobby thing, and then I’ll find you.”

Bucky wasn’t the only one to join the army to avoid a blue collar and get a kickstart in life. And he wasn’t the only one to die doing it.

“Tell someone,” Peter repeats, bringing Steve crashing back to the present. Angry with himself for getting lost in pointless memories, Steve leans down too fast to blot up more ink and his breath catches as the welts on his back light up in a screaming fit. “Make a report for contract abuse,” Peter continues. “He can’t do this to you, Steve. Everyone knows what he means when he calls you to his office.”

Steve sighs and levers himself up from the floor, pausing to lean against the printer as a wave of dizziness assaults him. “That’s not gonna do anything, Pete.”

Peter frowns. “But—”

Steve shakes his head. “How long have you been collared?”

Peter bites his lip. “Two years.”

Steve nods, reaching for a roll of paper towels. “It’s been ten years for me,” he says mildly as he scrubs futilely at the ink on his hands. “I know how this goes. A report's not going to do anything but get you in trouble.”

He can see Peter getting angry. “But Steve!”

“No,” Steve says firmly. “Listen, I know you mean well, but you know what happened the last time someone tried to make a report on my behalf?” Peter quiets down and Steve breathes in, the memories still painful to this day. “My old master tried to drown me once. He would’ve done it too, if someone hadn’t shoved him off.” It was when Steve was still learning to keep his mouth shut. All it took was a slip of his tongue, a moment of backtalk to Rumlow and he found himself breathing in suds.

“Then my friend” – his heart constricts as he thinks of Sam – “he made the report. He was insistent. Told the restaurant manager and everything.” Steve sighs, old guilt settling in his stomach. “And then he got fired, and I got shunted back to the loaner that held my contract.”

That was one of the most heartbreaking, tumultuous contract swaps of his life. He’d lost Sam his job and had nothing to show for it but dreams of drowning and a loan shark who was furious Steve was no longer making him any money.

Peter looks horrified, his hands white around his coffee cup.

Steve braces himself and grabs some new paper towel to begin wiping down the printer. “You have a good job here, Peter. A few extra dollars, health benefits. What do you think will happen if you start making a fuss?” Steve shakes his head. “I’m not having another friend stick their neck out for me and get burned.”

First Bucky, then Sam. He’s not letting Peter do the same. Not when it will achieve nothing in the end.

“Besides.” Steve gives Peter a crooked, melancholy smile. “Stane bought my contract full out. I won’t be going back to the loan shark after this. Whatever happens to me, is up to Stane.”

Peter leans back against the doorframe and curses.

“It’s not so bad,” Steve says, tossing the blackened paper towel in the trash can. He isn’t sure he believes his own words, not with the welts on his back stinging every time he moves. But he tries to be convincing for Peter’s sake. “Tony isn’t so bad, most of the time. He doesn’t hit me.”

Peter snorts. “No, he just gets you beaten by Stane instead.”

Steve shrugs, regretting it instantly when his back cries out in pain. He suspects Tony doesn’t realise the position he puts Steve in most of the time. He’s never had to think about the consequences of his actions beyond what he gets out of it. He’s privileged and careless, but he doesn’t think Tony is intentionally cruel.

Steve has also come to recognise the mask of congeniality Stane wears around Tony most of the time. Tony gets all his smiles and good natured scolding. He has a feeling Tony has never seen Stane’s face grow red with fury as he shouts over the phone at some investor. He doubts Tony ever imagines his bear paw hands doing anything but clapping him on the shoulder in glee at another project well done.

“Could be worse,” Steve insists. Peter doesn’t look convinced, but he lets the matter drop.

Despite his best efforts, his conversation with Peter and the memories it brought up stick with him for the rest of the day. Maybe that’s why he does it.

He’s in Tony’s kitchen, boiling rice for risotto when a news report comes onto TV. Tony is sitting on the curved couch in the living room, a glass of whiskey in his hand as the news reporter begins to talk about congress military funding.

“Oh this should be good,” Tony mutters into his glass. “I can already hear my phone ringing off the hook with reporters who want to yell at me for making the weapons congress wants so bad.”

Steve snorts quietly, but somehow Tony catches it.

“What, you got an opinion on this, little chef?” he asks, leaning back to watch Steve over the couch.

Steve stays silent for a few moments, debating his response. Getting into a debate with a master is not what he wants to do with his evening, even if it’s Tony, who’s never raised a hand to him. He still doesn’t know what Tony might do if he were to ever really make him mad, because Steve has been so careful to keep himself to himself. This is probably the first time he’s indicated an opinion on anything and Tony has zeroed in on it like a snake.

“No opinion, sir,” Steve says finally.

Tony sighs. “No, com’on, don’t give me that ‘No sir’ BS.” He rises from the couch and comes over to slouch onto an island stool. Steve tenses subtly. Tony is still looking vaguely amused, searching for entertainment, but Steve doesn’t like having him so close.

Tony takes a sip from his glass. He’s not getting drunk tonight, Steve already knows that. He usually only gets wasted when he has ‘friendly company’ around. On nights like this he’s usually much more laid back, quiet and studious as he works on whatever project he’s focusing on.

But now he’s focusing on Steve with eagle eyes. “You’ve got to have an opinion on this, practically everyone does. I’m on the side of ‘Give our guys a bigger stick and get them back home’, but as you can tell” – he waves a hand in the direction of the TV – “not everyone thinks that way.”

Maybe it’s the memories of Bucky. Maybe it’s the way his back still smarts from Stane’s latest beating. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t want to be Tony’s entertainment for the night, but Steve actually gives him an answer. A real answer.

“I think giving them weapons isn’t going to do anything to get them home.”

Tony raises an eyebrow in surprise and Steve is so overcome by a wave of anger that he has to turn away to the fridge. He grabs a head of romaine lettuce, the door shutting with a slap.

“I think if you really wanted to help ‘our guys’ you could figure something else to do with your money than building more bombs.” The lettuce is in a bowl, cool water pouring from the tap to clean it and Steve’s blood is pumping. “I think congress doesn’t care how much your weapons cost because they have all the cheap labour they could want. They don’t care one bit how many soldiers they send over there to get blown to pieces because there’ll always be more, signing up to keep a collar off their throats.”

The lettuce is on the cutting board, his knife flashing as he cuts off the end. “I think you wouldn’t have nearly as many desperate smucks willing to fire your weapons without the fear of contracts hangin’ over them and I think congress and Stark Industries likes it that way. How else would you make your billions.”

He’s breathing hard. His head is buzzing. He’s never said most of that out loud before. He’s barely even allowed himself to think it. He’s heard some of the arguments before. The servants at the orchard murmured about contracts and how most of them were made on people who were too poor, too Black, too sick. How their children went to the army or dead-end jobs instead of risking a blue collar for university. How all it took was one emergency, one disaster for them to find themselves with a red collar and no way out.

But he’s never said any of that out loud. Never dared. And now he’s practically shouted it all at Tony Stark.

He can feel his face drain of colour. Feel the way his hand starts to tremble on his knife. He swears he can feel every welt on his back. He has to lean subtly against the counter to keep his knees from buckling as he looks up to see Tony’s reaction.

Contrary to his fears, Tony doesn’t look furious. He doesn’t look happy by any means, but he doesn’t seem ready to explode with rage. Actually, he looks more like he’s thinking. There’s a slight frown to his lips, his eyes off to the side as he fiddles with his glass.

Steve breathes out and slowly, hesitantly continues to chop his lettuce. After a few minutes, Tony comes back with a response. Steve has his back to him now as he monitors the rice, and he nearly jumps out of his skin at Tony’s voice.

“It’s not so simple, you know,” Tony says bitterly. “I’ve tried suggesting stuff besides weapons to the board. And you know what? Yeah, they don’t want to because of the money. But where do you think it all goes? Do you know how many employees rely on us for jobs? If we stopped making weapons, it’d dry up.”

He hears Tony put down his glass and he has to fight hard not to flinch. “And there’s other stuff too,” Tony continues. “You know how many charities we fund? There’s one that pays off small loans that’d collar people otherwise, did you know we supported that? And we pay our collared employees above the minimum rate. You think I want people to be collared?”

Steve breathes out. His hand is still shaking as he reaches for a spoon to stir the rice. He can hear the defensive tone in Tony’s voice. He can hear the guilt as he makes justifications.

All of the sudden he’s really tired. The joints in his arms hurt and his back stings and his collar feels tight around his throat. He just wants to finish up with his day. He doesn’t want to be the one tending to the bruised pride of a billionaire tonight.

“It’s your company, sir,” he says at last, not looking back. “You can do whatever you want with it.”

oOo

Tony is distracted, though not in the way that usually gets Obie on his case. In fact, Obie is probably thrilled because Tony’s distraction keeps him from having the time to mess with the board as much, or being bored enough to go out partying quite as frequently.

His distraction is Steve and the red collar around his throat.

Before now, he’s ashamed to admit he didn’t spend much time thinking about collared people. Jarvis was collared growing up, but he got it off in his fifties, and things didn’t change much. He still stayed on with the household and he remained one of the people Tony was closest with.

Collared people just were. You saw them on the street, usually working unskilled jobs, unless they got an education and managed to get their contract bought by a company. He saw the news about collared legislation sometimes, but never really paid attention to it.

But now he’s paying attention, actually reading articles titled “Modern Slavery: How Indentured Servitude Disproportionately Impacts BIPOC” and “Their Go-Fund-Me Failed, Now They’re Collared”.

He hears arguments from both sides, how the indentured servant system helps keep Americans working, how it motivates people to stay out of debt, how it keeps people from being a drain on the system. And the other side of it, how many people die each year from preventable medical issues because they couldn’t afford to seek treatment, how some families choose to put one parent in a collar to save the life of their child, how the cases of red collars rises every year.

It’s not like there aren’t attempts to change the system. He knows about one successful attempt already. Again, thanks to Steve.

Ever since Steve’s outburst that time in the kitchen, he seems slightly less closed off than before. Tony can feel him watching him as Tony listens to podcasts about contract abuse, or has JARVIS read out a new research piece on the demographics of soldiers in the army.

Maybe that’s why Steve is a little more comfortable talking to him. It still isn’t much, but the tiny glimpses behind his trained facade are miles more than he got when Steve first arrived.

One example that stands out is the time Tony just came back from a visit with Rhodey and was explaining to Steve how they met. “Skipped most of high school,” he says as Steve wipes down the shelves of the entertainment unit of dust. “Went right to MIT.”

Tony has always talked at Steve. Most of the time Steve didn’t reply much beyond a few noises here or there, or a ‘yes sir’, ‘no sir’ rote response. It was the same way Jarvis replied to guests growing up. A perfect servant demeanour.

But Tony wants to see Steve. The Steve that practically slammed the fridge door while he ranted about the military. He doesn’t want an emotionless servant. Never did.

“Suppose I missed out on prom,” Tony muses as Steve lifts a paperweight to wipe under it. “That didn’t bother me much, but maybe I don’t know what I missed. What about you, little chef? Take any pretty girls to prom?”

Steve glances back briefly but maintains the same mild tone he typically uses. “I never went to prom.”

Tony leans forward with interest. “Oh? Parties not your thing?”

Steve finishes with his shelf and folds his cloth. “I never finished high school,” he says simply. “I was collared before I could.”

Tony’s mouth drops open and Steve heads for the kitchen. “Wait,” Tony follows him. “How old were you? I thought kids couldn’t be collared.” Maybe Steve was one of those kids who turned eighteen in high school, that might explain it.

Steve meets his eyes for the first time during the conversation, searching. Then he grabs a new cloth and begins wiping down the counter. “I was fifteen,” he says quietly. “That legislation came in too late for me.”

‘Fifteen!” Tony sputters, trying to imagine it. At fifteen, Tony was at MIT, spending half his time shooting the piss at frat parties, and half his time devouring engineering textbooks. It wasn’t the ideal setting for a teenager, but he can’t imagine being contracted and collared at that age.

Looking at Steve, he isn’t that old either. Tony assumed he was collared five years ago at the most. But now...

“How long ago was that?”

Steve brushes a load of damp crumbs into the sink, shaking out his cloth. “Ten years.”

Their conversation only sparks Tony’s interest in collared legislation even more. There’s so much he never paid attention to, so much he never bothered to think about. He sees people’s collars so much more than he ever used to before. Staring at the older workers he sees and wondering how long they’ve been collared, how long they have left.

There’s a kid he sees running around the office sometimes who couldn’t be more than twenty one. Tony looks up his contract. He’ll be forty-five by the time he’s finished paying it off. That’s almost as old as Tony is now. That’s practically his whole working life. And what will he get out of it? What kind of life is twenty years in a collar working for some company?

He’s not the only one with those kinds of questions. He watches a broadcast, Steve working silently in the kitchen behind him while a Contract Rights Advocate explains their latest attempt to lobby for higher pay for collar-wearers.

“Currently, collared workers make less than half of federal minimum wage,” she says. “The result is twofold, collared workers being exploited by their employers for more work for less money, and non-collared workers experiencing higher levels of poverty because there is someone else companies can find to do it cheaper. Which of course, only leads to more blue and red collars on the most vulnerable of society.”

Her final argument was that raising the wages of collared employees would result in thousands of Americans losing their collars years earlier than expected. “Even some red collar cases could be paid,” she said.

Tony tries bringing that argument up a week later in a meeting, but is shot down instantly.

“Do you know how much it would cost the company to raise wages that high?” one board member demands. “We’re already paying them higher than we should. If anything, they should be getting less. They’re lucky, don’t forget that.”

But Tony is starting to see it in a different light. For a long time he hasn’t been happy with Stark Industries. Building weapons was never his passion and he won’t pretend that the criticisms of the weapons’ programs didn’t get to him. It’s probably why he spent most of his early years ignoring the company and drowning himself in vice while Obie took care of things.

But at least he always felt as though they were doing the right thing. Protecting the troops, taking care of his staff. People might not like him, but he thought in the grand scheme of things, Stark Industries found itself on the right side of the scale.

Now he thinks he might’ve just been wilfully blind.

Maybe for the first time in his life, he starts working on a project he cares about. A project he actually wants to work on. Obadiah and the board members don’t think the company could survive a shift from weapons to something else, but Tony knows better.

He knuckles down and starts figuring out the numbers. He has the prototypes he’s been tinkering with for years. What could he do if he actually applied himself? The weapons industry isn’t the only lucrative one in the business. He knows the energy sector is booming.

Originally, whenever he made a halfhearted attempted to persuade the board to let him try this kind of venture, he always framed it as simply a new division of the company. Something they would do besides weapons. A new source of revenue.

But he’s tired of that. They always shot down the more moderate proposals. But one thing Steve said rings clear as he works and researches and plans.

It’s his company. He can do whatever he wants with it.

oOo

For the last few months, getting Tony dressed and presentable for work has become less of a hassle. Steve isn’t sure if it’s because Tony has grown to like him more, or is too busy with whatever he’s working on to bother fighting it, but whatever the reason, he’s grateful.

Things with Tony are good actually. He’s notice him paying a lot more attention to news about collared people, which is nice because it gives Steve a chance to catch up as well. Most of the time he’s completely in the dark when it comes to the big picture. His education stopped at the age of fifteen, and his masters don’t usually care about teaching him more than the proper way to clean a toilet, or how to iron a shirt.

But in the mornings and evenings when Steve is in the penthouse he can listen in on whatever Tony is researching. Sometimes it’s collared stuff, and other times he has holographic screens everywhere as he mutters to JARVIS about ‘energy output’ and ‘particle acceleration’.

A lot of it goes over Steve’s head, but it’s much more preferable to the sound of pounding music and giggling women like before. It’s rare now for Steve to find underwear trailing down the hall, or a smashed bottle staining the carpet.

Stane is mostly happy. Tony staying out of the problem spotlight is exactly what he wants, even if he does seem to be neglecting his regular company projects.

“Why do we have a whole development department if I’m the one doing everything?” Tony waves off his concerns. “Have them put their brains together and figure something out. I’m busy.”

It’s a while before Steve finds out what he’s actually working on, but one day Tony calls him up to the penthouse. It’s unusual for him to want Steve after breakfast, but Steve goes. He finds Tony in a mood, a whirlwind of paper and folders surrounding him. He’s put on a suit and tie with no prompting, though the tie is undone, and he’s in the midst of talking to JARVIS.

“–I don’t care, call them in. They always want to have meetings. Well, now it’s my turn.” Steve sees him pull out a picture from his pocket, the brief flash of a Jericho missile getting covered up by other papers as Tony shuffles everything into a rough sort of pile. “No more waiting. I’ve had it.”

He looks up and spies Steve.

“Oh good, little chef, you’re here. Help me carry these things, we’re going to make waves.”

Steve steps forward and helps straighten everything out. By the time everything is ready and Tony has tugged his tie into order, JARVIS informs him the meeting is confirmed.

“Good,” Tony mutters as Steve follows him to the elevator carrying the stack of papers. “Let’s do this.

The board room is sleek grey and clear glass. It’s mostly empty as Tony ushers Steve inside. Board members trickle in as Steve helps him sort out his papers and Tony plugs JARVIS into the computer. Usually JARVIS doesn’t reach beyond the penthouse, but now he’s able to light up his presentation on the wall behind them.

Stane comes in last and seats himself near the head of the table, a look of mild intrigue on his face. Steve shifts so that he is on the other side of Tony, trying to look small. Whatever this is, he has a feeling Stane might be wearing a different expression by the end of this.

“What’s this about, Tony?” Stane asks as Tony waves Steve off and gets ready to face the seven men staring him down. “I sure hope it’s something to do with whatever’s been distracting you recently.”

Steve situates himself in the corner and tries to disappear. Up front, Tony takes a deep breath and smiles. “As a matter of fact, it is.”

As the meeting progresses, Steve starts to get the picture. Tony pulls up graphs and diagrams as he lays out his arguments. He wants to stop weapon’s production. He wants to switch to green energy. He has the plans already, the projected budget and impact on the stock market. He’s already figured out the costs of the pivot, the new rolls employees would be transferred to.

Every argument Stane and the board come up with, Tony has a counter argument. Voices get louder and fists start pounding on the glass table as it becomes clear that this isn’t just a Tony Stark whim. He’s dead set on doing this. Steve sinks deeper into the corner, his eyes wide.

“Tony, be reasonable,” Stane tries to cajole, using the same oily, syrupy tone he always takes around Tony. “I know you want to do good, I see that. But this isn’t about the company.” He looks around the table, a projected look of sympathy on his face. He shakes his head. “No, are you forgetting whose lives are really at stake? If we stop development, just imagine the impact it will have on our troops. Our guys need us out there.”

For once, the tone doesn’t seem to have any effect on Tony. “Really?” he asks sharply. “Because as far as I can tell there’s not much we could’ve done worse for them.” He flips to the next slide and suddenly it’s that picture of the Jericho missiles again, enlarged for all to see.

“Guess where this was taken,” Tony spits. “A Taliban camp. My sources say these aren’t the only ones. There are dozens of cases of our own soldiers being shot down with weapons we created.” His hand slams down onto the table, and Steve jumps.

“Now I might’ve turned a blind eye to the dealings of the company in the past, but that ends now,” Tony says, his voice low and dangerous. “I’m finished with the weapon’s business. We will be doing a complete internal review, and then pulling out. End of story.”

It’s exhilarating seeing Tony like that. Passionate and right and not backing down. But as Steve’s eyes drift over the shocked faces of the board, he lands on Stane’s. His stomach cramps with sudden anxiety.

This is probably the loudest, most disruptive thing Tony could’ve ever done in a meeting and Stane is glaring right at Steve, a fire blazing in his eyes.