Chapter Text
The chandelier light bounced off crystal glasses, polite applause breaking around the room as a toast wrapped up. Tony leaned against the bar, tux jacket already unbuttoned, drink in hand, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Then Fury appeared, jaw set, cutting through the crowd like a battleship through fog.
“Stark. Now. You’re leaving with SHIELD security.”
Tony’s head snapped around, brows shooting up. His voice cut sharp through the music. “You’ve got to be kidding me. This is a fucking circus, Nick. Same drill as yesterday, same drill as the day before. Nothing happened. Nothing’s going to happen.”
A few heads turned. Tony clocked the curious looks, exhaled, and lowered his volume, but the edge didn’t soften. “Fine. But I’m done after this. I’ve got my own security team. Don’t need yours.”
He leaned in, mouth twisting into a crooked grin. “You know what’s hilarious? There’s a proactive threat on me, and instead of letting me put on the one thing that actually keeps me alive, you’ve got J babysitting my armor in the parking lot. Because God forbid Iron Man ruin your photo op.”
Fury didn’t blink. “Not optional.”
“If I had the suit, nobody’d get near me. Grim thought, huh?”
“Do not test me, Stark.”
He gestured sharply. A man in black stepped forward — tall, broad-shouldered, crisp suit. Agent Davis.
“Do not let him out of your sight or reach. Double flank, tight formation.”
Tony rolled his eyes dramatically, cutting in before Fury finished. “Yeah, yeah, he gets it. Fourth rollout this week. Come on, Davis, let’s go hide. SHIELD’s scared again.”
Davis nodded, professional, motioning Tony toward the exit.
That’s when Steve came up fast, jaw tight, voice low like he was ready to back Fury’s order. “Stark, they just called it—serious assassination threat, you should—”
Tony (cutting in, sharp): “Not now, Rogers. Yeah, I heard. Imminent threat, so the routine is: yank me out, keep me away from my own suit and tech, drag me off to hide.”
The words cracked sharp, the kind of snap that would’ve looked like pointless rudeness to anyone else in the room. But Steve caught the aim of it. That wasn’t for him—it was for Fury to hear, every syllable barbed.
Tony threw Fury a glare sharp enough to cut steel, then turned on his heel and stalked toward Davis and the waiting agents.
Steve stepped closer to Fury, voice pitched low.
Steve: “He shouldn’t have been here tonight. And without his AI? You didn’t make him safer. You made him a target.”
Fury’s jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer. The senator was already turning their way, smiling, expecting handshakes. Fury smoothed his expression, buried the sting, and let Stark go.
The crowd smoothed back to their conversations, the music swelled again, and for a moment it looked like nothing more than SHIELD being overcautious.
But Fury’s call had just handed Tony off to the wrong hands.
---
The ballroom doors closed with a hush, cutting off the music. Tony’s polished shoes clicked against marble as he followed Davis down a service corridor, two flankers in step.
“You know, Davis, this is our fourth romantic getaway this week,” Tony said lightly. “I’m starting to feel like we should register at Bed Bath & Beyond.”
“Just doing my job, Mr. Stark,” Davis murmured.
“Yeah, but if you keep sweeping me off my feet like this, people are gonna talk. Don’t let Rogers catch us — he gets territorial.”
It had become their rhythm. Tony talked to anyone long enough and they loosened up. The other three times, Davis had even smirked.
Not this time.
A left turn — wrong direction. Not toward the valet, not toward the familiar exit.
“Huh,” Tony said, still joking, still probing. “Don’t tell me you’re finally mixing it up. I was getting bored.”
Silence. The flankers drew in closer. Davis’s hand brushed Tony’s elbow, steering. Not guiding. Directing.
Tony’s grin thinned.
Davis finally looked at him. No humor this time, no faint smirk. Just a flat, cold stare.
And in that half-second, Tony knew.
Tony’s gut twisted, sharp and certain. Trap.
He muttered low, under his breath. “J? Now. Suit up.”
Nothing. No ping. No HUD flicker. No whine of repulsors cutting through the silence.
Tony’s mouth went dry. He covered it with a snap of sarcasm, voice louder, aimed at the men crowding him in. “Oh, great. Either my AI’s ignoring me, or someone’s jamming. Spoiler alert: I don’t get ignored.”
“…you son of a bitch,” he said, low and furious.
He shoved back hard, breaking Davis’s grip for an instant.
They moved at once. One flanker caught his arm, the other slammed him into the wall. His head snapped against plaster, white sparks skittering across his vision.
“Bad idea, boys,” Tony snarled. “I bite.”
He twisted, elbow slamming into a gut. The man grunted, folding just enough for Tony to kick sideways, heel cracking into a shin. For a second he was free, staggering into the open stretch of corridor.
Davis lunged. Tony ducked, grabbed the nearest thing — a brass stanchion with a velvet rope — yanked it up and swung. “Welcome to Stark Tours, no flash photography—”
Davis blocked, ripped it from his grip, and drove a fist into Tony’s ribs. Pain flared white-hot, stealing his breath. He staggered but didn’t drop, raking nails across a face instead.
Another shove. His back hit the wall again. This time, a forearm pressed across his throat; another hand wrenched his wrist high.
“You think— you can just walk me out like luggage?” Tony rasped. “Try again.”
He drove his knee up, caught one in the thigh. A satisfying curse. Tony grinned bloody, teeth pink.
Davis caught his sore wrist and twisted. Pain detonated down his arm; his knees buckled.
“Stop fighting,” Davis said, flat and cold.
“Not in my vocabulary,” Tony choked, and got slammed sideways again for the trouble.
---
They hauled him forward, one on each arm, Davis setting the pace. Tony’s shoes scuffed, dragging deliberately.
“Geez, fellas,” he rasped, mocking even as he panted, “if you wanted to dance you could’ve just asked. Little more dip, little less chokehold—”
He stumbled sideways, heel crushing down on a polished shoe.
“Goddamn it!” one snapped.
The grip faltered. Tony snapped his head back into the man’s face. A wet crunch. The agent cursed, blood spilling from his nose.
“Now that was satisfying,” Tony said, grinning through a split lip.
Davis shoved him into the wall, pinning him while the nosebleed staggered back into line.
“Move. Now,” Davis clipped out.
“You’re really bad at customer service,” Tony rasped.
A fist slammed into his ribs again. He choked, doubled, still spitting blood and words in equal measure.
The service door banged open. Cold night air rushed in. A plain white van idled at the curb, back doors yawning wide.
“HEY!” Tony bellowed, voice tearing raw. “Over here! Little help!”
Another fist shut him up, splitting his cheek — but the sound had already gone skittering into the night. On the other side of concrete and glass, the gala still pulsed — Fury, the Avengers, SHIELD, all oblivious.
The van loomed closer.
Tony went dead weight, thrashing sideways, jerking his arms hard enough to force them to adjust their grip. Every second mattered.
“You’re making this—really—goddamn—difficult,” he ground out.
“Shut him up,” someone snarled, patience gone.
They tightened their holds and dragged him up the ramp. The open van swallowed the light around him.
“Not— optional—” Tony grated, and then he dragged in one more breath and yelled, louder than before: “HEY! OVER HERE!”
The shout tore across the loading dock, desperate and defiant, the kind of noise that carried and made heads turn.
They yanked harder. The doors were just ahead. Tony kept fighting, still loud, still impossible to shut up—
—and the dark of the van waited, inches away.