Chapter Text
The bar had been closed for an hour now, though the dining room had more patrons now than it did when it was open.
Front windows were blacked out from the inside by flattened liquor boxes and thick strips of silver duct tape. The cardboard pressed firm enough against the glass to block the neon shine of the deli across the street and keep in the low, brassy light of within. The jukebox had been unplugged after it played the same three tired seconds of a Springsteen song too many times. The bartender turned off the televisions and tossed the remote underneath the register.
Without the blue light from the television or the jukebox or the beating heart of the city that never slept, the room looked older and dingier than it truly was. Scarred wooden floor, ceiling tiles yellowed by years of cigarette smoke, a row of cushioned stools bolted to the floor with brass feet gone dull from years of drunken shoes knocking into them. The air still smelled like beer, liquor and fryer grease nobody bothered to fully scrub out.
Men cleared the fighting area with enough ease to show that they had done it many times before.
Two dragged tables away from the center of the room, the legs leaving pale scrapes to join the rest of the marks in the floor. Another flipped the chairs on top of one another and stacked them four at a time against the wall, his fingers caught on the old wood and split vinyl seats. Someone came in from behind them with a roll of white athletic tape and kneeled low to mark out a square on the wood where the tables had been.
No ropes, canvas or smooth foam to pad the floor. Just four pale lines laid down over old beer stains, boot marks and cigarette burns.
The bartender stood behind the counter with his coat already on and backpack slung over one shoulder. He watched the preparations with his keys clenched in one hand and an expression that showed he had been paid enough not to complain but not quite enough to stay and pretend this was his idea of a good time.
“Don’t break anything I’ve gotta replace,” he said.
The two men moving tables laughed.
The bartender did not. He lifted the hinged section of the counter and stepped through, paused, then pointed a thumb behind him.
“Bags are under the tequila, I left ice in the second well,” he said.“If y’all get blood in the ice again, do me a favor and remember to burn it this time.”
“Go home, Sal.”
“I’m serious,” Sal stepped back toward the rear exit. “The opener’s a tight-ass with a cop boyfriend.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
The back entrance let in a cold rush of air that cut through the room. The smell of cold, smoggy November flooded the building until the lock clicked shut behind Sal.
The money came out almost immediately. Bills folded lengthwise and passed between hands. The man in charge tore a page from a pocketbook and began writing names and numbers against the wall. A few more men arrived, bringing cold air with them and rumors to wager on.
“How old d’you say Stark’s kid is?” One said while thumbing through a stack of bills.
“Like, eighteen.”
“Jesus.”
“That’s old enough.”
A sweating, fat man in a brown leather jacket counted out twenties and slapped it into another man’s palm. “Put me on Hammer. He’s twenty-two and 6 inches taller. Stark’s kid doesn’t stand a chance.”
Another snorted and sorted through a roll of twenties. “Saw him spar down at Shield last month. Kid’s got hands,”
“Sparrin’ ain’t fighting.”
“No shit.”
“He’s too small.”
“He’s quick, though.”
Another chimed in, “He’s Howard Stark’s boy,” As though it would settle the debate.
“Adopted. Don’t forget that. Kid doesn’t even have genetics on his side.”
Inside the men’s room, Tony Stark sat on the edge of the sink and ignored the pipes complaining beneath him. Every time he shifted on the porcelain basin, the exposed plumbing gave a weak metallic groan. Rust had gathered around the rings of the hardware in ugly brown patches and a thick crack ran through the mirror behind him, cutting the reflection of his back in two.
The fluorescent light overhead buzzed like it was angry to still be awake.
Howard stood between Tony’s knees, broad and imposing enough to block the view of the rest of the room.
“Arms up.”
Tony raised them. Howard caught the hem of the hoodie and pulled it over his head. The seam of the shoulder snagged around Tony’s ears, then dragged his curls into his eyes and face. Howard tossed the hoodie over his own shoulder and pushed the hair out of his son’s face with the same hand.
Tony sat bare from the waist up, hips covered by thin running shorts and boxing shoes swinging loosely above the dirty tile.
The bathroom was too hot. The heater above the door clanked every thirty seconds like it wanted to die loud. The air felt heavy and damp against Tony’s skin. Someone had attempted to hide the smell of stale piss with some sort of industrial cleaner and failed.
Howard took Tony’s left hand from where it gripped the sink and turned it palm-down.
His hands were bigger than Tony’s. Broad and old. His knuckles still thick from his own fighting days. Two digits bent at an angle that they had never fully healed from.
Tony’s own hands were slimmer, smaller, slight compared to Howard.
“Hold still.”
Tony rolled his eyes, shifting his weight onto his right hand. “I am.”
“You’re flexing.”
He was right. Tony loosened his fingers.
Howard started the wrap an inch below the knuckles. The gauze passed around the flats of Tony’s hand, then lower, binding the wrist in tight support without giving him anything he could use as padding. He pulled it tight enough to protect the tiny bones from folding if Tony landed wrong, and sparse enough that everyone could see what kind of fight it was.
Howard smoothed the first pass with his thumb before laying down the next.
Outside the bathroom, something heavy hit the floor. A table leg, probably. Someone laughed. Someone else shouted something about money.
Tony let out a sigh as he watched his father tug the gauze snug around his wrist.
“Hammer’s all ego,” Howard said. “He thinks ‘cause he’s older and bigger than you he’s got you beat.”
“I know.”
“He loads up before hooks. He thinks he’s slick ‘cause he dips his shoulder late, but,” he paused. “He ain’t. Watch his feet.”
Tony’s eyes dragged to Howard’s chest. The Shield Athletic Club logo on his shirt faded into pale patches from too many washes.
“You let him make that mistake once. Watch it, feel it if you have to. Remember it,” he continued. “Don’t get cute with it yet.”
Tony nodded as Howard wrapped lower around his wrist.
“Let him make it twice, so you know it’s a pattern.”
The tape came next. The blue fabric bright against the white. It rasped a dry sound as it peeled away from it’s roll.
“The third time is when you punish it.”
“I know,” Tony replied as Howard tore the tape with his teeth and pressed the end flat. He let the silence marinate for a moment before rolling his eyes. “You tell me every time.”
“I am telling you again,” Howard took his other hand.
“Duh.”
The right one was bruised along the heel of his palm from training with Rhodes, a dark shadow deep beneath the callused skin. Howard pressed his thumb into the purple, testing. Tony didn’t react.
“Feel that?”
“Mhm.”
“Enough to be a problem?”
“Nope,” Tony popped the p.
“You sure?”
Tony scratched behind his ear with the newly wrapped hand. “Are you serious?”
Howard held Tony’s gaze for a second before leaning back and continuing the wrap.
“Your right stays up,” he said. “If he crowds you like he’s gonna clinch or grapple, pivot out. Don’t plant yourself just because you know you can take a brawl.”
Tony exhaled quietly through his nose and glanced down to his shoes. The gauze passed over the bruise in his palm.
“Anthony,” Howard nudged.
“I heard you.”
“This isn’t some spar in the gym—”
“Yeah, Dad, I know,” Tony groaned and tipped his head back against the cracked mirror. The glass cool where his hair pressed into it. “We’ve done this, like—”
“No,” Howard stopped wrapping. His grip becoming firm on Tony’s hand. He did not yell or raise his voice, the word landed heavy enough without the help.
Tony let his chin lower. Howard still had one hand in his grip. The unfinished strip of gauze hung toward the stained tile.
“There’s no breaks or bells. No one’s gonna step in ‘cause you’re tired. No ref’s gonna call the round or the fight cause someone took a bad hit. None of these men are gonna care if you need a sec.”
Tony looked past Howard’s shoulder and toward the bathroom door. Past it, men grew in population and in volume. Shoes scuffed over the wood and laughter followed the mention of his own name.
Stark’s boy, he heard them say.
“It ends when Hammer goes down.” Howard said as he tightened his grip on Tony’s wrist, just enough to pull his attention back. “You hear me?”
Tony looked back to him. “Yeah,” he said. “I hear you.”
Howard squinted, pursing his lips as he watched his son’s face for another beat. Then he resumed wrapping. Around the wrist. Back along the flat of the hand. Smoothing flat. Then tape, to level it all out. Knuckles left raw and open for the world.
When he finished, he pressed his thumbs into both wraps to test them. He checked the range of Tony’s wrists, then curled his fingers into fists one at a time.
“How’s that feel?”
“Good.”
“Not too tight?”
Tony hummed. “No.”
“Open up.”
Tony’s fingers flattened and spread.
“Close.”
He closed them into fists.
Howard nodded and stepped back. He dropped the wheels of tape into Tony’s gym bag, then reached into the side pocket to pull out the translucent mouthguard case.
Tony rolled his eyes and gripped onto the sink edge with his wrapped hands. “Already? Now?”
“You wanna carry it in like it’s your third boxing lesson?”
“Ugh,” Tony said. “No.”
“Then open.”
Tony sighed. Howard popped the case open with a practiced thumb and pulled out the mouthguard. The hunk of silicone was a faded gold color, molded to Tony’s teeth and sour with that disgusting mint rinse he hated. Howard pinched Tony’s jaw with his thumb and forefinger, the pads of his fingers digging into the softness of his cheeks just firm enough to make the command clear.
Tony opened his mouth.
Howard slipped the guard in between his teeth and pressed it into plate.
“Bite.”
Tony did, opened, and bit down again in an exaggerated chomp.
“Good?”
“Mhm.”
Howard dropped the empty case into the gym bag to join the tape then placed both of his hands at Tony’s waist. He lifted him down from the sink just as he had when Tony was a child too sleepy to make it into bed on his own. His son’s shoes hit the tile with a light thud, the sink’s plumbing settling in a relieved groan.
Howard moved one hand to the back at Tony’s neck, a hard, grounding grip. He leaned down, matching his gaze at eye-level.
“You can’t,” Howard started.
“I won’t,” Tony followed, muffled by the guard.
“And you don’t stop,” callused hand gave Tony’s nape a small squeeze. “Again.”
“I can’t.”
“You won’t.”
“And I don’t stop.”
The noise that had been waiting on the other side of the bathroom door swelled and burst when Howard turned to open it. The insufferable men talked over one another, one was already laughing too hard, drunk on the fight that hadn’t started yet. In a way, the room smelled worse than the men’s room. The air thick with cigar smoke and the floored swollen from years of sweat and old beer. Tony thought for a moment about how he had to win purely because he didn’t want to have to touch the stained wood.
Tony walked behind Howard, watching the gym bag swing from his shoulder. He reached a hand up and pushed the curls out of his forehead with a wrapped hand, already damp from the bar heat. The mouthguard pushed his lips out a little, making his mouth feel full and crowded.
Conversation quieted when he came into view. Not stopping entirely, just lowering and turning into pointed comments about him.
“That’s Stark’s boy?”
“Jesus, he’s small.”
“This is gonna be quick.”
“Hammer’ll fold him.”
Howard reached back and set a hand on the back of Tony’s neck as he led him through the crowded room. The men parted the way for Howard in a way they would not do for Tony yet. He let Howard steer him through the room, past the stacked chairs and sleazy men pressed shoulder to shoulder around the white square. He could feel their eyes on him, dragging down his chest, to the yellow at his ribs and the thinness of his waist. One man pointed to the top of Tony’s head and whispered something to the one next to him.
Tony pushed his hair out of his face again and shook some energy out of his ankles.
The ring felt bigger on the inside, especially without the canvas padding or flexible ropes to catch him. Just the smelly floor and the smellier men lining it.
Tony dropped his fists to his sides as Howard’s hand left his neck. Though he could still feel his presence behind him, now making clipped small talk with a gambler old enough to have bet on Howard himself some decades ago.
Across the ring, Justin Hammer bounced aimlessly on the balls of his feet. Like if he could fidget fast enough he might score more jabs. Like he had seen the fighters on television do it and decided he was going to learn the same dance without the understanding or purpose.
He was bigger than Tony. Those rumors were true. Not some hulking mass out of a comic book, but still big enough to make a difference. He stood half-a-foot taller, was broader in the shoulders and had a longer reach than Tony did. His torso was thicker with a constant bloat and his jaw was heavy and slack in a way that showed Tony he liked to talk about boxing more than he actually liked to do it.
Hammer’s hands were wrapped the same way Tony’s were but in sharp red tape. An inch below the knuckles and down the wrist to stabilize. He grinned wide when he saw Tony properly.
“Oh, for real?” He said, hands raising at his sides like he was trying to rally the crowd. “This is Howard Stark’s charity case?”
A couple men laughed, Howard leaned over Tony’s shoulder and held out his hand, palm up. He raised his fore finger, then his middle, then the ring.
Once.
Twice.
Third time, you punish it.
Tony nodded, chewing the mouthguard in anticipation as he looked back to his opponent.
Hammer’s grin faltered for a second when someone behind him leaned in, muttering about how much money was riding on him. Tony could see the nerves surface underneath Hammer’s facade like a fish catching light in dark water.
The man with the notebook raised a hand and stepped into the square to speak.
“You step outta the tape, you reset,” he started, looking Tony like he was the one to require the mercy of boundaries. “No biting. No eyes. No balls. Anything else is fair game. I’m not payin’ any hospital bills, ya heard?”
Hammer laughed and bounced harder. “Very official.”
Tony nodded and flexed his fingers once before balling them back up.
The man with the notebook lowered his hand and stepped out of the ring. “Go.”
As expected, Hammer stepped forward immediately, fists raised and shoulders tight. Tony stepped out, letting Hammer have the first few steps of the ring. He wanted the first hit. Tony could see it in his face before he even threw. The hunger sitting in the clench of his jaw and fueling the overzealous circles of his fists. He wanted to see Tony’s head snap back and beg for it to stop. He wanted Howard to see his son fail.
Tony let him have it.
The first punch came in wide and heavy, but slow enough for Tony to miss it completely if he wanted to. He kept his fists at his side and shifted late like an amateur. Lazy by design. The weak dodge took a majority of the force out but not all of it. Hammer’s knuckles clipped the high point of his cheekbone and snapped his head to the side.
Tony didn’t react. Not much at least. He worked his jaw once and settled his head behind his fists when the men in the room cheered.
Howard’s eyes dug into the back of his skull, Tony could feel them like a hand.
Hammer followed up immediately, high on the sound of the crowd. He came in harder with his lead hand, his shoulder dipped and…
There.
The mistake was obvious if you were looking for it. Hammer must have thought he was hiding the hook because the dip came a little late, just a little twitch in the shoulder before he powered the punch. His feet gave away information before the rest of Hammer could cover it up. He shifted his weight too hard onto the lead leg, opening up the left side, letting his head drift outside of the shelter of his own hand.
Tony caught the follow up with the bony part of his forearm. Even with the block, the impact was hard enough that it jutted his elbow into his ribcage and his own knuckles bumped into his mouthguard.
That was one.
“Yes!” Someone shouted. “That’s right, Hammer!”
Tony let Hammer have the next few feet of territory. Tony braced his shoulders and rose his forearms when the crowding started. He took heavy, ugly shots that made more noise than they did damage. An elbow clipped his forehead. A wrist smacked his temple. The flat front of a fist slammed Tony’s shoulder and was quickly followed by a left hook crashing into his ribs hard enough to squeeze the air from his lungs.
Tony covered and absorbed the hits for a few seconds, just to let Hammer think that it was working. Then he stepped out, bare back grazing someone’s coat sleeve as he circled the ring.
Hammer followed and dipped his shoulder again.
Tony saw Howard past Hammer’s right side. He crossed his arms, hands gripping his own triceps and head tipping to one side. No doubt watching for the same thing Tony was.
Tony did not throw yet, though his fists remained clenched and waiting.
The hit came harder this time. Tony stepped back enough that instead of landing clean on his face, the hit landed along the side of his head. Pain flashed cold and sharp on his ear. Sound going thick on that side, like water had filled his canal and drowned the drum.
That was two.
Tony chewed the guard, tongue swirling a thick, coppery taste in his mouth.
Hammer was smiling now, his ego was swelling heavy enough that his feet began to slow with the weight of it. Convinced that Tony was an easy opponent to walk through. That he would talk about the fight over and over again with more blood in each iteration. That Howard Stark’s boy, The Machine’s son, the pretty thing, the charity case took two shots and ran.
Tony backed up another step, just enough to convince Hammer that he was right.
Hammer took it, of course. His right foot stepped heavy on Tony’s left side and his shoulder dipped right on cue.
Third.
Tony stepped forward, slipping under Hammer’s fueled hook so close that his forearm brushed his hair. The shorter planted his lead foot just outside Hammer’s stance and drove his right hand hard into the soft meat of his cheek. The bare knuckles landing with a flat, ugly crack and forcing Hammer’s head to snap to the side.
Then, as Hammer reached up to guard too late, Tony dropped and drilled his left hand into the soft gap underneath his ribs. Forcing a weak, involuntary grunt as Hammer’s body folded around the hit. The room rose, men shouting over each other, one clapped Howard on the back and announcing a surprised oh, shit, like Tony had performed a magic trick.
Hammer dropped his hands too late to protect his body.
Idiot.
Tony stepped close again and came up with a clean, tight jab to Hammer’s mouth.
Hammer stumbled back with a split lip and blood on his mouth, returning almost the entire ring to Tony. When he hit the edge of the white tape with the heel of his foot, two men shoved him back in hard enough to keep him swaying.
“You know how much money I’ve got on you, Hammer?”
Hammer blinked, leaning off balance with both hands flung out to balance himself. The ego leaked out of him like oil. His body staggering, eyes blinking, grin lost and buried somewhere beneath the throbbing of his cheek. The humiliation shifted into anger. Upset because he had come in wanting a story, an easy fight, a knock-out before the first minute ended and instead Tony had the nerve to land a hit that spilled blood.
Tony stepped toward him, fists raised and ready for the shoulder dip.
Instead, Hammer’s hand swung out far and wide around Tony’s left side. It was too wide for a punch, so Tony turned with it, prepared to swallow a bad hook or wriggle out of a sloppy grab at the back of his neck.
But Hammer grabbed him by the hair, Tony’s scalp lit up like fire as Hammer fisted a hand into his curls and yanked him down. He bent Tony against his will.
The room roared in a deep, disappointed groan, one man booed and flicked a burnt cigarette butt at their feet.
It wasn’t a clinch, not even close. A dirty, unskilled move that would have any real referee blowing the whistle and pushing the two fighters apart.
Howard shouted something that Tony did not hear, he saw his father’s movement at the edge of the ring. A polished shoe crossing an inch over the tape like he was going to separate them himself before stopping. The discipline dragging him back to the restrained role as a viewer instead of a father. He knew him well enough to understand that the restraint must have Howard in a position that might be more uncomfortable than Tony’s.
Hammer’s second hand joined the first in his hair and hauled Tony into the air. Slamming their foreheads together in a hit that sent sparks flickering at the edges of his vision and warmth leaking out of his hairline and down his eyebrow.
Tony felt himself bend forward again, one of the hands leaving his scalp so it could start sending short, reckless punches. There was no space for Tony to slip out or cover himself with his arms, hardly enough space for him to bring air in past the mouthguard. He tried to bring his hands up, but Hammer knocked them aside, driving one hand into his face over and over and the other held his hair. Knuckles split the skin at his brow. One cut his chin. Another glanced his jaw and deflected back to the ear that was already throbbing and ringing.
Tony reached up to grab for Hammer’s wrist, wrapping his fingers around the bloody tape and granting himself enough freedom to open his eyes through a cloud of red and saw blood splattering on the wood under his feet.
His blood.
Hammer twisted his hand out of Tony’s grip quickly and dragged him sideways by the hair. The motion sharper than worse than the punches in a way. The grip pulled at his scalp until his eyes watered, strands tearing apart between Hammer’s fingers. The other hand came up to clamp at the side of his head, the heel of his palm grinding hard against the worsening ear.
The cartilage bent wrong. A small, awful crunch that only Tony heard. Followed by something hot and swelling behind the ear.
A wave of nausea folded in his stomach and sharpened when Hammer hit him there too.
Four sharp knuckles right into the pane of the organ.
Sound disappeared for a second and then turned into a muffled vibration. Tony felt his and Hammer’s feet thudding against the floor and heard Howard’s voice yell something at him in the distance. He felt Hammer’s wet breath on his face and blood soak into his lashes.
Tony shifted again and twisted his hips, trying to pivot out of the grip. Hammer pulled him back again by the hair and slammed an uppercut into Tony’s guarded teeth. His head snapped up, sending a burst of air between his lips, which hung in a fine cloud of red to above them. Bright and wet and copper smelling and settling over their faces.
Hammer pressed his face near Tony’s temple and laughed. “Thought you were s’posed to have hands, charity case.”
Tony grunted and drove both fists into Hammer’s ribs consecutively. Hammer groaned and loosened his grip for a breath. Tony opened his hands and braced them on his opponent’s blood slicked chest to try and rip free. His feet searched for a grip on the blood-slick wood and almost had it before Hammer caught him again.
The hands caught his hair again, tighter and closer to the top of his head now. Fingers tangled in close to the roots and nails digging into the edge of Tony’s forehead. Tony’s hands remained open, pushing and scratching at Hammer’s torso as his head was forced down.
The knee came so quick that he barely closed his eyes in time and had no room or time to turn out of the line of fire. The hard knee-cap hit him square in the nose. The sound of the break sent an echo loud enough to make the room quiet for a moment. The sharp, wet crack opened in the center of his face and made his world into a whining white light.
For a moment, the room settled into a stunned silence. Tony heard someone scoop ice into a bag and someone else rip into something plastic. Maybe a first aid kit. Maybe gauze. Maybe just a fresh pack of cigarettes.
Tears mixed with the blood pooled in his eyelids and thick wetness poured out of his face. It slid over his lips, ran into his mouth and over his chin before splashing onto his chest. It hit his shorts next, then stained his shoes before joining the rest of the blood on the floor.
The room shouted back to life. Money began to shift around again. One person laughed like he had won the lottery. Tony reached up to cup his nose, far too late to change anything about the broken cartilage or to protect himself from the onslaught that was Hammer’s knee, drawing back again.
“I’ve had three drinks, Buck. I can get home by myself,” Steve said. He had been walking backwards down the sidewalk, coat open despite the cold. His hands lifted like everything was simple and James Barnes was just tormenting him because he liked to.
Bucky came out of the bar with his long hair hanging out of his knit cap and coat zipped all the way up to the chin. He took four fast steps to catch up before his boots slipped on old, gravel-dark snow.
“Three illegal beers,” he said. “Huge difference. Didn’t know my sweet Stevie was Public Enemy Number One.”
Steve rolled his eyes and turned around, narrowly avoiding a trash can. “Don’t act like you’re any better. You had a couple.”
“Yeah, but I’m twenty. That’s practically legal.”
“I don’t think that’s how the law works.”
“Oh, is that right?” Bucky bumped his shoulder against Steve’s. “You go to one semester of fancy art school and now you’re the district attorney?”
“You’re the one in pre-law.”
“Pre-law,” Bucky said. Holding up a finger to really emphasize his point. “Which means I can say for certain that neither of us know shit yet.”
Steve laughed. His breath frosting white in the cold.
Brooklyn looked mean and wet, it always did at night this time of year. It hadn’t snowed in days yet the cold air kept old slush and ice in place. Every passing car sprayed dirty water over the curb. The bars that were still open had orange-yellow light in their windows and people smoking under awnings. The ones that were closed were completely dark, asleep with their gates pulled down and neon signs turned off.
Steve knocked a chunk of frozen snow with his boot. It bounced once before skittering into a lamppost, then broke into a smaller pieces.
Bucky shoved both hands into this pockets. “Speakin’ of knowing shit, how’d that big drawing thing go?”
Steve glanced over at him. “The portrait study?”
“Yeah, that thing. The one you were goin’ all psycho about.”
“I was not going psycho.”
“I watched you sharpen pencils for forty minutes, Stevie.”
“The school pencils are garbage.”
“There it is.”
“It’s true,” Steve insisted. “Most of them splinter once you put actual pressure on them. Don’t even get me started on the charcoal or—God—the paint. Makes me want to go all Van Gogh in there. I’m savin’ up for real pencils.”
“Ah,” Bucky said in false solemnity. “The suffering of the artist. Thoughts and prayers. But, for real, if you’re gonna cut off an ear, make it the left one. That one’s crooked.”
Steve shoved him.
Bucky stumbled sideways with exaggerated offense. “Assault! Battery! You think these places got cameras? I’m building a case.”
“You ain’t pass the bar yet, Counselor.”
“No, but I watch lots and lots of courtroom shows with Yelena. I might as well be ready.”
Steve laughed again.
The night had been fun. Cheap beer, someone’s fake ID that Bucky swore was too flimsy to work. They had tucked into the booth in the back of a dive that would not squint too hard at the plastic as long as the cash was cold and hard. Steve’s hand was still a little warm from the booze, cheeks still pink.
Bucky bumped his shoulder again, lighter this time.
“Anyway, things’ll be cheaper when we get into the apartment.”
“Nothin’ about twenty-nine hundred a month sounds cheap.”
“For a three-bedroom in Brooklyn? Nowadays? It’s practically a miracle. A miracle with low ceilings and bad pipes, but a miracle all the same.”
Steve smiled down at the sidewalk, boot squishing in a small mound of slush. “Speaking of the apartment, I think I found us a roommate.”
Bucky stopped smiling. “No, God no.”
“You haven’t even met the guy.”
“It’s another art kid, isn’t it?”
“No. I don’t only know art kids.”
“Okay,” Bucky paused. “Then maybe.”
“Sociology major.”
Bucky squinted. “That could mean anything. It could even be worse. The soft sciences scare me.”
“His name is Sam. He’s normal.”
“You think everyone is normal, and we won’t even find out until he’s doin’ weird shit in the kitchen.”
“He runs track.”
“Not helping his case.”
“He has a job.”
“Now I’m listening.”
“He paid the application fee in cash.”
Bucky tapped a finger to his temple.”Gettin’ better!”
Steve grinned.
They were passing a closed bar Steve heard the sound. Not an ordinary thump of something dropped or laughter or music turned up too loud. A thick, hard crack. It reverberated through the blacked out windows like a boot against a door.
Steve stopped walking.
Bucky made it three steps before realizing he had lost him. He turned back, shoulders hunching against the cold. “What’s wrong?”
Steve didn’t answer right away, he turned to look at the bar.
The front windows had been covered from the inside with flattened liquor boxes and what looked like duct tape. It was thorough. No light came through aside from a tiny corner where enough tape had peeled away to let a thin orange line spill onto the concrete by Steve’s feet.
Steve rubbed his hands together, whatever warmth the booze had given him left when the crack echoed in his ears. “You hear that?”
“Hear what?”
“That crack.”
Bucky stepped back towards him. “Someone probably dropped something.
Steve didn’t move, eyes watching the useless windows. The street seemed to close in on itself. Somewhere down the block, a couple came out of a convenience store laughing, a cab squished through slush across the road.
The sound came again. The blunt, wet sound of fist on skin.
Steve recognized it before he could name it, his heart lurched at the familiar noise of knuckles hitting meat. A grunt forced out of someone, a scrape and voices muffled behind the cardboard and glass.
“Someone’s gettin’ hurt.”
Bucky caught his shoulder before he could step toward the door. “Nope.”
Steve shook him off. “Buck—”
“No way,” Bucky said firmer, putting his hand back on Steve’s shoulder. “We’re gonna keep walking.”
“They’re jumping someone in there.”
“You don’t know that.”
Another hit landed inside. The men behind the walls shouted. One voice laughed louder than the others.
Steve looked at the door. “They’re hurting whoever’s in there.”
Bucky stood in front of him, hands gripping each shoulder. “Listen to it.”
“Yeah, I can hear it, that’s why—”
“No. You’re reacting. Listen.”
Steve glared at him. Neither of them spoke for a few seconds.
Another impact came through the walls. Faster now. A grunt followed it, then cheering. A low and fast exchange about money next. One man yelled something that made more laugh. A fist cracked against something hard. Cheekbone or chin or nose or something just as breakable.
“It’s a fight,” Bucky said.
“That supposed to make it better?”
“No,” he said. “But we’re not walking in there.”
Steve huffed.
“Stevie,” Bucky grabbed his sleeve now, not rough, but with the grip he used when he knew Steve was about to do something stupid and righteous and also deeply inconvenient. “That’s not someone getting mugged or some kid getting bullied. It’s a room full of dirtbags who are payin’ to watch someone bleed.”
Steve clenched his jaw.
Inside, another heavy hit landed. The room erupted into cheers and shouts. Bucky turned around, eyes flicking to the covered windows before returning to face Steve. “What d’you think’s gonna happen when you go in there? You gonna tell thirty drunk guys with cash on the table that they’re being rude?”
“I can call the cops.”
“Your phone is dead, Stevie.”
Steve looked away, it was true. His phone had been dead since before his second beer because he forgot to charge it during studio time and Bucky had already called him a moron about it twice.
Another hit.
Steve flinched. He hated that his body still knew how to be small even though he was bigger than he used to be. Hated that those sounds could still reach through years and find the skinny kid that got shoved behind dumpsters, pinned against school walls and laughed at by boys that were bigger and somehow pleased by having power over someone smaller. He remembered the grit of pavement under his hands and the way the crowd would gather to laugh just like the men inside the covered bar.
Steve pulled against Bucky’s hand.
“Don’t.”
Steve’s hands curled into fists. “Someone’s getting the shit kicked out of him.”
“Yeah,” Bucky said. “If you walk in there, it’ll be two someones.”
The noise behind the cardboard swelled again. Bucky swung a hand around Steve’s shoulder. Wrapping his shoulder like an anchor. “C’mon. Please don’t make me drag you.”
Steve huffed through his nose before giving Bucky a stiff nod. Steve let him guide them past the entrance and down the alley. Gripping him harder when Steve looked towards the back entrance. He kept his hands closed and leaned harder into Bucky. Trying to forget the sound of the fight following them deeper into the alley.
The knee came back fast. Tony saw it through the blood and water in his eyes. Hammer still had both hands in his hair, fingers buried to the root and nails digging into his scalp as he tried to drag Tony’s face into the rising joint.
Tony let his knees loosen.
He let his body dip with the pull, folding further that Hammer had planned for and letting the knee pass too high. Grazing the side of Tony’s head instead of crashing into the center of his face again.
There was still blood pouring over his lips. His ear burned and pulsed against his hair. The sound coming in on that side came in like a bad radio signal and every breath he took was thick with the taste of iron.
Hammer’s weight shifted.
Tony’s hands came up now, not to claw or grab at Hammer’s hair like some tantruming child. But to frame against Hammer’s chest and shoulder. He rammed his forearms against Hammer’s collarbones and shoved. Hammer resisted. Tony turned his hips, dropped his center of gravity and ripped his head sideways out of Hammer’s grip. The movement tore a few dark curls with it and left one hand at the ends of Tony’s hair. But Tony was free enough.
He stepped in close before Hammer could bury his grip farther into his hair again. They stood nearly chest to chest as Tony drove his right fist into Hammer’s side. Tony reared the same arm back, and drove it into the same spot. Knuckles sinking into into the soft flesh just under the last rib.
Hammer made a choked, whining sound and tried to fold over him. His chin landing on Tony’s trap muscle. He turned, letting Hammer slide off as he came up with his left hand, landing a hook right into Hammer’s mouth.
The punch landed with a wet crack, Hammer’s head snapped to the side. Thin, red blood sprayed from his mouth and sprayed Tony’s shoulder and onto the wood below them.
The crowd surged again. The men pressed farther inward, toes creeping over the edge of the tape in anticipation. Bodies gathered close enough behind Tony that he could feel the heat of them at his back. Voices blurred into a hungry, excited drone.
Hammer stumbled back a few steps, Tony saw him try to blink the blood out of his eyes. One hand lifted to his mouth. He looked at the blood soaking into the gauze around his wrists like it should belong to someone else. Like there has been some sort of mistake.
Hammer looked back to Tony. Anger washing his face, ugly and bubbling with fear underneath it.
“Hands up, Anthony!” Howard shouted behind him.
Tony raised his fists and swallowed the blood gathering in his mouth.
Hammer came forward again, less clean now, like he was forcing his feet to go where he wanted them. His shoulders were bunched up near his ears, arms gone wide like a bird trying to look bigger and more intimidating than it truly was. He swung a wide and desperate right hook.
Tony slipped outside it and hit him in the stomach. Hammer grunted and tried to catch him with the left, but Tony dropped under it. He turned off the line and sunk his right hand back into Hammer’s ribs. That same sad little seam between the bone and the soft meat of his stomach.
Hammer’s knees buckled slightly, entire body sinking lower as his unstable feet pulled him back into a retreat. His heel caught the edge of the tape for a second time and the man behind him shoved him back in.
“We got money ridin’ on you, Hammer!”
The pressure of the shove lurched him forward and Tony met him back in the ring with a brutal punch to the vulnerable cheek.
Tony did not need to grab at his hair or swing his knee or slam his forehead into Hammer’s face to make a point. He believed in the shape and rules of a fair fight. Pain and humiliation did not mean chaos.
Hammer did not seem to agree, he spat blood onto the floor and came at him harder.
Tony barely avoided the first rush. His back bumped up against the swollen beer belly of a man standing on the tape. The man shoved him forward with a sweaty hand, making the toe of Tony’s boxing shoe catch on the seam of a plank of flooring beneath him.
Hammer saw the hesitation and swung a messy cross at Tony. Swollen knuckles slammed hard into his forearms and drove it back into his own face. Pain returned to the center of his face and flashed across his broken nose so hard his head rung. He tasted new blood down the back of his throat before Hammer came back in with the other hand.
Tony took that one on his delt.
Then, as Hammer geared up to send another hook, he dipped.
Even hurt and swollen with the world muffled by the ruined heat of his left ear, Tony saw the dip. Heavy footing, left knee softening and the left shoulder dropping. Then Hammer remembered that his body spoke before his mouth or his fists did and he hesitated. He kept his fists up but did not throw.
He waited long, as if he was clarifying that Tony had forgotten about the mistake. Like if Tony would not take advantage of it now he might not ever do it again.
Tony waited too, and saw Howard go very still at the opposite edge of the tape.
Hammer’s eyes flicked to Tony’s ribs, his face, the blood still pouring out of his nose. Then he geared up again. Shoulder dipping as he stepped forward to fully commit to the swing.
Tony stepped in, he sunk below the hook. Close enough to feel the tape brush over the top of his head and stir the torn curls at his hairline. The punch itself missed Tony by a long shot and took all of Hammer’s weight with it. Tony’s lead food planted outside of Hammer’s stance. He turned his hips, then his shoulder, then his right hand. The fist came up along the line of his body and landed bare, broken knuckles under Hammer’s jaw.
The deep, clean knock of the uppercut echoed in the crowded room. Not the wet, clawing slaps of the earlier shots or the loud crack that broke Tony’s nose. This one was clean and final. Like a heavy door closing somewhere deep underground.
Hammer’s eyes went empty. His mouth opened and his legs forgot how to hold him up. For one suspended second, he stood in front of Tony with his arms loose and chin high.
He hit the dirty floor on his side first. His shoulder and hip struck next, head bouncing against the floor with a hollow crack that pulled a sharp, collective breath from the surrounding men. Hammer’s hand twitched against the floor, hands curling around air and his legs lay stiff along the floor.
The room went quiet for another heartbeat. Just long enough for Tony to hear his own wet, ragged breathing from under the mouthguard. He let his hands relax at his sides, fingers opening up against the resistance of his swollen knuckles.
The man with the pocketbook pushed through the bodies at the edge of the tape. He looked at Hammer, the limp, twitching mass on the ground. Then he turned to Tony and raised his right hand.
“Stark!”
Men began to shout over one another again. Folded bills came out of pockets, from behind belts and from inside coats. Arguments started before Hammer even came to enough to roll onto his back. Someone laughed and slapped both hands down on the bar, another cursed loud enough to crack his voice. The man with the pocketbook had three people pressing money at him and two arguing about how much they actually owed.
Tony stood inside the tape. He reached up and brushed the tip of his fingers along the top of his lip. Thick blood coated it instantly. The blue of his wraps had been stained to a grayish purple, the white gauze at the edges completely red with blood. His chest heaved, sucking in fast, deep breaths through his mouthguard and the blood. He swallowed another mouthful to clear up the space. More ran from his nose and slipped under his chin, drawing dark lines over his throat and sternum before soaking into the waistband of his shorts.
He turned to look at his father. He was smiling, eyes bright with pride. He stepped into the ring like it belonged to him. Gym bag still slung over a shoulder and a hand reaching out to settle along Tony’s back.
The man with the beer belly, the same one to push Tony back into the ring, clapped a large hand down on Howard’s back.
“Christ, Stark. Your boy’s made of iron.”
Another sympathized. “Great fight.”
Howard’s hand moved from his back to the nape of his neck. The other joined it, thumbs settled behind his ears and lifting his chin. “You’re done,” he said.
Tony blinked at him and rubbed blood out of his eyes. “Did I do good?” He asked, feeling himself sway once, one foot losing part of it’s grip on the floor.
Howard’s gripe shifted to his shoulders and tightened enough to keep him upright. The other hand shifted to Tony’s blood-slick chest, palm flat against it. Tony felt his heart hammer fast and heavy against the callused skin.
“Yeah,” he said, turning him toward the break in the crowd. “You did good. Come on, outside.”
Tony let himself be steered out of the ring. The crowd parted for both of them, this time with Tony in the lead. They leaned in a little as he passed through, looking at his face, the blood, the broken angle of his nose, at the gray swelling already changing the shape of his ear. One man reached out to pat Tony on the shoulder but Howard swung his head and cut him a look intimidating enough that the hand opened and retreated.
The back door opened, washing Tony in cold air.
It rushed over his skin and through the heat of the blood and sweat. It should have stung, the air was cold enough to maintain the ice on the ground, but the cold air felt better than beating Hammer had. The alley smelled terrible. Garbage, old snow, exhaust and something rotting in the dumpster. But the cold soothed his face, his chest and the hot swollen mess of his ear.
Howard pulled him across the width of the alley and turned him underneath a weak yellow streetlight. “Stand still,” he said.
Tony’s knees had other ideas. Howard caught him by the shoulders before Tony could hit the ground and pushed his back up against the brick wall. Just hard enough to keep him upright.
“There,” Howard said. “Stay right there.”
Tony breathed through his mouth. The mouthguard had shifted to a crooked position, no longer snug against his teeth. Blood had gathered underneath it, seeping through the gaps in his teeth every time his jaw moved. The left side of his face pulsed in time with his heartbeat. His ear felt huge and heavy. Like something had crawled underneath the thin skin and started swelling there.
Howard dropped the gym bag onto the wet pavement and dug out a small pair of blunt scissors. Stopping when more of Tony’s blood started to speckle the snow between them.
For the first time since Tony had bent over under Hammer’s hair-filled hands, Howard looked worried. “Jesus,” he muttered.
Tony blinked at him, “Hm?”
Howard caught him by the chin and turned his face toward the alley light. He was careful with the shift but Tony still made a sound around the mouthguard. Blood was still flowing from his nose, not pouring out like before. Just running in a steady red line from both crooked nostrils, over his lips and onto his chest to splatter at their feet.
Howard’s mouth tightened. “Keep your head forward.”
Tony tried to tip it back again instinctually, Howard’s grip sharpened in response. “Forward, Anthony. Don’t swallow any more. I know you did.”
Tony obeyed, feeling the blood run faster.
Howard looked over his shoulder, hand still on Tony’s chin, and spoke in the direction of the back door. “Hey. Get me a towel.”
When no one answered, he barked louder. The word cracking down the alley loud enough to make a light flick on in one of the windows a few stories up. “Towel!”
A man appeared in a doorway, eyes catching on Tony’s face. “Bar rag?”
“Bath towel,” Howard snapped, “He’s gushin’. Make sure it’s clean.”
The man nodded and vanished back into the bar. Howard looked back to Tony. Concern surfacing beneath all the pride and adrenaline. It didn’t stay long, but it stayed and pulsed long enough that Tony could see it before Howard buried it.
“We’re seeing Bruce tonight,” Howard said. “Now. As soon as I can get these wraps off.”
Tony breathed wetly through his mouth and made a noise no one will ever admit was a whine.
Howard took his left wrist and slid the scissors under the gauze. “No arguing,” he cut through the first strip with a quick little snip. “I know,” he said before Tony could try to speak. “You’re fine. You’re always fine. We’re still gonna see Bruce.”
Parts of the wrap began to fall away. His voice came steady and fast. The way it always did after Tony won, ready to explain everything Tony did right and everywhere he could do better.
“He got scared.” Howard said. “That’s all that was. Soon as you touched him clean, he freaked. All the shit-talk and the bouncin’ around, and the second you had him stumbling, he panicked.”
The scissors snapped through the tape again.
“Dirty boxing,” Howard continued. “Hair pulling, headbutt, knee. It’s not smart. He just realized he can’t beat you straight and got nasty to save his ego.”
One severed strip of gauze dropped onto the pavement.
“Ya heard?”
Tony’s tongue pressed against the mouthguard as he nodded. Howard cut through the other end of the wrap. “You didn’t chase him. You didn’t answer stupid with stupid. You made him pay. That’s what matters. He dragged you into the mud and you still found that sure shot.”
The back door swung open again. The man from before returned with a towel that used to be white. It had been folded so long it still creased when Howard opened it, probably pulled from someone’s trunk or from under a sink. Howard took it and held it up. “Hold this.”
Tony lifted one bare, sticky hand, letting Howard push the towel into it. He guided up beneath his nose. “Not on the bridge, Anthony. Under it. Let the towel to the work.”
Tony held it to his nostrils, settling it where Howard wanted it. The cloth went dark almost immediately.
Howard clenched his jaw, then reached for Tony’s other hand. He cut through the tape and the gauze, peeling it away in stretched strips and dropping the ruined fabric to their feet. Tony’s fingers twitched as the pressure came off. His knuckles were split in two places and swollen enough to make his wrists look white and veiny in comparison.
Howard looked at the splits and nodded to himself. “Good hands,” he said. “You did good work.”
Tony sighed into the towel, his eyes drifting toward the depth of the alley. Farther down, two figures moved down the center. One tall, blonde and broad-shouldered. The other had dark hair and an arm wrapped around the bigger one.
Tony blinked.
Howard pulled the last strip loose. “Look at me.”
Tony did.
“Nose is broken to shit.”
Tony huffed through his mouth, it hurt enough to almost become a cough.
“Don’t look so disappointed. You knew. I’m just reminding you.”
Tony spoke around the guard, coming out thick and raspy. “My ear," he said. "it itches.”
Howard paused, shifted his grip and turned Tony’ head to the right so the swollen left ear faced the light. His thumb brushed the hair behind it softly, pulling the sweaty curls away from the damaged cartilage.
Tony flinched.
“Yep, Hammer caught ya good there.”
The ear was already swelling. Tony could feel Howard looking at it. Could feel the shape of it changing and settling underneath his skin. It felt tender and huge, itching because it hurt too much to throb. Something inside it had bent, burst and filled and would not settle.
“Bruce’ll reset the nose,” he said, thumb staying near Tony’s ear. “We’re leaving this. You earned it.”
Howard did not look ashamed of the beginning of the cauliflower, if anything, he looked pleased by it in that weird, grave way of his. Like the swelling was some sort of rite of passage for their strange, violent community.
The two figures in the distance had turned back. The blonde one was looking at him. Tony’s focus caught there and held. He was big, that was the easiest thing to understand through the pain and swelling and cold. He was tall, too. Or tall enough from where Tony stood slumped against the wall. Wide shoulders covered by a worn coat. Yellow hair catching the warm alley light. Tony could not see his face clearly, just the shape of his expression
He was looking at Tony like something bad had happened. No thrill, pride or strange entertainment. Just the kind of helpless sadness that Tony did not know how to process.
The dark-haired guy beside him caught his sleeve and said something. The blonde one did not move at first, he stayed, sad face trained on Tony.
Tony swallowed the blood.
Howard went on. “—ice on the ribs when we get him. We’ll meet Bruce there if he’s still up and if he’s not, I’ll call and drag him out of bed. Nose fist, then the ribs. Hey—stop swallowing the blood, Anthony.”
Tony did not listen to him.
The big, blonde kid was still looking.
Tony squinted through the swelling and the blood, trying to focus on his face and make out some features. But the motion pulled at his broken nose and made his eyes water again. Turning the big blonde man back into a distant shape.
The dark-haired guy tugged harder. The blonde looked away. The two of them walking farther and farther down the alley before turning a corner. Off to whatever street they lived on.
Howard’s hand closed around his jaw again and turned him back. “Stay with me,” he said before reaching into the gym bag and pulling out a plastic water bottle. He twisted the cap off with his teeth. “Head forward.”
Cold water hit his forehead and ran down his face. It was a shock so sharp his whole body jerked. Howard held him steady and poured more. Washing the blood from his brows, lashes, mouth, chin. Pink water ran down his throat and over his chest. Over the faint bruises already darkening there. It soaked into the waistband of his shorts and settled there.
Howard cupped a hand under Tony’s chin. “Spit.”
Tony worked the guard forward with his tongue and spat a mouthful of blood and water out. The mouthguard landed in Howard’s hand, liquids splashing through his fingers and onto the ground.
“Good.”
The back door opened again, someone leaned out from inside. Arm extended with a plastic to-go bag half-full with ice and tied shut. “Stark.”
Howard took it without looking. “Yep.”
“Hell of a fight.”
Howard glanced back and responded with a satisfied “I know.”
The door slammed shut again. Howard took the bloodied towel from Tony’s hand, unfolded and refolded it so a cleaner patch took up most of the surface area, and pressed it back under Tony’s nose. “Hold that there.”
Tony did, and Howard lifted the ice pack next. He set it carefully over the bridge of Tony’s nose and cheek, bracing the towel beneath to catch what was still dripping out.
Tony hissed, grabbing at Howard’s wrist like it might soften the pain.
“I know,” Howard said. “I know. Hold it there.”
Tony held it, one hand on the ice and one hand on the towel. His hands were bare now, left with the remaining sticky film of blood where his knuckles and fingers had been left exposed. The cold of the ice sank into his broken nose and swollen face. The chill too much and not enough all at once.
Howard bent over, grabbing the ruined straps of tape and gauze and tossing them into a nearby dumpster one by one. The gorey red white and blue joining piles of plastic and old bottles.
“You did good, son.”
Tony knew that. He did not need reminding. He just thought of the sad looking blonde kid.