Chapter Text
Steve's Rogers was a simple man who was good at his job. That much was evident. Tony Stark surveyed the latest reports that had been pushed across his expensive, mahogany desk with an air of nonchalance. Though admittedly he was impressed. A half empty tumbler was held lazily in his left hand, elbow lent on the wood, his right flicking through the photographs. Three kills in as many weeks. Clean shots with only one bullet. The police had no evidence and were left dumbfounded, running around so uselessly it was almost cute. So yes, Stark was impressed. Assassins were usually brooding creatures, far too caught up in their own angst and troubled pasts to be effective. Tony didn't appreciate the melodramatic rumbles of 'he dies tonight'. Rogers was different, clean cut and neat with his simple 'sure thing boss. Whatever you want.'
Tony also admittedly appreciated the suggestion in such replies and that served to amuse him a little. And not much made him smile these days.
Tony had worked himself up to where he was with blood, sweat and tears. He'd started as a mechanic, an engineer, building weaponry until he was successful enough to have other people build his designs for him. Perhaps he could have put his skills towards more...noble causes, but where would the fun in that be? No. This was his domain, corruption, greed and profit. All on the basis of violence and rivalry. It sure was fun.
He dragged his fingers across the smooth surface of the desk and lent back with his seat with a sigh, staring down at the blood soaked pavement in the photo as he downed the rest of his drink. He'd done that. He'd made that happen just by asking. In a sense that made Tony feel even more powerful then when he'd been on the other end, pulling the trigger. And he'd been there many a time. But that was the convenient thing about being rich, you could get just others to do all the dirty work for you. With just a few words.
“Mr Stark,” Pepper's efficient voice filtered through the phone on his desk. “Rogers is here to see you.”
“Send him in Pep,” Tony chimed, straightening up in his seat, setting down the glass and closing the file. After all, first impressions were important.
The assassin looked far too innocent to be an assassin, head ducked almost bashfully as he stepped into the office with a soft smile and easy eyes. “Mr Stark?”
It was hard not to stare, really. The man wore nothing but black, tight fitting gear which left little to the imagination, supposedly his 'work clothes'. The assassin glanced around the office casually, hands clasped loosely behind his back, no doubt getting a hold of his surroundings. Stark could understand that. He also couldn't help but admire the swell of the man's ass as he turned around but then Tony's eyes smoothly dragged back up to Roger's face with an effortlessly charming smile. His voice velvet when he spoke, “it's good to finally see your face Rogers. I've appreciated your good work these past few weeks, how come I haven't heard of you before now?”
“I'm only noticed when I want to be,” Steve replied coolly. “And a few weeks, ago...well,” he shrugged, something akin to mischief glinting in those baby blue eyes. “I wanted to be noticed. You weren't disappointed then?”
“I was satisfied,” Stark affirmed with a hum and gestured to a small duffel bag let against the desk. “Your payment is in there. 30,000 per kill as we agreed and a little bonus, for...completely satisfying me.”
Rogers smirked subtly, not bothering to check the bag, taking Stark's word for it. Interesting.
“And do you have any more work for me Mr Stark?” Rogers breathed, hands still clasped behind his back, back soldier-straight.
“You want a drink?” Tony offered as he moved over to a cabinet to refill his glass, ignoring the question for now, the oaky smell of whiskey filtering into the air from the old and, no doubt, outrageously expensive bottle.
“I don't drink on the job,” Steve shook his head and Tony let out a soft laugh.
“Sort of pinned you as the paranoid type. Surprised you didn't climb through my window to avoid security.”
“I considered it,” Steve admitted. Tony couldn't quite tell if the man was joking or not. Though he did appear to tilt his head in a somewhat playful manner. Maybe working with this Assassin could be more fun than anticipated.
“I have five more names for you,” Tony said as he returned to his desk, forgoing the chair to lean against the desk itself, tumbler held gracefully in hand as he took a sip. Roger's expression remained unreadable, eyes fixed on Stark's face at all times. The man kept his cool well.
Tony was feared in this city. Everyone knew his name, knew the weight that came with it. Tony Stark always got what he wanted, owned almost everything and had power and influence over more. Assassins often stumbled over words and slurred sentences when they stepped into his office, wringing their hands in front of themselves anxiously like all the other business men. But Rogers was different. Rogers was so damn professional, straight forward and had a nice ass to top it off. All in all it was refreshing.
“I'll give you one name tonight. When it's done I'll give you the next,” Tony said and moved to his desk drawer, holding out an envelope. “I know him personally,” he said and Steve raised a brow in surprise though said nothing. “There's a photo inside and his address, just to make things smoother.”
“Tell me Rogers do you provide other services?” Tony asked abruptly and the assassin blinked.
“Whatever my skill set covers,” he answered, tone plain and simple, giving nothing away.
“Make it messy,” Tony told him as he stepped forward, tucking the envelope into the inside pocket of Roger's jacket himself. He smirked subtly, dark hazel eyes bright with something wicked as he looked up into Roger's set gaze, their faces far too close for comfort.
“I can do messy,” Rogers murmured, something dark flitting over his features briefly before he stepped back. “Give me a week. Just like the others, let me know if you want anything more...specific,” he said, tone almost careful. “So if that's all Mr Stark, I'll be going...”
“Yes Rogers,” Stark nodded, sipping at his drink and taking out his phone which had just begun to ring in his pocket. He gestured to the door with his tumbler, “I'll see you in a week. Hello? Ah yes...” Steve took the duffel bag and headed out with another nod in silent recognition before he slipped through the door. Tony may or may not have cocked his head to admire the view as the assassin made his way out.
It was the little things in life, right? Tony made sure to appreciate them. Though after meeting Steve Rogers he still wasn't sure what he felt about the man other than generally being impressed by his work and clean cut efficiency...but there was something under the surface, something Tony couldn't quite make out yet. And that frustrated him to no end.
Once he was off his phone call he made one to Pepper, “I want Rogers followed. I want to know where he lives, or where he goes. Just get me something.”
*
Steve Rogers stepped out onto the street with a soft, withered breath, duffel bag slung over one shoulder as he made his way towards the closest main road and tube station. Stark's mansion a tall looming presence over him as he walked out of the gates, finding himself glancing back once or twice consciously. He'd barely kept his cool in there. Jesus, he heard an awful lot about Tony Stark (all of it bad) but nothing could have prepared him for being in front of the man himself. He'd not wanted to show any weakness and could only hope he'd succeeded. He was intimidating, the easy smile and the elegance of his each movement made him look almost ethereal. He sucked the life out of the room. Steve could understand why he was feared as much as he was.
He could still see the echo of those dark brown eyes boring into his own, probing as if he were just waiting Steve to break. But he hadn't, he'd managed to keep up his cool, calm and collected demeanour and for that he was eternally grateful. There was too much on the line for Steve to screw this up now.
Steve dragged the bag onto both shoulders as he stepped into the tube station. When he got on his train he didn't sit, one hand curled around a bar as he body swayed subtly with each twist and turn. His gaze flitted around the cart. Three. He counted three men with ear pieces in, one trying to look like he was reading the newspaper and not staring at Steve who was failing quite embarrassingly. Steve smirked subtly to himself. For all his masterful presence and influence Tony Stark was rather transparent in some ways.
Surprise, surprise...when Steve got off at his stop so did the three men. All dressed in nondescript clothing but clearly well built like Steve himself, following on with lazy steps. He shoved his hands in his pockets and turned he next street corner sharply. Steve had done this before, and he'd anticipated it. Another turn then a sharper one down a side street. He pulled the keys from his pocket and tugged his hood over his head as he climbed onto his motorbike that he'd parked by the curb. He revved up the engine and drove off, smiling faintly to himself as he heard a muttered curse under the breath of the man who'd been following just a few metres behind him.
Steve drove a long route home, taking over half an hour just to be safe before he finally parked outside his apartment block.
Steve's flat was modest and nondescript, exactly what you'd expect from an 'assassin'. The pots from his dinner earlier drying on the sink, the cutlery all neatly tucked away in the drawer and each cupboard was methodically filled with food. The living space was equally plain, the only hint of personality in the books that littered the shelf that lined one wall. Steve sighed, walking up to it, pulling out a copy of Moby Dick and opening it. The pages hollowed out to allow a mobile phone to sit inside.
He took it out, turning it on as he walked back into the kitchen. He dumped the duffel bag on the small, circular dining table before grabbing an apple and biting into its green flesh, licking the sour juice from the corners of his lips as he scrolled through the mobile. He unzipped his jacket, pulling out the envelope Stark had given him as the ring tone dialled.
“Shield,” the voice greeted, smooth like black coffee. Shield had been his code name for over a year now, it felt natural to respond to it. “I assume the meeting went as planned?”
“It did Sir,” Steve affirmed, drawing out the picture to inspect it, the name Justin Hammer scrawled across the back in spidery handwriting. The man looked annoying, glasses slipping down his slim nose, his suit far too posh. He looked fake, superficial. Steve didn't like those types of people all too much. “I've been given a fourth target.”
“Excellent. Continue as planned. Do good work. Gain his trust. We could bring him in now but if we want to actually get a conviction the target's lawyers can't weasel him out of we need some good fucking results. We need solid proof, do you understand shield?”
“I do director.”
The line went dead. Steve returned the phone to the book after switching it off chucked the apple chore in the bin and then sat in front of the tv with just the news on, laptop propped against his knees as he did his research on this Justin Hammer. He could still remember Stark though, the conversation...I can do messy. Why had he said that? Steve sighed to himself in frustration. Killing was one thing, and he'd never found it easy. Causing real pain to someone was something else though. Steve didn't enjoy nor relish it, but he had to pretend to. He'd been an 'assassin' for over a year now, killing and getting paid for it as he wormed his way up the ladder, getting himself noticed more and more. It was scary how quickly he'd adapted to the lifestyle. He'd been in undercover work his whole life, been forced to kill people...but never on this scale. Least, Steve comforted himself with the thought, that the people he was killing were all as bad as each other. And the end goal would make it all worth it.
At least that's what Steve told himself to help him sleep at night.
The next morning he got up at six on the dot. He dressed in all black, got all his things ready carefully and with precision. Sniper rifle loaded with three bullets (he never needed more than three) and blade slipped into the inside of his jacket. He tucked the gun away neatly into a bag and dragged it over his shoulders. He opened his wardrobe door, staring at his hollow eyes in the reflection of the mirror set into the inside of the door, then Steve lifted the picture and stuck it on the mirror. Justin Hammer's face stuck amongst all the others. Steve didn't always have pictures so sometimes he had to drawn his own, the sketches crude and made with thick, messy lines of black and blue biro. But the important thing was having all their faces there, so he couldn't forget.
Steve would never forget.
He sent a simple text to Stark that night, bloodied fingers slipping over the touch screen of his phone, leaving sickly pink smears across the white screen.
All done and dusted Stark. SR