Unknown Numbers & Lesser-known Situations
Pairings: Steve Rogers x daughter!Reader, platonic!Tony Stark x Reader, Steve Rogers x Tony Stark (if you squint really hard)
Synopsis: “I’m sorry,” you croak, your voice still sore from crying, “ have we met before?”
Tony takes a swig at his bottle. “You don’t know me?” His voice has an incredulous tone behind it, like he can’t possibly fathom why you’re surprised about the fact that he’s so comfortable around you.
You can’t, for the life of you, think of any reason for why he is.
“Of course I know who you are, but how, why do you know who I am?”
“Oh,” he shrugs, “not a lot you can hide from me. But your secret is safe, scout’s honor.”
Or,
Y/n receives a call at 2 AM about the critical state of her father, and there’s not much she can do but rush to Avengers’ Tower to be by his side. Apparently, Tony had the same idea.
Word Count: 2.8k
A/n: Managed to crank out another Rogers!Reader fic. It’s meant to be the same au as fractions of him (read here), but I think the ages clash. I just like writing all these ideas out, though. Thanks @currentlygettinglobotomized for proofreading :)
You wake up from your sleep at the sound of your phone vibrating on your nightstand.
The clock next to your phone reads 2:37 AM, and you wonder who has the audacity to call at this time. Still, you move to answer the phone, because if you’re getting a call this late (or early? You don’t have the mental capacity to think about that right now), it’s probably important.
It better be important.
When you look at the screen, you see it’s an unknown number. You don’t normally answer these calls, but you’ve already woken up, so you might as well answer.
The line is quiet for a few seconds, before a somewhat robotic voice comes through.
“Hello, is this Y/n Rogers?”
You freeze.
For all 15 years of your life, you’d gone by Y/n L/n rather than using your real last name, as being the daughter of Steve Rogers would’ve brought in a lot of unnecessary attention.
As far as you know, nobody (other than your dad) has ever called you by or heard your real name, so hearing it said by a complete stranger on a strange number startles you, and wakes you up completely.
“I’m sorry?” You stutter through the phone, mentally berating yourself for how unsure you sound.
“Y/n M/n Rogers. Is that you?”
“Yea – Yes. That’s me…” You know there’s a big chance that you’ll end up in some sort of trouble if someone found out about your relationship to Captain America, especially since you’ve just confirmed it.
But something inside you tells you you did the right thing by answering truthfully, and if you’ve learned anything from your dad, it’s to trust your gut 100% of the time.
There’s a small silence before the voice on the other side speaks again. “This is JARVIS, from Stark Industries,” that explains the robotic voice, you think. “You have been called about Captain Rogers’ health. He is in critical condition, and has previously requested th…”
JARVIS continues speaking, but you’re not really listening anymore. Your dad, in critical condition? He’s come home before with bullet holes and stab wounds, saying it wasn’t a big deal and that he would just shake it off, whatever that meant.
If he was in such a bad state that they had to call you, you don’t want to imagine what sort of injuries he’s suffering, even though your mind begins to wander.
Your chest starts tightening, and you suddenly feel a shortness of breath coming on before JARVIS’ voice calls you back to reality.
Not a fun reality in anyway, but reality regardless.
“Are you still there, Ms. Rogers?” his voice does little to nothing to calm you down, but you realize that his purpose probably isn’t to calm hyperventilating daughters.
You force yourself to take a deep breath before answering. “ Yeah, sorry. What were you saying?”
“I was asking whether or not you would like to visit your father while he is hospitalized,” JARVIS responds.
“Yes. Yes, please, when and where can I see him?” You cringe at how desperate you sound, but you figure you’re allowed to be a little disoriented with the situation at hand.
“Avenger’s Tower is open for your arrival right now, if convenient for you.”
“Ohmygod, thank you. I’ll be right there. “
“Excellent. Upon your arrival, feel free to use the front entrance. You’ll be allowed in and taken to the correct floor.” You’re already fully dressed - or as dressed as one can be at such a time - and putting on your shoes when he answers you, so you only manage to throw a thank you at your phone before hanging up.
You’re out the door and flying down the stairs faster than ever before. You’re into the taxi and giving the address to the little shop across the tower (you don’t want to give the cab driver any reasons to suspect you) even faster.
Upon your arrival, you pay him with haste and make your way across the road, and into the building, which strangely has no security guards (you later learn that JARVIS is better than any other human security).
There’s no one at the lobby either, but something about the absent whirring in the background tells you it’s not empty at all.
Your suspicions are confirmed when you’re startled by a now familiar voice from the ceiling. “Welcome, Ms. Rogers. Please head towards the elevator.”
You’re still a little unsettled at the sound of your real last name, but you put the thought aside as you walk - read run - towards the elevator.
The silence as it ascends automatically is uncomfortable, and you can’t help but pace around the box. What if you never saw your dad again?
A pit grew in your stomach. The last time you’d talked you were kind of preoccupied, and you’d hate for your last conversation to be one where you were rushing him because someone you were making plans with for the afternoon was texting you.
You’re taken away from your depressing thoughts by the bing! of the elevator as it reaches your designated floor, and you realize that you have no idea what to do now.
JARVIS seems to have left you, so you decide to find the way yourself. Three pathways lay ahead of you. You figure the middle one is most likely to lead you to your dad and take the risk.
Farther down the hall, too far in your opinion, rooms that have a semblance to those in hospitals start appearing on either side of you. Against your better judgment, you begin peering into the windows of each to find out which one your dad is in.
The first few are empty, but the following rooms are not a pretty sight. Some - too many - of the other Avengers lie in hospital beds, bloody and bruised. If their heart monitors say anything, it’s that they’re barely clinging on to dear life.
You quickly look away. These heroes are people too, and you imagine they wouldn’t like for their first time meeting you - meeting anyone, for that matter - to be while they’re black and blue in hospital gowns.
It still feels weird to see the Falcon, one of your favorite Avengers, looking so vulnerable, though.
The next room over is somehow an even worse sight. That may be because it’s your dad, someone you know and dearly love, but you’re willing to bet that the way there are bones sticking out in the wrong places, wounds so ugly you flinch, and a sickly purple color littering every inch of him are the real reason you feel your stomach churn in ways you’ve never felt before.
There’s a whizzing sound coming from the door knob, and you guess that it’s JARVIS unlocking the door, signaling for you to step inside.
You’re stuck in place, though, eyes lazer-focused on the body of a man that doesn’t really look like Steve. It’s far too hideous to be him, you try to convince yourself.
Because your father heals, and if this is a healed version of him, that means he was at some point worse.
You don’t want to see him worse.
You don’t notice the tears streaming down your face until they cause an uncomfortable itch at your neck. You’re sniffling into the sleeve of the sweater you’re wearing, which only makes you cry harder when you realize it’s one that you ‘borrowed’ from your dad.
This is the man who you’ve perceived as invincible and indestructible your entire life. The constant figure who comforted you in times when no one else could.The person who taught you lessons more valuable than gold.
But in this moment, this feeling frozen in time, he is nothing more than a corpse fighting death itself for a chance to live again.
You don’t know how long you were standing there, hands covering your face, head facing down towards your feet. What you do know, however, is that there are streaks of daylight sneaking in through the windows of the Tower, and you’d rather shed all your tears and say all your words to your father (though he probably wouldn’t hear you) before there is a bigger crowd of spectators.
Which means you have to go in that room - the room with the man and the hospital bed - now.
Now.
Right now.
Nownownownowno–
You take a deep breath before you let yourself spiral any further. You’ll have time to do that for the rest of the day when you rot in your pajamas instead of being at school like you’re supposed to be.
You figure whatever is supposed to happen doesn’t really matter, though, because you were never meant to be in this situation, yet here you are.
The doorknob is in your hand before you have time to second-guess it, and you twist the handle while bracing yourself for whatever it is you’ll have to face in the room.
As soon as you step foot in it, you know you’re going to be in the room for a while. There’s a weight in the air, one so barely noticeable yet unbearably thick. It keeps you stuck to the ground while somehow pushing you to walk, and you can’t help but obey it until you’re beside your dad.
You’re probably supposed to say something, words about how much you miss him, despite the fact that he’s technically still here, and how you need him to get better, but even though you feel those words, you can’t bring yourself to say them.
Still, it feels weird to have cried all those hours outside his door, just to stare some more when you finally get inside.
So, you take a deep breath, and finally look at him for once.
“Hi dad,” you whisper, your voice raspy and dry.
Some part of you expects him to stir, to open his eyes and give you a lopsided smile the way he always does, before angling his head to you and responding with a tired ‘hey.’
He doesn’t move though, and you realize how dumb of a fantasy that was. He’s beaten to a pulp, of course he isn’t going to wake up now.
You realize that if you keep trying to figure out the perfect thing to say, you’ll stay silent forever.
You don’t want to stay silent forever.
So, you think back to your day, the part before the tears, searching for anything to tell him; anything to take your mind off the current situation.
“I met JARVIS today,” you sniffle, “he’s very… alive.” You’re not sure what you’re getting at, but it’s better than hearing nothing but the heart monitor, so you push yourself to keep going.
“He called me ‘Ms. Rogers’. For a second I didn’t even realize he was talking about me.” You let out a small laugh, as if it would help in making you feel any less alone in this moment.
“It’s weird to be called that. Feels distant, I guess. Like I’m Captain America’s daughter, not Steve Rogers’.” You break into tears for the second time today, and you have a feeling it won’t be the last.
For a second, just for a moment, you feel little bit glad that your dad’s not awake to see you cry like this. You imagine your bloodshot eyes and tangled hair you didn’t think to comb when you left the apartment aren’t a pretty sight.
You’d hate for them to be the first thing he sees.
That is, if he ends up waking up at all. It’s not a thought you want to dwell on, but your tears seem to know the weight of the situation. Your dad is hurt – gravely – in ways he’s never been before.
There is a chance that it’s the final straw. The droplet that makes the cup overflow. The bullet wound that makes his body dry out completely to the point of no return.
“I can’t do this without you, Dad,” you sob. “I need you.”
You really do. A life where he’s not there to take care of you, to comfort you and to spend silent nights next to you on the couch doesn’t feel like a life you’d like to have.
“Please don’t leave me. Please-“
The door to the room opens, and in walks … Tony Stark himself. He doesn’t notice you at first; his gaze is trained on his feet - much like you were not long ago - but based on the dark circles around his eyes and the half empty bottle of booze in his hand, you figure that even if he was looking right at you, he wouldn’t take note of your presence.
You’re wrong, though, because as soon as he looks up - most likely to say something to Steve - he sees you and freezes.
It’s not one of those pauses when someone is scared or confused, like they’re trying to figure out what the next best step is. Instead, his shoulders relax once he scans you from head to toe.
“Oh,” he sighed, “It’s just you.” He closes the door behind him and moves towards Steve, not clearing any of your doubts in the way.
You’ve never seen him before - not outside of news channels and fashion magazines - so you don’t know why in the world he seems so comfortable around you.
You doubt your dad would have told him about you, since the whole point of you carrying a fake name is to make sure your identity is kelp a secret, and giving that information to the person who spills secrets when he has nothing else to say - your dad has been a victim of this, now the whole world knows about the incident with the USO girl and the key to to locker room - is not very secure.
“I’m sorry,” you croak, your voice still sore from crying, “ have we met before?”
Tony takes a swig at his bottle. “You don’t know me?” His voice has an incredulous tone behind it, like he can’t possibly fathom why you’re surprised about the fact that he’s so comfortable around you.
You can’t, for the life of you, think of any reason for why he is.
“Of course I know who you are, but how, why do you know who I am?”
“Oh,” he shrugs, “not a lot you can hide from me. But your secret is safe, scout’s honor.” He raises his right hand to emphasize his point, and since you don’t seem to have another option, you decide to trust him.
A silence hangs in the air, much more uncomfortable than you thought it’d be the first time you met Tony. Then again, you hadn’t imagined it would be under such extreme circumstances.
Right. Circumstances.
You turn your attention back to your dad, the sadness of the moment setting back into your bones.
You hear Tony’s footsteps coming in your direction, but you don’t have it in you to turn around. You’re exhausted, really, and you’re not even sure how you’re still standing.
“He’ll be okay,” Tony says, now standing next to you. “Just took a pretty harsh hit, but it’s nothing he can’t shake off. Banner said so.”
You try your best to believe him, you really do, but it’s hard to find any comfort in his words when your dad is right in front of you, looking very much not okay. Not much you can do about that, though, so you tear your eyes away from the hospital bed and towards Tony.
A deep, exhausted sigh leaves you. “Sure hope so, he promised to take me out for brunch on Saturday,” you try to joke, but based on the lack of overall reaction from Tony, you failed. It’s fine; this isn’t exactly the most joke-friendly environment.
Another silence overcomes the two - well, three - of you. You stare at your feet, since you’ve just managed to convince yourself to stop looking at your dad. Tony, on the other hand, is looking straight at him, like it’s the first and last time they’ll ever be in each other’s presence.
If anyone were to open the door, they’d be able to sense the worry radiating in the room. They’d be able smell the tears and alcohol and a weird sterile scent that only hospitals manage to have. They’d also probably think that its recipients are crazy, because admittedly, the quiet is unbearable, and the awkwardness is too.
Thankfully, Tony decides to break the silence with a loud clearing of his throat. “J said you’ve been down here for a while.” He pauses like he’s waiting for you to say something, then coughs to cover the stiffness of the moment when you don’t. “I’d be a pretty bad host if I didn’t invite you to breakfast or something.”
Deep down, you want nothing but to stay here and lie in your misery, letting tears out until you have none left to cry, at which point you’ll stand in silence until your knees give out. But that’s not healthy to any extent, and you’re sure your dad would scold you for your thoughts if he were awake.
“Breakfast sounds good, if it’s not too much of a bother.”
Tony sets down the bottle in his hand. “Not at all, kid.”
A/n: believe it or not, I started writing this like 5 months ago and only finished it today bc i have no sense of time control. any feedback is welcome <<<3
And I really love my wife @currentlygettinglobotmized
Dividers by @cafekitsune & @cursed-carmine