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cap_ironman2012-01-02 06:51 am
cap_ironman_fe) wrote in cap_ironman2012-01-02 06:51 am
Entry tags:
Happy Holidays, kaihire!
Our final fic - thank you all for taking part! Round-up and reveals on the 6th.
Title:Warm As A Patriot
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jazzypom
Characters: Steve Rogers,Tony Stark, various characters in passing
Word count 2,600
Rating: PG-13 (for the odd swear word)
Disclaimer: Characters and their respective trademarks belong to Marvel and Walt Disney; no copyright infringement intended.
Warning: Due to this being an AU in the Civil War, the language and the attitudes towards gender and race are going to be of that time. Strong racial slurs are used.
Universe: 616
Summary:Tony is a plantation owner whose alcoholism and debts threaten to sink him; Steve is an idealistic army captain from the North. Sparks fly.
Author's Note: Per the prompt, the actual (American) Civil War. Things you'd like to see: Tony being a lush; Steve not being impressed.
When the Yankee trailed into the sitting room behind Virgina, Tony Stark felt a peculiar stirring in his bones, as if Charon himself came a calling, lit from his boat in the Styx and decided to present himself as bold as he pleased, under Tony’s roof in the shape of a damned Yankee.
Unlike the Charon of mythology, this Yankee was handsome; tall, blond haired, blue eyed, with the bearing that spoke of long, intense training, as if he had lain in wait, tempered his impatience until the dire situation presented itself, waiting on Abraham Lincoln to call upon him at this time. Per his station and sympathies- he dressed in the dark blue frock coat hanging to mid thigh, with the various buttons and insignia that told his rank. The Yankee’s eyes were restless, taking inventory of his surroundings, before resting on Tony himself.
“Mr Stark,” Virginia said, the tones in her voice soft and melodious as benefited a female, but her face told of her distaste, having to entertain the Yankee and his company in their home. “This here is Captain Rogers, he will be stopping by for some time. Captain Rogers, this is Master Antony Stark, the head of the house, and this property.”
“Captain Rogers, the pleasure is mine.”
“Master Stark-”
“Call me Tony, I trust that your men find their lodgings to be satisfactory?”
“It’s better than sleeping in the outdoors, so thank you, and you can call me Steve.”
From the corner of Tony’s eye Virginia’s eyebrows drew together in a frown, marring her fair features. Ah, dearest Pep, he wanted to say, this is the situation by the by, and there is not a thing we can do to render it fixed but she would accuse him of being so deep in his cups, rendering his judgement myopic, and his outlook intemperate, and there was no good in that. So Tony did the next best thing when it came to a woman like this, and set her to work.
“Our guest will be famished at this time, I warrant it. We have sufficient provision, I trust?”
“Yes sir, Master Stark, even in these pressing of times.”
If looks were as potent as cannon and buckshot on the field, Ms Virginia would have won the battle of the states for the Confederates, right then and there. A fleeting look of distress creased the features of Stark’s face, as his eyes tracked her movements, before he wandered over to the cabinet tucked into the far side of the room, and there, arranged like soldiers at attention, were various bottles, and on shelves below, glasses of various shapes.
Tony selected a glass, turned it around towards the light of the setting sun as if he were searching for the clues to an endeavour of great import, and being summarily satisfied, he gifted himself with a generous amount of liquor, taking a generous swallow, his eyes drifting closed, as if he were caught in The Rapture.
Steve stood there, silently gauging his host. Tony wasn’t of mean height - almost as tall as Steve’s six foot. He dressed like one expected from a person of his station- long frock coat, fitted trousers with straps beneath the instep. At his neck, a handsome, puffy cravat, knotted just this side of negligence. His materials were fine- and as of yet marred with patches and unmatched thread. Steve knew quality when he saw it. Tony Stark was it.
He also seemed to have a keen affinity for the bottle, to the point of near stupidity.
“I have forgotten my manners,” Tony came back to himself, his eyes merry, with the lines at their corners that came from squinting at the power of the sun down here, which Steve knew, was a constant thing. “You must be thirsty.”
“Not for that,” Steve pointed to Tony’s glass. “The liquor and the heat make a powerful combination, and for all the niceties,as much as they are appreciated- I am in enemy territory.”
Tony laughed, and it sounded to Steve’s ears more along the lies of resignation than of mirth. “Captain Rogers,” Tony said, raising his glass as if he were giving a toast. “Tonight, I am not your adversary; I reckon our hospitality towards your men hasn’t been lost on you?”
“Not that you could resist, even if you had been so inclined.”
“That is the pinch of the game, although I mourn it being so badly stated,” Tony moved away from the cabinet towards the pair of overstuffed chairs centred in the middle of the room, each one opposite the fine mahogany table that had pride of place in between. “Again, my manners have been addled from the sudden descent of guests at our humble abode. Set down a spell, our meal will be along shortly.”
Steve did as bid, adjusting his body weight so that his side arm hung freely, and perched at the edge of his seat, ever restless. Although he knew that his men were about the house, stumbling outside if the muffled footsteps above them were of any indication - it did not seem wise to relax in this man’s company. Tony sat in the chair opposite him, although to be honest, more like falling into the chair, his legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles. His drink a pride of place in his lap, the tips of his fingers supporting the glass upright.
In the room, a shared silence prevailed; the quiet bringing the sounds of outside in- the neighing of horses. In the distance- if he strained to hear- possibly the crack of gunshots, and the cries of birds. From the vantage point of the wide, grid of the windows- naked of curtains- showed Steve a picture. There was McKenzie, sitting down on a stone in the distance, packing his pipe with tobacco while Duncan - his distinctive moustache detailing the silhouette- standing guard. By the small fire at their feet, he noted with satisfaction the tin plates with bites of meat and cornbread- showing that his men at least, were being taken care off, despite Virgina’s stern tones.
”Master Stark has charged me to show you our Southern hospitality, and I will,” she started, a slight young woman buttoned up to her neck, her red hair bound by a small, frilled hat. Her anger reigned in by sweet notes, but still there- a mighty thing that made her buttermilk pale cheeks flush. But you’ll have to step over my dead body if you think I’ll let you into the dining room with those rags you’re wearing.”
“I am sorry if our presence is an affront to your wife,” Steve said by way of apology- and was surprised at Tony’s chuckle.
“No, Virginia isn’t my wife. She travelled down South with me clamouring for a change in her life’s circumstance - and stayed. I wish I could send her back up North, it will only get worse as this state of affairs waxes on.”
“You Confederates could just - give in,” Steve offered. “The war would stop, if you just surrendered.”
“And forfeit our states’ rights? Just because Lincoln says so? We’ve seceded, Captain Rogers, and as such, are no longer beholden to the North’s whims.”
“Be it as it may,” Steve said, keeping his tones low, because like it or not, he was a guest in some one’s house, and he knew to mind his manners. “You do know that stepping away from the Union is illegal. A house divided by itself cannot stand.”
Before Tony could answer, Virginia swept in, her hands, outstretched and trembling with the weight of a tray of food. He did not stand, but upon glancing, saw the glaze of tears in Virgina’s eyes. Surprise at Virginia’s busying herself with this menial task prompted him to ask, “Virginia, where’s... I thought we still had Missy?”
“She’s run off,” Virginia said as she placed the tray on the table between the two men. Dried meat, cornmeal, a bit of cheese and tinned cups of buttermilk. “After the battle up yonder, she jus’ slipped away.”
Just as he supposed, Tony thought, he was entertaining Charon in his lodgings. The Yankee bringing death to all held dear. It would not do to be unmanned by this piece of news.
“Those we loved best, and who loved us best- as we thought- are the first to leave us.” Tony murmured. “Pity, Missy was a good nigger.”
“We don’t discuss unpleasant matters in front of company, Master Stark,” Virgina straightened up, her hands folded in front of her. “Will there be anything else?”
“No, no. Leave us be, Virginia.” Tony waved her away, as he settled back into his chair, bringing his glass of bourbon with him, as he sipped from it, the curl of heat comforting as it warmed his throat and belly going down, smoothing the edges of their present circumstances away.
Captain Rogers’ face was a study, lips pursed in thought, as he seemed to want to say something, then thinking that he ought to bridle his tongue, but decided to say something anyway.
“I - don’t understand why you expected your all your slaves to stay when freedom is within their grasp. Who wants to be beholden to someone captioning their fate, when they could have a go at it alone?”
“You might not want to say that around here. Those are fighting words, to be settled with drawn weapons of choice at sunrise.”
“Most men are fighting in the Gray now,” Steve observed. “I’m surprised that you’ve escaped conscription, Tony.”
“Twenty slave law; at the time of fighting, I had over four hundred slaves,” Tony explained, his mood threatening to go sour. “But with every skirmish Sherman employs, the niggers run behind Lincoln’s line. I’m down to forty slaves - now with Missy gone- thirty nine. This plantation is all she knew, Virginia raised her like she was her own, and she jus’ leaves. Where’s the loyalty?”
Steve made a show of availing himself of the food presented before him. Dried meat, with cheese and corn bread. The fare simple, but Steve ate the portion ascribed to him, because who knew when he would have the luxury of eating until satiated, flesh tight to the touch of fingers, hinting at great fullness.
“Loyalty to herself, for one, and bravery too, if she’s setting off for an uncertain adventure.”
“I’m surprised and saddened,” Tony said, “that you’d sympathise with a negra. As handsome as Missy is- and I assure you, she’s handsome- if you Yankees haven’t waylaid her and besmirched her honour- the point still stands.”
“The point?” Steve questioned. “About her desire to be free?”
“It’s not a question of slavery at all; it is a question of race. You Yankees up North think you have the right to change the firmament of our lives, because of the analogy you hold dear.”
“Your thoughts aren’t necessarily the most noble, what with the new states of the Midwest still in their infancy, the Confederates would be looking to imprint that vile practice into the newly formed lands.”
“Would that be so wrong?”
“It wouldn’t be proper, having two separate systems on our God given land,” Steve said at last, “you have to concede that President Lincoln is right on this matter.”
“Although he didn’t cotton on to the notion of slavery being a matter of a moral failing until the present time.”
“At least, he got there,” Steve said.
oOo
Mornings were never easy for Tony, and as he threw his arm across his eyes blocking out the early rays of the sun, Virgina came into the study.
“Tony,” she only used that greeting when they were alone, as she handed him a mint julep, knowing that for Tony, this was his version of a restorative, first thing in the morning. “You’ve been sleeping in the study again.”
“Ow,” Tony made a face as he realised he had slept in the chair. His body stiffened into knots and aches. He gratefully took a gulp of the drink Virginia gave him, the sigh coming from the soles of his feet, it seemed.
“I’ve been looking at our ledgers,” Virginia’s hands were placed on her lap, as she sat in the chair opposite his. “We’ve had to cut down from cotton to corn, and with the slaves going and gone, we don’t have the labour like we used to- our crops are rotting in the fields.”
Tony ran a hand across his chin, wincing at the stubble there. “The pinch of the game, Virginia?”
“We are blocked from exporting the cotton we have, and that shipment we tried to get to Europe has been forfeit- Tony.”
Virginia’s clothing told of the new status that they descended into. The colours muted by time and wear, discreet patches, her skirt a quilt work of mending. Her hands, once soft and fair, were now marred by the hardship of work. The faint cuts where she injured herself trying to master the various tasks which were - up until recently - a stranger to her life’s circumstance.
“Our options,” Virgina’s fingers smoothed her skirt, “I’m trying to think about our options. Oh, Tony?” she lifted her gaze, her eyes sheened with tears. “Whatever shall we do?”
oOo
The afternoon came, sun blazing like the fabled heat of Hades, and the heat slowed every movement down to a quarter of its original energy. Steve and his men stayed outside on the porch, packing their pipes with tobacco, mending their clothing, poring over maps, and getting ready for the rest of their campaign.
“I hate leavin’,” Bucky, a young man of sixteen, said. “For the first time in a long time we have food, and shelter. It just ain’t right leaving,” he said, and Steve laughed. “We have a job to do, Bucky,” he scolded, “the sooner we can get this done, the sooner you can get back to your gal at home.”
“Yessir,” Bucky smiled, only for his features to go blank, and Steve turned around, not surprised to see Tony Stark coming from the rear of the house. Judging by the too careful movements, Steve hazarded a guess that Tony might have been drunk.
“Captain Rogers,” Tony greeted,his cravat still crooked, and Steve noted that Tony had not seen fit to change his attire. “A word?”
Later, they were in the kitchen yard, under the shade of trees which was a ways from the main house. A cluster of plain buildings, for smoking meat, dairy and washing, done with a skeleton crew of slaves. Steve heard snippets of songs as they went about their business, and he wondered how many of them would still be here by the time the conflict ended.
He raised his hand, to wave Bucky standing watch in the distance before turning and facing Stark, whose face seemed clammy and sweaty - and Steve would have bet good money on it being the drink rather than the heat.
“I can see the future, and before you dismiss this as the ramblings of a drunkard,” Tony began, “I know that we’re going to lose. The Union enjoys a great deal of advantages over us; your weapons, your industry- the only thing we have right now in the South is our property. Even that is moot, with slaves deserting us, and Sherman reducing our livelihoods to ash.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I’ll surrender, on your word that you give Virgina safe passage to the North. I- can’t leave,” and Tony’s resignation was writ across his face, as plain as Old Glory.
“Will you fight?”
“No, this I won’t do. You can’t fight the future, and probably there are certain things you shouldn’t be fixing to raise hammer and tongs against. I know that you may nurse various cogitations against my person, but I am as warm as a patriot as anyone else, Captain, and I can only serve my country and my conscience as I see fit.”
“You could, you know,” Steve prompted. “Leave. Take what you can and take Virginia with you.”
“No, I can’t,” and for a brief moment, Steve saw the Iron will and pride that flashed under the seeming carelessness of Tony’s presentation. “This plantation was handed down to me, a trust if you will from my Pa, I’ll try and save it from ruin, but Virginia shouldn’t be a party to my idiocy. She’s been a part of that for far too long.”
“You’re a fool and a drunk, Stark.” Steve said at last.
“And you are my Charon, come to collect a vexing sum from me, before I go across. We are all hampered by our roles, Captain. Allow me to do mine.”
Fin
Title:Warm As A Patriot
Author:
jazzypomCharacters: Steve Rogers,Tony Stark, various characters in passing
Word count 2,600
Rating: PG-13 (for the odd swear word)
Disclaimer: Characters and their respective trademarks belong to Marvel and Walt Disney; no copyright infringement intended.
Warning: Due to this being an AU in the Civil War, the language and the attitudes towards gender and race are going to be of that time. Strong racial slurs are used.
Universe: 616
Summary:Tony is a plantation owner whose alcoholism and debts threaten to sink him; Steve is an idealistic army captain from the North. Sparks fly.
Author's Note: Per the prompt, the actual (American) Civil War. Things you'd like to see: Tony being a lush; Steve not being impressed.
When the Yankee trailed into the sitting room behind Virgina, Tony Stark felt a peculiar stirring in his bones, as if Charon himself came a calling, lit from his boat in the Styx and decided to present himself as bold as he pleased, under Tony’s roof in the shape of a damned Yankee.
Unlike the Charon of mythology, this Yankee was handsome; tall, blond haired, blue eyed, with the bearing that spoke of long, intense training, as if he had lain in wait, tempered his impatience until the dire situation presented itself, waiting on Abraham Lincoln to call upon him at this time. Per his station and sympathies- he dressed in the dark blue frock coat hanging to mid thigh, with the various buttons and insignia that told his rank. The Yankee’s eyes were restless, taking inventory of his surroundings, before resting on Tony himself.
“Mr Stark,” Virginia said, the tones in her voice soft and melodious as benefited a female, but her face told of her distaste, having to entertain the Yankee and his company in their home. “This here is Captain Rogers, he will be stopping by for some time. Captain Rogers, this is Master Antony Stark, the head of the house, and this property.”
“Captain Rogers, the pleasure is mine.”
“Master Stark-”
“Call me Tony, I trust that your men find their lodgings to be satisfactory?”
“It’s better than sleeping in the outdoors, so thank you, and you can call me Steve.”
From the corner of Tony’s eye Virginia’s eyebrows drew together in a frown, marring her fair features. Ah, dearest Pep, he wanted to say, this is the situation by the by, and there is not a thing we can do to render it fixed but she would accuse him of being so deep in his cups, rendering his judgement myopic, and his outlook intemperate, and there was no good in that. So Tony did the next best thing when it came to a woman like this, and set her to work.
“Our guest will be famished at this time, I warrant it. We have sufficient provision, I trust?”
“Yes sir, Master Stark, even in these pressing of times.”
If looks were as potent as cannon and buckshot on the field, Ms Virginia would have won the battle of the states for the Confederates, right then and there. A fleeting look of distress creased the features of Stark’s face, as his eyes tracked her movements, before he wandered over to the cabinet tucked into the far side of the room, and there, arranged like soldiers at attention, were various bottles, and on shelves below, glasses of various shapes.
Tony selected a glass, turned it around towards the light of the setting sun as if he were searching for the clues to an endeavour of great import, and being summarily satisfied, he gifted himself with a generous amount of liquor, taking a generous swallow, his eyes drifting closed, as if he were caught in The Rapture.
Steve stood there, silently gauging his host. Tony wasn’t of mean height - almost as tall as Steve’s six foot. He dressed like one expected from a person of his station- long frock coat, fitted trousers with straps beneath the instep. At his neck, a handsome, puffy cravat, knotted just this side of negligence. His materials were fine- and as of yet marred with patches and unmatched thread. Steve knew quality when he saw it. Tony Stark was it.
He also seemed to have a keen affinity for the bottle, to the point of near stupidity.
“I have forgotten my manners,” Tony came back to himself, his eyes merry, with the lines at their corners that came from squinting at the power of the sun down here, which Steve knew, was a constant thing. “You must be thirsty.”
“Not for that,” Steve pointed to Tony’s glass. “The liquor and the heat make a powerful combination, and for all the niceties,as much as they are appreciated- I am in enemy territory.”
Tony laughed, and it sounded to Steve’s ears more along the lies of resignation than of mirth. “Captain Rogers,” Tony said, raising his glass as if he were giving a toast. “Tonight, I am not your adversary; I reckon our hospitality towards your men hasn’t been lost on you?”
“Not that you could resist, even if you had been so inclined.”
“That is the pinch of the game, although I mourn it being so badly stated,” Tony moved away from the cabinet towards the pair of overstuffed chairs centred in the middle of the room, each one opposite the fine mahogany table that had pride of place in between. “Again, my manners have been addled from the sudden descent of guests at our humble abode. Set down a spell, our meal will be along shortly.”
Steve did as bid, adjusting his body weight so that his side arm hung freely, and perched at the edge of his seat, ever restless. Although he knew that his men were about the house, stumbling outside if the muffled footsteps above them were of any indication - it did not seem wise to relax in this man’s company. Tony sat in the chair opposite him, although to be honest, more like falling into the chair, his legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles. His drink a pride of place in his lap, the tips of his fingers supporting the glass upright.
In the room, a shared silence prevailed; the quiet bringing the sounds of outside in- the neighing of horses. In the distance- if he strained to hear- possibly the crack of gunshots, and the cries of birds. From the vantage point of the wide, grid of the windows- naked of curtains- showed Steve a picture. There was McKenzie, sitting down on a stone in the distance, packing his pipe with tobacco while Duncan - his distinctive moustache detailing the silhouette- standing guard. By the small fire at their feet, he noted with satisfaction the tin plates with bites of meat and cornbread- showing that his men at least, were being taken care off, despite Virgina’s stern tones.
”Master Stark has charged me to show you our Southern hospitality, and I will,” she started, a slight young woman buttoned up to her neck, her red hair bound by a small, frilled hat. Her anger reigned in by sweet notes, but still there- a mighty thing that made her buttermilk pale cheeks flush. But you’ll have to step over my dead body if you think I’ll let you into the dining room with those rags you’re wearing.”
“I am sorry if our presence is an affront to your wife,” Steve said by way of apology- and was surprised at Tony’s chuckle.
“No, Virginia isn’t my wife. She travelled down South with me clamouring for a change in her life’s circumstance - and stayed. I wish I could send her back up North, it will only get worse as this state of affairs waxes on.”
“You Confederates could just - give in,” Steve offered. “The war would stop, if you just surrendered.”
“And forfeit our states’ rights? Just because Lincoln says so? We’ve seceded, Captain Rogers, and as such, are no longer beholden to the North’s whims.”
“Be it as it may,” Steve said, keeping his tones low, because like it or not, he was a guest in some one’s house, and he knew to mind his manners. “You do know that stepping away from the Union is illegal. A house divided by itself cannot stand.”
Before Tony could answer, Virginia swept in, her hands, outstretched and trembling with the weight of a tray of food. He did not stand, but upon glancing, saw the glaze of tears in Virgina’s eyes. Surprise at Virginia’s busying herself with this menial task prompted him to ask, “Virginia, where’s... I thought we still had Missy?”
“She’s run off,” Virginia said as she placed the tray on the table between the two men. Dried meat, cornmeal, a bit of cheese and tinned cups of buttermilk. “After the battle up yonder, she jus’ slipped away.”
Just as he supposed, Tony thought, he was entertaining Charon in his lodgings. The Yankee bringing death to all held dear. It would not do to be unmanned by this piece of news.
“Those we loved best, and who loved us best- as we thought- are the first to leave us.” Tony murmured. “Pity, Missy was a good nigger.”
“We don’t discuss unpleasant matters in front of company, Master Stark,” Virgina straightened up, her hands folded in front of her. “Will there be anything else?”
“No, no. Leave us be, Virginia.” Tony waved her away, as he settled back into his chair, bringing his glass of bourbon with him, as he sipped from it, the curl of heat comforting as it warmed his throat and belly going down, smoothing the edges of their present circumstances away.
Captain Rogers’ face was a study, lips pursed in thought, as he seemed to want to say something, then thinking that he ought to bridle his tongue, but decided to say something anyway.
“I - don’t understand why you expected your all your slaves to stay when freedom is within their grasp. Who wants to be beholden to someone captioning their fate, when they could have a go at it alone?”
“You might not want to say that around here. Those are fighting words, to be settled with drawn weapons of choice at sunrise.”
“Most men are fighting in the Gray now,” Steve observed. “I’m surprised that you’ve escaped conscription, Tony.”
“Twenty slave law; at the time of fighting, I had over four hundred slaves,” Tony explained, his mood threatening to go sour. “But with every skirmish Sherman employs, the niggers run behind Lincoln’s line. I’m down to forty slaves - now with Missy gone- thirty nine. This plantation is all she knew, Virginia raised her like she was her own, and she jus’ leaves. Where’s the loyalty?”
Steve made a show of availing himself of the food presented before him. Dried meat, with cheese and corn bread. The fare simple, but Steve ate the portion ascribed to him, because who knew when he would have the luxury of eating until satiated, flesh tight to the touch of fingers, hinting at great fullness.
“Loyalty to herself, for one, and bravery too, if she’s setting off for an uncertain adventure.”
“I’m surprised and saddened,” Tony said, “that you’d sympathise with a negra. As handsome as Missy is- and I assure you, she’s handsome- if you Yankees haven’t waylaid her and besmirched her honour- the point still stands.”
“The point?” Steve questioned. “About her desire to be free?”
“It’s not a question of slavery at all; it is a question of race. You Yankees up North think you have the right to change the firmament of our lives, because of the analogy you hold dear.”
“Your thoughts aren’t necessarily the most noble, what with the new states of the Midwest still in their infancy, the Confederates would be looking to imprint that vile practice into the newly formed lands.”
“Would that be so wrong?”
“It wouldn’t be proper, having two separate systems on our God given land,” Steve said at last, “you have to concede that President Lincoln is right on this matter.”
“Although he didn’t cotton on to the notion of slavery being a matter of a moral failing until the present time.”
“At least, he got there,” Steve said.
Mornings were never easy for Tony, and as he threw his arm across his eyes blocking out the early rays of the sun, Virgina came into the study.
“Tony,” she only used that greeting when they were alone, as she handed him a mint julep, knowing that for Tony, this was his version of a restorative, first thing in the morning. “You’ve been sleeping in the study again.”
“Ow,” Tony made a face as he realised he had slept in the chair. His body stiffened into knots and aches. He gratefully took a gulp of the drink Virginia gave him, the sigh coming from the soles of his feet, it seemed.
“I’ve been looking at our ledgers,” Virginia’s hands were placed on her lap, as she sat in the chair opposite his. “We’ve had to cut down from cotton to corn, and with the slaves going and gone, we don’t have the labour like we used to- our crops are rotting in the fields.”
Tony ran a hand across his chin, wincing at the stubble there. “The pinch of the game, Virginia?”
“We are blocked from exporting the cotton we have, and that shipment we tried to get to Europe has been forfeit- Tony.”
Virginia’s clothing told of the new status that they descended into. The colours muted by time and wear, discreet patches, her skirt a quilt work of mending. Her hands, once soft and fair, were now marred by the hardship of work. The faint cuts where she injured herself trying to master the various tasks which were - up until recently - a stranger to her life’s circumstance.
“Our options,” Virgina’s fingers smoothed her skirt, “I’m trying to think about our options. Oh, Tony?” she lifted her gaze, her eyes sheened with tears. “Whatever shall we do?”
The afternoon came, sun blazing like the fabled heat of Hades, and the heat slowed every movement down to a quarter of its original energy. Steve and his men stayed outside on the porch, packing their pipes with tobacco, mending their clothing, poring over maps, and getting ready for the rest of their campaign.
“I hate leavin’,” Bucky, a young man of sixteen, said. “For the first time in a long time we have food, and shelter. It just ain’t right leaving,” he said, and Steve laughed. “We have a job to do, Bucky,” he scolded, “the sooner we can get this done, the sooner you can get back to your gal at home.”
“Yessir,” Bucky smiled, only for his features to go blank, and Steve turned around, not surprised to see Tony Stark coming from the rear of the house. Judging by the too careful movements, Steve hazarded a guess that Tony might have been drunk.
“Captain Rogers,” Tony greeted,his cravat still crooked, and Steve noted that Tony had not seen fit to change his attire. “A word?”
Later, they were in the kitchen yard, under the shade of trees which was a ways from the main house. A cluster of plain buildings, for smoking meat, dairy and washing, done with a skeleton crew of slaves. Steve heard snippets of songs as they went about their business, and he wondered how many of them would still be here by the time the conflict ended.
He raised his hand, to wave Bucky standing watch in the distance before turning and facing Stark, whose face seemed clammy and sweaty - and Steve would have bet good money on it being the drink rather than the heat.
“I can see the future, and before you dismiss this as the ramblings of a drunkard,” Tony began, “I know that we’re going to lose. The Union enjoys a great deal of advantages over us; your weapons, your industry- the only thing we have right now in the South is our property. Even that is moot, with slaves deserting us, and Sherman reducing our livelihoods to ash.”
“What are you getting at?”
“I’ll surrender, on your word that you give Virgina safe passage to the North. I- can’t leave,” and Tony’s resignation was writ across his face, as plain as Old Glory.
“Will you fight?”
“No, this I won’t do. You can’t fight the future, and probably there are certain things you shouldn’t be fixing to raise hammer and tongs against. I know that you may nurse various cogitations against my person, but I am as warm as a patriot as anyone else, Captain, and I can only serve my country and my conscience as I see fit.”
“You could, you know,” Steve prompted. “Leave. Take what you can and take Virginia with you.”
“No, I can’t,” and for a brief moment, Steve saw the Iron will and pride that flashed under the seeming carelessness of Tony’s presentation. “This plantation was handed down to me, a trust if you will from my Pa, I’ll try and save it from ruin, but Virginia shouldn’t be a party to my idiocy. She’s been a part of that for far too long.”
“You’re a fool and a drunk, Stark.” Steve said at last.
“And you are my Charon, come to collect a vexing sum from me, before I go across. We are all hampered by our roles, Captain. Allow me to do mine.”
Fin
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I love the language here, the slow build of tension and Steve and Tony sort of sliding past each other. The story hurts, but in a good way. Well done.
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It's not a fun story, so thank you for reading and commenting.
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I do love your characterizations though- Tony going down, but in a blaze of glory and tenacity; Steve permitting him his dignity, such as it is. And Pepper. Oh man, Tony's going to have to do a lot of talking to get her to go.
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I'm really sorry. Truly sorry about that.
First off, I'm really sorry about using the n word (as a person of colour, yeah... it's not a word that I have truck with). But, considering that in Huck Finn, where the main character, although he's sympathetic as all get out towards Jim pretty much calls him the 'N' word, through out the entire novel. In a lot of the literature I consulted for the time, a lot of plantation owners expressed a kind of 'love' towards their favoured slaves (but still referred to them as that strong slur).
Tony Stark, for all his admirable qualities, is still a man of his time although he can read the Zeitgeist like woah. He's a plantation owner in this time frame, you know what I mean? I don't know how this could have been written any other way.
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I sort of thought the point of this fic exchange was Steve/Tony. This is more... I don't know. It's Steve, and it's Tony, but they don't even respect each other per se, much less have any sort of relationship. I guess I thought this would be more of a "forbidden passions" story, or at the very least a Grant/Lee sort of mutual empathy. Interesting take on the prompt, though.
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This fic fills the prompt, which did not specify romance/sex - it did ask for Steve being unimpressed by Tony.
Hope this clarifies - if you have further questions, please feel free to ask.
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Fair enough. But it's a prompt set in the Civil War, with slavery and states rights and Tony being a plantation owner. Like, he'd have owned slaves, and used the language of the time. Based on the letters I came across during research, it's not a word that white males shied away from when speaking to each other. As a person of colour I don't really like the word either, but if the prompt calls for American Civil War, I'm not going to use a 21st C phrasing for a 19th C reality. I thought long and hard about it. I know that intent doesn't come across as magic, though, and that's something I'm willing to raise my hand up and say sorry if it came out wrong.
This is more... I don't know. It's Steve, and it's Tony, but they don't even respect each other per se, much less have any sort of relationship.
I... was lead to believe that as long as it had Steve and Tony the fic is valid? In addition, Steve as a Yankee for all intents and purposes is on Tony's land as some sort of victor. I just don't see where the romance is supposed to be in this kind of prompt, especially with the circumstances as set.
In all seriousness, thanks for reading and leaving a comment. Really.
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This story def evoked a certain mood and moment in time for me, a pause, and I felt like it laid out that that reality and people are complicated, neither 100% good nor evil, neither 100% products of their times nor untouched by their times, and that, yeah, the USA's even more racist past isn't necessarily that romantic. I mean, I felt a pang of sympathy for Pepper when I read about her worn clothing and cut hands and "Whatever shall we do?”, but I also knew that they're having trouble only because they don't have as many slaves doing all their work, and Tony and Pepper say some pretty stomach-turning things.
Echoes of comic canon too, which I thought did a good job of adding even more complexity/depth in a short piece (setting aside my feelings about "Civil War" and validity of parallels etc), and using well-loved characters twists the knife, but also reminded me that Tony and Pepper were humans doing horrible things, not inexplicable monsters. Even Steve and Co are only just at the edges of providing a counterpoint. This wasn't very kind to the au-versions of the characters, but it wasn't unkind, just more like... a more unsentimental literary-ish approach.
Also, for all that this wasn't really a "fun," story to read, the sentences and certain turns of phrases felt really well-done and well-constructed to me, and there's a kind of pleasure just in parts for that.
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This story def evoked a certain mood and moment in time for me, a pause, and I felt like it laid out that that reality and people are complicated, neither 100% good nor evil, neither 100% products of their times nor untouched by their times, and that, yeah, the USA's even more racist past isn't necessarily that romantic. I mean, I felt a pang of sympathy for Pepper when I read about her worn clothing and cut hands and "Whatever shall we do?”, but I also knew that they're having trouble only because they don't have as many slaves doing all their work, and Tony and Pepper say some pretty stomach-turning things
Yeah, I remember when doing some research for this fic, I came across a letter that a plantation owner wrote to his escaped slave. He was chastising the slave for running away and I was like, "Uh... dude, what?" and his escaped slave sent a letter back chastising his former master (the ex-slave had escaped somewhere up North) and I was like, "Ummm." So yeah, the relationships between master and slave were pretty complex and kinda blew my mind (I grew up in the West Indies, and our set up was similar to the American South but different). The letters people wrote to each other were illuminating, and I pretty much drew on that for this one.
Also, for all that this wasn't really a "fun," story to read, the sentences and certain turns of phrases felt really well-done and well-constructed to me, and there's a kind of pleasure just in parts for that.
Cheers. People spoke quite lyrical in those days, it was a challenge to get that right.
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Yeah, to steal from Hannah Arendt, there's the whole banality of evil that people stomach. Like, people recognise a big evil, but are immune to smaller, poisonous acts. But if you've grown up with the world order as is, you don't really poke at it much, you know?
Cheers again for reading!
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I think maybe you should add the use of racist slang in your notes? I know it's appropriate to the time frame but you know, just in case.
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Thanks for reading.
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Same. I started writing it as such, and it didn't work. After the third attempt (Jan was there, somewhere, sending letters to Tony from up North), I scrapped it and went with this one.
I still felt bad for Tony and Pepper, though. Really well done.
They aren't bad people. Just... people of their time.
Thanks for reading and leaving a comment.