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Tony swings open the conference center doors—rather dramatically, in Bruce’s opinion—and staggers through them, bumping the frame as he does. “Jus’ can’t believe I lost…” he complains.
Bruce rolls his eyes good-naturedly and places a hand on his friend’s arm to steady him. “I think the lesson here is you need to stop challenging Scandinavians to drinking competitions. You know how it went last time.”
“Psh…” Tony flaps a hand dismissively in the scientist’s direction. “Thor’s a god. This guy’s an eighty-three-year-ol’ Danish asphis”—his face screws up—“no, astrophysis… cist...” He hiccups once and then presses a closed fist to his lips. “Whole nation of alcoholics,” he mutters, his tone bitter. “Guy didn’t even look tipsy!”
Bruce laughs lightly. “What I was most impressed with was how Thygesen managed to give a whole, eloquently worded interview with that reporter from Canadian Geographic about his new solar panel design while you were busy having that riveting conversation with the ficus.”
Tony pokes a finger to his friend’s chest, a comically betrayed look on his face. “You said we weren’t gonna talk ‘bout that.”
“You’re right, my bad,” Bruce chuckles. As Tony shuffles his way across the parking lot to his waiting Ferrari, Bruce drains the last drops of his tea before making a quick detour to drop the styrofoam cup in the trash can. He’s glad he had the foresight not to take part in Tony and Thygesen’s Gammel Dansk shots challenge—not that he was very tempted. If he learned anything from his college study abroad trip to Europe, it’s that the Danes drink some pretty revolting liquor.
Despite his friend’s current state, Bruce has been thoroughly enjoying his weekend at the annual Toronto Science Expo. The two of them drove up on Thursday afternoon—after learning Bruce had never been to Canada or seen Niagara Falls, Tony insisted on making it a proper road trip. Between all of the workshops, they’ve been mostly spending their time with the world-renowned, eccentric Danish astrophysicist, Søren Thygesen, who has been giving the keynote at this event for the past thirty-one years.
(Evidently, Thygesen and Tony go way back.)
When Bruce returns to the car, he finds Tony standing slumped against the driver side door, jiggling what appears to be a thin wooden stick at the keyhole. Bruce blinks at him. “Is that the skewer from the garlic shrimp?”
“What?” Frowning, Tony raises the stick up to squint at it. “Oh.” He huffs out a single laugh and tosses it back over his shoulder. “Thin’ someone stole my keys.”
With a sigh, Bruce pulls the keyring from his jacket pocket and dangles it in front of Tony’s face. “Yes. Me. I took them two hours ago. Remember?”
“Ah. So that’s why your hand was’in my pocket.” Tony gives a lopsided grin and taps a finger twice to the side of his head. “Good thinkin’, Brucie. Pro’lly shouldn’t be drivin' right now...”
“Understatement of the century…” Bruce mutters.
Leaning on the car for support, Tony makes his way slowly around to the other side and plops down onto the passenger seat. Bruce, meanwhile, gets in the driver’s side. He’s a bit nervous about operating a vehicle that could finance a small village, but given Tony’s current state, there aren’t a lot of better options.
Bruce starts up the car. The dash lights illuminate and the engine revs to life. “Alright, buckle up,” he commands. “Safety first.”
“S’not even three miles to the hotel from here...” Tony complains, leaning back against the headrest. But at Bruce’s pointed look, he sighs dramatically and clicks the seatbelt anyway.
It takes a few moments of careful seat and mirror adjustment, plus familiarizing himself with the car’s layout (Bruce has driven Tony’s car before, but it was only once and on private property) before he feels confident enough to actually back out of the parking space. Even then, it’s at a snail’s pace.
Once they’ve made it out, Bruce throws it into first gear but releases the clutch a little too fast. The engine immediately dies.
Tony giggles lightly. “Maybe I should jus’ drive…”
“Nope.” Bruce turns it over and tries again. “I’ve got this.”
The car stalls twice more in the time it takes them to make their way out of the parking lot, Tony giggling at each fail while Bruce mutters curses under his breath. He hates stick shift cars.
Finally, he manages to turn onto the main road and is able to get up to speed, switching between second, third, and fourth gears with only minor jostling. He’s just starting to feel like he’s getting the hang of it when the light ahead of him turns yellow.
Bruce brakes—much more suddenly than he intends—and Tony gives a sharp “oof” as the seatbelt catches him around the gut.
“Sorry,” Bruce apologizes as the light turns red, a full ten meters from where they’ve come to a screeching halt. “Uh, forgot how sensitive these brakes are.”
Tony grunts, “You don’ say.”
When the light changes back to green, Bruce carefully releases the clutch as he steps on the accelerator. This time the engine doesn’t die, but it shudders, shaking them both a bit before jerking forward. He expects to hear more amused mocking from Tony, but the man’s gone uncharacteristically quiet.
Bruce shoots a quick sideways glance at his passenger, who is leaning back against the headrest, face turned toward Bruce. Sweat is beading on Tony’s forehead and he’s breathing shallowly. “You alright?” Bruce checks.
“Hm…” Tony breathes, looking pained. “Not really…”
Concerned, Bruce turns his head fully to look at him just as Tony lurches sideways and retches, spewing Gammel Dansk, half-digested garlic shrimp, and God-knows-what-else all over Bruce’s lap.
Bruce swears. He instinctively jerks the wheel away, sending the car reeling into the opposite lane. An oncoming truck blares its horn.
With a panicked yelp, Bruce swerves back into his own lane, barely avoiding a collision. Tony pukes again, this time hitting the console between the two seats.
“Shit!” Bruce exclaims. He slows down and starts pulling the car over to the side of the road, but before he can reach a safe place to park, the sound of sirens fills the night air. He looks up at the rearview mirror and sees the flashing lights of a Toronto police cruiser pulling out onto the road behind them.
“Oh you’ve gotta be kidding me…” Bruce mutters. He comes to a stop on the side of the road.
Both he and Tony are panting heavily now as the officer exits his cruiser and comes around to the driver’s side of the car. He raps on the window with his knuckles. Bruce fumbles his hand around on the door for a few seconds before locating the window controls.
“Evening, officer,” Bruce gasps out as the window rolls down.
The cop, who looks to be at least five years past retirement age, wrinkles his nose and glances down at the mess on Bruce’s lap. “Evening, boys. Any idea why I pulled you over?”
Bruce coughs nervously, “Yeah, um, about that—”
Tony butts in, “Couldn’ resist my devilish charm?” he says, a slight slur to his words. He winks lazily.
“Tony… shut up,” Bruce mutters under his breath.
The officer looks unamused. His eyes narrow at Bruce. “I’m going to need to see your license, registration, and proof of insurance.”
“Right, of course, uh…” Grimacing, Bruce wriggles his wallet out of his pocket and locates his license. The card slips from his trembling fingers and falls in the puddle of vomit soaking into his pants. “Oops.”
The officer raises an eyebrow. “Had a few?”
Bruce startles. “Me? No! I wasn’t drinking. Just driving.”
“Uh, huh.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “That would be why the car reeks of alcohol and you seem to have forgotten which lane is yours. Not sure where yous are from, but here in Canada, we drive on the right side of the road.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Bruce says quickly. “I just got startled for a second when—”
“When I vommed,” Tony interrupts. He leans toward the window and waves at the officer.
“Vommed?” the cop questions.
“You know, like…” Tony makes an exaggerated gesture from his open mouth down to the floor, adding a sound effect for emphasis. “Blaghh.”
The officer pulls a notepad out from his chest pocket and clicks a pen open. “So let me get this straight,” he begins, looking back to Bruce. “Your passenger ‘vommed’”—he puts air quotes around the term—“but miraculously avoided getting any of it on himself, while you, completely sober, almost had a head-on collision with a transport truck.”
“Well, I mean, I didn’t—” Bruce stutters while Tony nods vigorously.
“Exactly!” Tony says, leaning back in his seat with a small giggle. “He vroomed. I vommed.”
“Just be quiet, Tony…” Bruce mutters, his irritation increasing. “Please. I’ve got this.”
Tony snorts. “That’s what you said ‘bout the driving...”
“Tony!” Bruce snaps.
“Alright, that’s enough,” the officer intervenes. “Stay here.”
Tony scoffs loudly as the man heads back to his patrol car. “This is ridiculous.”
Bruce turns on him, glaring. “Oh this part is ridiculous?” he demands, gesturing to the mess on his lap and the floor of the car. “Not the part where an eighty-three year old grandfather drank you under the table and you proceeded to ruin a two million dollar vehicle—”
“‘S’ actually 2.4 million,” Tony corrects.
“What part of shut up Tony are you not grasping here?”
Rolling his eyes, Tony huffs out a breath and leans back against his seat. “Fine. I’ll shut up.”
“Good!”
A moment later, the cop returns with two small plastic devices. “Alright,” he says to Bruce. “Based on what I’ve witnessed tonight, I can’t let you go anywhere without passing a roadside sobriety test.”
“That’s fine, not a problem, sir,” Bruce says quickly. Given that the only liquid he’s consumed in the last five hours is green tea, he knows he’s not impaired. The sooner he can drag Tony’s ass to bed and escape these pants, the better.
The officer holds out the device so that Bruce can blow into the plastic tube. The machine gives a high-pitched beep. “Negative,” he grumbles.
Bruce exhales in relief, but it’s short-lived as Tony barks out a sharp laugh.
“Ha! See?” Tony demands. “Brucie Bear would never…” He giggles. “He’s a goody… a goody-goody.”
The officer narrows his eyes. “We’ll see about that,” he scoffs. “One more test.”
This time the cop instructs Bruce to open his mouth and he swabs the inside with a different instrument. Sticking the swab back into the machine, they wait for the beep.
After a few seconds, he pulls it away and turns it toward himself to read the result. Then, with a satisfied huff, he turns back to Bruce. “Gotcha.”
Bruce’s brow furrows. “Huh?”
“The time is 3:12 a.m., and you are under arrest for driving under the influence of opioids. Please step out of the vehicle.”
Bruce sputters out a shocked, “Wait, what?”
Tony spins around to stare at the scientist, mouth agape, looking somewhere between surprised and hurt. “Brucie Bear, how could you?”
“What? No! I didn’t!” Bruce insists. He turns back to the cop, who is making a beckoning gesture with his fingers to hurry him along. “There must be some mistake—I don’t do drugs! I barely even take Tylenol!”
Tony scoffs. “You literally became a superhero by taking drugs…”
(Bruce likes to think of himself as a non-violent person, but he’s never wanted to punch Tony in his stupid face more than at this moment, Hulk be damned.)
“One time, Tony!” he snaps. “That was one time!”
The cop raises an eyebrow. “Superhero, eh? I don’t know what you boys are taking these days, but I’m going to ask you one more time to step out of the vehicle.”
Seeing no way out of this situation, Bruce starts to unbuckle his seatbelt, but before he can comply, Tony halts him by placing a hand on his chest. He locks eyes with Bruce, an undeserved confidence sparkling in them. “I got this, buddy,” Tony promises.
“Tony, don—”
Tony cuts him off by leaning over Bruce to look out the open window. “Hi,” he says with an easy smile and small wave. “Tony Stark here. This has all jus’ been a huge misunderstanding. Whatdaya say we make this all go away?” Tony starts to reach into his blazer, presumably for his wallet.
“Hands where I can see them!” the cop barks, reaching for his holster.
Bruce’s eyes go wide in alarm, but Tony only chuckles and holds both hands up at his chest level. “Alright, alright, no funny business, I gotcha, Officer”—squinting at the officer’s breast pocket, he finishes with a giggle—“Gagnon.”
“That’s Sergeant Gagnon to you,” he retorts.
Tony giggles once again, then forces himself into a business-like expression. “Alright, Sergeant. You’re probably pulling in, what, fifty? Sixty K a year? The missus could probably do with a nice fur coat to keep off that Canadian chill, right? Some hockey sticks for the grandkids? You look like a guy who needs a new moose hunting rifle, am I right?”
Bruce makes a slashing motion back and forth in front of his throat, shaking his head side to side frantically.
“How about your very own maple farm, huh?” Tony goes on, much to Bruce’s horror. “With a syrup lazy river.”
“Alright, I’ve heard enough.” Gagnon points a stern finger at Bruce. “You. Out of the vehicle. Now.”
Bruce scrambles out of the car. “I’m so sorry, Sergeant, I will get someone to handle him, I just need—”
“Hands behind your back,” the officer cuts him off sharply. His face flushing, Bruce obeys and Gagnon clips the handcuffs around his wrists—a little tighter than Bruce feels is strictly necessary—before marching around the car to the passenger side.
“No river? Was the river too much?” Tony backtracks. “‘Cause we can do a pool instead. Or—”
Opening the car door, the cop glares at Tony. “Sir, step out of the vehicle.”
Tony scoffs at him. “I thought Canadians were supposed to be polite.”
Gagnon grabs Tony by his upper arm and pulls him out of the car before pushing him flat against the hood, eliciting a groan. He glances at his watch again. “The time is now 3:14 a.m. and you are under arrest for attempting to bribe an officer of the law.”
Stunned, Bruce watches the Sergeant snap a second pair of handcuffs around Tony’s wrists. Gagnon pulls him back upright and prods both Bruce and Tony along to the cruiser.
“You didn’t read me my Miranda rights,” Tony complains as they shuffle along.
“This is Canada, buddy,” Gagnon replies. “We don’t have ‘Miranda’ rights here. All’s I have to tell you about is your right to counsel. Which I just did. There, consider yourself Mirandized.” He places one hand on top of Tony’s head to guide him down into the back seat of the police car.
“Well, I’m pretty sure I also have the right to remain silent,” Tony argues.
“Then please,” Bruce says through clenched teeth, “for the love of god, use it!”
Gagnon snorts out a laugh as he guides Bruce into the seat beside Tony.
The Sergeant radios them into the station and fills out some paperwork before finally flipping his blinker back on. Just before he pulls out onto the road, he glances back through the grate separating them and adds, “For the record, I hate maple syrup.”
They all sit in silence as they begin their drive to the station. It’s about a minute before Tony turns to look at him, appearing almost pleased with himself:
“You know, I think that went well.”
X
Bruce spends the fifteen-minute drive back to the station desperately replaying the evening’s events in his head. He racks his brain, trying to determine if there’s any way someone could have slipped him something, but he’s certain he didn’t leave his tea unattended, and even if he had, he doesn’t feel high. Granted, his only experience was during that fateful study abroad trip back in ‘89, but it was nothing if not memorable.
(To this day, he still hasn’t been back to Amsterdam.)
He’s seriously starting to regret all the true crime podcasts he listens to to pass the time in the lab; he’s heard more than his fair share of stories about convicts being imprisoned for decades for crimes they didn’t commit. Somehow, those stories never felt real until now.
Another officer is waiting for them as they pull up to the station, and he escorts Bruce out of the car while Gagnon handles Tony. They’re ushered into the building and to an area labeled ‘processing’.
“Hey, watch the suit,” Tony grumbles as he’s guided roughly down onto a plastic chair. “This is Armani.”
“And this is jail,” Gagnon retorts.
The other officer—whose name tag reads ‘L. Tremblay’—frowns at Bruce’s vomit-soaked pants. “Don’t sit down yet, eh? I’ll see what we have in lost and found.”
Bruce just nods as the officers depart. The severity of the situation is starting to sink in and he’s working himself up to the point where his breathing is heavy and sweat is dripping down the back of his neck.
Tony huffs indignantly at the cops. He turns to Bruce, but then immediately frowns at the sight of him. “You okay?”
Honestly? Bruce is pretty far from okay. He’s standing in a Canadian police station, covered in his friend’s vomit, hands cuffed behind his back, and about to be processed for a crime he didn’t commit. He’s getting a bit concerned the Other Guy might make an appearance.
He swallows hard. “Just didn’t really think I’d be going to jail tonight...” Bruce admits under his breath.
“Yeah,” Tony lets out a small laugh. “That’s usually how it goes.”
“This isn’t funny, Tony!” Bruce hisses. He’s going for irritated, but it comes out sounding a lot more worried than he intends.
Tony’s expression sobers slightly. “Hey, listen”—his right shoulder twitches toward Bruce, then stops abruptly as the handcuffs halt him. He gives a small giggle—“Okay, just imagine that I’ve put my arm around you reassuringly.”
“Lovely,” Bruce mutters sarcastically. “That helps a lot.”
“Look, you’re gonna be fine,” Tony promises. “This is not my first rodeo, alright? They’re just gonna do a blood test and figure out you’re not trippin’ balls, I’ll call my lawyer, we’ll sign some papers, and we’ll be out of here before you can say ‘hockey stick’.”
Bruce sighs deeply. “Hockey stick…” he mutters bitterly.
X
Bruce is pacing around the holding cell now, anxiously awaiting his blood test results. Tony has already used his one phone call to contact his favorite attorney (who, apparently, was not in the least bit surprised to hear about their predicament) and is now lying stretched out on the bench with one arm draped over his eyes dramatically. The last hour has sobered him significantly and that evening’s fun seems to be wearing off.
“Why don’t these things have a drawstring?” Bruce complains as he hikes up the oversized hockey shorts Tremblay provided him.
“They used to,” replies the burly-looking man sitting on the holding cell bench behind him. His nose is a bit crooked and there are drops of dried blood on his Toronto Maple Leafs jersey. “They take the strings out so you can’t hang yourself,” he says knowingly.
“Or use them as a weapon, eh?” the other man in the cell throws in, his voice gruff. He’s dressed in a plaid flannel shirt and overalls and is sporting a black eye. “You know, like”—he mimics trying a knot at his neck level—“strangulating.”
“It’s strangling, Curtis,” the first man corrects.
The other man—presumably Curtis—frowns. “Not if it’s a verb, Gordon.”
“My mother was an English teacher, eh?” Gordon argues. “It’s strangling.”
Curtis scoffs. “Your mother also was convinced that guzzling Moose Milk would cure her gout.”
Gordon gets to his feet, rising to an impressive stance of at least 6’3”. “Do you really wanna start this again?” he challenges.
Curtis also rises. He’s a good two inches taller than the other man. “Do you?”
As the two approach each other threateningly, fists clenched, Bruce moves away until the backs of his knees touch the bench where Tony is currently sprawled out.
“Tony!” Bruce hisses, tapping his arm urgently. “Do something...”
Lowering his arm, Tony lifts his head a bit and narrows his eyes suspiciously at the two giant men. “Can you even milk a moose?”
Both of their cellmates halt and turn back to look at them. Raising a bushy eyebrow, Curtis takes two steps forward.
Bruce gulps nervously. “He’s just drunk!” he blurts, his voice going embarrassingly high-pitched. “Don’t mind him! Please.”
“Pfft,” Tony scoffs. ”‘m not even—”
Bruce cuts him off by slapping his hand over Tony’s mouth—something he really should have thought to do earlier that evening.
Like the child he is, Tony licks it. Bruce just grimaces.
Immediately, Curtis bursts out laughing. He gives Bruce a jovial punch on the shoulder which nearly knocks him off balance. “So am I!”
“Me too!” With a hearty chuckle, Gordon extends a massive calloused hand in front of him. “Welcome to Canada!”
X
“So, poppy seed bagels, eh?” Clint asks, a grin spreading across his face.
The sun is just coming up over the horizon as Bruce and Tony shamefully trek toward the waiting Quinjet at the edge of the police station parking lot, Tony swaying quite a bit on his feet and Bruce still holding his hockey shorts up with one fist.
“Not now, Clint,” Bruce mutters. “It’s been a long night.”
Clint is still chuckling. “I just never thought I’d be bailing a guy out of jail for getting high on Tim Hortons…”
Bruce runs an exasperated hand over his face. “Okay, one, you’re not bailing me out—you’re picking me up. I got released. And two, you cannot actually get ‘high’ on bagels. Poppy seeds apparently just contain trace amounts of opium and it registers them as a false positive for morphine.”
“But who the hell goes to prison for eating too many bagels?” Clint balks.
“I was hungry!” Bruce argues. “They were really good bagels…”
Tony, who is looking quite pale at the moment, swallows miserably. “Can we not talk about food?”
Clint turns to look at his very hungover teammate, his eyes sparkling. “Oh, you don’t wanna talk about food, Stark? Because I could really go for some poutine right now.” He grins, a little evilly. “Imagine with me. The gravy soaking into the fries… the cheese curds melting on top… the smell of the—“
Tony gags, but a well-timed swallow manages to keep everything down. Clint opens his mouth as if to continue, but then seems to decide that it isn’t worth the mess and ushers both men inside.
After boarding the jet, Tony sinks down onto the nearest seat and holds his head with a quiet moan.
“Still can’t believe you tried to bribe an officer with maple syrup...” Clint shakes his head slowly. “God, Pepper’s gonna have your head!”
“She’ll have to fight me for the honor,” Bruce mutters darkly, buckling himself into his own seat. “Next time we go to a conference, we’re taking the jet.”
Tony groans as Clint takes off. “Fuck this arctic wasteland…”