#Steve’s real answer is ketamine

[morganbritton132]

Eddie, during a live-stream: Stevie, what’s the worst drug you’ve ever done?

Steve: *looks at the camera and then gives Eddie a look that clearly says ‘I’m not fucking answering that.’*

Steve: No, actually. I will answer. It was Adderall when I mixed up our medications on accident.

Eddie: Oh, yeah. I remember that. You felt normal.

Steve: Yeah, I was fine. Nothing happened.

Eddie, making eye contact with the camera: Yeah. And we chose not examine that any further.

[intothedysphoria]

Billy is convinced Steve is trying to fix him.

At least that’s what Max relays back to Steve, the first time. Steve watching heavy rainfall thud against his windows and ignores the sting in his chest. It’s so cold.

He doesn’t need some indie middle class white boy hanging around him because of a desire to feel deep. Some people have real problems Harrington. Stop pretending.

Well, Steve’s Syrian grandparents would beg to differ but whatever. Billy’s an ass. Nothing Steve didn’t already know.

It’s fall and Steve’s listening to a Harry Styles vinyl, teeth worrying the lip ring he’d gotten two weeks prior. Paper lies around him in a ring.

Steve tries to call Billy and it goes straight to voicemail.

Munson says that he didn’t peg Steve as a Perks guy when he sees Steve reading it on the grass outside Hawkins. Steve responds that he must be feeling masochist because he loves the story.

He says no to the offer of ketamine but Munson sits with him. He’s a decent guy. Obviously holds some type of feelings for Steve. But he isn’t Billy. Just listens to the same music.

October is slow. Nobody is coming into family video and why would they. Netflix exists.

Billy comes in one day and rents out Halloween. He tells Steve he likes the anti capitalist message of John Carpenter movies. Then leaves Steve in a storm of overly strong cologne and leather.

Steve texts him again. He still doesn’t answer.

Dustin says he is going to be Percy Jackson for Halloween so Steve helps him scope out a camp half-blood t shirt from eBay.

Steve goes as Trixie Mattel and tries to ignore the heavy feeling that the wig and the makeup and the shoes give him. It is all part of the look.

Billy is dressed as someone who spits out blood at appropriately timed intervals, usually near the faces of scandalised middle aged suburban moms.

He compliments Steve on his costume and says he could never fully commit to being in drag like that. The Scoops uniform was hotter though. That is followed by a well timed wink.

They just dance to bad 90s club tracks for the rest of the night and hook up in the bathroom. Billy is really very good at the whole gay sex thing and makes Steve’s brain fully black out when he sucks him off. Steve feels much more alien kneeling on the floor, staring up at strong denim thighs.

Billy cums, makes sure Steve is ok, gives Steve a very long cuddle then leaves.

He finally answers his text messages with the 😉 emoji after that so Steve thinks that maybe he isn’t trying to fix Billy anymore.

They do not stop hooking up after that first time. Steve is not sure of Billy’s attitude to casual sex but he would like there to be something else going on. Logistically Billy definitely has more partners like Heather or Jonathan or Patrick but it is nice to think that Steve is the only one.

He does not ask if Billy has multiple partners even though Robin says he should. It just feels rude.

It’s New Years Eve and Billy has invited Steve around to his place to celebrate. There is nobody else there, not even Max.

Steve asks why and Billy says because Steve is not trying to fix him. But he is somebody who makes Billy want to be better.

He kisses Steve afterwards.

It’s a happy moment.

It is one of the coldest days in winter but Steve feels so warm.

@robthegoodfellow @shieldofiron

[shotsbyshae]

Trouble

Warnings: Language, Murder, Smut-ish

Words: 2.7k

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x Fem!Reader

Summary: Maybe the narcissistic playboy is smarter than most people give him credit for. Sequel to My Oh My

Song: Trouble by Halsey

*Spoiler free: no movie connections whatsoever.

Would you bleed for me?

Lick it off my lips like you needed me?

The bar is cozy – intimate – in your opinion for an east side dive.

You’ve been listening to this guy for the last hour and a half and it’s obvious by now he’s not connected to Fisk. Parker owes you lunch for sending you after this lead. You regret flirting in the beginning, because now he’s giving you the look.

Men.

The ringing of his cell phone is a saving grace and he excuses himself to take the call. Giving you a few moments to develop an exit strategy. Ducking out the back door is your first instinct.

“Hi,” the voice in your ear sends an icy chill down your spine, regardless of his hot breath against your neck. Your mind races with questions as he leans against the bar, cool gaze staring into you.

What is he doing here? The sound of his voice returning you to that night.

The way his hands had felt on you, the taste of the beer on his lips. His body had moved against yours with such familiarity, but the eyes weren’t the same. Drysdale had a cold, manipulative look about him, something Steve never possessed.

“Did you tell him your name’s Natalie?” he questions, the edges of his mouth bordering on a smirk.

“How did you find me?” you flick your eyes up at his blue ones, knowing it’s best to keep your guard up around him.

It would be different if it was just Ransom you didn’t trust, but it isn’t.

You don’t trust yourself around him.

His brows furrow as he leans closer to you, “I have my sources and you stole my wallet.”

“I can’t do this right now,” you say quickly under your breath.

“Tough, Robin Hood,” he remarks, and quirks an eyebrow at the confusion on your face. “Yea – I saw the donation I made to the Women’s Foundation. Thanks, by the way.”

“Shit,” you had forgotten about that and you pinch the bridge of your nose, feeling a six-foot headache coming on.

“Oh, we’re doing this now,” Drysdale remarks and you glance up to see the man you were talking with moments ago approaching.

“Just give me a minute to get out of this,” you say as the man walks closer and you see the devious glint in Ransom’s eyes.

���Don’t worry, I can handle that,” he turns as the man with black hair stops a few feet shy of the two of you. His voice rising in anger. “Is this him? Is this the guy?” Ransom points at the man and glances to you.

“What’s going on?” the man asks.

“You’re having drinks with my girlfriend,” Ransom takes a step towards the guy and you drop your head.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

“Look pal,” John – that is his name isn’t it? Now’s not the time, because you know even if he’s not connected with Fisk, he’s still not a good guy and he doesn’t back down. “She approached me.”

“Well,” Ransom glances over his shoulder at you. “She likes a good charity case.”

John lands a right hook to Ransom’s face as he turns back to face him. Your hand flies to your mouth as you watch the rage flash in Drysdale’s eyes.

For a playboy, he can take a punch.

And throw one.

You jump from the bar stool after his fist connects with the other man’s jaw, “That’s enough.” You move between them, grabbing Drysdale by the arm. “Let’s go.” Looking at John as you say, “I’m sorry.”

Once outside, you follow him around the corner of the bar to see a black sports car by the curb and watch as Ransom opens the passenger door, “Get in.”

“I don’t think so,” you fold your arms across your chest defiantly.

“You have some explaining to do,” he states simply, arm resting on the roof of the car. “Look, I know who you are.” He pauses before he says your name, watching as your eyes widen. “I know that you work for the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division – or S.H.I.E.L.D. – as everyone else likes to call it.” Your breathing stops, because there’s no way he should be able to find out that information. “So, get in the car.”

The car ride is silent for a few moments before you pull a tissue from your jacket pocket and offer it to the man next to you, “You’re bleeding.”

He accepts it as he glances in the rearview mirror, quickly wiping the blood from his nose, “Well, that usually happens in a bar fight.”

“Okay, Swayze, that wasn’t a bar fight,” you turn to him in your seat. “It was one punch and you were being an ass.”

“What were you doing there?” Ransom changes the tone quickly. “It obviously wasn’t a real date, so what was it?”

“Classified.”

He stops the car at a red light and glances over at you seriously, “Was I classified?” You drop your gaze away from his. “I may be a lot of things, but a criminal isn’t one of them.” He gives you a moment to respond and continues when you don’t. “Why me?” The light turns green and he focuses his attention back to the road. “I assume the theft was all your idea – or do they teach pick pocketing at the S.H.I.E.L.D. academy?”

“They thought you were someone else,” you say quietly, watching the streetlights pass in the dark. “I was sent to get confirmation.”

“Did you get that confirmation before or after you had your tongue down my throat?”

You sigh, closing your eyes in disgust, “Where are we going?”

“I’m taking you home,” he responds. “You still have my wallet – remember?”

***

Once inside your apartment you head straight for your room, knowing the wallet is tucked away in your nightstand drawer, “I’ll be right back.”

“Take your time,” he remarks as he takes in the simple décor of your tiny apartment, walking over to a bookshelf. It’s filled with hardback novels and small knickknacks, as well as a few picture frames.

Ransom does a double take at one of the framed photographs on the shelf, grabbing it to get a closer look at the man who’s sitting behind you, arms draped across your shoulders, pulling you tightly to him. His face rests against yours and Ransom recognizes him.

It’s the same face he sees in the mirror.

“Okay, here’s your wallet you can –” your voice drops off as you see him standing there with the picture frame in his hand.

His blue eyes flick from the photo up to yours and you can’t tell if there’s confusion or anger there – or both. His jaw clenches before he speaks, “What the fuck is this?”

“I told you,” you begin quietly, walking over to take the frame from him. “They thought you were someone else.” You hand him the wallet before turning to place the photo back on the shelf. “You have what you came for – you can leave now.”

“Not until you tell me who he was,” Ransom says watching as you turn around angrily.

“He was a better man than you’ll ever be,” you snap coldly. “That’s all you need to know. Now get the fuck out.”

Drysdale looks a little shaken by your assertiveness, but he turns to leave. You hear the door open and his voice exclaim, “What the hell?” The commotion at your door that follows, puts you on high alert and you quickly move for the gun you have hidden under your coffee table. A stinging sensation in your arm is the last thing you remember before collapsing to the floor.

***

“Are you awake?” you hear a hushed voice question. You blink slowly, feeling the dark and damp that surrounds you. You’re on the floor with your arms stretched above your head. The cold metal around your wrists lets you know you’re handcuffed to something above you.

“Yea,” you respond groggily. “You okay?”

“What the fuck is going on?” Ransom questions and you see him sitting in a chair across from you.

“I don’t know,” you respond. “What did you see?”

“There were two of them, both in masks,” he says. “One of them stabbed with a syringe.”

“Ketamine,” you comment quietly. “Bet you wish now you’d bought a new wallet huh?”

“No shit.”

You glance up to see the steel bar running the length of the wall and you wrap your hands around it, testing the sturdiness of it, before you pull yourself up from the floor, bracing your back to the wall as you fumble for the bobby pin in your hair.

The door jerking open snaps your attention to the man who enters, as you slide back to the floor. He strides over, illuminating a small lightbulb that dangles from the ceiling.

“Good you’re awake,” his German accent unmistakable.

“Who are you?” you question as he grabs a knife from a nearby table.

“That’s none of your concern,” he states, moving towards Ransom in the chair. “I just need a few answers.” He glares down at Drysdale.

“Hey – he’s not who you think he is,” you yell out from your place on the floor and Ransom sees the concern in your face.

“Oh, trust me,” the man states. “I’m well aware he’s not Steve Rogers.” He turns to look at you menacingly. “But how convenient it is for this man to be at your home. It would seem you have a type.”

“You got it all wrong,” Ransom comments. “I don’t even know her.”

“Even so – I trust she’ll tell me what I want to know,” the man grabs Drysdale by the top of his head, jerking it back as he shoves the blade against his throat.

“Don’t!” fear flashes across your features and the German smiles. “Don’t hurt him. He’s got nothing to do with this. What do you want to know?”

“See,” the man glances down at Ransom. “You might not know her, but I do. Did you know you look almost identical to her boyfriend?” He looks back over to you. “Or should I say ex-boyfriend?”

“What are you talking about?” Drysdale asks, drawing his attention away from you.

“He left her,” the man states. “Abandoned her and everyone else.”

“He didn’t abandon us,” you interrupt angrily. “After everything he did – he deserved a chance to be happy.”

“If you say so,” the German remarks wickedly. “Now, where’s the artifact?”

You raise an eyebrow at him curiously, “I’m going to need you to elaborate.”

“Take a lot of artifacts, do you?” Ransom asks dryly.

“Oh, shut up,” you glare at him.

“You know,” the blue-eyed man says, gaining the German’s attention. “I’d never take her for a thief, but that’s how I met her. She stole my wallet.” He furrows his brow at the man with the knife. “Who even does that?”

While he talks, you manage to use the pin from your hair to free one of your wrists and you quietly stand up from the floor. You move quickly, kicking the back of the German’s knee to bring him to the ground. Ransom watches in surprise as you move with assassin like precision, taking the knife from the man before knocking him out with a reverse jab of your elbow.

“Holy shit,” he says under his breath, as you dig through the pockets of the man on the floor. Pulling a small revolver from inside his jacket, you check to confirm it’s loaded before tucking it in the waistband of your jeans. “That was – amazing.”

You roll your eyes as you use the keys to unlock the cuffs on his wrists, “We need to get out of here.” Standing back up, you place your hands on your hips and time slows down as you watch Ransom’s eyes widen in fear.

He acts on instinct, seeing the other man with the gun pointed at you. A move so out of character, it surprises himself most of all.

You start to turn around, feeling him tackle you to the ground as the shot rings out. You quickly pull the revolver from your waistband and fire two rounds into the other man’s chest.

“Fuck,” Ransom hisses, burying his face into your shoulder as you watch the man who came in from behind crumble to the floor. After a moment he lifts his head, staring down at you intensely. “That hurt.”

You feel the warmth seeping through your shirt, and you glance to his arm, seeing the blood there. Your voice nonchalant as you say, “You’re bleeding.”

“Yea,” he quips. “I’m beginning to see a pattern.”

***

“That was incredibly stupid,” you reprimand as you place tape around the bandage. Ransom sits on the edge of your bathtub, the sleeve of his white under shirt pushed up to this shoulder. The blue sweater he’d been wearing earlier discarded on the tile floor.

“Um – you’re welcome,” he remarks sarcastically as you finish bandaging up the wound. “I took a bullet for you.”

You give him an unimpressed look, “Oh please, it’s barely a flesh wound.”

He watches you turn back to the sink, waiting a moment before he continues, “He struck a nerve back there, didn’t he?” You cut your eyes over at him. “Talking about – Steve – was it?”

“He didn’t abandon us,” you repeat quietly.

“Okay,” Ransom leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But he still left.” You glance down at the sink. “That couldn’t have been easy.” He waits a moment before changing the subject “So, what artifact were they looking for?”

You turn, leaning back against the sink as you fold your arms across your chest, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips, “Well, that’s – classified.”

“Of course it is,” he smirks.

***

Ransom sits in the chair waiting patiently. After all, his grandfather had pulled several favors to get him this opportunity. Although his book wouldn’t be a murder mystery like those that had built his grandfather’s empire, he had seen the passion in your eyes for the man who looked eerily similar to him, and he hoped to bring those feelings to life on page.

The door to the office opens and you step inside, eyes widening in shock to see the man sitting across from Fury’s desk, “What’s he doing here?”

“Glad you could join us,” Fury states as you close the door behind you. “Mr. Drysdale is going to be doing a book on Captain Rogers’ life.” Nick’s words make your heart stop. “He’s asked for all the best resources we have for him to use for the book and –” Fury gives a half smile as he glances back over to you. “Well, you’re the best resource when it comes to him.”

You glance over at the man in the chair and see the smirk on his lips before you turn and exit the office angrily without a word. Nick turns to Ransom with a shrug of his shoulders, “She doesn’t play well with others.”

“Oh,” he responds. “I’ve noticed.”

***

You pull the bottle out from behind the cereal boxes in the small kitchen area.

Barnes’ secret stash.

Turning it straight up, you feel the burn of the bourbon as it eases down your throat. This can’t be happening. You’d rather take on an alien army from outer space again, than deal with this.

“I was going to ask but,” Ransom begins, leaning against the kitchen bar. “I figured you’d say no.”

You turn on him sharply, “Damn right. So, instead you go over my head to Fury?” Staring at him with disappointment for a moment before you turn back to the bottle on the counter, whispering under your breath. “Asshole.”

He moves closer to you, “This asshole saved your life.” You cut your eyes up at him. “You kinda owe me.”

“I don’t owe you shit,” you correct him quickly before turning the bottle up again. Drysdale takes the liquor bottle away, holding it just out of your reach. “Why me? Why don’t you just leave? Isn’t there someone else back home you could be throwing yourself at?”

A laugh slips past his lips, “I am not throwing myself at you.” He stares down at you with a smirk. “Besides, you’re different.”

“God,” you narrow your gaze at him. “I bet that line’s a real panty dropper.” Ransom shakes his head in annoyance. “I’ll help you with your book, because of Fury, but regardless of how much you hang around – this –” You wave your hand between the two of you. “This will never happen.”

“Good,” for the first time since meeting him, you see a hint of sincerity in his eyes as he continues.

“Because, I’m not leaving.”  

[tisfan]

Stark Raving Mad

Chapter Six of that Tony Stark/Victor Von Doom fic that nobody asked for...

To Victor goes the Spoils | A Stark Reminder | Doom’s Day Scenario | Stark Truth | Doom and Despair

Drinking didn’t help. 

Tony had known it wouldn’t, it never had. But sometimes in the bottom of the bottle, Tony had found a little forgetfulness, a little numbness. 

Not this time; no amount of single-malt cut the pain. There was no fog or relief with an empty glass. There were some pretty epic hangovers, however. Sometimes he could disguise the anguish in his chest in a throbbing headache and muscle spasms. Dealing with a brain that wanted to shrink to the size of a walnut and hide under the bed was easier than thinking. 

He started living for those few moments in between dreaming and waking, when he felt strong, warm arms around him. Heard a lightly accented voice in his ear, telling him everything was going to be all right. 

And then he would slide his hand across the cool sheets, seeking a warm, familiar shape, pretending that his lover was just out of reach, instead of half the world away. Half the world and an impenetrable wall of lies and misunderstandings away. 

At least night was only half the time. 

Tony couldn’t decide if sleep was the enemy or his best solace. Sleeping eased the pain; in sleep he could forget, and even if his dreams were haunted, or he’d wake up hard and aching and reaching, he wasn’t in agony while sleeping. On the other hand, during his waking hours, he got… used to it. The pain didn’t lessen, he didn’t feel better, but he did grow accustomed to it. By the time he was awake for eighteen hours, he could better carry the load. Sleep… reset his tolerance. 

Waking up was the worst. The constant hangover probably didn’t help, but he couldn’t give any of it up. 

I wish I could quit you.

[Mobile readers, ware the readmore line, or catch the whole story at A03 [x] ]

He’d thought walking away was the hardest thing he’d ever done. It wasn’t. Staying away, now that was hard, and each day, each hour, it was a decision he had to make all over again, because it wouldn’t take that long, or even that much effort, to be in the suit, across the sea, and on his fucking knees in front of Victor Von Doom, begging to be taken back. 

He’s the one who should apologize. 

Didn’t matter, in the end. This was something Tony could not have. 

“Your boyfriend’s in the papers again,” Clint said, one morning -- well, actually it was more like early evening, but fuck it, if it was Tony’s first goddamn cup of coffee, it was morning. 

“What?” The coffee slopped over the edge of the mug, searing Tony’s fingers. He hissed, stuck his fingers in his mouth out of instinct and that was even more painful. Eventually he got himself together enough to run his hand under some cold water. “What are you even talking about, Barton?” 

No one knew. No one could ever know. 

“Doom,” Clint said. He brandished the paper at Tony. “Didn’t he kidnap you recently?” 

“Tony’s been kidnapped so many times, it kinda slips his mind,” Natasha pointed out. 

“I’m not really susceptible to Stockholm Syndrome,” Tony managed, heart beating in his throat. Why was Victor in the papers. “If I was, there’d be a lot more Ten Rings fanatics in the world.”

“Well, thank God for that,” Steve said. He was buttering an English muffin and smearing more jam on it than any five people should have been able to eat. 

Why was everyone else eating breakfast at… Tony checked the clock. Oh. It actually was six-thirty in the morning. He was getting his days and nights all backward, trying to stay awake as long as possible and then falling on his face from exhaustion, only to crawl out of bed unrested and weary. Had he ever been awake at this time of day on purpose before in his life? Probably, but he couldn’t remember why he’d want to do that. 

“Why?” 

“Why what?” Everyone had just continued on with their day as if nothing earth shattering was happening at all. 

Tony counted prime numbers backward from ten thousand. “Why is Doom in the papers?” 

“Oh, some pappas managed to get a pic of his face,” Clint said. “Can you believe it? I thought that guy was supposed to be all scared up and hideous.” 

What? “What?” Tony snatched the paper up and spread it out on the table. “That can’t be real.” 

Doom Unmasked 

Actually a series of photographs; Doom’s hands at his throat, unhooking the mask. Sitting at a desk, face covered by his hands, as if weary. Or grieving. A final shot, a little blurry, but recognizable.

Victor. 

“I didn’t think a photographer would get close enough to Castle Doom to get a picture,” Steve said. “Doesn’t he shoot foreigners on sight? Him and those Doombots.” 

“I think it’s a fake,” Sam said. “The real Doom would have strung up a photographer on the nearest spike and let his guts spill out.”

He’s not like that, Tony wanted to protest. At least not anymore. 

“That’s lovely breakfast conversation,” Tony snarked, his tone a little more hostile than he’d meant it to be. He folded up the paper and tucked it under his arm. “I’ll be in the shop. If anyone needs me… too fucking bad.” 

“What was your involvement in the Latveria conflict, Mr. Stark?” Christine Everhart smiled at him, her teeth looking like a shark’s grin rather than anything like a human expression. 

“I accompanied the Fantastic Four, on rumors of stolen Stark Industries weapons tech being obtained by the Latverian government,” Tony said. He had a whole handful of printed cards; but you’d think Pepper would stop handing him that kind of bullshit, because he was never going to deliver a speech based on what some PR buffoon wrote down. If she wanted the spin to go her way, she needed to give the goddamn speech herself and leave him out of it. It didn’t even matter that the reporters wanted Iron Man, it’s not like she hadn’t made excuses on his behalf before.

“But that’s not what you found?” 

“I’m sure you already know the answer to that,” Stark said, giving her his best cheeky grin. He’d always been good at playing the press, smiling on the outside, but this was the first time his press smile actually physically hurt his face, plastering it on there. 

“Our intelligence was somewhat lacking,” Tony said. “Indeed, Latveria had acquired Stark Industries tech, but it was for energy and not a weaponized system.” 

“But isn’t the arc-reactor capable of immense destruction?” 

“As we saw,” Tony said. “As a result of --” 

“Von Doom’s issued a public statement,” another reporter, Ben Urich called out. Christine gave him a death glare, but it didn’t shut Urich up at all. Now that was an investigative reporter. “Were you aware, Mr. Stark, that he claimed both that the reactor meltdown was an accident and that you -- acting as Iron Man -- saved his country?” 

“Well, I’d say that’s pretty much true,” Tony responded, a little stunned. The current emotions surrounding the event had been pretty hostile and Tony was expecting reparations to be demanded, at the very least. Not to mention the expectations that Johnny Storm might be accused of war crimes. 

“Do you consider yourself to be working with Dr. Doom?” Christine butted in. 

“In the case of saving the world, then yes, ma’am,” Tony said. He knew she hated it when he called her ma’am. He made a point to do so as often as possible. “I’m pretty much willing to work with just about anyone for that goal.” 

That seemed like a good line to walk out on, so Tony did. 

“No,” Cap said. Tony could tell it was Cap and not Steve talking because Steve usually leaned in doorways when he was mad, contemplative, or just being a pain in Tony’s ass.

Cap, on the other hand, was all six-foot three-inches worth of patriotic self-righteousness, and someone had taught him, decades before Tony was born, that hands on the hips was a good leadership look. Cap had learned that lesson pretty well. It always made Tony sort of want to do the Macarena, but whatever. 

“Well, I didn’t ask you to the spring dance or anything so --” 

“Tony, just stop,” Steve said, and it was all Steve again, and really, the personality changes were going to give Tony whiplash if it kept happening. “You’re drunk, you’re erratic, and I’m not letting you go on this call.” 

“You’re not the director of me,” Tony said. He wasn’t that drunk. Was he? Not like he hadn’t done the superhero shtick fucked up drunk on a couple of occasions. One of those occasions was how Rhodey ended up with War Machine. He thought that was planned, but maybe Rhodey did, actually, kick Tony’s ass. Tony couldn’t quite remember anymore, and that was weird because usually Tony’s memory was pretty damn good. 

“Maybe not,” Steve said, “but I am the leader of this team, and as such, I’m not going to let you endanger them, yourself, or civilians by operating a battle suit under the influence.” 

“Don’t really see how you can stop me, Stars and Bars,” Tony snapped. “I was doing the superhero gig while you were still getting your beauty sleep.” 

There was a sharp prick at the base of his neck. “Aaand I was in spy school before you built your first suit with tin cans and paper clips, Tony. I’m sorry, but Steve’s right.” Natasha said. “You’re a hazard right now.” The world got a little… bendy around the edges. 

“I’m not so very… drunk… Melly,” Tony said. 

Steve blinked a few times. “Hey, I understood that reference,” he said. He shook his head. “Sorry, Tony. Not this time. JARVIS, shut him down. I want a legal BAC before you let him fly anywhere.” 

“I understand, Captain,” JARVIS said. 

Well, that was interesting. Understanding was not the same as obeying. Tony waved a hand in front of his face, dismissing Captain Stick-up-his-ass. 

The Quinjet was up and gone by the time Tony managed to stagger off the landing platform. JARVIS obeying Steve or not, Tony couldn’t fly in these conditions. What the fuck had Nat injected him with anyway, ketamine? 

“Sir,” JARVIS said, “Much as it pains me to agree with the Captain under these circumstances…” 

“Yeah, I gotcha, buddy,” Tony said. He stumbled and if JARVIS hadn’t been holding the suit in his control like a toddler, Tony would have gone straight onto his face and probably broken his nose while he was at it. “No superheroing while under the influence…” 

“If you don’t mind a suggestion, sir,” JARVIS said, “you might find some peace of mind if you will allow me --” 

The bendy edges of the world went… bendier. Was that even possible? He was going to kill Nat. Or at least, use a bleach-filled water pistol on all her clothes. “Sure, buddy,” Tony said. “Whatever… you… want.” 

JARVIS closed the faceplate. “Just sleep, sir,” JARVIS said, sympathetic. That was nice. Tony could use some sympathy these days, since all he was getting from his team was sarcasm and resentment. “I’ll wake you when we arrive.” 

“Sure….” Tony closed his eyes. JARVIS could fly. JARVIS was his co-pilot. 

“Is there some particular reason you decided to camp me out halfway up a tree in… where the fuck are we?” Tony demanded. Waking up in bed with a hangover was bad enough, really. He needed to get right on programing JARVIS with pain receptors or something, because honestly, this was a little too much… 

“There were patrols,” JARVIS explained. “And I did not wish to engage with Latverian forces at this time, sir.” 

Latveria. “Latveria? JARVIS, why the fuck did --” 

“Sir, while I do not claim to understand human sexual relationships, I cannot help but observe that you have been suffering through the fallout of the events here, not that terribly long ago.” JARVIS overrode him.

“It wasn’t that long ago,” Tony protested. “I think I’m allowed to grieve.” 

“I don’t disagree, sir,” JARVIS said. “But perhaps some observation might give you some closure.” 

“I don’t think stalking the evil dictator of a fascist nation is what they mean by closure,” Tony said. 

“I don’t believe evil dictator of a fascist nation is what you mean by Victor Von Doom,” JARVIS responded. 

“I did not program you to be a relationship counselor,” Tony noted. “Scrap heap. Teaching math to third graders.” 

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS said. “I have long since yearned to help younger minds who are not quite so set in their ways.” 

Ow. 

“That was hurtful, buddy,” Tony said. 

“In point of fact, sir, I do not intend for you to stalk your lover,” JARVIS said. “I merely thought you might wish to look at what’s become of the country that you saved.” 

Oh. Well, that might be okay. He could see what Doom had done in the last few months, go back to hating him, and everything would be fine. The world and reality would return to what he knew and maybe he could get on with forgetting a few nights of passion. And, really, that’s all it was. In the grand scheme of things, the twenty-three days that they’d actually spent together were tiny, less than 0.002% of Tony’s entire life. And even if one recalculated for the time they weren’t in the same bed, but, at least for Tony, Victor had been almost the entirety of his thoughts… he was still only talking about 0.06%. Hardly worth the heartache. 

Except that you love him. 

Tony skimmed around the countryside, stopping from time to time to observe village life. All the cities and towns were named Doom-something. Doomburg, Doommanor, Doomsville. Doom’s ancestors were hardly the creative types. (He was ignoring Starkphones and the Starktower and… yeah, okay, so he wasn’t ignoring it, and maybe he didn’t have any room to judge.) 

It… wasn’t what he’d expected. 

The work that he’d seen laid out in the warehouse was continuing. Slower, perhaps. The loss of the arc-reactor for power had made other plans necessary. Huge swaths of forest were tagged for removal, to set up solar panel projects. All of the new buildings had hydro-power or solar panels set up. Clean, renewable energy. 

Latveria had always had a generally lower jobless rate than other countries, but now, Tony was seeing more and more social improvements. Latveria was moving out of the wealthy middle ages and into the middle-class modern age. 

It was… intriguing. 

“Compile news reports of Von Doom’s activities, since the incident,” Tony said. “Summarize.” 

“If you will accept my analysis, sir,” JARVIS said, “Von Doom has changed. I believe his renunciation of world conquering to be sincere. His most recent efforts, dating, I dare say, from his first encounter with you at the Van Dyne masquerade ball, have been to bettering the lives of his people.” 

“Could it be a trick?” Tony wanted to believe that, but at the same time, what actually the hell? Victor changing, for what? For Tony Stark? Ridiculous. Tony was what absolutely no one would call a role model. In fact, his teammates would probably rupture something, laughing, if anyone suggested it. 

“Years of associating with humans have left me with few illusions, sir,” JARVIS said. “Anything could be a trick, or a trap. But you might ask yourself, a trap for whom? And why? Von Doom is going through rather a lot of effort, and if you’ll forgive me for saying it, what wouldn’t result in much benefit to anyone, if it was an ambush.” 

What gain a man the world, only to lose his soul? 

Well, it would gain a man the world. But Victor seemed to have turned his back on the world… to regain a soul, perhaps. That wasn’t an unworthy goal. 

“All right,” Tony said. “Let’s see what he does with a little help.” 

“Sir?” 

“Replace the arc-reactor,” Tony said. “Call it a gift, or a tax-deduction. Let’s see what he actually does with one, if he’s got it.” 

“Of course, sir,” JARVIS said. “I’ll place the order at once.” 

“You owe me,” Tony said. He planted one hand on the kitchen table. “And don’t try to wiggle out of it, either.” 

“I --” 

“You’ve stabbed me in the neck more than once now,” Tony pointed out, “and I have yet to repulsor you in the face, no matter how much I’d really like to.” 

“What is it you want me to do?” 

“Go to Latveria. Be a tourist or something. He’s allowing tourists, these days.” 

“And while I’m there?” 

“Get a feel for the land. See what the people think. Do an analysis on the government, the economy.” 

“To bring it down?” Natasha asked, brightening. 

“No. Just report it. And leave your bias at the door. I want to know what Doom’s really up to.” 

“And what will you be doing for the next few months, while I put this together?” 

“Drying out,” Tony admitted. “I need to check in to rehab, otherwise, I’d do it myself.” 

Natasha softened at that. She actually put her hand out and touched his wrist. “Are you going to tell anyone what happened?” 

“Yes,” Tony said. “Just not you. Tony Stark, not recommended. Remember?” 

Natasha winced. “Would it help if I said I’m sorry?” 

“I honestly don’t know what I’d do with that, Ginger Snaps,” Tony said. “No one ever says they’re sorry to me.”

Natasha’s report was thorough. Favorable. If it was a trap, Doom as doing an awful lot of upgrades to his country in a non-military fashion. If it was a trap… the world might benefit from such a leader. 

Tony thought about getting a hotel. 

Going back to where they started, maybe. He had fond memories of that hotel. 

But no, if they were going to move forward, it was time to actually move forward. Start new, fresh. No more lies. No more hiding. 

“Send the package, J,” Tony said. 

There were, Tony thought, several possibilities. 

Dozens of scenarios and reasons. But it boiled down to a Schrodinger’s cat scenario. Either Victor would come. 

Or he wouldn’t. 

Either there was love. Or there wasn’t. 

Tony didn’t bother to dress up; he wasn’t going to wait around like some modern day Miss Havisham. Comfortable pants and a tee were good enough for the Avengers; a sport coat sometimes if he was leaving the building. His sneakers. And if he had engine grease on his face, so be it. Tinkering in the workshop passed the time. 

He wasn’t going to be anyone else anymore. No more masks. No more lies. 

Okay, so he was totally waiting around. 

Shut up, okay? 

“Sir,” JARVIS interrupted his thoughts. “Victor Von Doom is inboard to the Tower. Two minute warning.” 

Tony’s heart rate increased and he had to swallow a sudden bout of nerves. “Where’s he landing?” 

“Current trajectory indicates penthouse landing platform, sir,” JARVIS said. 

“Let him in.” Tony didn’t have to move. He could just stay right there he was, on the sofa, drinking his sparkling water and pretending that he wasn’t a recovering alcoholic. Pretending to be casual. Pretending the outcome of this meeting wasn’t going to change his life, perhaps even more drastically than Afghanistan had. 

Von Doom came down on the platform in a superhero™ landing. Good thing the floor there was reinforced to take the full weight of the Hulkbuster, otherwise he might have cracked the pavement. Green cloak billowed out behind him, dramatic.

Von Doom raised one hand and touched the stud under his jaw, removed his mask. With a negligent flick of the wrist, he threw it aside where it clattered up against the rails. Pushed back his hood. 

He was so beautiful. 

Tony had meant to stay where he was. Calm. Cool. Collected. Fuck it. The glass of water spilled, unheeded, to the floor. He was on his feet and practically running to the door. He managed to get himself under control when his hand was on the knob, but still, he threw the door open. 

“I see you found the address,” Tony said, letting a sly smirk touch his mouth. 

“Tony, I --” 

“Victor,” Tony said, and the sound of Victor’s name on his tongue stilled both of them for a long, long moment. They stared at each other. Drank in the sight. God, this was… I love him. And I am never going to love anyone else again. “We… need to talk.” 

Victor nodded, slow. He reached out a hand, peeled off his armored gauntlet and offered Tony his hand. “We should,” he said. “Thank you, for inviting me.” 

Tony touched Victor’s hand and the warm reality of it nearly drove him to his knees. Iron. Stark men are iron. If the talk went well, there would be plenty of time for him to be on his knees later. If it went poorly… well, he would like to skip the embarrassment of remembering how badly he wanted this. “You’re welcome.” 

And he meant more than simple acknowledgement of thanks, he meant… you are welcome. In my home. In my life. In my heart. “Please. Come inside.”