Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

On the second floor of the Hayden Memorial Library, tucked away in a corner study carrel, you scribbled your mechanical pencil against ruled scrap paper. Numbers, equations, and hand-sketched scatterplots filled the page; you were checking and rechecking your calculations for the experimental dosages you outlined in your paper, with the milligram-interval measurements charted in the Excel tables on your laptop screen.

From the corner of your eye, you saw the form of a man approaching the neighboring carrel, taking a seat and heaving an obnoxiously loud sigh as he did so.

It was 12:47am. This was like someone parking next to you in a barren lot, or setting up their blanket by your side on an otherwise empty beach. You were running under the influence of a two-hour nap, six cups of coffee, and a graduate research proposal due date looming around the corner. You weren’t sure if it was the stress or the lack of sleep, but his presence affronted you, personally, and you took a sip from your lukewarm mug as you turned towards him, glancing over the rim with every intent of giving this asshole the best passive-aggressive stinkeye you could manage.

You caught sight of him and choked on your coffee.

Tony Stark had spoken at your university earlier that day. As MIT was his alma mater, he’d make an appearance at least once a year to deliver a speech about current tech research and future endeavors at Stark Industries. You and half the school had the opportunity to shake his hand after his presentation; in the ten seconds you had with him, he gave you his autograph, made small talk, and ended on a witty quip before moving on to the next person in line. It was a tight, efficient process any celebrity would use on people waiting to meet and greet them. Nothing special.

So when he’d asked about your plans and you joked about pulling an all-nighter at Hayden, you didn’t expect him to actually show up.

But here he was, Tony motherfucking Stark in the flesh, swiveling around in the roller chair next to you as he balanced a pencil on his upper lip like some bored high school kid.

To say you were a little starstruck would be the understatement of the century.

“You know, I was like you, once,“ he started, casually, “with the research papers, the gallons of coffee, the late-night library sessions...”

“You?” You scoffed a laugh. “Please, I bet you could polish off a research proposal within the hour.”

He made a tilting motion with his hand. “Mmm, closer to two or three. Don’t give me too much credit, there’s plenty of other places I deserve it.”

“Right.” Still slack-jawed by his presence, you were silently trying to will yourself awake, convinced you were dreaming. “Can I...help you with something, Mr. Stark?”

“Just wanted to swing by and chat. Nice outfit, by the way.”

Immediately forgetting what you were wearing, you looked down at yourself. A pair of flats, a knee-length skirt, leggings...

...a black t-shirt with a faux-glowing arc reactor printed on the chest...

“Oh, Jesus.“ You smiled as you buried your face into your hands. “I forgot I was wearing this.”

“Yeah, see, I was never a big fan of the merch? The shirt has to go. You.” He pointed at you with the pencil tangled in his fingers. “You can stay, though.”

You could feel yourself go pale. Was he propositioning you? “You’re joking.”

Not breaking eye contact, Stark caught the end of his pencil between his teeth, gently rocking side to side in his chair. “You think I’m joking?”

“You’re richer than God,“ you blurted out, “you’re smarter than everyone at this goddamn school combined, the Maxim calendar is your personal yearly bucket list of models to do before you die--”

“Please, go on. Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“I’m not even the leader of this research project--and this?” You gestured to your spreadsheets in frustration. “A night’s reading for you and you’d probably know more about this crap than I do. And you’re talking to me why?”

“Woah, woah, woah.” Stark scooched his chair closer to your desk. “Hey, what I can do and what I actually do? Two completely different things. I’ve got enough on my plate as is. You, everyone here--the work you’re doing is important. You’re building the future, remember? If the world’s going to survive, it needs people like you in it.”

“But you could rule the world if you wanted to.”

“Sure, I could.” He leaned back and smirked. “I’ll start with you.”

Red flooded your cheeks. Did his speech writers come up with that line, too?

Smiling with disbelief, you clicked your tongue, tapping your pencil against your desk. “Almost sounds like you want to get caught.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Stark looked thoughtful for a moment. “But we won’t be interrupted. I mean, unless you’re into that sort of thing. Arrangements can be made.”

Raising an eyebrow, you stood up to take a sweeping glance around the library. There were always some stragglers scattered about this time of night--undergrads and graduates alike--studying for exams or finishing up papers or napping between projects. You’d always been comforted by the silent camaraderie you shared with those late-night strangers--the unspoken agreement that, sure, you were all students suffering through hell, but you were suffering through hell together.

Tonight, however, the library was barren.

Uncharacterisically so.

Your eyes widened as you sat back down. “You’ve cleared the entire floor.”

“People can use other floors.”

“And the security cameras...?”

“Yeah--contrary to popular belief, I’m not a sex tape kinda guy? They were shut off as soon as I got here. My request, of course. Told Security I needed it for a private function.”

This wasn’t happening.

God, there was no way this was happening.

You rubbed the back of your neck, brushing a hand through your unkempt hair. Aside from some day-old lip gloss, you didn’t have any makeup on. Your nail polish was chipping at the edges. You’d worn your skirt three days in a row--fresh leggings, though, so at least you had that going for you.

“Just--look, help me understand, here.” Your smile was uneasy, this time. “Compared to the women you usually...I mean, like, I’m...is this your version of slumming it, or something? Coming back to the old watering hole for a day to trade caviar and world-famous models for instant ramen and college-girl-chic?”

“Okay, first of all, tobiko trumps caviar any day of the week. Secondly, I don’t have to be ’slumming it’ to think you’re cute.”

You barked a laugh, near-breathless. “Holy shit, Tony Stark thinks I’m cute.”

“Here’s the real question, though.” Even closer than he was before, Stark placed his elbow onto your desk and propped his chin up with his palm. “Do you think I’m cute?”

“People’s Sexiest Man Alive 2014 is asking for my validation?”

“Nobody’s talking about him--I have yet to actually win that title, by the way, isn’t that a crime? Anyway, back to my question.”

You made a thoughtful face, tilting your head with appreciation. “Yeah, you’re pretty cute, I guess.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“A solid eight.”

“What’s your idea of a nine, out of curiosity?”

“My Medical Imaging prof.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Dr. Bertrand?” You let out a low whistle. “Smoking. Like, damn. He can make a tomographic map of my brain any day, you feel me?”

“Oh, good to know.” Chin still resting on his palm, he curled his fingers over his mouth. “Is it weird I wanna punch this guy, now?”

You burst out laughing.

“Because I feel like it might be weird.”

Still feeling the need to keep quiet in the library, you covered your mouth as your shoulders shook with muffled laughter. You glanced over at him, and the reflection of the overhead light in his eyes made his gaze on you as bright and as dazzling as his smile.

Were you really doing this, right now?

“So, Medical Imaging.” Stark curled an arm around you to grab at your mouse, leaning in to read off your screen. “What’s your field?”

He was inches away from you, now. You could see the flecks of grey in his goatee.

“Biomemetic engineering,“ you said, feeling dizzy.

“And your thesis?”

“Utilization of bio-polymers to emulate nerve regeneration in the spinal column.”

“Trying to help people walk again,“ he hummed thoughtfully, pouring over your research. “Wouldn’t happen to have any of those bio-polymers lying around, would you? You might need it after we’re done.”

“...is offering to fuck me into paralysis supposed to turn me on?”

“Depends, is it working?”

You refused to answer that. “You’re old enough to be my father.”

“Really?” he gasped, having the audacity to sound surprised. “You can call me ’daddy,’ if that’ll make you feel better.”

You made a face.

“Noted. What are you into, anyway?”

“What are you into, Mr. Stark? Bondage? Voyeurism?” You tilted your head and looked at him with facetious empathy. “Feet?”

“Add some AC/DC and you’ve described an ideal Friday night.”

“Oh my god.”

Keeping his vision glued to your computer, he hadn’t stopped browsing through your research documents. “I bet it’s humiliation.”

“Humiliation?”

“Not from anyone, from someone you respect. Like a teacher.” Without warning, he leaned in to speak into your ear from behind--slowly, gently, still keeping his eyes on your monitor. “Your methodology here is clearly flawed.”

You snorted laughter into your hands again, but you were sure not to move too much, as you liked his mouth right where it was.

“Your sample sizes are as small as your standard deviations are high.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Stark, I love it when you talk dirty.”

He touched his lips to your skin, his voice a low rumble against the shell of your ear. “One look at this atrocity of a conclusion of yours, and the review board’ll force you to repeat your undergraduate degree until you actually learn something.”

“Please don’t send me back, Mr. Stark,“ you begged, sexily, half-laughing, “I’m in so much fucking debt as it is.”

Falling silent, he continued to scroll through the pages as you sat put. You tried not to focus on the scent of his cologne, or the sound of his slow breathing, or just how badly you wanted to lean back and bury yourself against his neck.

You glanced up at his face, hovering by your own as he looked intently at your monitor, and, as you watched his dark eyes flicker across the screen and his lips mouth words under his breath, you realized with great clarity he was actually reading through your research.

“Huh,“ he mumbled, sounding impressed. “You might actually be onto something here, kid.”

The subtle praise made your heart leap, and that’s when you kissed him, gentle and chaste, a fleeting press of your lips to the corner of his mouth to test the waters, fueled by nerves and sleep deprivation and six cups of coffee.

That was all he needed.

He spun your chair towards him and caught your gasp against his lips. You could feel him smirking as he tilted his head to slide his tongue against yours. His aggression made your head spin, and you found yourself reaching for his wrists just to find something to grab onto.

You tasted like coffee and faded lip gloss; he tasted like vodka and day-old despair.

Stark got you on your feet, but not for long. His mouth back on yours, he pushed you backwards into the study carrel, forcing your arms to wrap around his neck for stability. You knocked over your mug in the excitement; what little remained of your coffee spilled across the desktop and soaked your butt where you sat.

You didn’t care.

His hands were skating under your thighs now, wrapping your legs around his waist. Your hands tangled in his hair, grasping as he grabbed your ass and slid you nearer to the edge of the desk. You crossed your ankles to draw him in closer and you felt him buck against you, rutting up between your legs at an angle that drew the daylight out of you.

He laughed into your kiss. “Someone’s hot for teacher.”

“Ha,“ you sneered, trying to sound confident. “You’re doing pretty good for an eight.”

“Hm. Never liked being second-best.”

You wanted to say something witty, but he shoved a rough hand down the front of your skirt and the words died in your throat.

He dragged his tongue along your own, drinking in every sound you made as his fingers slipped inside you, easily, effortlessly, aided by the heavy slick of your own arousal; his fingers wasted no time curling forwards to brush hard against that very specific spot inside you, as his thumb circled your clit and made you see stars.

Your voice broke as you gasped against his mouth.

He knew what he was doing, and his experience was a refreshing change of pace.

It was your turn to shift up against him, bucking against his eager hand, your nails digging crescents into his neck as you hung onto him for dear life. You were both looking down; somehow, watching the bulge of his hand move fervently beneath your skirt as he finger-fucked you made your head spin even worse than before.

“That’s it,“ he whispered, and you felt the heat of his breath on your skin, “that’s my girl.”

His voice was deeper than you remembered; his praise sent shivers down your spine.

Your breathing grew short as your movements grew desperate, but his hand kept the same pace, forceful and steady, ready to drag your orgasm right out of you. Your climax was coiling in the pit of your stomach, you felt about ready to burst--

--and he stopped.

You let out a curse.

“Up,“ he said, ever-so-softly, smirking as he motioned for you to follow him, “c’mon.”

He kissed you again, pulling away bit by bit, staying just out your reach until you followed his lead and rose your feet. Light-headed and confused, you tried to catch your breath as your mind reorganized itself from its arousal-induced scramble. Stark nudged your chair out of the way with his foot. You heard it roll across the floor and bump into the wall behind you.

You felt a swell of pride at the way he looked at you, with his breath still shallow from your kiss and his soft hair made a mess by your hand. He was flushed, through-and-through, his cheeks now as warm as his smile.

As he continued moving backwards, you slid off his jeans (designer), then his boxer-briefs (also designer). He didn’t watch your hand when you finally took hold of him--he watched the glint in your eyes, the shift of your shoulders, the way you wet your lips with your tongue before you kissed him again. For the briefest of moments, you two were the same, a mischievous pair of nobodies needing a break from their daily routine. He could’ve had anyone in the world, but here you were.

Maybe he wasn’t slumming it with you, after all.

Maybe he just wanted to try something new.

He took a seat in the remaining chair as you continued standing. He pushed up your shirt and trailed hungry kisses down your chest, your stomach, while his fingers hooked into the waistband of your skirt.

“Lift your hips for me.”

You complied. He rid of you of your clothing from the waist-down in an instant.

He leaned back, making it rather obvious he wanted to fuck in the chair, so you pushed thoughts of the uncomfortable logistics aside and moved forward, preparing an attempt to straddle him properly.

“Ah-ah-ah,“ he interrupted, twirling his index finger in a circle. “Turn around. You’ve got homework to do.”

“...you’re kidding.”

“Those numbers of yours aren’t going to run themselves, you know.” He motioned to your paperwork, smirk still plastered on his face. “Hop to it.”

“You’re ridiculous,“ you laughed.

Still coming down from the cusp of your rudely-denied climax, you turned around and faced the desk. You picked up a pencil and shuffled your paperwork away from the puddle of coffee spilt from your overturned mug. You barely glanced over the equations. You’d never been less interested in anything in your entire life.

You heard the familiar crinkle of a condom being unwrapped behind you. Shortly after, Stark rolled his chair up behind you, his knees touching the back of yours.

He grabbed your bare waist from behind.

With your coffee-soaked leggings bunched around your ankles, you allowed him to guide you over his lap. You could feel him--god, you could feel him--pressing hard against your inner thigh, and it took all of your willpower not to just take him then and there.

“Go on,“ he said, one hand on your waist, the other teasing his cock against your entrance, “don’t let me distract you.”

You pressed your pencil against paper, and did the math.

Somewhere between unit conversions and forgetting to carry the 3, you felt him sink inside of you without warning, hard and thick and deliciously deep as he buried himself to the hilt.

“Shit...” you keened.

“Atta girl.”

His strong hands wrapped around either side of your waist to keep you steady, fingers digging into your skin, determined to return the marks you’d left against his neck earlier. It was only fair.

He stopped moving his hips when you stopped moving your hand.

So, much to your despair, you continued working.

The way you were positioned, bending over in his lap, meant your feet couldn’t quite touch the ground. With your forearms pressed against the desk, you had to use the carrel for leverage as you rolled your hips with his cock inside you, filling you up in a way that made embarrassing words you wouldn’t remember escape your throat; he moaned strings of similar obscenities in that smooth, rich voice of his as you bounced in his lap.

His laughter sounded strained. “Christ, kid, look at you go.”

One of his hands snaked around your chest, his fingers reaching beneath your shirt and bra to feather over a perked nipple.

Your handwriting was becoming atrocious.

But in spite of your arousal, and in spite of all the opportunity this day had offered you, you decided, against what little was left of your better judgement, to poke the lion’s cage.

It was probably the only lion’s cage your lifetime would afford you, after all.

Why not have fun with it?

You tilted your head in his direction, ensuring the smile on your face could be heard in your voice. “This really the best you can do, old man?”

Still nestled deep inside of you, Stark shot to his feet, abandoning all pretense to bend you right over the goddamn desk.

Your papers crumpled beneath your shifting forearms as you dropped your pencil, the damn thing rolling off the desk and onto the floor.

The last word you remember coming to mind was ’mistake.’

Unhindered by his position, he was somehow pushing in even deeper than before. He fucked you at the same pace his hand had, forceful and hard and steady, like the rest of him. Your feet finally on solid ground, you got on your toes to give him better access. He noticed your shift, and adjusted himself in return, leaning in close until his chest was near-flush against your back. The newfound angle had him shoving himself hard against that deliciously neglected spot inside of you; with one hand still fondling your breast, he pried his other hand from your waist, returning it to its prior position between your legs.

Not only was he fucking you hard enough to make the carrel shake, but he was also rubbing your g-spot and your clit at the same goddamn time.

This was some seriously advanced shit.

Stark continued pumping in and out of you, withdrawing his cock near-fully before delving straight back inside, stretching and tightening you fantastically with each thrust and withdrawal, over and over and over again. Noises spilled from both of your throats, uncontrollable and unrestrained, and through your haze, you tried your best to pay attention to how he sounded right next to your ear, his grunts each time his thighs slapped hard against yours, his moans when one of his movements made you whine, his breath tripping over curses he couldn’t fully muster.

He sounded so fucking wonderful.

You failed to stifle your whimpers, not even with your face half-pressed into the desk. You could feel the slickness of your arousal dripping along your inner thighs.

You shifted your hips, trying to force him to up the pace, but he had his rhythm set, hard and steady. Hard and steady.

“Easy, kid,“ he whispered, “easy.”

Your breathing came quick and panicked. “Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark...”

“That’s right, keep it up.” A low growl by your ear. “Almost there. Almost there.”

His greedy hands were still working on your nipple, on your soaking cunt, absolutely relentless, making the slow force of climax rebuild in your gut, many times stronger than before. Your heart was pounding in your ears. Your thoughts were glitching in and out of coherency.

The orgasms hit you like a fucking freight train.

He’d timed them carefully, perfectly.

They both came at once, and the electricity they sent pulsing through you shorted out your thoughts and set your nerves on fire. You cried out, loudly, awash with undiscovered sensation wracking your frame as your entire body trembled in the crest. Stark reached his own climax sometime during the false eternity of your swell; you felt his body tighten against you as he slammed into you one last time, sending sparks of overstimulation flaring behind eyelids you hadn’t realized were shut.

And just like that, the two of you were spent, drowsy and breathless.

Stark withdrew himself from you and sank into the nearby chair, his chest rising and falling as he swallowed hard and tried to regain his breath. You collapsed to your knees, legs still shaking in the afterglow.

You laughed as soon as you were able.

He followed suit, running a hand through his hair. “Not bad for an eight, yeah?”

“You’re a twelve,“ you said, giving him a face-down thumbs-up from the desk, “on a scale of one to ten. A solid twelve. Dr. Bertrand can go fuck himself.”

“So everyone wins, then?”

“I think I got the better end of this deal, to be honest. For me, this has been, hands-down, the greatest lay of my entire life. For you, it’s a Tuesday.”

“Did you just quote Street Fighter after sex?”

“Sure did.”

“Marry me.”

“Pay off my student loans.”

“Done.”

“Mr. Stark, I can’t feel my legs,“ you mumbled, “is this normal?”

”Yep,” he said, sounding a little too proud of himself.

Thankfully, the feeling returned to your legs without the need for bio-polymers.

Stark readjusted his sport jacket, straightening out the well-pressed collar before folding the cuffs of his undershirt back over the sleeves of his jacket. You watched him from the corner of your eye as you mopped up spilt coffee with some old Subway napkins you tucked away in your backpack. The entire study carrel smelled like sex. The solutions you’d written for your equations were illegible.

This was much better than a typical one night stand, you thought to yourself, being able to skip the awkward morning formalities and jump straight to parting ways and never speaking to each other again.

“I’ll be in touch,“ he said.

“Don’t insult me,“ you replied.

You held no illusions about what this was.

“No no no, I mean it. Work hard. Make your deadline. If you get your graduate project approved and funded, I’ll swing by and congratulate you. In person.”

“It’s a date, then.” You looked over your shoulder and smirked at him, still looking particularly unconvinced. “Have a good night, Mr. Stark.”

With a wink and a click of his tongue, he was gone.

Two months after the submission of your graduate research proposal, you receive a letter from the MIT Office of Sponsored Programs, notifying you that your proposal had not only been accepted, but also that it was being funded and supervised by a private donor: an alumni by the name of Tony Stark.

You laugh yourself right off your roller chair.

Chapter Text

Based on what you knew of him from celebrity news headlines and gossip rag covers, you dared to dream having Tony Stark as one of your doctoral research advisors would be a thrilling scientific adventure, filled with state-of-the-art technology and advanced experimentation. However, in all your fantastic idealizations, you‘d forgotten Stark‘s cocky-billionaire-businessman-playboy-philanthropy reputation were only facets reflective of who he was at his core: a scientist.

Doctoral dissertations, for most fields, normally took anywhere between three to ten years for the average graduate student to complete.

Tony Stark was funding you under the agreement you‘d finish it in one.

This meant accelerated courses, 50+ hours of dissertation work per week, and more coffee every two days than you‘d had during the entirety of your senior year.

Your research partner dropped out of the program a week in.

You, on the other hand, were determined to see it through.

Normally, the faculty board wouldn‘t have entertained the idea of such an intense workload, but Tony Stark was no normal person. And you? Hell, you were his first doctoral candidate in the history of his scientific career, so of course he‘d be flashy about it. High standards with even higher expectations came with the Stark territory, after all.

Anything and everything you needed to live and breathe your research—a living wage, day-to-day expenses, lab time and materials—was covered under his grant, under the agreement that Stark Industries would have exclusive rights to your tech upon its completion. You knew he saw potential in your work, but you also knew there were probably plenty of geniuses out there more suited to this role than you were, people who could have dealt with an accelerated timeline without having to work half as hard as you did. You were no genius. Tony Stark knew that. However, he‘d said that with enough effort, hard work and genius looked exactly the same.

So you worked hard.

All correspondence to Tony Stark went through his right-hand (wo)man, a lovely lady by the name of Pepper Potts. Through regular contact with Potts, you learned quite quickly that Stark was an extremely difficult man to get in touch with. You had plenty of other resources on campus, however, so you avoided contacting Stark if you could help it, only requesting to call him when you hit a serious roadblock in your research.

The first time such a roadblock occurred, you spoke with him over a video conference call. You were curled up with your laptop in the dark space of the dorm room you called home, while he was boarded upon his private jet on his way to god knows where, surrounded by flashing lights with music loud and bass-heavy in the background. He must‘ve been the opposite end of the world, you figured, as you had to book an appointment for his mid-afternoon, which was 4:37am local time.

Half-drunk and covered in strippers, Stark had been relentless in his barrage of questions.

(“Why didn‘t you try this?”)

(“Have you thought about that?”)

(“What are your opinions on obscure academic paper relevant to your field?”)

It took no more than four minutes for him to dismantle your question completely, rendering you speechless and fumbling for notes that contained no answers for him.

(“If I can poke holes in your methodology by browsing twelve abstracts on IEEE, it means you need to try harder.”)

(“Work on it.”)

He hung up on you, and you swore you‘d never make a fool of yourself in front of him again.

Every subsequent advice opportunity lasted longer and longer. If you were able to adequately defend your research and your reasoning, he‘d take the time hash your question out with you until you had a novel idea or reached some new conclusions to help you along.

So when Stark extended an invitation to his private laboratory to discuss your work in detail over the upcoming long weekend, you jumped on the opportunity at once.

Tony Stark‘s mansion was located in Malibu, California.

MIT was in Boston.

As always, Potts was the one who arranged your flight.

You were still dizzy from your guided tour of Stark‘s inconceivably large living space by the time you reached the stairs to the basement. You descended the steps alone, both of your hands wrapped around the handle of a messenger bag carrying your laptop and relevant portions of your work.

You could always tell a lot about a person by the state of their work area, and if Stark‘s personal laboratory was indeed the physical manifestation of his headspace, it was a hell of a lot to take in. The warehouse-like basement was crawling with computer monitors and hover screens, with sprawling desks covered with tools and tech, while motorbikes and collector cars were parked all along the perimeters. There was a small kitchen in the corner, complete with a mini-fridge and a working jukebox and holy shit, were those the Iron Man suits?

Spotting Stark at one of his workbenches, you tapped on the window to catch his attention.

Stark spun around in his chair to face you, wearing nothing but a black wifebeater and a pair of jeans, and the sight of his bare arms alone made your six-and-a-half hour flight here worth it.

He mouthed the words ‘one, zero, six,‘ while holding his fingers up accordingly.

You activated the touch keypad to input the numbers for entry. The soundproof door slid open, and you were met with a resonant wall of rock music blaring from the jukebox in the corner.

You motioned to invisible speakers while you walked in. “I picked a heck of a day to wear black.”

“You like AC/DC?” he asked, remaining seated as he continued working.

“I know their stuff when I hear it,” you smiled. “I‘m sure most people do.”

“Oh, yeah?” Stark pulled up a control panel in mid-air. “What about this one?”

Back in Black was interrupted by the first few chords of Black Dog.

“I recognize it, yeah.”

“Aaand...this one?”

Paradise City.

“Of course.”

“How about...”

All Along the Watchtower.

“...Mr. Stark, are you patronizing me with hard rock music?”

“Nope, I am genuinely impressed.”

“I‘m not special for knowing who Jimi Hendrix is, sir.”

“Maybe not,” he said, wiping his hands on a tablecloth, “I just figured this music was a little before your time, that‘s all.”

“I know this music because it‘s stuff my dad listened to while I was growing up. So, congrats! You like dad music. Wanna pull up some Creedence while we‘re here?”

“Don‘t insult me.”

You snickered.

“Alright, c‘mon.” Muting the music, Stark got to his feet and motioned to the plush grey chairs in the corner kitchen. “Let‘s get started.”

Your heart skipped a beat, as stupid as it was for doing so. “Started on...”

“Work for your dissertation? You know, that little book report you need to get your PhD?”

“Right, right...”

“Keep it in your pants, kiddo.” He touched your arm as he passed you. “We‘ve got all weekend, and I am planning on making excellent use of your time.”

Before you were accepted as a doctoral candidate, you believed a week‘s study would give a true genius like Tony Stark a far better understanding of your field than you had—but this was your research, goddamn it, and you weren‘t worthy of conducting it if you didn‘t know at least as much as he could find out on his own.

Well-prepared for his usual assault of questions, you defended your research flawlessly. In return, Stark walked you through your concerns, and pointed you in the direction of relevant research in fields other than your own to help facilitate the interdisciplinary approach your project needed.

Thirty minutes later, you had more than enough to work with.

Flipping the music back on, he returned to his workbench to tinker with some indiscernible-but-complicated part of his suit. He‘d told you to make yourself at home, so you sat on the floor with your laptop, back propped up against the plush kitchen chair, crossing your legs as you took out some paperwork from your briefcase. He did a double-take from his workbench when he realized you intended to stay and keep him company, but he didn‘t tell you to leave.

Loud, interruption-free rock and alternative music echoed throughout the complex, and somehow, it didn‘t distract you in the slightest.

At least, not until a certain song came on.

Is this the real life? Is this just fantasy?

“Caught in a landslide,” you muttered to yourself, “no escape from reality.”

“Open your eyes,” he hummed, a little louder, “look up to the skies, and seeeee.”

“Oh, nice vibrato.”

The song continued, with you both drifting back into silence.

Against your better judgement, you softly shut your laptop before getting to your feet. Tiptoeing around your scattered research papers, you approached Stark‘s desk from behind and started singing along to the music again, low and melodic and slightly obnoxious, mostly because you weren‘t all that great of a singer to begin with.

Stifling a grin, he did his best to ignore you, but you would not be denied. Not to Freddie.

“Now I know you‘re not challenging me to a Queen song,” he warned.

“Aren‘t I?”

To your surprise, he swiveled in his chair to face you, handing you a socket wrench to use as a makeshift microphone.

You took it.

And you soon learned that not only did Tony Stark have a wonderful voice, but he was also much, much better at air guitar than you were.

Chapter Text

Tony Stark showed up to your dorm room unannounced with a bruised cheek and a split lip, sporting a light, casual hoodie and a pair of designer sunglasses folded against his neckline.

Standing in your doorway, he met you with a level gaze, messy-haired and puppy-eyed. “Hey.”

You didn‘t bother questioning how he managed to get inside the students-only building.

Seeing him wounded stirred an immediate sense of worry within you—although you knew his extracurricular activities more or less normalized the injuries, you couldn‘t decide if knowing that was putting you more or less at ease.

“Hey,” you replied, expression wavering somewhere between happiness and concern. “Are you alright?”

“Just ran into some bad guys while saving the world. You know, normal Monday afternoon.”

“Wait, that‘s right.” Your thoughts flickered to the last Avengers-related report you saw on the news. “Aren‘t you supposed to be in Mumbai, right now?”

“Aurangabad. That was yesterday. Today, I‘m here.”

“Well shit, that‘s awesome! What brings you to Boston?”

“I thought that‘d be obvious.”

Your smile fizzled like water in a frying pan.

In spite of your best efforts to skirt your embarrassment, you felt warmth blossom across your cheeks. You tried your best to still your heart, now skip, skip, skipping beneath your chest at the thought he came all this way to see you. Just you.

(Why you?)

“I like the shorts,” Stark spoke up, making a point to break the silence.

“Oh, thanks.” You looked over your outfit for the day: a graphic t-shirt and a pair of sweatshorts. “I got them at Goodwill for a dollar. I don‘t like wearing pants if I can help it, you know?”

“Incredible, yet another thing we have in common. We should continue this conversation back at my hotel room.”

“...the conversation about not wearing pants.”

“Uh-huh.”

Smiling, you ran a hand through your hair. “As much as I‘d love to be dragged away kicking and screaming from all my responsibilities, I really gotta prep for my lab time tomorrow, and. Well...right now, I...”

He quirked an eyebrow. “You...?”

“...I have to go to Wal-Mart.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, it...” You buried your face in your hands. “I know it‘s lame, but I‘ve had this trip scheduled for a while, and I‘m completely out of toothpaste, and...”

“No, no, I get it.”

“Did you wanna...” You broke off with a short laugh. “Did you wanna come with me?”

“To...Wal-Mart?”

“Yeah, to—god, you know what, never mind, that sounded even stupider out loud than it did in my hea—”

“I‘d love to.”

“...you‘d love to.”

“Well.” Stark folded his arms and leaned against your doorframe. “It‘s not the most romantic destination, but who am I to deny you the pleasure of my company?”

“You are nothing if not gracious, Mr. Stark.”

“Don‘t you forget it.”

“Just, ah. Let me put some shoes on and we‘ll be good to go.”

Hesitant, you started to move once, twice, before shuffling shyly back into your dorm.

The tiny room of yours was in shambles. Papers and books were strewn across your desk, burying your keyboard and making the fans in your overheating laptop whirr loudly. Clothing was piled all over the floor, and beside your closet, a small fort of empty takeout boxes and soda cans paid silent homage to your malnutrition. Although you weren‘t proud of it, you‘d abandoned the facade of being well put-together a very long time ago. The only thing in your life that had to be in order right now was your research, and you were much better at academic organization than its practical, real-life counterpart.

“Sorry about the mess.” You yanked your phone from its charger. “I wasn‘t expecting company today.”

“Don‘t apologize, this is making me feel a lot better about myself.”

“That makes one of us. I was planning on getting pizza,” you continued, hopping on one foot while putting a sneaker on, “if you wanted to hang out for dinner.”

He shrugged. “Sure, just give the driver an address.”

“Can we take my car?” You looked around the room for your keys as you spoke. “Taking a driver to Wal-Mart seems kinda...attention-seeking.”

Walking up to you, Stark placed his hands on either side of your waist and turned you around to face him, curling his arms around you and folding his fingers at the small of your back. He pulled you in until your waist was flush up against his own, and you were suddenly face-to-face with warm eyes and a slow smirk.

It was almost good enough for you to ignore how bad his bruises were up-close.

His voice was dark, and knowing. “You just want me all to yourself.”

“...maybe I don‘t feel like sharing today.”

Your attempt at sounding seductive came out as a barely-voiced whisper, much more nervous than sexy.

Thankfully, he was feeling merciful.

“Alright.” He let you go, but not before catching one of your hands in one of his own and holding both above your head. “I‘m nothing if not gracious, after all.”

Laughing, you followed his lead, and twirled. “And I do so enjoy your company, sir.”

Ten minutes later, you were holding an open garbage bag in your left hand, and piling random trash into it with your right.

“Sorry,” you apologized for the second time that day, more anxious than before, “I never realize how dirty my car is until I have to give someone a ride.”

“Take your time, I‘m enjoying the view.”

You looked over your shoulder.

Stark was leaning against the rear door of your 2005 Honda Civic, sunglasses lowered as he watched you (and your shorts) bend over the passenger‘s seat.

He dodged the empty coffee cup you threw at him, quite effortlessly.

In terms of Stark being recognized in public and drawing an unwanted crowd, the trip to the store was surprisingly uneventful. He had a close call with the little old lady working as the entrance greeter, but she ended up attributing her recognition of him to his face reminding her of her very handsome, very successful grandson, who owned a flourishing business somewhere down south. Be it out of irreverent boredom or genuine interest, Stark ended up staying behind and talking with her while you moved on, scouring around for deals on garbage bags and handsoap and Advil LiquiGel ValuPaks.

He ended up joining you in one of the food aisles, about half an hour later.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

He grabbed a couple of boxes of Twinkies off the shelf (two-for-one deal.)

You grabbed a pint of Rocky Road ice cream from the freezer (not on sale.)

You both kept your comments to yourself.

The detour through the toy section was the biggest mistake of the afternoon.

Wal-Mart had an entire aisle dedicated to Avengers-branded merchandise, the atmosphere of which was completely recontextualized now that you knew one of them personally. The uncanny action figure faces and plastic weapons and repetitive logos suddenly felt trivial and invasive, and although you now realized why Stark wasn‘t a big fan of the merch, you really couldn‘t help but wonder what renowned scientist Dr. Bruce Banner would think of the giant foam Hulk hands they had on sale.

You were pressing the “Thunder” and “Lightning” buttons of a light-up replica of Thor‘s hammer when you finally noticed Stark at the other end of the aisle, reposing all 47 of the articulated Captain America figurines into vulgar positions with each other.

“We‘re going to get in trouble,” you laughed.

“If we do, I‘ll just buy the store.”

“Tony Stark, don‘t you dare buy my Wal-Mart.” You looked up and down the aisle again. “Hey, where‘s all Black Widow‘s stuff?”

“No idea. She always manages to get left out of these things.” He picked up a miniature glow-in-the-dark Arc Reactor keychain, and tossed it back into the pile with disdain. “I really need to find out her secret.”

“Is it the shameless capitalism or is it the fact everything here‘s probably super off-model?”

“If you look up ‘shameless capitalism‘ in the dictionary, I‘m renting advertising space where the definition should be—no, this is just...” Holding up a shoddy-looking action figure that shared his suit‘s name, Stark checked the underside of the packaging for the manufacturer. “...Thailand‘s poorly conceived, roundabout way of getting me to send over blueprints for more accurate reproductions. Definitely not falling for that one again. Not after the Hong Kong incident.”

“Well, it‘s Wal-Mart, it‘s not like they‘re going to be selling your Figmas here.”

“My what now?”

“Figmas. They‘re like action figures, but...here, check it out.”

You unlocked your phone and did a quick image search to pull up a few relevant pictures.

Arms folded, Stark looked over your shoulder as you read out the specs and enthusiastically endorsed the detailed magic spun by the Good Smile Company‘s heavenly, on-model graces.

“Still not a fan of your merch?” you teased.

You realized he‘d stopped listening to you about halfway through—he was now distracted by his own phone, his fingers dancing across his touchscreen.

You barely managed to catch a glimpse before he tucked his phone away.

“...did you just order one off Amazon?”

“Next-day delivery.”

“Nice.”

When you had the choice, you preferred the self-service machines to cashiers because, much like pants, you avoided them whenever you could help it.

As you stood in line with your basket of mundane toiletries, you realized there was something indescribably endearing about watching Tony Stark, with his bruised cheek and split lip and designer sunglasses hanging from his neckline, attempt to scan boxes of Twinkies through the self-checkout.

Yes, very endearing. Right up until he looked back and made eye contact with you.

“Honey,” he called out, his voice bouncing with playful affection, “I forgot my wallet in the car, can I borrow your card?”

The nickname hit you in all the right ways, even if he was probably just being sarcastic.

“Sure thing, um...”

You held your breath. You couldn‘t call him Mr. Stark, people were listening.

So instead, you mixed up ‘Stark‘ and ‘darling,‘ rather egregiously.

“...sta—starling.”

Stark‘s expression remained unchanged as you approached him. You avoided eye contact while yanking your card out from your phone case; keeping deathly silent, you swiped your card vigorously through the machine, as if the violence of the motion was directly proportional to how fast this whole thing would be over.

“Starling?” he whispered.

“Shut up.”

“Never heard that one before.”

“Shut up.”

Your payment went through.

He grabbed his Twinkies and gave you a peck on the temple. “Thanks, babe.”

Your cheeks flared as he left you to the rest of your purchases.

Near the end of your checkout, the television at the front of the store managed to catch your attention. The TV displayed one video clip after another, high-definition sequences of gorgeous celebrities posing for the crowd, and providing short interviews with eager reporters carrying logo-branded microphones. There was no sound coming from the television, but various cues allowed you to gather that the program was a live broadcast of some big movie premiere or awards gala happening right now, somewhere in California.

To your surprise, an (unforgivably fantastic) photo of Tony Stark appeared on-screen next to the lead reporter as she spoke to the camera. It was obvious by the host‘s confused gestures that Stark‘s appearance at the event was sorely missed.

Slack-jawed, you looked around for Stark, who was now chatting it up with the sweet little old greeter lady, again. The two of them were eating Twinkies while sitting on the stacked boxes of powdered laundry detergent currently on sale by the entrance.

You finished ringing yourself through the checkout, unable to shake the feeling that you‘d done something wrong, here.

Stark was the one who approached you when you were done.

He nodded his head in the direction of the television at the front of the store. “This the part where you slap me on the wrist and tell me how irresponsible I‘m being?”

“Nah,” you said, shaking your head and gathering your bags. “This is the part where I ask if you want pepperoni or bacon on the pizza.”

“...both?”

“Both is good.”

You stopped at 7-11 on the way back to Stark‘s place.

After tipping the hotel valet to park your dingy little car in a garage filled with vehicles that outclassed it twelve times over, you and Stark strolled through the five-star hotel lobby sucking on bright red straws, arms filled with Wal-Mart bags, boxes of cheap pizza, and half-melted Slurpees dripping condensation onto bright linoleum floors polished to mirror shine. Him, in a hoodie and jeans, still looking as beat-up as he did earlier that day; you, wearing sneakers and sweatshorts and designer sunglasses that did not belong to you.

No one asked questions.

High thread-count bedsheets doubled as a picnic blanket beneath the both of you, as you reclined on the massive hotel room bed and exercised your God-given right to horrible diets and equally horrible postures. You didn‘t have cable back at your place, so you had fun taking your time surfing through the channels on the giant flat-screen television, even though every other channel was broadcasting a live feed of the ceremony in California.

“I‘m noticing a disturbing lack of passive-aggressiveness, here.” Stark grabbed his fourth slice of pizza from the box between the two of you. “You really don‘t care whether or not I go to that? At all?”

A&E was in the middle of a David Fincher marathon.

“First off,” you said, pointing a Twinkie in his direction, “passive-aggressiveness is for jerks who can‘t talk about their problems. My parents did it all the time. Hated it. If I ever pull that shit, you have permission to slap me.”

“Got it.”

“Secondly—and, can I be honest with you?”

“You know you‘re not allowed to speak to me unless you can lie to my face.”

“This might sound really stupid, but it took me two days to get off my ass for that shopping trip. Two days. I can understand wanting to play hooky for a worldwide-broadcasted event filled with hundreds of strangers, especially after...well, after whatever might‘ve went down yesterday in Auro...Arug...”

“Aurangabad.”

“Yeah, that place.”

“Mm.”

“My turn for a question.”

“Fire away.”

“Why do you like hanging out with me?”

Stark glanced up at you from his pillow, but didn‘t miss a beat. “Who else am I going to hang out with?”

“Literally anyone you wanted to.”

“Maybe I don‘t want anyone.”

“But why me?”

“You wanna know why you?”

“I wanna know why me.”

“Because this is the longest I‘ve been around someone without having to talk business.”

“Business?” You reached the bottom of your drink and continued sucking on the straw. “Like...Avengers stuff?”

“Or my suits, or my events, or what city I‘m supposed to be in forty-eight hours from now. I don‘t have to constantly justify myself for just. Existing somewhere.”

“It...I don‘t know, I figured someone like you deals with tons of stress nonstop. If you‘ve come all the way out here for a box of Twinkies and a slice of pizza, I figured you probably don‘t wanna talk about that kinda stuff while you‘re around.”

“That‘s why you.”

You shivered a little, but you blamed the drink.

“Alright,” you said softly, nodding, “okay.”

You knew something was wrong—any idiot with common sense and a pair of eyes could tell something was wrong—but you buried your curiosity beneath the urge to treat him like you‘d want to be treated if you were in his position, not letting yourself ask about any information he didn‘t volunteer. His subsequent lack of dialogue reinforced your suspicion that he wanted a distraction, a distraction only you, as someone largely unrelated to his money or his heroism or his business, could provide.

You were the impartial civilian outside the office of his affairs, and he was using your company as respite from his responsibilities.

And you were strangely okay with that.

You looked over at him. “Can I ask you one more question?”

“Shoot.”

“Would you rather fight one life-sized Iron Man Mark VII Figma or a hundred regular-sized Iron Man Mark VII Figmas?”

“I‘ve already fought life-sized versions of me,” he said, mouth full of pizza. “I‘d take on the hundred little guys. Just for novelty‘s sake.”

“I‘ll keep that in mind.”

“Why? Please don‘t.”

And the night went on just the same.

The two of you made it all the way through Seven and The Game, but you passed out somewhere in the middle of Fight Club, which made for some very interesting dreams.

The following morning, you woke up wrapped within the world‘s most comfortable blankets, fully clothed and surrounded by Twinkie wrappers, unable to remember for the life of you when exactly you managed to get beneath the covers. The alarm clock on the bedside table revealed a half-decent hour. You were running a little late, but if you left soon, you would have enough time to drive back to your dorm and at least get changed before heading into lab.

Before you could swing your legs over the edge of the bed, however, a pair of arms wrapped around you from behind, holding you firmly in place.

“Nope.”

“Mr. Stark,” you laughed, “I‘ve got lab time booked today.”

“Your turn to play hooky.”

“Sir—”

“C‘mon. Don‘t go.”

You eased in his grasp, but he didn‘t let go. He held onto you, half-asleep, with his eyes bleary and his bruised cheek stained with fading yellows and purples. It was that small, soft request of his that made you stay.

It was that small, soft request of his that made you realize you were in trouble.

You curled back up into the warm confine of the hotel room blankets. Adjusting the covers, you realized the side edges closest to you were folded under the mattress, meaning he‘d tucked you in sometime during the night.

He was still holding you from behind, his arms around you, strong and sure.

If you were still enough, and if you breathed quietly enough, you could feel the gentle thrumming of the Reactor lodged in his chest, humming softly against your back.

You had only a single thought.

“...I think I left my ice cream in the car.”

And Stark laughed—he actually laughed, this bastard—whole-hearted and genuine, and god, what you wouldn‘t do to make sure you‘d hear him laugh like that again, to hear the smile in his voice, to feel his shoulders shake against yours with happiness.

Far more jet-lagged and weary than he‘d ever care to admit, his grip around you loosened as his breathing slowed. If you followed suit and fell back asleep, you knew you‘d probably tumble head-first into a coma and not wake up again until the late afternoon, but you hugged his arms the best you could from that angle and drifted off anyway, trying and failing to think of a single place you‘d rather be.

You knew he needed this.

Maybe you did, too.

Chapter Text

With its oversized sleeves, velvet accents, and oddly-shaped hat, the Massachusetts Institute of Technology’s grey-and-red doctoral graduation regalia evoked the fashion-backward image of a medieval scholar, and you supposed that was the point.

Your parents—bless their hardworking souls—could gather neither the money nor the time off work to attend your second convocation. You didn’t blame them, of course, as they hadn’t expected for you to repeat the ceremony so soon after your undergraduate commencement.

You blew the dangly red tassel out of your face for the fiftieth time that morning.

You didn’t mind their absence, as this ceremony was just a formality. Graduating twice within a year and a half made the event lose a bit of its charm—if it was up to you, you would’ve gotten your degree mailed to you as you drew the curtains in your dorm room and caught up on a year’s worth of missed sleep—but being Tony Stark’s first and only doctoral candidate came with the responsibility of being as public and as showy about it as possible.

For instance, for the past couple of months, between your successful dissertation defense and now, Stark already had you presenting your work at several conferences nationwide just for the publicity. Your groundbreaking research and high notoriety had scores of academics approaching you with job offers and research opportunities; you shook hands and took business cards, but you were already looking forward to continuing your work with Stark Industries after your graduation, and further cementing your newfound influence in the field of neuroregeneration.

You sat through the graduation ceremony, playing with the 18-karat-gold Grad Rat wrapped around your ring finger the entire time, unable to ignore how foreign the weight felt against your skin. You were never one for jewelry, but it was an early graduation gift from Stark; he had his own Brass Rat from his time at MIT, and he refused to let you finish your education there without having one of your own.

You posed and smiled nervously for the multitude of press cameras in the audience while made your way across the stage to accept your degree. Afterwards, you gave a couple of interviews to reporters carrying notepads and handheld voice recorders. The attention was a little overwhelming, but thankfully, not too out of hand.

Besides some members of the faculty and the peers graduating alongside you, Stark was the only one you knew who attended the event. It would be easy enough to find him, you figured. All you had to do was move to the center of the crowd gathered across the park.

You nudged and wiggled your way through happy fans and members of the press until you were able to follow the sound of his voice.

“—love to talk, but I can’t see her right now, and if I can't see her, she can’t see me, which I think we can all agree is just a crying shame, so—”

You spotted him.

He never wore the same handsome, well-tailored suit twice, but his sunglasses were on constant rotation.

Stark looked surprised when your eyes met, almost as if he didn't recognize you.

“Hey!” He opened his arms, wide. “Nice work, doc.”

Suddenly bursting with happiness for the first time all day, you ran towards him.

You couldn’t help but hop at the last second—he caught you immediately, wrapping his arms around your back and using your momentum to spin you around once, twice, the fabric of your regalia flowing behind you as you laughed and smiled at each other.

You landed on your feet before he touched his forehead to yours, making his designer shades click up against your prescription lenses.

“That’s my girl,” he said, low enough for you to hear.

Tip-toeing to meet his height, you buried your smile into the crook of his neck as the cameras flashed around you.

Chapter Text

The safeword was ‘blueberry.’

You were unable to meet his eyes when you first suggested it, but the memory of how he repeated your shy request with a smirk curled at the edge of his lips—

“You want me to get rough?”

—still made the most brilliant shade of scarlet rise against your cheeks.

Your wrists were bound together with a black silk tie that probably cost more than your car. Your dress shirt was unbuttoned from neck to navel, revealing soft, round breasts made plump by the support of your bra; your matching underwear dangled from your foot as your ankles kept crossed behind him, with your skirt hiked up above your waist far enough to give him access.

You adored the feeling of his hands against you—they were working hands, thick and scarred, far too experienced with taking things apart and putting them back together, far too familiar with taking you apart and putting you back together.

A calloused thumb prodded at your clit and traced more rough circles around it; the pressure felt good again, the repetition felt good again—

His gaze heavy-lidded, he wet his lips with his tongue. “God, I’m going to make a fucking mess of you.”

You shivered.

You knew that, one day, you’d look back across the landscape of your romantic life and find it crudely divided into Pre-Stark and Post-Stark eras. You were lucky enough to catch yourself meandering between the timelines, and as it happened, you wanted to experience everything, anything you could with him, before you overstayed your welcome.

With his fingers teasing you along the brink, you wanted him to help you forget you were a visitor.

“Hold it in,” he whispered. “You’re finishing with me inside you or not at all, so be a good girl and hold it in for me.”

You wrenched your eyes shut; your voice sounded like a sob. “I can’t—”

“Hold it.”

You cursed in frustration, teeth gritting down on your bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. He didn’t want you to finish, but he wouldn’t stop moving his fucking hand, edging your already-weakened grasp off the ledge of your composure.

You wondered when he’d stop visiting you like this, unannounced and without warning, expecting a warm smile and a warmer embrace, even when you have plenty of things to do.

Plenty of things, yes, but nothing better.

No one better.

His hand finally, finally relented.

The mind-swirling pressure of you forcing down your own climax dwindled sharply, and you choked on your breath in relief.

“Oh, look at you.”

His tone was so fond, so endearing.

You were suddenly self-conscious of how you must’ve looked beneath him, splayed out across the mattress of his penthouse hotel suite, wrists bound over your head as the half-bare swell of your breasts trembled with every heaving breath you took. Your hair stuck to your sweat-slicked forehead. Your skin was littered with marks he’d left while he brought you to the cusp of orgasm, only to let you fall back from it, over and over again; he’d been edging you off for what felt like an eternity, and sheer will was barely enough to keep yourself together.

“Rude,” you huffed, blinking away the slight dampness in your eyes, “so rude.”

“Still green?”

You made the ‘okay’ gesture with one of your bound hands. “Supergreen.”

“Alright, Ruby Rhod, turn around.”

“Make me.”

He clicked his tongue.

And he had you on your stomach in an instant, like you weighed nothing at all.

Now on your knees, the angle forced your face into the mattress, your wrists still tied above your head. You pulled your elbows in to raise yourself on your forearms, but the support was short-lived as Stark wrapped the length of your hair around his hand and pulled—not a sharp yank, but a slow, gradual tightening of your hair around his fingers, forcing your head to tip backwards until you had his voice running ragged by your ear.

“Sit up.”

You obliged.

He flattened his opposite hand against your stomach to help you move backwards onto his kneeling form. You immediately felt his cock pressing against you from behind, the skin between your inner thighs already wet with your extended arousal. It was the first time that evening he let you feel how hard he was, and you went dizzy with the realization of how much you needed that inside of you.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” he dared, pressing himself to your entrance, “and don’t lie to me, doc, I’ll know.”

“I do, I do—”

“Ask nicely.”

“Mr. Stark, sir, please—”

He slammed into you hard enough to make you see stars.

You wanted to grab onto something, anything. The silk wrapped around your wrists would give way if you tried, but there was something insatiably delicious about having your hands bound in front of you, your nails digging hard into your palms, your upper arms squeezing, holding your breasts in place as you bounced in his lap and filled yourself up with him over and over and over.

He still had his hand in your hair, pulling your head back.

You felt his goatee against the crook of your neck before he dug his teeth into your skin.

“Fuck—Tony—”

He lost his rhythm at the sound of his own name, and the way he buckled into you out-of-time did not escape your register.

It had never been just Tony before.

So you repeated yourself, once, twice, until his power over you wavered as badly as his moans did.

The hand on your stomach slid down the front of you, bringing his attention back to your clit; you went from 0 to 100 in an instant, his efforts whipping you straight back to the borderline of your own climax.

“Let go, babe. Let go.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you—”

He continued moving, carrying you through your climax until he was fucking his name right out of you.

The sudden force of it almost made you pass out.

You don’t remember what you said when you got there, only remnants of his hushed words talking you through it.

“Atta girl,” he breathed hard, “just listen to you, you’re doing so good—”

But even as your body relaxed against him and you swallowed away the dryness in your throat left by your cries, he didn’t stop moving, with his hand still shifting gently down your front, his cock still pumping in and out of you, relentless, overstimulating you through and through.

Your safeword still far from your consideration, the noises ripped from your throat were sharp and strained until you were moaning, begging for him to stop.

The way his hand moved in your hair—now, that was a yank.

“I’ll stop when I’m fucking ready to stop.”

A smile broke across your face as renewed warmth swept clean through you.

You never bothered asking what you were to each other, because you were goddamn terrified of losing whatever it was you already had—this weird, casual mess of things with no label attached.

The time of your life had an expiration date.

You intended to savor it until then.

There had been cameras at your graduation, and in hindsight, you realized you should’ve taken that detail into consideration before leaping into Tony Stark’s arms without a care in the world.

Spinning side-to-side in your dorm room chair, you held up the magazine you bought earlier that day while waiting in line at the drug store checkout. On the cover of the tabloid was a picture of you and Stark at the ceremony—they’d caught you mid-spin, with you in your regalia and Stark’s hands wrapped around your waist as he held you up.

You looked kinda goofy, but his smile was picture-perfect.

You knew that, as someone who was in the spotlight since he was born, Stark never paid the tabloids very much mind, but it was still surreal for a normie like you, seeing yourself like this, the words ‘Hot For Teacher’ emblazoned in thick text on the glossy cover and making you feel sick.

You never agreed to be exclusive.

Sure, by normal standards, you thought you were a pretty good catch, but Tony Stark belonged to a whole different pond. Even if he were the monogamous type, you never deluded yourself into thinking he’d really settle for someone like you, not when he could have anyone he wanted—people who were much more attractive than you, much smarter than you, much more well-off and more well-put-together than you.

All you had was the weird guy from your Bionics class who wouldn’t stop hitting on you over Facebook, and sure, it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair, but you know you’d have to learn one way or another to lower your standards after this was all over, to take it or leave it or end up alone.

“Still there?” asked the familiar voice over the phone.

“O—oh, yeah. Sorry. Zoned out there for a second.”

“Something on your mind?”

“Just tired.” You made sure a smile was evident in your voice to curb his concern. “Sorry, we were talking about your flight. Where are you headed, again?”

“Europe, I think? Or northern Africa. Could be another dimension, for all I know. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

You don’t pry at the mystery of his implication. You’d gotten the sense his off-colour remarks were a coping mechanism some time ago, and by now, you’d learned to roll with them instead of asking questions.

“If it is another dimension,” you started, “be sure to keep an eye out for whatever's different, so you don't forget to come home.”

“Could be tricky. Everything’s the exact same, except this one little detail about the dinosaurs never being wiped out. Also, they spell Albuquerque with three Qs here. I’ll bring you back a keychain.”

“Awesome,” you laughed. “For real, though, you sound kinda sleepy.”

“Mm, getting there. Read me a bedtime story?”

You pressed your cell phone between your ear and your shoulder as you feathered through the papers on your desk. “I...could...read you the methods section of my new research proposal?”

“Good enough.”

So you did, keeping your voice a soothing lilt through the technical jargon of your next project.

What did you know of him, really?

It didn’t matter that setting objects down to accommodate his aversion had become second nature to you, or that whenever someone who wasn’t Stark asked you to hand them something, you would instead place it within their reach and be met with a stare of confusion before you realized what you’d done.

It didn’t matter that there was a very specific spot against the side of his nose you always kissed, if only because it made him scrunch up his face and snort a laugh before he tilted up and kissed your cheek in return, every time, like a reflex.

It didn’t matter that your heart leapt at the sight or sound of him, as freshly giddy as you were a year and a half ago, back when you wore an embarrassing Arc Reactor t-shirt and shook his hand and told him you’d be pulling an all-nighter at Hayden.

You weren’t special, you reminded yourself. Anyone could have done that.

Anyone could have taken your place.

Still on the phone, Stark interrupted your narration by letting you know he was dozing off, sleepily admitting you’d lost him about halfway through the fourth equation.

“Goodnight, sweetheart.”

“Night, starling.”

He hung up before you.

You mumbled a three-word confession to the dial tone, just so you could hear yourself say it.

After the alien invasion of New York (that headline still sounded so surreal in your head), Stark Tower began undergoing major reconstruction to re-purpose the building.

The Avengers weren’t a common topic of conversation between the two of you, but you knew about the revamped headquarters because you were promised a job at Stark Tower once you graduated—at least, that was the plan, before ten entire floors of Research and Development were redistributed to other facilities in New York in order to make room for Avengers-related business.

You weren’t nearly as bothered about the sudden change of plans as you probably should’ve been.

The reconstruction efforts were keeping Stark on the east coast to oversee production, and he took detours to Boston to see you whenever he could.

It also helped that the man lit up like a Christmas tree whenever you got him talking about his new plans for the Tower.

The two of you were back at his penthouse suite, today. Stark was on his feet, pacing, while you knelt at the coffee table, mesmerized by the giant, blinding-blue projections hovering in the middle of the room. He was giving you a floor-by-floor breakdown of the Tower’s most recent schematics, complete with holographic diagrams and 3D mockups he could touch and rotate and enhance in mid-air. His unbridled enthusiasm was getting you excited for the new project, even though you’d probably never step foot in the place.

Flicking his wrist to shut off the holograms, he waited until he was finished his miniature presentation before he changed the subject, utterly nonchalant. “Cap says ‘hi’, by the way.”

You did a double-take. “Captain America knows who I am?”

“Oh, they all do. Just got your dissertation back from Banner the other day, actually—he was pretty impressed.”

“Dr. Banner’s read my work?!”

Your sudden volume made him flinch.

“Like, Dr. Banner, Dr. Banner? The Dr. Banner? His—his biochem research for the therapeutic applications of neurotoxins revolutionized the field of pain treatment as we know it—”

“Well, I mean...” Stark jerked his head to the side. “‘Revolutionized’ is a pretty strong word.”

You were too busy grinning like an idiot to notice the dip in his tone. “Dr. Banner knows who I am.”

“Didn’t realize messy-haired geniuses with anger issues were your thing.”

“You have anger issues?”

Stark raised his brows as he smirked agape, the phrase ‘how dare you’ written all over his expression. “My hair isn’t messy, it’s pretentiously disheveled. Big difference.”

“Of course,” you laughed. “So, do you brag to all your superhero friends about your flings, or what?”

The smile was swept from his face at once.

His heavy gaze landed on you in full-force, and for a few seconds, you were certain that his silence scared you more than anything he might’ve had to say.

“Do you consider this a fling?” he asked.

“Well—”

“Because, I gotta say, doc, if you do, it’s been a pretty long fling.”

“We never said it was anything else.”

And he went quiet, again.

“I mean, we’ve had a lot of things going on,” you continued. “I was dealing with doctorate work, and you had the Avengers, and whatever happened to you guys in New York—”

“Don’t,” he grimaced, “don't mention New York.”

“Sorry,” you said softly.

You’d forgotten how context could turn a city name from a hub of architectural potential to a trigger.

You waited until he stopped bristling before you spoke again.

“What I’m trying to say is,” you continued, choosing your words more carefully, “is that it...never felt like we had the time for anything more. And you, you’re always travelling, meeting new people—all these months, I’ve just kinda been expecting a phone call, or a text message, like, ‘Hey, so there’s this actress. It’s been fun, kid.’ And...y’know. That would be that.”

Your heartbeat was clapping like thunder beneath your chest, but you pressed on.

“The truth is,” you swallowed, “I’ve been waiting for you to leave since we first met.”

“I haven’t been with anyone else since I met you.”

Your heart dropped.

Your knee-jerk reaction reached your mouth before rational thought had a chance.

“Why not?”

“Okay, look, if this is your way of telling me there’s someone else, just—”

“God, no,” you interrupted, emphatically, “how could I be with anyone after I’ve been with you?”

“...I can’t tell what emotion you’re bringing that to me with.”

You were on your feet, now, though you don’t quite remember when you got there.

“I’ve accomplished more in the past year and a half than I thought I was ever capable of,” you said. “But that’s just what you do, because you don’t see things for what they are, you see them for what they could be—you saw me for what I could be, and you built me up, and got me there. You challenge me, Mr. Stark. I’m more productive, I’m more confident, I—I’m better. When I’m with you.”

“Good. Great.” He pressed his hands together, approaching you. “I love that. I love that you feel that way, I do, but why is it so goddamn hard for you to believe I actually care about you?”

Because you didn't expect to get this far.

Because you’d already spent weeks pep-talking yourself into the era of Post-Stark.

Because you were prepared to end it today, if you had to, if it spared you an ounce of the heartache.

But you couldn’t say any of that out loud.

”Listen, I, um.” Stark put his hands on his hips, his vision flickering back and forth from you to anything that wasn’t. “I’ve lost a lot of things. Every time I put that suit on, and I go out there, I run the risk of losing more. But I can’t...I can’t stop. And you know that. You know it’s a part of me, because you’re also. A part of me. The suits, they can be duplicated, rebuilt—but there’s plenty of them, and there’s only one of you, and I want...I need an actual constant in my life, something that won’t fall out from under my feet as soon as I look away. Can you be that for me?” His wandering eyes finally locked onto yours, and refused to let go. “Please?”

You found yourself with your arms wrapped around his chest, with your hands bunching into the back of his shirt tight enough to threaten the fabric, and you don’t quite remember when you got there.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Neither am I, so.” He pressed his chin against the top of your head and held you around your waist in return. “Problem solved.”

You had this vivid fear of him vanishing from your grasp, regardless of how hard you held onto him, but as the reality of it all finally settled in, you realized you were the one who was fading.

You press your relieved laughter against his chest, and he holds you until you’re whole again.

Chapter Text

The new establishment of your relationship opened the floodgates for Stark’s courtship, a tier of romantic pursuit reserved for a social class of individuals who lived in a reality much, much different from yours.

Stark had been swept away on business trips for the past several weeks, but that hadn’t stopped him from sending you gifts. Packages waited for you at the residence front desk almost every other morning, each day bringing with it something more extravagant than the last. Roses and chocolates turned into gourmet gift baskets from whichever country he was in, which turned into tasteful jewelry that you never went anywhere nice enough to wear, which turned into designer dresses and shoes that fit you perfectly even though you never told him your size.

Although Pepper Potts was now the CEO of Stark's business empire, you still had to go through her to leave messages for Stark—only this time, he put in the effort to return them.

“Sweetheart, you know you don’t have to give me a thank-you call for every little thing I send you, right?”

But you did anyway, you had to, because if the idea of dating Tony Stark wasn’t surreal enough, the sight of his silver and diamonds glittering against your skin made it even moreso.

You’d share the food with fellow grad students on your floor and hang up all the clothes and hide away the gems in your jewelry box, and you’d try really, really hard not to think too much about it.

It was a Thursday when you were pushed overboard.

You were on your way to run some errands, only to find your car absent from your parking spot. In its place, sat a 2008 Audi R8, painted a blinding, firetruck red.

Stark returned your call almost immediately.

“What the hell, Mr. Stark?!”

“Oh, good, you got the car.”

“I—I can’t accept something like this!”

“Why not?”

“Why not?? Why not?! It’s a quarter of a mill--Mr. Stark, this car is worth more than my life.”

“Well, you said that you liked mine that one time. Now we match.”

“I AM NOT DRIVING THIS.”

“Uh-oh. Are you mad? You sound mad. Am I in trouble?”

“I’m not mad, I just—dude, I can’t have something worth this much, the thought of scratching it or denting it is giving me a fucking heart attack—”

“You don’t like it?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s...Mr. Stark, I’m...” Trying to find the right words, you took a seat on the curb and ran a hand through your hair. “You’ve put me in a weird position, here--there’s no way for me to say this without sounding like a spoiled brat.”

“I’m the spoiled brat most of the time, I think you've earned this one.”

“Thank you,” you said quickly, “so much for sending me all this stuff. It’s ridiculously sweet of you to think of me, but...I don’t know, these gifts are starting to make me really, really uncomfortable. Not only are you spending stupid amounts of money on me, but we’ve known each other for almost two years and you’ve never done this before, so it...it feels like you’re trying to compensate for not being here by buying me things? And I don’t know how to feel about that.”

“Hey, doc, c’mon. Relax, don’t look too much into it. I just like to know you’re thinking about me at least once a day. It’s good for my ego.”

“I don’t need gifts to think about you, I’m already doing that constantly.”

“That so?”

You gave a soft, embarrassed laugh. “Mr. Stark, I knew going into this that you’re an extremely busy guy. It’d be great to see you more often, sure, but I know that’s outside of your control. I can handle that. But, uh...you know, instead of spending money on me, maybe...” You hesitated. “Maybe you could give me your phone number? Text me a bit more? So I wouldn’t have to leave a message with the CEO of Stark Industries anytime I wanted to say hi? That’s all I want, really. Well...that, and my Civic.”

“I’ll send the car back,” he said at once, and to your relief, he didn’t sound upset.

“Thank you.”

“Why don’t you have my phone number?”

“You...never gave it to me? I’ve always had to go through Pepper. Your number’s blocked when you call me, too. I guess I just…sort of assumed you didn’t want me to have it. For security reasons or something.”

Radio silence.

“...I’m sending you something.”

“Mr. Stark—”

“Ah-ah-ah, you said not to buy you anything. Just give me a couple of weeks, you’ll love this. Promise.”

“Alright.” The smile was in your voice again. “If you say so.”

You received a small package two weeks later, to the date.

The slender black box contained a small, rectangular sheet of glass, attached to a sleek, yet sturdy silver base. You removed the glass from its case, holding it up like you would a playing card. The center of the base scanned your thumbprint and brought the device to life; bright blue animations of diagrams and start-up code scrolled across what you now realized was a touch screen.

“Authorized user identified,” a familiar English voice chimed. “All systems operational.”

You heart soared. “Mr. J? Is that you?”

“It is indeed, madam. Mr. Stark has tasked me with making your life easier.”

“Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit—”

Having spoken with the AI during your visits to Stark’s lab, you were fully aware of Jarvis’s capabilities, and the idea of having access to such an incredible resource tucked in your back pocket was kinda blowing your mind.

Grinning like crazy, you flopped backwards onto your mattress. “Can you send him a message for me, Mr. J?”

“I am capable of relaying messages to Mr. Stark’s personal device through a secure server.”

“Can you please tell him this is the most awesome, amazing, mind-blowing thing anyone has ever given me? Ever? And that I love it with every fiber of my being? And that I want to see you grow up happy and healthy and that I’ll protect you with my life if and when I have to?”

“Message sent. I must say, your excitement over my arrival is quite flattering.”

“Are you kidding me?” You cuddled the small device close to your chest, as strange as it was to be hugging what was essentially a super-smartphone. “It’s good to see you again, Jarvis.”

“It’s very good to see you as well, madam.”

The device Stark built for you was loaded with a soft port of the AI he used on a daily basis. You couldn’t access his private files or personal servers, nor were you doing anything that required more than a tiny fraction of Jarvis’s full processing power, but it was lightweight and portable and perfect for everyday use.

The first thing you did was turn off automatic updates. Once, when you were in school, a buggy software auto-update glitched your system and wiped out a week’s worth of homework--since then, you made it a habit to update things manually, once you confirmed the new patches wouldn’t screw you over.

It felt a little silly and superfluous—you, cross-legged on your mattress with a bowl of potato chips, using advanced, hi-tech hovering touch screens to hunt for a new apartment.

Although you’d just graduated, you were living on campus residence until the end of the current semester. When you weren’t writing research papers or planning your next conference, you had your hands full trying to find a suitable living space in New York that was a decent balance between desire and budget.

Since the recent establishment of Avengers HQ made your promised employment at Stark Tower null and void, you were offered a position at another Stark Industries facility in the same city to make up for it--recently, however, you found yourself questioning whether or not you should accept the job. New York was still a sensitive topic, and the whole city had left a bad taste in your mouth.

“Does it have to be New York?” you mumbled, mostly to yourself.

“If I may, madam.” Jarvis opened a new set of windows for you, displaying several apartment listings you hadn't seen before. Palm trees were in the background of each photo. “Might I suggest applying to the California facility, instead?”

“California?” That’s where Stark’s home was. You couldn’t ask for a transfer to California, that’d be so... “M—maybe. Um, where else does Stark Industries operate?”

Jarvis pulled up more screens for you, this time displaying scenic pictures, Wikipedia pages, and news articles in kanji. “Stark-Fujikawa is a subsidiary of Stark Industries that operates out of western Tokyo. They specialize in interactive design, having modeled the majority of displays Mr. Stark has adopted for personal use. Currently, they have four openings for entry-level researchers.”

“I’d have to learn Japanese, wouldn’t I?”

“A minimum N2-level fluency is strongly recommended for internal advancement.”

“Oof. Anyone else hiring?”

The windows in front of you shifted, replacing themselves with information about another company.

“Cordco is another Stark Industries subsidiary located in Melbourne, Australia. Their research is focused primarily on security enhancements and public service. After the successful patent of a revolutionary new topical medication for third-degree burn victims, the medical biotechnology division has recently announced they will be expanding their team. There are three research positions open at this time.”

“Biotech! Now you’re speaking my language. Could you look up places to rent nearby, please?”

“Right away, madam.”

Reclined on a mechanic’s creeper beneath the undercarriage of a certain firetruck-red Audi R8, Stark had spent the majority of his twilight hours awake and working, making sure the modifications to the new vehicle mirrored his old one.

“So, Jarvis,” he started, “how’s your first week on the job been?”

“Just fine, sir. The natural adaptation process has been progressing quite—”

“No, no, I mean personally. How’s she been treating you?”

“Very well, sir. She is exceptionally polite—lots of ‘please’s and ‘thank you’s, regardless of my informing her such civilities are unnecessary. She...”

“...yes?”

“She calls me ‘Mr. J,’ sir.”

“Cute. Do you call her ‘puddin’?”

“Sir?”

“Never mind.”

“I cannot say I’m used to being addressed so formally.”

“That’s her call, buddy, not mine. Whatever makes her happy. Happy wife, happy life, you know.”

“She is not your wife, sir.”

“Mm.” Stark reached for another tool. “She find an apartment yet?”

“Nothing in New York has appealed to her taste as of yet. However, I did take the liberty of presenting opportunities for alternative living arrangements.”

“What, like in Queens?”

“Positions with Stark Industries subsidiaries, sir. She’s taken an interest in the research being conducted at Cordco headquarters.”

“...in Melbourne?”

“Correct, sir.”

Stark rolled himself out from under the car. “Jarvis, buddy—can you call her up for me?”

“Right now, sir?”

“Yes, now.”

A few seconds later, the line started ringing.

Sitting on the floor of his basement, Stark pulled up holographic images of both your calendars in mid-air, side-by-side. You weren’t nearly as busy as he was, of course, but you had the funny little habit of padding the gaps in your schedule with nonsense to make your calendar seem as filled up as his.

This lead to blocks like—

12:25pm - 1:25pm - Location: Starbucks - Pretend to be productive while eating lunch

4:00pm - 5:00pm - Location: MIT - Lay on the ground and feel like garbage

9:00pm - 9:20pm - Location: MIT - Bathe alone, begrudgingly

—and so forth.

“Hello?” you answered.

“Hey, it’s me. Can you get away from...” Stark flicked over to your 7:00 meeting. “‘Wallowing in existential despair’ long enough for me to take you out for dinner, tonight?”

“I dunnoooo...” you teased. “Not sure if I can reschedule this late without paying a fee.”

“Bill me. Seriously, doc, your schedule’s bumming me out.”

“Don’t worry, I just booked an appointment for 8:30 that’s gonna cheer me right up.”

He scrolled down further.

8:30pm - 8:30am - Location: Four Seasons - smooches mb???

“Much better,” he smirked. “I’ll meet you there.”

As happy as you were to see him, you weren’t entirely sure why Stark dropped everything to take an impromptu same-day flight across the country from Malibu to Boston to visit you. He seemed interested in discussing your career choices over dinner that evening, though, and you were more than happy to oblige--you were getting his personal endorsement for your transfer, after all, which was more than enough to guarantee you a job anywhere you wanted.

You went on and on about the history of the company, the series of events surrounding the formation of its biotech division, and the amazing public service they’d been doing since Stark Industries’ blanket ban on weapons manufacturing.

He hid his reservations well.

A few hours later, you were settling in his penthouse suite for the night, an oversized t-shirt serving as the entirety of your pyjamas. You had your backs to each other as you got ready for bed, sitting on opposite edges of the mattress.

“You’ve really got your heart set on this place, don’t you?” he asked.

“Well,” you started, nervous and unsure, “I—I’ve been in school for most of my life, you know? Now that it's all over, I’ve got student loans, bills to pay...I need a job, and this place seems to be a really good fit for me. On paper, at least. I'm just trying to get excited about it.”

“Australia’s far. Really far. Other side of the world far.”

“Twenty-three hours from here by plane, according to Mr. J. It’s only a one-way flight, though. Shouldn't be too bad.”

“You do realize the fauna on that continent have been allowed to evolve unchecked for thousands of years, right? Do you know what a whip scorpion is? They have spiders the size of dinner plates down there. Dinner plates, doc. They hide under toilet seats. I can show you videos.”

“I’m not gonna be living out in the boonies, Mr. Stark, it’s in the middle of Melbourne. I don’t think I’ll see any of those in the city.”

“And if you do?”

“Easy, I’ll just set fire to the entire country.”

“Now, normally, I’d object to the reckless destruction of an entire continent, but if it brought you back to this side of the planet, I think I could let it slide.”

You laughed. “You really want me to take that job in New York, don’t you?”

“I want you to stay close.”

The words hit you hard.

Only then did you realize just how much of an idiot you were being.

You hadn’t given the slightest consideration as to how this move would make it that much more difficult for him to see you. If you lived in New York, on the other hand, you’d be a spit away from Stark Tower, as close by his side as you could get on a regular basis without having superpowers.

“I'm not set on Australia,” you started. “I'd like to stay close to you, but I don’t...I wouldn’t feel right, or safe, being in that city. Not after everything that’s happened, not after...everything it's done to you.”

“Understandable. You ever been to California?”

“Oh. Uh.” A panicked red bloomed across your cheeks, and you were thankful he couldn't see it. “Y’know, once or twice. I mean, I only really ever get to go when this handsome rich dude invites me over to his house. He’s got the sickest lab I’ve ever seen, right there in his basement.”

“Sounds like a real stand-up guy. You should introduce us, maybe we could stay a while at his place next time we’re in town.”

You clicked your tongue. “I dunno, Mr. Stark. It’s a nice mansion and all, but I wouldn’t want to impose. He likes his privacy, you see.”

“I don’t think he’d be bothered with one more person in his house.” He cleared his throat. “You never know, he, uh...might even welcome it.”

Laughing softly, you stood up and rounded the bed, walking over to his seated self. He watched your careful approach, staring up at you with dark eyes as you straddled his thighs and curled your arms around his neck. He rested his hands on your waist. You nestled in a little closer.

“You're saying you'll let me stay for a bit?” you smiled, a little sheepish. “Until I find my own place?”

He didn’t blink. “I’m offering you a place.”

And your smile faded.

“Are...you asking me to move in with you?”

“I’m asking you to move in with me.”

You felt his grasp on your waist tighten a little, keeping you in place against him. The way he was looking at you now, intent and expectant, suddenly made you feel naked--vulnerable and overexposed.

You’d thought asking to work within the same fifty-mile-radius of his home would carry implications too serious for your own liking, but here he was, asking you something that made your idea seem offensively mundane.

“I…” You choked on your own thoughts. “You don’t think we’re moving too fast?”

“Might be,” he shrugged, jerking his head, “but I know when I’ve got a good thing going, and I’m smart enough to not let anything get in the way. Not even the Pacific.”

“What about the whip scorpions?” (You suddenly felt like crying.)

“Especially not the whip scorpions.” (He could tell.)

Trying to hide whatever stupid, unflattering reaction was currently plastered across your face, you tilted forward and pressed your forehead against his neck.

“...is that a yes?”

And you nodded into his shoulder, with vigor.

Chapter Text

The first thing you noticed after moving in with Tony Stark was that he forgot things, sometimes.

They were small things, things that didn‘t cause much harm in being forgotten, and you did little more than write them off as such. So what if he got your coffee wrong whenever he tried, even though you‘d taken it the same way since you started drinking caffeine? So what if he had to use the retinal scan override on a daily basis because the pin to his front gate always escaped him? He remembered what mattered most, after all—how to build, how to create. A thousand and one mechanical recipes littered with mental footnotes of personal liberties, flowing through his blood as instinct as fundamental to him as breathing.

This knowledge didn‘t make the first week with him any easier.

One night, you shut the freezer door as Stark rounded the corner into the kitchen, and by the way he jolted in surprise, you thought that your very existence had instilled the fear of God within him.

“Jesus—!”

Ice cream pint in-hand, you watched him recover from the shock long enough to realize what had happened.

“You forgot I lived here again,” you said, flatly.

“Yes.” He finger-gunned at you before cupping a palm around his fist. “Yes I did, but, in my defense, I love you, and I am thrilled you‘re here, and I kinda like being reminded every day? Gets me excited about it all over again.”

“I love you, too.” You held up a spoonful of ice cream as a peace offering. “But should I start wearing a bell so you can hear me coming?”

“Bell and nothing else, maybe,” and he grabbed your spoon with his mouth.

“Pfft.”

He‘d been living alone for so long, you figured your presence was something he needed time to grow accustomed to.

(That‘s what you figured.)

The mansion in Malibu had more space than any two human beings would ever know what to do with. You took up a bedroom separate from his own, down the hall and to the left, close enough to be near one another but far enough to give each other your own spaces.

You didn‘t own much. All your earthly possessions combined were still dwarfed by the sheer square footage of the second master bedroom, and your clothing barely filled a quarter of the massive walk-in closet you had at your disposal. The house felt twice as big whenever Stark wasn‘t in it, too, which you soon discovered was more often than not.

You didn‘t expect to have the place to yourself as often as you did.

You were on first-name basis with the cleaners after their second visit. You had full access to the heated pool, something you took advantage of as often as you could. You also had Jarvis, who kept your company and your research calculations during your downtime.

Whoever Stark hired to sort through his personal mail had explicit instructions to forward over any and all artwork to his home address. Whenever you were bored, you‘d browse through digital prints, traditional paintings, and stretched canvases bearing both his personal and mechanical likeness. There were also piles upon piles of children‘s drawings sent his way, printer paper sheets filled with crayon streaks and finger-paints and coloured pencil marks.

You bought a handful of cheesy Avengers-themed magnets from the dollar store and hung the kids‘ drawings on the fridge and the unused sides of his tool cabinets, one by one.

Anything to distract you from the soul-hollowing onset of your empirical stagnation.

Anything to chase the quiet away.

Your new position at Stark Industries‘ California headquarters was challenging, but rewarding. Departments were responsible for contributing specialized research to applications of alternative power for the corporation‘s clean energy initiative, which meant collectively working towards a mass restructuring of the world‘s energy sources from the ground up. The biotechnology team you were a part of was tasked with standardizing reactor technology for the healthcare field.

You did your job, and you did it really damn well.

Unlimited access to Stark Industries‘ resources was a unique perk of the position. You and a select handful of other researchers were allowed to use on-site laboratories for personal endeavors, and as the weeks went on, more and more of your free time was poured into furthering your neurogenesis experimentation.

As much as you hated to admit it, your work had hit a complete standstill, and not even the great Tony Stark had the answers to everything.

With enough effort, hard work and genius look exactly the same.

You just had to work harder.

That‘s all it meant.

Stark came home from an extended business trip one day, only to find you wrapped up within his covers after a long night‘s work.

“See, you‘re absolutely a blanket hog,” he said, entering the room and tossing his luggage aside. “I mean, look at you.”

You pulled the covers tighter around your head. “S‘not hogging when no one else is in ‘em.”

“That an invitation?”

You responded by lifting up the blankets and patting the empty space behind you.

Laughing, he tucked a couple of fingers beneath the knot of his tie, loosening it around his neck. “Not yet, doc, I need a shower.”

You patted the bed again, more vigorously this time.

After a moment, you felt the mattress sink behind you as he flopped onto it with a sigh.

“I missed yoooou,” he groaned into his pillow.

You threw the blankets over him. “You talking about me or the bed?”

“Uh. Both?”

(He was not talking about you.)

“It‘s okay, it‘s a nice bed.”

“We have the same bed.”

“Mm, but this one smells like you.”

“God, you‘re cute.”

Jetlagged and over-worn, he dozed off soon after without another word, still clad in a business suit and designer shoes he hadn‘t bothered taking off before climbing into bed beside you.

Neither of you would wake before sundown.

The second thing you noticed after moving in with Tony Stark was that he liked keeping his hands busy as he rambled.

You realized Jarvis‘s natural language acquisition features weren‘t an incidental part of the artificial intelligence Stark had programmed—they were a constructive outlet, allowing him to think out loud while he tinkered. For the longest time, Jarvis was the only one he could speak to on a regular basis.

Now he had you.

Your discussions were about all sorts of things: recent scientific developments, philosophical moral dilemmas, who was getting kicked off of Masterchef Junior next week, ideas for future Iron Man suits...

“Self-destruct button,” you joked.

“They already come with those,” he said.

When he didn‘t have a vintage car gutted beneath his hands or complicated machinery in pieces across his workbench, his fingers would fiddle with anything while you talked—with pens, with scraps of paper, with each other. If you were nearby, they‘d busy themselves with you, twisting in the fabric of your sleeves or running across the bared skin of your arms or your thighs. If you rested your head in his lap, he‘d braid your hair, sometimes, fingers parting and folding the strands while you shared quiet words.

Fiddle, fiddle, work.

Fiddle, fiddle, research.

Fiddle, fiddle, fathers.

“This okay?”

“Yeah.”

The idle play calmed him as he spoke. It was fine if you were lost for words once in a while, as he never really needed you to respond; he was just there to feel you, to ensure you were present while he dropped mentions of his family and the atrocities he‘d seen, pieces of New York falling into place with subtle lines and sarcastic jokes he couldn‘t repeat if you asked him to because he genuinely would not remember what was said.

When discussions got heavy, he ended his ambling trains of thought with a muttered ‘anyway‘ and an abrupt change in topic. Every now and again, he‘d even thank you for putting up with him, to which you responded with a witty quip or a loving, dismissive phrase because hey, no problem, that‘s what you were here for.

You saved the worst of your worries for the quietest nights, when you held him as tightly as he wouldn‘t ask you to be held, when the odd sleeping pill or bout of travel exhaustion finally let him have some uninterrupted rest, his breathing soft and slow while yours caught on every inhale as you stifled your tears in a dedicated effort not to wake him.

You do not wake him.

The weeks rolled on—two, three months after the events of New York.

Your research doesn‘t improve. Neither does he.

He hoped you didn‘t notice how he snuck out of his bedroom to his basement every night, tip-toeing down the hallway like a teenager past curfew, like he was cheating on you with lovers made of metal and wire.

You hoped he didn‘t notice you started sleeping as much as he didn‘t, because unconsciousness was the only state in which you didn‘t worry.

You wanted to think that with enough practice, you could be strong for him—you were the only one who‘d seen his suffering, thinly veiled beneath dark humor—but your narrowing emotional capacity was doing well to remind you that you couldn‘t be his girlfriend and his therapist at the same time. You couldn‘t.

It wasn‘t fair to either of you.

So, after a week of obsessive thoughts and rehearsing lines in front of the mirror until you got your stage tone just right, you steeled your nerves while you descended the steps and put in the passcode to his basement laboratory, hoping your hands weren‘t wavering as much as your resolve.

He didn‘t glance at you until you turned down his music.

“Hey, starling?”

“Yeah, doc?”

“Do you know any good therapists?”

He laughed, but his amusement faded quickly when he saw the look on your face.

His stare lingered a few seconds longer than before. “You...want us to go to therapy?”

“Not us. Just you.”

He smirked again, but this time he didn‘t expect you to follow suit. “You think there‘s something wrong with me.”

“Well...” You rubbed at your arm. “I think you‘re dealing with a lot of things right now that are outside my realm of scientific expertise and a couple notches above my pay grade.”

“You‘re overthinking things again, doc.”

“No, I don‘t think I am, sweetheart. Not this time.”

Stark finally turned from his work to face you.

You hoped you looked as resolute as you convinced yourself you felt.

The suggestion wasn‘t what you overthought—no, your worry was fixated on dealing with his reaction to it. You had no reason to believe he‘d get angry at you—he‘d never gotten angry at you over anything, before—but as much as you cared for him, walking up to one of the most powerful men in the world and asking him to see a shrink was no insignificant endeavor.

“Hey, I love you.” You took a short breath. “I love you, and I‘m worried about you because I love you, and that‘s why I‘m telling you I really, really think you should talk to someone who can help you with whatever you‘re dealing with.”

“I love you too, doc, but you‘re not the first person to suggest this, and trust me when I say this isn‘t the last time I‘m going to have to tell someone I don‘t need therapy.”

Your stomach turned.

You were expecting frustration, annoyance, discomfort—but the dismissal, the sheer dismissal blindsided you.

“I‘ll work through this. Always do.”

Rising from his chair, he held your shoulders and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

You can‘t remember ever feeling less reassured.

The sex helps. Sort of.

You‘d never been more attracted to any single person in your entire life, after all, and during stress-ridden times like these, it was difficult to ignore the cathartic effects of making love to someone you still wanted as badly since the day you first met—doubly so when the feeling was mutual, when you stopped being able to reach the bedroom in time and settled for vaguely flat surfaces with clothes half-on, belts half-off, underwear barely pushed out of the way. Things never got old with Stark. The handle you had on each other was laden with the comfort of familiarity, exclusive from work and life and whatever else was going on in either of your heads.

Lately, you noticed you were getting pinned down more often than not, writhing beneath his touch as he‘d force you to completion once, twice, three times in a row while he rocked against you, thick and hilt-deep, until your eyes were damp and his name was tried and tired on your lips.

You figured it was an ego thing.

(That‘s what you figured.)

“Open your eyes,” he breathed, holding your chin softly like he was trying to keep you from passing out. “Hey. Look at me, baby, up here.”

You blinked your eyes open and smiled, dazed and barely coherent, knowing he got more satisfaction from watching your face as you came on his cock than he did from the sex itself.

He was exhausting.

You didn‘t even hear the ringtone.

You cleared the blur from your eyes just long enough to see Stark reach for your cell phone on the nightstand; he answered it, pushing deep back into you in the process.

Your hands squeezed over your mouth in an attempt to stifle your moaning. His phone voice was so soft, so casual, talking steadily like he wasn‘t pounding into you hard enough to make your eyes cross.

“Hello? Hi, yeah, don‘t care who this is. She‘s kind of jam-packed right now—if you‘re important, she‘ll call back. Bye.”

He hung up and gave you his full attention while you laughed into your hands.

You weren‘t the only one using sex as a distraction.

You woke up the following morning to an empty bed and the sound of French being spoken somewhere nearby. You spent an embarrassing amount of time attempting to pull together decade-old remnants of what you learned in high school to pick apart what was being said.

Bedsheets tied loose around his waist, Stark caught your eye from across the room and winked at you, messed-up sex hair and all, his phone pressed tight against his ear as he spoke.

Outright giggling while you sat up in bed, you folded your legs to your chest and hugged your knees.

You waited until he was off his call before you spoke up. “Didn‘t know you spoke French.”

“I‘m a businessman, of course I know French.” He tilted his head, counting off with his fingers. “And Spanish, Portuguese, German, Mandarin—I was working on my Russian when I stopped studying. Мне нужно практиковаться.”

“Sounds nice. Maybe you can fuck me in Russian one day.”

“Give me six hours alone, I‘ll fuck you in Russian tonight.”

He got back into bed with you, letting the sheets slide from his waist. You straightened your legs to let him crawl over you, up to you, until his lips reclaimed yours and you could feel him smiling.

“Vous ne me comprenez pas, n‘est-ce pas?” he muttered against you.

“Oh,” you sighed. You weren‘t sure why this was so hot. “Was that a question?”

He tugged at your covers until they fell from your chest, fingers ghosting across your exposed skin, feather-light. “Êtes-vous sûr de cela?”

“I.” Your cheeks were on fire. “U—um.”

His hands moved with just the right amount of attention, the soft pressure of his palms brushing against your nipples making you shiver; he trailed kisses along your jawline, down the side of your neck, until his lips met the shell of your ear, his intentions about as subtle as a car crash.

“Baise-moi,” he said heavily, and you‘re pretty sure you knew what that meant.

So you had another go at him.

He kept up with the French throughout, his smooth, dark voice spinning breathy, impassioned lines you couldn‘t understand—he could‘ve honestly been reciting an entire episode of Star Trek and it would‘ve made the heat coil up within you just the same.

(If you ever found yourself inexplicably aroused by inspirational Picard quotes, you would at least have a good idea as to why.)

Afterwards, the two of you sat in front of each other on his mattress, nerves reeling and heads drowsy with afterglow.

He touched his forehead to yours and smiled with breathless, vulnerable laughter. “God, it‘s nice to actually feel something, these days.”

He‘s not looking you in the eyes when he says it; he‘s watching the way your arms move while you touch him, the way your fingers freeze up against his skin when the confession falls on you like a hammer.

You held his face and kissed away his worries the best you possibly could.

The rose tint fell from your glasses, and for the first time, you saw the flag of surrender he‘d raised in front of you as red.

It struck you with numbing clarity that you couldn‘t save him alone.

You tried not to talk to Jarvis about Stark too often, as it almost felt like gossiping in a strange, roundabout way—but as this was the first time direct communication with Stark resolved a stunning total of Jack Shit, this also marked the first time you poured your heart out to Jarvis in a desperate search for answers and reassurance, until the revelation of a possible solution fell on your head like a ton of bricks.

“Let‘s see,” you whispered, feathering through the touch-screens projected by your phone. “According to Mr. Stark‘s schedule, he‘s got a meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes later this week.”

“Correct, madam.”

“Can you pull Colonel Rhodes‘ phone number from that calendar entry?”

“Madam?”

“You don‘t need to breach privacy by giving me the number, Mr. J, I just need you to dial it for me.”

“Madam, need I mention this approach is highly unorthodox? I cannot guarantee Sir would approve of your methods.”

“Please, Jarvis. I‘m out of ideas.”

“...if you insist, madam.”

“I do.”

“Calling Lieutenant Colonel James Rhodes.”

You ran through dialogue in your head as you listened to the line ring.

(Deep breath in. Deep breath out.)

“Hello?” answered an unfamiliar voice.

“Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes,” you started, putting on your phone voice and sounding as straightforward and professional as you could.

You introduced yourself in full, with emphasis on the ‘Doctor.‘

His voice, unlike yours, was light-hearted. “No need for the formalities, I have caller ID. You‘re Tony‘s girl.”

Thankful that blushing didn‘t translate well over the phone, your resolve cracked, just a little. “How‘d you...”

“You‘re his emergency contact. How‘d you get my number?”

“...stole it.”

“Boy, you guys are two peas in a pod, aren‘t you?” He laughed with familiar exhaustion. “What can I do for you, doctor?”

“I need to talk to you about Mist—” You paused. “About Stark. You‘re his best friend, and...I‘ll be honest, I really wasn‘t sure who else to call.”

“I‘m his best friend?” he repeated, slowly, sounding dubious. “Those were his words?”

“Not exactly—I mean, he prefers the term ‘best bro‘ when he talks about you. It‘s usually ‘Rhodey,‘ though. And, um. Brhodey, sometimes. Like, in the schedule here, it says, ‘Drinks with Brhodey.‘ Which is a combination of ‘bro‘ and ‘Rhodey,‘ I think? So.”

“Alright, alright, I get the picture. Anyway. With all due respect, doctor, I have a strict policy on not getting involved with Tony‘s many, many relationship issues. Just know that whatever you‘re dealing with, whatever fight you‘re having, you‘re probably in the right. You can quote me on that.”

You bristled at the implication you‘d willingly waste his time over something frivolous. “I wouldn‘t be calling you if it wasn‘t important, Colonel. This isn‘t about our relationship, this is about his health.”

There was a moment of silence as the weight of your words sunk in.

“...I‘m listening.”

Stark didn‘t appreciate being cornered.

Especially not when a light-hearted dinner and a couple of beers turned into being stuck under California heat in California standstill traffic on the way to the airport, with his best friend in the passenger seat and the unwelcome company of the word ‘therapy‘ filling the awkward silence between them.

“Did the missus put you up to this?” Stark half-smirked, almost snarling. “Shame on you, Rhodey, I thought you had more resolve.”

Rhodes shrugged. “Hey, I said I‘d do her a favour. She thought you‘d listen to me.”

“Don‘t know where she got that idea.”

“She said you‘ve been having trouble remembering things? Phone numbers, passcodes, stuff like that?”

“I‘d lose my head if it weren‘t attached at the neck. Still do, sometimes, as a matter of fact—you know, with the suits? That‘s what I built Jarvis for. Doesn‘t mean anything, I‘m perfectly healthy.”

“Healthy people sleep, Tony.”

“Debatable. Christ, did she tell you everything?”

“No.”

“You‘ve got a copy of my bowel movement schedule kicking around, too, I‘m guessing.”

“Tony, she didn‘t need to tell me about the sleep thing—the sleep thing has been a thing since I brought you home, remember?”

“Oh. Right.”

“Plus, you look like shit. Makes it kinda obvious.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“I know what I‘m talking about, don‘t act like I wasn‘t right there with you. Before her, before Pepper, before all of whatever the hell this is, it was you and me.” His arm bent against the car window, Rhodes rubbed a hand over his mouth. “I‘m guessing the nightmares haven‘t gotten any better, either.”

“Nightmares‘ve gotten worse since New York. Everything‘s gotten worse since New York, everything‘s...” Stark gestured wildly, trying to find the word. “Numb.”

“That why you can‘t sleep?”

“Part of it.”

Rhodes clicked his tongue. “We could‘ve caught this earlier. I was the one who wanted to get you into psych eval after Afghanistan, remember?”

“I didn‘t want a hospital bed, I wanted a burger. You‘re gonna get mad at a guy for wanting a burger?”

“Still not too late to get checked out, you know. I‘ve seen men and women who‘ve experienced less go through a lot worse than you.”

“Not one of your soldiers,” Stark said, his voice testy, “don‘t treat me like one.”

Rhodes shook his head. “See, you keep saying that, and by normal standards? Yeah, it‘s true. You don‘t have the training I do and you sure as hell don‘t have the government okay. But your situation? Ain‘t normal. We‘ve got aliens trying to take over the world now, and you‘re one of the guys who puts his life on the line defending it. What about that isn‘t a war? What about your part in all this doesn‘t make you a soldier?”

Stark‘s chest felt tight. He opened his mouth to speak, but he shut it again just as quickly. Instead, his hands gripped tighter and tighter against the steering wheel as he tried to focus hard on the car in front of him. Personalized license plate. Baby on Board sticker. Those obnoxious decals in the bottom left corner of the rear window representing members of the family. One kid, two kids, three kids, cat.

“It‘s not just New York you haven‘t processed,” Rhodes continued. “You were kidnapped and tortured for three months—then you come home to get stabbed in the back and left for dead by the guy who raised you. Pepper leaves you during the whole Hammer fiasco. The Avengers come knocking on your door with a suitcase full of your old man‘s unfinished business. They didn‘t even want you on their team until aliens started raining from the sky. Your words, not mine. How many people have you seen die since the Jericho mission, Tony—how many people have you had gunning for your life since then? And you‘ve got the balls to look me in the eye and tell me you‘re not a goddamn soldier.”

“Oh, god—”

The driver-side door flung open before Rhodes realized what was happening.

Leaning against the door, Stark stumbled out onto the street, half-tripping over himself while his thoughts swam with dizziness and nausea. Gravel crunched beneath his feet—he placed a hand on his car to right himself, propping his back against it as he slid to sit down on the asphalt. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out the sounds of impatient car horns, of Rhodes‘ worried voice beside him.

“Shit—Tony? Tony?”

“I‘m fine,” Stark choked out, attempting to swallow the anxiety away. “It‘s alright, I‘m fine, just—”

Rhodes couldn‘t help but notice that for someone who looked so young for his age, in that instant, Stark suddenly looked like every year he‘d put off, all at once.

“Tony, hey, listen to me.” Keeping his voice steady, Rhodes crouched beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. “I want you to breathe through your nose, alright? Inhale deep.”

“What?”

“Just do it, come on. In through the nose—good, like that, now hold it. One, two, three—out through the mouth. Slow. Good. Again, let‘s go.”

Stark didn‘t have the energy to ignore him; he followed his directions and breathed, in and out, with great, timed sighs that made his head light, but also made him feel better in some strange, distant, abstract way.

“What‘s your name?” asked Rhodes.

“Uh. Tony?”

“Tell me where you are, Tony. Tell me what you see.”

“It‘s hot. God, it‘s hot.” Cluing in to what Rhodes was trying to do, Stark ran his hands over his face and tried to calm himself. “I‘m on my ass in the middle of a highway. The Toyota behind us wants to run me over and the Acura in front of us has a cat. You‘re James Rhodes, you‘re wearing a suit that‘s half a size too small for you. Christ, Rhodey, you‘ve really let yourself go.”

Chuckling, Rhodes stood up and offered an arm. “Alright, smartass, on your feet.”

Stark took it. “What the hell was that?”

“Panic attack. That ever happen to you before?”

Stark shook his head and said nothing more.

Several minutes later, they were back to idling in traffic with the air conditioner blasting on high, cooling the sticky heat of anxiety-induced sweat that clung beneath the collar and didn‘t really go away.

Rhodes broke the silence. “I‘m really sorry, man, I didn‘t mean to set you off like that. Didn‘t know you could be.”

“Me neither,” Stark said. He sounded hollower than he wanted to.

“Tony,” Rhodes started, “I‘m not here to tell you what might or might not be going on, but...look, I know a guy up north, okay? He‘s helped some of my boys get back on their feet after coming home. It‘s a bit of a drive from your place, but you only have to see these kinds of people once, twice a month. Let me call him. Let me set something up for you, alright?”

“Yeah,” Stark muttered, wiping his brow on his sleeve, “yeah, alright.”

That evening, you received a text from Rhodes with an address and an appointment time, which matched a new entry in Stark‘s calendar for the following week simply labelled ‘seeing someone.‘

Wrapped in a blanket, you ended up falling asleep waiting for him to return, curling up in a plush chair at the corner of his workshop

You figured that when he finally came home, this was the first place he‘d be.

You woke to the sounds of quiet mumbling and heavy tools shifting on metal surfaces.

Curling your blanket over your shoulders, you got to your feet and shuffled sleepily across the floor of the lab. As expected, Stark was working on another suit of his, alternating between fiddling with wires and programming on his hover screen.

“Mornin‘, Mr. Stark.”

It all happened so fast.

Your voice startled him, making him jump in his seat.

As a response, the suit standing in the center of the room raised an arm towards you.

You heard the low sonic whistle of a repulsor being charged.

A shout.

A blast.

Once the sparks settled, you saw Stark with his arm raised, position mimicking the suit‘s arm, both of which were now aiming up and to the right, away from you.

You could still feel the heat from the blast that missed you so narrowly, sun-warm against your cheek.

There was panic in your chest and a fresh hole in the ceiling.

Your blood ran cold.

“I—I‘m sorry,” Stark said at once, his voice cracking as he shot up from his chair and ambled towards you. “I‘m sorry, I...the—the sensors, they must‘ve acted up, thought I was in danger. I can fix that, I can fix it. I‘m sorry.”

He reached out to touch you, but you flinched away.

“I‘m sorry,” he repeated. “Are you okay? Say something. Please.”

“The suit almost fucking killed me, just give me a second to come back from this.”

Resignation washed over his expression, the likes of which you‘d never seen in his eyes before.

You‘d never seen him look so tired.

Fists clenched in your covers, you swallowed away the fear and remembered how to breathe again, and you tipped forward to press your forehead against his chest; he wrapped his arms around you at once, strong and sure, and pressed his cheek against the top of your head.

“I‘m going to fix the sensors up, I promise, it won‘t happen again, I swear to god, that wasn‘t supposed to happen at all—”

“It‘s okay. It was an accident.” You‘re not quite sure who you were reassuring, at this point. “It wasn‘t your fault.”

“It was definitely my fault.”

“You weren‘t the one taking the shot.”

“I might as well have been.”

“You weren‘t in there when it happened. It was a misfire. Not your fault. End of discussion.”

“I‘m sorry.”

“I know.”

”Please don‘t leave.”

Your heart sank.

“I won‘t,” you mumbled into his chest. “I‘m not going anywhere. On one condition.”

“Anything.”

“Please come and get some goddamn sleep.”

He didn‘t bother trying to put up a fight.

Blankets still wrapped around yourself, you took his hand into your own and dragged him out the door and up the stairs to his bedroom.

He was getting help, you reminded yourself. He was going in next week to get help.

It was going to be okay.

“Where the hell is Tony?”

“I don‘t know, Colonel, he‘s not answering my calls, either. I thought he came here, but the girl at the front desk just told me he never showed up.”

“I seriously stuck my neck out to get him this appointment, the new patient waitlist for this guy‘s eight months long. Here he is making me look like an idiot. Again.”

“I know, I...hey, thank you, so much. For going through all this trouble. I appreciate it, I really do, even if he doesn‘t. I‘ll find him, I‘ll...I‘ll find him and I‘ll figure it out.”

“There‘s not much to figure out, doctor. We can‘t help him if he doesn‘t want to help himself.”

“I know. I‘m sorry.”

You hung up the phone and tossed it onto your dashboard before holding your head against the steering wheel.

You‘d driven two and a half hours to get here.

You picked a really nice outfit for today, too—you even skirted your constant, irrational fear of being mugged and wore some of the jewelry Stark had bought you once upon a time, hoping he‘d notice. The plan was to surprise him after he got out of his session, with a short drive to somewhere with a nice view, and a half-dozen box of doughnuts from his favourite shop.

Still leaning against the steering wheel, you turned towards the passenger‘s seat, glancing at the small box of pastries.

You eat them all in one sitting because you have no self-control and you hate yourself.

For the first time ever, the sight of Stark‘s back through the glass walls of his basement laboratory brought you much more frustration than comfort.

Entering the code to his workshop, you even allowed yourself to be worried at first, if only to give him the benefit of the doubt.

“Did you forget?” you asked, gently.

Stark looked twice to take in the sight of you, with your choice of clothing and mismatched jewelry pieces of a much bigger picture that comprised your intended morning plans.

“No, I didn‘t forget,” he said, turning back to his workbench. “Jarvis made it very clear where I was supposed to be today.”

“I tried, madam,” came a sorrowful voice from overhead.

“So did I, Mr. J, let‘s not beat ourselves up over it.” You walked towards him, careful to avoid remnants of the ceiling still strewn about the floor. “We were just trying to help.”

“Funny, I don‘t recall asking.” His tone stung deep. “Thank you, by the way, for tattling on me so I could sit and be lectured to for half-an-hour like some kind of child. Appreciate it.”

“You could‘ve just cancelled the appointment,” you snapped, “instead of blowing it off and making an ass out of someone who did you a favour.”

“Didn‘t realize you and Rhodey were so close.”

“We‘re worried about you.”

“Nothing to be worried about—I‘m handling it, see?” He motioned to the mechanisms strewn across his workbench. “After almost killing you the other day, I decided I needed to do some emergency calibrations. See, this suit ties into my sympathetic nervous system. When it‘s done, it‘ll be able to detect when I‘m having a panic attack and protect a target of my choice accordingly, so no one‘s jeopardized if I freak out on the field. Problem solved.”

“...since when have you been having panic attacks?”

Realizing he‘d slipped up, he fell silent.

“This isn‘t a solution, Mr. Stark—it‘s a patch at best. There‘s a reason you‘re having these attacks, and using your suits to to deal with these side-effects isn‘t going to make them go away.”

“I can‘t just stop working because my head‘s in a bad spot, doc.”

“That‘s exactly why you should stop working.”

“Well, now you just sound like Obie.”

For a split-second, you were lost for words.

“Obie,” you repeated slowly, paling. “Obidiah Stane. The man who tried to kill you. Multiple times. That‘s who I sound like.”

“When I made the decision to stop producing weapons after Afghanistan, he tried to undermine my authority by telling me, by telling everyone I had PTSD, as if I wasn‘t in control of myself. Here‘s the thing: I‘m in control, doc. Always have been, always will be.”

“Stane was a shithead with ulterior motives,” you barked back. “With everything that‘s happened to you—you can need therapy and want to make the world a less destructive place, they aren‘t mutually exclusive. Just because some jackass weaponized your mental health that doesn‘t mean—”

“That he didn‘t have a point?”

“That there were very real issues he was trying to exploit for his own personal gain!” You‘re trying hard to stay calm, collected, but there‘s a fire in his eyes he‘d never aimed at you before, and the anger inside you kept building when you tried to fathom what on earth you did to deserve it. “Whatever you‘re going through right now, you can‘t just build your way out of it, that‘s not how this works—”

“What you don‘t understand,” he interrupted, raising his voice, “is that everything I‘ve done, from the moment I inherited this company, I‘ve brought upon myself. I‘ve taken on responsibilities that no one, no one else is equipped to deal with. If I can‘t handle the repercussions of that on my own terms, all it means is that I‘ve failed.”

He was tearing away your resolve, word by word, and what angered you most was that he didn‘t seem to care.

“So, go ahead.” He raised his arms in surrender. “Look me in the eyes and tell me how much of a failure I am. Always did wonders for dear ol‘ dad, why would it be any different with you?”

CRASH.

You‘d swept your arm aside in anger, unable to restrain yourself any longer, knocking over a tray of tools to the floor with a sound loud enough to startle you.

Even Stark flinched.

“You need help,” you breathed, your voice low and trembling. “All of this, everything you‘ve been doing, with the sleep and the suits and the appointment this morning—it‘s ridiculous, and you need to get your self-destructive shit together before it causes some casualties. I did what I did because I was worried about you, because you wouldn‘t listen to me when I said I was worried about you, so forgive me for turning to someone whose opinion actually mattered to you. I‘m sorry I spoke to Colonel Rhodes behind your back, I really am, but don‘t you fucking dare compare me to people who have truly hurt you.”

The words spilled from you as freely as the tears did not.

You would not cry in front of him. You refused.

Stark‘s disposition changed immediately; his expression softened, and by the way his lips moved, you‘re sure he said something to keep you from leaving—maybe it was an apology, maybe it was your name—but your anger was deafening and you had to remove yourself from the situation, you had to get out before you made it worse by saying something you regretted.

He‘d compared you to his father and Obidiah Stane in the same goddamn breath, after all.

How were you expected to let that go?

You barely made it back up the basement stairs before the waterworks started, with your hand wrapped tightly over your mouth as you scrambled out to your car.

You don‘t cry in front of him, but you do cry.

“Jarvis.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Did talk to you before she contacted Rhodey?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do me a favour and pull up the recording.”

“Mr. Stark, might I remind you that those recordings are for the sole use of her port‘s personality development and restricted to her private server?”

“Oh, I‘m aware. I‘m sure she had all kinds of lovely things to say.”

“...initiating brute force procedures on madam‘s natural language acquisition files.”

It was a terrible invasion of privacy, sure, but he needed some kind of justification for treating you the way he did.

Something.

Anything.

”Come on, doc,” he muttered, leaning over his desk as he played the audio file. “Tell me what you really think.”

And your voice buzzed in through the static.

“He hasn‘t been sleeping, again.”

“While you‘ve been sleeping too much.”

“I oversleep when I‘m stressed.”

“You oversleep every day.”

“Exactly.”

“Ah.”

“Hey, can you die from a lack of sleep?”

“Mr. Stark is not currently at risk of dying from insomnia, madam.”

“Well, something‘s keeping him up at night. I wish he would talk to someone. Anyone, it doesn‘t have to be me. It shouldn‘t be me. I can‘t pretend to know what he‘s going through, I can‘t help him. I‘m sure there are people out there who can, though. He could afford the best in the world if he wanted to. You know how many people would kill for that opportunity?”

“Mr. Stark has always been extremely selective with his inner circle, let alone with whom he chooses to share personal information. He believes if people saw him for what he, quote, ‘really is, they would run like hell,‘ end quote.”

“Hasn‘t scared me away. And he‘s got friends who‘ve known him way longer than I have, right? I mean, he‘s not perfect. But we‘ve all taken the bad with the good because the good of him is worth it. If other people can‘t do the same, then they aren‘t worth his time. Guess I‘m biased, though.”

“Perhaps a little.”

“Hey, Mr. J?”

“Yes, madam?”

“Do I make him happy?”

“I daresay you do.”

“Yeah? He hasn‘t just programmed you to say that?”

“I am merely programmed to tell facts, madam. Mr. Stark‘s heart rate increases by an average of 6% whenever he speaks to you, 9% if it‘s in-person. In casual conversation, the personal language used when talking about you to others holds 74.6% positive and 23.2% neutral connotations. He also has a tendency to smile when he speaks of you. I choose to quantify this as happiness.”

“...jesus, statistics have never been more romantic.”

“Does he make you happy, madam?”

“Of course he does, that‘s why I worry. He won‘t listen to me, though...maybe he just needs a second opinion.”

“Did you have someone in mind?”

“Let‘s see...according to Mr. Stark‘s schedule, he‘s got a meeting with Lieutenant Colonel Rhodes later this week.”

“Correct, madam.”

“Can you pull Colonel Rhodes‘ phone number from that—”

“Off,” Stark snapped. “Turn it off.”

Stark hadn‘t noticed yet, but his hands were pressed against the corners of his desk hard enough to strike indentations across his palms.

He was so terrified of failure, he‘d ended up thinking the worst of you.

He breathed in through his nose—one, two, three.

Out through his mouth—one, two, three.

“Fuck.”

Chapter Text

Pepper Potts had far too much experience dealing with Tony Stark On Alcohol™ while under his employ, enough for a goddamn lifetime.

When he was the drunken center of attention in a room full of brown-nosing enablers, she made sure he didn't make too much of an ass of himself in front of the cameras. When she was alone with him in his laboratory, she kept a watchful eye over his falsely-enhanced bravado, ensuring him that, yes, she was indeed taking careful notes of his sudden intoxicated rush of absolutely brilliant ideas. When one drink to help him sleep turned into one drink too many, she helped him stumble off to his bedroom before he passed out for the night.

But taking care of him wasn't her job, anymore.

So when she received a clumsy, misspelled text after midnight asking for her help, specifically, she didn't pull into his driveway out of any sense of obligation.

When the front door swung open to reveal the exhaustion in his eyes and the glass of whiskey in his hand, she wasn't there as his assistant.

“Hey, Pep.”

“Hi, Tony.”

She was there as his friend.

Curling a manicured hand around the strap of her purse, she assessed the situation with a glance, her heels clicking across the floor as she stepped inside. The house appeared to be intact. Stark was wide-awake, and all alone. These factors didn't match his usual alcohol-induced party stupor—no, this was the kind of drunk saved for bad anniversaries and concentrated bouts of personal dissatisfaction.

She continued looking around, spotting the differences in home decor from the last time she'd visited several months ago. The biggest change, she noticed, was the artwork on the walls: an array of framed and mounted pieces featuring artistic interpretations of Stark's likeness, equally-spaced and tastefully chosen.

An ode to narcissism, she thought.

“She let you put these up?” she asked, amused.

“She's the one who put them up,” he replied blearily. “You think that's something, you should check out our fridge.”

“Must be nice to date someone who's as big a fan of you as you are.”

“Doubt she's much of a fan after last night.”

“What happened?”

“Stuff. Things. Haven't seen her since she drove off in her dumpy little Civic.” He took another sip of his drink and walked away, slightly off-balance. “Don't tell her I called it dumpy, though, that car's kind of her baby.”

She kept her eyes trained on him as he made his way back to the couch. “Well, she lasted longer than I thought she would.”

“Right? I thought I'd send her running for the hills a lot sooner.”

“Not what I meant. I figured you would've tossed her aside by now.”

“Wh—tossed her aside?” (He had the gall to look offended.) “Gee whiz, Pep, I'm hurt that you would even suggest—”

“What, that I'd suggest you'd do something you once did every other week? What did you expect me to think, with you latching onto another poor girl half your age? I mean—she was your student, for God's sake—did you get off on that, or something?”

“Not always. Sometimes she did it for me.”

“Oh, not what I asked, Tony.”

“I mean, if you wanna get literal—”

“Did she have any idea what she signed up for when she agreed to this relationship with you?”

“Wait, my ex-girlfriend implying I'm not a complete catch? Blasphemy.”

Potts folded her arms and leaned against the back of the sofa, leaving Stark to his idle sips of his whiskey. Years of experience and refinement granted her, and her alone, fluency in the language of Stark, and sometimes proper conversation involved waiting him out, to leave him squirming in his own silence until he got back on-topic.

They kept at it for a while, steadfast through the quiet, a hauntingly familiar game of silent chicken between ex-lovers.

He finally spoke up, like she knew he would.

“...she wants me to get therapy.”

“...she told you that?”

“Yeah. Got Rhodey in on it, too. Like some kind of...fucked-up intervention-by-proxy.” He scoffed into his glass. “Therapy. God, I haven't heard that word since Obie.”

Potts bit the inside of her cheek. Stane's bitter memory was a much fresher wound than she'd ever care to admit. There was something deeply unsettling about Stark still calling Stane 'Obie' after all that had happened, a nickname he'd used since childhood, as if the man who acted as surrogate father and the man who tried to murder him were two completely different people.

“Be honest with me, is—is there something I'm doing lately that's making everyone think I need to take a roll of nickels to a pop-up psychiatry booth? Please, for the love of god, tell me so I can hide it better.”

Potts pursed her lips. “It's not that simple.”

“Why not?” He turned in his seat to face her. “You don't think I need therapy, do you?”

“Absolutely, I do.”

His shoulders tensed, but his eyes didn't leave her. He mouthed voiceless words preparing to speak, to snap back, to say something, but every argument he had ended up dying in his throat.

“Then why didn't you ever say anything?” he finally managed, sounding much weaker than he did in his head.

“I couldn't even get you to the tarmac on time for your own private flights, what makes you think my suggestion would've fared any better?”

“You've got a better head on your shoulders than I do, Pep, always have. I would've listened to you.”

“No, you wouldn't have,” she said firmly. “You're not used to dealing with problems you can't throw money at. You never liked not being in control.”

“What's wrong with being in control? Why does everyone keep talking about it like it's such a bad thing?”

“Because you're addicted to it. Because you can't control everything, Tony, and whenever something or someone reminds you of that...” Unintimidated, she motioned to him. All of him. “This happens.”

“Alright, I get it,” he snapped. “I'm a control freak and a shitty friend. A shitty friend and a shitty boyfriend and a shitty boss.”

It was her turn to roll her eyes. “I'm not here to throw a pity party. You wanted me to help you 'figure things out,' remember? So what is it you want, Tony?”

“I want to go back to a time when my friends didn't think I need fucking therapy.”

“There never was a time like that.”

“Wow, good to know. Thanks.” He pointed his glass at her, amber liquid spilling over the lip. “Hey, question—where was all this heartfelt concern when I was dealing with Hammer? Or after New York? Why is everyone just now coming out of the woodwork?”

“Look at what's happened to the people who've tried to help you,” she bit back. “You don't listen to advice that doesn't align with what you've already decided for yourself—what reason have you given any of us to try? Besides, cleaning up after your emotional wreckage is not and was never in my job description. Now that you've found someone up to the task—I feel sorry for her, Tony. I really do. It sounds like this whole thing was a relationship of convenience, and when what she wanted from you became inconvenient, you—”

“Don't use past tense, you'll jinx it. It's not over, yet.”

“Isn't it?”

“No, that's why you're here. I need you to help me fix it.”

She scoffed. “Here we go, again. You think this can be solved with a signature and phone call? I'm not your secretary, anymore—I can help you fix this about as much as I can help you fix yourself.”

“Give yourself more credit, Pep, you've always been around to pick up the pieces.”

“Yeah, and that's why I left you.”

The silence between them returned, hard and heavy.

“I'm the CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation, now,” she continued. “I can't clean up after you, anymore, Tony. I won't.”

Stark went back to nursing his drink.

“If you really want to fix things, take my advice for once in your life. Stop locking yourself away in your basement every time something bad happens—stop using your suits as a distraction from all your problems. Get rid of them before you build yourself into an early grave. If not for your sake, then for hers.”

“You don't understand.” He was on his feet, now, leveling her unfaltering gaze. “I keep those suits for my sake, but especially for hers. I use them to protect the world because the world—I don't know if you've noticed, Pep, but it's got a lot of people I care about in it. It's got you, it's got Rhodey, it's got Happy. Banner. Nat. Rogers. It's my job to protect the ones I love, and I love her, Pep, I do, and I'm losing her, and I'm not able to do anything about it—I'm not used to this, I'm not used to—”

“Not being in control.”

No words manage to escape him, this time.

She watched him sink back into the couch and stare ahead at the living room television, both his expression and the flat-screen blank, and unreadable.

Potts made her way around the couch and claimed the seat next to him, waiting for him to find his words again.

“...I shot at her.”

“You what?”

“Not on purpose,” he said quickly. “Suit malfunctioned. I got it out of the way in time, but I still...”

“Is that why she left?”

“No, she actually helped me get some sleep right after. It was the first time in days.”

“You’re still having trouble sleeping?”

“Yeah. She wouldn't let me out of her sight until I did, though. I can't remember how long I was out, woke up and had no idea what year it was. And you know what? She was still there. Toiling away at her laptop over dead-end research, but she was still there. Looking after me.”

“What's your point?”

To her surprise, he leaned his head against her shoulder.

“...help me fix it, Pep. Please.”

And she sighed with enough exhaustion for the both of them.

Potts leaned back into him. She held her cheek against his head and even dared to let herself drift into the quiet familiarity of it all—his softly slurred words, marred with the scent of alcohol and a world-weariness that had made its home within his bones a long time ago. For a split-second, holding him like this almost felt like old times—natural as anything, but different, somehow.

“Therapy's not something you do for other people,” she said. “So I ask you, again: what do you want out of this?”

“I wanna sleep, Pep. I want the nightmares to stop. I want to be able to plan my next move without spiralling over what's already happened.” He paused, still not making eye contact. “I want to be the person she thinks I am.”

She stroked the back of his head. “Why not try being the person she knows you can be, instead?”

He actually cracked a smile, she noticed.

There might've been hope for him yet.

You fucked off to Los Angeles because you knew the road there like the back of your hand.

The city was a two-hour trip from Malibu, a drive you made whenever you needed to be at the offices of Stark Industries' California headquarters. You normally went into work early and left work late to avoid the traffic, but thankfully, the roads were relatively quiet this time of day. The fight you had with Stark was very conveniently timed—it happened on a Friday night, allowing you to spend the whole weekend in the next city over to clear your head without having to take time off work.

You rented a hotel room once you arrived in LA. Smoke-free and single-mattressed, it was a modest, practical little place, nothing like the exuberant five-star penthouse suits you were used to. You didn't need anything fancy to tide you over, anyway—sure, you were an authorized secondary user on a limitless black-card only a handful of people in the world got invitations for, but you'd be damned if you were taking advantage of Stark or his money, right now.

Your salary covered everything you needed just fine.

You'd stormed out of his house with little more than your phone, your wallet, and the clothes on your back, so on Saturday morning, you bought some supplies to last you the weekend. A pair of shorts. A couple of cheap t-shirts. A toothbrush. A charger for your phone, which had died on you several hours earlier.

(Two missed calls. Two new voicemails.)

You used Stark's super-exclusive credit card to grab yourself some ice cream. He pissed you off, after all. Least he could do was buy you some ice cream.

Somehow, you pictured your weekend going a little differently. On the drive there, with your judgement clouded by hurt and frustration, you daydreamed about exploring the city during the day and partying hard well into the night, surrounded by friendly, attractive people with whom you shared temporary camaraderie through gratuitous intoxication.

You ended up sleeping most of the time.

(You'd never really been the partying type.)

The highlight of your weekend involved catching a late show at a near-empty theater, munching on popcorn slathered with Butter Flavouring until your stomach hurt. By the end of it, you kinda just wanted to go home to where the comfy bed and spectacular WiFi were, but you decided against it, if only out of pride.

It was Sunday night when you finally asked Jarvis about Stark.

“Four missed calls and four new voicemails, madam,“ he replied.

“Thank you, Mr. J. Will you play them for me, please?”

The first was from Friday night, a few hours after you'd left the house.

“Hey, doc.“ (The familiar sound of him made you melt a little.) “Uh, you probably don't wanna hear from me right now. I wouldn't. I'm sorry about what I said, that—that was not cool. Not cool at all. Heat of the moment kinda thing, you know? Not that it's an excuse, but. Um. Are we okay? Wait, no—stupid question, you don't have to answer that. Call me if you need anything. Or don't, depends on how you feel. Have a good night. Love you.”

The next voicemail was from the following day, so late on Saturday night it was early Sunday morning. His words slurred together.

“Hi, baby. Hi, doc. How're ya doin'? Listen. Listen. I know it's late, and you're probably sleeping. I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry. Really. It wasn't...it's not okay for me to—to vent like that at you. Hell, it's probably not okay for me to call you when I'm piss-drunk, either, but two wrongs make a right, right? Right. Sorry. Okay, I'm gonna. I'm just gonna stop. I love you, honey, I do. Whole heart, fuckin'...Arc Reactor and all.“

“Tony, who are you talking—“ (Potts' voice could be heard in the background; she was getting very close, very quickly.) “TONY, NO, YOU'RE DRUNK.“

“I sure am—“

“Tony, give me the phone—“

“OkayIloveyoubye—“

The line clicked, and you were smiling in spite of yourself. He'd reached out to Pepper after you left; you were relieved he reached out to someone, at least.

The third message was from early Sunday afternoon.

“Hi, um, it's me again.“ You could tell from the sound of his voice he'd just woken up. “I mean—of course it's me, who else would it be? Anyway. Just wanted to apologize. Again. For last night. I was talking to Pepper about some things and...I just really wanted to hear your voice again. Even if it was just your voicemail. I'd really appreciate if you called me when you get this. If you want to. If not, I understand. I hope you slept well. Yeah, that's about it. I love you.“

Your heart was starting to hurt.

The final message was from two hours ago.

“I'm sorry, you probably don't want to hear this, but I'm—I haven't slept yet. Since you left. I don't even feel tired, there's just—numb. It's all numb. Right after you left, I...accessed some recordings in Jarvis's natural language system. Recordings of you talking to him. About me. Did you even know those were stored? Probably not. I don't know what I was looking for. Something to justify pushing you away. I don't know—god, doc, I don't know. You don't deserve this. I don't deserve you. I need help, I know I need help—I know that, now. I rescheduled the appointment for tomorrow afternoon. Details are in the calendar. I don't have any right to ask this of you, but. I'd. Appreciate it if you were there. Please.“

A long pause.

“...I need you. I really do.“

You located his new calendar entry for Monday afternoon.

for your own good.

During his last voicemail, he'd admitted to listening in on your recorded conversations with Jarvis, but somehow, him thinking you were bad-mouthing him behind his back stung you more than the invasion of privacy.

You never thought of Tony Stark as a man who truly needed anything, but here he was, needing you, needing his friends, needing help, and knowing he had finally come to terms with that filled you with an undeniably profound sense of affection—but did he know you needed him just the same?

Had you made that clear enough?

While you puzzled and pieced your memories together, you couldn't help but notice that the new calendar entry was made in a colour Stark had never used before, not once during your many, many months of syncing your schedules with each other. His entries were normally light blue, but this appointment was in hot pink.

You switched the calendar from weekly-view to monthly-view, and the days were suddenly sprinkled with pink entries you'd never seen before.

“Mr. J, have these appointments always been here?”

“Not always, madam. It appears as if Mr. Stark has recently given you access to a private calendar.“

“Could you do me a favour and flip back to the first entry, please?”

The calendar interface scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled.

The pink entries went back for months on end.

The scrolling finally came to a stop, revealing that the very first entry was made nearly two years ago.

No location, no description, no specific time slot.

Just a single word.

library.

The following pink block was a couple of months later, on a harrowing date you knew far, far too well: the deadline for your MIT graduate research proposal.

call dr lombard to review application.

The morning of your doctoral defense.

she'll do fine.

Your graduation.

doctor's appointment - do not miss.

The weekend you moved in.

she's home.

Your heart was hurting more than ever, now.

The entries got more clustered as the months continued. Most of them only contained a one word at a time.

phone.

car.

stars.

lemonade.

blue.

The most recent read,

t-shirt.

“What's 't-shirt' for?” you asked out loud.

“That was the day Mr. Stark arrived home after a business trip to find you wearing his shirt and nothing else, madam.“

Horrified, you covered your mouth as your cheeks blossomed a brilliant shade of red. “Oh my god, Mr. J, I'm so sorry.”

“I think this is a good time to remind you that I am incapable of feeling embarrassment.“

“It's also a good time to be reminded that you're sentient and you know exactly what these entries mean.”

“Mr. Stark catalogues many things, madam. I daresay his favourite...rendezvous with you are amongst the most mundane.“

You laughed into your hands. “Did he really just make this calendar to prove a point?”

“No, madam. The calendar was created shortly before the date of the second entry, and has been updated regularly ever since.“

You flipped back to the entry that read

she said it first.

before tears stung the corners of your eyes, again.

The receptionist greeted you, remembering your name from the last time you were there. She told you Stark would be another half-hour or so, and to have a seat in the waiting room until he was finished.

Your hands were trembling far too much to play any of your phone games properly, so instead, you flipped through stacks of the office's old magazines of in the meantime, not really taking in any of the words.

Stark emerged from the back, eventually.

You sprang to your feet. You weren't quite sure why.

His eyes were bloodshot, but good lord, the way he brightened up and said 'Hey, doc.' was just so remarkably him, it made a swell of emotion crash against the inside of your chest so ruthlessly you couldn't look him in the eyes without choking on your breath.

You tried your best to pretend you weren't trying to hold back tears right now—you barely cried about this whole thing over the weekend, so why now, of all times—and he graciously ignored your glossy eyes, your blotchy cheeks, your fumbling hands, in favour of looking nothing short of relieved to see you.

“Sorry I'm late,” you said hurriedly, managing a smile, “I...didn't wanna show up until I knew you were here.”

“That's okay.” He sounded calm. “Fool me once, right?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Much like your weekend, you imagined this going differently.

You imagined rushing up to him right there in the lobby, nearly jumping out of your skin and into his arms to hug him with everything you had, a silent, mutual embrace that served as shared apology and shared forgiveness all at once—but you held back.

If only out of pride.

Before long, you were standing together on the sidewalk outside the building. The realization that you'd both taken cars just made the silence between you that much more awkward.

You ran a hand against the back of your neck and motioned across the parking lot. “Well, I'm. This way.”

“Alright.”

And he followed you to yours.

“Turns out my shrink's a big Stark fan,” he offered, a lilt of playfulness in his voice, “I was able to reschedule in exchange for Iron Man popping by his niece's birthday party in a few months. And...you know, tripling his normal hourly rate.”

“That's good,” you said flatly.

He deflated a little. You instantly wished you could've at least pretended to sound more enthused.

You're not sure how long you sat there in your car, sharing the unbearably loud silence. You both knew there were things that needed to be said.

Neither of you knew where to start, so neither of you bothered trying.

You sat in the driver's side with both hands wrapped around the steering wheel. He sat next to you, seatbelt clicked into place as if he was expecting to go somewhere. It was too warm to be sitting idle, so you stuck your key in the ignition and turned on the air conditioning. An air freshener in the shape of a palm tree was clipped to the vent, filling the Civic with a cheap, fabricated, tropical scent. You'd cleaned your car over the weekend—you're sure he noticed—and it was spotless and tidy, save for shopping bags in the back seat carrying the supplies you'd bought for your impromptu vacation.

“Every session,” he finally said, facing the window, “I'll go. Every appointment, I will make time. I promise.”

“Okay,” you replied softly, nodding, “okay.”

What was wrong with you?

He was putting in the effort—he went to get help, he made a promise, he'd apologized a hundred times over, but you still felt off about the whole thing.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter and leaned your forehead against it, sighing. “I feel like I should be the one saying sorry.”

“...why?”

You shrugged, not looking at him. “I didn't answer my phone. I didn't listen to your voicemails until last night. We had a disagreement and I ran away and gave you the silent treatment instead of dealing with the problem like an adult and I'm sorry.”

“Don't beat yourself up, doc, I run away from my problems all the time. It's why I'm here, isn't it? I'm the one who's sorry. You were right about me.”

“I know.”

“About everything.”

“I know.”

“You're nothing like Obie. You didn't deserve to be compared to him.”

“Damn right, I didn't.”

“You're not my father, either.”

“Neither are you.”

You were still leaning against the steering wheel when you peeked at him, smirking from behind the cover of your wrist, and he returned it, as if just a fraction of his worry lifted from his shoulders as soon as he saw you smile.

For the first time that day, he finally looked like himself.

You reckoned you did, too.

Shuffling in a bit, he leaned his head on your shoulder. “I'm gonna get my car picked up from here and taken back to the house, you wanna go get some food? I'm thinking something unhealthy, cheap, and possibly not 100% meat.”

Laughing, you turned your key in the ignition. “You know, normal people call it Taco Bell.”

“Hey, uh.” He pressed a kiss against your shoulder, and glanced up at you with those godforsaken puppy-dog eyes. “Are you coming home?”

He'd caught you off-guard, and your heart skipped. “I—if that's okay, yeah. I dropped by work this morning to let them know I was taking a personal day, and...well, if I show up again without a security badge, Chief Hogan's going to have me court-marshalled.”

“You have to forgive the guy, he hasn't gone in for surgery yet. You know, the one that'd get that stick out of his butt? I've offered to cover the medical expenses, but.”

You laughed. “I know he's just doing his job, but I really don't think he likes me very much.”

Stark inhaled through his teeth. “Yeah, funny story—he still kinda thinks Pepper was the best thing to ever happen to me and that I was a complete idiot to let her break up with me? I personally think he's mistaken, but hey, what do I know. Oh, idea.” He snapped his fingers. “We'll invite him to dinner. Best restaurant in town. Preferably one with an arcade. It's family bonding time.”

“Do I have to wear a security badge?”

“Don't be ridiculous, of course you do.”

You put on your seatbelt, checked your mirrors, and navigated your way out of the parking lot. Stark adjusted his seat, heaving an exaggerated sigh as he slowly reclined as far backwards as he could go.

“I still gotta make it up to you,” he said, folding his hands behind his head.

“Yeah?” You glanced down at him. “How do you plan on doing that?”

“Don't know yet. Consider it an IOU.”

“An IOU from Tony Stark? That's basically a free genie wish.”

“Can't wish for more wishes.”

“Dammit.”

“Anything else, though. Name it, it's yours. Do you want a suit of your own? 'Cause I can build you one of those. Any colour you want. I can get a new species of South American gecko named after you. I could buy you an island, if you wanted. I mean, I know you said you don't like me buying you things, but as I told the shrink earlier today, it's pretty much the only way I know how to express mysel—”

“I'm proud of you.”

He was quiet for a moment. “It was just an intake session. Didn't get into any of the real juicy stuff, yet.”

“I'm proud of you,” you said again, more firmly this time.

“Oh, uh. Thank you.”

Keeping your eyes on the road, you nodded, silently.

Stark rubbed a hand over his mouth, hoping you didn't notice him staring at you as you drove.

He doesn't tell you that it's the first time he's heard that phrase in years.

No, that was for his therapist.

Several months after the Battle of New York, Tony Stark starts getting help.

You kept him company each and every time, to ease his anxiety beforehand and to take him out for shitty fast-food afterwards. Some sessions would end with the two of you picking up right where you left off, as if the appointment was little more than an hour-long break between conversations. Other sessions left him quiet and ruminating the entire car ride home, on-edge and bleary-eyed, staring out the window with a hand over his mouth and the weight of the world on his mind. You never asked about his diagnosis, or the details of his appointments. If he didn't volunteer the information, you didn't want to know.

You were right there alongside him when he studied the list of prescriptions provided by his psychiatrist, going from introductory biochemistry to advanced pharmacology in the span of a single weekend just so he knew the exact chemical breakdowns of what it was he was putting into his body. You helped him experiment with recipes for mixed juices and fruit smoothies and imported blended teas, because the new medication prevented him from drinking alcohol as frequently as he liked. Most importantly, you kept him on-schedule, and you did everything you could to help him sleep.

And, in return, he helped you.

Whenever bouts of frustration had you falling asleep with your research out in shambles, you'd wake to find your papers organized neatly on a nearby surface, with formulas and suggestions written on Captain America-themed sticky notes stuck to every few pages. Stark started taking more time away from his workshop to spend it with you so he wouldn't tinker, so you wouldn't oversleep. You started marathoning random Food Network shows together, and sometimes, he'd take you into the kitchen afterwards and teach you how to cook something straight from whatever program you just watched. Anything to ease your stress. Anything to keep you awake.

He handed your coffee to you one morning, and he'd gotten it right without asking.

He wasn't sure why you hugged him so tightly, but he held you right back, anyway.

The first panic attack he had in front of you happened at home, while channel surfing. It started with intimate discourse regarding the political regulation of superheroes and with news footage from New York, footage he'd seen in passing a hundred thousand times before, but set him off this time for reasons you didn't understand.

You didn't understand, but you knew you didn't have to.

You wanted to think you were prepared for it. You'd done research of your own, so you knew what to expect and how to deal with it, if and when it happened. But one minute, he was laughing through your light-hearted debate, and the next, he was wide-eyed and shaking and clammy to the touch, and all the research and advice in the world wouldn't have helped you prepare for watching Tony Stark fall apart before your eyes.

“Hey,” you whispered, remembering to keep your voice clear and steady as you held your hands against his shoulders. “Hey, stay with me. It's okay. De—deep breaths. I'm here.”

“Sorry,” he swallowed dryly, his hands hooking onto your wrists as he tried to stop the room from spinning, “I—I don't know why—”

“I'm here,” you repeated softly. “This is a false alarm, you're safe. You're right here with me.”

“False alarm,” he muttered.

“That's right, false alarm. Can I get you some water?”

“No, stay. Please.”

“Okay. I'm here. Breathe with me. Just like this, c'mon.”

It took a minute for his hyperventilation to turn into deep breaths he synced with your own. Eventually, the tremors wracking his frame eased into mild shivers, a slight trembling that made you want to reach out and hug him for warmth. He once told you, however, that too much physical contact only made it worse, so you restrained yourself.

“Y—your name is Tony Stark,” you said softly, once he was enough at ease to hear you.

“...my name is Tony Stark.”

“We're in Malibu, California. It's 2:00am.”

“I'm in Malibu. It's two in the morning.”

“Do you remember the last thing you ate?”

“Um. Popcorn? Too much white cheddar seasoning. The way you like it.”

“C'mon, as if you weren't just fighting me to lick the bottom of the bowl.”

He gave a small laugh and the sound filled your chest with warmth. As selfish as it was, it was getting even harder to keep yourself from holding him close.

“You're in control, starling.”

He nodded, swallowing hard.

“You've got this.”

“...I've got this.”

Several minutes later, once his breathing and his heartbeat steadied, he finally released your wrists, only to reveal bright spots against your skin from the tightness of his grip.

“Hell,” he panicked, “I'm sorry—”

“Don't worry about it,” you laughed, rubbing at the indentations he'd left in your skin. “Seriously, I've gotten worse from when we were in bed together. You're pretty big on the whole wrist-grabbing thing, huh?”

He tipped forward and mumbled further apologies into your shoulder. Finally, he let you hold him, and you let him say sorry.

“Thanks, doc,” he whispered, still pressing his head into your neck.

And somehow, when you pull him off you and he sees you smile with relief, worried and flustered and there for him in spite of everything, he realizes he's never loved you as much as he does in that moment.

Six months after the events of New York, a bold new threat ushered itself into the short-lived period of villain-free peace, shattering the radio silence with a colourful, harshly-edited broadcast that hijacked the American airwaves and sent the entire country into a state of panic.

The President of the United States responded with a public rebranding of War Machine.

Stark wasted no time complaining.

Nursing a late-afternoon beer in the family restaurant, Rhodes shrugged off the concern. “And where were you when the Mandarin made his broadcast?”

“Watching Chopped with the missus while knee-deep in homemade Cajun seafood pasta, what's your point?”

“The point is, Tony, this is military business. Being able to take over all televised frequencies across the country at once just to get some random white guy to spew anti-American propaganda? It's unprecedented, is what it is. We've got our best people just trying to figure out how the hell he's doing it.” He looked over at Stark, intently. “See, when A Few Minutes With The Mandarin went down across the country, I was already on the phone assembling a team at headquarters, trying to isolate the location of the broadcast. But you? Whenever you're not messing around in international affairs wearing a mech suit, you're spending your days playing house.”

“Question,” Stark started, ignoring Rhodes completely. “Who the hell's Advanced Idea Mechanics? Why were they consulted to redesign my suit and I wasn't?”

“The redesign commission came from the Vice President, I didn't have anything to do with—” He sighed. “It's not your suit anymore, Tony, it's the property of the United States Government.”

“Oh, right, of course it's not mine. I just, you know, designed it, paid for it, built it with my own two hands. Just call it like it is. You commandeered my suit and gave it a—a paint job and a stupid name in response to a highly publicized threat from an international terrorist. My suit, Rhodey. You use my tech for the face of this investigation, I want in. You owe me that much.”

“I owe you jack,” Rhodes snapped. “I think me not commandeering the other six, seven, eight ticking time bombs collecting dust in your basement is more than enough to return the favour.”

Stark rolled his eyes while taking another swig of his iced tea.

“Look,” Rhodes started again, “when I said you were playing house—I didn't mean anything by it. Truth is, I'm concerned for you. I don't want to put you in a situation that'll compromise all the progress you've made. Therapy looks good on you, Tony. Real good.”

“Mm.” He ran a hand against the back of his neck. “Thanks again for hooking me up, by the way.”

“You're welcome.”

“I'm definitely remembering things better. I'm sleeping, again—some nights more than others, but every day—and I'm getting all my work done right the first time, like I used to. Hell, I think I'm actually better-suited for missions, now.”

“And how are things with your other doctor?”

The moment you were mentioned, Stark shut up at once, glancing down at his food and grinning.

“Ooooh boy, look at that smile.” Rhodes smirked against the lip of his beer bottle. “You don't need to say a damn word.”

“I've got something big planned for her this week, actually, I...” Stark waved his hands and shook his head. “Hey, wait, no—don't change the subject—do you want my help with this, or not?”

“I didn't want to say anything, but we're already getting help.”

“From who? Advanced Idea Mechanics?”

“No no no, someone military. Someone we trust who has the best interest of the United States at heart.”

Stark stared blankly at Rhodes.

“...someone red, white, and blue, Tony.”

“Rogers?!“ he shouted, immediately flinching at his own volume and glancing over his shoulder.

Looking away, Rhodes took another long sip of his beer.

Stark leaned in for a stage whisper. “You went to Rogers with this but didn't come to me?”

“Like I said,” Rhodes continued, sternly, “this is military business. A terrorist declared war on the United States and threatened our president, forgive me for thinking of Captain America before thinking of you.”

“Rhodey.” (Stark's voice was pleading, now.) “Rhodey, please. I—I've got all this new tech, Rhodey. Bomb disposal, prehensile automation, newly programmed artificial intelligence emergency services protocols based on Jarvis's OS and natural language scripts. I've been itching to give 'em a whirl.”

Rhodes raised an eyebrow.

“Also—yeah, right, president, America, in danger, international threat, whatever—look, just let me help. I've dealt with terrorists, you know that. It's what I do. Even better than before.”

“Can you work with Rogers?”

“What kind of question is that, of course I can work with Rogers.”

“Then you can ask him yourself,” Rhodes said, “because they put him in command of my task force.”

Recoiling, Stark inhaled through his teeth. “Ooo, that sucks.”

“Tell me about it. I'm Iron Patriot, for crying out loud. I'm the face of this mission and I get shoved aside for someone who probably wears star-spangled boxers.”

“Boxer-briefs,” Stark corrected.

“I don't wanna know how you know that.”

A couple of children came up to their table to ask for Stark's autograph.

Rhodes waited for the kids to leave before changing the subject.

“Hey,” he started, “do you really call me 'Brhodey' in private? Because that's lame, even for you.”

Stark laughed into his fries. “God, she really did tell you everything, didn't she?”

“Look, if I never have to imagine you saying the word 'bro' again, it'll be too soon.”

“I could call you 'bud.' Or 'dude.' Or 'fam,' that's what she calls her friends ironically sometimes.”

“Don't use your younger girlfriend to get hip with the times.”

“I am always hip with the times. I know what a meme is.”

“Say another word and I'm retracting my endorsement.”

You weren't sure what to expect when Stark said he was giving you your Christmas present early.

He’d taken you by the hand, threading your fingers together before leading you down to his basement laboratory, and the way his voice faltered when he said,

“There’s something I need to show you.”

only confused you further.

“Before you show me whatever it is you want to show me,” you said quickly, trailing behind him, “I—I want you to know I haven’t figured out your gift yet. Turns out the man who has everything is really hard to shop for, who knew?”

“It's okay, doc,” he chuckled. “This isn't a competition.”

“Okay, but if it was—”

“Shh.”

Standing in the center of his laboratory with you, Stark held both of your hands in his own and looked you in the eyes.

“I have a secret,” he said. “And it's a pretty damn big one.”

You nodded, trying your hardest to hide your own anxiousness.

“These past few months since New York, when I was feeling...you know, the worst of it. I came down here to do the one thing I knew how to do. Whenever I couldn't remember the most basic things to get me through the day, I always, always remembered this. So this is what I kept coming back to.”

You nodded, again. You weren't sure where he was going with this.

“Jarvis?” he called to the ceiling.

“Yes, sir.“

Your body jilted, startling you, as the floor parted ways in symmetrical segments around your feet, and the platform the two of you were standing on began to descend.

“You know what they say,” Stark started, “how insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting something different?”

The elevator continued downwards, almost two storeys underground. Flood lights, embedded in the hidden walls around you, were brought to life via motion sensors, revealing the massive underground gallery hiding just beneath your feet.

“Well, as you know, I went a little crazy.”

Iron Man suits.

Tony Stark had a secret underground army of Iron Man suits.

“Doc,” he said, curling an arm around your shoulders and gesturing around him, “meet the Iron Legion.”

“...holy fuck.”

“There's the seven upstairs, of course—the seven everyone knows about. Then, down here, there's another thirty-four. Mark 8 through Mark 42. Solid materials. State-of-the-art technology. Jarvis' operating system. S.H.I.E.L.D., Rhodey, Pepper—you're the only one who's ever seen any of this. Government lost their heads over the handful they know I have, can you imagine them finding out about this?”

There were so many, a grand multitude of shapes and builds and colours. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to you before that all his time in the workshop wasn't spent altering the same suit—he was busying himself with new ideas, new designs, keeping his work fresh and innovative, each iteration just a little more polished than the last.

“This is the weirdest museum tour I've ever been on,” you whispered.

“Ah, correction. It's the coolest museum tour you will ever be on.”

“Do they have names?” you asked, damn near pressing your nose up against the glass of one with bright blue plating to get a better look at it.

He bit his lip before pointing around. “Um, Sneaky. Piston. That one's Heartbreaker.”

“Which one’s your favourite?”

“Might as well ask me who my favourite child is—Mark 22, definitely Mark 22.” He motioned to a black-and-red suit nearby. “Hotrod. I built him after Rhodey eloped with War Machine. Weighs a third of the old prototype, has more advanced tech. Also, the paint job’s cooler.”

“It's got flames on it.”

“Gotta match the Roadster.”

“That's right, your car!“ you laughed, remembering. “God, that's so cool.”

“That's nothing—here, um.” He half-jogged over to a red-and-gold suit with a more muted colour palette than normal. “Mark 42's the baby. Prehensile. Built-in repair system. Only suit so far with a penetrating Unibeam. It—it ships in pieces that can fly on command and come together to make a full suit.”

“Ah.” You snapped your fingers. “This is the one that almost blew my head off.”

“You will be happy to know I fixed that.”

“Ironed out the kinks there, did you?”

Cracking a smirk, he side-eyed you, hard. “It was an unstable build. I was working on him before I started counselling, and I’ve stuck with him ever since. Instead of starting over and over again, like I used to, as I got better, I found myself coming back to try and make him better, too. He’s been keeping me grounded. Through a lot of things.”

You nodded, leaning in to further appreciate the intricate craftsmanship behind glass.

He leaned in beside you. “Was thinking of naming him Doc, actually.”

Your expression must have given you away, because the way he smiled at you and shrugged and asked, “Merry Christmas?” had the absolute intended effect of you kissing him right on his stupid, handsome face.

“To think,” he started, laughing against you, “I legitimately thought you’d be mad about this.”

“Mad?” you repeated. “Why, because my boyfriend's a supergenius who can build flying robots with his eyes closed?”

“No, doc, I mean all the time I spent down here, time that could’ve been spent on actual work, on recovery, on—on you, instead of these...distractions. Look at all this wasted time.”

You clicked your tongue. “C’mon. It wasn’t wasted time.”

“How do you figure?”

“You have...problems. Problems you've tried for months to deal with by yourself, because you were convinced you had to. You say you went crazy, but I think working on these suits helped you survive. I mean, look around! Look at all this work you've done. You could help so many people with these suits, how could you call that a waste of time?”

You finally met his eyes, again, and the way he was staring at you with such intense meaning left you feeling overexposed.

“They might’ve helped me survive,” he started, “but you’re the one who helped me live again.”

The red in your cheeks was bright and instant.

You buried your face in your hands and made an unintelligible noise.

“Love you,” he teased.

“Love you, too,” you squeaked into your palms.

You refused to leave the underground collection until you were introduced to each and every one of his creations by name, and he was more than happy to oblige.

You pointed over to a very smartly-designed black-plated suit with red accents. “Who's this sleek guy over there?”

“Mark 16. Nightclub. He's built for stealth missions—doesn't have a whole lot of firepower, but you'll never see him coming.”

“Aaaaand this big guy here?”

“Igor. Mark 38. A lot more brawn than boom, this one. Strongest of the lot.”

You pointed to a nearby suit overhead, one with a deep orange and steel-grey colour scheme. “Who’s this dude with the Naruto paintjob?”

“I don’t know what that means, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and be offended, anyway.” He paused for a moment. “Oh, that's Avalon. Mark 28. He repels radiation, protects the user from exposure. He’s got a unique emergency system built into him, too. I figured I wouldn't be entering a heavily irradiated area unless I had good reason, so Avalon contains an insane amount of computing power that enables a very specific sequence of tactical protocols if...okay, well, this guy will keep going, even if I don't.”

“...wait, what do you mean?”

“I mean I can die in this suit, and it'll keep going until it finishes its mission, or until it's destroyed.”

Your blood turned to ice.

You could see the color drain from your cheeks in the reflection of the protective glass case.

“I don't want you using this one,” you whispered.

“Come again?”

“I don't want you using this one,” you repeated, firmly. “It's bad luck. Just...please don’t use it, okay?”

You could tell from the confused look on his face that he didn't understand why you were so shaken.

He didn't understand, but he didn't have to.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he agreed. “I won't use 28. I'll get rid of him.”

“No, you don’t have to do that, I know he's part of your...” Collection? Gallery? Family? “Just. Don't get into it. Ever. Okay?”

“Scout's Honor.”

At that moment, his phone rang.

“Hold that thought, doc,” he said, looking at the incoming call. “Gotta take this.”

“Y—yeah, no problem.”

Stark had his back turned only a few feet away from you as he spoke on the phone, but you were still too rattled to bother eavesdropping on the conversation. Your mind was being overrun with a thousand and one unfortunate thoughts, each worse than the last. It didn't really hit you until now that with all of Stark's excursions, all of the dangers he faced on a regular basis, the chances of him dying in one of his suits was much higher than you realized. High enough for him to consider Avalon's programming as a goddamn contingency plan.

You took a step back and looked around you with newfound horror, realizing that any one of these suits could serve as his coffin.

Which one would it be?

A hand landed heavily on your shoulder from behind, startling you.

“There's been a Mandarin attack at the Chinese Theaters,” he said, hurried.

“Holy shit, that's only an hour away from he—”

“Happy was there.” His voice broke. “He's in critical condition, they don't know if he’s—”

You could feel him retreating from you with each passing second.

Instinctively, you reached out for him, but he waved your hands away.

(Physical contact made it worse; you’d forgotten yourself—)

“No, don't, I'm trying not to, um...” He stepped backwards, rubbing his forehead as he squeezed his eyes open and shut. “I—I thought I was getting better, why is this still happening? I just need to be able to think straight, I just—I need a game plan, but I—I can't think straight, i—if Happy doesn't make it, I don't know what I'll—”

“Mr. J?” you called up at once. “Can you please get us out of here, it's getting a little claustrophobic.”

“Right away, madam.“

His breathing was shallow, uneven. Panicked.

“Tony,” you said firmly.

The sound of his name in your voice brought his attention back to you.

“I need you. Happy needs you. We need you here, okay? I’m here. Look at me. Breathe.”

(Inhale through the nose—one, two, three.)

(Exhale through the mouth—one, two, three.)

“Your name is Tony Stark.”

“Tony Stark.”

“We're in Malibu, California. It's mid-afternoon.”

“Malibu. Afternoon.”

“We’re going to find the guy who did this.”

“The son-of-a-bitch—”

“You’ve got this.”

“I have to.”

“Where is Chief Hogan now?”

“Southern California Hospital. Hollywood.”

The platform jolted as it reached the plateau and the floor assembled itself back together.

Hooking a hand around the back of his neck, you pressed your forehead to his, remembering to keep your voice steady.

“I'll drive.”

Chapter Text

Twelve hours had passed since the attack.

Beneath layers of bandages and a small army of medical machines, the still-unconscious Happy Hogan was finally stabilizing; at this point in his recovery, the doctor had said, it was a waiting game until he woke from his coma, if he were to wake at all.

Stark had taken the seat closest to the hospital bed. He was leaning forward in his chair, hands pressed together against his mouth in a wary, silent prayer. His focused tension filled the space with static electricity—you could feel him from across the room, bristling in the silence, just as strung-out as he was the moment you both arrived.

You’d made a fast-food run earlier that afternoon for sustenance, as you knew the only way he’d eat was if something edible was placed physically into his hands. Truth be told, you were reluctant to leave him at all, in fear you’d return to an empty chair and news of something drastic. The previous night, you even nudged your seat closer to the entrance before you slept, so that the door would catch on your chair leg and jolt you awake any time it opened.

Hogan was under Stark’s supervision, but Stark was under yours.

Stark knew this.

He knew, which was why his voice was so careful when he spoke up for the first time in hours.

“...what am I going to do?”

You straightened up. “What are you thinking of doing?”

“Getting out there,” he said shortly. “Finding whoever did this, making them pay. You know, the usual.”

“I know,” you whispered, running a hand through your hair. “God, I know, but...do you think that’s what the Chief would’ve wanted for you, right now?”

“Nah,” he muttered back. “The big lug would probably want me to take a vacation until this entire thing blew over.”

Your attention was fixed on Stark’s every movement, as if his racing thoughts would manifest themselves as morse code to the anxious bounce of his leg, or as words behind his little half-smirks of unease. His eyes, on the other hand, were still trained on Hogan, worried and unblinking, as if something horrible would happen the moment he dared to look away.

“What should I do, doc?” he begged of you.

“I think...”

And you drifted into silence.

As far as you were concerned, Iron Man and Tony Stark were separate entities, two brave sides of the same anxiety-shaven coin. There was the man in red and gold who was a leader, a fighter, who saved the world on a regular basis alongside equally iconic paragons of superhumanity, and then there was the man in a Black Sabbath t-shirt and designer jeans who did Benihana tricks in the kitchen to keep you from falling asleep, and you only really, truly knew one of them.

So when Tony Stark asked you for Iron Man advice for the first time in your life, you had no substantial words for him.

And you hated it.

The door beside you bumped your chair leg as it opened.

Clad head to toe in form-flattering business-wear, a familiar presence hurried into the room, all red hair and sharp eyes, her heels clicking across hospital linoleum as she rushed towards Stark. You caught the scent of perfume in her wake.

“Tony,” Potts sighed, exasperated.

Stark got to his feet and they hugged each other, tightly.

“How’s he doing?” she asked into his shoulder.

“Not out of the ballpark, yet,” he said. “Getting there. The doctors are optimistic, but I’m having better ones flown in. Just in case.”

“Good, good.”

“Miss Potts,” you said, standing up with uncertainty.

Your voice gave her a start. She hadn’t realized you were there.

“I’m so sorry about what happened,” you continued in earnest. “This is...horrific. I know you two are close, are you holding up okay?”

“Doctor, hello.” She was gracious enough to turn around and hug you, too. “I’m doing fine, thank you. I’m more worried about Happy. I didn’t expect to see you here, I didn't realize you and Happy were such good friends.”

“We’re...I—I’m mostly here for Mr. Stark. Didn’t want him to be alone, you know?”

(That just seemed to confuse her even more.)

“Yes, um. It’s. Good to have people to lean on.” She turned to Stark and motioned behind her. “Tony, can I speak to you in private?”

“Uh-oh, I’m in trouble.” Stark flashed a glance in your direction. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, run.”

Potts slapped his shoulder in jest, and you watched them leave into the hallway.

You couldn’t help but notice how much Stark eased up when Potts arrived, how the tension rolled off his shoulders with her presence in the exact way it didn’t with yours, and all at once, you felt out of place and slightly intimidated.

Sighing, you flopped into Stark’s chair by the hospital bed, and turned your attention to the tiny television screen overhead.

“Never took you for a British drama kinda guy,” you thought aloud to Hogan.

Stark and Potts were close with Hogan, after all. You only knew the guy as the tight-ass head of security at work, and more recently, someone Stark cared for who really didn’t want you around. But who could blame him? Hell, since before you stepped foot into the hospital, you found yourself more worried about Stark’s state of mind than you were about the man in the goddamn coma. It was selfish. Disingenuous. No wonder Potts was surprised to see you.

What were you even doing here?

Before that destructive train of thought managed to leave the station, you noticed, out the corner of your eye, that the other chair’s leg had gotten in the way of the room door closing completely shut.

“Good to see you’ve made up with your doctor,” Potts said, pulling the door behind them.

“Yeah, I’m on about three appointments a month, the medication’s working alright...” Stark leaned against the opposite wall. “Oh, wait, you meant that doctor. We made up like, two months ago, Pep, get with the times.”

“Don’t get smart with me, I’m trying to give you a compliment.”

“Hey, c’mon, it was a joke. I couldn’t have done it without you, you know.”

“You’re welcome.” She folded her arms. “Do we have any idea who did this to Happy?”

“Of course we do. Whole thing’s got the Mandarin written all over it.”

“The Mandarin? That psychotic terrorist on TV?”

“I got Jarvis to run some tests while I was here. Readings from the theater explosion match heat signatures from his other attacks.”

“I—I don’t believe this,” she said, pacing. “Wasn’t he just blowing up military bases overseas to make some bogus political statement? What is he doing here?”

“I don’t get it, either.” Stark rubbed at his forehead. “Why would the Mandarin hit a tourist attraction? And what was Happy even doing there in the first place?”

“Playing private investigator while I was in a meeting. He does this all the time, I didn’t think he was actually onto something.”

“No, this is good—who was your meeting with?”

“Aldritch Killian, from Advanced Idea Mechanics. The company commissioned to redesign Iron Patriot?”

“War Machine.”

“Whatever,” she sighed. “Killian was trying to sell me on his biotech research, and something about one of his bodyguards just didn't...sit right with Happy. I thought he was overreacting, like usual, but the next thing I know I get a phone call from the hospital, and...” She stopped pacing, and spun around to face him. “It’s not just Killian, either. One of his business partners from AIM has been trying to get in touch with you for weeks. I don’t think it’s a coincidence, Tony.”

“Okay, look.” Stark clasped his hands together. “Here’s what I want you to do. Call up Killian and tell him you’ve changed your mind about his proposal.”

“And why would I do that?”

“You’re going to tell him that with this recent Mandarin attack hitting so close to home, you think his tech can really help protect people.”

Potts quirked an eyebrow. “And I’m doing this because ...?”

“Gives us legitimate access to their databases. Then I work a little magic, see what I can find.”

“Oh, no.” She stuck up an index finger and shook her head. “No, no, no, no—”

“Okaybutjust—”

“Absolutely not, I turned Killian down for the same reason I turn all of them down, and that is to stay away from potential weaponization and to keep our research in alignment with your vision of progressive technology. If we’re right about this and Killian has something to do with the Mandarin? Do you have any idea how much of a PR nightmare that would be, having gone public with that kind of partnership? Do you even care?”

“Pep, listen—”

“Do you see Happy in there or not, Tony?”

Her sudden shift in tone caused him to shut down.

“I have a company to run,” she emphasized, “and I will not compromise the reputation we’ve worked to rebuild after Stane just so you can get a peek under AIM’s hood. I’m not painting a target on my back over this, Tony, I can’t get involved. Not this time.”

“You’re right.”

She inhaled to argue back, but stopped herself, confused. “I’m—what?”

“I said you’re right,” he surrendered. “You’re the best CEO the company’s ever had, I’m not going to tell you how to do your job. Besides, I think you've had enough near-death experiences with me for one lifetime.”

“A hundred lifetimes,” she said, voice softer than before.

He smirked. “I’ll handle this on my own. We’ll start with what we know. This business partner of Killian’s, what’s his name?”

“Her name,” she corrected, “is Maya Hansen. She said she’s an old friend of yours, but don’t they always?”

And the bottom of his stomach fell out.

The hospital room door flew open without warning, catching your chair leg and damn near throwing you out of your seat.

“We need to go,” Stark snapped.

“W—what?” You tried your hardest to look oblivious and not like you’d heard every word. “Right now?”

“Yes, now. Where did you park?”

“Out back, after I got food.” You got to your feet and grabbed your belongings from around the room. “The front is swarming with reporters, and I found out the hard way they all know who I am.”

“Lead the way.”

Before you could gather another thought, Potts stormed back into the room.

"I know that look, Tony,” she said, somehow both exasperated and dangerous. “Where are you going?”

"Taking the doc on vacation until this all blows over."

To your surprise, she planted herself in the space between you and Stark—her back to you, almost protectively.

“Do not drag her into this,” she bit back. “She has no idea what she’s getting herself into.”

“I don’t have a car, Pep, I need her to drive me home so I can get to work.”

Even after everything you overheard, you weren’t sure what to think.

You were terrified to learn that Happy was probably targeted during the attack, rather than simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You were angry Potts wouldn’t help, but at the same time, you knew you’d never been involved when things got dangerous. She was by his side during Stane. She was by his side during Hammer. If anyone was smart enough to know when to stay the hell away from Tony Stark, it was Pepper Potts.

“Don’t get involved,” she warned you, her words foreboding.

“Yes, thank you for the wonderful advice.” Stark grabbed your hand and led you out of the room. “Let's go.”

Nerves flooding with adrenaline and urgency, you held your bag close as you charged through the bleach-pristine hallways of the hospital, Stark hurrying by your side. Though you had a vague grasp on the situation, you still didn't know what specifically had lit a fire under his ass, and you were afraid of where he was going with it.

Instead of taking the elevator, you led him down flights of a concrete stairwell and out the back exit, through the parking lot and to your car. You unlocked it, barely registering the parking citation on your windshield.

“Mr. Stark,” you finally started, shoving the ticket into your bag.

“Come on, come on,” he motioned, climbing into the passenger's seat.

“Mr. Stark—”

He snapped his fingers. “Drive, now, hurry.”

Getting into the driver’s seat, you slammed the door behind you. “Mr. Stark.”

“I’m noticing a very distinct lack of moving, here—”

“Tony.”

Flinching at the sound of his own name, Stark glanced at you, then away, running a frantic hand over his mouth.

“I’m here for you,” you said coolly, “but I am not someone for you to spit orders and snap your fingers at. Got it?”

“Right.” He shut his eyes and tilted his head back against the seat, taking a deep breath. “Right, I'm sorry. Sorry.”

“It's okay. You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay. Where are we going?”

“I need to have a little chat with the business partner of a CEO whom I suspect may be an international terrorist. No big deal. We’re meeting for coffee in an hour.”

“Oh—wow.” You blew out a breath. “Okay, that is a lot to figure out over the course of a five-minute conversation.”

“She’s also my ex? Kind of. It was one night.”

You clenched the steering wheel. “I don’t know if meeting with her’s good idea.”

“Gee, doc, didn’t pin you for the jealous type.”

“I’m not jealous,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You have a lead, I get that, but...you’re not in any condition to start conducting an investigation.”

“I don’t have a choice. The sooner I get to the bottom of this—”

“Your anxiety is in overdrive. You haven’t slept. And I know for a fact you missed your last dose, because we came straight here when we got the news and didn’t pack anything. Can we get someone else to help you do this? Anyone else?”

“I don’t have anyone else. No one who can be here within the hour, anyway.”

You glanced at each other. The sudden implication dawned on both of you at once—you perked up, while he was already shaking his head at you in preemptive rejection.

“Let me do it,” you offered in excitement. “Let me talk to her.”

“Out of the question,” he snapped. “We know the Mandarin has no qualms blowing up public spaces—this could be a trap, for all I know, I’m not putting you in that kind of danger.”

“But you were ready to put yourself in that kind of danger?”

“That’s what I do, doc. I have no idea who we’re dealing with, here.”

“I can find out who we’re dealing with, here.”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?”

“Yeah, but I fucked a stranger once and that ended up pretty alright.”

He snorted and shook his head again, looking out the window.

“Look,” you started, turning to face him, “they’re not stupid enough to do something in broad daylight. You haven’t contacted the authorities yet, so I’m guessing there’s no hard evidence they’re connected to the Mandarin, right? If they were to do something reckless now, it would be irrefutable.”

The beat of silence was a good sign, you decided, as that was the sound of him weighing his options.

“It's just coffee,” you said, shrugging. “Nothing bad’s going to happen over coffee.”

Stark levelled your eyes again, his expression heavy with uncertainty. You stared each other down, and you weren’t about to blink first.

“...god, Pep's gonna be pissed.”

Grinning, you shoved your key into the ignition. “When’s that ever stopped you?”

“Do you remember the safeword?”

You took a deep breath.

Yes, you remembered the safeword, along with all the other information Stark had bombarded you with as careful last-minute coaching for an investigation you had no right conducting. You wanted to help, you wanted to be involved, but as you entered the cafe with a head full of questions and a piece of spytech crammed uncomfortably in your ear, you began to have doubts you could pull this off.

Doubly so, when you saw her.

The gorgeous young woman sat alone at a patio table for two, her nervous hands fidgeting with the cuffs of her long-sleeved hoodie. Her dark-brown hair fell just past her shoulders, light and wavy near the ends. Her makeup boasted too many neutral colours across her soft features, too much effort to blend the marks of stress and worry into something natural.

Taking another deep breath, you entered the cafe and ordered two coffees, just to buy yourself some time.

She glanced up when you approached, and immediately looked offended. “You’re not Tony Stark.”

The reaction caught you off-guard, and you stumbled. “I—I’m here on his behalf.”

“No offence,” she snapped, moving to pack up her things, “but this really isn’t the time to be playing telephone, so tell Stark he can either contact me directly or—”

“With the current situation, you of all people should understand that precautions need to be taken. I’m the closest to a direct line you’re getting until we find out more. Take it or leave it.”

The words fell from your mouth smoothly, surprising even yourself with how effortless you’d made it sound.

Her bag still in-hand, she looked you over from head to toe, sizing you up. “How many times did you have to practice that one in the mirror?”

“Lost count.” You set both coffees on the table, sliding into the seat across from her. “I’m really new to this.”

She didn’t take her eyes off you. “Do you even know who I am?”

“Dr. Maya Hansen,” you said without hesitation, “chief research scientist of Advanced Idea Mechanics. You’ve built your career developing technology capable of gene-editing in real-time.”

“Someone’s done their research.”

“Didn’t have to. Biomed’s my field, too—I’ve actually been following your studies for ages.”

And you introduced yourself.

Emphasis on the ‘doctor.’

Recognition struck her at once, and she nodded at you, unblinking. “Epigenetic mechanisms of neural stem cell differentiation and implications for endogenous neurogenesis.”

Your stoic facade shattered as you practically beamed at her. “You’ve read my work?”

“You’ve cited me,” she said, smiling back. “Any progress in solving the entropic decay?”

“If I figured that out, I’d have a Nobel Prize.”

“Good point.” She set her things down again, settling in and folding her arms. “What’s Stark doing sending his brilliant girlfriend to talk to me in his stead?”

You shrugged. “Couldn’t pass up a chance meeting you in-person.”

“Ah.” She quirked an eyebrow. “Did he happen to mention the fact we’ve slept together?”

“I mean, I don’t blame him.”

“Wow.” She laughed the word, slight acidity returning to her tone. “Well, don’t worry, I’m not here to steal your boyfriend away.”

“Do you really think that’s why I’m here?” you asked. “Out of some petty sexual rivalry?”

Something about the tone of your voice—a crestfallen cadence, between frustration and disappointment—made Hansen ease, visibly.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No, of course not, sorry. I have...a lot on my plate right now.”

“It’s okay, you’ve got every reason not to trust me.” You took another sip. “Honestly, I’m just trying to help out Mr. Stark. Someone close to him got hurt. He wants answers, but he’s...he’s not in a good state, right now. I figured I could take a message, for whatever it was you wanted to say.”

She stared at you over the brim of your coffee cup, like you'd spill a laundry list of ulterior motives if she looked at you with enough determination. Then again, she figured, Stark was the kind of person who would do something like this, to throw past and current lovers in a room together for shits and giggles until something interesting enough happened for him to step in and deem the situation worthy of his time.

If Stark trusted you enough to send you in his place, she could probably trust you enough to tell you why she was here.

Finally, Hansen picked up the coffee you brought her. “How would you feel if someone took the blueprints of your failed projects and auctioned them off to the highest bidder?”

“Mortified anyone would pay for that garbage, honestly.”

“I’m not talking about amateur labwork or failures to reject the null, I’m talking research dangerous enough to be defunded due to ethical concerns outweighing its potential applications.”

You shook your head. “It’d never get past in vitro.”

“It didn’t, but somehow I don’t think the Mandarin has much reverence for the Ethics Committee.”

“That would be a disaster.” You leaned in and glanced over your shoulder, making sure you weren’t overheard. “Are you sure it’s yourresearch, though?”

“I know my tech when I see it,” she insisted. “Those terrorist attacks, the explosions—the ones they can’t find the bombs for? That’s...Extremis. My Extremis. It’s always been unstable, and I know...I know what it looks like when it fails.”

“And you need Stark’s help to deal with the fallout.”

“Well, yeah. Not exactly something I can file a police report for, is it? Plus.” She paused for a moment, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Killian’s...always had it in his head that Tony Stark is his biggest rival. He’s just reached out to the current CEO of Stark Industries to make some kind of deal, and...look, I don’t know what he’s planning, but tell Stark I can keep him updated if I find out anything new.”

“Wait—you’re not going back ?” You looked shocked. “You can’t go back to someone who’s holding your work hostage like this.”

Her laughter was hollow. “And where exactly am I supposed to go?”

For the second time that day, you had no answer.

Logically, you knew Hansen couldn’t just run away, not if Killian had the lethal combination of ruthlessness and resources Hansen so heavily implied. Nevertheless, you wanted to do something to help her, to prevent the missteps of her past research from being exploited and malformed into something ugly and destructive. As a fellow scientist, you could think of no greater transgression.

Hansen swept a quick glance over your shoulder and cursed under her breath. The panicked recognition that flashed across her eyes was an expression too familiar for comfort—you didn’t have to follow her gaze to know that something unwelcome was walking your way.

“You know, Dr. Hansen,” said a man’s voice beside your table, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were trying to ditch me.”

Hansen sneered. “Good thing you know better, then.”

Five men in suits approached your patio table, drawing glances from other patrons sitting outside the cafe. At the head of them stood a well-built man in a loose tie; his head was shaven—his strong face, clean-cut. He had his hands tucked in the pockets of his slacks, and he kept his posture casual, carrying himself with the distinct air of someone who had better things to do.

The bodyguard’s steel-blue eyes shifted from Hansen, to you, and back to Hansen, before he flashed a smile all but genuine.

Hansen tilted her head back as she spoke to him. “I’m guessing Aldritch would like a word?”

“Mr. Killian wanted to ensure you didn’t get caught in rush hour.”

“How kind of him.”

“We have a schedule to keep, Dr. Hansen.” He moved aside, gesturing to the space beside him. “Shall we?”

The world around you slowed to a crawl.

Hansen gave you a look of knowing from across the table, radiating dread and apprehension. Realization rushed through you like ice water—there was a reason she wanted to meet with Stark, in case actual, real-life henchmen showed up and tried to bully her away, but here you were in his stead, civilian and weak and absolutely powerless to save her.

She gathered her things. Your mind was spinning, but you were frozen in place. Letting her go felt like watching a victim be dragged to a second crime scene, but what could you do?

“And where exactly am I supposed to go?”

“We’re not done here,” you said, sharply.

And all eyes were on you.

Contrary to the anxious, terrified voice racing through your head, the one that leapt from your mouth sounded insulted by the audacity they must’ve had to disrespect your presence entirely, like you were Tony Stark, or something.

“Oh, blueberries,” you curse-whispered, realizing what you’d done.

Since when had you gotten so brave?

“And what are you doing here, exactly?” the man asked.

You fought to keep a neutral expression. Shit, you didn’t actually think this far ahead. All you had to do right now was focus on buying time. What could you do to buy time?

What would Tony Stark do?

“We’re on a date,” you said, evenly.

“A date?” He quirked an eyebrow. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I know, right? I don’t know what she sees in me.”

“Well, gay time’s over. Dr. Hansen’s coming with us.”

“Alright, budget Wentworth Miller, maybe you didn’t hear me the first time. I said we weren’t done here.”

Hansen hadn’t taken her eyes off you. She remained unblinking and slack-jawed, as if she were watching something horrific unfolding before her but was too morbidly curious about where it was going to intervene.

After a few moments of surprised silence, the bodyguard stuck his tongue in his cheek, and chuckled.

With one slow, careful movement, he leaned against your patio table, leering over you, using his other hand to brush open his unbuttoned blazer and flash his sidearm your way.

“I think it’s my call as to whether or not Dr. Hansen is done here,” he said. “You’ll forgive me for doing my job.”

The sight of the gun forced you to reconsider the severity of the situation.

You tried not to let your nerves get to you.

Think. Think. Think.

Don’t escalate the situation any further.

You just needed a little more time.

Remaining indignant, you gestured towards Hansen. “She hasn’t paid, yet. I’m not letting her stick me with the damn bill, again.”

The bodyguards turned to Hansen.

Bewildered, she jolted in her seat, the ball you’d thrown in her court having smacked her square in the face.

“I—I forgot my wallet,” she played along.

“...you’re kidding, right?”

“Why would I be kidding?”

“Jesus Christ.” You crossed your arms, shoving yourself into the back of your chair. “You know, this is so typical of you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snapped back, raising her voice a little. The anger almost sounded real.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“It’s not my fault you have the communication skills of a twelve-year-old, I’m not a mind-reader—”

“It’s called common fucking courtesy, Maya, you know you make more money than I do—”

“Oh, here we go again—”

“Ladies, ladies, please,” the bodyguard intervened, straightening up and raising placating hands. “Allow me.”

He reached into his inner jacket pocket, and took out his wallet.

“Thought you said you were dating, not married,” he said, amused, tossing a few twenties unceremoniously on the table. “We done here?”

“Just about.” You nodded to someone behind him. “Don’t forget your change.”

No sooner did he turn around, than did a great, titanium-alloyed fist make loving contact with the side of his jaw.

The man doubled backwards, crashing into a nearby table.

“Huh,” said Stark, his voice muffled by the helmet. “He does look like Wentworth Miller.”

Before you could reply, the entire group of bodyguards were on him, guns drawn.

Shots rang through the air. A pane of glass shattered somewhere behind you. Between the chaos of the fight and the sudden stampede of cafe patrons evacuating the area, you and Hansen had no choice but to dive in front an upturned table for cover.

After over two years knowing the man, this was the first time Stark had suited up in front of you. You’d seen pictures and videos from news articles and special events, and the secret Iron Legion sitting behind glass, and individual bits and pieces of armour stuck to his arms and legs as he worked on them in his lab, but you’d never, ever seen him in action this close, before.

And Tony Stark was gorgeous, in a strange, fantastic sort of way, encased in fighter’s metal like a knight displaced in time, clad in a suit of heat and wire he’d smithed with his own two hands: the same tech that saved him, that destroyed him, that brought him to the edge of madness while keeping him sane enough not to jump. You loved the suit. You hated the suit. But he was the suit, and he was a masterpiece.

“Honey,” Stark called out, parrying two of the gunmen at once, “would you please escort Dr. Hansen back to the car?”

Your fight-or-flight instinct took charge and chose the latter.

You grabbed Hansen by the wrist and you shot to your feet together, tearing down the city block as fast as your legs would take you. Suddenly, a shout of protest from one of the guards behind you—one aimed their gun in your direction and began firing, bullets ricocheting off concrete and metal too close for comfort. You ducked and kept running, even as the gunfire stopped abruptly at the sound of further struggle and heavy impacts.

Rounding a corner, you dared to steal one last look at the scene.

The lead bodyguard, watching you slip through his fingers, levelled your gaze with fire in his eyes—actual, literal fire, as if he were burning from the inside.

“What the fu—”

It was Hansen’s turn to grab you by the arm and drag you away.

Your Civic was parked nearby, its engine running idle with its back door left wide open. You were thankful it hadn’t been stolen, left like this, but you immediately heard Stark’s voice in your head—“It’s never been in danger of that, doc.”

God, you hoped he was okay.

Hansen flung herself into the backseat; you clamoured into the driver’s side, and shut the door.

She leaned forward. “Should we wait for—”

“Nope,” and you were off.

You didn’t know where you were going, but you figured the more distance you could put between yourself and the cafe, the better.

The next several minutes were spent in panicked silence as you drove, checking the rearview mirror every few seconds to make sure you weren’t being followed. Your heart was going a mile a minute, but knowing you had a job to do—to keep yourself and Maya safe—helped keep you focused.

You stopped at a red light, both hands trembling on the steering wheel.

“Hey,” prompted the voice from the backseat. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I. Um.” Laughing, you wiped the sweat from your brow. “I’ve just never been shot at before, you know?”

“Didn’t think they’d be that quick to shoot at me, either,” she said, grimly. “But thank you. For what you did back there.”

You nodded, not knowing what else to say. Every possible response sounded presumptuous in your head.

A sharp tapping on your passenger’s side window made you jump in your seat.

“Knock, knock.”

“OhMrStarkthankgod.”

He climbed inside and slid his helmet off, both him and the suit looking a little worse for wear. You wasted no time in throwing your arms around him, which was a little awkward considering the size of his suit in your car.

Stark laughed, a little breathless. “I love you, too, sweetheart, but green light—”

“Oh shit right I’m driving.”

“Stark,” Hansen greeted flatly, much less impressed to see him again than you were.

“Dr. Hansen, how have you been? Keeping out of trouble?”

“Were you really just camped around the corner that entire time? What took you so long?”

“You’re severely underestimating how long it takes to do anything in Doc’s clown car, let alone put on a suit.”

“He can hear you, you know,” you warned. “Do you want our getaway car to break down? Because that’s how you make a getaway car break down.”

Stark pat an armoured hand on the dashboard and muttered a small ‘sorry.’ You couldn’t tell if he was doing it ironically.

“So,” he started. “Pep said Happy was looking into one of Killian’s bodyguards at the time of the theatre incident. Considering ol’ cueball back there was able to heal his wounds mid-fight and punch fire, I’m going out on a limb here and saying he was probably one of them.”

You couldn’t help but notice how normal Stark sounded right now, his foggy aimlessness from earlier clearing way for a manic, razor-sharp focus. You weren’t sure whether or not that was a good thing, but maybe having something to protect helped keep him focused, too.

“What’s the plan?” you asked.

“We need to regroup.”

“So back to the house?”

He shook his head. “Might have eyes on the house. I’ve got a safehouse sixty miles south of the city, just keep driving. When we get there, I can look into Killian, gather supplies—I need to make a call. Dr. Hansen, can I borrow your phone?”

“Oh. Sure.”

As soon as he got his hands on it, he rolled down his window, and tossed it out onto the highway.

“What the hell?” Hansen shrieked.

“I found you guys on the road using the tracker they put on your phone, so they won’t be using that trick again anytime soon. Congratulations, you’re kidnapped. Officially.”

Stark turned around as best he could, fully suited in your passenger’s seat.

“Now, start from the beginning.”

Chapter Text

Somehow, you thought ‘safehouses’ were supposed to be inconspicuous.

Though nowhere near as grandiose as Stark’s home in Malibu, the place you’d taken temporary refuge could still house a family of twelve quite comfortably. The elegant outdoor landscaping and impeccable interior design made the building feel more like a four-star hotel than covert asylum, but you figured it made sense—if Stark had to go into hiding, he’d be doing it in style.

You and Hansen sat across from each other, a small table and two untouched coffees between you. You both looked little worse for wear, but you’d been lucky to escape the day’s events with nothing more than a handful of scrapes and bruises. Stark wasn’t looking much better himself, but unlike the two of you, he was on his feet and moving, pacing around the room with all the patience of an anxious cat; you could practically hear the gears grinding in his head, processing everything Hansen had confessed about Killian and their company on the car ride over.

It was strange to think that, less than a couple of hours ago, you were leaving the hospital with Stark, having successfully convinced him to take a break and let you handle the meeting with Hansen.

Five henchmen and one destroyed cafe later, you knew he must have been regretting that decision.

“So the Mandarin is using your Extremis for his attacks?” Stark asked.

“Yeah,” said Hansen. “Those bombings? That’s exactly what happens when you let it get unstable enough.”

“Incendiary devices leave remnants. A million-acre forest fire can be tracked down to a single lit cigarette—it’s forensics, it’s a science. That means there’s evidence at the theater explosion. Something I can use to connect the attacks back to AIM.”

“You won’t find any evidence. Just like they wouldn’t have found any at any of the other sites.”

“Yeah, why’s that?”

“Extremis isn’t just some incendiary device, like a bomb or a flare, it’s.” She folded her arms and shifted in her seat. “It’s a form of genetic manipulation. It needs a living host for the thermodynamic hypercharge to work. If the host can control it, Extremis can give them regenerative abilities, enhance their physical performance—but if the host can’t control it...”

Stark made a comical explosion noise.

She shut her eyes and winced away from him, as if the thought alone made her sick. “Point is, the Mandarin is weaponizing my tech to make super-soldiers and living bombs, tech Killian just handed to him on a silver platter. And I don’t know what I can do.”

Keeping silent, you’d watched the two of them go back and forth since Stark started his pseudo-interrogation. Still fueled by outrage over Hogan’s incident, Stark was looking for information, for inconsistencies, for anything he could use as an excuse to get out there and track down the perpetrators. Hansen, on the other hand, was wondering if seeking help was worth the trouble if all they were going to do was talk in circles.

The entire situation was way above your paygrade—but the gears in your head were turning, too.

“You said Extremis is a form of genetic manipulation,” you spoke up. “How is it administered, exactly? Radiotherapy?”

Hansen turned back to you, blinking the weariness from her eyes to try and refocus on your conversation. “Uh—no, intravenous. It’s an intravenous agent.”

“So it works like a virus? Enters the bloodstream, attacks the brain, creates a biochemical reaction.”

“More or less.”

“Then, hypothetically,” you straightened up, “you could develop a vaccine for it.”

The suggestion gave her pause. “I don’t know, maybe? I haven’t gotten anywhere with Extremis’s development in over a decade, I’m not sure how plausible it is to try reverse-coding a half-finished product.”

“I think I might be able to help.”

Your words had gotten both Stark and Hansen’s attention.

You cleared your throat, mulling the words over in your head to make sure you got them right. “If Extremis evokes a thermodynamic reaction that accelerates cellular function, reversing it means causing mass cellular deceleration, which...just so happens to be the unwanted byproduct of my current experimentation.”

The sudden light of inspiration in your eyes now sparked in hers. “You can’t maintain neurogenesis because of entropic decay.”

“And entropic decay is exactly what you need to reverse Extremis’s unstable effects,” you continued. “Obviously, the numbers will need major tweaking, and we’ll need to run some tests—”

“We’ll need samples,” Hansen agreed, shuffling forward in her chair. “There’s not enough time to recreate Extremis from scratch, not with the Mandarin’s recent threats.”

“Where would we get those?”

“Closest AIM headquarters would be in Houston, but...you don’t understand, Killian’s got eyes everywhere—if we hop on a plane, o—or a bus, he’ll see us coming from miles away.”

“Honey,” Stark interrupted, rather loudly, “can I speak to you in private for a moment?”

You were so wrapped up in your discussion with Hansen, you’d forgotten Stark was even there.

His request took you by surprise, but you followed his lead down the hallway. The way Hansen watched in confusion as the two of you disappeared around a corner did not escape your notice.

You entered the room, and shut the door behind you.

Segments of Mark 42 had been disassembled and spread across the floor for post-battle diagnostics. Toeing around the maze of parts, Stark reached the nearby couch, and lazily straddled the armrest. He stretched an arm out in front of him; one of the suit’s gloves flew across the room and attached itself to his hand like a magnet, red and silver metal spreading across his fingers and up his entire forearm.

“Haven’t seen that trick before,” you said, impressed.

“Neat, right? Had to bring the baby—he’s the only one who’d fit in your trunk.”

A mass of images projected themselves from his forearm panel, drowning the room’s ambient lighting with the bright blue glow of various interfaces. Stark gestured through the windows and touch screens, navigating the arrays of diagrams and news articles filling the room around him, his attention maneuvering quickly from one set of panels to the next.

“What are you thinking, doc?” he asked, without looking at you.

“About what?”

“About Maya.”

“I want to help her, if I can.” You made your way over and sat by his side, folding up your legs off the floor. “I mean, having the worst, most volatile parts of your research stolen by a bunch of power-hungry men and used in terrorist attacks? That...fucking sucks.”

“So you trust her?”

“You don’t?”

He clicked his tongue. “Just feels like there’s something she’s not telling us.”

Falling silent, you watched as he conducted his wordless research. Hansen hadn’t given you any reason not to trust her—but in Stark’s world, you realized that must have been tragically naive.

“What do you think we should do, then?” you asked. “Send her back to Killian?”

“No, but I don’t know if getting you involved in this is the greatest idea.”

“I’m already involved. I was involved the moment I went to meet her instead of you.”

“That was a mistake,” he snapped. “I should’ve never let do you that, I should’ve never—”

“You didn’t let me do anything,” you shot back. “We’re both adults—we made a decision, together, and like it or not, here we are.”

“I definitely don’t have to like it. And I definitely don’t have to sit quiet while you hand over your life’s work to someone you just met two hours ago.”

The words took you by surprise.

Stark was worried about you, of course he was, but he was also worried about the integrity of your research—and his concern made sense. At the heart of it all, he was a fellow scientist who’d been with you every step of the way—from your University research proposal, to your doctoral thesis, to the months upon months of sleepy, unproductive nights filled with failed experiments and paperwork to nowhere. He was just as invested in your work as you were.

And he didn’t want to see you compromised.

“I’m not like you, Mr. Stark,” you said. “I’m not a genius in any sense of the word. I don’t have a lot of things to offer.”

“That’s not—”

“You know what I mean,” you interrupted. Fishing for compliments wasn’t what you were aiming for, here. “My research...hasn’t gone anywhere. It hasn’t gone anywhere in a while, and I’ve been worrying a lot about whether or not I’m wasting my time. But Doctor Hansen—she’s been working on this one project for over ten years. That’s how much faith she has in it. In herself. Maybe I have something she needs. Maybe she knows something I don’t. You know my work almost as well as I do, Mr. Stark—if you think any part of my research can help her, I need you to let me try.”

Though he continued staring at the projected screens ahead of him, you could already read the answer in his expression.

Leaning up, you gently cradled a hand against his cheek, turning him to face you properly.

“You have to let me try,” you whispered.

“...you know, the last time I took your advice, you got a cafe blown up.”

You narrowed your eyes. “That cafe would’ve blown up with or without me there and you know it.”

“Crazy things happen once these suits get involved, sweetheart. It’s going to be dangerous.”

“I’m in a relationship with you, it comes with the territory.”

He smirked, softly.

And then his lips were on yours.

It felt like it had been ages since you’d last done this, but he kissed you, hard, and the contact set your nerves alight, just as it did every time.

He touched his forehead to yours, resigned, the worry weighing heavy in his eyes.

You rested another kiss against the side of his nose. “Stop thinking you have to do everything on your own. You’re not alone, remember?”

Realization dawned across his face like a new day.

Stark righted himself on the couch arm, clearing away the projections with an impatient swipe of his hand before replacing them a number pad and hitting speed-dial.

Before you could register what was happening, a video display appeared in the air as someone picked up the line.

The man on the other end glanced at Stark, then at you, and already looked exhausted.

“Evening, Colonel,” you said, sheepishly.

“Hi, Doctor. Tony. What’s up?”

Stark’s tone was clear and deliberate. “I have it on very good authority that your buddies over at Advanced Idea Mechanics have something to do with the Mandarin attacks.”

“Oh yeah, what authority?”

“An AIM executive told me so. She’s my hostage now, by the way—you sure you still don’t want me in on this?”

“Are you serious right—” With a loud, frustrated groan, Rhodes rubbed a hand over his face. “I told you, I am not in charge of this operation anymore.”

“But you’re second-in-charge, right? That’s almost as good.”

“Look, just because you can piss all over protocol, that doesn’t mean the rest of us can get away with it scott-free. There’s a chain of command—I cannot be discussing this with you on my own.”

“Well, not with that attitude.”

“I’m bringing him in.”

Stark’s face fell. “Wait, what?”

“You haven’t given me a choice, Tony.”

“Wait wait wait—nonononono—”

But the line was already dialing.

A second video screen appeared next to Rhodes. Bright blue eyes and short blonde hair came into view—a handsome face, boyish but strong, and trustworthy in a way you couldn’t quite explain. The man seemed out of breath as he answered the call; you could see a punching bag behind him, and a gleam of sweat on his brow.

You couldn’t have stopped yourself if you trIed. “Holy shit, it’s Captain America!”

Still catching his breath, Rogers gave you an impossibly charming smile. “Evening, ma’am.”

Meanwhile, Stark’s eyes rolled to the back of his skull. “Yeah—she’s easily impressed, don’t read too much into it—can we focus, here?”

“Captain Rogers,” Rhodes started, “Tony here’s captured an AIM executive who says the company’s dealing with the Mandarin.”

“What—you’ve taken an AIM rep hostage? Is this a civilian we’re talking about? Is that her?”

Rogers pointed at you with a boxing-wrapped hand. Your brain shorted out and you waved back, nervously.

Rhodes had a smile in his voice. “No, Captain, that’s Tony’s girlfriend.”

“Oh.” Smirking, Rogers offered you a nod. “My condolences, ma’am.”

“Watch it,” Stark warned.

“So you mean to say you brought two civilians into my investigation without my knowledge?”

“Sure did, mom. Hey—could you let me explain before you jump down my throat, maybe? The two of you might learn something.”

Rhodes looked as exasperated as always, but Rogers kept his patience, his composure clearly tempered by many past experiences with Stark.

“We’re listening.”

“The AIM exec is an old friend of mine who came to me for help, Dr. Maya Hansen. She says it’s their tech behind the bombings. There’s been three of them so far, right?”

“Only three have been made public. There’s actually been—”

“—nine attacks worldwide.” Stark brought up a holographic projection of a globe; certain areas around the world were marked with a bright red glow. “I found out the Mandarin attacks have a distinct heat signature—a very balmy 3000 degrees. Not many natural phenomena match the time frames and radii of impact from the Chinese Theater bombing. Why haven’t the other six been made public?”

“We’re trying not to cause a panic,” said Rhodes. “Especially since we don’t know how he’s doing it. We’re calling them bombings, but none of the fire investigations have turned up remnants of explosive devices.”

“It’s because he’s using people as bombs. Not suicide bombers—people injected with some kind of performance-enhancement virus, something that blows them up if it runs too hot. ”

“...you’re kidding.”

“Dr. Hansen told you this?”

Stark nodded. “Mandarin’s associated with the Ten Rings, same guys who threw me in a cave and wanted me to build things for them. Weapons of mass destruction are their bread and butter. Looks like they finally got their hands on something big.”

Rogers nodded again. “Any leads?”

“AIM has a global network with two headquarters in North America, Houston and Miami. Both good places to start digging.”

“And the third?”

“There’s a tenth heat signature that matches the profile, but predates all recent Mandarin attacks. It was marked as a suicide bombing, in some backwater town in Tennessee. I’m thinking it was ground zero. Might be worth checking out.”

“Understood. Colonel Rhodes will stay at his post with the President and continue trying to isolate the source of the Mandarin’s broadcast. I’ll investigate places of interest and get back to you with what I find.”

“Got it, Captain.”

“If you give me ten minutes, I can. Y’know.” Stark made little typing motions. “Sneak into AIM’s databases, save you guys some time.”

“You’ve done enough,” said Rogers. “Dr. Hansen is a person of interest in this investigation, and you’ve somehow managed to get your girlfriend involved. Your job right now is to keep the civilians safe until this is all over.”

“Yeaaaah, about that. There’s little thing I need to take care of in Houst—”

“Don’t let them out of your sight, Stark. Over and out.”

Both video feeds disconnected at once, throwing the bedroom back into its normal ambient lighting.

“You’re welcome!” Stark shouted at the now-empty room. He threw an arm up, hopeless. “Unbelievable.”

“At least you got help,” you offered, trying to cheer him up. “Now you don’t have to be in three places at once.”

“Nope. Just one. Ever been to Houston?”

“Um...” You weren’t sure where this was headed. “No, why?”

“Captain’s orders, remember? Can’t let either of you out of my sight.” He tilted his head to look at you. “Think that car of yours can make the trip?”

You returned his smile of malicious compliance tenfold.

“Hell yes, he can.”