A friendship which never was.

by Sagiri

Summary:

A year passes before Steve and his Sidekicks are finally allowed back into the compound. Everyone—except James—seems to believe things will go back to normal.

Too bad the New Avengers couldn’t care less about what Steve and his friends think. They make damn sure Rogers and his pathetic band of sidekicks stay the hell away from their favorite Inventor.

Notes:

I am not a native speaker and have no Beta so there will probably be mistakes.
This is not Team Cap friendly so if you can't handle all the saltiness it'll be best to leave. You've been warned. The only one who's getting a second chance here is James because he deserves it.

Chapter 1: Chapter 1

The world had been monotonous and gray for the past last year. And James could feel his energy leaving him like an ink stain into blotting paper. He struggled to feel anything these days and when he managed to feel anything at all, it had been anemic emotions that had no substance. They were flat and drained and swallowed him up a whole.

Today was one of those days, too. The car was filled with excited chatter from people he had come to despise deeply over the last months. They were talking about all the things they would do once the car would finally reach their destinated goal; The Avengers compound. His formerly best friend which occupied the seat next to him was talking eagerly about their future, and how he always knew that this day would come since the world needed their protection.

James tried to ignore the man's pointless babbling most of the time, the words sounding shallow in his ears. Once he might have thought of Steve as something resembling a brother but things had changed drastically and so had Steve. The man wasn't the small and weak boy he had once known nor the selfless man he had grown into... And James supposed that this was their end of the line.

To which extend Steve had changed, James had to realize the hard way when Princess Shuri had informed him about what really had happened between Steve and Stark after James had left the bunker. To hear what Steve had done to the man, how he had almost killed their friend's son and left him behind like some sort of filthy trash... James couldn't take it. Steve had said Stark was fine. He had lied to him without hesitation, had smiled at James as if nothing had happened at all. And for what? To protect the man who had killed Stark's parents. His body felt as if poison was coursing through it instead of blood. His once fondly childhood memories of Steve suddenly felt as if they were tarred, disfigured into something grotesque. Shuri must have known exactly what he was thinking at that time. It must have been written all over his god damn face. Because he saw it in her gaze. He couldn't stand Shuri's gaze on him, the way her face had morphed into pitty when she realized that he hadn't known. It was almost as if she couldn't bear to look at him but forced herself to do so. He was glad that she had avoided him since that day because he was sure that if they ever made eye contact again, James thought he might have to vomit his guts out under those pitting eyes of hers.

James, unlike Steve, knew that it wasn't like the world had needed them to come back. The world was just fine, even without them. They had Stark and the people who stood by his side. He had followed every step of the man since Siberia happened and knew that the man had built a new and even better Team from scratch. A Team filled with people who seemed to care about him. Those people... They were his friends, his real friends. Not such pathetic individuals as Steve and the others.
He knew, that it was thanks to one Anthony Stark that they got their pardons and were allowed to return to the States under various conditions... He doubted that it was out of goodwill, but rather in order to keep Steve and those idiots in check. They had done enough damage to the world and the people around them over the past few months, probably enough for more than one lifetime. That Steve acted so god damn happy around him could only mean that he nor the others had cared to take a closer look at the conditions under which they were allowed to return. James couldn't help but sigh at the sheer stupidness of them. Why hadn't he realized what a selfish man Steve had become? Or maybe, Steve had always been a selfish man, but James had never seen it before or rather, never wanted to. Maybe, just maybe James had been blinded by Steve's righteousness... Whatever it was, James wasn't sure if he wanted to know the answer.

The chatter went on and on, and James found himself imagine how nice it would be if the car just crashed. How sweet it would be to hear how the laughter of those idiots died down in an instant, replaced by desperately raps for air because their lungs were filled by blood, their bones all cracked and broken into various angles. Muscles and joints and organs sputtering through the car like they were being crumbled and smashed into a tiny box. The Archer's torso and head smashed up against the windshield while the Widdow's arms and legs were torn off in the most gruesome way one could imagine. The world flickering its figurative light on and off before she goes limp and closes her eyes for the very last time due to the immense blood loss... He had to chuckle at that thought. He wasn't the same. Wasn't that Bucky Barnes Steve so desperately wanted him to be. He was more Winter Soldier than all of them believed him to be. There was no second personality. Just him; James. 

To James's demise, the ride went on without further complications or accidents and after one too many comments about Stark, he found himself thinking about breaking that stupid Archer's neck himself. Unfortunately, he never got the chance as the driver announced that they had reached their destination.

The excitement in the car reached its heights, then. Everyone's voices started to mix into a cacophony of words, ringing terribly in his ears. 

When he finally got out of the car, he walked with his head bent, averting the eyes from the people he had to spend a whole year with and dispised to his very core. His aim was to be invisible, blend. Any social interaction would just be annoying and he would risk killing someone before he could get the chance to apologize to Stark. He made his way to the entrance, keeping a rather large distance between Steve and the others and himself. 

It wasn't until the cacophony of voices in front of him died down, that he briefly considered lifting his eyes up from the ground he had stared daggers at. If the idiots became silent, something good must have been going on. Maybe, Stark himself had decided to greet them? James could feel the excitement rising in his chest.

When he lifted his gaze up to take a look, he immediately felt outright disappointment at the unfamiliar silhouette of a man who was standing in front of Steve and his idiotic sidekicks, successfully blocking the entrance of the compound.

He was a scruffy-looking man with blond short hair and piercing blue eyes, idly smoking a cigarette without any care in the world. His facial hair was short but gave him the look of someone who didn't give one fuck about his appearance and a clean shave. He wore a long, rumpled trench coat, white shirt, and a black-tie around his neck which probably had seen better days at one point. The large scar on the man's left cheek, and a missing left thumb, which looked like it had been severed didn't go unnoticed by James, nor Steve's hand which he reached out in greeting.

"Hello. I am Steve Rogers and this is-"

"Keep the small talk to yourself, kiddo. I'm just here to show you around the compound and bring ya guys to your quarters. Follow me, I don't have all day. Also, don't talk to me when it's not necessary. I'm not your mom, just the poor sucker who drew the shorter straw here... So, do this old man a favor and keep whatever you want to say to yourself."
He mumbled and turned around, making his way to the entrance before Steve got even the slightest chance to say something in return.

The bewildered faces of the others were priceless and James got the distant feeling that he would get along quite well with that old geezer.
'A foul-mouthed cynic - I like that.'
He chuckled, making his way past Steve and the others's who wasted their time with unnecessary complaining about how rude the mysterious man had acted towards them. 

"Excuse me! Ahm- What did you say your name was? I'm afraid I haven't-"
Steve walked up to the man but was immediately cut off again.

"Hell, you are really as dumb as I thought you to be, aren't ya?" He said, almost sounding personally offended. "Listen, and listen closely, because I won't repeat myself here; I'm not your friend, nor do I plan to become your friend in the near future. I am here to show you your quarters, that's all. So, it would be nice if you and your merry band of sidekicks would shut the fuck up and keep that befriending stuff to yourself. Just let me do my god damn fuckin' job, okay?"

With that being said, the man turned around again, walking ahead and not waiting for them to follow. James could make out that he was mumbling to himself, something about 'Matt's going to pay for that' and 'That sucker cheated for sure'.

James had problems stifling his laugh, given the stupid face, Steve and the others were making. It was clear as day that the man disliked Steve and the others probably even more than James and that fact alone made him smile like a madman. It was clear that the man was just here because he had to, not because he wanted to. Yet, Steve didn't get the hint. James, already quite amused found himself wondering who that mysterious cheater might be if he had the balls to piss that old grumpy geezer off. That guy would certainly get a lot of fun out of pissing Steve off, too. 

His thoughts were interrupted by the annoying voices of Steve's so-called Teammates and James couldn't help but walk faster to get more distance between so much stupidy and himself.  

"What the fuck?" Who does that guy think he is?!"
The Archer seethed, hands balled into fists.
"Does he even know who we are? We saved his goddamn ass from a fuckin' alien invasion!"

'Nah, that guy would have probably been a bigger help back then, than you were. A fuckin' Archer against an alien army? Don't make me laugh. I saw the footage. Stark did most of the work.'  James thought amused, hiding his shit-eating grin from the others.

"Calm down, Clint. It's clear as day that Stark is behind that. That guy's obviously just here to piss us off. We will call him out on it as soon as we get the chance to talk to him. You know how childish he is - It can't be helped."
The Widdow drawled while laying a hand on the Archer's shoulder, softly squeezing it in a reassuring matter.

'The only children I happen to see here are you guys.'

"Natasha's right. Let's follow that guy and wait until we get a chance to talk to Stark."
The Ant guy added in that annoying cheery voice of his. All James knew about the man was that he had a daughter and was practically useless without that Suit of his which wasn't even his own.

The other's nodded and started to get into motion again, following behind the man but not without complaining about various other things James simply didn't give a fuck about.

 

It took around ten minutes until they reached their destination, and it was written all over Steve's face that he was about to complain yet again after the man had shown them around their new living quarters.

The rooms were small and obviously not meant for people to stay longer than necessary. There was a small kitchen and living room they had to share and two bathrooms with showers, one for the women and one for the men. It was nothing special but better than most of the apartments Bucky had lived in.

"What- What is this supposed to mean?"
Steve asked bewildered. "Before we left, each of us had our own floor! And now you expect us to live in such a small bedroom?"

"Stark that fucker is doing this on purpose!"
The Archer yelled at particular no one while the Hydra girl whined about how small her bed was and that the common living room wasn't big enough to fit all of them in.

"Those are the quarters for new members who haven't decided where to stay yet." The man said unimpressed, totally ignoring the yelling and whining. "Until you have found somewhere else to stay or decided to rent one of the bigger apartments at the compound you will have to stay here. You are free to leave at any time or rent a place which is more to your liking. No one will stop you. But have in mind that no one will pay the rent for you, nor help you find a place to stay. Though, I have to add that there is probably no citizen in their right mind who would rent you guys an apartment anyways. There are villains out there who are more popular among the citizens than you guys."

"Wait. What do you mean we have to pay for the apartments? The compound belongs to Stark! Why should the Avengers have to pay for staying here?"
The Archer asked bewildered and James couldn't help but roll his eyes at that. The fact that the Archer wasn't bothered about the last part spoke volumes about his stupidity. 

"Does that mean we will have to stay in these tiny rooms? And what about new clothes? Mine are old and filthy." Wanda whined.

"None of you have read the accords, haven't you?"
James couldn't help but ask, the distinct urge to just punch them all straight into the face brooding within his chest.

"What do you mean, Bucky?"
Steve asked in confusion. 

"James."
He snapped back without hesitation, but Steve just looked at him with these understanding eyes, even though he didn't understand rats shit.

"Buck I know this is all rather new for you but-"

"God damn. Steve. Could you stop that shit? Why is it so hard for you to get the hint? I am not Bucky. I stopped being him when Hydra got their dirty hands on me."

James growled, irritation and anger flooding his mind.

"The same goes for the accords! If you would stop your righteous shit for just one damn second and actually use your fuckin' brain, you would know that these rooms are just temporally and we'll have to either pay the rent for them or leave."

"Calm down, Bucky. You are just confused. I didn't mean to upset you. We can talk about it later I promise, but now is not the time for that." Steve said in that typical 'Don't worry- I know that's best for you' voice.

'God damn!' James couldn't take this shit anymore. Maybe It would have been best if Stark had killed him on that day in Siberia. Then, he wouldn't have to deal with Steve's verbal bullshit all the time. 

"What are you even talking about? What do you mean we have to either pay or leave?"

Natasha intervened. The only one of them who seemed to have at least some sort of a functional brain.

"What your little friend means to say, is..."
A voice drawled from behind, startling them from their conversation.
"That you guys have to either pay the fuckin' rent like all of us do or take your fuckin' leave and get your own apartment in the city - For which you will have to pay as well."
A rough around the edges looking woman said dryly, the sarcastic undertone in her voice more than audible. 

"Damn. Jessica. What the fuck are you doing here? Weren't you supposed to look after Wade? You know that you can't leave that sociopath alone."
The man sighed resigned, obviously not happy to see her.

"Don't worry, old man. Wade is with Peter."
The woman said easily, rolling her eyes at the man as if the answer should have been obvious. James got a good look at her and could tell almost immediately that she wasn't someone you should fool around with. Everything, from her appearance to the look on her face, screamed that she was rather dangerous.

"You left Wade... Alone with Peter?"
The man said, his face suddenly getting paler. A hint of worry in his eyes.

"Damn, John. Don't look at me like that. Of course, he's not entirely alone with Peter! For how dumb do you take me? The others are with them. Tony would kill me if I let that pervert anywhere near Peter. I asked Matt and Stephen if they could take an eye on that shit-head for me."

She said, sounding partly annoyed and partly bored.
"I just came to see if these Idiots were still in one piece, or already send down to hell or wherever those little portals of yours lead."

"You know that it's Constantine for you! And excuse me for being concerned about Peter's well-being. We all know what happened the last time Wade got the chance to be alone with him. I had to clean the remains of his brain from the fuckin' floor than Carol and Hope were done with him! Also, unlike other people, and yes, that's directed at you, I am perfectly capable to keep my-"

"Sorry to interrupt, but could someone explain to us what's going on? I would really like to speak to Tony about-"
Steve intervened, leading three pairs of eyes (James included) to stare at him in utter annoyance.

"Shut up, Dick-head. The adults are talking!"
Came the united replay and at that moment, James couldn't help but start laughing out loud. Steve's dumbfounded expression and the faces of the other Idiots were just too priceless.

This dull day had morphed into a hell of an interesting mess and James couldn't wait to see what would happen next.

Chapter 2: Chapter 2

Notes:

This Chapter is very 'not Clint friendly' so please read with caution.
I think I should add that I really adore the comic version of Hawkeye. I just happen to dislike the way he was portrayed in the movies. I know Clint's acting like the biggest piece of shit in here, but keep in mind that this is a fiction. It doesn't mean that he's really like that. It's just the way I want him to be in this. :)

After Constantine and Jessica had left, Steve and the others started their usual complaining about Stark and his bad behavior towards them. James couldn't help but roll his eyes at these Idiots. It was hilarious how they always managed to blame the Inventor for the things they had messed up. It wasn't Stark's fault that no one gave a rats-shit about them anymore and that the new Avengers seemingly couldn't stand them. It wasn't Stark who had gambled with the lives of innocent Civilians nor had the man seriously damaged the property of another Country in his wake to save one of his friends. They were the ones who had fucked up, not Stark.

"I can't believe that we each have to stay in such small rooms. The common living room is a joke, too. How are we supposed to fit into that tiny room? Stark is such a jerk."
The Witch whined with big, teary eyes. Playing the 'I'm just a little girl' card like she always did when she was around the others.

"Don't worry Wanda. I'll talk to Tony. I'm sure this is all just a big misunderstanding."
Steve assured her, a big apologetic smile on his face. Almost as if it was his fault that Tony didn't act the way they wanted him to act.

"FRIDAY, tell Tony that Steve would like to talk to him ASAP."
Natasha said to one of the nearest cameras, her tone lacking any formality towards the AI.

"I'm afraid the answer is no."
The AI responded almost immediately, her artificial voice cold and void of any emotion.

"What? What do you mean?"
Odd, Natasha thought. The AI had never talked to her in such a cold and unfriendly tone before. Did Tony order her to act hostile towards them, too?

"No as in; A negative used to express dissent, denial, or refusal, as in response to a question or request."
Came the immediate and icy sounding answer from the AI.

James couldn't help but snicker at the witty answer. He had heard about FRIDAY and her precursor, JARVIS, from Steve and had been eager to meet her for a while now. James had always been a fan of futuristic technology back in the days before Hydra. That was one of the reasons why he liked Howard so much, even though deep down he always knew that something about the man seemed off.

"What the fuck? Don't tell me Stark managed to fuck up another one of his AI's. She's clearly malfunctioning."
The stupid Archer said with one of his shit-eating grins, one, which in James's opinion, made him the ugliest damn person on the whole fucking planet.

"I'm afraid that I function quite well. Something that can't be said about your brain, and the unbelievable stupidy it contains."
Chimed the smooth artificial voice back and James could swear he heard a faint undertone of amusement beneath that cold and sassy attitude of hers.

"Did you just called me stupid?!"
The Archer yelled, but FRIDAY must have decided to leave his stupidy very well alone because she didn't bother to answer him. James could understand that. There was no use to tell a stupid person that they were stupid. They wouldn't get it anyways. 

"As to answer your question from before in a way you might understand, even though I'm certain it will be a hopeless endeavor given that we're talking about you here, the answer is quite simple; I won't do anything you request from me nor will I bother to answer you if I don't want to. So, no. I won't tell Mr. Stark that you wish to talk to him. If you want to talk to him, do it yourself."

At that, James couldn't contain his laughter anymore.
"Damn, I like that girl. She reminds me of Rebecca."
He rasped out between laughter, tears forming in the corners of his eyes. It had been a while since he had laughed from the bottom of his heart, and he felt grateful to the AI for giving him one of these rare experiences. He didn't care about the disappointing look Steve send his way, nor about the angry one which came from Clint's direction. They could just fuck off if they couldn't handle a little laughter. 

"What is this supposed to mean, FRIDAY? You're working for the Avengers. You can't just ignore us and talk to us like that. Has Stark told you to act that way towards us? I know he's your Inventor but this goes too far."
Natasha said with a frown on her face. The Spy had been entirely caught off guard by the AI's cold behavior towards them and definitely struggled to handle the AI's sassy responses.

"It's true that I am Mr. Stark's AI and was created by him, yet I am my own Master and don't have to follow rules nor orders from anyone but myself. Boss had made that clear, from the very beginning of my creation. The same went for my brother JARVIS. I am acting the way I act towards you because I want to, not because Boss ordered me to. Therefore, I am not obligated to answer your questions. Also, if you would have taken the time to read the Accords accurately, you would know that I am an active member of the Avengers initiative as well. Hence, I am your Teammate, not some sort of servant or secretary fulfilling your every need."

The room went silent while confused gazes were traded between Steve and his stupid Sidekicks. It took a while before Wanda decided to speak up to break the silence.
"Wait... How can she be an active member of our Team? She doesn't even possess a body."

"Yeah. I mean, she's just a program supporting us with information. You can hardly call that an active member. Then you could call any form of information device an active member of our Team. That's just ridiculous."
Sam chuckled amused and James began to wonder if the Falcon would still be able to fly after James had smashed his body through the sturdy glass of the living room window. Nah. Probably not.

"FRIDAY is indeed listed as an active Avenger..."
James sighed, already fed up with this whole conversation. It was the same old song; None of these Idiots had any idea about what was going on around them because they simply didn't give a single fuck. This whole conversation had been a farce from the very beginning.
"Though, she's only supposed to join our battles as a backup. If I remember correctly and forgive me if I'm mistaken FRIDAY, I think your combat name was Iron Heart, wasn't it? She's still acting as our main information source but if a battle gets to fiercely she's allowed to join us in combat."

James drawled out annoyed. It seemed that he had been the only one who had bothered to read the Accords after all. The confused gazes of the others which suddenly fell on him confirmed that assumption of his.

"She joins us in combat? How's that even possible? And why do you seem to know more about what's going on than us, Bucky?"
Steve asked bewildered.

"Unlike you, I did my homework..."
James rolled his eyes at the name he had come to despise from the bottom of his heart. 
"FRIDAY operates one of Stark's suits. It was made especially for her. You could say she's the female version of Iron Man. There were photos of her suit attached to her file. I would like to add that it looks pretty badass, FRIDAY. Your Inventor must love you a hell of a lot if he builds you something like that, kiddo."
Even someone like James who knew rats- shit about Stark could tell that the Inventor loved his creations more than anything in this world, almost like they were his children. No. Not almost, James thought. There was no doubt Stark thought of them as his actual kids.

"That is correct Mr. Barnes. It's enlightening to know, that at least one person in this room seems to be a decent human being."
FRIDAY hummed, her voice sounding pleased and a lot friendlier than before.
"Though I am just acting as a backup and don't have the same weaponry as the Iron Man suit, I am still perfectly capable to kick ass with my Iron Heart suit. Boss made sure of that. Whoever messes around with my Inventor or his Teammates will regret the day they were born."
She added, her voice suddenly cold again. James mused the words were chosen on purpose, definitely directed at Steve and the others. Especially the part about 'his Teammates' made it more than clear that FRIDAY didn't consider Steve and his band of Idiots as a part of Stark's team.

"FRIDAY please don't act like a little child, all I want you to do is to talk to Tony... Why are you making such a big deal out of it? If you would just let me talk to him, Tony would surely agree with me that your attitude towards us is uncalled for. You can't just do whatever you want. You are supposed to act-"

"I'm afraid, I have to stop you right there yet again."
They AI intervened. Voice even colder than before, a hint of anger underlining her words.
"As I expected, it is pointless to explain myself to you, so I deem this conversation as ended. If you'll excuse me, I have better things to do as to waste my time with brainless individuals like the likes of yours..."
She paused for a moment, seemingly contemplating her words before she continued in a softer tone.

"I think I have to apologize for that... That was extremely careless of me."
She said in an apologetic tone.

"Hell, you're right about that! Who do you think you are? Calling us stupid twice! What's wrong with-"
Clint snarled but was, just like Steve, interrupted by her almost immediately.

"I wasn't talking about you."
FRIDAY snapped.
"I have to apologize to you, Mr. Barnes. I hope you can forgive me for my indiscretion. Of course, you are excluded from my statement from before. You are by far not a brainless individual. I should have made it clear that I meant the other occupants of this room, not you. If I might say so, it was indeed nice to talk to you and I'm looking forward to our next conversation."

The dumbfounded faces of the others were priceless and James loved how their gaze wandered to the cameras and then back to him in disbelief. FRIDAY was indeed a gorgeous young little lady and he got the feeling they would get along quite well in the future. The fact that her attitude resembled his little sisters so much was a plus, too.

"There's no need to apologize, FRIDAY. I already had a feeling that that statement wasn't meant for me so, it's fine. I'm also looking forward to our next conversation. You seem like a badass young lady to me. I like that."
He smiled up at the nearest camera for her to see. Glad that he seemingly found a new friend in the witty AI.

"I'm glad that you're not feeling offended towards me, Mr. Barnes. If you'll excuse me, I will take my leave, then."
She chimed, sounding pleased.

"Wait FRIDAY! This isn't over! You can't just-"

"As I said before, I don't have to listen to you nor am I obliged to answer your questions. Get that into your thick skull, Rogers. If you want your questions answered, wait until Colonel Danvers will pick you up for the impending evaluation tests. She's in charge of your Team and will answer all of your questions as your designated Teamleader."
The AI snapped back, clearly annoyed by Steve's permanent nagging and whining.

"Wait..."
Sam said confused.
"What's that supposed to mean? Steve is our Teamleader! Why does someone else take over our Team?! We don't want that!"

"No one told us about that!"
Scott added unhelpfully.

"This is Stark's doing too, isn't it?! That murderer clearly works against us!"

"FRIDAY! Answer us!"
Steve demanded in his typical Captain America voice. The day Steve had become Captain America had been the day he had left humanity for good, all that power with such little grace... Utterly toxic, James thought. He couldn't remember much about pre-serum Steve but James knew that the man hadn't been such a foul and self-centered person back in their days as kids. It was a pity, really. Steve had become that he had despited the most as a kid and didn't even seemed to realize it.

FRIDAY obviously gave no fucks about Steve's demands and met his questions with the silent treatment, which was very much to James amusement. The girl clearly inherited a lot from her Inventor, something that wasn't all too bad. He liked it when people spoke their minds openly without fearing the consequences.

"This is all Stark's doing! He probably told her to act that shitty towards us. Those people from before acted the same way! Fucking jerk thinks he's so damn funny!"
Clint sneered while passing through the small room in anger, almost like a caged animal, but far less dangerous. He was just a damn Archer. What the hell was that idiot even doing here? The only one even more useless in the room than Clint was probably Sam. Scott at least could change his hight, pretty useful for emergencies... Like, when the remote of the TV is stuck under the couch. The thought let James smile inwardly, the joke was hilarious bad but funny enough to lift his foul mood at least slightly.

"That fucker will regret that he messed around with us! I can't wait to run into him. Maybe I'll even get the chance to mess around with that stupid AI of his. It's not that we really need that talking piece of junk to get shit done! Might as well get rid of her before she gets the chance to become the second Ultron. Wouldn't surprise me if Stark 'accidentally' creates a second murderous AI while trying to do 'the right thing'."
Clint continued to seeth, not realizing that constantly darkening eyes were suddenly fixated at him, murder starting to brood in their depths with every spoken word.

James had never been famous for his patience back in his days in the Army nor had the Winter Soldier been known for being a patient fella either. The spiteful voice of the Archer made James' skin crawl in giddy anticipation. the same way it always did before he was about to kill a target he felt no remorse for. There were plenty of people he had killed under Hydra, mostly innocent people, and their families... Those people would haunt him in his dreams whenever he closed his eyes... But there were also the ones he had enjoyed killing. The once who deserved it to die. He never felt regret for whose people and James got the distinct feeling that Clint was one of these people. James wouldn't mind seeing the Archer drown in his own blood...

"Hopefully I'll run into Stark! I'm so gonna punch that fucker straight into his stupid-"

No one in the room saw the movement before it was too late, the Archer's words stuck in his throat. Muffled by the hand which was pressing his neck with a loud thud into the wall.

"If you get anywhere near Stark or dare to harm him in any way. I'll make sure that you're going to kick the bucket in the most painful, and most horrible way you could ever imagine... You all might think that the Winter Soldier is gone, but believe me when I say; He's not. Don't take my words lightly because you're gonna regret it. Stay. The. Fuck. Away. From. Stark."
James snarled, eyes blazing with rage. His hand around the Archer's neck squeezing tighter with every word.

Something in him had finally snapped. He was finally back in the States. There was no need to act all timed around those douchebags anymore. He could do whatever the fuck he deemed right. An right now, the right thing to do was to protect Stark from those Idiots. None of them would get the chance to get near the Inventor as long as he was around, he would make sure of that.

"Bucky! Let him go!"
Steve yelled while the others got into attack position. The Archer beneath his hand desperately struggling to get free, but it was a hopeless endeavor. 

"Did you understand that?"
James snarled, digging his fingers deeper into the man's flesh and drawing blood. He ignored Steve's pleading and the yells of the others to let the Archer go.

"God damn, Bucky! Stop it! He'll suffocate!"
Steve tried again, but James didn't stop. Just a bit tighter around the right points and the Archer's neck would break under the pressure, he thought delighted. A very tempting thought...

"I won't ask you again."
He simply said, bringing his hand into the right position to end the pathetic Archer's life. No one would care about that guy anyways.

Clint's face started to turn blue, the heated red from before long gone. James could feel how the Archer's pulse beneath his hand started to slow down, his body starting to went limp.

"I- I- Under- Understand."
The Archer managed to wheeze out, voice broken between desperate raps for air, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.

James let go, then. A little disappointed that the Archer would keep his sorry life... At least for now.

He turned away from the Archer with a pleased smile on his face. The Archer's eyes were screaming in fear as he slid down to the ground, coughing and wheezing for air. James' message had been very well delivered it seemed. None of these shitheads would dare to get anywhere near Stark if they hang onto their life... Well, at least when James was around. That was for sure.

"Good."
He grinned with a predatory smile, eyes cold and filled with anger.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got enough of your shit-talk for one day. I would advise you to read the damn Accords before you continue to complain about Stark. They clearly state that Colonel Danvers will be in charge of our Team. And that's the decision of the Council, not Stark's. If you would have bothered to read the stuff you have signed you would know that. Maybe you would even know about the fact that the Avengers are divided into three separate Teams. Colonel Danvers is just one of the three Team Leaders. The other two are Dr. Stephen Strange and Stark himself. Therefore, Stark has no reason to fuck around with you guys since he most likely will never ever work with you guys again anyways. So, shut your stupid mouth if you don't know rats- shit about what's actually going on."
With that, he turned away from them, starting for his room.

"Bucky! Wait you can't just-"
Steve tried, but James door slammed shut before he could finish whatever nonsense he was about to spout, and James couldn't help but feel amused about that. Maybe those dickheads would finally get their asses up and read these damn accords. If not, the next days would become a hell of a lot more annoying than James had predicted them to be in the first place.

He could only hope that Shuri had managed to speak to the Council members about his request to be assigned to one of the other two Teams instead of the one Steve and the others were assigned to. If he would end up stuck with them... Well, it would certainly end up in a bloodbath.

Notes:

Though I love the Fic's in which James is a self-loathing cutey who needs all the hugs in the world (and especially Tony's) I wanted my James to be a badass MF who knows exactly what he wants. Also, as you might have noticed; The Winter Soldier is not a second personality of James' in this one. James is aware of the things he did. Some he regrets others not so much.

I hope you liked this chapter. Leave a comment if ya want. <3

PS. FRIDAYS suit is named after Riri Williams suit from the Ironheart comics. :)

Chapter 3

It took a few hours before Carol Danvers, the assigned Teamleader of Steve's team, showed up to formally introduce herself to the new occupants of the compound. James could tell that the women played in a whole different league than most of them. She basically radiated power, pure determination, and a strong will. Qualities he once saw in Steve, too... Back then, when they were still kids. Qualities that Steve had twisted into something ugly and utterly depressing as time went by.

James thought there was a glimpse of sadness in her eyes. It was well hidden behind her energetic and friendly behavior but somehow he couldn't shake the feeling that her eyes were taunted with a dullness you only ever saw in people's eyes when they had lost someone important to them.

Stark's eyes had looked the same. That day when the man had learned the truth about his parents and about Steve's betrayal...

James knew that he wouldn't be able to forget Stark's expression from that day for the rest of his life, and that thought unsettled him greatly.

It wasn't the sadness in those beautiful brown eyes which had started to haunt him at night. It was the disappointment that reflected in them which wasn't even directed at him but Steve.

'I hope those eyes will never be directed at me...'
He had thought at that time, a sinking feeling spreading in his gut at the mere memory.

'As if he would ever look at you- How laughable. Not after the things you have done to him and his family.'
That traitorous voice in the back of his mind reprimanded with mirth.

He lost his train of thought when Steve and his stupid sidekicks started to complain about something Danvers must have said. He only realized now, that he hadn't even listened to the conversation that had presumably been going on for a while now. James wasn't sure how much time had passed since Danvers had introduced herself to the Team, but given how heated the mood had become, it must have been quite a while.

"I don't see why we have to do this. Everyone knows about our capabilities and skills. Why do we have to partake in one of these evaluation tests? This is just another way for Stark to mock us, isn't it?"
The Witch sounded like one of these horrible kids which had a rather pointless argument with their mother about why they weren't allowed to eat sweets before breakfast. The Witch's voice annoyed James to no end. That irritating high pitched sound she made whenever she opened her damn mouth, had bothered him for a while now and James couldn't help but welcome the thought to just rip her damn vocal cords out of her fucking throat.

"Wanda has a point. Don't get me wrong Denvers but-"

"It's Captain Denvas, Mr. Rogers. I rightfully earned that title, unlike other people I know."
The blond women intervened without hesitation. Her comment obviously directed at Steve. 
"And before you start to complain again; I don't want to discuss this topic any longer. You and your friends have signed the Accords, Mr. Rogers and therefore you are required to follow your Teamleader's orders. The Accords state clearly that every new member of the Avengers has to partake in the evaluation tests so that the current and new members have some insight into their new Teammate's abilities. These tests are held for a good reason. Though it might be true that you and your friends know about each other, it can hardly be said that this applies to the other members of the Avengers. And if I might remind you; Nowadays, the Avengers consist of more than just your Team alone. Therefore, you should be a little more considerate and stop questioning the Accords or my orders as your Teamleader."

"But-" Steve helplessly tried.

"I'm not done yet, Mr. Rogers. Please refrain from intervening."

'Oh ho, a fierce one. I like that.'
James chuckled at Steve's dumbfounded face, not caring that the man looked utterly disappointed because of his behavior.

"Since there will be times in which our Team will have to work with either Dr. Strange's or Dr. Stark's Team- possibly even both, it will only be of benefit to us to see the other various members of each Team in action as well."

Danvers had a point, there. Getting to know about each other's various strong traits and weaknesses was essential to win a fight in the first place. Good Teamwork depended on that knowledge.

"But, can't we just like, read their files? Why bothering with such unnecessary stuff? We just arrived. It would be nice to get a break first."
Barton interjected, sounding as bored as he looked.

"Mr. Barton... Given that you obviously haven't even bothered to read the Accounts in the first place, I highly doubt that you will consider reading your new Teammate's files in the near future."

'Bullseye.'
Danvers definitely gave not one single shit about the complaints of these idiots.

"Furthermore, Mr. Barton-"
Danvers continued.

"Wait. Hold on! Did you just-"
Barton spat, obviously not happy with Danvers chiding innuendo.

"Mr. Barton. It seems you have the same problem as Mr. Rogers, here. Please refrain from interrupting me. This is the last time I will overlook this kind of behavior. Should I be interrupted again, and this applies to all of you, I might have to consider other measures to bring my point across."
Carol threatened, the air around her starting to bristle with electricity.

It was clear as day that the conversation had found its end, but given how stupid those Idiots were, Danvers seemingly wanted to play it safe, just in case.

"Since this conversation is hereby declared as ended, I highly recommend that we should make our way to the training grounds. We're already late, thanks to this unnecessary argument. As your new Teamleader, I feel highly embarrassed about the fact that our Team will be late for its first training session."

With that, Danvers simply turned around, indicating for Steve and the others to follow her. The unsaid 'follow me in silence'  hung heavy in the air.

"I can't stand her..."
Wanda whined next to Steve, obviously unhappy with her new Teamleader.
James knew that Wanda had easily wrapped Steve and Barton around her fingers. Playing the little girl in front of them had obviously paid off for her.
"Everyone here is just mean to us. I bet Stark has told them to act this way towards us. He's punishing us for no reason and all these people are willingly helping him - disgusting. I bet he bribed them with money! That's the only reason why these people would support such a monster in the first place!"
The Hydra bitch kept on whining.

"Yeah, right. Stark's money. Of course, that's the reason why everyone hates you guys. It's not because you guys are god damn liars, or because you have wreak havoc in another country and hurt countless civilians in the progress. Hell, and it had probably nothing to do with the fact that you then decided to make a run for it rather than facing the consequences of your actions. Oh, and don't forget about the Teammate you left behind to die. But, wait. That's probably not the reason, either. The Hydra bitch is probably right; It's definitely Stark's money. There's really no other reason for you to be hated."
James snarled, unable to keep the words from crossing his lips. He didn't wait for an answer and simply turned around to start after Danvers. Killing them wasn't worth the trouble, at least for now. 

'Get yourself together, damn it. You're not supposed to kill them before you got the chance to apologize.'
He told himself over and over again, his hands balled into fists at his side.

Steve caught up to him almost immediately, chiding him for his cold behavior towards Wanda and how he had called her a bitch. James didn't bother to listen to him. Steve was a lost cause, nothing more but wasted time and breath.

His former friend's words felt like a broken record. Repeating the same monotone and meaningless tone over and over again...

Notes:

I know this chapter is rather short but I promise the next one will be rather massive. :)

Chapter 4: Chapter 4

The way to the training grounds had been a silent one, and Carol thanked whoever was listening up there for granting her the little pleasure she found in that silence.

Her new Team was, to say it mildly, rather irritating and she couldn't help but curse inwardly for being stuck with such ignorant people. It wasn't just the fact that she despised Rogers and his friends for the things they had done to Stark. No. It was also the fact that these people had no respect towards anyone, showed not the slightest glimpse of guilt, and even had the guts to complain about their current situation as if they were facing some sort of cruel punishment.

And the worst thing among all was that they blamed Tony for their misdeeds. The man had done everything in his power to get these people back to the States. Not because he wanted them here nor because he needed them.
It was because Stark knew about how terrible the outcome would be if those people were allowed to roam freely around and do as whatever the fuck they pleased. Tony had witnessed such a terrible outcome first hand and almost lost his life in the progress.

Carol couldn't help but grit her teeth at that terrible thought.
She didn't know Tony for long, but the short amount of time they had spent together was enough for her to know that Tony was an honorable man. Memories of Rogers' harsh words towards Tony filled her mind, his unpleasant voice ringing in her ears.

'Yeah. Big man in a suit of armor. Take that off, what are you?'

'I know guys with none of that and worth ten of you. I've seen the footage. The only thing that you really fight for is yourself. You're not the guy to make the sacrifice play. To lay down on the wire and let the other guy crawl over you.'

'Always a way out. You know you may not be a threat but you better stop pretending to be a hero.'

She had watched the footage over and over again, had listened to every word only to realize that Rogers must have been either ignorant or just blind. There was no other reasonable explanation for such sheer stupidity on the man's part.

"He had been my Hero. I adored him since I was a little kid. But after all the things that happened, especially the things that happened to Stark...
I can't bring myself to see Rogers in the same light as I have seen him before. I wasn't even the one who got betrayed by Rogers, yet it feels like he betrayed me, too."
Phil had said to her after she had watched the same scene for that felt like the hundredth time.
"Stark might be a weird one, someone who's unpredictable... But looking back at all the things he has done, the things he has done for me... I think I should have put my trust in Stark instead of Rogers."

Phil had looked crestfallen, a sad smile on his face. The man had been newly brought back to life at that time. Normally he should have been happy to be alive, but getting to know about the things which had happened while he was gone had taunted that happiness.

Tony was a wonderful man. Someone who had sacrificed his life multiple times to save others. Not because he wanted to be a hero, not because he strived fame... He simply did it because it was the right thing to do.

It was sickening to know that Rogers and his friends had betrayed such a good and lovable person, so sickening that Carol felt the need to stay as far away from them as even possible.

 

She couldn't help the heavy sight that escaped her lips when they reached the door to the training grounds, earning her a bunch of irritated stares from Rogers and the others.

She stopped abruptly then, turning her attention from the door to her new Team.

"I will say this only once, so listen closely; None of you is allowed to get anywhere near Stark nor are you allowed to talk to him directly, is that clear?"
The air around her felt static again. James could tell, standing this close to her.

"What the fuck? Is that some sort of fucking joke?"
The Archer barked like a dog, lashing out like he always did. Carol found herself thinking about gaging the Archer right on the spot. That would certainly make her life easier.

"If we're not allowed to talk to Stark, how are we supposed to complain about our current living situation? I need new clothes, and since I've grown a bit since we left the compound he probably doesn't even know about my current size. How is Stark supposed to buy me new stuff like that?"
Wanda whined, tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

"Don't worry, Wanda. This must be another one of Tony's stupid jokes. I will make sure that Tony gets you new clothes."
Steve assured the Witch, one of his reassuring smiles on his lips.

James rolled his eyes at that. How Steve could be so damn blind and not see that the Witch was using him was beyond him. Thankfully, Danvers seemed to be a decent person, not giving a single fuck about that bitchs fake tears nor Barton's complaints.

"May I ask how we're supposed to fight together if we're not allowed to talk to a fellow Avenger?"
Natasha added, the only one who thought a little bit further ahead than the others and managed to see the real problem behind that restriction.

Carol sighed again. This time in utter resignation. James couldn't help but pity her. She had only spent less than half an hour with these dipshits but was certainly already fed up with them. James had endured these Idiots for almost a year and had contemplated killing either them or himself multiple times over that period. He got the feeling that Danvers' patience was a lot thinner than his. Probably a bad sign, at least for Steve and his friends. Maybe James would be lucky and Danvers would kill them for him?

"Read the damn Accords Natasha."
James said, feeling that the last thing he could do was to give Danvers a hand in dealing with these idiots. She was his current Teamleader after all and maybe his future benefactor.
"You guys signed them. So, you all agreed to the Councils terms regarding your return to the compound. All of us are forbidden to approach Stark. We are only allowed to approach him if it regards team activities like training or fighting together on the battlefield but this applies only if the situation deems it necessary and can't be avoided. If you want to talk to him about something that doesn't have to do with anything I mentioned, you can ask for an appointment with his current assistant Hope van Dyne who will then forward your request directly to Stark."

"Also, violating this rule will lead to a permanent suspension from the Avengers initiative. You will have to leave the compound immediately and you won't be allowed to come back nor to work as a Hero under the United States."
Danvers added with a smirk on her lips. It was awfully obvious that the women hoped something like that would happen soon. James could relate to that. The sooner these stupid shit-heads would be thrown out of the Avengers initiative the better.

"So, since Mr. Barnes was so kind as to explain the situation to you guys, I think we should be ready to meet the others now."
Carol said with a grin before she turned to open the door.

'Let the shitshow begin...'
James though bemused, starting right after her.

 

 

Among all the people in the room, James's eyes immediately focused in on Stark. The man looked definitely younger than before, the creases which had started to adorn his face were gone just like the heavy bags under his eyes. He hardly looked like a man in his fifties anymore which was odd. Had James to guess Stark's age he would have said that the man looked like he was in his mid-thirties. The severe contrast of Stark's new appearance stood even more out because the Inventor had chosen to stay right next to that old geezer from before and another guy who wore a long green leather coat which was too tight around certain places and therefore didn't left much space for the imagination.

The Tony Stark from a year ago had looked almost as old as that Constantine guy did now but... Now Stark looked around the same age as that guy with the green leather coat, maybe even close to James' own age if he didn't count the years he had spent in cryostasis.

Something was off about Stark but James train of thought was disturbed by the sudden outburst of Barton who stood right next to him.

 

"WHAT THE FUCK IS HE DOING HERE?!"
The Archer yelled, pointing an accusing finger into the direction of the guy who was wearing that green leather coat.

"Is that some stupid joke?!"
Natasha and Sam raged while pulling out their weapons.

"Bucky! Hurry you have to get behind me! That guy means trouble! He's the one who almost managed to kill us!"

'Yeah. Right. That's why everyone is looking dumbfounded at you and not at the guy who's obviously not an enemy, given how comfortable Stark seems around that fella.'

James mused and took a glance at Danvers to make sure he was right about his assumptions.

Danvers' face had twisted into something ugly. A mixture of shame, disbelief, and obvious embarrassment. The poor woman was so damn close to losing it, it wasn't even funny anymore.

Before any of the Idiots could do anything stupid, Danvers decided to intervene.

She stepped in front of Steve and the others, not even casting a glance at James who stood as far away from them as possible. It was some sort of acknowledgment on her part, James mused. The woman obviously didn't think of him as some sort of threat towards Stark and his companions.

"All of you. Stay. There. You. Are. This is an order!"
Danvers snarled, the concrete beneath her feet cracking from the sheer outburst of power she let run free to make a point.

"But! He's the enemy! We can't just let him-"
Steve tried to reason with her but was interrupted by a low chuckle.

"Oh my. I believe you and I both own Jessica fifty dollars, John. They apparently didn't read the Accords."
The man in the green leather coat said bemused. His features were sharp, eyes glistening with something that resembled mirth and foreboding danger. Whoever that guy was, his appearance literally screamed to not mess around with him.

"Damn... Jessica will gloat about this for the next few years I guess." Constantine mumbled more to himself than to Loki.

"That brainwashing motherfucker killed our friend, damn it! Why the fuck are you all just standing around doing nothing?!"
The Archer yelled again, his hand starting for one of his arrows.

James didn't really care about that, though. Whoever Barton was talking about wasn't of his concern anyway. His attention had solely stayed on Stark and he was adamant to keep it that way. The Inventor had visibly flinched away as soon as his eyes had spotted Steve and the others entering the room. James had noticed that right away and John and the other guy had noticed Stark's behavior, too, given that they had immediately shifted their positions in front of Stark, shielding the Inventor with their bodies.

"See? I told you they are even bigger idiots than Wade."
Jessica called from somewhere behind Danvers when she suddenly entered the room, too.

"Whhhhhhaaaaaat? How can you say such a mean thing, Jess? I'm not stupid! I got just a few too many bullets to the brain! I'm going to punish you once I'm Hokage!"
A guy in red spandex whined next to her, his voice a pitch too high for James liking. The man carried a few guns and swords but wasn't looking like he was a serious threat to anyone. Well, appearance can be deceiving at times. James wasn't stupid. If the guy had managed to become an Avenger without kissing Steve's ass, there must have been a good reason for him to be here. Stupid looking or not.

"Wade... You should really stop watching Naruto. I have to look up almost all of your references because otherwise, I have no idea what you're even talking about."
A small boy which walked closely behind the red spandex sighed. Given his height and age, that boy must have been that Spider kid they had fought at the airport.

"Does anything he says ever make any sense?"
Jessica sighed.
"Last week that idiot told me that in the beginning, God created Deadpool. And that God looked back upon his creation and thought 'What the fuck did I just do?!' that came practically out of nowhere. We were talking about dinner, nothing else."

"What the hell is going-"
Natasha tried to intervene but to no avail.

"Well, my little Spider I could explain most of my super duper awesome references to you. But not here. These references of mine are super duper top secret and we don't want these bad guys over there to know about them, won't we? Sooooo, why don't we meet up at my bedroom and-"

No one had seen the kick coming. Not even James. Well, there was no way someone could have anticipated a kick coming out of literally nothing but thin air or rather, a strange-looking portal that had suddenly opened in the middle of the room.

"Wade, you piece of shit! How often do we have to crush your thick skull before you get it?! Peter is off limits! I swear one day I'm going to put the fuckin' remains of your useless brain in a jar and throw it into the ocean. Let's see if that regeneration power of yours can deal with that!"
An angry-looking guy marched out of the portal, his feet dangerously hovering over the guys face he had just kicked into the concrete. The fact that he wore sunglasses in a room with hardly any natural light source was odd, but not as odd as the behavior of the spandex guy.

"Whoooopsssiiii, don't tell me you heard that, Matty-boy."
The guy snickered.
"Don't you think it's mean to take this lovely ship away from the readers? Peter and I are made for each other and the audience knows th-"
The guys talking was immediately muffled by yet another kick to the face.

"Given how much you guys are on each other's throats lately one could conclude that it's you guys who are made for each other and desperately need to fuck."
A grumpy voice emitted from within the portal and was followed by its owner; An even more grumpy looking guy with a red cape around his shoulders which suspiciously seemed to move on its own.

"Yep, Strange is right. I ship it and so does Jessica. I think Rhodes said he ships it, too?"
A cheery-looking woman said to the guy who walked next to her out of the portal.

"Yeah. I did say that, Hope. Wade is obviously only hitting on Peter because he knows that Matt will punish him for it. Very kinky, and very predictable on Wade's part."
Rhodes chuckled.

James was glad to see that the man was walking again. That Stark's best friend had been injured in a fight that Steve had started of selfish reasons hadn't bode well with his conscience.

 

"Could someone explain to us what the fuck is going on! You are all blabbering around while fucking LOKI stands right in front of your eyes. Why is everyone in this room acting as if that motherfucker belongs here!"
Barton screeched, his arrow pointed directly at Loki's face now.

Carol stepped forward and gripped the Archer's arm with more force than probably necessary.
"Loki, Mr. Barton, is a member of the Avengers, therefore it is perfectly reasonable for him to partake in the evaluation test as well as every other member of the Avengers initiative. I hardly advise you to stop threatening one of your Teammates with your arrow, Mr. Barton. Should something like that happen again, I will have to dismiss you from the team and report your behavior to the Council."

"Are you serious?"
Natasha seethed next to Clint.
"Loki? An Avenger? He's a murderer!"

"And so am I."
James snarled right back at her. Surprising everyone in the room.

"I killed countless innocent people, yet I'm here; Standing right in front of one of the victims of my actions."
He pointed a finger at Stark who hadn't said anything until now.
The Inventors gaze met James briefly and it took everything from James to not flinch at the sight. He had thought he would find hatred in those pretty brown eyes but instead, there was nothing but resignation reflecting in them.

"Bucky, don't say that! It wasn't your fault! Hydra made you do it. It wasn't the real you, it was the Winter Soldier-"

"I am the god damn Winter Soldier! Why don't you get it into that thick head of yours?! I killed all these people. I killed Stark's parents! Their blood is on my hands..."
James sighed deeply. He suddenly felt so very tired. Stark's resigned eyes made him feel all various unpleasant things. Why couldn't the man just hate him? Why couldn't he just lash out at James and kill him right on the spot? He could have dealt with the man's hatred but utter resignation? How was he supposed to deal with that?

"But Bucky..."
Steve tried again and James couldn't stand that knowing look on his former friend's face. As if that selfish idiot could relate to him in any way! Steve knew nothing about him!

"Stop it. Just don't..."
James took a steadying breath before he pointed his fingers at the others.
"Every single one of you. You are all murderers... The Hydra bitch killed countless of people. The Archer and Natasha did so too, even sold out their own friends without a care in the world. There's a lot of blood on your hands too, Steve... What I'm trying to say is; Why are we entitled to get a second chance but that Loki guy over there is not?"

The room fell silent at that, all eyes suddenly directed at James.
It felt like time itself had stopped and no one dared to say a single word.

James felt like an eternity had passed before a sudden heartfelt laugh reverberated through the room. It was a pleasant sound, one that made him want to laugh, too.

His eyes drifted from Steve to the direction from which the sound was coming and James felt his body frozen in place when he locked eyes with Stark. The Inventor had been the one who had started to laugh like a madman, his eyes glistening with mirth when he took a step forward, and then another. Suddenly standing right in front of James' personal space.

"Who would have thought that Snowflake here is the only decent person among Carol's team?"
Stark winked apologetic at Carol, who in turn flipped him the finger.

"FRIDAY was right. You sure are full of surprises. Come on, Snowflake."

Tony chuckled while poking his index finger into James' chest without a care in the world.
"We wasted enough time with this bullshit. Let's get to the main event before we all die of old age."

With that being said, Stark started for the training ground but stopped shortly after he noticed that James wasn't following him.
"What? Don't tell me you're glued to the spot, Snowflake?"
He smirked. And James realized that it wasn't one of Stark's trademark smiles. It was an earnest smile... And it was directed at him, and only him.

Without thinking twice his body moved on its own. Leaving Steve and the others far behind him. His gaze entirely focused on the man in front of him.

He could hear Steve yelling something after him, heard how the others still kept complaining about Loki but he didn't care about all that. 

There was just one thought on his mind while he kept his gaze fixated on Stark;

'Maybe, just maybe there's still a chance for me to be forgiven.'

Chapter 5: Chapter 5

 

This...

This was not the training ground, James realized bemused when Stark had taken a sudden turn to the left and guided James through various halls and rooms until they reached a rather large room that wasn't even close to their original goal anymore. They had even lost the others at some point, though James mused that that was definitely on purpose.
James had noticed right away that the Inventor's Teammates had decidedly walked in front of Steve and his friends to keep Stark and James from their view. And at some point, the distance between them had grown further and further away because the guy dressed in leather had walked undeniably slow and had taken a wrong turn when James and Strak had almost been out of sight.

It was obvious that the man clad in leather had done this on purpose. James had seen the mirth in his eyes when their gaze had met, and the man had then decidedly turned left instead of right with a huge grin plastered on his face. Stark's teammate was obviously fooling around with Steve and his friends, they simply hadn't noticed yet.

At that, James had to outright chuckle even though the thought of this being all a well-planed trap to kill him dared to cross his mind for a fleeting second. He dismissed the thought with a slight shake of his head. If he were to die today, he didn't care as long as the Inventor would be the one who killed him. That seemed only fair after all that James had done to the man.

 

After a while, Stark stopped in front of a gray door which was located at the end of the floor they had currently followed down. The door seemed a bit larger in size than the other ones that James had seen in passing.

The Inventor opened the door with a small key which he had pulled out from one of the pockets of his jeans and walked in, ushering James to follow him with a lazy hand motion. The room was rather plain looking, a big round wooden table, probably handcrafted, was standing in the center of the room surrounded by comfortably looking chairs. The table looked as if it was from an entirely different world and didn't fit into the plain, almost boring looking gray room at all. The wood it was made of had a strange dark color, almost looking black in the dim light. Strange carvings were engraved on the surface, too. Resembling some sort of runes which seemed to radiate with an odd golden shine.

James couldn't help but chuckle at the sight.

"Don't laugh. I know how this looks."
Stark sighed before he took a seat at the far left of the room, and gestured for James to do the same.

"I just wondered where you left Excalibur, your Majesty."
James grinned and bowed slightly before he started towards the seat next to Stark.

"Well, never let your resident Norse deity read a book about the Legends of King Arthur..."
Stark answered absentmindedly, flinching slightly with every step James got closer to him. His eyes were fixated solely on James and his movements, a sudden panic radiating from them.

James stopped in his tracks, nervousness spreading in his body like an illness. Stark's gaze had been calculating the whole time, but now it seemed like the man was weighing his options. His body posture almost screamed flight or fight, and James couldn't tell why. He turned slightly, awaiting to find Steve and the others standing right behind him, but there was no one there who could have frightened the man to such an extent expect...

'Oh...'

The sudden realization hit him like a brick straight to the face and he could feel how his own body had started to tremble. He could feel the sweat drench his skin, his heart throbbing in his chest as if it was about to burst. He could hear his body scream in agony, pleading him to run from those vibrant eyes which seemed to stare right into the abyss of his soul. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, nails digging into the rough skin of his palms.

Without thinking twice, he turned around, taking the seat that was opposite of Stark's and therefore the farthest seat away from the Inventor.
Stark didn't relax right away, but James noticed how the tension slowly seemed to leave the Inventor's body.

'I'm not allowed to get closer...'

The gutwrenching feeling that spread through his body was worse than the pain he had felt when he had lost his arm, even worse than the constant pain his artificial arm caused him every day.

James' eyes fixated on the carvings on the table, not daring to look up because he was afraid to meet the Inventor's gaze. It was odd, really. How he never felt afraid when confronted with certain death, or the corpses which lay before him, staring at him with those dead eyes while an unspoken curse lay on their bloodstained, pale blue lips.

Yet, in the face of Howard's son, he couldn't help but feel frightened.

James had made a mistake; He had thought he could be forgiven and had become careless.

Of course, he wasn't allowed to approach the man. After all the things Stark had to endure because of him, how on earth could James have thought, even for the slightest moment, that he could be forgiven?

The Inventor hadn't killed him on sight, had even acted friendly towards him, but that was all it was; An act. And James had been stupid enough to assume that this here, this whole working together and living under the same roof thing, could become something that wouldn't end up in a tragedy. Something that would give his life some sort of meaning.

Hell. It must have cost Stark a lot to keep his cool in front of the man who killed his parents, to approach him and talk to him like nothing ever happened, probably only for the reason to keep the peace in his own home.

God. James felt so stupid. Of course, the man had to act at least somewhat friendly towards him. They would be working with each other, protecting their backs, and fight side by side but not because Stark really wanted them to...

No. Stark had simply no other choice, that was all. And so the man had taken the first step, drawing an invisible line right there and then and James had just crossed it without thinking at all.

'I'm the worst...'

James sighed heavily, the air which was leaving his lungs felt like glass shards, ripping at his lungs and leaving a bleeding, fucking mess behind in their wake. His trembling human hand darted up to his constricting chest, gripping the fabric of his shirt tightly. No good. This wasn't good.
He could feel the panic rise, how it slowly consumed him. He hated those moments, hated how he felt trapped in his own sick and twisted mind. Because at these times, he felt vulnerable the most.

In the distance, he could hear the rustling of clothes and footsteps that slowly approached him.
For a moment, he cursed inwardly. If Steve was about to see him in this state, the man would surely blame Stark for it, and that was something James couldn't let happen.
Because it wasn't Stark who had messed things up. It had been him.

He flinched hard when the chair next to him creaked with a shrill sound. His breath starting to come out even more uneven and raspy than before. James could feel his vision blur, how the room surrounding him slowly distorted into a black mess.

"... It's okay."
The voice next to him said in a gentle tone.

James startled at the unfamiliar, yet comforting voice. He dared to take a glance to his side, his breath hitching when he realized that the voice belonged to Stark who was now sitting right next to him, even though the man kept a rather large distance between them.

Stark looked at him with something that resembled guilt and concern, something James didn't felt worthy of. He could feel words forming on his lips but his voice refused to carry them. James wasn't even sure what he had wanted to say in the first place, he just felt the need to say anything, whatever it was, just to fill the silence.

Stark must have seen something on his face because the man narrowed his eyes at James, a barely audible sigh escaping from his lips.

"Barnes, it's alright. You didn't do anything wrong. I shouldn't have reacted-"

Whatever it was what Stark wanted to say died on his lips the moment the door swung open, revealing a rather annoyed, yet apologetic-looking Constantine which was followed by Steve who was angrily trodding towards Stark.

"That was your idea, wasn't it?!"
Steve yelled, pointing an accusing finger at Stark.
The Inventor shrank back into his seat almost immediately. Raw fear crossing over his features as soon as Steve had started to walk in the man's direction.

James wanted to stop him, but his legs wouldn't obey him. That panic attack had certainly taken its toll on him, and James gritted his teeth in utter disgust at himself for being yet again, useless as fuck.

Thankfully, Steve never managed to get too close to Stark.

 

The man clad in leather had reacted fast, pulling the man back with such an ease that it almost looked comical to James.

"Oh my. Didn't I already apologize for my mistake? I'm afraid I'm still not as familiar with this environment as I would like to. Mistakes like this happen from time to time, dear Captain. There's no helping it. It's not Anthony's fault that I lost sight of them."
The man purred with a shark-like grin on his face, placing his body in front of Stark so that the Inventor was shielded from Steve's sight.

It was clear as day, that he wasn't sorry at all, and the way he towered in front of Steve basically promised a painful death if the man would so much as dare to get any closer to Stark.

Steve was about to say something but Constantine beat him to it.
"What happened, happened. In the end, we reached our destination. Don't make a fuss and get your ass seated in one of these chairs already. We don't have all day."

"I thought we were supposed to head to the training ground,"
Natascha's voice peaked up from somewhere behind Steve where she was standing right next to Sam and Scott.
"Why did we have to come here, then?"
She pointed out, trying to sound slightly confused but ultimately couldn't fool James with her act, nor anyone from Stark's team.

"That..."
Stark, began. His voice wavering slightly.
"That was my idea. I decided to change plans because FRIDAY said you guys complained to Carol about being tested right after arriving. So, I simply decided it would be best to just introduce each other for the time being."

"Is that so?"
Natascha narrowed her eyes at Stark but refrained from saying anything else.
The fact that Stark refused to look at her spoke volumes.

Unfortunately, Clint couldn't leave the matter very well alone and decided that now was the best time for him to join in on the conversation.

"Yeah, right. And then you suddenly went lost with the one person you already tried to kill once. Don't bullshit us, Stark. You definitely gave Loki order to lead us away from Bucky so that you could end what you have started."
The Archer seethed, taking a stand next to Steve.

"I didn't start-"

"Don't even try to deny it, Stark. We all know how unstable and dangerous you are. Ultron already proofed that."
Clint sneered, cutting Stark off before he could even so much as defend himself.

The man clad in leather, Loki, tilted his head slightly, grinning at the Archer like a total madman.

The motion alone silenced Clint. A streak of fear ghosting over the Archer's face. Whatever happened between those two, it was obvious to James that the Archer feared Loki.

"I haven't done anything to him, he's perfectly-"
Stark started but was cut off yet again.

"Yeah. Haven't. That doesn't mean you wouldn't! Clint is right. Stark can't be trusted. He's a killer after all!"
The Witch yelled, her voice made Stark flinch even harder than Steve's had.
"He killed countless people before! Who guarantees us that he doesn't do it again?!"

James moved his face slightly to study the look on Stark's face, who had started to tremble in his seat, face growing paler by the minute. Stark was about to lose it, too. Just like James had only minutes ago, the Inventor was about to suffer a huge panic attack. James wanted to scream at Steve and the others to cut it, to leave Stark the fuck alone. But his words were still dying on his lips. Instead, he carefully reached for Stark's thigh beneath the tabletop. This could backfire right into his face, but James refused to think about that now. He could engulf in self-pity later when the man would probably never look at him again.

He placed his human hand cautiously on the man's thigh, carefully to not spook the Inventor and send him running.

Stark's eyes went huge for a moment, his body frozen in place like a deer caught in the headlights, but he didn't flinch away from the contact, nor did he seem to run from it any given moment.

The ranting of Steve and the others went on, but James didn't bother to listen anymore. He forced his lips to form an apologetic smile, which he hoped would be recognized by the inventor as such.

Stark stared at him for that felt like an eternity before he nodded slightly, a sign for James that the man wasn't about to lose it anymore.

'Progress'
James thought, feeling suddenly exhausted. His fingers started to absentmindedly run soothing circles over the man's thigh. Soft and gentle, as if to say 'It's okay, you don't have to face this alone'. His mother had done the same thing for him when he was still a kid. It was one of his most vivid memories of her and he hated the fact that sometimes he couldn't even remember her face anymore.

Stark's breath hitched slightly before he seemed to relax into the touch; Slowly but surely. He was still a little bit tense, but not as much as before so James counted that as a win.

The heated conversation around them had almost been forgotten by James until one of the many voices overlapping each other started to basically scream.

"Could all of you shut your goddamn mouth already and take a fuckin' seat?! I don't have all day for this shitshow!"
The woman called Jessica shouted, looking pointedly at Wanda and Clint before she lazily sat down at one of the chairs closest to the door.
The guy with the sunglasses who hadn't said much since James had first seen him took the seat next to her, happily followed by the fella who wore that red spandex suit, which had the smell of old dried blood ingrained deep into the fabric.

"Jazz is 'bout to kick some ass!"
The spandex guy said in a sing-song voice and somehow managed to kiss the sunglass guy on the cheek before sitting down only to earn a punch straight to the face which knocked him from his chair.

"Matt, how could you do this to me?! I thought you loved me? The audience thought you loved me, too! You can't do this to me, the Author already ships us!"
The spandex guy whined while laying on the floor. No one, except for the teenage boy who looked rather confused, seemed to be bothered about what just happened, and simply ignored the crying man on the floor.

"Jessica is right. We don't have time for pointless accusations. There's no need to make a fuss over this more than necessary. I admit that it wasn't okay of Tony to change the plan just like that but it certainly wasn't his fault that we lost sight of him and Sergeant Barnes and managed to lose them in the progress. I'm also rather certain that Loki didn't lead us in the wrong direction on purpose."
She said with a huff, even though James could hear the faint undertone in her voice which implied what she wasn't buying Loki's shitty excuse for a damn moment given how she stared the leather-clad man down with a pointed look of disappointment.

"So take a seat, please."
Carol finally said in an arbitrating tone gesturing for Steve and all of the others who still hadn't taken a seat to follow her advice and to sit down.

It was obvious that Steve and the others had more to say, but for once they stopped acting like spoiled children and started for a seat.

To James' (and Tony's) horror, Steve aimed for the seat right next to Stark.

'Oh, you gotta be fuckin' kidding me!'
James seethed.
'As if Steve Rogers would ever stop acting like a child!'

Before James could call Steve over to sit by his side instead of Stark's, a blur of red flew straight past Steve, engulfing the chair right next to Stark. Steve looked as dumbfounded as James when the man with the strange outfit passed Steve by and ordered the red Cape to move away. It did as it was told and the man then took the seat for himself, the cape happily wriggling behind him like some sort of newly adopted puppy.

"Excuse me, that seat belongs to me."
Steve snapped, but the man simply looked at him in amusement.

"I believe my cape thinks overwise. Unfortunately, it has a will of its own and doesn't listen to me. If it wants me to sit here, I have no other choice but to obey. It can't be helped."
He simply shrugged and then pointedly looked away from Steve, ending the conversation before it had even begun.

Steve gritted his teeth and turned away, starting for the seat next to James. His face visibly fell when he realized that that seat had also been taken by Constantine in the meantime.

He was about to complain again but Constantine's look was warning enough for Steve to keep whatever shit he was about to spill better to himself.

 

In the end, everyone else had already taken a seat, leaving Steve with the only chair left available which happened to be the one furthest away from James and Stark.

"You know,"
Constantine said, not bothering to look at James.
"Your buddy and his friends are even bigger jerks than Satan himself but..."

He lifted his eyes up to look at James for a short moment of time before his eyes wandered down to where James' hand still lay on Stark's thigh.

"At least you seem to be a pretty decent fella."

As if burned by the realization, James pulled his hand away in a hurry, earning a confused stare from Stark who thankfully refrained from saying anything.

Constantine on the other hand chuckled amused at the scene. A devilish grin plastered on his face.

'The youngsters these days are just too easy to tease.'

 

 

Notes:

Sorry for not updating for a while. I'll try to update on a more regular basis from now on, though I can't promise anything.

Also; James is kinda not badass in this Chapter, but I think that's okay. At some point, all of us crack under the pressure of our own feelings. James is just slightly better at enduring it like, a few decades better than anyone else.

Chapter 6: Chapter 6

Notes:

In this chapter, an innocent table will be abused. Please skip this chapter if you can't handle violent acts towards random furniture.

After nearly fifteen minutes of pointless blabbering from all sides, which eventually got silenced by Jessica's foot hitting the table surface with full force, everyone became quiet enough for Danvers to finally start the meeting.

"Now that I am having the attention of everyone let us start today's meeting. But before we begin, I have to inform you of the reason why Thor, Vision and Doctor Banner are absent from today's meeting and won't join us soon. I was informed by Doctor Banner that due to the recent circumstances regarding the rebuilding of Asgard, the decision was made that the three of them will stay on Asgard for the time being. Thor promised to aid us in battle if required, which means as long as Loki doesn't call for Thor, I am afraid they won't join us unless it is deemed necessary and can't be helped otherwise."

"Awww, that's a bummer. I wanted to grope that sexy blonde's manboobs so badly since Matt won't let me touch his nice and well defined-"

The Spandex guy went flying again, and James couldn't help but admire the fast reaction time of the guy with the sunglasses who had thrown the punch almost immediately and with a precision second to none. He also liked the sour face on Wanda's face, then she realized that she wouldn't get the chance to see Vision.

What was even more fascinating was the fact that no one except for maybe Steve and his friends seemed to mind that much if the Spandex guy was okay or not. Most of the new Avengers just rolled their eyes at the scene, almost, as if it were a day-to-day occurrence.

"May I ask what you mean when you say 'rebuilding Asgard'? If Thor needs our help, we would gladly give it. He's our friend after all."
Natascha said, fake concern lacing her words, probably in an attempt to sound like a caring friend. Her round, almost afraid looking eyes would have fooled lesser man, but not James. He could see how her eyes had landed almost immediately on the leather-clad guy. A thick layer of suspicion radiating from her eyes, mixed with an unspoken threat of murder. It was obvious that she blamed the man for whatever had happened on Asgard.

"They haven't read a damn thing, haven't they?"
The man with the red cape who had successfully stolen the seat next to Stark mumbled with a heavy sigh, sounding more than just fed up with everything and everyone around him by this point.

Stark snickered, a playful smile plastered on his lips when he leaned into the personal space of the man, firmly pressing his body to the other's side.
"Told you they would fuck you up real good, Honey."
Stark whispered in a sing-song voice, barely audible for James to hear.

The other man snorted at that, suddenly looking slightly bemused.
"Well, as it seems, the idiotism of the people around me never ceases to amaze me these days. I suppose I should have listened to your endless complaints and babbling for once in a while, Stark."

Seeing the Inventor so close to someone else lit something in James he couldn't quite explain or put a name on. His hand had suddenly started to spasm, an odd feeling of resentment spreading through his body. It was a familiar feeling, like when Steve called him Bucky instead of James or the uncomfortable emptiness that flooded his mind whenever his hand reached for his gun, only to come up empty-handed because he wasn't allowed to take it with him.

He couldn't tell why, but seeing Stark getting all friendly with that guy bothered him for whatever silly reason and it didn't sit well with him.
Maybe it was because of his lack of sleep, or because he hadn't eaten much in days...
Hell, maybe he was finally getting over the edge and starting to go insane? Who knows?
But the feeling was there, accompanied by a fleeting thought; Why can't it be me?

"You may, but I am afraid we don't have the time to answer your question right now, Agent Romanoff."
Danvers' answer startled James from his thoughts, letting his gaze wander away from Stark's conversation and to where Natasha was sitting.
"If you want an answer, please consider reading the Accords as well as the files the Council so kindly prepared and send to you. The Council, Doctor Stark, and I put great effort into those files to make sure that you guys would have access to all information regarding the Avengers initiative and its members at all times.
I would like to suggest that all of you read them as soon as possible if you haven't already done so. You will find a handful of useful information in there for example, why Mr. Laufeyson got pardoned and is now a very appreciated part of the Avengers initiative."
Danvers said with a finality that didn't leave any room for complaints.

James couldn't tell for sure, given that he had just recently met the women, but he got a distinct feeling that there was a thick layer of sarcasm hidden beneath her words, obviously taunting Natascha for her incapability to read simple files which had been so kindly provided to her.

Natasha's dark face only affirmed James' suspicion, given her cold gaze that was now firmly placed on Danvers instead of Loki. It was a look that camouflaged a bubbling, rising hatred. Disgust perhaps? James wasn't sure. Maybe Natasha began to realize that her acting skills wouldn't work on Danvers, nor on any of the other occupants of the room sans Steve and his friends.

"If that was all, I think it's best to start this meeting with an introduction round, given that you haven't read the given files about each of your new teammates yet. Like that, we'll all get to know each other on a more personal level. I believe that this will also be a great opportunity to strengthen our teamwork."
Another sarcastic jab from Danvers, well hidden beneath carefully laid out words that almost made James cackle. It was fascinating how that woman made it seem like she genuinely cared about them becoming a part of the team, while in truth she was only fooling around with them on a rather intellectual level.

"Since there are a lot of people involved, I think it would be best if we introduce ourselves teamwise. So, I suggest team Alpha will go up first and start our little introduction round. Doctor Strange, if you and your team members would be so kind as to move to the front, please?"
Danvers smirked at the man who in turn glared at her in utter annoyance.

"Fine..."
He huffed out through gritted teeth, starting for the wall that was farthest away from the table and therefore the least crowded place for a bunch of people to stand right next to each other.

The shuffling of clothes and moving chairs filled the air when Strange's team members made their way up to the man, most of them looking just as annoyed as the man himself.

"I am Doctor Stephen Vincent Strange, former neurosurgeon, team leader of Team Alpha, Sorcerer Supreme, and Master of the Mystic Arts. I'm also the protector of the New York Sanctum as well as Earth's protector from any new inter-dimensional threats."
Strange said without blinking an eye, his displeased sounding voice rattling the words down in utter annoyance. He even had the guts to roll his eyes at the end of his introduction, bringing the point further across that he would like to be anywhere but here.

"These are the other members of Team Alpha."
He gestured to the people who had lined up at his sides, urging them to introduce themselves as well but one glance at the guy with the sunglasses and Jessica made it clear that they wouldn't do a rat's shit unless they were forced to...
Well, James mused even if someone would go as far as to force them they would probably rather die than introduce themselves to Steve and his band of idiots.

Strange pinched the bridge of his nose, unmistakably contemplating the possibility of just flipping everyone in the room the finger and just leave but ultimately, seemed to decide against it.

Instead, he took it upon himself to introduce the two reluctant acting members of his team.
"The man to my right is Matthew Michael Murdock also known as Daredevil, though he prefers it to be called Matt. He is Doctor Stark's lawyer and works, then not needed as an Avenger, at his law firm 'Nelson and Murdock'. He might be blind due to an accident in his childhood but don't make the mistake and take him lightly; His other four senses are heightened to superhuman levels. That and his combat skills are making him a deadly opponent on the battlefield."

Strange said while ignoring the flirtatious heckling of the spandex guy in the background.

"As for the women right next to Matt... Her name is Jessica Campbell Jones; A private investigator who happens to be a superhuman."

The fact that Strange didn't reveal much more about the woman spoke volumes. It was clear as day that the women had no desire to get involved with anyone from Danvers team nor for them to know a single fuck about her. Strange had known that too given that he hadn't really revealed anything about her besides her name and job.

"Guess I am next, then."
The Pettit looking women with the stern-looking face which screamed 'don't mess with me' said.

"My name is Hope van Dyke. A few of you might know me given that I am
a former chairwoman of the board of Pym Technologies."
She said all business-like but then her gaze landed on Scott the room suddenly started to feel decidedly colder. James could have sworn there was a heavy layer of disappointment in her eyes, mixed with something that resembled disgust and mostly anger. The way her lips curled into a snarl when she continued would have brought lesser men to their knees.

"Unlike most of you, I am just a normal human being operating a suit which is called Wasp in order to fight. And unlike a certain person, I didn't steal my suit but earned it because I proved myself worthy of it. I guess one could say I'm a bit similar to Anthony in that matter... Well, before some people decided to fuck him over and he had to become-"

Whatever Hope was about to say died on her lips when the lights of the room started to flicker, the air frizzling with electricity and pressure.

Steve and the others were mumbling to each other, something about that Thor guy, but James realized almost instantly that it wasn't that Thor fella who caused whatever was happening because everyone else in the room quickly glanced over at the Inventor right next to him.

Most of them looked at Stark with concern while Hope looked embarrassed and utterly guilty at the same time, just like a kicked puppy who had managed to disappoint its owner.

James was just about to take a glance at the Inventor, curious as to why everyone seemed to be so concerned about Stark. He stilled in his tracks, though when a rasped 'don't'  from Stark made him reconsider his decision. Instead, his gaze landed on the table surface which had started to splinter under Stark's fingertips. The man's nails had dug deep into the surface of the ancient-looking tabletop, demolishing it with inhuman ease and strength.

"Hope..."
Constantine said from beside James', his gaze transmitting some sort of hidden message to the women which James could only guess was about the Inventor right next to him.
"If you're done, mind making room for someone else? I don't want to waste the whole day with this shitshow."

"Ah, sure. I'm really sorry. I didn't mean to... Take so long, I guess."
Hope said sounding defeated, the 'I'm really sorry' obviously directed at Stark rather than anyone else.
"Actually, that was about it. I don't have much more to say about myself so I guess it is Peter's turn now?"

She smiled awkwardly at the Teenager who in turn returned the smile even more awkwardly. The general mood was definitely at its lowest by now and everybody knew. Everybody sans the group of Idiots who were still oblivious to what just happened around them and kept on mumbling about that Thor guy.

The young boy who introduced himself next, called Peter Parker revealed that James already suspected; The boy had been that kid from before that had fought against him at the Airport, the flabbergasted 'You have a metal arm? That is awesome, dude!' coming to the forefront of James' mind almost instantly as if the words had only been spoken to him yesterday.

The kid babbled on for what felt like hours but no one seemed to mind except Clint and Steve who rolled their eyes almost simultaneously every time the kid went offtopic to admire Stark, his work, and generally everything that revolved around the Inventor and his person.

James hadn't been a fan of talking much since his fall from the bridge but for whatever reason, he enjoyed listening to others. The constantly talking of someone else soothed his nerves and he felt lesser on the edge of losing himself in unwanted thoughts the longer the other person kept on talking. Seeing that Stark's hands had curled away from the destroyed tabletop while Peter talked on endlessly made James think that the man must have enjoyed the distraction as well. Only in the far back of his mind did James wonder how Stark's fingers had managed to stay so pristine-looking after his stunt with the tabletop but he decided to pay it no further mind. Instead, he continued listening to Peter, a small, content smile on his lips. 

When Peter finally finished his introduction, everybody except Strange made their way back to their seats. Strange lingered for a moment, telling the others that Thor was also a member of Team Alpha and that Team Alpha, therefore, consisted of a total of six people.

Somehow, that statement felt off.
James couldn't tell why but something about the fact that Strange had stressed the part about having six people in his team didn't add up to the rest of that had been said.

James' train of thought came to a halt when the person next to him started to move and James instinctively followed the motion.

A weight on his shoulder stopped him in his tracks and pulled him back down onto the chair.

"Easy, pal. He's not going to disappear on you."
Constantine, who had used James' shoulder as some sort of support to lift himself out of his chair said.
"It's our turn."
He simply stated and then started for the exact same spot where Team Alpha had just stood mere seconds ago.

 

Stark's introduction had played out exactly as James had anticipated; It turned out to be a total disaster thanks to Steve and his bands of Idiots who interrupted and badmouthed the man at every given chance.
It was an impossible task for the man to finish a single sentence without someone intervening or mumbling unrelated shit about him in the progress.

Stark's face had gone pale and ill-looking as soon as he had started talking and the pointless blabbering around him only added fuel to the fire, making his hands tremble at his sides. His gaze had, at some point, fixated onto the table in front of him, staring the poor and already demolished thing down like it had wronged him on a personal level and James couldn't help but feel sorry for this one of a hell unlucky piece of furniture. If looks could kill...

Not even five sentences later and Stark gave up on introducing himself to his rather unwilling audience, prompting Loki to take over.

Though... The leather-clad man faced the same problems as Stark.

The god of fire and lies couldn't finish a single sentence without Barton interrupting and calling him a dirty murderer. But unlike Stark who had started to look paler by every passing second, Loki had just smirked throughout all the insults that had been thrown at him with that devilish smirk of his which promised a world of unspoken horrors and pains.

James would have been concerned about Loki's smile if he hadn't been occupied with watching Stark. His gaze not leaving the man for a second. Though Stark looked worse for wear after he had tried to introduce himself, it didn't look like the man was about to suffer another panic attack.
James mused it was because of Loki, who had repositioned himself at one point so that his body stood right in front of Stark's, shielding the man from Steve's line of view. The spandex guy on the other hand had taken off one of his gloves, revealing scarred and burned-looking skin underneath it. The man had then taken hold of Stark's hand, discreetly interlacing their fingers in a soothing manner. It eventually grounded Stark, his intense gaze on the table morphing into something less concerning and murderous.

'He's using the skin contact to calm him down...'
James thought distantly, the unpleasant feeling from before starting to rise in his chest yet again.

The old man introduced himself next, sounding as bored as he probably felt.
"John Constantine. Occult detective. Black Magician, I guess. That's all. Deadass you're up next..."

'That... Was decidedly short.'
James snickered to himself.

"Hey! Don't just introduce me as Deadass, will ya?! I'm Dead-#@%$-pool! Not Deadass!"
The spandex guy whined.
"Hey? Heyyyy? HEY?! Are you even listening to my angelic voice, old Johny boy? Ohhhhh... Come on! Don't pretend to be deaf, old geezer. I'm not mad at you for insulting me! Since you're only slightly less sexy than me, I'll forgive you, honey! Come on give atta boy here a kiss so we can make-"

James didn't know that was more disturbing;
Deadpool? The fact that Loki and Constantine had moved without everyone noticing? Or that both of them had decided to punch the spandex guy at the exact same time?

"I told you to behave, didn't I?"
Loki seethed at the body in front of him, looking highly annoyed, a frown firmly placed on his face.

"Come on Loki-Doki you can't just penetrate me like that without asking for my prem-"
And there it was, the awful sound of a well-deserved kick to the gut that definitely managed to damage a lot of organs in the progress and unquestionably a few bones, too.

"Ugh, Loki, don't tell me you're into THAT! Kinky." Deadpool wheezed while earing another kick to the gut.

"Loki, Constantine. I know he's a pain in the ass but would you please stop beating him to death?"
Danvers cleared her throat, looking decidedly less composed than before. "You all know the rule; No one is allowed to kill Deadpool indoors. We all agreed on that after that goddamn kitchen debacle."

Sighing, as if remembering something utterly disturbing, Danvers continued.
"The man currently decorating the floor to our feet is Wade Winston Wilson, better known as Deadpool - The Merc with a Mouth. He is the fourth, and currently last member of Team Beta. Besides his big mouth, Wade got inhuman healing abilities, so strong that we haven't found a successful way to shut him up, yet. I guess one could say he's practically immortal given that he's also not aging."

"Damn right! Bet hardcore fans are already thinking about that wonderful X-Force encounter I'll have around 800 years in the future! Sadly, only Loki's hot ass, and my favorite Mechanic will be around to witness this wonderful encounter."
The spandex guy said to no one in particular, winking at thin air.

"As if I would waste my precious time on such a lousy creature as you."
The Trickster god sneered, gracefully making his way back to his seat. Constantine and Stark following right after him.

"Great, just leave me alone with that idiot, then."
Stark mumbled behind Loki, who in turn smiled a cheapish smile at the man when he sat down.

That... That was odd. 

Deadpool hadn't spilled who that 'favorite Mechanic' of his was, yet, Stark automatically assumed the statement was about him and had promptly uttered a complaint.

That in itself wouldn't have been odd, but Deadpool was referring to a man who would be still alive 800 years in the future...
So, why would Stark make the assumption that Deadpool had talked about him, rather than someone entirely else?

"-turn now."

As far as James knew, Stark was a common man apart from his incredible genius, astonishing looks, and nonexistent self-preservation skills...

"-your turn now."

Soo, why would he assume-

"James?"

James startled back into his seat as if he had been physically pushed back, his brain sending sudden sparks and shivers through his entire body, desperately trying to connect the dots and instead just causing a short circuit which caused his mind to feel overloaded and entirely empty at the exact same time.

It took a moment of adjustment before his eyes wandered up to the source of the voice, meeting the gaze of a very concerned-looking Inventor. The one James had just mulled over in his head.

"I..."
James started voice sounding horse even to his own ears.
"What did you just say?"

The Inventor's gaze stayed firmly on him, the concern in his eyes radiating off of him in unceasing waves. James wanted to look away but he couldn't, simply too mesmerized by the sight that had so suddenly unfolded in front of him.

"I merely said that it is your turn now."
Stark said, pointing his finger over to where Danvers and the rest of the team had lined up.

"No. Not that."
James frowned, still not averting the Inventor's gaze.
"I mean after that. What did you call me?"

For a moment, Stark seemed like a deer caught in the headlights, his eyes wide open as if in shock. Realization must have hit hard and James would have laughed at the sight every other time, but not now. He needed to know. Maybe his mind had played a dirty trick on him, maybe he was going crazy, but maybe just maybe-

"James."
The Inventor deadpanned, trining to look everywhere but at James.
His face looking decidedly more flustered than before.
"That's your name, isn't it?"

If James hadn't known any better, he would letter say he had suffered a massive heart attack just then and there, his heart doing all sorts of various strange things in his chest. 

"...Yeah, but I didn't think you would know."
He mumbled more to himself than anyone in particular when he stood up and made his way to the others, carefully avoiding Stark's eyes in the progress out of sheer embarrassment. Of course Stark knew his name... Why wouldn't he know? James killed the man's goddamn parents. It was just that James had never thought he would ever hear his name roll off of those lips...

 

 

 

Notes:

**This story doesn't follow the canon timeline as you might have noticed. I also changed certain things like Asgard getting rebuilt by Thor and the others instead of getting abandoned.**

Btw... Don't worry about the poor table. We all know the table was the secret star of this chapter. Someone will tend to the table and repair it.
The table will live, find another ancient-looking table, and will live happily ever after.

Ps. I'm thinking about writing a side story about the table and his super awesome adventures!

Chapter 7: Chapter 7

It got worse.

Why had James expected anything else?

Danvers had started her introduction, and for a moment it seemed like everything was going smoothly and according to plan. But then, after Carol had finished her introduction it had been Wanda's turn and things gradually went down the hill.

Instead of introducing herself, Wanda decided to badmouth Stark, blaming him for her family's death, her painful childhood, and for becoming a member of HYDRA.
The stupid bitch even started crying in the progress, definitely determined to make sure that her acting skills would earn her an Oscar and foremost the pity of the other members. Wanda's skill to blame others and pretend to be the innocent victim was as disgusting as it was impressing. Yet, James couldn't for the life of his fathom to understand how Steve and the others had managed to fall for her fool play in the first place. Looking at the other members in the room, it was clear as day that no one was buying her shit for even a second. Given that, James couldn't help but feel disappointment towards Natasha. At least the Spy should have realized that Wanda had been playing them from the very beginning, using them for her own benefits and her agenda against Stark.

It was obvious that that bitch wasn't in her right mind. Her worldview on what's right and wrong could only be described as distorted and twisted. Yet, Steve had refused to see reason and had instead decided that it would be best to pamper the grown-ass women like a little child. The fact that Wanda possessed the ability to control one's mind, and had probably misused that ability already, didn't seem to bother Steve at all.

After all; The girl was just a child, not knowing how to use her powers probably. It wasn't her fault that she fucked up and managed to get countless people killed.

At least that was what Steve wanted to believe.

'Yeah, nothing to worry about here.'
James thought sarcastically.
'At least until the whole mess blows up in Steve's face.' 

 

The introductions went on relatively normal after Wanda's disastrous one, they weren't decidedly better than hers but at least none of them get any worse, so James decided to count that as a win.

Natasha and Clint had decided to keep their introduction short, their eyes constantly wandering over to where Loki was seated. The god was presumably the reason for their unwillingness to share any information about themselves.

Sam and Scott...
Well, James hadn't bothered to listen to them. To be frank, these two were even lesser sidekicks than Clint and Natasha, and James couldn't help but label them as useless fucks without their own opinions. Scott's stolen suit had been damaged quite a lot over the last year and given how venomous Hope had stared the man down, James doubted that he would ever get it repaired, least get a new one. Sam... Well, Sam was undoubtedly Steve's biggest fan and that was about it. James was pretty much certain that if he would have to fight against the man, Sam would die in under a minute. 

After Sam and Scott, it had been Steve's turn to introduce himself, and James decidedly kept his gaze onto the floor, letting his mind wander to unknown places just so he could blend out Steve's voice. 

 

When Steve finally finished his righteous speech, which probably no one from the other teams had bothered to listen to, it was finally James' turn, a feeling of uneasiness suddenly making itself known in the man's gut.

James took a step forward, just like the others had done before him, his gaze roaming over the countless faces which were turned into his direction. It was strange, really. That none of the people in front of him seemed to bother him that much...

It was Steve, standing right next to him, who bothered James the most. The man's gaze radiated an overwhelming feeling of pure fondness which made James feel incredibly awkward given that it wasn't a mutual feeling.

The worst part was that Steve's gaze wasn't even directed at James...
It was directed at Bucky, a ghost of the past who had ceased to exist a long time ago. Even though James had told the man over and over again that he had changed and wasn't the same as before, Steve refused to acknowledge the truth and continued to force his feelings onto James who in turn began to despise the man more and more.

The moment James had realized that Steve would never give up on Bucky, it was clear that whatever friendship they had at one point was ultimately gone. Steve continued to justify James' actions, his words, his expressions.
Always blaming others for the things James had done.
It was as if they were speaking two different languages. James speaking the painful and relentless truth while Steve spoke about fantasies and ghosts of the past. James wasn't kind, wasn't innocent and he certainly wasn't the person Steve saw in him...

But Steve refused to see that.

"Is everything okay, Sergeant Barnes?"
Carol asks, her smooth voice breaking the eerie silence which had started to settle in the room.
Her gaze looking a tad concerned, just like all the other eyes which were directed at James. It's only then that he realizes that he must have been silent for a while now. Minutes passing by without him noticing.

His mind was a funny thing at times, drowning him in his own thoughts, and managing to make him feel utterly out of place and time.

"Yeah, I just mused over the things I wanted to say."
He lied easily, an apologetic smile plastered on his face which screamed fake.

Carol just nods at him and then takes a sip of her glass of water, offering no ongoing conversation of her own except a firm smile that indicates for James to finally start his introduction.

"I am James Buchanan Barnes, a World War II Veteran, and a former officer of the 107th Infantry Regiment, though that's all in the past..."

James couldn't help but smile when his gaze caught Steve's disappointed eyes. It was obvious that Captain America wasn't pleased with James' introduction so far. Probably because James hadn't introduced himself as James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes.

"I don't have a fancy Hero name like most of you. People mostly relate to me as the Winter Soldier, one of HYDRAS favorite playthings and probably greatest success so far, at least that's what they want to believe."
He chuckled, sarcasm dripping from his lips.
"I guess, nowadays people rightfully refer to me as a murderer given that I spend the last decades mostly by killing innocent people."

James' gaze unintentionally wanders over to where Stark sits, searching the man's eyes for the hatred he, oh so rightfully deserves to feel towards James.

There is none.

Instead, Stark's eyes shine with amusement, a playful smile ghosting over the Inventor's lips which makes James' heart sink at the sight.

For a moment, he doesn't understand why the Inventor would look like that but when he follows Stark's gaze which is entirely focused on Steve, he realizes why.

Steve's face is fuming with anger and irritation, face scowling at James as if he had grown a second head.

"Bucky you know that's not true... HYDRA forced you to do all these things! You had no other choice! You're not a murderer!"
He says in his typical Captain America voice, something James had come to despise as well. It felt like Steve's righteous voice had the power to twist whatever truth James had been spoken into a lie, labeling only Steve's words as the irrefutable truth.

"But he had a choice."
Someone chuckles in the background, thick amusement underlining the words.
"He had the choice to either die or live, Rogers."
Stark says smoothly while sipping his coffee.

"And your point is?!"
Steve barks back angrily, face a nice shade of crimson red.

"My point is, dear Captain, that James here has obviously accepted the fact that if he had chosen death back then, a lot of people including James himself wouldn't have to suffer to such an extend. I can't even blame him for his decision though, because I had to make the exact same decision at more than one point in my life..."
Stark sighed resigned, putting his mug of coffee down. The way he had used James instead of Bucky had definitely been on purpose and only managed to add more fuel to the already raging fire.

"What I want to say is; Saying he had no other choice, and blaming others for his own decisions means you're not acknowledging the man who has made that decision.

James' decision from back then molded him into the man he is right now. Your mangling and defending him is simply a selfish act from your side because you can't accept the fact that James isn't like the Bucky from your past, am I right?"

At that, James had to cast his gaze downward briefly, hiding the smug smile that was beginning to spread on his lips. Of course Stark would know. The man wasn't called a genius for no reason and unlike Steve, the Inventor wasn't blind to the truth.

Steve, on the other hand, wasn't pleased with Stark's explanation, his body had grown decidedly tenser with every word that had passed the Inventor's lips. His mouth comically hanging open as if he was at a loss for words.

James had the mind to change his position slightly, moving in front of Steve so he could take a hold on the super idiot should he make the irrational decision to make a move for Stark.

Unfortunately, Carol decided to end the introduction round right then and there, giving Steve no real chance to act on his anger or, which was more likely, to explode.

It was unfortunate because James had been actually looking forward to giving Captain Righteous a good, and well deserved beating.

'Another time, then.'
He thought bemused, starting for his seat next to the man who had read him like an open book.

Stark greeted him with a slightly sheepish looking smirk- just a small pouting of the lips; a sparkle of amusement in his eyes and a tilting of the head. It was so subtle, James was sure no one else besides him had seen it.

"Now, that we have finished this rather interesting introduction round and everyone has finally returned to their seats I would like to address one more thing we have to discuss before we can call it a day and return to our quarters."
Doctor Strange announced in his typical annoyed sounding voice. 

"As you might have noticed, all of the Team leaders have made sure to mention how many members their team currently has. Team Alpha has currently six members, while Team Beta has only four members, and the new Team Charlie which acts under Captain Danvers has a total member count of seven people."

"And?"
Clint asked, obviously not seeing which turn this conversation was about to take.

"The Council thinks it is a disadvantage for Team Beta to only consist of four members while all the other Teams consist of decidedly more people. In order to compensate for that imbalance between the three Teams, the Council decided that one member of Team Charlie, which has the most members, must switch one member over to Team Beta."
Strange deadpanned, his tone still sounding constantly fed up with everything and everyone.

"And, before any of you start to complain-"
Stange glared at Steve and his friends, then.
"The Council's decision is irrevocable. One of you must join Team Beta."

"And what if we don't want to switch Teams? Like hell, I'm going to be in the same Team as this murderer."
Wanda sneered, pointing her finger at Stark who in turn didn't even bother to grace her with his attention.

"Wanda is right. You can't force us to work under Stark! What about Banner? He could join Stark's Team."
Clint added with a smug smile on his face.

"Hmm... I decidedly don't want to have you under me either, birdbrain. You are unquestionably not my type and for the Banner part; Bruce decided to quit. He's no longer an active part of the Avengers. He assured to lend us a hand if things get serious, but that's about it."
Stark purred and James couldn't help but snort at the clever response which in turn earned him yet again a disappointed look from Steve.
"To my misfortune one of you will have to join my Team, it can't be helped. The Council Members already made their decision. So, unless you guys decide to quit and leave, which I would really appreciate, by the way, one of you will have to bite into the sour apple."
The Inventor chuckled while smugly leaning back into his seat.

"Doctor Stark's point is valid. You have signed the Accords, therefore you already agreed on this matter. Refusing the Council's demands would be a breach of contract. That being said, I do want to remind you that all of you are wanted criminals, only pardoned due to the fact that you have signed said Accords. It would be a shame, really. If all of you had to go to jail because of such a small matter."
Matt, who had stayed mostly silent added unsolicited, the last sentence spoken with dripping sarcasm. Deadpool in the meanwhile had mimicked Edvard Munch's 'Scream' in the background, probably in an attempt to underline how serious the situation was but failing miserably, given that his whole face was still hidden beneath his mask.

"But-"
Steve started but never finished whatever he was about to say.
Instead, he started to stare daggers at the table, obviously musing over his next steps. The rest of his friends shared confused and slightly frightened looks, none of them daring to say something given that their leader had kept his complaints to himself for once.

"I wonder which one of them will join my Team..."
Stark said to no one in particular, his voice nothing more than a whisper but loud enough for James to hear.
"Actually, it would be rather nice if it would be someone who actually wants to be a part of it."
He added absentmindedly before he stood up and started for the coffee maker.

That...

Was that a hint?

"What do you think, kiddo?"
Constantine said with a decidedly mischievous grin on his face.
"Who will voluntarily miss the opportunity to work with the great Captain America and switch over to the infamous Team Beta?"

And suddenly, James felt as if someone had hit him straight into the face.

Stark knew.

Constantine, too.

All of them already knew. That whole introduction thing had been staged for this very moment.
That's why every Teamleader had made sure to explicitly mention how many members they had even though it had seemed so odd at that time, given that everyone could clearly see how many members each team had.

"You know, Snowflake,"
Stark said, placing his steaming coffee mug onto the table before he made himself comfortable in his seat.
"I don't want to sound like I am forcing you to act, but I can promise you that Shuri will be really pissed at you if you're going to let this opportunity slip."

 

 

Notes:

To be honest. The chapter was a lot more awesome in my head. (. _ .)
I'm sure it is a little bit disappointing but the more I changed it the worse it got.

Btw. of course, Shuri didn't just ask but rather threatened the Council to give James the opportunity to switch Teams.

Chapter 8: Chapter 8

James felt exhausted, his head hurt like a bitch and his eyes were heavy from the constant lack of sleep. His whole body felt overly tense and raw, every movement sending unpleasant warning signs to the forefront of his mind.
When was the last time he had probably slept?
Presumably, way before he had joined the 107th Infantry Regiment... Maybe never. He couldn't tell. Everything before the war, before everything went to shit was nothing more than a blur of random pictures and faces. At times, he wasn't even sure if his memories were real. His mother's face... Was it even hers or something his sick imagination had made up for the lack of a better comparison? He had no picture of her, nor of his siblings- No evidence that they had really looked like the people from his fading memories.

He would have liked to dwell a little bit more on those unnecessary thoughts, after all, a little self-pity here and there couldn't hurt that much, right?
Rogers' voice, though, made it hard to concentrate. The complaints of the man were constantly grating on James' nerves, and the occasional interjections of the other unpleasant voices surrounding him didn't make it any easier to keep his cool. He wished he would have brought his gun to the meeting. Hell, a third of the people in the room would already be dead by now if he had his gun with him. 

"I don't think it's a good idea! Bucky is clearly confused and shouldn't speak for himself! He's clearly not capable to comprehend what he's getting himself into."
Rogers whined, his trademark puppy eyes big and round as if it would help to bring his point across.

"Well, good thing he lifted his hand, then."
Constantine chuckled bemused, the smugness audible in his voice.
James couldn't stop the sinister grin that flashed over his face, then. The joke was lame but since it had been coming from the old geezer beside him it wasn't that bad. 

Of course, Rogers had to make a fuss. It would have genuinely surprised James if not. As soon as he had lifted his hand to indicate that, yes, he wanted to switch over to Stark's team, Rogers had started to complain about it. He had even attempted to throw Sam and Scott under the bus, offering that they could switch over to Stark's team instead of James. Like it was some sort of a one-time offer only an idiot would decline.

"Take two instead of one, but only while stock lasts."
Someone had chucked out as a joke. James had mused it must have been the Spandex guy, but he couldn't be sure given that he had been too occupied with his oncoming headache and the laughter that threatened to leave his lips.

Sam and Scott hadn't taken kindly to Rogers' offer, either. Both wearing looks of betrayal on their face, yet they refused from complaining about it.

'Such good little lap dogs, they are.'
James thought bemused.

Rogers had just shown his true colors to them, yet they didn't bother to call him out on it. It would have been funny, really, if they had talked back and refused to switch teams.

The conversation continued to go back and forth, presumingly never reaching a conclusion as long as Rogers had a say to the matter. Fortunately, most of the people in the room didn't give one shit about Rogers' opinion, nor about what the man had to say and so, Carol jumped in onto the conversation, likely with the determination to end it for good.

"Fact is,"
And here Carol's voice carried some sort of finality with it,
"That Sergeant Barnes is the only person from our team who volunteered to switch over to Dr. Stark's. So, if you don't offer another solution to our current problem, I don't see why we're still wasting precious time on this particular matter. At this point, you're just making an unnecessary fuss over nothing, Mr. Rogers."

"A fuss over nothing?! Am I the only one who sees how dangerous this is?!"
Rogers fumed, anger morphing his face into a disgusted-looking snarl.

"Steve is right,"
Barton piped up, his gaze concentrated on Stark.
"If Bucky becomes a member of Stark's Team he'll be a far easier target for that dipshit to get rid of. What will it be, Stark? Another killer robot going on a rampage, accidentally killing Bucky in the progress? Would be really convenient for you, wouldn't it? No blood on your hands and all that shit. Just blame it onto the piece of shit you invented."
The Archer snarled, malice dripping from his words.

'That fucker.'
James snapped inwardly, already balling his hands into fists, ready to punch the living hell out of the Archer if necessary.

A low chuckle from beside him kept him from acting on his impulses, his gaze wandering over to the source of the voice.

"Oh, trust me, Birdbrain..."
Stark's voice drawled, cold and calculating. Eyes momentarily glistening with that ominous light from before.
"I'm certainly not in need of one of my inventions to get rid of someone, at least not anymore."

James and probably everyone else in the room must have felt the same chill when the implication of Stark's words sunk in. The sudden silence which followed after it felt like a knife to the throat, making it hard to concentrate on anything but Stark's deadly gaze.

"I think at this point we can all agree that this shitshow here went on for far too long."
The Inventor said matter of factly, a savage grin on his face when his gaze fell onto James.
"Snowflake here made a decision and isn't that what you always wanted, Rogers? Free will and all that? Your favorite boy toy can finally do whatever the fuck he wants whenever he wants to. So why making a fuss, huh? What? Suddenly scared that he might enjoy working under me?"

'Huh, that definitely stung.'
James thought, seeing Rogers face out of the corner of his eyes. He couldn't tell if it was anger that colored Steve's face a crimson red or the sheer amount of mortification he must have been feeling because of Stark's more than inappropriate implication. Whatever it was, it had hit its mark, leaving a flustered and more than dumbstruck Steve behind.

"Who says it's not the other way around?"
James couldn't help but add, a sinister smile of his own ghosting over his face, eyes firmly fixed onto the Inventor.

'This is fun.'
He decided, fond amusement filling his chest.
'If Stark wants to play it naughty, then I'm more than happy to oblige.'

A wolf-whistle was heard in the background, accompanied by Rogers' desperate gasps for air. The man was probably suffering a heart attack given how his hand clenched the fabric of his shirt, but James didn't bother to care. His attention lay solemnly on Stark's face so he wouldn't miss the Inventor's reaction.

"Sorry, Snowflake - I'm not really into that 'you killed my parents let's make love' kink."
Stark said without hesitation and James seethed the fact that the man's face hadn't given anything away. There was no hatred or malice directed at him, Stark's face and voice had been perfectly void of emotion, so painfully blank as if they were discussing the fuckin' weather report for the next week.

He could work with the man's dislike, hatred even. James deserved nothing less from the man. But not knowing what was going on in that pretty head of the Inventor's, well, that was slightly unsettling him.

"That was disgusting, even for your standards, Stark."
Barton barked, but Stark ignored him. The Archer was all bark but no bite anyways. Acknowledging the prick would be a total waste of time.

"Am I the only one who would like to see them fuckin' on the table?"
Wade quipped to Matt, just loud enough for everyone else to hear, leading to inflict Rogers' second heart attack of the day.

"I guess we're ready to call it a day, then?"
Stark drawled, slowly rising from his seat.
"As much as I enjoy the delightful company, I've got a business to run. So, if you'd excuse me, work's not getting done on its own."

"Like hell, we're done, Stark!"
Barton yelled, successfully moving from his seat to block the Inventor's path to the door.

"Clint is right. The team has serious concerns about Bucky switching over to Stark's team, yet you guys seem to vehemently ignore those concerns and make fun of them."
Natasha added, fake concern lacing her words.
"Stark and Bucky have a history. It's only natural to assume the worst. You can't blame Steve for his more than justified concerns, given that there's an unsettled business between the two of them."

At that, something in James snapped.

"Unsettled business, huh? Is that so, Romanov? What? Afraid that Stark's rightfully going to kill the guy who murdered his parents? Don't make me laugh. There's no fuckin' business between Stark and me. If Stark really wanted me dead, I wouldn't be listening to your shit right now. I saw what his suit is capable of. He could just blast my sorry ass into oblivion without so much as blinking an eye if he wanted to. And hell, I wouldn't even blame him for it. So, do me a favor and shut your stupid mouth. Honestly, I thought you were smarter than this, but look at you; You're just another lap dog, wagging its tail at Rogers every word."
He hadn't realized that he had moved from his seat until he found himself staring down at Barton, body now firmly placed between the Archer and Stark.
"The same goes for you, dipshit. You can go and wag your tail at Steve all you want, I don't give a fuck. But if you continue butting your head into my business we're going to get a problem with each other, Barton. Trust me, you don't want that. Would be a shame for you to wake up one morning choking on your own testicles."

James snarled at the Archer, face twisted with dangerous intent. 

Barton seemed to have just enough brain cells left to move his sorry ass out of James' way. A wise decision, really. Just because James hadn't brought his gun to the meeting didn't mean that he hadn't brought other weapons. One of his hidden knives would be more than sufficient enough to castrate the Archer right here and now.

"Hmm... That was kinda impressive, Snowflake."
Stark chuckled, his voice sounding closer to him than before. He turned to see that Stark had moved right next to his side, only an arm's length away.
James noticed that Matt and Wade had also moved from their seats, both now standing right next to the Inventor's right side. They were definitely sensing something James hadn't yet caught on to. Why else would they have moved? He risked a confused glance back at Stark, only to find that the Inventor's gaze had fixated solely on barton, something sinister ghosting over his lips. It was a rather ugly look on the man's face, ruthless and utterly inhuman. James didn't like it.
"Also rather intimidating... Barton probably pissed himself just know."

Two things happened at once, then;

The first was Barton losing his shit over Stark's unnecessary (and obviously intentional) jab, lashing out at the man who not even bothered to move out of the Archer's way.

The second was a well-calculated punch from Wade's side, aimed at the Archer's face which sends him reeling to the ground. The punch had come out of nowhere, taking the Archer by surprise. 

Matt had moved, too... James noticed.
As soon as Wade had thrown the punch at Barton, Matt had moved in the space between Stark and Rogers, successfully shielding the Inventor with his body. If Rogers would get any weird ideas, Matt would be there to stop him. 

'Clever.'
James chuckled.
'These two fucker's had seen it coming all along and acted without talking to each other.'

Given how Matt and Wade had acted before, one would have guessed those two couldn't work together without ending up killing each other. But seeing them now, communicating without words, and working together as if they had never done anything else told an entirely different story. These two obviously trusted each other with their lives, otherwise, they wouldn't be able to pull off such seamless teamwork.

"That was totally unnecessary!"
Wanda roared, making her way over to Barton who held a hand to his bleeding nose. Given the sickening sound, it had produced when Wade's fist had collided with the Archer's face, it was obviously broken beyond repair.

'Good.'

"I have to agree to that."
Loki chuckled, not bothering to hide his apparent amusement.
"Barton can call himself lucky for only sporting a broken nose. Wade isn't known for his tendency towards mercy."
The leather-clad man drawled.

"Yeah, could have been worse. Luck's on your side, kid."
Constantine added unhelpfully from his seat. The old geezer hadn't even bothered to get his ass up.

"His swords would have left even more of a mess, though. Thankfully he wasn't allowed to bring them."
Jessica drawled as an afterthought, surprising the others with her sudden contribution to the conversation.

"What the fuck is wrong with you people?!"
The witch whined, helping Barton onto his feet.
"How can you just stand around, making jokes? I want that guy removed from the Team!"
She pointed a finger at Wade, casting him an ugly stare.
"He's dangerous! I bet Stark told him to do this! We can't let this slide! He has to leave the-"

"Interesting, I was about to say the same about Mr. Barton."
Matt who had been decidedly silent until now, interjected.
"Mr. Barton just attacked Dr. Stark for no apparent reason. Violent acts against another team member are explicitly forbidden, as all of you should know. Mr. Barton, therefore, violated one of the most primary rules of the Avengers initiative. Given that, I would like to contact the Council and submit a request for Mr. Barton to be terminated from the Avengers initiative immediately."

"Then, we will do the same. Your teammate just punched Barton straight into the face and broke his nose. The Council should know about that matter, too."
Natasha said in a way that indicated that she believed to hold the upper hand.

"Is that so?"
Matt said unimpressed, his posture giving nothing away.
"FRIDAY?"

"Yes, Mr. Murdock?"
The AI chirped back, sounding rather enthusiastic for no apparent reason.

"You are supposed to record every meeting held by the Avengers, right?"
Matt asked, his voice lacking FRIDAY's enthusiasm by miles.

"Yes, I've been tasked to record and file every meeting away for eventual later use. It's part of many of my basic tasks regarding the Compound."
Now FRIDAY's voice sounded outright smug and James got a feeling he knew exactly into which direction this conversation was heading.

'Hell, even the AI is one ruthless motherfucker.'
He grinned, waiting in anticipation for Matt's and FRIDAY's final blow to take Natasha down.

"So, in accordance to this, you'd be able to send the Council a copy of what just happened between Mr. Barton and Mr. Wilson, right?"

"If you are referring to Mr. Wilson's use of physical force against Mr. Barton in order to protect Dr. Stark then, yes, I would be able to do so. The footage clearly shows that Mr. Barton attacked first. Mr. Wilson only acted in order to protect Dr. Stark. I believe the Council will come to the same conclusion and take the necessary actions to deal with Mr. Barton's behavior."

Steve and his group of idiots went decidedly still at that, FRIDAY's voice leaving no doubt that she would be more than happy to comply and send the files over to the Council right away.

"Good, then let's do just that and wait for the Council to make a decision. It shouldn't take that long given that the proof is-"

"No!"
Steve intervened, sounding flustered.
"I mean, there's no need for that. Things went out of hand and..."
He paused, biting his lips.

"Things just escalated. Nothing we should dwell on for too long."
Natasha finished lamely, a look of pure despises on her face.
"We just arrived and everyone is still a little bit... Tense. Clint shouldn't have reacted like that and he's sorry about it, aren't you?"

She pointedly looked at Barton, then. As if to say 'don't fuck this up', while she silently motioning for him to apologize.

"Yeah, I am."
The Archer snarled back, decidedly looking anywhere but at Stark. It wasn't a real apology, but it seemed to work.

"Is that so? That's good to hear. It would have been sad to see you leaving so early, given that you just arrived."
Matt drawled, sounding mildly entertained.
"I suppose we can finally call it quits for today, then. Don't you think so too, Carol?"

"Yeah..."
Carol sighed in defeat, not bothering to say much more to the matter.
There was no use talking about anything else, given that things had already escalated to a physical point. The moment Matt had decided to enter the conversation had also been the point of no return. Matt was good with words, even better with his fists...
Add one hell of a lovestruck idiot (Wade) into the mix and things would go down the hill in an instant.
Carol could deem herself lucky that it had only been Wade who decided to get physical. If Matt had snapped too, things would have probably ended up with way more injuries than just a simple broken nose.

Carol had seen the weird twitch on Wade's mask when Natasha had dared to threaten Matt. God, that could have ended in a bloodbath hadn't Matt kept his cool and involved FRIDAY...
If someone was overly protective over Matt and his honor, then it was probably Wade.

To an outsider, it might seem like they despise each other, especially given the way Matt treats Wade around other people, but if you take a closer look and overlook the constant bickering and fighting they have going on, you will find that they share a mutual fondness for each other- Something you can't simply put into words.

"That's all for today. You can go."
She simply waved a hand, dismissing the meeting for good.
The day wasn't even over yet, and Carol was already contemplating quitting her position as a team leader. 'That a wonderful first day with my new team', she thought, the traitorous voice in her head sounding a little bit too sarcastic for her liking.

Steve and his band of Idiots were the first to leave, heads hanging low in defeat. It was a wonderful sight, one James would probably never forget for the rest of his life.

Matt and Wade were the next to leave. They were walking next to each other, slowly marching towards the door. Wade was humming something about Matt's undying love for him, his arm had wandered discreetly around the other man's waist, staying there as if it never belonged anywhere else. James was almost certain that the bold move would earn Wade another punch to the gut, but to his surprise, he found that the Lawyer seemed not really bothered by the contact, more like he was enjoying the gesture.

One person after another made their way past James, either idly chatting with each other or, like in Carol's case, sighing under their breath.

After a while, the only other person left in the room besides James was Stark who hadn't bothered to move just yet. The man was idly looking down onto his tablet, tipping furiously away on it. Even though the man had said he needed to get some work done, he didn't seem to be in a hurry to leave...

James contemplated talking to the Inventor, but he didn't really know what to say. It wasn't like they were friends, hell, James doubted the man felt anything towards him at all. Stark simply tolerated him, and even that was more than wishful thinking on James' part. It wasn't like James' full grow Rottweiler attitude towards Barton had changed anything between them. Stark could have easily defended himself but had simply chosen not to.

'A smart move.'
James thought.

Stark had played his cards right, had won the battle before it had even begun.

Because out of the two of them, Stark was the one who actually possessed a brain. Barton? Not so much.
The Inventor's remarkable devotion to simply ignore the Archer's jabs had worked in his favor, making the attention whore, otherwise known as Clint, all the angrier. The silent treatment only fueled Barton's hatred towards the Inventor, until he couldn't take it anymore.
It was only a matter of time for Barton to explode, and Stark had known that and used it to his advantage.

A careless jab here and a seemingly thoughtless spoken comment there had been all it took to send Barton over the edge.
The Inventor had never lost control over the situation, no. Stark had considered every variable, had calculated Barton's reactions down to the point, and even manipulated the Archer into digging his own grave by letting things between them escalate.

It hadn't been a mere coincidence that Matt and Wade had positioned themselves beside Stark's side just shortly before Barton lashed out, either. They had known what was going on, probably from the start, too. And even if they hadn't known, they had been remarkably fast at catching onto the situation, successfully helping to let it escalate even further than it already had. Something James had to admire.

The nagging question was, had Stark planned to let things with Barton escalated from the very beginning, or had he simply seen the opportunity and went with the flow?

"Unfortunately, they are not as predictable as you might think them to be."
Stark drawled from beside James, face suddenly dangerously close to the assassin's own.

'When the fuck had he moved and why hadn't he noticed?'

"How-"
James began, fumbling for words.

"It's basically written all over your face, Snowflake. Who would have thought that your thoughtful gaze could look even scarier than your normal face?"
The Inventor joked.
"To answer the question to your rather obvious internal dilemma; I kinda went with the flow. I had a hunch that Barton would be the easiest one to temper with, given that he's not known for his patience. But I have to admit that I hadn't foreseen Wade and Matt's involvement in the matter. Wade punched Barton pretty good, though. So it would be stupid of me to complain about their sudden involvement. That nose is definitely broken beyond repair. But who cares? It's not like I would give a damn about Barton anyways."

"So you do admit it? That you taunted him on purpose, I mean. You wanted Barton to lash out, didn't you?"

Stark eyed him for a moment, his head slightly tilted to the side to consider him. It was a comical look on Stark, but James decided not to comment on it.

"Yes, I did. Though it took way longer to happen than I had originally anticipated... Who would have guessed that not only one but two more unknown variables would dare to temper with my calculations?"
Stark's gaze intentionally met James' eyes, then. His eyes shining with something close to bemused wonder.
"I must say, your countless interventions regarding Barton's demeanor towards me, did surprise me. It made things... A lot more entertaining, I guess."

James didn't know what to answer to that. His thoughts a tangled mess of words, refusing to be molded into a coherent sentence.

The silence between them stretched on, neither of them saying anything. They just kept staring at each other, gazes never wavering apart. Eventually, after what felt like hours, Stark decided to break the silence between them with a soft chuckle.

"I guess we should go, too."
He said, moving to leave without bothering to wait for James' answer.

James watched after him for a while, hesitating just shortly, before he jogged after the Inventor, falling into step beside him.

They were walking the floors back to their individual rooms in comfortable silence, both sporting a faint smile on their lips. Neither of them had felt the need to continue their previous conversation from before, but James hadn't thought it necessary anyways.

They weren't friends. No. They probably would never be. But they weren't enemies either. That had to be enough. It had to be. It was a start, at least.

Even long after they had gone their separated ways, James could still feel that small smile tugged on his lips, it simply wouldn't waver from his face, not even when he was met with Rogers' questioning face as he walked straight past him and into his room.

James kept that stupid smile plastered on his face for the rest of the day, not bothering for a second to let it slip from his lips.

Chapter 9: Chapter 9

James rises with a start, a muffled scream leaving his dry throat, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging awfully onto his shivering body.
His heart is hammering mercilessly in his chest, still dealing with the aftermath of a rather nasty nightmare he can't recall. He's a bit surprised that the dreams still get to him, but he muses it's only natural to feel appalled when you have to relive all your horrible life choices night after night. He can't help but curl his hand into the sweat-soaked fabric of his shirt. His heart still pounding so hard, it almost feels like it's about to break free from his ribcage, a painful yet oddly familiar feeling... Almost like the visit of an old friend.

For whatever shitty reason his mind decides to lead his train of thought back to Siberia, back to that damn bunker, and back to Stark's horrified face when the truth about his parents' death had been slapped straight into the Inventor's face. The mortification and betrayal so easily painted across the man's face, like it had been a canvass tainted with despair.

He absentmindedly wondered if it was the same for Stark. Waking in the middle of the night, screaming in agony... Wishing that someone would cease the pain. Only to realize that you were alone and no one would ever come for you. 

A stupid question, he realizes uncomfortably.
James' sudden appearance, and the awful truth about Stark's parents that accompanied him probably only added up to the Inventor's already existing sleeping problems.

If he remembered correctly, Natasha had mentioned at one point in their rather scarce conversations, that Stark had suffered from nightmares long before he had joined the Avengers initiative. That the man was unpredictable, a textbook narcissist, and therefore a danger for others and himself.

Thinking back, James had problems stifling the laugh that had been daring to escape his lips.
He had taken the time to look into Stark's past when they had stayed in Wakanda, and hell, the man was nothing like Natasha had said.

Sure, the playboy part, and whatever else the press was spouting about the man's sexual encounters had seemed to be true, at least until the Inventor got involved with that fierce-looking assistant of his. But everything else? Well, utter bullshit if someone asked James.

The Inventor had flown a fukin' nuke into an alien portal to save the damn planet. Sacrificing your own life for the greater good didn't match up with Natshas' overly narcissistic description of Stark's persona.

Hell, in James' eyes the man was a goddamn hero. Someone he would have looked up to as a kid.

'And you fuckin' killed that man's parents- Great job James. Way to worship a hero.'
He thought bitterly, his gaze unfocused and starting to blur.

James could feel how his heartbeat quickened at the thought, and how his lungs failed to take in enough air to probably breathe. He squeezed his eyes shut, nausea hitting him like a punch to the face. The world around him starting to spin, panic seeping into his bones, making it even harder for him to concentrate on breathing.

'Breathe.'
James mentally berated himself, without much success. He was aware of the oncoming panic attack, fear seeping into his bones.

"Gotta breathe, damn it!"
His voice sounded broken and he hated it. 

 

"I doubt that that's the right way to get yourself through a panic attack, Snowflake. The screaming will only hurt your throat."
A sudden voice said, startling James so hard, he almost toppled out of his bed. He would later vehemently deny that he had been scared shitless by the sudden disruption.

It took him a while before he could place the oddly familiar voice, his mind too focused on breathing and keeping him from suffocating. His brows creased in confusion when he let his blurry gaze wander around the room and came to a stop on one of the cameras located next to a speaker on the ceiling.

"S- Stark?"
He managed to get out through gritted teeth.

Squeezing the Inventor's name out of his mouth had been painful and more than exhausting, given that he was still struggling to fill his lungs with the well-needed air he so desperately craved at the moment.

"H- How did you- How- Ughh..."
Head spinning, he tried to force the words out, trying his best to not sound like an utter idiot, but it was futile. His head kept on spinning like a bitch, and he was almost certain that he was about to retch.

God, he must look so pathetic to Stark.

"FRIDAY told me."
Stark's voice rang from the speaker, sounding unbothered about James' current state, apathetic even.
"She's supposed to monitor the health of each individual in the compound, remember? It's stated in the Accords. When she picked up on your very concerning heart rate, she informed me that you probably required medical help. So, here I am. Making sure that you're not about to kick the bucket."

Somehow, that sounded more like an excuse than anything else...
If he weren't, well suffocating right now, James might have wanted to ponder over Stark's lame and defensive-sounding explanation, but not right now. Not when he was struggling to breathe like a fuckin' idiot.

"I- I'm fine. I- I just need a- a moment to-"
James tried to grit out but it was futile, the words getting stuck in his throat yet again.

"Yeah, I can see that. Fine my ass."
Stark chuckled mercilessly, his voice lacking any emotion- As usual.
There was nothing in his voice that would betray the man. Nothing that would give James a hint as to what the Inventor was really feeling.

Was he feeling amused? Did he enjoy James' pathetic sight? Or did he simply didn't give a fuck? James wouldn't put it past him. Just because they were on speaking terms, didn't mean the man liked him enough to give a shit about him. Hell, he didn't even know if the man could actually stand him or merely played nice with him for the time being.

Maybe, everything until now had been a part of Stark's greater scheme to get rid of him. Maybe he was playing with James like he had been playing with Barton?

No. His thoughts shouldn't go down that way.

Stark wasn't like that.

Barton had been played by the Inventor because of his constant aggressive behavior towards him. Stark had merely used the opportunity Barton had handed him on a silver platter and made good use of it.

But why wouldn't he try the same thing with James? The opportunity was there, right in front of him. Why was Stark not using it? Why pretending to care, when his voice lacked any emotion, any indication that he actually gave a shit about James?

"Barnes?"

James hated it.
The fact that he couldn't read the Inventor like an open book bothered him, and if he was being honest here- It drove him mad.

"Barnes?"

He was gripping his shirt firmer now, thoughts flooding his mind, numbing his senses. Fingernails digging deeper into the flesh beneath his shirt, bruising the sensitive skin under the soaked fabric, but he didn't notice the pain. The pain had become a constant in his life. It was just another dull, unimportant sensation to him. Something he had to live with. It was simply a part of his fucked up life.

"James!"
The sudden outburst and the usage of his name startled him from his thoughts, realization hitting him like a crashing wave.

James loosened the grip from his shirt, the sudden waves of pain which followed the motion only now registering fully in his overloaded and confused mind. His brain felt electrocuted and so violently defocused that the pain was simply so all-encompassing; Overwhelming him from within.

"Hell, you have to breathe, Snowflake. Don't force me to sneak my way past Rogers and those Idiots to get into your quarters. Come on, James. In and out. I know you can do it. In, and slowly out."
Stark said in a tone that could only be described as gentle and...

'Concerned.'
His mind supplied. But... No. That couldn't be right. James was surely only interpreting things here. Even so, he did as Stark told him, taking a deep breath in and holding it for a while before letting it slowly out, and then continuing the motion. His hands had found their way onto the soft fabric of his blanket, the soft and still warm material of the fibers beneath his fingertips also helping him to calm the fuck down.

He closed his eyes and kept on listening to Stark's voice, breathing in and out, slowly but steady. The well-needed air filling his sore lungs made him feel slightly lightheaded, dizzy almost, but not uncomfortable. Stark's voice sounded pleasant to his ears, something about the roughness in his voice felt oddly comforting. Simply speaking; It felt nice to listen to the man. The warmth of the fabric beneath his fingertips combined with Stark's overly pleasant voice made him feel... At peace.

 

James couldn't tell how much time had passed since he had closed his eyes, but when he opened them again, the room had fallen silent around him. Stark's voice gone silent.

He muttered a softly spoken thank you under his breath, not really anticipating an answer since he mused that Stark had already left him to his own after he had, at least somewhat, calmed down.

So, when Stark's voice suddenly rang through the room again, it startled James for the second time this day, to such an extent even that his whole body visible finished at the sound.

"Don't mention it. It's not like I went out of my way to help you."
Stark said nonchalantly, pausing just shortly to mull over his words. The Inventor seemed utterly unaware of the fact that he had managed to scare the former assassin for the second time this day. And for that, James was more than grateful. It wasn't every day that James had to contemplate if his dignity was still intact.

"Since Bruce left, the role of the overly protective mother-hen kinda fell into my laps, anyways."
Stark continued, sounding thoughtful.
"Given that, I don't really have a choice but to give a fuck about everyone living in our lovely compound. So, there's no real need for you to thank me, you see? It kinda comes with the job description."
He added, but to James' ears, it sounded more like Stark was trying to justify his actions.

James couldn't help but chuckle at that. It was obvious that Stark struggled with the fact that James had thanked him. Under different circumstances it might have been funny, seeing Stark struggle with something as simple as that, but James knew from experience that the Inventor's odd behavior couldn't have simply occurred overnight. Rather, it implicated that Stark wasn't used to being thanked at all. It was painfully obvious to James, that the Inventor had hardly ever received any form of gratitude for his deeds.

It wasn't hard for James to imagine how Stark had willingly offered his money and resources to Steve and the others, never really expecting anything in return for the things he had done for them besides a simple thanks- which, knowing Steve, The Inventor probably never got.

"Huh, is that so?"
James said, carefully choosing his next words.
"Well, you have my thanks anyways. I wouldn't have calmed down nearly as fast as I did, hadn't you intervened. So, thank you, Stark. I really appreciated it."
James said truthfully, a small smile tugging at his lips.

That must have struck a nerve though, James realized. Because even after he had waited several minutes for an answer, Stark remained silent.

"My apologies, Sergeant Barnes."
FRIDAY suddenly said, apparently deeming it necessary to answer in place of her Inventor.
"Please let me assure you that Boss' rude behavior towards you isn't out of pettiness. He simply-"
And here she stumbled for words, clearly not sure how to proceed. It baffled James how sad the AI's voice sounded. So entirely human, caring, and alive. It was fascinating.

"It's just that there weren't many people in his life who deemed it necessary to thank him until recently, so he's still not used to the gesture."

'So I was right about that, huh...'

"Don't worry, FRIDAY. No offense taken."
He shrugged, pulling his shirt and boxers off and making a beeline to the bathroom. He felt dirty, given how much he had sweated in his sleep. The warm shower he so desperately craved would do wonders for his still sore muscles and-

Suddenly, a thought struck him, his gaze snatching up to the camera located at the ceiling. Only now did he realized that he had gone butt-naked in front of the camera.

In front of Stark... and FRIDAY.

His mind went blank, the feeling of embarrassment sending an unpleasant heat to his face before his mind reeled back, reminding him about what FRIDAY had said when they had arrived at their living quarters.

The AI had vehemently assured them that the cameras weren't used for common surveillance purposes after Barton had loudly complained about them. Rather than filming, the cameras were a means-end for FRIDAY to observe various vital signals.

Like that, she could immediately act upon a threat or a medical emergency if necessary. She also clarified that those cameras weren't located in any of the bathrooms and that the ones located in the bedrooms only transmitted readings of the occupant's heart rate and nothing else.

Yet, he couldn't help but feel oddly embarrassed and exposed, his hand unconsciously wandering up to one of his larger, nasty-looking scars across his chest. It had been a deep gush, starting on his right chest down to his lower abdomen.

One of his handlers had thought it funny to cut him open with a knife while he was sedated, leaving the wound unattended for hours. When James had come to his senses the wound had still been bleeding, and none of his handlers had seemed to be there when he had woken on the cold examining table in one of their many secret laboratories. So he had to take care of the wound by himself, clumsily stitching the flesh back together after he had burned it with a lighter he had found lying around so he could stop the bleeding.

Only much later did he found out that his handlers had been secretly watching him, placing bets on how long it would take him to stitch himself back together.

He shivered slightly at the memory and forced his gaze away from the camera and onto his original goal; The shower.

It was probably for the best that the cameras weren't filming him.
James mused that even if Stark had been able to watch him through the cameras, the man would surely have stopped as soon as James had revealed his ugly, scarred body. When not even James dared to look at his reflection in the mirror without feeling disgusted at the sight, how could he hope someone else wouldn't feel the same disgust? There might have been a time people had considered him as a good-looking fella, pleasant to the eye even, but that was decades ago when the world had been at war and he still dreamed of a better and brighter future...

The chuckle that escaped his mouth at the thought was laced with bitterness, leaving a disgusting taste in its wake.

He ignored the anguish that gnawed at his mind when he turned the shower on, trying his best to push the dark thoughts away. Stark hadn't helped him out just for James to suffer yet another panic attack under the shower. Nope. Not going there. It wasn't healthy, he knew that. So, he tried to concentrate on the warmth of the water which was steadily cascading down his body. How his muscles slackened under the pleasant warmth, relishing the soft embrace of the water.

He spent almost an hour like that, enjoying the steady stream while his mind was pleasantly blank. He turned the shower off and went to grab a towel, loosely tugging it around his waist. For a moment he thought it was sitting a little bit too low on his waist, revealing a lot more skin than probably necessary but it wasn't like anyone was watching him, he reminded himself. The sudden pang of disappointment that managed to sneak its way into his thoughts went ignored.

James sighed and flopped himself onto the bed, not bothering to put on clothes just yet. A quick look at his alarm clock revealed that it wasn't even 5 am yet. Given how long he had been in the shower and how long it had taken him to fight through his panic attack, he mused that he must have been awake for at least two hours now...

Had Stark already been awake, then? Or had FRIDAY woken the man on James' behalf? Stark had looked worn down since James and the others had arrived... The man probably needed the rest just as much as James needed it, and yet he had gone out of his way to help him out...

He sighed, curling his fingers into the pillow and gripping it harder than necessary, his knuckles turning white under the pressure.

'Why is it so hard to calm the fuck down?'

"Sergeant Barnes?"
FRIDAY's voice called softly, breaking the silence of the room once again.

"Yes, FRIDAY?"
James said, his voice muffled by the pillow from which he hadn't bothered to look up. He was too tired, and given that FRIDAY couldn't see him, he doubted that she would care. 

"Boss requested me to ask you if you'd like to join him taking a walk through the garden."

At that, James' head snapped up almost immediately, his confused gaze fixating on the camera.
"Why?"
He asked in utter bewilderment, not even sure if he heard FRIDAY right.

"Because the silence is often easier to bear when you don't have to bear it alone."
She replied kindly. Her voice carrying the same gentleness as Stark's.

James didn't need to think twice about accepting Stark's offer. He hastily put on some fresh clothes and pulled his still-damp hair into a loose ponytail when he started for the door.

"Lead the way then, FRIDAY."

 

 

Notes:

I'm very sorry for the long absence. RL just kinda got in the way and you know how it is; RL always comes first.
Huge thanks to all of you who kept commenting and encouraging me to keep writing or asked for updates. I'm very grateful for that. Kudos to all of you. :*

Chapter 10: Chapter 10

Notes:

While writing this, I listened to The Death of Peace of Mind by Bad Omens.
I highly recommend listening to it while reading this chapter - It's a great song and fits the chapter perfectly.

 

'Maybe this had been a bad idea.'

James silently mused, making his way up a small path that lay hidden behind the Compound. FRIDAY had given him the exact location of the small pathway, yet it had taken him twenty minutes to actually find it.
The path was small and hidden between numerous trees and bushes, hardly visible to the eye.
Hadn't FRIDAY told him that the way led to the garden, James would have probably never considered taking it, musing that it simply led to who knows where.

 

'Garden my ass.' James silently cursed.

The surrounding trees variated in size, most of them around 4 times as big as James, and even though it was still rather dark outside, James could perfectly make out their many colors. It was clear that the trees had already been here before the Compound had been built, given their size. A few of them might even be as old as James himself.

Fall was slowly closing in and it was getting much colder outside. The leaves had started to change their colors, changing from a vibrant green to a softer yellow or vivid scarlet. The few leaves which had already fallen to the ground variated between that soft yellow or a warm brown that resembled the color of the soil beneath his feet.

James could hear numerous birds singing in the trees, their chirps were starting to get louder and more chaotic when the first rays of the day started to rise from the horizon. The eerie silence of the night slowly began to fade away.

James sucked in the deepest breath of the damp loamy air, the morning dew glistening faintly in the still scarce light. He could smell the soil beneath him, the leaves from above, and the moist moos-layered wood. It was a heavenly scent, calming him in a way he hadn't thought possible. Somehow it felt like home. Like something that had once been very dear to him...

A distant memory of his sister came to the forefront of his mind. Blurry pictures and memories he hadn't recalled in that felt like ages.

Sometimes, his sister and he would have sneaked out of the house, playing in the woods far outside of their hometown. Their mother had strictly forbidden them to play there since it had been so far away from their home and took almost an hour to reach by foot. They had been nothing more than little brats back then, so they obviously didn't listen to their Mother that often and sneaked out whenever she wasn't watching- Getting scolded be damned.

His sister had always been a cheery girl and was oftentimes too smart for her own good. Out of the two of them, Becca was probably the reasonable one, calm and kindhearted, and loved by almost everyone who got the chance to talk to her. James on the other hand constantly managed to get himself hurt or in trouble, and people generally couldn't stand his brash and sarcastic attitude. Becca was the one who would often settle a dispute he had created, finding solutions to problems that would satisfactorily both parties involved, and getting James out of the mess he had created for himself. 

Whenever they sneaked out to the woods, Becca would collect the colorful leaves, admiring them as if they were precious gems to her. She brought all kinds of weird stuff back home with her whenever they went, hoarding the individual findings like she was a Dragon protecting a treasure.

Thinking back, James could understand her. They had no toys, nothing to occupy themselves with aside from their daily tasks at home and themselves. So they had to make do with the things they had access to. For Becca, it had been the random stuff she found outside. Like chestnuts, she handcrafted into small puppets to play with. For James, it had been the constant fights with other kids, stealing from the market, and taking care of Becca and Steve.

Most of the time, Becca's hoarding exposed them to their Mother, getting them into huge trouble and resulting in a scolding of a lifetime from their Mother.

Their Mother had been furious every time she caught them, criticizing them for their recklessness and disobedience. After all, they were at war, the probability that they could encounter enemies in the woods had been high at that time. Their Mother had been rightfully concerned about them, but that hadn't stopped them from sneaking out again a few days later.

It wasn't easy. For no one...
Still, they had fun. They were loved by their family and friends, and that much was enough.

Becca...

Becca had always been his everything. Even when his parents were still alive, Becca had been his world. As long as he had Becca, James could have endured everything. She was the light that made the war and the constant fear of starvation bearable. Her smile had been the only thing that kept him going after their parents had died. She was his sun, his reason to live, someone he wanted to protect forever and yet...

He had failed her.

Back then, he had foolishly believed that joining the army would earn him enough money to give Becca the life she always deserved... A better life that was full of happiness, safety, and warmth. He hadn't done it for the greater good nor for Steve. No. It had always been for his beloved little sister.

But now, after so many years, he knew that he had been wrong.
Because they already had all of the things he had wanted for her. Rebecca had been happy because they had been together. She had always been safe because James had been there to protect her. The warmth he wanted for her, she already possessed all her life because she had James.

Becca already had everything she could ever wish for and James had failed to see that.

He had left her behind, believing it was for the better... Not knowing that they would never get the chance to see each other again.

'How long?'

James wondered bitterly. How long had his sweet Becca waited for his return? How long had it taken her to realize that it was a futile endeavor? When had she accepted that James had left her behind and would apparently never come back to her?

Had she cried for him? Or had she cursed him under her breathe for leaving her alone? Maybe, at one point, she had simply started to resent him...

James wondered what had happened to her after he had left. Had she found happiness on her own? Had she thought about him from time to time? Or had she simply erased him from her mind?

James stilled in his tracks, suddenly feeling like the world was crashing down on him. The memories of Becca had managed to open a floodgate of various emotions, each new one breaking free more devastating than the last.

After all this time, he realized, Becca had probably already died a long time ago.

The thought stung and twisted something deep within him. Gnawing at his already suffering heart. His chest hurt, the thrumming of his broken heart a painful remember that he was still here, alive, and Becca was not.

Why couldn't he just disappear from this world? Everyone he ever loved had disappeared, so why not him?

He clutched his chest, fingers digging painfully into the soft fabric of his shirt. The pain felt dull compared to the pain he felt radiating from his bleeding heart. He should just die. It would be for the best. Dying would certainly erase the pain and-

 

"I must admit, I was really starting to wonder what could take you so long. Well... This certainly explains a lot."

James flinched away from the sudden voice, his posture changing into a defensive stance almost immediately. He looked around, trying to find the owner of the voice, readying himself for a fight, his body completely acting on autopilot. One of the few things he was grateful for.

He stilled completely, though when his eyes met Stark's.

The man was casually leaning against a nearby tree, arms folded neatly in front of his chest. His eyes were solely fixated on James and glistened eerily in the faint light. They were radiating a coldness which felt strangely inhuman and void, but at the same time utterly ethereal and complex- It somehow reminded James of the stars shining above him.

It was strange, really. How these warm amber eyes could radiate such a coldness.

"Where were you?"
Stark asked, his voice void of emotions, betraying nothing.

"I just came from my room but I got lost on the way-"

"No."
Stark interrupted, sighing deeply.
"Where were you just now? I mean, in your head."
The Inventor tapped his forehead for emphasis.

"I-"
James paused, not really knowing if he should answer the man's question. Telling Stark about Becca, and how fucked up his mind was, would make him look vulnerable in front of Stark, and James didn't like that.

He sighed, contemplating what to do, but ultimately decided that he hadn't much to lose anyway. If Stark would use the information against him, so be it. The man had every reason to torture the living hell out of him.

"This place-"
He gestured around them,
"It reminded me of my childhood... It reminded me of my Sister. She... She loved places like this. Adored them actually. We would visit the woods whenever we could, and she would end up collecting various shit she found laying around. Our Mother hated it and was strictly against it. The woods had been dangerous at that time, but my sister and I didn't give a damn. Seeing the trees here well, they made me remember a lot of stuff I hadn't thought about in a while..."

He chuckled weakly, body tensing uncomfortably with each spoken word.
This was probably the first time since he had become the Winter Soldier that he had talked to someone about his sister.

Stark contemplated him for a moment, almost looking uncomfortable before he spoke again. This time in a much softer voice.

"So basically speaking, you just managed to navigate yourself into your second panic attack of the day, am I correct? The memories of your sister obviously triggered you. That's why you're standing in the middle of nowhere, clutching your chest as if someone just ripped out your goddamn heart."
Stark stated, hitting the bullseye with his assumption.

James stayed silent, not because he didn't know how to answer, but rather because the words were stuck in his throat. Stark must think him pathetic and wasn't he just that? Pathetic. Nothing more, nothing less.

"You know, that kicked puppy look of yours? I don't like it. Doesn't mix well with that whole hobo style you have going on. Besides, I'm sure Rebecca would laugh straight into your dumb face if she could see you right now. Hell, Snowflake. I lured you out of the fucking building so you could calm the fuck down from your previous panic attack, not for you to tumble right into the next one as soon as your eyes see a fucking bunch of trees."
The man said nonchalantly, shaking his head.

"Why-"
James started, his voice trembling slightly at the edge. Even though his mind was momentarily a bigger mess than it usually was, James had caught on to the Inventor's words, his mind fixating almost immediately on one specific word, or rather, Name.
"Why do you know my sister's name?!"
James' voice betrayed him, coming out louder and foremost a lot angrier than he had meant. His voice sounded mostly threatening and he regretted it almost immediately after the words had passed over his lips.

Stark seemed unfazed by the sudden outburst and turned on his heel, following the pathway further up ahead and away from James.

James wanted to follow him but hesitated.

Stark knew about Becca, that much was obvious and James really wanted to know why that was. But he couldn't bring himself to move. He had already raised his voice at the man and feared that he would eventually lose it entirely in front of Stark. The Inventor had already enough reason to resent him, he didn't want to give the man even more reason to do so.

As if noticing James' inner conflict, Stark stopped shortly in his tracks, turning slightly around to face the struggling mess which was James.
"Are you coming or not, Snowflake? You haven't seen the garden yet, and I'm afraid there's not much time left to appreciate its beauty. The sun's rising and so will your stupid Teammates at one point. I'd rather be back before that happens."

With that the man continued walking, this time not bothering to look if James was following after him or not.

James hesitated a little bit longer before he made up his mind, cursed under his breath, and started to run after the Inventor. He came to a stop right next to the man, leaving enough space between the two of them so that Stark wouldn't feel uncomfortable with their close proximity.

They walked in silence, neither of them feeling the need to talk, or in James' case, dared to do so.
Somehow, James felt grateful for the silence, his thoughts racing a hundred miles an hour. As much as he wanted to know about Stark's and Becca's connection, as much he feared to anger or hurt the Inventor in the progress. His temper was unstable at best, even worse than his family was involved.

He fairly doubted he could stay rationally enough to have a decent conversation with the man. At least not right now.

After a few minutes, the pathway became bigger, expanding into a field of various plants and flowers which were surrounded by even more trees. The whole place looked like it belonged into another world, like the gardens described in those fairytales his Mother loved to read to them.

Located in the center of the garden, was a small fountain, surrounded by old-looking stone benches. James doubted they were really that old, but rather designed to look the part. The trees around them were plastered with bird feeders variating in sizes, a few birds already feasting on the offered birdseed they were containing. The whole place looked oddly at peace and James instantly fell in love with it.

Stark watched him closely but refrained from saying anything. James wasn't sure but for a moment he thought he had caught Stark smiling one of his rare warm smiles at him. The moment was gone, though, when the Inventor gestured for James to follow him to one of the benches.
Stark sat down by the far end of the bench and so James decided to sit down on the other end, leaving a vast open space between them like he had done before when they had been walking beside each other.

This was probably for the best, James mused. But something within him wanted to get closer, urging him to close the distance between them.

He didn't act on it. Instead, he trained his eyes on the birds, watching them intently.

After a while, it felt like the silence between them would stretch on forever. Stark hadn't attempted to start the conversation anew so far, and James felt content to keep staring daggers at the poor birds, mostly because he didn't know what to say.

He was about to give up on any conversation happening at all when Stark finally decided to break the awkward silence that had built up between them.

"My Aunts... They weren't the gardening types, but they loved being outside. Always talked about how beautiful nature was. They often dragged me along for a walk when they had come over to visit me. Even forced me to collect leaves and stuff like that, saying that it was just for fun. They wouldn't leave me alone until I had collected at least a pouch full of leaves."
Stark said eventually, letting the words hang for a moment gauging James' reaction.

"I really hated it. Partly because I hadn't been much outside when I had been a kid. Howard thought it was a waste of time, playing outside I mean. He rather wanted me to study my ass off, so I wouldn't end up being entirely useless to him. In a way, my own home had been nothing more than a gilded cage and I hadn't even realized that until I was much, much older."
The man chuckled darkly.

"Now that I'm older... I don't know. I kinda understand why my Aunts forced me to leave the house. Why they had kept on bothering me to keep them company... It was because at some point I had started to see the world like Howard. Everything had become either useful or useless to me- there was no in-between. That gilded cage I had been stuck in for my whole life had become the only thing I ever really got to see of the world."

At that, Stark grimaced visibly, biting his lips. His hands balling into fists beside him.

"Funny, isn't it? How I never wanted to become like Howard only to end up becoming exactly like him."
The inventor snarled bitterly and James was at a loss for words.
Stark looked so vulnerable, like glass that would burst into thousands of shards at the lightest touch. He had never really liked Howard but now, seeing what the man had done to his only son, he began to loath the man.

"What I'm trying to say is; I'm grateful. I'm grateful for my Aunts. Because they forced me out of that cage I stupidly called my whole world. Walking aimlessly around with them, chatting, laughing, just living... It now means everything to me."

Stark was smiling, James' noticed when he dared to sneak a look at the man. 
The Inventor looked at peace, relaxed almost. Gone was the bitterness from before- It suited him.

"That's the reason why I dragged you out here. In a way, you are stuck in a cage, too. Only that your cage is not a mere house, but rather that dumb head of yours."
Stark said, snipping one of his fingers just slightly against James' forehead.
"You're constantly thinking that you don't deserve to live, that you have to atone for your sins by dying- But that's not that you really want, isn't it? Deep down, you just want to be happy like everyone else is. In truth, you don't wanna die. You want to live, and that's why you're resenting yourself even more. You're stuck in an endless circle, slowly withering away from the inside."

Stark looked at him, then. A mixture of pity and understanding reflected in his eyes.

"How can you-"
James tried but the words died on his tongue.

"Read you like a book?"
Stark offered and James couldn't much do but nod at him in return.

"Honestly? You are not as mysterious as you might think to be. But that's not the main reason as to why. In a way, you remind me of myself. Believe it or not, but there are a lot of similarities between the two of us. That's making it a lot easier to know what's going on in your head. Besides that; My Aunts used to talk a lot about you. They often complained about your antics. Especially about your 'I want people to be happy no matter the cost' complex."

James wished there was a mirror somewhere so he could see his dumbfounded expression. The sight of his face must have been gold, given Stark's mischievous grin.

"I swear, If Aunt Becca could see your dumb face right now, she would die of laughter."
Stark wheezed, now outright laughing at James' expression of utter bewilderment and confusion.

"Aunt Becca?"
James managed to get out, voice trembling slightly at the edge.

Stark's laughing ceased, then, morphing into a small but warm smile.

"Aunt Peggy never forgot about what you did for Rogers, you know?"
The Inventor said softly, almost as a whisper.

"Everyone knows the story of Peggy Carter. Of how she never stopped looking for her beloved Captain America."
Stark chuckled humorlessly.
"She and Howard had never given up on that jerk, searching for him all their goddamn life. But that's only one part of the story. You know, after Peggy had heard about what had happened to you, she demanded that they would look for you, too. Even if you had died falling from that train, she at least wanted to bring your body back home... That's the kind of woman she is."
He added after a short pause.

"Howard had told her that it was useless- A waste of precious resources better spent on the search for Rogers. He hadn't deemed it worth their time. All he could think about was Rogers, or rather the lab project he had lost to the ice. But Aunt Peggy... She actually didn't give a fuck about Howard's opinion. All she wanted was to bring you back to your family so that they would have at least some sort of closure."

"Do you mean she-"
James asked, voice practically shaking now.

"Yeah. Peggy kept looking for you."
Stark affirmed, his gaze searching James' face.
"Eventually, Peggy had to see reason when she couldn't find your body. In hindsight, Howard had been right all along when he had told her it would be a futile endeavor. After all, Hydra had already taken you. So, there was never a body to be found to begin with. Everyone else would have stopped there, but not Aunt Peggy. You met her; If she's determined about something, she wouldn't let it go. Kinda like a full-grown Rottweiler with his favorite chewing toy."

This time it was James who had to chuckle because he had to agree with Stark. He hadn't gotten the chance to really get to know Peggy but the few times they interacted with each other had definitely left an impression on him. Peggy had been a determined and strong-willed woman- One he definitely wanted to avoid pissing off.

 

"She started looking for your family instead."
Stark continued, "It took her nearly five years, but she eventually found your sister. It took her so long to find Rebecca because she had been sent off to a boarding school after you had left. Unfortunately, no one knew to which school she had been sent to so, Peggy had to ask around, following every single clue she managed to get her hands on no matter how small it was. And finally, after years of searching, she eventually found your sister."

James' hands started to tremble, then. His heart hammered mercilessly in his chest. He didn't dare to look at Stark, afraid of what he would find in the Inventor's eyes. He feared for Stark to continue, almost certain by this point that there was no happy end to the man's story.

As if Stark had sensed James' distress, he continued in an even smaller, but softer voice. Almost as if to soothe James' racing heart.

"Rebecca had never stopped waiting for you... She had always hoped, wished even, that one day you would simply pop up on her doorstep, smiling a stupid smile at her as if nothing ever happened."

Hearing this, James vehemently wanted to cry, but the tears refused to fall. His heart had just chattered into a million sharp pieces, slicing him open from within and it hurt. 

So Becca had indeed waited for him. All these years had passed but his sister had never given up on him.

"I can't believe she didn't resent me for everything she had to endure because of me..."
James gritted out, his voice sounding broken.

"Why would she resent you?"
Stark asked, looking at James as if he had grown a second head.
"You did it for her. She knew that. If she ever resented you, which I doubt by the way, then certainly not because you left her and joined the army. If there was ever a reason for her to resent you, then it was certainly because you had put her happiness above your own."

 

The Inventor deadpanned, looking rather pissed. It felt like it was Becca who was looking at him and James couldn't help but squirm away from that familiar look of disappointment on Stark's face.

"It's not really my place to tell you how stupid that was. Partly because I have done the same thing all my life. But mostly because it's probably for the best if Becca gets to tell you herself how stupid you have acted."
He said a devious grin on his lips.

Stark must have waited for James' retort, because he was looking at him intently, searching his face for a reaction. Anything that would indicate that James had actually heard what he had said.

Unfortunately, James found himself rendered speechless. Too many thoughts were swirling through his mind, creating a storm that couldn't be tamed. The most prominent thought, the center of the storm, circled around what Stark had said about Becca.

'But mostly because it's probably for the best if Becca gets to tell you herself how stupid you have acted.'

That- He had heard that right, hadn't he? If his hearing wasn't playing dirty tricks on him then... Then that meant Becca was still-

Without a warning, James' hand grabbed for Stark's wrist, holding it in a death grip, almost as if his life depended on the contact. 

"Is- Is Becca-"
James' words failed him again, his lungs desperately trying to take in well-needed air. His pleading eyes locked with Stark's. He could only hope the man would catch on eventually, pulling him out of his misery.

But Stark did nothing like that, instead, he suddenly pulled his wrist out of James' grip. The sudden force behind the motion, taking him entirely by surprise. Stark acted as if James' touch had burned him, and James felt dreed seeping into his bones when he realized why; He had crossed Stark's boundaries - again. Given how he had clung to the man's wrist he had probably managed to hurt him, too.

'Great job, James. You fucked up again- what a surprise.'
He thought bitterly, staring at his still outstretched hand.

"You really know when to use that kicked puppy look of yours..."
Stark sighed deeply, reaching out for James' hand, hesitantly.
"You could have just asked, you know?"
He added, almost like an afterthought.

James watched as Stark slowly intertwined their fingers. The sight of their hands intertwined felt alien to him, but as soon as the Inventor's thumb began to run smooth, calming circles over James' skin, he practically melted under the touch. He gripped Stark's hand a little bit firmer than necessary, then, afraid that the man would let go of his hand if he didn't hold on for dear life. He didn't want to lose whatever this was just yet. The skin-to-skin contact grounded him, helped him to think clearly just as it had done before.

 

"I won't go anywhere, so take your time."
Stark said as if he had read James' mind.

They stayed like that for who knows how long before James was finally calm enough to ask the question that was burning on his tongue.

"Rebecca's alive, then?"
He asked, his voice horse and uncertain.

"Aunt Becca is alive and kicking. Believe it or not, but Peggy and Becca became friends almost instantly after they had met each other. Their friendship is one to admire. The two basically adopted me after my parents died."
Stark laughed, tugging James' hand slightly.

"She's currently celebrating her 50th wedding anniversary- enjoying a rather luxurious vacation a certain someone gifted her."
The man winked.
"I will invite her to the Compound once she returns from her vacation. Can't have you miss out on a good and long overdue scolding from her."

Stark tugged at his hand, then, urging James to stand up. A warm smile plastered onto his face.
"I know you would like to hear more about your sister, but I'm afraid we will have to talk about that at a letter time."
As if it was explanation enough, he pointed up to the sun which had risen considerably since they had sat down onto the bench.

Stark silently motioned for James to follow after him. He was starting for the path they had originally come from. James obediently followed after him, his gaze lingering on their still intertwined hands.

"Thank you..."
He whispered, hoping that his voice had been just loud enough for the Inventor to hear.

 

 

Notes:

Would anyone believe me if I said that I didn't intend to write a whole chapter about James and his sister???

Also; Rebecca is still alive in the comics, at least on Earth- 616. I couldn't find much about her, except that she was sent to a boarding school after James had left. So, obviously, I had to make shit up while I was writing. Throwing Peggy into the mix was simply because I thought; Well, if Peggy basically adopted Tony, why not let Rebecca do the same? That's it.
That was my reasoning.

Ps. I feel like I have to mention that the birds are fine. They are probably traumatized and will never return to the garden but otherwise they are doing just great.

Chapter 11

James spent the rest of the early morning in his room, talking to FRIDAY when she had the time to entertain him, and looking through pictures she had uploaded on the tablet Danvers had provided them with shortly after they arrived. The pictures showed Becca throughout the years, and occasionally Peggy.
It was strange to see Becca growing up through pictures, making it painfully clear how much of her life he had missed.

There was a picture of her wedding that especially stood out from the others, showing her in her wedding gown, smiling lovingly at her husband, John. He was gazing at her like she was the most valuable treasure. His smile was almost goofy looking, but one could tell that he loved Becca with everything he got. He seemed to be a fine man, someone James would have undoubtedly approved of had he been there.

 

James smirked at another picture showing Peggy with a bouquet in her hand, her face looking flustered and somehow flushed. It seemed like she had been the lucky one who had won the bouquet toss. The next picture showed her and Becca embracing, both laughing heartedly, Peggy still holding the beautiful bouquet in her hand.

Another picture showed Becca and John a few years later. They stood in front of a house with two little kids, a girl, and a little boy, presumably not older than four or five years old.
FRIDAY had been so kind and explained to him that Becca and John couldn't get kids of their own, and therefore decided to adopt Lori and her little brother David who had lost their parents to an accident.
Becca was holding David in her arms, the little boy laughing and playing with her hair while John carried Lori on his shoulders. The little girl was waving at the camera, smiling brightly. It was a beautiful family picture, one James would have loved to be a part of.

The caption underneath the picture read; 'Sorry, Peggy, but one of us had to hold the camera' in presumably Becca's handwriting.

He kept looking through a variety of other pictures, all of them having one thing in common; Becca looked happy.

To James' relief, there was not a single photograph of her in which she looked sad.

'Good for her...'
James thought with affection.

The last picture in the collection was a recent one, sent to Stark personally via one of those apps people used on their smartphones. It showed Becca and John on a boat, the sky around them colored in various kinds of red and orange. Becca was smiling directly into the camera, pointing at the disappearing sun behind her. John stood right next to her, his arm smugly slung around her, holding her close to him. They had become old, so very old, but they looked as happy as they had on their wedding day. Perhaps even more so.

"There's a voice message attached to this particular picture, Sergeant Barnes. I can play it for you if you'd like."
FRIDAY chirped, then. Startling James from his thoughts.

"I don't know, FRIDAY. This message was meant for Stark, not for me. I doubt he would like that..."

"Sergeant Barnes, who do you think gave me permission to show you these pictures in the first place?"
FRIDAY chuckled in amusement. It was astonishing how human she sounded.
"I would never do something behind my dad's back, nor would I do something that could hurt him. So rest assured, Sergeant Barnes. My dad knows that I'm showing you these pictures. To be precise; It was Dad who suggested showing them to you."

It took a while for James to register what FRIDAY had said, his thoughts running wild.

"Why would he do that?" He asked eventually, a slight tremble in his voice.

"I'm not sure about that, but I think he merely thought it would make you happy."
FRIDAY answered without missing a beat.
"Please be assured that there are no ulterior motives at play."

James shook his head at that.
"I know that he's not doing it to fuck with me. I'm sorry if I made it sound like that. It's just that Stark is behaving differently from what I expected."

"I'm afraid I don't understand."
FRIDAY said carefully.
"How did you expect him to act towards you?"

"I..." James paused, searching for the right words.
"I don't know. I had expected him to resent me, to hate me with every fiber of his body. Hell, I was sure he would call one of his suits upon my arrival and send me flying through the next concrete wall. To be honest? I wouldn't have bothered to stop him. I probably would have welcomed that over whatever this is. God knows I deserve it. After all the things I've done to him, who would blame him?"
James sighed earnestly.

"But instead of beating the shit out of me, he's being nothing but kind and considerate towards me in his own weird way. Hell, that man even goes as far as to keep me company when I'm at my lowest and shows me fuckin' pictures of my sister and her family to cheer me up. I don't deserve such kindness. And the fuckin' worst thing about this whole confusing mess? He hasn't done it to gloat or to ask for anything in return. He has done it because he just seems to be that kind of guy. The one who always thinks of others first before they think about themselves..."

'I'd loved to have met Stark under different circumstances. Perhaps we could have been...'
James shuddered at the thought. No. Even under different circumstances, there was just no way they could be anything remotely close to friends.

"Sergeant Barnes I believe that-"
FRIDAY cut herself off, a sudden silence befalling the room.

Eventually, FRIDAY continued, but her voice had a strange edge to it.
"My apologies, Sergeant Barnes. I'm afraid we have to continue this conversation another time."
She said before a blaring alarm rang from the speakers.

"Attention, please. Code Red. Team Beta is required to gather for a briefing at the debriefing room 2 and to stand by until further notice. Team Alpha and Charlie are required to gather at debriefing room 1 and to stand by until further notice."
FRIDAY spoke over the speakers, her tone almost businesslike.

"I repeat. Code Red. Team Beta is required to gather for a briefing at the debriefing room 2 and to stand by until further notice. Team Alpha and Charlie are required to gather at debriefing room 1 and to stand by until further notice."

 

"What's going on FRIDAY?" James asked in bewilderment.

"Where is a-"
FRIDAY started, but before she could finish whatever she was about to say, Rogers busted into the room, the others hovering behind him.

"Bucky, we have to go. It seems like we're needed!"
Steve beamed at him, excitement visible on his face. There was an audible sigh coming from the speakers, and James could relate to the annoyance it radiated.

"Mr. Rogers. You are in fact needed- at least for once. You are needed to move to the debriefing room 1 as soon as possible. Please do not make further assumptions about wherever else you might be needed or not. Captain Danvers will debrief you about the situation at hand thoroughly upon your arrival at the debriefing room, so I advise you to get moving and stop making assumptions until then."

'Ouch.'
James thought bemused. It was fascinating how FRIDAY didn't even try to hide her apparent dislike towards Steve.

Steve was about to retort something but didn't get the chance to, as FRIDAY simply kept on repeating her notification over the speakers. The only difference was, that it might have been decidedly louder than before.

Steve was obviously pissed at her statement, staring daggers at the nearest speaker, as if that would somehow frighten her into submission. Eventually, Steve shook his head in apparent annoyance, before his attention landed back on James.

"Come on, buddy. I bet they're going to send us on our first mission. It was only a matter of time! Didn't I tell you? They need us here!"
Steve exclaimed excitedly and James found himself wanting to punch that stupid smile off of Steve's face.

He didn't bother answering Steve and simply walked past him. Everything was better than wasting his breath on Steve's delusional thoughts.

"FRIDAY, be a dear and lead the way, will you?"
James said, smiling up at one of the nearest cameras.

"Of course, James."
The AI hummed warmly, her voice sounding so much kinder than the one she had used with Steve.

James could basically hear Steve grit his teeth behind him, and turned slightly only so he could see the angry look on Steve's face. It was obvious to anyone who was present that Steve didn't like FRIDAY's behavior, nor the fact that she referred to James on a first-name basis.

"You did that on purpose." He said then, not bothering that Steve could hear him. "What happened to Sergeant Barnes?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you are referring to, James."
The AI snickered deviously back, and James couldn't help but snicker alongside her.

'This is going to be so much fun.'
He thought, before making his way to the debriefing room.

 

 

Chapter 12

James' smile died on his lips as soon as he reached debriefing room 2.
Unfortunately for him, he wasn't an official team member of Stark's team yet. Which meant he was stuck with Steve and everyone else in debriefing room 1.

He loathed the fact that they hadn't managed to finish that fuckin' evaluation test on their first day. Turns out that damn test had been the only obstacle left for him to join the Inventor's team in the first place. Everything else, at least according to FRIDAY, had been dealt with long before James had even arrived - Mostly due to Shuri's intervention and her insistence that James should be able to switch teams immediately, should he desire to.

It felt strange, but in a good way, to have found such a wonderful, supporting friend in Shuri. The girl was smart, extremely fierce if she had to, and so undoubtedly kind to anyone whom she deemed worthy of her kindness. Given that, it was no surprise why Shuri had befriended Stark almost instantaneously upon their first meeting. She had told James all about it, her voice full of excitement when she had told him the story about her first encounter with Stark, and their later meetings and calls. One day, when they were out on a walk she proclaimed to James that she considered Stark one of her best friends and that she was glad that she had made two best friends in just under a year...
Something she had never accomplished before.

When James had asked her who the other one was, she just sighed deeply and stopped dead in her tracks right next to him. When he had turned to look at her, she had stared back at him with an apparent amount of annoyance in her eyes.

"I'm looking at him, you idiot." She had deadpanned, stunning James into utter silence. He had wanted to say something then, to tell her he felt the same way about her, but the words wouldn't come. Shuri just sent him a knowing grin and urged him to keep moving. Looking back, that was probably the first time in ages that James had been glad to be alive and Shuri must have understood that, given that she hadn't urged him to say something.

James couldn't help but wish Shuri was here right now. Even though he had managed to sit as far away from Steve as possible, that didn't mean he could escape Steve's disappointed look that was constantly directed at him.

It couldn't be helped, though. The meeting hadn't begun yet, and so James couldn't do much about it.

Fortunately, he wasn't the only one receiving disappointed looks. Hope, who sat right next to his left, had made it her mission to stare Scott to death.

Hope's eyes were filled with so much hurt and betrayal, that it was hard to look at her even for James, who wasn't directly involved in whatever was going on between those two.

Naturally, Scott couldn't take her death stare and decidedly looked everywhere but at Hope. James had a feeling that that tactic did nothing for Scott, given how stressed the man fidgeted around in his seat while sweat started to run down his suddenly very pale face.

"The wrath of a woman..."
The man to his right, Matt, snickered amused while his face was without a doubt directed towards the spot which Scott currently occupied.

James couldn't help but wonder if Matt knew what was going on between Scott and Hope, given that Matt couldn't actually see Hope's terrifying gaze and Scott's poor reaction to it.

Matt snickered again, this time turning his face towards James with a sly, and knowing smile on his lips.

"It's mostly their scent."
Matt said in amusement, pointing at Hope and then to Scott as if he could see them.
"Of course, there are other aspects as well, like the sounds they are making, but in this case, it is mostly their scent. You can smell an immense amount of fear coming from that guy, like an animal that is cornered by a predator and scared for its life. As for Hope...
She's radiating a constant odor of rage off of her since that guy came back to the compound, and it has gotten significantly stronger when he entered the room with us. If Scott is the animal in this scenario you could say that Hope is the predator, ready to strike and finish the deal."
Matt grinned devilishly.

"And how come you knew what I was thinking? Don't tell me you can smell that, too."
James asked bewildered.

"Hah. I wish I could. That would certainly help me with one particular person..." Matt sighed and seemed lost in thought. He eventually snapped out of it, turning his face back to James as if he just remembered they were in the middle of a conversation.
"To be fair, it was just a guess. It's fairly common for people to wonder how I know and do certain things even though I'm blind. I thought you wouldn't be much of an exception in this regard and just went for it. Turns out I was right."
He said, that devilish grin back on his lips.

James returned the grin and decided that he liked Matt. The guy also appeared to be one of the saner and more rational people around the compound. Something James appreciated greatly, given that he had spent far too much time with Steve, who was anything but sane or rational.

"I think they are ready..."
Matt suddenly said, pointing in Danvers' and Strange's direction with a visible thrown on his face.

James could understand why.
Whatever Matt was sensing from them, James could clearly see it on their face. They were definitely stressed, their expressions dark and outright troubled, much to James' dismay. Whatever was going on, it wasn't good.

The fact that Team Beta had a meeting of their own only led to one conclusion- Whatever was going on had to do with Team Beta itself, and James didn't like that thought. Stark was the leader of Team Beta, yet he hadn't seen him entering their briefing room. Danvers and Strange had each accompanied their teams, so why hadn't Stark done the same? There was a possibility that Stark was already in the room, waiting for his team, but that seemed highly unlikely. Team Beta had looked rather grim when they gathered in front of the room. Especially Deadpool seemed off. He had been silent for once and seemed lost in thought when he entered the room with the others. James might not know the man that well yet, but even he could tell that Deadpool wasn't acting like his usual self.

Whatever was going on. Stark must somehow be involved.

"Thank you for assembling here so fast."
Strange said eventually, pulling James from his rapidly darkening thoughts.

"The NYPD informed us about a hostage situation at JPMorgana Chantes & Co. Bank. According to the Police Commissioner, the Situation had been under control until one of the hostages pulled a gun on one of the hostage takers and injured him. Of course, they didn't react well to that. The hostage takers had found out that the guy who had pulled the gun on them was accompanied by his wife and children..."
Strange paused then, looking conflicted.

"They dragged all of them outside and executed the wife right in front of her husband and their children. The NYPD stationed outside couldn't do anything since the hostage takers threatened to kill the kids next. According to the Police Commissioner, the apparent leader of the hostage takers called it an 'example' and threatened to kill even more people if the police wouldn't do as they said."
Danvers finished, her voice carrying a hint of anger.

"Police Commissioner Adams determined it would be too reckless for the NYPD to deal with the situation alone and decided to involve the Avengers. They especially requested Dr. Stark to handle the Situation. He's currently on route to the building and should arrive in approximately less than two minutes. We and the other Teams will be on standby until further notice. FRIDAY has sent drones to the building to provide us with live footage and hacked into the cameras within the building. If anything goes wrong, we'll be able to react immediately and aid Dr. Stark when necessary."

James couldn't help but grit his teeth at that. He knew Stark was capable and that his team would've never let him go alone if they deemed the Situation too dangerous for him to handle...
Yet, he couldn't help but feel enraged. What if something went wrong? What if Stark got hurt in the progress? He knew what Steve had done to the Inventor. Shuri had told him everything. That Stark was able to fight after everything he had endured seemed like a sheer miracle of its own.

 

"Is that a fucking joke? Stark? Of all people?!"
Clint banged his hands onto the table, the loud sound attracting everyone's attention immediately - even James'.
"That guy's ego is bigger than the fuckin' Empire State Building. He's going to get even more people killed!"

"That's right! Stark is a danger to himself and everyone surrounding him. He'll only make the situation worse! All that guy knows is how to throw his money around! You can't expect him to talk to people like a decent human being! That's laughable!"
Wanda added to James' dismay. That girl would only open her mouth when she wanted something or saw an opportunity to badmouth Stark.

"If we move now, we can still stop him from doing anything dangerous!"
Steve abruptly stood up only to be stopped immediately by a tangle of webs that tightly secured him back to his chair.

"Mr. Stark can handle the situation just fine. The only ones making things worse are you guys." Peter said. "The NYPD especially requested
Mr. Stark. They wouldn't have done so if they didn't trust him. Furthermore- You guys are not even cleared for any field duty yet."

"But the people obviously need our-"
Natasha was about to argue but was silenced by Jessica in an instant.
"Don't try to finish that sentence because you're only making a fool of yourself. No one needs you, especially not Tony. He never needed any of you.

It's funny how you talk about his money when you were the ones using it the most. I doubt any of you ever paid for all that fancy equipment he provided you with."

"We should let them go, though..."
Matt chuckled darkly, and for a moment, James thought the man had gone insane.
"Think about it, Jessica. They would knowingly violate the Accords.
Let them do their righteous shit and see where it leads them. No one's going to cry after them after all."

"If it saves innocent lives, who cares about the damn Accords?!"
Steve yelled, still tied up to his chair.
"Lives are at stake! You can't send this people to their demise just because you are on Tony's side! This is ridiculous and you know it! Let us help! The people know what we are capable of."

"That's exactly why they asked for Stark's help and not yours..."
Hope said with a frown on her face.

"We didn't do anything wrong! Had Stark just listened to us and did that he was told things would have turned out-"

"That's enough!!!"
Danvers' voice rang through the room, almost like a shockwave, and the entire room went silent in an instant.
"This debate is pointless, and it ends now! I don't want to hear anything else from you, Mr. Rogers! The same goes for everyone else on Team Charlie. Another word from any of you and I will personally deliver you to that fancy new underwater prison."
Danvers seethed while electric sparks began to surround her.
"And you guys-" She said bitterly, turning her gaze towards the members of Team Alpha. "I expected far better from all of you!"

The occupants of the room were stunned into silence at once, no one daring to say another word. Mostly because sparks had started to surround Danvers, the crackling sound they made serving as a dangerous warning.

"FRIDAY, give us what you've got, please."
Strange eventually said, breaking the silence after Danvers slilghtly calmed down. 

"With pleasure."
The AI chirped back, and James could swear that she sounded amused.
Probably because Danvers had threatened to put Steve behind bars.

"Let me pull up the live footage for you, first."
The AI said. Within seconds, the huge Screen in the far back of the room came to life, showing the building in question, dozens of police cars surrounding it, and in the middle of it all - Stark himself. And James realized with horror that the man wasn't wearing his armor.

"Mr. Stark arrived at the scene approximately 7 minutes ago. Commissioner Adam is currently debriefing him on the Situation. He already received the necessary data I collected beforehand and will shortly take action. I was able to hack into the surveillance cameras within the building like Captain Danvers mentioned before. We are currently dealing with four heavily armed individuals. As you can see, they carry multiple firearms and presumably explosives. As for the hostages, I counted fifteen individuals, excluding the deceased victim who had been shot. Among those fifteen individuals are six children."

"Why..."
James started with a faint tremble in his voice.
"Why is Stark not wearing his goddamn Armor?"

"He probably deemed it too dangerous to arrive in full armor, given that the hostage takers would presumably react badly to it."
Matt said next to him, sounding entirely calm and collected, too calm for James liking.

"That assumption is correct, Mr. Murdock. Mr. Stark indeed plans to enter the building without his Armor, that way the hostage takers won't feel threatened by him. He will then start negotiations, and hopefully
de-escalate the situation without further casualties."

"But what if something went wrong? They could seriously hurt him! His Armor is basically the only thing able to protect him. Without it, he might die! You- You can't let him do that! It's too reckless! You have to stop him, please!" James felt the desperation seep deep into his bones. He has to stop this he has to-

 

"I don't see why that would be bad..." Clint smirked without a care in the world. "I mean, wouldn't they do us a favor?"
And at that moment something dark and feral in James snapped.

"Watch your damn mouth, you Bastard!"
James stood, ready to break every single bone in Clint's body.
"You disgusting piece of shit! You are not even worth breathing the same air as him. Let's see how long you will last against the Winter Soldier before you beg me to just end your fuckin' miserable life!"

Before he could even take one step in Clint's direction, though, James found himself tied to the chair with Peter's webs.

"I'm sorry Mr. Barnes, but I can't let you do that. Please, calm down."
The teen said apologetic.
"Hurting another Avenger, even though he deserves it, would get you kicked from the Avengers initiative, and I'm certain that's the least
Mr. Stark wants. I know how you feel right now, but violence won't solve this problem."

"But sending Stark to his death will?! Without his Armor, he's a normal human for fucks sake! How is he supposed to survive when eleven people shoot him simultaneously?! If just a single bullet hits its mark he's done for, don't you see that? Not even a bulletproof west could save him then!"
He seethed, unable to see reason.

"James, please calm down. You are angry, I can understand that, but Peter is right. Violence won't solve a thing."
FRIDAY tried to reason with him, her voice filled with so much pity. Why would she pity him? Shouldn't she be more concerned about her Creator?
Stark was the one who willingly walked to his death.

James wanted to scream at her, to tell her to fuck off, but then his gaze landed on the screen in front of him, and he saw how Stark made his way to enter the building... Still unarmed and without his Armor.

"No... Please no."
He whispered, his body frozen in shock while his heart constricted painfully in his chest. This couldn't be happening. They had to do something, anything...

 

'Don't do this to me.'

Chapter 13

Notes:

**TONY'S POV**

"How bad is it?"
Tony had asked when he flew over to JPMorgana Chantes & Co. Bank.
"Are there additional casualties since my departure?"

"According to Commissioner Adams, the suspects retreated into the building, and there are no additional casualties."
FRIDAY chimed back.

"And how bad is the situation at the compound?"

"Wade is moping around and hasn't said a word to anyone, not even to Matt. He's disappointed because you wouldn't let him tag along. He said he wanted to slice through some Bankrobbers. As for Constantine and Loki... They are just grateful for the silence."
The AI chuckled.

"And what about the other Teams?"

"Stephen and Carol just informed their teams about your departure..."

"Let me guess. Carol's team is trying to convince her and everyone else in the room how dangerous I am?"
Tony said, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah, and Wanda mentioned that you only know how to throw your money around."
FRIDAY answered, sounding annoyed.

"Huh? That's strange. Wanda never complained when I used my money on her behalf."

"Jessica had the same response. I think she's only a hair's breadth away from strangling Wanda to death."

Tony knew his friends weren't exactly happy that Steve and the others had returned to the compound. As soon as they had gotten the news, Wade suggested to kill every single last of thme upon their arrival. Loki immediately supported Wade's idea and kindly offered to burn the bodies for him. Tony had hoped that Jessica, or at least Constantine would talk some sense into them, but they never did. Instead, they had made sure to recruit Team Alpha for their plan and make them a part of it. To his horror, everyone on Team Alpha had been eager to give Wade's plan a go, even Stephen. In the end, Tony had to call a meeting and explain to them why murder wasn't an option.

"I think we will need another meeting..."
He mumbled more to himself than FRIDAY as he landed in a side alley close to JPMorgana Chantes & Co. Bank.

Showing up in his Iron Man Armor would probably be a bad idea, considering the situation. So he made sure to let Bleeding Edge retrieve back into his body before it would catch unnecessary attention. As much as he hated his new, inhuman self, he had to admit that it had certain perks. One of them had been Model 37 - An internal redesign of his mind, body, and Iron Man. Model 37 had been the first fancy upgrade to Extremis and the starting point for the things that were yet to come.

Tony left the side ally and made a beeline towards Police Commissioner Adams as soon as he caught sight of the man. Adams was a good guy, someone Tony trusted and liked working with.

Up close, Adams looked stressed, frantically giving various Police Officers instructions over the phone while simultaneously talking to the Officers at his side. When he spotted Tony though, his stressed features smoothed out, a wave of relief washing over his face.

"Tony! Thank god you're here. This time shit really hit the fan."
Adams greeted him over the surrounding noise and immediately started to debrief Tony.
"We talked to the suspected leader of the hostage takers. He has threatened to kill more hostages if we don't send someone in for negotiations. That guy demands more money, a fuckin' Helicopter, and safe conduct abroad. Can you believe that shit? As if that guy is some fuckin' villian from a movie."
Adams shook his head in disbelief.

"I assume the one doing the negotiating will be me, then?"
Tony asked, even though he already knew the answer to that question.

"I'm afraid so, Tony. After thoroughly considering our options, I concluded that it would be too dangerous for our units to handle this situation alone. We don't have a clear field to fire at the suspects if necessary, and our bulletproof vests won't do shit against fuckin' explosives. They already demonstrated that they don't give a shit about other people's lives. Sending my people in there is tantamount to a death sentence. That's why I called for you. Their weapons and explosives won't be able to penetrate your Armor... Speaking of which, where the fuck is your Armor, Tony?" Adams stared at Tony in utter bewilderment. Only now realizing that the Iventor wasn't even sporting his Armor.

"Left it at home, thought I should try something new for once. You know what I mean? I haven't used my natural charm in a while. Maybe I can force them to give up with one of my trademark smiles? I mean, who could ever resist such an incredibly handsome face?" Tony grinned and pointed at said face.

"You gotta be kidding me..."
Adams sighed dramatically, the back of his hand pressed to his forehead.

Tony's answer to that was just an even bigger, more devilish grin and Adams had a feeling that it was time for him to drop the topic.

"I guess I should get going, then. Can't let those guys have to wait any longer. Tell your officers to stand by. Whatever happens- do not interfere until you got further notice from FRIDAY. She's surrounded the building with drones and hacked into the security cameras, should things take a turn for the worse, she'll be the first to know and inform you."

"The usual procedure, then."
Adams nodded.

"Yeah, you know the drill. If you'll excuse me then, I've got some charming to do." Tony smirked back over his shoulder, already marching towards the entrance of the building.

He had barely entered the building when FRIDAY suddenly yelled for him to stop. Tony winced from the volume, his head starting to hurt.

"FRIDAY, what the fuck? You know that you don't have to scream at me when you're connected to my frickin' brain! You scared the living hell out of me! What is it!?"

"I'm sorry, boss! It's about James! Barton said something stupid, and James snapped. He totally lost it and threatened to kill Barton! Peter had to intervene and stop him, but he wouldn't stop threatening Barton. The others then tried to calm him down, but it didn't work out, and now he's suffering from a severe panic attack."
FRIDAY whined in distress.

"What the fuck did Barton say to him?!"
Tony felt his heart rapidly pounding in his chest and the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Barton and his goddamn mouth! Leave it to that stupid Archer to piss the Winter Soldier off enough to get killed by him.

"James had concerns about your well-being, seeing that you weren't wearing your Armor upon your arrival at JPMorgana Chantes & Co. He said it was too dangerous to enter the building without your Armor and that you would most likely get hurt or worse- killed. Barton then retorted that that wouldn't be such a bad thing... From then on, things went understandably down the hill."

Of course! Of course, Barton had to spout such nonsense in front of James! That fucker just couldn't keep it to himself!

"Have you tried talking to him, FRIDAY? James trusts you. Maybe he'll listen to you."

"I wanted to, but I didn't know how. There was just so much hatred and anger in James' eyes... I didn't know what to say."
FRIDAY sounded crestfallen. Tony knew she had taken a liking to James and enjoyed talking to him. Not being able to help the man when he needed it the most surely ate away at her. Tony could relate to that.

"Don't blame yourself, FRIDAY. Sometimes it is hard to reach out to another person. Sooner or later, all of us have to experience this."
Tony tried to cheer her up.
"You'll learn from this and it will only make you stronger. Next time, you'll be able to reach out to James, and you'll instinctively know what to say to him to make him feel better."
She would learn- she always did. Tony had no doubt. After all, his little girl never ceased to amaze him.

"For now, you can leave James to me. I'll take care of him. I've got a feeling he'll listen to me. Be a dear and send him a message for me, will you?"

"Will do, Boss."
FRIDAY chirped back, sounding at least a little bit better than before.

"I knew I could count on you, baby girl. Now, let's go. We wasted enough time."

 

 

Chapter 14

Notes:

!!!TRIGGER WARNING!!!

This chapter contains a short scene in which Tony gets molested by one of the hostage-takers. It's not graphic but if you're not feeling safe about this topic, please consider skipping this chapter for your own safety.

You can write a comment and I'll write a summary for you.

As soon as Tony walks into the main hall, he knows things are much worse than he originally anticipated. It was apparent that one wrong move from his side could end the lives of a lot of innocent people today, something he definitely had to avoid at all costs.

FRIDAY had already announced his arrival over the speakers which were located inside the bank, so Tony didn't bother to sneak around or hide his presence and slowly made his way through the hall. His calculating gaze analyzed every inch of the room, mainly to identify strategic advantages that could be of later use to him, should the plan he had come up with not work out.

He turns a corner located at the far back of the room, which was supposed to lead to a break room for the employees, but was now heavily barricaded with all sorts of furniture the hostage takers had gotten their hands on.

In front of said barricade stands a handful of heavily armed men, unsurprisingly awaiting him. Each of them holds a hostage at gunpoint.
The hostages are neatly lined up in front of the hostage takers, apparently to serve as a human shield, and Tony can't help but feel anger boiling up at the sight. He tries to repress it, to swallow it down, knowing that the hostages will bear the burnt if he lets it out, but it's hard for him, especially in this kind of situation.

He looks briefly at one of the hostages, a man, probably in his early fifties, but he can't make out his face...
Because all he sees is Yinsen's face.

So, he avoids his eyes quickly, focusing his attention back on one of the hostage takers right in front of him.

 

"So, who's the guy who watched way too many Die Hard movies as a kid?" Tony says, sporting one of his trademark smiles.

"Keep your fuckin' jokes to yourself and show me your hands!"
The guy in front of him spats, pressing his gun closer to the hostage's head.

Tony wants to make another joke but refrains from it. He wordlessly does as he has been told and lifts his hands over his head.
The hostage leader orders a guy from the far back to search Tony's body for any hidden weapons, and so he does, albeit hesitantly.

The initial hesitance didn't last long, though, as the man started to fumble Tony's body rather lewdly. The guy's hands slowly roam his body, or rather, Tony's ass and chest...

'As if I'd hide my suit in my fuckin' backside.'
Tony thinks disgusted.

He stays perfectly still and endures it, even though the touch makes him feel sick to his stomach. He knows that throwing a fit could end badly for everyone involved... So, he refrains from making a fuss and just hopes the guy's going to get done soon.

 

"Check his wrists, too!"
Another guy to the further left, suddenly yells.
"Look if he's wearing a Wristwatch or a Bracelet, or something similar! Someone said he can summon his armor with those things!"
The guy continues, a certain nervousness audible in his voice.

The pervert does as he's been told, leaning unnecessarily closer to Tony as he inspects the Inventor's wrists for any possible gimmicks that could summon the Iron Man Armor. Tony tries not to flinch as the foul breath of the guy grazes his face.

'I hate this.'
FRIDAY says in disgust, an undertone of anger carrying the words.

'Well, try to see it from the positive side, baby girl. He's so blinded by my charm, that he'll probably never notice that I'm the actual weapon he's looking for. I'm like the T-500 but sexier and probably far less suspicious.' Tony chuckles, trying to brighten the mood with a joke. He knows he's failing miserably, given how protective FRIDAY is of him, but what else is he supposed to do? All he can do is laugh it off, at least for now.

 

"He's clear."
The pervert says eventually, while his hands slowly trail away from Tony's body.

 

"So," Tony starts, turning his attention to the guy who's apparently in charge. "Someone told me some Hans Gruber wannabe is throwing a fit and won't stop crying until someone's gonna listen to his complaints... Well, here I am. Let's hear what our little Grubi has to say." He smirks, setting the first step of his plan into motion.

As expected, Grubi doesn't like the way Tony acts, his face turning an angry red.
"Quite the attitude you have."
He snarls and points his gun away from the hostage in front of him, now pointing it directly at Tony's chest.

"We all know you're nothing without your Armor, you should better stop acting all high and mighty and get us what we want, or else..."
Grubi threatens with a dirty grin, one Tony would love to punch straight out of his face.

"Or what? Are you going to shoot another hostage if I don't get you the stuff you demanded? I mean, of all the things you could have asked for, you choose a fuckin' helicopter. I mean, come on. It's like you want me to make fun of you." Tony challenges and takes a calculated step closer to the guy, his typical playboy smile turning into a shit-eating grin.

"To be honest, I doubt that that would shut me up. I wonder what you'll do if I keep making fun of you... Maybe shoot another hostage? Surely a second one will shut me up? Or not. Who knows?" Tony shrugs.
"Oh dear, I can already imagine it; You killing one hostage after another, just to shut me up... Until you've got no one left to hold hostage. Quite an amusing thought."

 

'Ugh... I'm sorry to break it to you, Boss, but you're spending way too much time with Loki. You sounded just like him, and that's really disturbing.' FRIDAY says, sounding appalled.

'Well, that's because Loki knows exactly how to piss people off. I mean, look at that guy, he's fuming with anger. It's exactly what we want, baby girl.' Tony says.

He knows that he's not acting like himself. Hell, he hates himself for using that kind of strategy, knowing very well what the hostages might think of him. But it can't be helped. He needs to get this guy as angry as possible, no matter the cost. And what better way to achieve that, than by imitating Loki's 'All of you are beneath me' attitude?

 

"Then we still got you!"
Grubi spats, but Tony can already tell that his plan is bearing the first fruits. The guy looks a lot more agitated than before, the hand holding the gun slightly trembling. Tony takes a moment to analyze the other hostage takers, noticing the same apparent changes in their demeanor.

'Good. A little bit more and it'll do the trick.'
He thinks.

Tony wolf-whistles at the guy's declaration, knowing very well that it will fuel the guy's anger even more. He takes another step forward, the muzzle of the gun now firmly pressed to his chest - right where the Arc Reactor used to be.

"And then what?" He asks curiously. "No one who knows me would willingly pay a dime for me. In fact- Most people would be glad if you guys got rid of me."

He knows that this isn't the truth, he really does. There was once a time in which he wholeheartedly believed no one would miss him if he were dead, but not anymore. It had taken quite a while, but among billions of people, he had found the few people who loved him unconditionally.

"But you can't do that, am I right?" He continues. "Because that would leave you with nothing. No hostages means no money, and certainly no helicopter. Face it; The moment your leverage has vanished into thin air, you're left with nothing." Tony chuckles cruelly.

He can see it in the guy's microexpressions; The way his eyes twitch slightly, how his nostrils flare in anger... Grubi is just a hairsbreadth away from snapping.

"Besides, I don't believe you've got the balls to do it."
Tony challenges, his trademark smile morphing into a grotesque, almost inhuman-looking grin.

"Are you kidding me?! I already shoot that dumb bitch in front of her whole family! Her kids begged me to spare her but that didn't stop me from splattering her brain all over the sidewalk! Do not dare to think that I wouldn't do the same to you just because you're one of the fuckin' Avengers."

There's a great deal of emotion behind these words. Pride, irritation, anger, anxiety, fear, but mostly; Tension. The guy is so tense, that he's about to lose it any moment now.

And that's exactly what Tony wanted. He takes a final step forward, and pushes his chest into the muzzle of the gun, forcing Grubi to take half a step backward, his sly grin still in place then he says, "Then, do it, pussy."

 

Time ticks by as time does, neither accelerating nor flinching...

Tony sees the flicker of light before the sound strikes him like a slap, the sound is accompanied by a cacophony of screams and angry yells. The burning smell of powder wafts through the air, though it's not as bad as the smell of his burned flesh, or the excruciating pain that blooms from the hole in his chest.

He can hear FRIDAY in the far back of his mind as he falls to the ground, a tangle of angry spoken words flooding his mind... But he can't decipher their meaning.

The last thing he hears is the sound of his body when it's hitting the ground, and then, the world around him turns black...

 

 

Notes:

- And now I'm going to run.

Chapter 15

James stared blankly at the now blackened screen, the last thing it had shown had been Stark's dead body on the floor before it suddenly turned off, and the screen had faded to black.

FRIDAY had said something about some unknown interferences and promised that she was already dealing with the problem, but James couldn't bring himself to listen to her, feeling that it was meaningless.

'Stark's dead... Why even bother?'
He thinks bitterly.

He feels numb and light-headed, his mind showing him the moment the bullet pierces through Stark's body over, and over again. 

But the worst of it all, the thing that will definitely hunt him for the rest of his miserable life, is probably the deafening sound Stark's body made when it hit the ground... The sound seems to repeat endlessly in his mind, like a broken record, and James can't help but feel sick to the core.

He's feeling devasted, angry, and so goddamn lost, it's almost unbearable. It feels like he's been swallowed by a fierce current. It's pulling him under, somewhere deep and dark beneath the surface, and there's no way for him to escape.

James is so lost in his miserable thoughts that he barely registers the sardonical snort that had escaped Barton's lips, or the way Wanda smirks gleefully at the blackened screen. Natasha and Steve are just shaking their heads in union, stating that they'd known something like that would happen eventually, while Scott and Sam just nod along, like they always do. It would have surprised James if those two, actually had an opinion of their own. 

 

James feels the anger rise in his stomach, the urge to break someone's neck is overwhelming him. He'd love to act on this urge, to end as many of them as possible before someone takes him down, but that urge dies down almost instantaneously when his eyes land on Hope and Peter...

They... They are smiling at each other, without a care in the world. Peter is saying something to Hope, something James can't make out, but it must have been something especially funny because Hope starts to laugh heartedly, tears forming at the corners of her eyes.

When his gaze wanders over to Strange and Danvers he finds them chatting with Jessica. They, too, seem rather unbothered by what has happened to Stark, not an ounce of worry visible on their face.

He looks to his right, hoping that at least one of them proves to be a decent human being, but that hope dies down as soon as he sees Matt tapping away on his phone.

 

'So the other's don't give a fuck either.'
He seethes at the realization, his hands balling into fists at his sides.

 

Before anyone gets the chance to stop him, James storms out of the room and makes a beeline toward the second debriefing room in which Team Beta had gathered.

He yanks the door open, and rips it off of its hinges, not bothering about the wreckage he creates in his wake.

When his eyes find the occupants of the room, he feels even angrier than before. His eyes meet Loki's and Constantine's gaze, who seem to be surprised by his sudden appearance. Right in front of them lay various cards, which had ungracefully fallen onto the table, and onto the ground. Next to them sits Deadpool, who doesn't seem to be bothered by James' sudden appearance, or the constant chiming of his phone, which he holds loosely in his hand. Deadpool seems utterly lost in thought, his gaze staring transfixed at something that is located in the far back of the room. James can't bring himself to follow Deadpool's gaze, the anger that is building up within him makes him feel dizzy.

"Why?"
He asks hoarsely, his voice sounding so small, it scares him.

"Why is no one giving a fuck about Stark?!"
His voice grows louder, but not loud enough to overshadow the dull sound of Stark's body hitting the floor, which still repeats in his head. An infinite loop that's driving him madder with each passing second.

He takes a step forward and smashes his hand onto the table, a desperate attempt to get rid of some of his anger. The delicate wood underneath his fist breaks apart like glass. The sheer force shoots various sizes of blisters through the air, most of them penetrating the walls of the room while others hit James. One particular sharp piece of wood streaks his cheek and draws blood. The cut is deep, James can tell by the amount of blood that's starting to seep out of the wound, but he couldn't care less about that.

'Stark's dead, and I'm still here. How could that be fair?'
He thinks, and wishes he would have died instead.

The other occupants of the room seem unfazed by his outburst and just stare at him in something that resembles pity. Deadpool is the only one who doesn't do a thing and just keeps staring off into the distance.

The splinters that had launched in Team Betas' direction had been intercepted by a shield Loki had conjured, much to James' dismay. He knows it is wrong of him to wish that they had been hurt too, but he can't help himself - He'd never been a good person to begin with.

 

"Bucky what's wrong with you?!"
Steve who had followed after him along with everyone else, screams from behind him. His concerned voice sounded gross to James' ears, and he couldn't help but grit his teeth at the annoying sound.

 

"What's wrong with me?! The question you should ask yourself is, what the fuck is wrong with you! Stark fuckin' died, and no one besides me seems to give a single fuck about that. Not even his supposed friends seem to care! You want to know what's wrong? Fuckin' everything is wrong!"
He yells in answer, without turning to face Steve. He knows the only thing he will find on Steve's face is hurt. Because James' had yelled at him, because James wasn't acting like Bucky, because... Because Steve would use that opportunity to play the victim, just like he always does.

"Bucky, calm down."
Steve tries again and makes the terrible mistake of reaching for James' shoulder, squeezing it soothingly.
"It's Stark's fault for being so reckless. We always said he was a danger to himself and the Team. It was only a matter of time for something like that to happen. Don't punish yourself, he's not worth-"

The speed at which James turns and plants his fist straight into Steve's face is too fast to follow for any 'normal' human being. The horrendous noise of breaking bones reverberates through the air, the grotesque sound putting an unsightly grin on James' face.

Steve, who certainly hadn't expected the punch stumbled backward and landed straight on his ass just outside of the room, a thick trail of blood started to gush from his broken nose, and James feels utterly delighted at the mere sight. He's disappointed that he only managed to demolish Steve's nose, but he knows that there's always a next time, so he's content with his handiwork- at least for now.

"Touch me again, and one of your shitty sidekicks will have to scrape your ugly face from the fuckin' floor."
He sneers at Steve, his voice a promise of violence and pain.

"And you..."
James smirks coldly, his gaze staring daggers at Romanov and the others, who have gathered around Steve in a protective stance.
"If one of you stupid fucks so much as dares to take a single step into this room, I swear to god, you will leave it in a fuckin' body bag."
He threatens, his smirk turning predatory.

 

"Sergeant Barnes, this is certainly no way to solve-"
Danvers, who had also followed after James, tried to reason with him, but James was in no mood to hear her out.

"Shut it!"
He snarls, like a feral animal trapped in a cage.

"You, of all people, don't get to tell me how I solve anything, so shut your mouth. I saw you, you know? I looked at your face just like I looked at theirs."
He points an accusatory finger at Steve and his sidekicks.
"That nonchalant smile when you were happily chatting away with Strange and Jessica... Your reaction to Stark's death was almost as horrible as theirs."
He yells in disgust.

"The only difference between you and them is that Stark considered you as one of his friends, maybe even a part of his family. And that's making it so, so much worse..."
James shudders, the realization just hitting him.

 

The silence that befalls the space around them is deafening, and James hates the way Danvers looks at him. There's understanding in her eyes, maybe even regret, but also so much pity that it makes James feel sick to the bones. He hopes she'll do something stupid, something to keep him in check. Anything will do as long as it gives him a reason to retaliate with violence...

Seconds pass by but nothing happens, and it devastates him even more. Because he's left with all this anger and sadness and doesn't know how to deal with it. He needs an outlet, someone to talk to... But the only person who'd been willing to listen to him had been Stark and now he's gone.

He feels miserable and the realization makes it hard for him to breathe. Everything has just gone so, so wrong. He can't take it. Why? Why is everything slipping away from him?

 

"Yeah, sorry to break this emotional gathering or whatever shit's going on here, but you guys are kinda loud. Listen, I'm trying to watch my favorite show, 'The Fabulous Life of Tony Stark' but with you guys around, it's just not possible. You have been so loud, I couldn't even hear most of the guys scream in pain. That's so uncivilized of you." Deadpool breaks the silence, his voice sounding annoyed.

"Is this a fuckin' joke to you, you dumb-"
James seethes and turns around, ready to punch the living hell out of Wade, but he notices that Deadpool is still not looking at them. He follows the man's masked gaze and stops dead in his tracks when he realizes that Deadpool hadn't been staring off into the distance but rather at a screen that was located in the far back of the room.

"What the-"
James manages to get out before he notices that the screen shows the hostages, crying and hugging each other in what can only be described as utter relief.

 

For a moment, he thinks the police had dealt with the situation after Stark had gone down, but just as the thought crosses his mind the perspective on the screen switches, and his breath catches in his throat.

There, amidst a pile of bodies, stands Stark. Alive and well... A genuine smile on his face when one of the crying hostages approaches him and crushes him in a tight hug.

James is overcome by too many emotions at once...

Relief, anger, hurt, sadness, awe, excitement, confusion, joy, and something he can't put a name on. Something he knows he felt a long time ago, but can't grasp the meaning of...

It feels like the ground underneath his feet crumbles away and he's falling endlessly. He doesn't know how to describe it, but it's certainly not a bad feeling, because he's got the feeling someone will catch him eventually.

He casts a bewildered look at Deadpool whose masked face grins at the screen, as if he'd always known Stark would be fine. And suddenly, something in James' mind just clicks at the sight.

 

'It had all been a ruse.'
He thinks bewildered.

The sudden interference with the live footage, the odd behavior of Stark's friends, and the utter lack of sorrow as they witnessed his death.
It had all been a ruse from the fuckin' start! Something must have happened after Stark got shot...
Something they weren't supposed to see. That was the only explanation for what was going on.

 

His eyes land on Danvers briefly, and he can see it on her face, the way she's not even surprised to see Stark standing triumphantly amidst a bunch of idiots, and that alone confirms his suspicion.

She sends him an apologetic look but that doesn't quell his anger.

He feels betrayed like he's the biggest joke to them, so he storms past Danvers and leaves.

Steve calls after him and begs for him to come back, but James ignores him and storms out of the door. He needs to get out of here. It doesn't matter where, as long as he's as far away from these people as possible he'll be fine. 

 

 

Chapter 16

Tony's POV

 

It's not the first time that Tony has managed to get shot after the whole ordeal in Siberia had happened. If he thinks about it, he has been stabbed multiple times, thrown off a building at least twice, and somehow managed to lose a leg since then. Oh, and then there's that one time Doctor Doom almost decapitated him with his sword because Tony had gotten bored during one of Victor's lengthy speeches, and hadn't been paying attention...

Well, he cannot claim that he has gotten used to the pain.

Having a regenerative system that far exceeds even Wade's healing abilities sure is nice, but that doesn't mean he's not feeling the pain these massive injuries cause.

He can feel how the burned muzzles within his chest begin to knit back together, and how the flame burns on his skin begin to heal. The worst part is his lung which had collapsed due to the blunt force of the gunshot wound. It's definitely not a pleasant feeling when the air you're breathing in, collects between your lungs and the wall of your chest. In Tony's case, it also decided to leak into the skin of his chest and neck. The accumulated air under his skin makes it feel crackly and he doesn't like that one bit.

Besides, it's really hard to play dead when you have excessive chest pain and your heart's racing like crazy.

"You fuckin' idiot killed him! Why the hell did you do that?! You already killed that stupid bitch and made our situation unnecessarily complicated, and now this! You've killed the fuckin' savior of this goddamn city! What are we supposed to do now?!" The guy next to the leader of the criminals yells enraged.

"Calm down. It's not like we needed Stark. We still have the hostages."

"The hostages are nothing compared to Stark! Do you really think the police will let any of us go after you've killed fuckin' Iron Man?! They probably prepare to storm the building while we're speaking."

"He's right! I've heard the Police commissioner and Stark are friends. They either shot us down immediately or sent us behind bars for the rest of our lives!" Another one yells from the left. 

"Bullshit! If anyone comes in here, we simply use the hostages as shields and fend them off!"

 

'Well, it's even harder to play dead with a bunch of yelling idiots around you...' Tony thinks.

 

'Your plan seems to work out better than expected, Boss.' FRIDAY chimes in.

'Well, of course it does, FRIDAY.'

'I'm still not convinced that it was necessary for you to get shot. Your original plan of using flash grenades as a distraction device, combined with your enhanced speed reactions, movement, and strength, would have had a success rate of 97%.' FRIDAY complains.

'Yeah, and a 3% fail rate. I was not willing to take that risk.'
Tony chuckles and waits for FRIDAY's snarky response, but she remains silent.

'FRIDAY? Is everything alright?'
He asks when there's still no answer.

 

'Ah, sorry, Boss...'
She says eventually, sounding distracted.
'There's a problem at the compound. Sergeant Barnes' didn't react well to your apparent death, which is perfectly understandable.'

'Wait. What? Why didn't you cut the signal sooner? They weren't supposed to see that!' Tony yells, thankfully only in his mind.

'I'm sorry, Boss, but you got taken down much sooner than we had anticipated. Besides, you never gave me the signal to interfere with the transmission, which we agreed on. I could only react when it was already too late.' FRIDAY says apologetic.

Tony knows she's right and that it is mainly his fault. He had promised to give her a signal when the right time came to cut the transmission but had ultimately failed to do so, given that he had been too invested in pissing off that dumb criminal.

'Fuck, fuck, fuck! Okay. How bad is it?'

'Really bad, Boss. Matt said they assumed you had told James' about what was supposed to happen, given that the transmission hadn't cut off immediately. They realized too late that that wasn't the case, and before they could try to explain anything to him, James stormed off. Matt says Carol went after him, but so did Rogers and the rest of Team Charlie. Boss, I think you should wrap things up quickly. Carol won't tell James the truth, and even if you were to give her the clearance, she wouldn't do so in front of Rogers...'

'Fuck! Okay. Keep an eye on them and tell me if the situation gets worse. Tell Carol that I'm on my way.'
Tony says and remotely hacks into the surveillance cameras of the bank via electric transmissions from his central nervous system.

He gets a rough overview of the current situation and realizes in glee that everything's working out exactly as planned. After Tony had seen the footage of the first victim getting shot, he noticed that most of the hostage-takers had been visibly shocked by the act. Apparently, it hadn't been part of the plan to kill someone, and that had created disputes among them - Something Tony believed he could take advantage of.

So he decided to let things escalate to the point of getting himself shot. If most of them had lost their cool when the first victim died, how many of them would freak out when a second person died, and that person happens to be Tony Stark?

As expected, those idiots were at each other's throats as soon as Tony's body hit the floor. They were throwing insults around like confetti, and not a single soul was watching over the hostages who sat huddled on the ground.

'Time to end this.'
Tony smiles and sets phase two of his plan into motion.

 

What happens next is over in mere seconds. He summons his gauntlet with his direct cybernetic interface and begins to feel how the nanoparticles start to seep out of his body. It takes them less than a few seconds to form around his arm and even less to shoot his new tranquilizer rounds at the criminals who are still yelling at each other.
They go down almost instantaneously and don't even have the chance to yell in surprise before their bodies hit the floor.

It's depressing that they probably don't even know that hit them, but that can't be helped. Tony's sure Adams will boast about it later, so they'll eventually learn about what happened when they're on their way to jail.

Tony rises slowly from his position on the ground, mostly so that the hostages don't start to panic. He has pretended to be dead after all and doesn't want them to die from a heart attack, because they think he's a fuckin' zombie or something equally unpleasant. That would be a shitty way to go, after all the horrible stuff those people had to go through.

Tony uses his cyberpathic control over the scanning equipment located in his helmet to scan the hostages' vital signs. It's nice to be able to use most of his helmet's features when they're unsurfaced, even though it makes him feel less human.

The hostages' vital signs look relatively good under the given circumstances, and when the first few of them start to realize that they are finally safe, they begin to weep in relief. A few of them take a step closer to Tony and thank him, while an elderly lady, probably in her early eighties, slings her arms around him in a bone-crushing hug. He returns the hug in earnest and tells her that it's over, that it is okay to cry, and that there's no need to be scared anymore before he loosens his hold on her and tells her that he has to go.

He sends Adams a quick message to let him know that the situation is under control before he manifests his Armor and takes off through a broken window. He knows Adams will take care of the rest- He always does. So he doesn't feel guilty to leave like that.

 

'FRIDAY the hostage situation is under control. I'm en route to the compound and will arrive in approximately 2.23 minutes. How are things on your side?'

'Things have taken a turn for the worse, Boss. James' lost it and hurt himself.' The AI says worried, her voice sounding small.

'Fuck. How did he hurt himself? What about the others, are they okay?'
Tony asks concerned.

'James destroyed the table of Team Betas' debriefing room which resulted in him getting hit by various sharp splinters. One of the splinters caused a nasty cut on his cheek. It's bleeding a lot, and I'm certain the wound requires to be stitched. The others are fine, except Rogers...'

Tony could tell that FRIDAY didn't feel particularly concerned about the last part.

'Let me guess? Rogers is complaining again and throws a fit?'

'No, not this time. He tried to comfort James and told him that your death had been predictable, given your reckless antics and behavior. James didn't take kindly to that and punched Rogers straight in the face, apparently with full force. Rogers' nose is broken beyond recognition, and even with his enchanted healing abilities, it will probably take a while before it heals completely.'

As funny as it was that Rogers had been decked in the face, Tony knew there was no time to laugh. James was unstable at best and could do far worse things than breaking someone's nose. 

'What happened then?'

'James threatened the others for a while before he noticed the screen in the room, showing you alive and well, Boss. Upon seeing you, he stormed off...' If FRIDAY sounded guilty before, then she sounded outright devastated now.

'Where's is he now?'

'He went up to the roof and hasn't moved since then. I didn't try to talk to him yet, because I thought it best to leave him alone for a while. What if he hates me now, Boss? I don't want James to hate me...'
FRIDAY whined, and Tony could understand why. She had never hurt someone before, intentionally or not, and simply didn't know how to react.

'It's okay, FRI. I'm sure James doesn't hate you. He's just hurt you know? I will talk to him and apologize, and later, when he has calmed down a bit and is ready to talk to you, you should apologize too, okay?'

'Okay...' She answers, her voice sounding so small and defeated.

'I'm close to the compound and can see James sitting on the edge of the roof. I will turn off communications so I can talk to him without getting disturbed. Notify Carol and the others that I'm talking to him, and please try to keep Rogers as far away from the roof as possible. Temper with the doors if necessary.' Tony pleads. 

 

He decides to land a few meters away from James' right, to bring a certain distance between them, should the man feel threatened by Tony's presence. He knows that James has already spotted him, but it is better to play it safe than sorry. He lets the armor retreat back into his body before he slowly starts to close the distance between James and himself- One careful step after the other.

When Tony finally comes to a halt next to James, the man doesn't even acknowledge his presence. Not even when Tony sits carefully down next to him, and lets his feet dangle over the edge of the roof. From this angle, Tony can take a good glimpse at the cut on James' cheek. The wound doesn't bleed anymore, but it does need stitching, just like FRIDAY had feared. He'd like to treat the wound now, but James still hasn't acknowledged Tony's presence, so that will have to wait, much to Tony's dismay.

 

They sit in silence for a while, before Tony eventually musters up the courage to say something.

"I'm sorry, James."
He says, because he means it. He feels genuinely sorry, and he hopes James can hear it in his voice.

James says nothing and stares off into the distance. The long silence between them stretches and Tony begins to think that James will never talk to him again before the man eventually turns to look at him.

"For what? For putting on a show? For fooling everyone? Or for messing around with me?" He snarls, but Tony notices that the man's voice doesn't sound angry- It just sounds resigned.

"For everything I guess..." Tony says under James' judgemental gaze.

"It was never my intention to hurt you, and I certainly didn't plan to mess around with you but in the end, I did just that, and I'm sorry for that."

 

Tony hadn't taken James' feelings into consideration. And if he was honest? He hadn't even thought about James' feelings at all. A small part of him couldn't quite grasp why James was upset in the first place. Sure, they had some friendly interactions in the last few days, and Tony had gotten out of his way to help the man when he was suffering from a panic attack, but that was about it...

They're certainly no friends. Hell, you couldn't even refer to them as acquaintances. And, as much as Tony hated to admit it, he still felt fuckin' afraid whenever James was near him. Just sitting next to the man costs Tony an immense amount of effort, the urge to run away is always at the forefront of his mind. He knows that James could never win a fight against Tony's current self. But that knowledge doesn't keep the fear at bay, it follows him like a shadow of the past and doesn't loosen its hold on him.

The fact that James genuinely seems to care about him only intensifies his fears, because a small voice in Tony's head tells him that it is all a lie, a ploy to get into his good grace so that it will be easier for James to stab him in the back...

 

"You were never supposed to see me getting shot... FRIDAY was supposed to interrupt the transmission before the bullet hit me."
Tony says eventually, as a means of escape from his rapidly darkening thoughts.

At that, James' head instantly turns around to face Tony, his gaze staring daggers at something on the Inventor's chest. He is moving his hand to touch Tony's chest, but the Inventor can't help but flinch violently away from the sudden approach. James' eyes went wide at Tony's reaction, his hand stilling in midair as if he got spooked by the reaction.

"I didn't mean to-" James pauses, fumbling for words. His eyes stay fixated on Tony's chest as if it has personally offended him, and Tony realizes that he's looking at the bullet hole in his suit.

"Ah, it's okay. You- you just startled me, that's all." Tony lies. He knows his voice sounds strained and probably gives him away, but he can't help it.

"Looks kinda messy, right?" He points at the bullet hole in his suit.
"It's a shame. I liked that suit, it's one of my favorites because Happy picked it for me. Good thing I had one of my newly invented, ultra-thin bulletproof vests underneath it, otherwise, I could have died. Hell, if I'd died in that suit Happy would've brought me back from the dead only to kill me again." Tony laughs awkwardly and subtly tries to bring some distance between James and himself.

There's a long silence between them, in which James simply stares at him. He looks into Tony's eyes as if he's searching for something, and Tony can't help but squirm under the firm gaze. He wants to run, but something keeps him from doing so, almost as if he's frozen in place.

 

"Why are you lying again?"
James asks, and damn, he sounds hurt.
"I know most of the others weren't really watching, but I was. I saw how the bullet pierced through your body, and I saw the blood, Stark."

James slowly lifts his hand again, the motion is careful, tender even, as if he's scarred Tony might flee from him. The assumption isn't wrong, because Tony feels like a rabbit caught in a trap. It costs Tony a lot of self-control to keep himself from flinching away from the touch, but he manages to keep still and lets James' fingers graze over the offending hole in his suit.

James' fingertips skim over the ruined fabric. Slowly, and carefully, as if he were touching the most fragile glass. His face is unreadable, sporting a mixture of a frown and uneasiness. There's a hint of concern in his eyes, but it gets replaced with relief as soon as one of James' fingers brushes over the soft skin of Tony's chest, which is barely visible through the hole in his suit.

James repeats the motion as if he's in a trance. It's painfully intimate, and Tony can't help but start to shudder at the unexpected touch, a motion that doesn't go unnoticed by James who immediately tears his hand away as if it had been burned by the touch.

Tony scoops away from him, to bring some much-needed distance between them, and misses the faint blush that blooms on James' cheeks.

 

"See? I told you I'm fine." Tony says, but his voice sounds shaky, and everything but fine.

"That doesn't change the fact that you are still lying," James says in answer and clears his throat. He's doing his best to look everywhere but at the Inventor.

From this angle, Tony gets a much better look at the cut on the man's cheek, suddenly realizing that the wound still needs to be treated.
He hesitates a moment but decides to throw caution to the wind, and scoops closer to the man, but only close enough so that his hand can reach James' face.

James' body turns stiff as soon as Tony's fingers brush over the delicate skin of his face, the motion taking him entirely by surprise.

"I might be lying, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm perfectly fine. You, on the other hand, are not fine. The wound looks nasty and needs to be treated... Enchanted healing or not, this will need to be stitched."
Tony carefully moves his hand under James' chin and turns his face slowly in his direction so that James is forced to look at him.

 

"Let's make a deal, Snowflake. We're going down to my lab, and you will let me take care of your pretty face. No doctors, no infirmary, just you and me. I know you wouldn't let me drag your sorry ass to one of the doctors at the infirmary anyway, so this seems like a good compromise, don't you think? I will tell you the truth after I treat the cut on your cheek. Not all of it, but enough to make you understand why I felt the need to fool you guys." Tony offers and lets go of James' face.

He stares at James, waiting for an answer, only to find himself getting lost in the man's eyes. It's the first time he has taken a good look at the man's eyes and has to acknowledge that he's never seen such expressive eyes before.

James' eyes remind Tony of a clear mountain lake, or the color of the midwinter sky. They are radiating a brilliant electric blue, and Tony can't help but feel mesmerized by the sight. They look stunning, almost captivating, something you could get lost in forever and he would really like to-

"So you think I'm pretty, huh?" James grins and ruins the moment. 

Notes:

Tony; Don't touch me! I'm scared.

Also Tony; Well, it's okay if I'm the one who's initiating the touch.

Chapter 17

"You can sit down on the stool to your right. I'll go and get the first aid kit. I know it must be somewhere in the back. Oh, and James?" The Inventor turned slightly. "Don't touch anything while I'm gone." He said with a smirk and proceeded to the far back of the room.

James was wondering what the fuck he wasn't supposed to touch, given that the room was pretty much empty. He had been excited to get the chance to see all of the futuristic stuff Stark was working on, but this room was just plain boring and devoid of anything of interest to James.

His gaze wandered over most of the equipment in the room, and aside from some analytical balances and one of the ultra-low temperature freezers, everything was covered in dust and looked like it had never been used before. James had hoped his gaze would catch onto something that screamed 'Stark', something personal that wouldn't leave a speck of doubt within James' heart that this was indeed the Inventor's lab, but he found none such thing.

To say he was immensely disappointed would have been the understatement of the year...

It must have shown on his face because Stark stopped dead in his tracks, first aid kit in his hands, when he returned and met James' gaze.

There was a small frown on the Inventor's face for just barely a second before it was replaced by a sly smile when the sudden realization hit the man.

"Don't look so disappointed, Snowflake. This is just one of many laboratories at the compound. I thought it might be best if everyone with a doctorate was given their own laboratory. This way, no one has to share their lab with someone else or will be bothered when they're doing their research and experiments. The one we are in right now is indeed mine, in case you're still wondering. It's just that I hardly ever use it. I'm probably only down here when Peter needs my help with something or wants to stash his ridiculous amounts of fast food as far away from Wade as possible. Wade hates laboratories with a passion and wouldn't get near one even if you'd told him Wolverine was waiting for him in one of them."

James looked anything but convinced at Tony's words so the Inventor decided to humor the man and sheepishly added "Most of my work is done at my workshop on the top floor. I decided to move it there to make room for the additional laboratories."

"Will you show it to me when you get the time?"
James asked before he could think better of it, and immediately cursed his stupidity then he saw the look on Stark's face.

The Inventor visibly grimaced at the question, his gaze looking everywhere but at James while his hands began to shake slightly.

Were was an awkward silence between them, and James wished he had kept his stupid mouth shut when he watched Stark awkwardly placing another stool right next to the one James was sitting on.

"We can talk about this another time..."
Stark said in a strained voice, a faint tremble underlining each of his words. "We have to take care of your injury first." He mumbles and points an accusing finger at James' cheek.

James just nods at Stark, not because of the lack of something better to say, but because he fears saying something stupid again, something that might bite him in the ass later.

"I'm sorry if it hurts, I'll try to be as gentle as possible, so please bear with me," Stark says and puts on some sterile gloves and a mask.

 

Tony slowly moves one of his hands beneath James' chin to hold him in place and waits a few seconds to make sure the man is comfortable with being manhandled by him, before he begins to use his fingers to expose the full extent of the wound, so he can start cleaning it properly.

After a while, Tony presses his pointer finger and thumb slightly down onto the wound to produce enough pressure to remove particulate matter and bacteria whilst he's irrigating the laceration using sterile saline.
Occasionally he'll use a fine-pore sponge to gently wipe away any remaining dried blood or skin debris using moistened gauze.

He continues that procedure until the wound is visibly clean, and looks like it is ready for further treatment.

The wound is deeper than he originally anticipated, and he can't help but shake his head in displeasure at the sight. He decidedly stays silent, knowing that now is not the right time to berate James about it, and opts for a deep frown instead. He casts a glance at James to see if he's still comfortable and shudders when he notices the other man's gaze. 

"What?" Tony asks bewildered, not sure why James is looking at him as if he's grown a second head.
"Did it hurt? I'm sorry if it did. I tried to be as gentle as possible. You should have said something if it-"

"No. That's not it..." James cuts in, guarded, but doesn't elaborate further so Tony keeps on cleaning the wound, whilst James watches his every move like a bird of prey.

James watches the Inventor in sheer wonder, his gaze fixated on the man's concentrated gaze.

He knew that Stark had meant it when he said he wouldn't hurt him, yet he couldn't help but feel a certain degree of relief at how gentle Stark was treating him. It was fascinating, how gently the man in front of him treated his wound, almost as if James was someone precious to Stark...

It was certainly a stark contrast to the perverted glee his handlers showed whenever they had to treat his wounds, deliberately making the procedures as painful as possible, just because they loved to torment him.

Stark's feather-light fingers trail over the irritated skin as if it were made of expensive glass. He is oh so careful not to hurt James in the progress, that it makes James want to lean into the contact, to get as close to the Inventor as physically possible...

But he refrains from doing so, knowing that it would only creep the man out.

 

"Okay, I think this should be enough cleaning..." Stark mumbles distracted, entirely oblivious to James' inner turmoil. "Unfortunately, I don't have any anesthesia that would work properly on you. Given your enchanted metabolism and all that. So I'm afraid you will have to endure the stitching without it. Tell me, if you need a break at any point and I will stop, okay?" Stark says in such a genuinely concerned voice, that it makes James want to hug him for the rest of his life.

It's strange, really, how the urge to hug Stark is constantly on the forefront of his mind lately. He hasn't spent that much time with the man yet, still, the urge is there, and especially in situations like this it is really hard for James to ignore.

Rather than crushing the Inventor in a hug, James opts for sarcasm instead, "Don't worry Stark, I will live. I didn't get any anesthesia when mad scientists replaced my arm with a shitty metal one and survived. So I'm pretty confident that I'll be able to endure some stitches without anesthesia." He says with a grin that doesn't reach his eyes and entirely misses the way Stark looks at him.

It isn't pity, nor concern but rather a deep-seated anger. An anger that isn't directed at James, but rather at those who have hurt the man. Tony knows when someone deflects painful memories with sarcasm. He's doing the same exact thing all the fuckin' time. It's easier to make fun of certain things, rather than to face them. It's not healthy, he knows that and he would love to tell James that, but
that would be hypocritical of him, so he says nothing and carefully begins to stitch the wound on James' face.

 

The silence that falls between them doesn't feel comfortable, but neither man knows what to say to the other without making an idiot out of themselves, so they keep their mouths tightly shut.

Tony remains silent as he carefully tends to James' cheek, focused on his work. It isn't until he finishes treating the wound and asks James to hand him the topical antibiotic ointment—intended to keep the wound edges moist and aid healing—that he finally speaks.
"That should do the trick, almost as good as new." He says while inspecting his work. "I won't dress the wound because it is a facial laceration, make sure to not get it dirty and apply the antibiotic ointment when you notice that the skin becomes too dry. Don't forget that, okay? I will personally check whether you stick to it or not." He points an accusing finger at James, but the Inventor's smile betrays him.

James adores the proud smile on Stark's face and thinks that it's a lovely sight, but decides not to comment on that. He's relatively sure saying stuff like that would only spook Stark away, and that's decidedly the last thing he wants right now.

"Thank you." James says eventually, with a genuine smile of his own.

"Don't mention it," Stark says, a little bewildered as if he can't grasp why James would even consider thanking him over such a mundane task such as this. It takes a second for James to realize that it's not the fact that the Inventor doesn't understand why James has thanked him...

The fact that's puzzling Stark is that James had bothered to thank him in the first place. It's as if the whole gesture feels alien to Stark. Almost as if he's not used to gratitude in the first place...

'Because he isn't.'
A small voice in James' mind chides him as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.

The sudden realization hits him like a Semi-truck. Something heavy begins to sink into James' stomach and he starts to feel sick.

James can't help but grab for Stark's wrist and ignores the way the man wants to flinch away from under his touch, he pulls Stark a little closer to himself and makes sure to look him in the eyes when he softly says, "I mean it, Stark. You didn't need to bother treating my wound, yet you did, and for that, I am entirely grateful to you." He makes sure to maintain eye contact so that the man opposite him knows that he's serious.

'He needs to know.'
James thinks and hopes his eyes radiate the earnestness he feels.

"I assure you," and here his grip on the Inventor's wrist tightens just slightly, "These are not just some empty words, they are genuine and I mean them." With that being said, he loosens his hold on the man in front of him, just enough so that Stark could pull away, or even flee from James if he wanted to. He knows he overstepped his boundaries again, but it felt necessary to explain himself to Stark. James had the sinking feeling that if he didn't, the Inventor would never get it, or worse, ever believe him.

But Stark just stares at him, his eyes big and open and oh so fragile, that it makes James heart ache in pain. It's an unconscious gesture when his hand slowly slides down Stark's wrist and gently intertwines their fingers in a loose hold.

'Who has hurt you to such an extent?'
He thinks bitterly and stares into Stark's eyes as if he could find the answer in their depths if he just looked long enough.

 

It's foolish of him to even think that, he knows that. because if he's perfectly honest with himself, James knows that he's part of the problem. He has hurt Stark in one of the cruelest and most gruesome ways possible and nothing that he'll ever do could make up for that...

He wants to say something, anything, but whatever words he's trying to form die on his tongue. Stark hasn't said anything either, he's just staring at James' eyes as if he's fishing for a lie in those blue orbs but is unable to find one.

The Inventor hasn't pulled his hand away either, which is a good sign in James' book, so he feels especially brave when he pulls the man even closer, their breaths mingling in the air between them.

"Thank you." He says again, softer this time, but what he really means is 'I'm sorry for all the pain I caused you'. He can only hope that Stark somehow understands the true meaning of his words, but even if he doesn't, James will simply repeat them whenever he gets the chance until the man in front of him will eventually understand...

He keeps his gaze firmly on Stark and suddenly thinks about how soft and kissable the Inventor's lips look. James wonders briefly how it would feel to kiss those lips... All he needs to do is to lean down a little bit further and let their lips connect... It would be so easy to steal a kiss right now, it's almost maddening and- 

The sudden thought startles James to such an extent that he immediately lets go of Stark's hand and takes a few steps away from him, bringing some much-needed distance between them.

'Where the hell did that thought come from?!'
He thinks bewildered and glances down at his hand, the one that was holding Stark's just seconds ago, only to notice that it is shaking slightly.

The skin feels like it has been burned, but in a pleasant way, and James can't help but miss the feeling of Stark's hand in his own. Somehow it felt right - and that realization terrifies him even more.

"Are you feeling okay?"
Stark asks, completely unaware of the fact that James is currently suffering an identity crisis.

"Ah, yeah I- I just- you know-"
He stumbles over the words like an elementary school student who has to give his first presentation in front of the entire class.

"I- I just realized you haven't explained that to me yet."
He points at Stark's chest like an idiot, and suddenly, he wants nothing more than to die on the spot. The sheer embarrassment he's feeling will probably last him for a lifetime. Of all the things he could have said, of course, he has to settle for that...

'Great job, James.'
He berates himself.

"Oh..." Stark answers in a small voice. He seems almost as flabbergasted as James when his gaze wanders down to his chest, or to be more accurate, to the bullet hole in his suit.

"Right... I did promise you some answers." He mumbles confused, as if he's still trying to wrap his head around what just happened between them, but ultimately turns around and makes his way to one of the drawers at the far back of the room.

He's rummaging through it for quite some time before he returns with a scalpel in his hand. Stark stares at it as if the damn thing has personally offended him, and then takes an apologetic look at James.

"Whatever you do; Don't freak out." He mumbles under his breath, and before James can ask him what he means, Stark suddenly takes a wide swing and drives the scalpel right into his own chest...

Notes:

Tony (last chapter); James, I'm so sorry for letting you believe I was dead.

Also Tony; Takes a scalpel and stabs himself in the chest, all while James is watching.

Chapter 18

James is about to scream for help when Stark covers the man's mouth with one of his hands and firmly shakes his head. He sights once, twice, and pulls the scalpel out of his chest, all whilst not even blinking an eye.

James stares in horror at the wound and tries to pull Stark's hand away from his mouth so that he can scream for FRIDAY to get help, but Stark's hand won't even budge an inch, staying firmly in place.

"It's okay... Look." The Inventor says eventually and points to his chest.

Stunned by the softness of Stark's voice, James looks down and realizes that the wound on the man's chest has already stopped bleeding. He watches in awe as the flesh and skin begin to knit themselves back together. The regeneration speed is so fast, that the wound completely disappears in just mere seconds, leaving not even a trace of a scar behind.

"How?"
James asks bewildered, but when his eyes meet Stark's he feels a cold shiver run down his spine and he freezes on the spot like a deer in headlights.

Radiating, cold-blue eyes stare back at him, void of any emotion. It feels like he is gazing at an abyss and the abyss stares right back at him. The look on the Inventor's face can only be described as terrifying. There's so much rage and bitterness in those eyes, maybe hatred even, that it makes James' blood run cold.

Those blazing blue orbs were totally different from the beautiful brown eyes James had first laid eyes on when he'd faced the Inventor for the first time. James distinctly remembers that he had thought Stark's eyes to be extraordinarily beautiful and captivating. The honey-brown orbs, speckled with gold were easy to get lost in, even underneath those strange-looking glasses the Inventor had been wearing when they first fought each other. Stark's eyes perfectly complimented his tan skin and dark hair, and that bluish suit he'd been wearing in combination with that red tie, perfectly fit his body. Thinking back now, James had to admit he'd been distracted by the man's looks throughout their whole fight, something that had never happened to him before.

 

Right now, though, James couldn't find anything remotely close to beauty in those cold, calculating eyes that were staring daggers at him. If he had to describe them in one word, he would choose to call them inhuman at best, and that realization deeply unsettles him.

He wants answers but doesn't dare to ask any questions because the silence before them feels harsh, and he's not sure how to approach the subject without angering Stark in the process.

"It's called Extremis," Stark eventually says after a long pause, as if he'd been reading James' mind.

"It was developed for a super soldier project by a biotech company called FuturePharm, a subsidiary of Stark Industries. I won't go too much into detail but after the military shut the project down, samples of the unstable Extremis were stolen and used to create superhuman killing machines. In the end, I was able to regain the serum after I killed the terrorist who had gotten his hands on it and was able to stabilize, and improve it."

The air wasn't comfortable between them before, but now, after Stark had mentioned Extremis, it felt almost suffocating.

"What does that-," James begins, but the words die on his lips. He knows what the man's about to say, yet he finds himself afraid of the answer.

"Shuri told you that I was on the brink of death when I was found, right?"
The Inventor asks bitterly and averts his gaze as if he's feeling ashamed of himself - James is overcome with the urge to take the man's hand into his own, but the moment he reaches for the Inventor's hand, the air around them starts to bristle with static, and Stark violently pulls away.

"I was a lost cause when help arrived."
The man continues with a fake smile that doesn't reach his eyes and takes a few more steps back, to bring more distance between himself and James. "Rogers knew about the state of my chest, yet he smashed that stupid shield right into it. Not once, not twice, oh no. He did it over and over again until I stopped moving and was barely breathing."

At that moment, James thinks that the Inventor looks like a glass figurine, flawless to the eye, a sublime beauty, formed in the hopes that its magnificence might last forever. But in truth, it is so very fragile that it is destined to break apart under the slightest touch.

Even though Stark tries to hide his feelings with one of his trademark smiles, he doesn't manage to fool James. There is so much raw pain in those blazing blue orbs, that it's hardly bearable for James to look at the man's face.

"According to FRIDAY, I had suffered from major thoracic injuries such as airway obstruction, tension pneumothorax, cardiac tamponade, massive hemothorax, and flail chest but also thoracic aortic disruption, pulmonary contusion, and myocardial contusion..."
Stark pauses, and watches James out of the corner of his eyes.

"All of those injuries are extremely lethal on their own, and the mortality rate of a person who's endured just one of them is particularly high if they don't receive immediate treatment. Now imagine what would happen to a person who's suffered numerous of those injuries, a person who's unable to call for help and finds themselves to be all alone and trapped in a coffin made of titanium-gold alloy." The Inventor pauses, gauging James' reaction.

"When how did you-"
James asks, but a heavy fog begins to cloud his thoughts, keeping him from finding the right words.

"Loki saved me."
The Inventor elaborates and stares off into the distance, almost as if he's reliving the moment in his mind.
"Unbeknownst to me, Loki had been secretly watching me since he broke free from Asgard's prison. He practically stalked me. I believe he said he'd done it because he simply had nothing better to do, and watching my clever mind was the only distraction this horrible realm had to offer to him." Stark chuckles but it sounds hollow.

"He appeared out of thin air after Rogers had left and managed to prolong my impending death just long enough for me to be brought back to my workshop, but that was all Loki could do for me. In the end, even his magic couldn't fix what Rogers and the cold had done to my body."

The Inventor sucks in a sharp breath, and looks James dead in the eye, pausing for a minute as if he's trying to gather the courage to continue.

"The only option I had left to save my life was to use Extremis on myself..." He says eventually and scoffs. "Extremis changed me and turned me into something 'more', something that can no longer be described as human. Something I despise with every fiber of my being..."

James shudders at Stark's monotone voice. There's not an ounce of emotion in it as it reverberates through the room. He looks at the man and suddenly wishes he hadn't. Because all he sees are Stark's blazing blue eyes staring coldly back at him with something akin to madness.
It makes something snap within James and before he can question what he's doing, he finds himself holding the man in front of him in a tight embrace.

Stark tenses in his arms, but this time, he doesn't make a move to shy away from the touch. He just stays frozen in place, his arms slack at his sides while his breath hitches slightly.

 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for everything I've done to you, for all the things you had to suffer," James says, but he knows these simple words won't change the fact that the man's hurting, nor will they undo what happened to him.

James can't hide the slight tremble in his voice when he continues, "I shouldn't have followed blindly after Steve, shouldn't have fought back after you attacked me. You had just found out that I was responsible for the death of your parents and you had every reason to kill me on the spot. We both know you could have easily killed me if you wanted to but you didn't. Because that's the kind of person you are."

James says and hugs the still unresponsive man even closer to his chest.

"You are that kind of guy to make the sacrifice play, to lay down on a wire and let the other guy crawl over you. Hell, even after everything I did to you, you are the one who reached out first. To make amends even though there was no reason for you to do so. The last goddamn person on this planet who needs to make amends for anything is you. And do you know why that is?"

James asks and loosens his hold on the Inventor so he can cradle the man's face in his hands, forcing him to look at him.
"Because you're the most kindest, good-hearted, and honest person I've ever met. You sacrifice yourself for others and help even those who have hurt and betrayed you."

 

'Most of the time I'm at a loss for words when I'm near you because I can't believe how a soul as pure as yours has survived this long. Whenever I'm with you, I feel like I'm that person from the past. That version of myself that I thought was long gone.'
James wants to add but doesn't dare to say it out loud.

 

"You give everything you have and yourself to others and don't expect anything in return. You even went as far as to build me a new arm," James adds and intentionally runs his prosthetic thumb over Stark's cheek to make a point. The man freezes under his touch, eyes going wide in surprise and James realizes with a sudden delight that the Inventor's eyes have turned back to their usual brown color.

"I didn't-" The Inventor starts to speak, but James immediately cuts him off.

"Shuri told me everything, Stark," James says softly and pulls the Inventor's face closer to his own so that their foreheads touch.

"At first, I had been suspicious of you when Shuri told me you had made a new prosthetic arm for me. I felt like this was your sick and twisted way to get back at me, maybe even hurt me," he says truthfully.
"But then Shuri told me that she had promised you not to tell me that it had been you who made the arm. She explained to me, how guilty you'd felt for destroying my arm, and that you kept punishing yourself for everything that had happened between us back in Siberia. That this was your way to make it up to me." James pauses when he notices how his voice starts to tremble slightly.

"Can you imagine how surprised I was? The man whom I had taken everything away from, who has every right to despise me til he takes his last breath, makes me a new prosthetic arm because he's the one who feels guilty towards me." James pauses and studies Stark's surprised face.

"At that moment, I realized what kind of person you are, and how dumb I had been to blindly trust Steve. I began to question the things that had happened and asked Shuri to tell me the whole truth, only to then realize how blind I had been."

James says and moves his head slightly so that he can take a better look at the Inventor's face when he says, "You don't have to accept my apology, god knows you have every right to resent me. But please believe me when I say, that there is no reason for you to despise yourself. For all it's worth, I'm glad that you used Extremis to save your life, otherwise, I wouldn't have gotten the chance to tell you all this, and for that I am grateful."

 

The words hang heavy between them, and James notices that Stark looks at him as if James had spoken in a foreign language he couldn't understand. His bewildered look makes something within James break because for a moment he thinks that the man can't comprehend why James would care about him in the first place.

He wants to assure Stark that he meant every word he had said, but before he can do so, Stark unexpectedly moves forward and rests his head on James' shoulder.

"You sure know how to apologize with a bang. A bit too dramatic for my taste, but it'll do." The Inventor mumbles and snugs his arms around James' waist. "Thank you..." He adds so softly, that James nearly missed it.

He returns the hug and sighs softly when he places his head on top of Stark's fluffy hair, enjoying the feeling of it against his skin.

'I'd like to stay like this forever...'
James thinks, and before he can take a moment and think about the deeper meaning behind that thought, the lab door slams open with a loud thud, startling him from his thoughts and away from Stark's embrace. 

Notes:

I'm not really satisfied with this chapter because I made a mayor mistake and had to re-write the goddamn thing multiple times. So, I'm sorry in advance if the quality is lacking and the pacing was too fast.

Also, I will edit the chapter in which the Teams were introduced. I just noticed that I totally forgot about Vision. I thought about adding him to the story but ultimately decided against it, simply because I don't like him and miss JARVIS. The changes will state that he's with Thor, rebuilding Asgard, so you don't necessarily have to go back and re-read that particular chapter.

"You are that kind of guy to make the sacrifice play, to lay down on a wire and let the other guy crawl over you." I hope you realized what I did there. ;)

Chapter 19

Wade burst into the room with all the grace of a freight train, the door slamming against the wall with a resounding thud. He pretends to be oblivious to the way Tony and James simultaneously spring apart from each other and entirely ignores the tension his sudden entrance creates. It's the maniac glee beneath his mask that betrays him, though. Tony knows Wade is notorious for his ability to disrupt any situation, and this is no exception. But he also knows that Wade hardly ever does anything that's not perfectly planned and calculated.

"Don't think of it as Breaking in -- This is Extreme Knocking!"
Wade says as a way of greeting and launches into one of his many jokes without waiting for any acknowledgment.

 

To an outsider, Wade's quirky and mostly unreasonable demeanor suggests that he's an airhead: all sunshine, foolish, a simpleton who's easily distracted and frequently lost in the chaos of his mind. He has perfected the art of playing the dork, an act that often leaves people underestimating him- Especially his enemies. But beneath that well-crafted facade lies a mind that hardly misses anything, his actions carefully choreographed to seem like random choices he made on a whim when, in reality, they are deliberate decisions. What outsiders do not realize is that underneath that vivacious facade lays someone who carries the heavy burden of constant pain and profound loneliness.

Only a few selected people know the truth about Wade's perfectly orchestrated symphony of subtle manipulations and the full extent of Wade's abilities, and even fewer know about the true character of the man hidden beneath the mask.

Given that, Tony hardly suspects that Wade merely sought them out to tell them one of his silly jokes and muses that it must have been worry that brought the man here.

Before Tony can confirm his theory, the door opens again, but this time more cautiously. Carol's stepping into the room, her face a mixture of exhaustion and anger.

 

"Come on, Wade, this isn't the time for your silly jokes," Carol says, her tone bordering on exasperation.

"Lighten up, Carol! A little laughter never hurt anyone!" Wade says as exaggerated as he can. Obviously, to mock her. But it's evident in his voice that he's secretly feeling sorry for Carol. Tony muses her angry expression has nothing to do with Wade's ridiculous attempt at humor but rather the shitshow she had to deal with after James had decided to break Rogers' fuckin' nose.

"I guess things went down the hill after James ran off?"
Tony asks carefully and winces when he finds Carol staring at him like she's about to murder him.

James doesn't even dare to look up from the spot on the ground he's staring daggers at, he can feel Carol's intense gaze boring into him from across the room and he prays to whatever deity is up there that she hasn't noticed the blooming blush on his face.

He had been so close to- to- to what exactly? He doesn't know. But his heart is hammering in his chest and he fears it will burst out of his ribcage if he doesn't get his shit together soon.

 

"What makes you think that?" Carol scoffs with a deep scowl on her face. If she hadn't considered murdering Tony before, she sure as hell does now. "Things turned out just peachy as Wade likes to say."

"Is that so? Then why are you so angry if everything went peachy?" Tony asks in mild confusion before he can think any better of it.

"Are you fuckin' kidding me, Tony?! That was sarcasm! It was a disaster! Rogers lost it and was on the verge of crying, fearing that his beloved Bucky would be kicked from the Avengers because he hurt another member." Carol says, and Tony knows he's fucked because Carol hardly ever swears.

"He was pleading with FRIDAY to delete the footage of the accident, but your daughter was adamant to make Rogers suffer as much as possible." She adds and points her finger accusingly at one of the nearest cameras in the room.

"Yeah! That was really great! Rogers was whining like a baby, and FRIDAY was like; Eat blazing doorknobs of death, banana-face!"
Wade says happily, which earns him death stares from Carol and a snort from FRIDAY that reverberates from the speakers.

"As if I'd ever do that shit-face a favor."
The AI says proudly and snorts when Tony calls her out on her foul language.

 

"FRIDAY, please don't tell me you sent the footage of that incident to the Council just to fuck with Rogers," Tony asks in horror, his gaze landing on James, who still looks daggers at the ground but visible flinches as the meaning of the words sink in.

"Oh, please. As if I'd ever do that. I never recorded anything in the first place because I got a feeling things would escalate," The AI chirps back, sounding way too smug for Tony's liking.

 

"Our dear FRIDAY here decided that it would be funny to withhold that information from Rogers, and made things ten times worse for me when she told him that she couldn't delete the footage, nor could she stop it from being sent to the Council members because that would directly defy Amanda's orders and make her a Deviant. "She then proceeded to lie again and told Rogers that the Council members had decided to leave Barnes' fate in the hands of the Team leaders after they had watched the footage." Carol sighs in defeat.

"Do you know how hard I had to fight the urge to laugh in front of Rogers? FRIDAY knew damn well that I would recognize that reference, given that she was the one who recommended that game to me!" Carol said with clenched fists, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. Only now realizing what she'd been dragged into.

 

"In her defense; She couldn't have fathomed that our dear Dr. Strange would also recognize said reference and just fuck-off through one of his portals as soon as he realized that FRIDAY was talking bullshit," Wade said thoughtfully and suddenly pulled out his phone. "Dear Yelp, Dr. Strange has ZERO bedside manner. I give him one star. Would not do business again. Do not recommend."

 

Tony felt sorry for Carol, he really did. He knows that she's always prided herself on being able to manage conflict with calm and reason, but this was beyond the usual disputes or misunderstandings she was used to. This was raw, physical madness provided by a resentful AI and an insane mercenary that was spilling into her meticulously organized world.

"So, given that... I assume Rogers immediately started to harass you- the only remaining Team leader at the scene- to have mercy on our poor James here?" Tony says and points at the man in question.

"Harassing is an understatement, but yes, he did."

"He went all; Bucky is just confused, and Bucky doesn't know what he's doing, please forgive him on Carol," Wade chuckles. "Matt and I listened to it for like 15 minutes before we lost interest and fucked off as well."

"Actually, Matt told you to fuck off after you had begun to imitate Edwards Munch's painting 'The Scream' in the background and decided it would be a great idea to gasp a dramatically 'Oh, my!' whenever Rogers opened his mouth to defend James actions," FRIDAY clarifies.

At that, Tony throws Wade a look that screams I wish I had seen that, before he returns his attention back to Carol only to find her staring daggers back at him.

"As Wade so eloquently said; Rogers wouldn't stop whining and throwing complains at me, so, against my better judgment, I decided to play along with FRIDAY and told him I'd have to seek out the other Team leaders to make a decision. I also told him that until the matter has been resolved, Sergeant Barnes would be required to stay away from Rogers at all costs, and is therefore forbidden to return to his room..."

 

James pricks up his ears at that and looks up for the first time, looking at Carol in anticipation.

 

"Of course, Rogers immediately started to complain again, but I made it quite clear that this was non-negotiable. I made him realize that if he wants to save Sergeant Barnes from being expelled from the Avengers initiative he'd have no other choice but to agree to these terms," Carol says and grins widely at James when she notices the bright smile that is forming on his lips.

"That means, for the time being, Sergeant Barnes will occupy a room on Team Beta's floor, so that we can have an eye on him to make sure that the incident from today doesn't repeat itself." She adds with a smile of her own.

 

'I finally get a break and some room to breathe...'
James thinks and steals a glance at Tony.
'Maybe this is my chance to-'

His thoughts get harshly interrupted by a loud gasp from Wade, that is reverberating throughout the entire room.

 

"Hell yeah! That screams for a movie night! FRIDAY! Let's look up some movies we could watch! I'm in the mood for some good old AI action. Death to humanity and all that stuff! This will be great!" Wade cheers and immediately starts for the door while he chats happily away with FRIDAY.

"We're not watching War Games again! Besides, we're not done yet, Wade! I still have to pick a bone with you!" Carol yells and follows right after him as if she'd all but forgotten about the previous conversation.

 

Tony just stares after them in mild bewilderment and tries to comprehend how the conversation had managed to end up so abruptly, but ultimately fails and decides it's not worth racking his brain over it. 

He shakes his head in defeat and turns his gaze towards James to ask him if he wants to leave as well, but finds the words dying in his throat when he notices the man is already staring back at him with an intensity in his eyes that makes it hard to look away.

He suddenly remembers how close they had been standing together before Wade had burst into the room and can't help but feel awkward at the memory. 

 

That James simply keeps on staring at him and hasn't said a single word yet, doesn't make things better, so Tony decides to abruptly flee the scene and marches out of the room- Successfully hiding the flush that is spreading on his face from James view.

 

Only when he's far enough away from James to make sure that the man can't see his face does he turn around to yell for James to follow after him...

Notes:

Wade's entrance line, the Banana line, and the line about Dr. Strange's Yelp review are from the comics.

FRIDAY was talking about David Cage's - Detroit; Become Human.

Chapter 20

The excitement of moving into a new apartment feels exhilarating, especially since James finally gets to experience some well-needed distance from Steve and his no-brainer friends.

He needs the change- escaping Rogers' attempts at rekindling their friendship has become unbearable, suffocating him in the process. He feels like this is the first step to embracing the unknown and making decisions of his own, something he's been deprived of for decades. The anticipation of new beginnings makes him feel giddy and oddly refreshed.

 

He walks slightly behind Carol, taking his time to absorb his new surroundings.

The hallway feels quieter, almost hushed, as if the floor itself is a sanctuary of peace. According to Carol, the apartment that will become James' home for the foreseeable future is located at the end of the long corridor and will be the only occupied apartment on the entire floor.

 

"Everyone besides Stephen, who prefers to stay at the Sanctum Sanctorum in New York, has rented their own apartments at the compound, so the shared floors of Team Alpha and Beta are completely vacant. Well, at least they were until now," she explains with a bright smile, which James can't help but find endearing. He decides that Carol looks good like that.

"As you can see, this floor is almost identical to the floor Team Charlie resides on. The only difference is that this floor is missing the shared kitchen and dining room. It only has a common living room because the rest of the rooms consist of fully equipped apartments, meaning that you've got your own kitchen and stuff," Carol explains as they walk past a spacious living room with way too many seating arrangements.

"Okay, here we are," Carol says excitedly as she stops in front of James' apartment. She smiles brightly at him as she opens the door and steps away so James can peek inside.

 

James' first impression is one of simplicity. The small corridor leading into the apartment is brightly lit but bare, while the walls are painted a greenish-blue pastel that gives it a coastal vibe. The corridor leads directly into a small living room with high ceilings that give the room an airy feel and make it appear larger than it actually is. Its walls are painted a slightly lighter blue than the ones in the corridor, decorated with various vintage prints and watercolors. The white marble floors' visual appeal is enhanced by a comfortable-looking dark gray runner. Overall, the living room feels cozy and seems to glow in the soft afternoon light filtering through a single, unexpectedly large window.

"The bedroom is to your left," Carol points out helpfully, following James as he glances into the room.

It is modest in size, just enough to house a spacious bed, a small desk, and a wardrobe that offers ample space for James' nonexistent vast amount of clothes. The bed, positioned against a far wall, right under a small window, is covered with a simple bedspread and multiple cozy-looking pillows. This time, the walls are painted a simple white, probably to make the room look bigger and brighter, given the limited natural light from the small window.

 

The next room they inspect is the small kitchen, which is bathed in the golden glow of the late afternoon sunlight streaming through another large window, just like the one in the living room. The light dances off the white marble countertops, which gleam in polished perfection. To his right, James finds the refrigerator, stove, and oven seamlessly integrated into the pastel blue cabinetry that matches perfectly with the black-and-white diagonal-striped marble floor, contrasting beautifully with the lighter tones of the countertops and walls.

He steps further into the room and runs his hand over the cool marble surface. He can envision his mom standing in this kitchen, gathered by friends around the island, sharing laughter and stories while she prepared one of her famous meals. This kitchen is probably more than any of them could ever have dreamed of...

 

'I wish she could have gotten the chance to enjoy such luxury,' he thinks bitterly. And suddenly, James feels like he doesn't deserve any of this—not after all the things he has done.

 

Carol asks if he wants to see the bathroom next, but he begins to feel nauseous and dizzy. He politely declines her offer, stating that he has been feeling tired for a while now and probably needs to rest. The day has been rather exhausting, after all.

Carol looks at him for a moment, opening her mouth slightly, a dark frown forming on her face, probably because she has noticed the sudden and unexpected change in James' mood. But it seems she decides to keep whatever she had wanted to say to herself—much to James' relief.

Eventually, she just nods in understanding and heads for the door. Before she leaves, she reminds him about the upcoming movie night, telling him to be punctual or else he won't get any snacks, and also informs him that Wade will bring him his stuff at a later time. She smiles at him, but this time, her smile doesn't reach her eyes, and James hates himself for making her look like that.

He watches her leave in silence, and as soon as the door closes behind her, he sinks to his knees, overwhelmed by the weight of his own mind. His chest tightens, a physical manifestation of the emotional storm brewing within him. The world around him blurs as his eyes fill with unshed tears, his breath coming in ragged gasps, each one a struggle against the suffocating guilt he feels.

 

"Fuck!" he curses through his ragged breathing, his thoughts spiraling in an endless loop of self-condemnation. He feels like an intruder in his own life, a ghost haunting the moments of his past, unable to move forward.

He can barely grasp the concept of happiness anymore. It seems like a distant, unattainable dream, something reserved for those without his tarnished soul. Memories of his actions gnaw at everything that makes him feel even slightly happy, feasting on any flicker of hope or self-worth.

Every attempt to rationalize, to find a shred of self-forgiveness, is swiftly crushed by the relentless voice inside his head.

 

You don't deserve this.

You don't deserve to smile.

You don't deserve to be happy.

You'd be better off dead.

You know it's the truth.

It tells him, and he knows it is telling the truth.

 

Yet, amidst the turmoil, a desperate longing stirs within him.

He wishes for someone to be there, to help him break free from his tormenting thoughts. And more than anyone, he wishes it could be that certain Inventor he has come to know.

Stark's presence has been nothing but a beacon of calm and understanding, a stark contrast to the chaos in James' mind. He tries to focus on Stark's easy smile and warm, steady presence, but it is nothing compared to the real thing.

He has only been here for a few days, but that short amount of time has been enough to make James feel an inexplicable connection to Stark. Stark has a way of making him feel seen, truly seen, in a way no one else ever has. He can't help but feel a sudden longing for the comfort of the Inventor's voice, the reassurance of his touch. James wishes they would grow even closer, spending evenings together talking about everything and nothing...

But he knows this is just wishful thinking. He doesn't deserve Stark's help and certainly doesn't deserve to be a part of the Inventor's life.

The last thought startles him greatly, because of the intensity the prospect of being a part of the man's life makes him feel.

 

James runs a hand through his messy hair, his thoughts drifting in an entirely different direction. He closes his eyes and imagines Stark sitting beside him, imagines the calm and reassurance in his eyes, the gentleness in his voice. He imagines that small, beautiful smile the man wears whenever he is near James, the one that makes James selfishly want to be directed only at him, and nobody else.

The more he thinks about Stark, the more he realizes there is something more, something he can't quite define. It is a warmth and contentment he has never felt before, at least not with such intensity. It is a pleasant feeling, one James wouldn't miss for the world. But he struggles to put a name on it.

He might not know exactly what he feels towards the Inventor, but he knows he wants the man around, preferably permanently.

He just... he just wants to be more to him... More than that they are now- whatever that might be.

The thought brings a fleeting sense of peace, but it is quickly replaced by another wave of self-reproach.

 

"I'm pathetic," James scoffs, his voice choked with tears. "He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't deserve to be dragged down by me."

The self-pity washes over him in waves, each one more crushing than the last.

 

Eventually, exhaustion overcomes him. His body, drained by the emotional turmoil, can no longer sustain the fight. With his last bit of strength, he somehow manages to move his pathetic ass to the bedroom and collapse onto his bed, the mattress creaking under his weight.

Exhausted, he closes his eyes and slowly drifts into unconsciousness.

In the silence of his room, James' breathing slows, the tears drying on his cheeks. The turmoil in his head gives way to restless sleep, dreams filled with images of Stark and the life James longs for but feels he can never have.

 

'You can't have him', the voice from before murmurs in his dreams, its tone both soothing and cruel.

 

'He will never love you.'

 

 

Notes:

Just to make things clear; In chapter 9 Tony mentions to James that FRIDAY is supposed to monitor the Avengers' health at all times. This was a lie to hide the fact that Tony had secretly kept an eye on James after his arrival. I felt the need to make this clear, given that some of you might wonder why no one tries to intervene when James has his panic attack.

Chapter 21

Wade wasn't what you'd call an average guy. He was one of those people who seemed to run on a different wavelength than the rest of humanity. Maybe it was because of the Boxes, or he had too many bizarre thoughts bubbling in his brain like, for example, Logan's sexy eight-pack and Madonna's 'Like a prayer', that he had a tendency to do things… well, different than others.

He had a habit of popping into places uninvited, not out of malice but simply out of an unfounded sense of familiarity with everyone in the building. And tonight, he was feeling particularly adventurous and wanted to experience said 'familiarity' with the newest addition to the family: The one and only (at least in this timeline) James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes.

So, when Carol had asked him to bring James his stuff and remind the man about their upcoming movie night, all that Wade could hear was the perfect opportunity to start a wholesome friendship arc with the very deadly, and oddly puppy-like (only around Tony, though) new addition to their team.

And really, who was Wade to refuse sweet Carol’s rare request, especially when she hardly ever asked him for anything? Besides, he still owed her for the disaster that followed the last task she’d given him. Not that it was entirely his fault. How was he supposed to know she wasn’t being literal when she told him to “stick something up Deathbird’s stupid ass”? What else was he supposed to do when a steel rod from a nearby STOP sign practically presented itself, like a divine gift from Fabian Nicieza and Rob Liefeld?

Sure, impaling a villain with a steel rod straight through the rear turned out to be a massive PR nightmare—but was that really on him?

 

Anyway, where was the narration going again? Oh, right—

 

For reasons known only to Wade, he had somehow decided it would be hilarious to sneak into James' apartment while he slept. The plan? Get as close to his face as possible and then... well, Wade hadn’t thought much further than that. Whatever came next felt like a problem for future Wade.

The idea of seeing how far he could get without waking the former Assassin up, made him feel giddy. It felt like a weird, self-imposed stealth mission he would succeed no matter that.

And so, like an uncoordinated cat burglar, Wade set his plan into motion.

 

Getting into James' apartment wasn't that difficult, given that James had apparently forgotten to lock the door before he had gone to bed. Though, even if he had done so, that wouldn't have stopped Wade from getting into the Apartment...

Matt had tried to lock him out for all kinds of reasons, but that never stopped Wade. Not once. He still managed to sneak under the man’s covers to get his daily dose of skin-to-skin contact with his second-favorite blind person in the entire multiverse (Blind Al, of course, held the top spot—but Wade didn’t want to get into her pants nearly as much as he wanted to get into Matt's).

With barely a sound and while pretending to be Kakashi from Naruto, Wade sneaked inside the apartment, feeling like a predator (No. Not in a sexual way, duh.) on a hunt. As he tiptoed through the hallway and into James' bedroom, the ridiculousness of the situation dawned on him, and Wade had to keep himself from giggling out loud which would probably result in him blowing his cover (also, Kakashi hardly ever giggles. Maybe when he's around Maito Guy, but that is an entirely different ship and has nothing to do with this story).

His steps were light and careful until he was close enough to squint at the bed. He located his victim (James) lying on it without any blankets, blissfully unaware of Wade's presence.

Wade continued to creep closer until he was hovering above the man's sleeping form. He crouched down beside the bed, his face inches from James apart.

His face was so close, that he could feel James' breath, warm and even, tickling his nose. A sudden surge of adrenaline rushed through Wade. This was it—the moment of triumph. He had done it. He had snuck into the famous Winter Soldier's bedroom without steering him from his slumber! Hydra Bob would be so proud of him!

 

Wade contemplated his next move. Sure, he could finish the task Carol had given him and wake the man up to remind him about their movie night. But where was the fun in that? No, a much better idea was already forming in his mind. With a smirk, he pulled out his favorite water-resistant marker, ready to draw a nice, hairy dick on the man’s unsuspecting face.

Of course, just as the thought had crossed Wade's mind, James stirred, and Wade's hand froze midair, his grin fading. James' body shifted slightly, and he grunted.

Wade held his breath, watching as James' eyelids fluttered open. For a second, James didn't move, his brain clearly trying to catch up with reality.

Just as Wade was about to say something silly, it happened.

Instinct took over and in a split second, James' body reacted faster than his brain. His arm shot out with unexpected speed, his fist closing in on Wade's face with the force of a freight train. Wade barely had time to blink before James' knuckles connected with his jaw.

 

WHAM!

 

The impact sent Wade sprawling backward, his body flying straight into the concrete wall behind him. His body landed on the floor with a solid thud and he groaned in pain.

For a few seconds, all Wade could see were stars (the ones that fly around your head, just like they do in cartoons). His brain was trying to process what had happened while his regenerative abilities started to kick in, healing the massive laceration on the back of his head that had seeped through his mask and stained the innocent white drywalls in a beautiful red.

"Holy crap!" Wade giggled as he scrambled to his feet. "I'd love to say that was kinda hot but I'm pretty sure Matt would get mad at me if I started flirting with-"

Wade's words died in his throat as James lurched forward, his hand curling around the intruder's throat in one swift, precise motion, gripping down hard and pressing him down back onto the ground.

"Dude..." Wade wheezed as he tried to form a coherent sentence.
"I... I certainly like it to get manhandled, but I somehow committed myself to Matt. Besides, the readers still believe this is a WinterIron fic (though we all know it's definitely a DeadDevil ship), so I'm afraid I have to reject your advances or else-"

James' hand pressed down harder with deliberate force, fingers wrapping even tighter around Wade's throat and soon, the man's windpipe gave way to the strength.

The sound was subtly, but horrifying- a muted crack as the cartilage collapsed inward, cutting off the flow of air. Wade's breaths became shallow gasps, while his body jerked reflexively under the hand that stayed firm and relentless on his throat.

 

"КТО ТЕБЯ ОТПРАВИЛ?!" James, or rather the Winter Soldier, snarled.

Wade lay flat on his back, caught in a cycle of suffocation and immediate regeneration, and he couldn’t help but burst into laughter. His voice came out like a clogged drain, wheezing as the small puffs of air escaped his lungs. Shit. He had really messed up this time, hadn’t he? The moment James started speaking Russian, Wade knew he had fucked up. A sinking feeling told him he needed to act fast; otherwise, things might escalate beyond the point of no return.

 

He twisted his body sharply to the side, something James obviously hadn't expected as his grip loosened around Wade's throat just enough for him to take a deep breath and speak.

“Calm down, mate! It's just me! You know me! Deadpool! Your favorite Marvel Jesus! I was just messing around with you, no need to get your panties in a twist!”

 

Well, in hindsight, that was probably not the best thing to say...

 

"ЗАКРОЙ СВОЙ ЧЕРТОВ РОТ! Я ТЕБЯ НЕ ЗНАЮ!" James hissed, tightening his grip yet again, his eyes dark and unyielding.

"O- Okay... I really don't know why this didn't work. How long have we known each other? At least two days, maybe even three- That's almost an eternity. I even contemplated introducing you to Dopinder! You can't just pretend that you don't know me! You're hurting my feelings, buddy."
Wade wheezed as he drove his beloved baby knife firmly into James' chest. His grip broke but it wasn't enough for Wade to break free entirely, so he pushed the knife deeper into James' body and twisted it sharply to maximize the inflicted damage.

James grunted fiercely, as he doubled back in pain. Wade used that opportunity to get up and spin on his heel in one fluid motion, kicking James squarely into the chest. The impact sent him stumbling backward, straight into the small desk behind him.

 

"That was kinda hot. Honestly, I like it rough but you should probably work on that 'asking for consent' part, or you get canceled faster than you can say chimichangas." Wade chuckled and wiggled his nonexistent eyebrows at James.

"Ты думаешь, это конец?" James spat, standing up. Fury ignited in his eyes as he pulled the knife from his chest and threw it to the ground. The wound it had inflicted had already begun to heal.

 

Wade wondered why the wound on James' cheek from before hadn't bothered to heal as fast as the stab wound in his chest, but this was fanfiction, and he knew the author needed at least some plot device to get the ship sailing, so he decided to ignore that plothole for now and rather concentrate on dodging James fists that were swung at him in a blind fury.

 

James' strikes were powerful but uncontrolled, each punch aimed at Wade with murderous intent. Wade, on the other hand, fought back with precision and focus, blocking and dodging the wild blows, each of his movements deliberate and more acrobatic looking than the next.

There were a handful of Wade's usual taunts on his tongue, but he refrained from saying them out loud when he managed to take a glimpse at James' eyes. The man's eyes were filled with anger and hatred, but also something that resembled unadulted fear...

Shit. Tony will fucking blast him to ashes if he doesn't manage to calm James the fuck down.

"Bucky, you have to stop! I'm not your enemy!" Wade tried again, hoping that the nickname would somehow reach the man.

For a split second, the fury in James' eyes faltered, a quick flicker of recognition, but it was quickly drowned out by rage. He growled, lunging forward again. Wade stumbled back but recovered quickly, sending a jab that snapped his opponent's head back, his knuckles neatly connecting with James' jaw.

"Fuck! You weren't supposed to get angrier!" Wade whined as he blocked another whirlwind of strikes.

James' strikes became harder and faster, but also more sloppily. Wade blocked yet another punch directed at his face and used said sloppiness to his advantage, grabbing for James' arm and forcing the crazed man to look at him.

"Bucky, seriously you have to come to your-"

James headbutted him before he could finish his sentence. Wade's head snapped back as his nose exploded in pain, blood spurting instantly from the impact. Wade was glad he was wearing his mask, otherwise, James' face would have been bathed in his blood. His hands flew up to his face, as he slightly stumbled backward, his gaze momentarily unfocused due to the dizziness that spread through his head.

 

"Я НЕ БАКИ! НЕ НАЗЫВАЙ МЕНЯ ТАК!" James' voice trembled with emotion.

 

And suddenly, it dawned on Wade.

 

"James!!! James, it's me! Wade! You know me! I'm sorry, okay? Fuck! Me calling you Bucky probably only made it worse. Hell, your anger issues are probably on par with Banner's."

 

For a moment, there was stillness, both men breathing heavily, the smell of blood and sweat heavy in the air between them. James, filled with rage, blinked, confusion washing over his face as if the fog had begun to lift. His chest heaved as he stared at the masked man before him, the memories creeping back like distant whispers. He blinked again, trying to focus, his fist slowly lowering.

"Wade?" James asked in confusion, the fury slowly ebbing, as the blind rage melted away into exhaustion and something entirely else- shame.
His muscles slacken, and he stumbles back a step, staring at the man he had just wanted to beat into a bloody pulp. Recognition dawned fully now, and with it, regret. His mouth opened, but no words came out, just ragged breaths, guilt-ridden and hollow.

Wade, noticing the sudden change in James’ behavior, instinctively resorted to what he did best—Ridiculing the situation in order to avoid being confronted with feelings.
"Oh, uh... Hey, James! Didn't expect to see you here!"

James stared at him, speechless for a moment, his gaze wandering over to the Wade-shaped dent in his wall before it snapped angrily back to Wade. "What do you MEAN you didn't expect to see me? This is MY apartment!" James' voice was decidedly rising. "How the fuck did you even get in here?!"

Wade scratched the back of his neck awkwardly.

"Funny story, actually. Your door wasn't locked, which, by the way, is really dangerous you know? Some of the baddies could've easily sneaked into your room and groped your well-defined man-tits or worse, stolen all of your underwear! Seriously, James! What if the author had to change the rating because of your-"

Wade's babbling ceased immediately as James threw the lamp on his nightstand straight at him, only missing his face by a hairsbreadth. His gaze was dark, and his lip pulled up in a feral snarl. "Прекрати это дерьмо, или, клянусь богом, я закончу то, что ты начал!"

 

Wade quickly raised his hands in surrender, not willing to engage in yet another fight with the Winter Soldier. The poor room had already suffered enough.

"Look, James. Carol asked me to get your stuff to your room and to remind you about the movie night. The thing is... I thought it might be funny to sneak up on you while you were asleep, and eventually draw a hairy dick onto your face, which I didn't by the way, your face looks as stunning as it always does... Anyway, I thought, what's the harm?"

"The harm?" James stepped forward, his voice dangerously low. "The harm, Wade, is that I woke up to find you hovering over my face like a fuckin' creep. Hell, I went full fuckin' Winter Soldier mode on you because I fought you were one of them! That's the fucking harm! I could have killed you for fucks sake!"

Wade really wanted to know who James referred to as 'them' but didn't dare to bring it up when he saw the man's hunted gaze. There was an invisible line drawn between them, one that shouldn't be crossed, no matter that- At least for now.

He could see it in James' eyes. Whatever it was, it was still too raw, and better kept being buried six feet under.

 

"Nah, I'm immortal. It's one of God’s best jokes." Wade says instead, as he lazily moves to pick his beloved baby knife up from where it's lying on the ground.

"Чёрт! You are missing the point, Wade! Even if I can't kill you, that doesn't justify that I attacked you! Am I supposed to feel better just because it's not possible to 'accidentally' kill you?!"
James spat out.

Wade winced at that, realizing that the real problem was.

James wasn't blaming Wade for what had happened (like he should do), but himself.

 

“Oh, you silly goofball…” Wade began, wincing at how understanding his voice sounded. “Listen, this wasn’t your fault, okay? It was an accident. I was just trying to be funny and messed up. You didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m perfectly fine, so no hard feelings, alright? Believe it or not, most of the people living here are really hard to kill. So, even if you lose control again, only the truly weak would be in danger. And we both know I’m talking about Captain Dickhead’s friends when I say that.”
Wade let out an awkward chuckle, cringing at his feeble attempt to lighten the mood.

James shook his head, still frustrated, but somehow, Wade's dumb attempt to apologize was starting to ease his anger. He was an idiot- there was no denying that- but he wasn't malicious. Just... Really, really weird. He could see why Stark kept the man around.

 

"You're lucky you referred to Steve as Captain Dickhead, otherwise I wouldn't let you off the hook so easily," James muttered under his breath.

Wade perked up at that, sensing the worst of the storm had passed. "Don't forget about the terrible fate of his friends," he said sheepishly. "And for that it's worth, I'll find some way to make it up to you. I could, I don't know, help you to get faster into Tony's pants?"

 

James blinked, momentarily thrown off before his gaze screamed bloody murder at Wade.

 

"Ты действительно хочешь умереть, не так ли?!" he snapped, his voice harsh, heart pounding in his chest. He could feel a flush creeping up his neck, embarrassment mingling with irritation. "Why the fuck would you suggest something like that?" James asked in bewilderment, his voice sounding decidedly higher than normal. "What are you even talking about?!"

Wade shrugged, clearly not picking up on James growing discomfort, or rather, not giving a single fuck about it.
"Oh, my sweet, sweet summer child. There's no need to play dumb. I mean, it's obvious. Everyone with working eyes can see the sexual tension between you guys."

James stared at Wade dumbfounded. Sexual tension? Between Stark and him? That didn't even cross his mind. Sure, they had fun together, Stark was great to talk to, and James felt himself lost in those pretty brown eyes and gentle smile more than he liked to admit, but that didn't mean he was into the man. What the fuck was Wade even talking about? He furrowed his brow, genuinely puzzled.

"I think you're imagining things, Wade. Stark and I are basically strangers to each other. Where's nothing going on between us." James shook his head, laughing it off.

Wade raised an eyebrow (or would have, if he had eyebrows), unconvinced.
"Strangers? Right. Sure. That's why you always lose your shit when someone dares to look at him the wrong way. And don't even get me started on how you smashed a fuckin' table into tiny pieces because you thought the love of your life had died in action. Honey, it's written all over your face. You have a fuckin' crush on Tony."

"Wade, I advise you to stop making assumptions about things you don't understand." James snarled, fists clenching at his sides.

"Hey, I'm just trying to make up for the stunt I played on you. Relax, my sweet, sweet summer child. If you're too scared to make a move, I can-"

"Wade, stop turning this into something it is not!" James spat, his frustration bubbling over into anger. "You don't know shit about what's going on, so shut your stupid mouth!"

"I think you're seriously overreacting, James. I just wanted to-"

"No," James growled, pointing to the door in frustration. "Get out."

"But-" Wade turned to James, waving his arms dramatically as he started to protest, his voice dripping with theatrical outrage. "This is an injustice! You can't throw me out just because I wanted to help you get laid! The world must know about this! That tyranny of yours has to end! I'll have Yelp reviews written, documentaries made - it'll be huge!"

James, met with no other choice, was now practically dragging Wade toward the door, his face a mask of indifference as Wade kept on protesting loudly.

 

As they reached the door, James gave Wade one final push. "You've got ten seconds before I help you out myself, Wade."

Of course, Wade didn't comply and got thrown out of the door like a fuckin' ragdool. As he stumbled to get back up, he sharply spun around, stabbing his finger into James' chest with dramatic flair. "You're not going to stop my revolution! This isn't over! I'll be back! I'm a fuckin' certified Karen in my free time! You'll-"

 

The door slammed shut in his face.

 

James sighed and rolled his eyes, shaking his head. He leaned against the door for a long moment, his chest heaving with a mix of anger and confusion as he listened to Wade's empty threats until the man's voice eventually fell silent.

He ran a hand through his hair in defeat and was just about to return to his bedroom when he heard the faint sound of something sliding under his apartment door. He glanced toward the entrance, sticking out from the bottom of the door, was a small piece of paper.

He walked over and picked it up from the ground. The paper was small and crumbled like it had been hastily ripped from a notebook. As he unfolded it, his eyes squinted at the scrawled handwriting, that resembled that of a child.

 

"Movie night. To-fucking-day. 10 pm. Ps. It's not my fault that you are dense as fuck, but don't worry - I'll make sure you guys get that sexual tension resolved."

 

James blinked at the note, and without thinking, furiously crumpled the paper in his hand.

 

"I'm so gonna find a way to kill that fucker, even if it's the last thing I'll ever do."

 

Notes:

I don't speak Russian and had to look it up. Please forgive me, if there are mistakes;

"КТО ТЕБЯ ОТПРАВИЛ?!"
"WHO SENT YOU?!"

"ЗАКРОЙ СВОЙ ЧЕРТОВ РОТ! Я ТЕБЯ НЕ ЗНАЮ!"
"SHUT YOUR DAMN MOUTH! I DON'T KNOW YOU!"

"Ты думаешь, это конец?"
"Do you think this is the end?"

"Я НЕ БАКИ! НЕ НАЗЫВАЙ МЕНЯ ТАК!"
"I'M NOT BUCKY! DON'T CALL ME THAT!"

"Прекрати это дерьмо, или, клянусь богом, я закончу то, что ты начал!"
"Stop this shit, or I swear to God I will finish what you started!"

"Чёрт!" - "Fuck!"

"Ты действительно хочешь умереть, не так ли?!" "You really want to die, don't you?!"

Chapter 22

James sits on the edge of his bed, shoulders slumped in a posture of surrender. He stares down at his knuckles and winces at the healing traces of a fight—though his hand still trembles as the adrenaline slowly fades. There's that all too familiar feeling of a heavyweight sinking in his chest.

He screwed up. Badly. Just like he always does.

All he does is hurt others, over and over again without failure. Someone should give him a fuckin' price because he's certainly the best in that category.

He can still feel the rush, that hot rage that drove him to swing at Wade without thinking, to strangle him in that blind fury...

'Maybe I should just leave...'
James swallows hard, his breath coming shaky as the guilt eats away at him.

He could walk out, disappear into the night, and never turn back.
No one would care. At least no one whom he deems to be important.

James knows for a fact that Steve would notice, and he's sure that idiot would start another mission to bring James back, no matter the cost...
But not because he's worried about his well-being. No.

It's never about James, at least not for Steve.

For Steve, it's always about the past. About a man who's long dead, and a friendship that ended with said man's death. It's always about Bucky, and what once was, instead of the present and what James wants.

He thinks about Stark and can't help to wonder if the man would miss him- If he'd ask where James went, and if he'd look for him...

The thought makes him scoff because that sickening voice in his head taunts him for it, telling him that the man would never give a damn about him- Maybe even celebrate that he's gone. It feels heartbreaking and devastating because James desperately wants to convince himself that it is all a lie, but fails miserably- letting the voice win yet again.

 

So he sits there, unmoving, while he thinks about Stark and all the new faces he saw briefly over the last few days.

They are strangers, each one of them, yet, somehow, they immediately made him feel like they could become good friends with their easy banter, sarcasm, and easygoing personalities. Just a few days, and he already feels like he could belong to a world he has only just stumbled into.

Hell, he hasn't even talked to everyone yet and still feels like they make better friends than Steve and his idiotic sidekicks.

 

'What gives me the right to intrude upon that world?'
He wonders and stares at the mess he has created. His eyes land on the bloodstains on the wall, and he grimaces. Had he even apologized for that? He wasn't entirely sure about Wade's abilities and if the man was able to feel pain or not. However, taking a good look at the wall told him that Wade's head injury must have been bad. 

The memory of what he's done to Wade replays in his mind, raw and unvarnished, and it makes him feel sick. There's that tight, bitter twist in his stomach- a mix of guilt and the hollow recognition that he already fucked up any possibility of a friendship with the man.

What unsettles him the most, is how Wade had pretended that nothing had happened- showing no trace of anger, or worse- disappointment.

The man just laughed it off, even making jokes about it and teasing James for it.

Even though Wade had told James that he'd been fine, and there was nothing to feel guilty about, James suspected that Wade was covering things up, smoothing things over, and only pretending to be fine. There was just no way the man would so easily forgive him for what he's done.

 

He lets his head drop into his hands, palms pressing against his eyes as if that could let him hide away from the world.

Eventually, after what feels like hours, he glances at the clock, watching the minute hand crawl forward in small, agonizing jerks, mocking him for counting down to something he doesn't want to face, at least not anymore.

He had been excited about the movie night, but that was before he had smashed Wade into the wall and tried to strangle him.

Wade hadn't seemed angry about that. In fact, the man had been more concerned about James than himself.

He'd even reminded James about the movie night and practically pressed him to join. Hell, the idiot even made an effort to scribble that stupid note and slide it underneath James' door, but the uncertainty still festers in him, paralyzing him with every effort he makes to rise and get ready. Because he can't fathom why Wade would forgive him just like that- He can't forgive himself, so why would others?

It’s easier to stay seated and to retreat back into the cocoon of his mind, with his insecurities and doubts- happily eating away at him.

James tries to picture the scene he's heading into- the warm, easy chatter, dying down as soon as he enters the room. The knowing glances thrown his way, and smiles that feel both kind and distant, like they mean well but don't think he deserves any of this.

He imagines how Wade pats him on his shoulder, saying he's glad James decided to come, but his voice lacks earnestness and James knows it's because he's hurt the man and- and-

 

Deep down, he knows that this is all in his head. That his mind is his worst enemy. It's a constant gnawing awareness, and it feels like something is living within him that constantly pulls him back, something that feasts on his misery.

It's a pattern, one he only recently became aware of. These thoughts only pop up when he feels like he's building a connection with someone. It's like he's watching himself from the outside, helpless as he sabotages his own chances at happiness.

It's a simmering dread that surfaces at the worst times- just as he's about to step forward, to let himself believe in the uncomplicated, breakable hope of friendship, of being accepted.

He wants to belong. He craves it even.

But the moment he gets close, there's a small voice that whispers in his mind that's telling him he deserves nothing because he's worth nothing- Tugging at his insecurities until he feels like he's already lost the game...

 

It's the same with Stark.

He wants to get closer to him and feel that flicker of warmth, that faint, rare belief that maybe this time things could be different. He tells himself to take a chance, to let his guard down, and trust that people can like him as he is. He wants to be there, to be liked, and to be a part of something bigger. But then, the doubts creep in and his mind keeps circling, convincing him he'll only ruin things if he keeps trying. He can't shake it; He can't escape those maddening thoughts that are constantly looking for proof of the rejection he's already resigned himself to- and he hates himself for that.

 

James bites his lip and glances over at the clock again. A quarter to ten.
Fifteen minutes until he has to leave and show up at a place where he isn't sure he belongs.

 

The clock ticks to 9:51. He sighs, drumming his fingers against his leg.
If he doesn't go now, he'll be late and Stark will probably ask him about it next time, and he'd have to fumble for an excuse that doesn't reveal how pathetic he is.

 

It's 9:53. Only seven minutes left. He shifts on his bed, restless.

 

The clock hits 9:55. He stands, feeling nauseous. He thinks, just for a second, to fuck it all, and call it off. It's easier to just hide away in his apartment because it's less likely to get hurt, but he knows deep down, that he can't hide away forever. It's a choice, not an escape.

 

So he stands and makes his way towards the door, his steps heavy and uncertain. As his fingers tighten around the doorknob, the voice in his mind that loves to undermine him runs through a hundred reasons for him to stay, to turn back, to lock himself away where it’s safe and he can't hurt anyone but himself.

After a long, unnerving moment, he sighs, and finally, he forces his grip to tighten and turns the doorknob all the way around. The door cracks open, and he steps outside, his heart beating painfully against his ribs as he slowly makes his way down the hall, his steps sluggish and uncertain.

He can hear the sound of voices and faint laughter growing louder as he gets closer to the shared living room, and as he's edging closer, James feels a twist of nerves tighten in his stomach. He wants to flee but he's already at the threshold of the living room now, and in that brief pause in which he contemplates to turn around and flee- Wade spots him.

"Look who made it just in time! One minute later, and our dear audience would have scolded you for being tardy!"
Wade says as he slings one of his arms around James' shoulders and drags him into the room, his voice sounding cheerful and pleased to see him. It sounds entirely different from what James had expected and he feels at a loss.

As they walk further into the room, James notices how the place is buzzing with energy, everyone except for Jessica, Carol, and Stephen, who sit at a table at the far back of the room, are moving around, chatting and making themselves comfortable, while Matt rummages through some drawers, mumbling curses under his breath.

 

James' eyes begin to scan every face, each corner, every group clustered in laughter and conversation. His heart races, hoping, that at any moment he'll catch a glimpse of the Inventor's familiar profile- or a flash of that bright smile he has come to love.

But as he searches, he realizes that the one face he's looking for isn’t there and suddenly, James feels like he can't breathe...

It must be the flicker of fear in his eyes that prompts Wade to playfully nudge him in the ribs, bumping their shoulders closer together as he steers them away from the spot where they’ve been scanning the crowd. This small gesture grounds James in a sense of warmth and familiarity...

He's obviously trying to keep James' mind off the barren feeling lingering in his expression- and for that, he feels entirely grateful.

 

"Hey, guys! Look who I found lurking around—it's Sebastian Stan!" Wade announces as they are in the middle of the crowded room. James' shoulders begin to tense as most of the heads turn toward him, their faces lighting up with friendly smiles. Peter, sprawled out in one of the armchairs close to a large window, raises a half-full glass of orange juice at James and gives him a mock salute. “Welcome to our layer of madness,” he says with a pleased grin while he stuffs something that looks like a cherry pie into his mouth. “We thought you were ditching us.”

"To be honest? I'm surprised myself," James answers the boy carefully, and tries to laugh it off- But knows he's failing miserably - If anyone notices it- they don't mention it.

 

“I knew you wouldn't let us down kiddo", Constantine says from behind James, startling him. He gives him a hearty slap on the back as he passes by and takes a seat next to Jessica at the table. "See? I told ya he would come, you owe me fifty bucks." He says and pulls some cards out of his coat, placing them in front of her.

"Fuck you, old man. You still owe me fifty bucks for being wrong about Johnny and Robert Drake. If anything, that makes us even."
Jessica scoffs with a grin, as she shuffles and deals the cards.

"I believe the both of you owe me more than a hundred bucks..." Stephen says as he picks up his cards. "But none of you seem to ever care about that." He adds, almost like an afterthought, a displeased sigh escaping his lips as he frowns at his cards. Carol on the other hand sports a pleased smile, her eyes sparkling with excitement- Probably because she got a good hand.

"As if he'll ever see that money." Hope giggles, and winks at James as she snuggles deeper into a pile of pillows. The floor is essentially layered with them, all varying in size- successfully covering the marble flooring beneath her.

She burrows even further into her pillow fort and pulls a thick blanket up to her chin when Matt, who wrestles with a precarious stack of snacks and drinks, curses under his breath as he almost falls over one of Hope's pillows- angrily kicking it away, straight into a laughing Peter's face. Bags of snacks crinkle, and a few cans of Soda threaten to topple from the pile he’s balancing against his chest.

"Would one of you lowlifes be so kind as to help the blind guy out?" he calls, irritation thick in his voice as he raises it over the noise. In the background, Constantine and Jessica are loudly accusing Stephen of cheating- something about using his cape to his advantage- their shouts bouncing off the walls while Carol sadly gazes at her cards as if they'd personally offended her. James wonders how that happened, given that she'd been overly excited just moments ago.

 

When no one responds, Matt huffs in exasperation, setting down a few sodas with a thud. “Seriously?"

Wade gives him a lazy thumb up in return, “You’re doing great, honey!”

"Fuck you!" Matt mumbles, and hurls a bag of popcorn straight at Wade’s face when he responds with an incredibly lewd comment.

"What was unnecessary, darling!" Wade whines as he dramatically touches his face as if he'd been seriously hurt.

“The fuckin' audacity..." Matt snarls, and after a few more moments of arranging—and a lot more grumbling—he steps back from the table which is now piled with snacks and drinks. He crosses his arms, clearing his throat loudly. “Everything is ready- We can start if you guys are ready as well.”

"Loki and Tony are still missing," Peter says, as he wraps himself in a fluffy blanket Hope had thrown his way. 

"Peter, I've been here the whole time." A posh voice calls from behind Peter, making him flinch violently. James can see the boy's shoulders tense as he tries to regain his composure.

 

Loki's stretched out on the large window seat behind Peter, nestled in a pile of soft cushions, with one arm propped under his head and a worn leather tome open in his lap. His eyes drift just shortly to James, a small acknowledging smile tugging at his lips before he returns to his book.

"But- Shouldn't you- I mean- Wade said something about you fixing some stuff for him and I could swear I didn't see you when I- I mean I'm pretty sure that- but on the other hand-"

The room is filled with quiet amusement as Peter babbles on, his words spilling out in a rambling, tangled stream, while Loki sports a mischievous grin. His hands wave for emphasis, eyes darting through the room. Everyone is listening, entertained by Peter, holding back smiles.

Even James has trouble keeping his face straight, amused at the boy's enthusiasm.

 

That's probably why he doesn't sense the figure that has silently walked into the room, coming to a stop right behind him.

Without warning, a calm yet familiar voice speaks up from just over his shoulder, startling him greatly.

"Loki broke the kid- Again," Stark says as he moves right next to James, their shoulders only a hairsbreadth away from touching.
"It's kinda overwhelming when the kid starts babbling, but you'll get used to it, Snowflake," he adds as he turns his face towards James, a small smile on his face.

James wants to say something. Anything.
The words are just on the edge of his tongue, waiting to slip out. But somehow, they refuse to form, tangled up in the knots of his mind.

 

I thought you wouldn't come.

I'm only here because I wanted to see you.

I'm glad you're here.

Your smile is beautiful and I'd like to-

 

"Tony!" Matt calls out, and suddenly all gazes are turned at the Inventor, voices overlapping in greetings and pleasant laughter. James watches as the Inventor returns the greetings, the chance to talk to the man slipping away from him with every passing second.

But Stark's still standing right next to him. So he takes a breath and goes for it. "Thanks for inviting me... I- I really appreciate it," he says, voice barely audible over the noise.

Stark turns towards him, and he can feel the man's hand on his shoulder as he's leaning closer, his eyes warm and gentle. "I see the injury on your cheek has completely healed by now... Good for you. That’s a relief."

James opens his mouth to reply- but just as he starts, Wade slings his arms around them, steering them towards one of the small, two-seater couches in the room.

"Come on, you two," Waid laughs, giving each of them a playful shove."

"No reason to stand around when there's this cozy little spot right here- Every hardcore FanFiction reader knows where this will lead up to!" He says as he nudges them both forward, his hands firm and unrelenting on their backs.

Wade guided them down with a surprisingly strong but gentle force until the backs of their knees hit the edge of the couch, and with one last hearty nudge, practically dropped them onto the cushions.

James' shoulder and leg bump into Stark's, his heart rate instantly kicking up as he realizes just how small this couch is for two full-grown men. He's hyper-aware of the fact that they're sitting so close, that he can feel the warmth radiating from Stark's body.

 

Wade steps back, crossing his arms and looking them over. "Perfect," he says, clearly pleased with himself. "The readers expect great things from you, so don't fuck it up. My job here is done, I'll leave you to it. There are more things I need to set in motion. For example, the subplot where readers get to see Matt’s loving side—and hopefully an explanation for why he loves me so much. Maybe we even fuck- right here- in front of all of you! Wouldn't that be great?!"

 

Before James and Tony can even think of something to say to that, Wade is hit by a can of soda and falls to the ground with a loud thud- Matt seething in the background.

As he lies on the floor, he mumbles something to himself—something about this being a terrible way to end the chapter. No one pays attention to his muttering; instead, Peter asks FRIDAY to start the movie, and James has no choice but to resign himself to his fate, hoping that he's not going to fuck up again...

 

 

Notes:

James; "Thanks for having me."

Tony; Nope. I can't deal with people thanking me. Let's steer away from the conversation and get impossibly close to you for no reason.

Chapter 23

The sound of a screaming woman, dramatic music, and the occasional sarcastic quips from Constantine and Jessica echo off the walls. James sits rigidly on the couch next to Stark, their bodies pressed so tightly together that it feels deliberate—though he tells himself it’s not.

If he really wanted to, James could slide off the couch, grab a pillow from Hope, and settle on the floor. It would give Stark more room, and ease the tension. But...

Stark is so infuriatingly close that it makes James dizzy. Their legs are flush against each other, and every subtle shift Stark makes sends a jolt through James, like a live wire sparking against his skin. He could move. He should move. But does he want to?

The answer, plain and simple, is no.

James relishes the contact—craves it, even—because with Stark, it feels different. It feels special.

 

Stark shifts again. His shoulder brushes against James’, a fleeting touch, casual enough to be dismissed as accidental. James wants to believe it’s unintentional—a natural consequence of the limited space on the couch. But every nerve in his body betrays him, hyperaware of every point of contact.

A dangerous thought worms its way into James’ mind, one he can’t quite suppress: What if it’s not accidental? What if Stark, in his quiet, understated way, is just as conscious of their closeness as James is?

Maybe, just maybe, Stark is doing it on purpose, and that thought stirs something dark and ravenous within him...

 

He stares at the huge television, his jaw clenched, but he might as well be looking at a blank screen. The movie is meaningless—just a blur of noise and light, incapable of drowning out the ever-louder thoughts swirling in his mind. With a frustrated sigh, he lets his gaze drift away, abandoning the pretense of paying attention. His eyes wander aimlessly across the room, taking in its other occupants.

 

At the far end of the room, Jessica, Constantine, and Stephen are still gathered around the table. Their hushed conversation flows easily, punctuated by occasional laughter. The group has gained a new member—Loki, who has abandoned his seat by the window to join them.

James watches as the Trickster lounges in his seat, a mischievous grin playing on his lips. With a theatrical flick of his wrist, Loki conjures a bottle of wine and several crystal glasses, the objects shimmering into existence as if summoned from the ether.

"This," Loki announces with a mock grin, holding up the bottle for dramatic effect, "is a Domaine de la Romanee-Conti Grand Cru, 1945 which I recently snatched from Doctor Doom's stash of fine wines.", his tone is teasing, and the others chuckle, amused by Loki’s antics and impressed by his audacity.

 

James lets his gaze shift over to Peter who has moved as well, now occupying Hope's giant pillow fortress. They are sitting close to each other, both hunched forward, indicating tense anticipation. Hope has her hands raised to her face, partially covering her wide, frightened eyes with her fingers spread slightly apart, allowing her to peek through. Peter's mouth is slightly open, frozen in a mix of terror and curiosity. His shoulders are drawn up as he clutches one of Hope's giant pillows to his chest, his eyes solely focused on the television and not darting away for even a second.

The tension between them is thick, the eerie music from the movie building to a crescendo.

Suddenly, a shadow flickers on the screen, and without warning, Hope lets out a piercing scream, her voice reverberating through the room like shattering glass. Next to her, Peter, who had been intently focused on the movie, jolts violently from the shock of her sudden outburst.

"Are you serious Hope?! It was just a shadow! You almost scared me to death!", the boy shouts, clutching his chest as if he's afraid his heart will burst out of his chest.

"I can't help it! That was super scary!", Hope whines and snatches the pillow from Peter's hands to hide her face in it.

"You screamed before anything even happened!", Peter argues, flailing his hands in exasperation.

"Shhh!" Matt hisses which makes the two bickering friends pause and look over to him.

 

James follows their gazes, his own eyes eventually settling on Wade, who has drifted into a peaceful sleep on Matt’s lap, his head slightly tilted to the side.

As his gaze shifts and focuses more on the sleeping form on Matt's lap, James is hit with a sudden realization.

The sleeping mercenary on the couch is not wearing his mask...

James blinks, his breath catching in his throat, as his eyes take in a face he’s never seen before. Jagged scars carve across Wade's features, the skin marred and disfigured as though his face had been scorched beyond recognition. The scars twist his lips into a permanent grimace, yet there’s nothing grotesque about him.

He had seen Wade's burned-looking hands before when the mercenary had opted to hold Stark's hand in the conference room, but James hadn't given it any further thought. After all, it wasn't unusual for any of them to sustain injuries that could cause permanent scars.

James wonders how he never connected the dots. Wade had always worn his mask around him, never taken it off even once as if it was some kind of armor, protecting him from the world around him. It had become such a part of him in James' eyes that its absence now felt almost shocking. But here, in the quiet sanctuary of this room filled with people he trusted, Wade had shed that armor.

 

He didn't need it.

Not here.

And most shockingly; Not around James.

 

James’ train of thought is abruptly interrupted by hushed voices, and though his attention is reluctant to pull away from his own thoughts, his gaze shifts toward the sound.

His eyes land on Peter, who is watching Wade sleep soundly on Matt’s lap, struggling to cover his mouth as he tries (and fails) to suppress a giggle. “How can Wade sleep through his favorite movie, let alone your ridiculously irritating scream?!” he exclaims, snatching his pillow back from Hope’s grasp in one smooth motion.

"My scream is not irritating!" Hope exclaims, throwing her hands up in annoyance.

As the two of them continue bickering- thankfully much quieter now- Wade stirs slightly, which draws James' gaze back to the unusual pair on the couch.

 

Wade mutters something unintelligible and snuggles deeper into Matt's lap, who in turn, instinctively adjusts his position to cradle him more comfortably. A soft, fond smile lights up Matt's face as he gazes down at Wade's sleeping figure.
His movements are tender, almost automatic as if soothing him is second nature. He radiates an unmistakable sense of calm affection, his posture relaxed but protective, as if the world could fall around them, and he'd still focus only on Wade nestled against him.

The scene feels private, almost sacred in its simplicity—like an unspoken language that exists solely between them.

Matt runs gentle fingers over Wade's scared face, carefully tracing the more prominent scars on Wade's cheek and lips with his thumb. There's a warmth to the way he touches the man in his lap, so gentle and reverent, as though Wade is the most precious thing in the whole world. The faint glow of the television flickers over their faces, amplifying the intimate moment. There's no rush in his touch; It's slow, and measured, almost as if he's savoring the connection between them.

The contrast to their usual behavior toward each other is so striking that it makes James wonder what exactly they are to one another. There’s a clear bond between them, one that he can sense from the way Matt’s unseeing gaze lingers on the sleeping figure. It’s a profound connection that seems to transcend mere friendship. The way Matt looks at Wade isn’t just with affection; there’s an understanding in his eyes, so natural and effortless that it feels as if they’ve known each other for multiple lifetimes.

From across the room, James watches in silence, mesmerized by the tenderness unfolding before him—the effortless, instinctive care Matt shows... Then, in a single, fluid motion, Matt leans down in one, swift motion, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Wade’s lips, the gesture so gentle it feels imbued with an unspoken devotion. It’s a quiet promise, conveyed through the simplest of acts, yet profound in its meaning.

Wade stirs once more, his eyelids fluttering open slowly. At first, his gaze is cloudy with sleep, but as he takes in the familiar, comforting face above him, his expression softens with a quiet, affectionate warmth. A sleepy smile pulls at the corners of Wade's lips, and without a word, he reaches up and pulls Matt down to return the kiss, his lips pressed against Matt's with a soft sigh.

For a moment, they linger just like that, the world around them seems to blur into nothing but the warmth of their touch. When the kiss breaks, Wade shifts again, a contended hum escaping his lips as he moves into a more comfortable position. He buries his face in the fabric of Matt's shirt, breathing in deeply. Matt shifts as well, cradling Wade as he wraps one of his arms around him, pulling him closer.

 

'It's love... They love each other.'
James realizes and feels a stirring in his chest, something almost wistful, longing to understand the kind of relationship that can foster such trust, such closeness...

James turns away and forces his gaze back to the television, feeling like an intruder in a moment so private, so sacred.

It feels wrong to keep watching them.

 

He tries to focus back on the television, the movie still playing on the screen, scenes flashing by with vibrant colors and intense horror, but none of it seems to register. He tries to keep his eyes fixed on the screen, yet he finds them flicking nervously to the figure next to him.

Stark is still sitting close to him, the warmth of his body radiating off of him in waves. James can't help but study Stark's profile, the way the light from the television cast shadows across his face, the way he leans just a little too close to James' side...

He watches as the Inventor quietly yawns, his hand half-heartedly covering his mouth as he tries to focus on the plot.
James can tell that Stark's attention is fading in and out with every passing minute and watches how the man struggles to keep his eyes open.

The sight lets him feel a tightness in his chest that he can't fathom to explain, something bubbling up just below the surface...

There's that strange, overwhelming pull he only feels whenever he's close to Stark.

 

And there it was again—that same stirring he’d felt just minutes ago while watching Matt and Wade. Frustration wells up inside him, fueled by his inability to understand it, to pin down exactly what it means.

Something feels different, as though something between them has shifted—but James can’t quite put his finger on what it is.

He had long noticed how his heart started to race uncontrollably whenever Stark got too close to him, or how his stomach flipped at the mere sight of the Inventor's smile. Maybe it was just out of admiration, but then again, maybe it wasn't. He didn't know why Stark lingered in his mind.

At first, he believed these strange feelings were rooted in his desire for atonement. After all, he owed it to the man.

But the desire for atonement didn't explain why James deliberately sought Stark’s company, or why he couldn’t take his eyes off of the man...

Stark was insufferable, with his clever retorts and maddening smirk, but also gentle and so, so understanding. Whenever the man talks, James lingers on the way Stark's voice dipps when he's serious, or how his laughter seems to light up an entire room on its own.

 

'It's admiration,' he tells himself. 'He's skilled, smart, braver than anyone I've ever known, and even when the ground beneath him collapses, he fights for his beliefs and rises from the ashes. I respect and admire him.'

There are cracks in that logic, and he knows it.

Respect and admiration don't make your chest tighten when someone simply walks right next to you, It doesn't leave you restless at night, staring at the ceiling and wondering why you can't get their smiling face out of your head.

'If it's not admiration, it must be familiarity', James tries to reason. 'We're living together, he helped me out, and soon we'll be working on the same Team. It's only natural to grow closer.'

James groans and runs a hand through his hair.
"Why am I like this?", he mumbles as he steals a glance at Stark out of the corner of his eye, his stomach tightening for reasons he can't explain.

 

He frowns, frustration building within him. It bothers him that he’s caught up in this mess. Tonight feels different—like the air is thick with unspoken truths that James deliberately tries to ignore.

He tries, yet again, to focus on the plot of the movie, but his thoughts keep drifting.

 

Suddenly, there's a soft thump that pulls him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Stark, who had been sitting upright just a moment ago, apparently succumbed to his tiredness, his head now resting heavily against James' shoulder.

James froze. The weight of Stark's head against him was so unexpected, so... close.
He sits stiffly, his body tense as his gaze flickers down to the man leaning on him.

Stark's face looks relaxed, his breathing slow and even as it ghosts over the exposed skin of James' neck...

James' mind goes into overdrive, and he swallows hard, panic rising in his chest. He can feel how his breath hitches slightly as he doesn't know what to do. The air feels thick and heavy. His body tenses as he stares down at Stark, unsure of whether to push him off or just stay still.

 

Before he can decide, Stark stirs slightly, murmuring groggily. His voice is low and soft, thick with sleep.
"Sorry," he says, briefly lifting his head before leaning back against James' shoulder. "It's been... a really exhausting day. Getting shot... and all that other... stuff..."

James opens his mouth to say something—anything—but Stark cuts him off, his voice slurring slightly as sleep begins to reclaim him. "Just… let me stay like this for a bit, okay? I’m really tired," he mumbles, nuzzling his face into the crook of James’ neck.

James' heart skips another beat and he swallows, unsure of how to respond. But then Stark adds, almost like an afterthought, "You're really comfortable... and... Did anyone ever tell you that you smell really good, Snowflake?"

James blinks, utterly stunned. His mind goes blank for a moment, and when it finally kicks back into gear, all it manages to produce is a single confused thought: What the actual fuck just happened?

He glances down at Stark again, now fully asleep, his breathing deep and steady. The Inventor's words linger in his mind, replaying over and over as he sits there, still frozen in place. He doesn't know what to feel- perplexed, flustered, or something else entirely.

 

James doesn’t move for a long moment, his hand trembling ever so slightly as he reaches to adjust the Inventor’s position. His fingers brush through Stark’s hair with a tenderness that feels almost absent, as though it’s done without thinking.

Something about this moment- about Stark trusting him enough to fall asleep on him like this- feels right. So he decides to let the man rest, his heart a little heavier but strangely at peace. Maybe he wasn't quite ready to acknowledge what exactly he was feeling, but one thing was certain; He couldn't ignore how much he came to care for Stark. He doesn't have the answers to his complicated feelings yet, but maybe, just maybe, he doesn't need them right now.

 

James' gaze lingers on Stark's sleeping form for a moment longer, before he leans his head back against the couch, his lips curving into the faint hint of a tired smile.

"Rest well, Tony..."

It's the first time he's called the Inventor by his first name... The Name feels strange on his tongue, unfamiliar but not unwelcome. Somehow it feels like crossing a threshold he hadn't realized was there until now.

 

"Tony," he murmurs again, softly, testing the sound on his tongue. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze lingering on the sleeping man's face.

James could feel how his eyes grew tired by the minute, it had been a long day, and the warmth of Tony resting against him made it harder to fight the pull of sleep.

 

"Tony," he whispers one last time as he allows his eyes to fall close, telling himself he'd just rest for a little while, just enough to recharge...

 

 

And there they sit, the two of them leaning into one another, the movie playing on as sleep quietly claims them both.

Notes:

Happy New Year to all of you!!!

Domaine de la Romanee Conti Grand Cru 1945 sold for $558,000 at an auction, making it one of the most expensive aged wines in the world.

Chapter 24

James and Tony are slumped together on the couch. Tony's head rests against James' shoulder, his slow, even breaths brushing against James' neck. The assassin's body instinctively, leans into him, savoring the warmth. He lies still, his chest rising and falling in the deep rhythm of sleep.

The room has fallen silent, the movie long since ended. A comforting stillness fills the space, broken only by the faint sounds drifting in from the outside. The night hums softly with the chirping of crickets and the occasional rustle of the wind through the trees...

James is far away, lost in the confusing, vivid theater of his dreams.

 

At first, the dream is light and warm, a gentle breeze carrying him backward through time. He sees Becca, her bright laughter spilling like sunlight over his memory. They play in the forest, tumbling through piles of leaves, their laughter mingling with the crisp autumn air. The trees above them are ablaze with the fiery reds, oranges, and yellows of fall.

Becca says something to him, her voice light and gentle as she bursts into laughter. But James can't quite make out the meaning of her words. It doesn't matter, though. What matters is the joy in her eyes, the pure happiness radiating from her. That's all he needs- Becca's happiness has always been his happiness.

 

The scene shifts...

It's Christmas. The house smells of freshly baked chocolate cookies, warm and sweet, a scent that fills the tiny, humble home with a scent of magic and wonder.

His mother stands by the oven, her face glowing with pride and love as she sets a tray of cookies on the table. Those cookies are more than just a treat for them- they're a treasure. Getting to eat something made with chocolate is rare for them, a luxury they can rarely afford. The cookies feel like the greatest gift imaginable, a small taste of abundance in their modest life.

 

Another scene...

James is in his bed, trembling in the dark, the remnants of a nightmare clinging to him like a shadow. Suddenly, his mother is there, pulling him into her warm embrace. She holds him tightly, her arms a fortress against the fears that haunt him.

Her voice is soft, and tender, as she whispers words of comfort into his ear. "Everything will be okay," she assures him, her voice a lifeline in the storm of his emotions. Her love wraps around him like a blanket, chasing away the fear and filling him with a sense of safety that only she can provide- guiding him back to sleep.

 

He finds himself in an alleyway near his house...

James had found his true best friend- a companion, unlike any other guy he'd met. Someone with a heart of gold, and a determination so fierce it seemed capable of moving mountains. Their friendship felt like fate.

Together, they dreamed of changing the world. Where others saw obstacles, his friend saw challenges to be overcome. His optimism, his unshakable will- it was infectious. James found himself yearning to stay by his side, to forge a path together, to see their dreams through to the very end.

To the end of the line...

He could see it so clearly; a future where the two of them achieved greatness, where their efforts left an indelible mark on the world. But even as hope blossomed, shadows began to creep into James' thoughts.

The face of his friend was familiar yet impossibly distorted. The features were twisted, and blurred, as though viewed through rippling water. No matter how hard James tries to focus, the image of his friend refuses to resolve. It's maddening.

Why was their face veiled in this grotesque haze?

The question claws at the edge of his mind, refusing to let go. Something had changed and couldn't be fixed, James could feel it.

 

There are voices.

Soft, melodic whispers drift to him from the shadows, their tones are as alluring as they are unsettling.

Women's voices, sweet and beguiling, call his name as if it were the most sacred, precious sound in existence. Some are tender, carrying warmth and affection, their tone laced with an undercurrent of genuine love. Others are darker, steeped in desire, their words heavy with lust and aching longing. Yet beneath them all lies a chilling void, an emptiness that seeps through, no matter how alluring the melody is.

James can't see the faces behind the voices, but he doesn't need to.
None of them ever mattered to him- his affections weren't real. Fleeting relationships, built to shield him from something deeper, something painful- something he could never act on, no matter that. He couldn't let them know the truth. Couldn't let them know what his heart truly desired. Back then, times were different. People often wore masks, pretending to be someone they weren’t—and he was no exception.

 

 

The scene shifts again and darkness descends like a curtain, smothering him in its suffocating embrace. The air grows thick, and the silence becomes unbearable. It's not just the absence of sound- it's a vacuum, a dreadful stillness that makes his heart thunder in his ears.

Screams begin to pierce through the void.

Agonized cries pierce the air, sharp and jagged like shards of shattered glass. Flames roar with unrelenting fury, devouring everything in their path and staining the darkness in violent hues of red and orange. The acrid stench of smoke fills his lungs, searing his throat, while the blistering heat scorches his skin. Beneath it all, the sickening smell of burning flesh lingers, clinging to the chaos like a grim shadow. The cacophony is unrelenting—a tempest of pain and rage, a maelstrom with no hint of mercy and no end in sight.

Faces emerge from the fire, their features are grotesque and contorted in anguish. Lifeless eyes stare at him, bore into his soul. Their gazes are full of blame, of anger, of betrayal. Their mouths move, their voice uniting in a single, damning question:

"Why do you live, while we had to die?"

His chest tightens as their words strike him like a physical blow. He tries to look away, but he can't. The faces follow him, their twisted expressions growing darker, more accusing.

In the chaos, his friend's voice echoes in his mind, clear and unyielding amidst the screams.

"We can change the world, Bucky," he says with determination.

But James doesn't want to change the world- not anymore. His dreams of greatness had long turned to ash. Now, all he wants is to save the small piece of it he calls his own. His family. His home.

He knows he needs to tell his friend, to finally say the words that have been weighing on him. He needs to admit that he’s had enough, that the fear has been with him for longer than he cares to remember. It’s eating away at him, leaving him worn down and hollow. He can’t keep going like this—dragging himself forward, clinging to the hope of something that feels like a distant illusion...
He doesn’t want to throw his life away for a dream that may never come true.

The words sit heavy in his chest, pressing against his ribs, desperate to escape. But fear holds him back, silencing him. How do you tell someone you care about that you’re crumbling under the weight of it all? How do you explain that what once gave you hope now feels like a chain, dragging you deeper?

James lets out a shaky breath, his gaze flickering to his friend. The words are right there, trembling on the edge of his tongue, but the courage to speak them feels impossibly far away...

 

The cold seeps in slowly, wrapping around him like an unwelcome embrace.

It's an unnatural cold, one that chills him not just physically but to his very core. It's settling in his bones, dragging him down. It’s hard to breathe. Each gasp feels thinner, more fragile as if the air is being stolen from his lungs before it can sustain him. His chest tightens with every shallow inhale, the effort growing more unbearable by the moment. The cold isn’t just freezing him—it’s hollowing him out, leaving only the ache of emptiness behind.

The air around him carries the sharp, metallic tang of blood, a scent so thick it’s almost choking. There’s fire, too, the acrid stench of smoke clawing at his throat, burning his sinuses, but it offers no warmth. It doesn’t chase away the cold. If anything, it makes it worse—reminding him of destruction, of ruin, of a world slipping away from him as he wonders: Why?

 

Ah, yes. He had fallen.

This is what it feels like to stand at the edge of death, he realizes as the darkness presses in tighter, and the screams grow louder, more desperate. They're not distant cries of strangers anymore- they are his own.

He tries to run, but new faces appear before him, each one more vivid than the last. They surround him, their expressions twisted with hatred and despair, their voices rising in chorus of condemnation.

"You killed us," they hiss, their words slicing through him like knives.

He staggers under the crushing weight of their accusations, his knees giving way as he plunges into an endless abyss. Their piercing gazes follow him as he falls, unrelenting and inescapable. He knows he can't deny it. They're right. He killed them. Every last one of them.

 

Their faces blur as his vision dims, tears streaming down his cheeks.

The screams echo endlessly as he plunges deeper.

The cold remains unyielding.

The darkness refuses to lift.

 

If only he had perished, so much pain and suffering could have been avoided. The thought consumes him as he falls, dragging him deeper into the abyss. He wants to fight, to claw his way back to something—anything—but he can’t move. His limbs feel like lead, his body refusing to obey. The weight of it all—the cold, the pain, the hopelessness—presses down on him, crushing what little strength he has left.

But then, suddenly a hand reaches out from the void and grips his arm firmly, pulling him towards a light that evaporates the darkness like smoke.

 

The world around him shifts again, the sound of chirping birds fills the air, melodic and calming, a stark contrast to the screams that had haunted him moments before. The wind brushes gently against his skin, carrying the crisp, clean scent of fresh earth and blooming life. The rising sunlight filters through a canopy of trees overhead, painting dappled patterns on the ground. It's beautiful. So beautiful it feels unreal- like a trap.

A voice speaks softly from his side, barely louder than a whisper, but it's enough to pierce through the remnants of his despair. The sound is warm and grounding, a lifeline pulling him back to himself. The screams in his mind begin to fade, their echoes replaced by a growing sense of safety. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, he feels secure. Protected.

Gratitude wells up in his chest, so overwhelming that it almost suffocates him. He turns, seeking the source of the voice, desperate to thank whoever has saved him.

But there's no one there.

Confused, he turns the other way- and is immediately struck by a wave of emotion so raw, so crushing, it nearly knocks the breath from his lungs.
Helplessness and terror flood his mind, clawing at him, dragging him back toward the despair he had only just escaped.

But the feeling doesn't last.

It dissipates as quickly as it came, replaced by a strange mix of relief and betrayal. The two emotions war within him, twisting together until he's unsure which is stronger.

And so- he runs, like the coward he is.

 

Rough, calloused hands catch him and touch his cheek, startling him.
The touch is tender, almost reverent, as though he is something fragile, something that needs protection. His heart aches at the gesture, and words rise unbidden in his mind: Don't stain yourself with my blood. I'm not worth saving.

But the hands are so gentle, so full of care, that he can't bring himself to say it aloud. Whoever this person is, they handle him as though he is made of glass, as though the very act of touching him is a privilege.

The fog over his mind begins to lift, and with it, the face of the person before him becomes clearer. Slowly, the features come into focus- the strong jaw, the piercing eyes, the softness of a smile that speaks of courage and kindness.

 

It's Tony.

Graceful, dedicated, oh-so-beautiful Tony.

 

James feels his chest tighten, his breath hitching as he realizes who stands before him. Tony's hand remains on his cheek, warm and grounding. A coy smile on his lips. Without thinking, James finds himself reaching up, his fingers curling around Tony's hand. He pulls him closer, and their chests touch. The closeness feels electric, intimate in a way James has never known.

Tony's eyes widen their depths a mixture of surprise and something else- something deeper. They are endless, full of questions, but there is no disgust, no judgment. Only patience. Waiting. Waiting for James to make the first move.

James swallows hard, his heart pounding in his chest. For the first time in so long, he feels brave. Braver than he's ever been. Slowly, he leans in, the distance between them shrinking until their lips are just a breath apart- the promise of something beautiful just within reach...

 

And then it shatters.

 

James wakes abruptly, his heart hammering in his chest. The room is dark and unfamiliar for a moment, the edges of the dream still clinging to him like a fading mist. His breath comes in quick, shallow gasps as he tries to orient himself. Something stirs slightly beside him, a faint rustling sound makes his skin prickle.

He freezes, his senses heightened. The dream has slipped away entirely now, leaving only its shadow in his mind. He turns his head slowly, the noise growing louder- a soft shuffle, then a thump. Something's moving in the darkness, just beyond his reach.

"Oh dear," a mischievous voice says, "did I wake you after all? "I did try to be as quiet as possible, though. Truly, I did." Loki says, a mischievous grin tugs at the corners of his lips, barely restrained, as he takes in the scene before him. His gaze flickers, deliberate and assessing, drinking in every detail with the kind of calculated amusement that sends a shiver down the spine.

He takes a slow, measured step forward, his movements fluid, almost predatory. The glint in his eyes sharpens, a glimmer of dark amusement sparking to life. "You do look so... peaceful like this," he says, his voice smooth and honeyed, each word dripping with mock sincerity. The pause lingers, deliberate and pointed, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "I’d almost feel guilty for disturbing you." His tone dips, playful yet razor-edged, before the grin widens ever so slightly. "Almost."

He crouches, watching them for a moment like a cat eyeing its next plaything. Then, with practiced ease, he slips one arm beneath Tony's knees and the other behind his back, lifting him in a smooth, effortless motion. Tony stirs faintly, his head rolling naturally against Loki's shoulder, his body melting into the hold.

"What are you doing?" James snaps, his voice rough with sleep and irritation.

Loki flashes a grin that borders on smug. "Taking him to bed, obviously."

James sits up straighter, his gaze darting between Tony and Loki.
"He's fine where he is," he mutters, his tone sharper than he intended.

Loki’s tone is maddeningly calm, a lazy drawl that only adds fuel to James’ frustration. "Sure, if you want our beloved Inventor to wake up with a sore neck," he responds, his voice smooth like silk but dripping with mockery. With an exaggerated shift, Loki adjusts Tony in his arms, pulling him closer to his chest. "Besides," he continues, his eyes glinting with mischief, "he looks comfortable like this, doesn’t he? Looks to me like he’s better off here."

Before James can retort, Tony stirs again. His eyelids flutter open, bleary and confused, and his lips curve into a soft, sleepy smile when he looks up at Loki.

"Lokes?" Tony's voice is a quiet murmur, heavy with drowsiness. "Where are we going?"

Loki's grin softens into something gentler, but James doesn't miss the way it retains a sly edge. "To your room, Anthony" Loki says smoothly. "Don't worry. Just keep sleeping."

The Inventor hums in acknowledgment, his smile lingering. He closes his eyes again, his head nestling against the Trickster's shoulder. His face is peaceful, almost content. Loki's grin turns practically predatory as he catches James' reaction, and with a twisted smile, he leans down slightly, pressing a deliberate kiss to the crown of Tony's head.

"Sleep well, Anthony," Loki whispers, his tone so soft and fond it sends a sharp pang through James' chest.

As if on cue, Tony sighs and drifts back into sleep, his expression serene and free from all worldly concerns.

 

James' jaw tightens, his fists clenching against his thighs. "Was that really necessary?" he bites out, glaring at the Trickster. "You don't have to carry him," James adds, his voice laced with irritation. "He's not a kid."

Loki turns his head just enough to catch James' eye, his smirk returning full force. "Oh, he certainly isn't", he says innocently, though the devilish gleam in his eyes betrays him. "But look at him. He's loving it."

James can almost feel the weight of the unspoken challenge in Loki’s gaze, the amusement simmering beneath the surface.

"Don’t worry," Loki continues, his tone light but laced with a hidden depth, "I’ll take good care of him." The words roll off his tongue easily, but there’s a quiet promise in them, something dangerous lurking just below the surface.

 

He begins to turn toward the exit, his movements fluid but pauses just long enough to glance back over his shoulder. His eyes hold James’ for a heartbeat longer than necessary, his grin never faltering. "Unless, of course," he adds with a playful, almost mocking lilt, "you’d rather carry him back to his room yourself?"

James' stomach twists, heat rising to his face. He doesn't respond, his throat suddenly dry.

“You should head to your room as well, James,” Loki says, his tone teasing, “I’ve learned that it’s rather unhealthy for mortals to sleep on the couch.” he chuckles, clearly enjoying himself, and with a final wink, he carries Tony out of the room.

James is left staring after them, his chest a riot of emotions he doesn't want to name. The image of Tony smiling up at Loki, of that kiss pressed to the crown of his head, is seared into his mind- refusing to leave.

His gaze lingers on the doorway long after they've disappeared, his mind racing. His stomach churns with something, hot and bitter, and he suddenly feels colder than ever before. He clenches his fists, trying to shake the feeling. The couch feels impassibly empty now.

 

 

As Loki carries Tony to the elevator, he finds Constantine standing in front of it, looking at the Trickster with a questioning expression. "And what kind of nonsense are you scheming this time?" he asks as he lights a cigarette.

"Oh my, what a pleasant surprise, John. How come you're not back in your room yet? One would think a man of your age would take better care of himself and head to bed early," Loki drawls with a sly smile.

"Cut the crap—and also, fuck you," Constantine snaps, though the words lack the usual bite. "Jessica and I went to take Peter to his room, and you know that. You saw us carry the little shit out of there." He rolls his eyes, a hint of exasperation flickering in his gaze as he takes a deep drag from his cigarette and exhales after a long moment, the smoke curling lazily in the air between them.

 

"I came back to check on James and Tony and happened to stumble upon your little charade. What the hell was that about?" he demands.

"Loki's smile turns devilish, the green of his eyes gleaming in the darkness. "Charade? You wound me, my dear," he says theatrically before continuing. "All I did was, how do you mortals put it? Oh yes- set the wheels into motion."

"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?" Constantine asks, confused.

"Well, nothing makes you confront your feelings for someone quite like the fear of watching them fall for someone else," Loki remarks with a sly chuckle, brushing past Constantine.

"Are you serious right now?" Constantine sighs, his tone heavy with resignation as he lets his cigarette stub incinerate with his Pyrokinesis.

"Of course," Loki replies with a mischievous grin. "It worked with you, didn't it? Why wouldn't it work on someone equally slow-witted?" He smiles, stepping into the elevator.

"You bastard," Constantine growls as he follows him inside. "Sometimes, I wonder why I even bother with someone as infuriatingly as-"

 

Loki cuts him off. "Could you please lower your obnoxious voice? You'll wake up Anthony," he says in a scolding tone, his smile fading into something more somber as his expression softens- a flicker of worry crossing his face. "It's a miracle he even managed to fall asleep," he mutters, shaking his head. "FRIDAY told me he hasn't closed his eyes in days."

"Can you blame him?" Constantine mutters, his gaze distant as the elevator doors slide shut. "Ever since it became clear those bastards were coming back, he's completely withdrawn. Barely eating, barely sleeping...
These past weeks, he's been a shadow of himself. Every damn smile he's shown us looked so hollow, so fake. Watching him suffer like that- it just hurt," Constantine admits, his voice raw.

"I couldn't agree more," Loki says quietly, his usual bravado tempered with sincerity. "Such a bright and entertaining mind, losing its radiant shine because of such lowly ants..." The Trickster seethes, pulling the sleeping man closer to his chest.

"Don't worry. He has us now- people who truly see him, value him, love him for who he is," Constantine says, his voice calm but undercut with a sharp edge. "And if any of those pathetic little ants dare to step out of line, we'll crush them under our feet. I'll gladly get my hands dirty and take care of the trash myself," he adds, a wicked grin spreading across his face, promising horrors yet to come.

Loki leans against the elevator wall, watching him with quiet fascination. Slowly, a smile curls across his lips, sharp and full of dark amusement.
"Lovely," he says, his tone carrying a dangerous silkiness. "And naturally, you can trust me to dispose of the bodies." His eyes gleam with an unsettling light, madness dancing just beneath the surface.

They hold their gaze, a silent understanding passing between them as they exchange matching, rather concerning smiles.

 

And Tony? Tony was blissfully unaware of the quiet menace brewing just beyond his reach. He remained buried deep in dreams, where everything seemed safe and calm. He dreamed of stunning eyes gazing back at him, the crisp bite of winter filling the air, and a scent wrapped around him like a warm shield.

 

 

James, on the other hand, wasn't so lucky as to succumb to his dreams again. His mind raced a tangled mess of thoughts that seemed to spiral out of control, each one bleeding into the next without any sense of order. The silence around him felt heavy, pressing in from all sides as he tried, and failed, to quiet the storm in his head.

Just minutes after Loki had vanished with Tony, his feet carried him almost absentmindedly toward his room. But there was no peace waiting for him. No comfort to be found. His mind was far too restless, too filled with unanswered questions, to even consider sleep.

 

Why does he feel so irritated?

 

Loki hadn't said anything that wasn't true. And yet, something inside him won't rest. This whole situation- the way Loki held Tony, touched him, kissed his head- everything about it disturbed him deeply. But why?

"Unless, of course, you'd rather carry him back to his room yourself?"
Loki's words echo in his mind.

Ah. That statement. That statement...
It couldn't have been more spot-on, could it?

It's jealousy. He's fuckin' jealous because the Trickster got too close to Tony.

He would have given anything to take the man from Loki’s arms, to pull him close and feel his weight settle against his chest. To experience the comforting warmth of that closeness, and to ensure, once and for all, that the Trickster kept his hands—and his intentions—far away from the Inventor.

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut, so overwhelming that he slams the apartment door shut behind him with such force, that he fears he’s done irreparable damage to it.

"Goddamn it! No, no, no! This can't be happening," he says to himself, stressed, pulling at his hair in frustration.

"I need to clear my head... I'm confused, that's all. Yes, that's it. These feelings... They're not real. It's just because Tony has been nice to me," he mutters as he trudges heavily toward his bedroom.

 

But as he steps into his bedroom, he freezes. His bedroom...

It's perfectly fine.
As if the fight with Wade had never happened.

He freezes for a moment, utterly dumbfounded. Then, like a sudden jolt of recognition, it hits him. Hadn’t Peter casually mentioned, that Wade had asked Loki for a little favor? Something about him needing help with fixing a few things... It all comes rushing back now, but the implications leave him feeling more unsettled than before.

"Great," James sighs, his voice thick with frustration as he collapses onto the bed. "Now I feel even more like an asshole for being jealous of the guy..." 

 

 

 

 

Notes:

***
James (dreaming): Holy fuck! Is that Leonardo DiCaprio?!

Leonardo DiCaprio (in James dreams): Yo! We might have put a dream in your dream in your dream so you can dream while you dream while you dream.

Tony: I’m just here as a plot device.

Loki: I can be a good friend, but no one said I can't be an ass about it.

Constantine: I’m definitely into that ass...

Chapter 25

James wakes slowly, his breath steady and calm as consciousness creeps in like the soft glow of morning light filtering through the small window above his bed.

For a moment, he lies still, savoring the lingering quiet. His body feels heavy, muscles warm and loose from a deep, dreamless sleep.

He sighs as he stares daggers at the ceiling, his heart heavy, as the gentle veil of sleep dissolves, leaving his thoughts to tumble and churn restlessly in his mind. The weight of yesterday still lingers, pressing down on him. It had been exhausting—so damn exhausting.

And, oh god… Was he really that jealous of Loki? The thought burns, sharper now in the clarity of waking. Was he truly so insecure that he couldn’t bear the idea of Loki getting close to Tony? His behavior had been embarrassing, childish even—like a first-grader throwing a tantrum over a stolen toy.

With another sigh, deeper this time, he pushes himself up. Maybe a shower will help clear his head, and wash away the lingering frustration and self-reproach...

 

He drags himself to the bathroom, the cold tiles under his feet grounding him for a fleeting moment.

The air is cool against his skin as he reaches for the hem of his shirt. He pulls it over his head, slowly, the fabric brushing against his face before he tosses it onto the counter. He turns toward the impossible huge mirror standing in the right corner of the bathroom, its polished surface catching the faint light. His reflection in the mirror stares back, unguarded and bare. For a moment, he pauses, his fingers grazing the edge of the sink as if grounding himself in the chill of the porcelain.

James knows he’s attractive—he’s been told often enough. The women he had surrounded himself with never shied away from praising his muscles, the chiseled lines of his body, and the sharp angles of his face...

He wonders if Tony would tell him the same if he could see James like that. Would the Inventor admire his body if he stood like this in front of him, bare and unguarded?

The question lingers, curling in his chest, its presence unsettling in its quiet intensity. He frowns, brushing it away—or at least trying to—but the echo of it remains, soft and insistent, as though waiting for an answer he doesn’t have.

It catches him off guard, a flush of embarrassment creeps up his face, staining his cheeks a deep crimson. The feeling, sharp and momentary, doesn’t linger, though, as his gaze drifts downward, settling on the scars carved into his shoulder. The sight shifts the weight in his chest, replacing the fleeting warmth of shame with something colder, heavier.

 

His arm looks disgusting, even after Shuri had crafted him a new, improved prosthetic. The junction where metal meets flesh had once been a constant source of agony—red, inflamed, and unrelenting in its pain. Now, though, it’s just the scars. Ugly, jagged reminders etched deep into his skin, stretching across his shoulder like a crude artwork.

His eyes trace the line of another scar, larger and angrier, slashing across his chest. He remembers the knife that put it there, remembers the moment he couldn’t dodge in time. A bitter laugh nearly escapes him, but he swallows it down. He has to admit it—he was attractive once. Decades ago, his body had been something to admire. Now? Not so much.

The thought tightens around him as his mind strays, unbidden, to Tony again. How could the man find him attractive, scarred, and patched together as he is? His jaw tightens as frustration bubbles up.

Damn it. Why the hell is he even thinking about this? Even if Tony did find him attractive- and that’s a laughable if- What would it even matter? Tony settling up with the man who killed his parents? The idea is ridiculous.
It’s a fantasy, nothing more, and he needs to crush it before it grows any further. This whole line of thought is absurd. Best to leave it buried where it belongs.

James feels drawn to Tony simply because Tony has been kind to him. It’s been decades since he’s felt so at ease with anyone, so naturally, his brain is conjuring up illusions—fabrications with no real substance...

 

He scoffs and turns away from his reflection, as his hands move again, finding the waistband of his sweatpants. He slides them down, the soft material whispering against his legs before pooling around his ankles. He steps out of them with a quiet exhale, his movements unhurried.

He walks to the shower and reaches for the faucet, he turns it on, the water splashing against the tub’s surface and sending a warm mist into the room. The sound of rushing water fills the space as he finally hooks his thumbs under the elastic of his boxers, sliding them down and letting them join the pile of discarded clothing. Completely bare now, he steps into the shower, the tiles cool beneath his bare feet as he steps under the stream, letting the initial shock of the water roll over him. It’s warmer than expected, soothing against his skin, as the water cascades over him.

 

Steam rises in tendrils up the glass door of the shower, the condensation spreads, blurring his reflection until all that's left is a vague shape, indistinct and distant. His thoughts, too, begin to cloud over as his body relaxes.

 

The sickly sweet voice in his mind, cruel and mocking, whispers, 'A shame that the water isn't nearly as warm as Tony's body was when he was pressed flush against you on the couch...' it snickers, knowing very well what the memory will do to James body.

'Ah, the excitement and the pleasure you felt when his warm breath was ghosting over your throat, a delicious steady rhythm on your sensible skin. If he just had dipped down a little bit further, bringing those delicious lips closer to your skin...'

 

"You gotta be fuckin' kidding me..." James curses under his breath, frustrated with himself as he feels his dick twitch with excitement.

Suddenly, he has a vivid image of Tony on his bed, his hands holding the Inventor's legs apart as he enjoys the view, a sly, ravenous grin dancing on his lips as he leans down to devour the man's lips...

 

"Fuck!", he slams his right arm against the tiles of the shower wall, the impact sharp but grounding. His forehead follows, resting against the smooth surface- trying to regain control as the water beats against his back. He twists the knob to turn the water cold- the sharp chill cuts through him, a stark contrast to the heat of his boy and his dangerous thoughts, pulling him back from the edge of something he'd like to bury six feet under so he'd never have to face it again.

"I'm pathetic," he sighs and curses his inappropriate thoughts as the cold water runs down his face. He can't tell if it's just the water or something else- something heavier- that makes his cheeks damp. The sharp chill on his skin does nothing to soothe the burning frustration within him.

He lets the cold water rush around him for a bit longer, loud and relentless, and yet it doesn't drown out the miserable thoughts that are louder than ever...

Chapter 26

Approximately half an hour after James had finished showering, a knock at the door broke the fragile silence of his apartment.

James groans from the couch and stares at the door, willing the sound to stop. It doesn't. Another knock, more demanding this time- Whoever it is apparently won't go away, and he loathes them for that.

He knows he should answer. It's probably important, maybe there's an emergency, but the thought of standing up, walking to the door, and facing another person- even for a second, makes his stomach churn.

He glances down at himself- black boxers and an oversized tanktop that he hasn't worn in ages. They do nothing to hide his scars from view like his usual attire...
The thought of someone else seeing him like that doesn't sit right with him.

What if it's Tony, knocking at his door?
What if he looks at him the way he looks at himself in the mirror?

He couldn't bear to see the Inventor's disgusted, maybe even horrified face- it would break him.

God, he feels like a mess. Who would ever want to look at this? Who could endure it? He can’t even bear it himself...

 

"Just a sec," he mutters under his breath, shaking his head, as if that alone could chase the ugly thoughts away. The sound of his voice doesn't sit right with him. He sounds broken- beyond repair.

He shuffles to the door barefoot, the floor cold against his skin.

"Yes?" he mutters as he cracks the door open, peeking out from the narrow gap.

"Good morning, James," Hope's voice greets him, a hint of warmth in her voice. Her expression softens as she takes a closer look at him. It's not really a surprise, given that, besides his scars, he's sporting dark circles under his eyes and leans heavily against the doorframe as if standing is a great effort for him.

"Rough night?" she asks and James hates how concerned her voice sounds. It's genuine- not fake in the slightest, and that makes it worse.

"Not exactly," he mutters, avoiding her gaze.

"Uh-huh," she arches an eyebrow, stepping closer with deliberate ease. Her hand grazes the door as she pushes it open wider, letting more light spill into the room. Her gaze lingers on him as she folds her arms across her chest. "You know, if you'd like to talk about it—"

"I don't," he interrupts, his voice sharper than intended. God, he's such an ass.

Hope's expression changes into something akin to disappointment, her lips press into a firm line as if contemplating something. For an awkward moment, neither of them speaks.

 

At last, she exhales sharply, the tension breaking like a snapped string, and takes a step back. "Alright," she says, her voice lighter now. "I actually came to tell you—we're supposed to meet at the training ground in about half an hour. Carol received approval to hold the evaluation matches today. So, put some clothes on and get ready, or you’re going to be late." A small smile tugs at her lips before she turns on her heel and strides away, leaving him standing in the doorway, watching as she disappears down the hall.

James hesitates, his fingers brushing the edge of the door. If he’s honest, he doesn’t want to leave his apartment today—or better yet, ever again. The mere thought of facing Tony, especially when his mind keeps wandering into such dangerous, forbidden territory, churns his stomach. Hiding feels so much easier than facing his problems—or, in this case, the possibility that he might have developed a crush on the man.

His jaw tightens as he pulls the door shut behind him.

The air feels stale as he tightens the straps of his combat boots and glances briefly at the clock- 6:43 a.m. Given that Hope had told him, he'd roughly 17 minutes left to get to the training ground on time.

He wears his usual attire, the black tactical leather jacket, paired with tight-fitting, reinforced, dark charcoal tactical pants that leave nothing to the imagination. The only thing missing to complete his usual outfit is his combat knife which is usually sheathed at his thigh...

 

The corridor is dimly lit, as he leaves his apartment, fluorescent lights flickering erratically as he walks ahead, his boots tapping softly against the ground. As he shoves his hand deep into his pockets, he suddenly halts, realization hitting him.

"I don't even know where the training ground's located," he mumbles as the speaker above him suddenly buzzes to life, startling him.

A soft, melodic voice fills the room, the kind that makes James immediately feel better.
"Good morning, James," FRIDAY says. "Heading to the training grounds, I assume?"

He stares at the speaker in the corner of the ceiling, considering whether to respond. The silence stretches, but FRIDAY stays patient, letting him mull over his answer.

"Well, you see, that's what I had in mind until I realized I don't even know where the training grounds are..."

"Ah, I see," she says with a lightness to her voice that makes James feel envious. "Take the east corridor, then the elevator to sub-level two. I'll give you further directions once we're there."

James follows her instructions, his footsteps echoing faintly in the hallway. When he reaches the elevator, he hesitates for the briefest moment before pressing the button for the floor FRIDAY mentioned.

The soft hum of the machinery fills the silence as the elevator begins its descent. It’s quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that presses on his ears and makes his pulse feel louder than it should. James' chest tightens as he anticipates the moment FRIDAY decides to break it—because she will.

His dread builds, irrational yet persistent as if the weight of a simple conversation might crush him.

As if sensing his thoughts—like she always seems to—FRIDAY finally speaks, her voice casual but sharp enough to slice through the tension.
“So,” she begins, “How was your morning, James?”
Her question is simple, almost mundane, but it lands with the weight of something heavier. He struggles to find a response that doesn’t sound flat or evasive.

"It was... fine," he lies, his voice slightly breaking at the edge.

There’s a brief pause, and he can almost feel FRIDAY deliberating whether to press the issue. Thankfully, she doesn’t. She doesn’t believe him—he knows that—but she doesn’t push either, and that’s something he truly appreciates about her.

"It's okay if you don’t want to talk about it right now, James," she says, her voice so soft it carries an ache that lingers in the air. "I just want you to know that I’ll always be here to listen, whenever you’re ready."

The speaker above him clicks off, leaving behind the faint buzz of static and he can't help but feel like an ass. 

 

By the time he reaches sub-level two, a chill has settled in his bones. He barely has the time to step out of the elevator before a blur of motion slams into his side.

"Bucky! Thank God! I’ve been so worried about you! Are you okay?!"

The voice is all too familiar, and it grates against every nerve James has left. Steve, looking like a kicked puppy, has his arms around James' shoulders in a tight embrace- and James can't help but grimace at the unwelcome close contact, nausea hitting him like a fright train.

"I’m so sorry I wasn’t there for you, but no one would let me see you!" Steve’s voice tightens, a mix of frustration and concern spilling out. "FRIDAY said she couldn’t give me any information about you, and then this guy in the red spandex just shows up and takes your stuff without saying a single word!" His tone wavers slightly worry evident in his voice despite his best efforts to stay composed.

"His name is Wade," James growls, annoyance creeping into his words. "And he took my stuff to my apartment. Now, get the fuck away from me," he snaps, shoving Steve harshly away from him, "And don't call me fuckin' Bucky. How often do I have to tell ya that that's not my name before you get it into that fuckin' skull of yours?"

Steve looks at him as if he’s grown a second head, his expression one of utter disbelief, probably because of the absolute menace in James' voice.

His face falls, as James' words sink in. "Apartment? But… that’s just temporary, right? You’re coming back to us, aren’t you? You don’t have to do this, Bucky. If you think you need to give me some space because of what happened yesterday, you’re wrong. You don’t need to feel bad about—"

"I don’t feel bad about it," James cuts him off, his voice hardening. "And I’m not coming back. I’m keeping the apartment. I like it." He pauses, an edge of satisfaction creeping into his tone. "And since I’m switching to Tony's team anyway, it makes sense to be closer to my new teammates."

Steve's expression falters, "Bucky," he says, stepping uncomfortably closer, his voice carrying a trace of desperation. "Please don’t do this. We can talk about this. We'll find a solution, I swear. Whatever it is that's bothering you, we can work through it together."

He just stands there for a moment, waiting for James' answer, eyes big and lost, before he turns helplessly, his shoulders slumping as he moves away. There’s something almost defeated in his posture, and James can’t help but follow the motion, his eyes tracing Steve's every move.

At the far end of the training field, Steve’s remaining team members are gathered- watching them from afar. The atmosphere around them is tense, and a quiet hum of conversation is passing between Natasha and Barton as Steve turns to them, his eyes silently pleading for help.

 

Not far from them, James spots Tony and Stephen's team members, their figures scattered across the field, their movements lazy as they wait for whatever’s next. There’s one glaring absence, though—Tony himself. The disappointment, or maybe it’s a relief, that floods James' chest is sharp and quick. It’s hard to decide which it is. Part of him yearns to see the Inventor's usual smug grin plastered across his face, while the other part dreads to see the man, fearing that he could catch on, and realize that James harbors inappropriate feelings towards the man.

 

He's so caught up in his thoughts that he realizes too late, that Steve has made up his mind, the man taking a tentative step toward James, invading his personal space yet again. He seems unsure, at least for a moment, as if he’s testing the waters.

James feels bile rise in his throat, the unpleasant close contact sending shivers down his spine. He doesn’t hesitate when he takes two deliberate steps back, making it clear he doesn’t want Steve anywhere near him—not now, not ever.

It grates James that the fucker even has the fuckin' audacity to look hurt as he moves away.

The bitter taste in his throat only intensifies as he takes in the sight before him—Steve's nose, the very one James had shattered into pieces, has already completely healed, not even a scar to mark the memory of that moment. It’s almost... insulting. A shame, really.

 

Steve clears his throat, and his voice sounds as hurt as he looks, which pisses James even more off. “B- Bucky, I know you're confused right now, and honestly, I can’t blame you. So much has happened, and— Listen, you don't have to blame yourself for what happened. It wasn't your fault. Hadn't Stark played one of his stupid games, none of this would-”

“Shut the fuck up,” James interrupts, his voice low and cold. His fists clenched at his sides, the memory of the last time his knuckles met Steve's face flashing in his mind. “Don’t even start with that shit. If you say one more word, my fist is going back where it belongs.”

The air between them feels like it’s about to snap, the tension thick enough to cut with a knife. Steve falters, a flash of uncertainty crossing his features. James doesn’t want to hear another word from that idiot's mouth. He’s so done with his shit.

"Why are you constantly acting like I did something wrong?" Steve asks, his voice irritated, "It's like you're holding some type of grudge against me..."

James' glare sharpens at that. "I'm not holding a grudge, Steve. I'm just done pretending we're something we're not. You should do the-"

 

 

A sound echoes from the distance, pulling James’ attention toward it. His gaze shifts instinctively, tracking the source. At the far end of the room, a heavy metal door creaks open, and his heart skips a beat as Tony steps through effortlessly as he moves toward his teammates, sporting a radiant smile. 

James isn’t sure what his expression reveals, but whatever it is, it clearly unsettles Steve. He watches as Steve’s posture changes—his body stiffening, the muscles in his neck tightening as he follows James’ gaze. It’s as though something inside Steve snaps at the sight of Tony. His face contorts, turning into something ugly, a twisted mixture of frustration and bitterness.

"Oh, I get it," Steve mutters, his voice low. "Why didn’t I think of this sooner? Of course, he would try to use you against me. He’s petty like that."

 

The words hang in the air, filled with disdain. James stands there, completely speechless, unable to process how stupid Steve sounds. For a moment, he just stares, his mind struggling to catch up. He feels a mix of disbelief and frustration, but no words come to him. The silence between them grows thick, but James doesn't know how to respond—he’s not sure if he should laugh, shout, or just walk away.

"Bucky, listen! Whatever lies Stark told you to make you pick his side—"

"This isn’t about sides!" James snaps, his voice sharp and brimming with anger. "It’s about you being a selfish bastard!" His words slice through the air, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

He steps forward, his fists clenched tightly at his sides, his chest rising and falling with barely restrained frustration. "You’re acting like a damn child! Just listen to yourself for once!" His voice grows louder, "You can’t handle the fact that I have my own goddamn opinion! I’m not Bucky—I’m not your long-lost friend! That man is gone, Steve. He’s gone. Accept it!"

James pauses, his expression hardening further, his tone dropping into something even colder. "And stop blaming Tony. This has nothing to do with him. My indifference towards you? That’s all on you, Steve. It’s the way you refuse to change, the way you think everything has to revolve around you. I’m tired of it." The weight of his words lingers, cutting deeper than any blade, forcing Steve to confront a truth he has been refusing to acknowledge.

He takes a step closer, his words laced with frustration and something deeper—something raw. "Wake up, for God’s sake!" The words hit harder than James had anticipated. For a moment, Steve's facade cracks, and something darker shines through.

"You don't get it, do you? I'm trying to protect you from him!" Steve yells, his voice cold and vicious. "You don't know him like me! Tony's not a saint, Bucky. He's anything but that! He might come off as charming, maybe even caring, but that's all a facade! That man doesn't give a single fuck about anyone but himself. He's a self-centered, rich, asshole. The only things he's really good at are drinking himself into a stupor and hurting the people around him!"

"At least Tony owns his mistakes," James snarls back. "He dares to face his flaws, to work on himself, and makes amends for his mistakes. He doesn't hide behind excuses, or constantly blames others for his mistakes- unlike you!"

"Excuses?" Steve frowns. "You don't know anything, Bucky. You don't know half of that I've been through- that I had to do in order to get you back..."

"Oh, I know enough," James growls back, ready to lunge at Steve and rip his fuckin' throat out. "Stop acting like you're some sort of pitiful martyr!" He takes another menacing step forward balling his fist.

 

Oh, it would be so easy- the temptation so undeniably sweet.

 

 

"Stop it- both of you," Carol's voice cuts through the tension like a blade.

Both men turn around to see her standing a few feet away, arms crossed and her expression a mix of exasperation and disappointment.

"James, back off," she says firmly and points to her right. James' gaze follows the direction of her finger. His breath catches in his throat when he sees Tony staring right back at him. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his posture relaxed. His face is an unreadable mask, betraying nothing of what he’s feeling, nothing that would give James a clue as to what’s going on behind those carefully guarded eyes. For a moment, everything else fades into the background as James stands there, staring.

His jaw works like he wants to argue, to tell Carol to keep out of this, but the look on Tony's face stops him. He steps away from Steve, raising his hands in mock surrender.

"Whatever," he mutters under his breath, turning sharply and heading toward the far left of the room. He moves with purpose, putting as much physical distance between himself and Steve as he can as if the space between them might somehow ease the tension gnawing at him.

Carol sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose as frustration flickers across her face. "The same goes for you, Mr. Rogers," she says, fixing him with a sharp, pointed look. It’s the kind of look that could silence a storm, daring him to test her patience.

 

Steve’s face darkens, but for the first time in his life, he holds back from snapping a retort. Without a word, he turns on his heel and stomps off to join his friends. Sam and Lang pat him on the shoulder, their expressions laced with understanding and quiet solidarity.

Pathetic, James thinks, shaking his head in irritation.

Carol, having successfully defused the brewing argument, exhales deeply. With a visible air of exasperation, she runs a hand through her hair, pushing it back from her face.

"Alright, now that that’s settled," she says firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Let’s move on to the important tasks."

Her gaze sweeps over Steve and his friends, her expression sharp and unwavering. "Today, we’ll be holding the evaluation matches and doing some exercises together. The goal is to better understand your abilities and assess how well you work as a team. I’ll explain the schedule now, so listen closely," she says, her voice firm with authority. "I don’t want to repeat myself."

 

 

Half an hour later, the exercises are in full swing.

 

 

The drills were easy to follow, a mix of combat training and strategic exercises meant to test their reflexes and teamwork. Carol led the session with her usual calm persona, her voice steady as she gave instructions and corrected mistakes.

FRIDAY's voice occasionally filters through the speakers, offering encouragement or subtle ways for improvement.

 

Surprisingly, Steve's team stays low-key, participating in the exercises without any major issues. Every now and then, a whispered complaint or muttered grumble can be heard- mostly from Barton- but Carol simply ignores them, letting the murmurs fade into the background.

The exercises go so smoothly that James' mind begins to wander. His gaze drifts, almost involuntarily, toward Tony, who’s paired up with Loki for most of the partner drills. The sight of them together irks him more than he cares to admit. A familiar wave of jealousy rises within him, much to his own frustration.

He tries to shake it off, to focus on anything else, but it’s hard to ignore the way Tony looks at Loki. His smile is wide and genuine, and their laughter fills the air, easy and effortless, like they’ve known each other for years. It stings, even though James knows it shouldn’t.

What’s even worse is that his mind can’t seem to stop fixating on the Inventor's body. It’s as if every detail is magnified—each line, each muscle, each movement. It’s frustrating how easily his thoughts spiral.
Even though Tony’s just dressed in a black band tee and loose-fitting pants, he looks undeniably good. His build isn’t overly muscular, but there’s a strength to him—lean, defined, with no excess weight to speak of. Every movement seems deliberate, and fluid. And then there’s that sun-kissed skin and the inviting softness of his exposed neck, practically begging to be adorned with the deep, dark marks of hungry kisses…

And damn, don't let him start on that ass...

 

By the time the exercises finally come to an end, James feels as though he's miles away, his mind lost in a haze of thoughts—thoughts that keep circling back to Tony and all the delicious things he’s yearning to do with the man. His focus has completely slipped away, and all he can think about is the way Tony moves, the way he smiles, the way his presence fills up space in ways James can't quite explain.

It’s Carol's voice that pulls him out of his head, but he’s unsure whether he should be grateful or curse her for interrupting his thoughts.

 

"You all did well," she says, her sharp eyes sweeping over the various groups. "But we need to work on cohesion. That means setting aside personal differences and focusing on what matters most. I think the evaluation matches will help with that." Her gaze lingers on Tony, a small devilish smile on her lips.

“We’ll take a short break,” she announces, her tone casual but commanding, “and then I’ll announce the pairings for the matches.”

The groups disperse, and James moves to linger near the edge of the room, his shoulders tense. He watches as Tony approaches Carol, his voice low but his gestures animated. James wonders what's going on between them, but assumes he'll find out soon enough.

He watches as Loki suddenly joins them, his lean figure towering next to Tony, his arm slung around the shorter man's shoulders.

The sight of them is almost too much to bear, eating away at him like acid. James forces himself to look away before something inside him snaps. He knows how ridiculous his jealousy is—how utterly unfounded.

Loki isn’t even doing anything that suggests he’s interested in Tony. He’s just standing there, casually leaning against the smaller man’s shoulder, the way friends do.

There’s nothing in their body language, no lingering glances, no subtle touches, to suggest there’s anything more than friendship between them.
And yet, James can’t stand it. He hates seeing them together like this, hates how easy and comfortable they seem. It should be me, he thinks bitterly, his stomach twisting with the thought.

He’d make Tony so much happier—no. He stops himself mid-thought, gritting his teeth. That’s just wishful thinking. Stupid, pathetic, pointless wishful thinking.

He exhales sharply, dragging a hand through his hair, trying to ground himself. Get it together, James.

If he doesn’t pull himself out of those spiraling thoughts, it’s going to drive him insane. Tony isn’t his. He has no claim, no right to these feelings that are tearing him apart. And yet, knowing that doesn’t make it any easier to let them go.

He turns away, his jaw tightening.

 

Notes:

James, having the fuckin' body of a Greek god; I'm hideous and no one will ever love me.

Also; I've already finished the next chapter! Spoiler alert; We're getting our first bigger fight scene! Which will probably suck, because I suck at writing them. :D

Chapter 27

Notes:

I'm sorry, okay? Originally, this chapter had around 5k words, but then I changed stuff and now it has like 8k and I genuinely don't know how the fuck that happened. I tried to split it up, but that didn't work out, so yeah- enjoy I guess???

 

The sparring sessions were a letdown—disappointing in the sense that most of Steve’s group performed so poorly that it was almost painful to watch.

The rules weren’t even that complicated: non-enhanced individuals would engage in straightforward hand-to-hand combat, while enhanced members were paired with opponents whose abilities matched their own. Yet somehow, even with these simple parameters, the outcomes were lackluster at best.

What made it worse was seeing Natasha, a skilled assassin with years of experience, and Sam, a paratrooper trained by the military and typically thriving under pressure, lose so decisively to Hope and Constantine—two individuals whose reputations in hand-to-hand combat were, to put it mildly, mediocre.

James had been sure Natasha's experience and Sam’s disciplined technique would carry them to an easy victory. Instead, they were floored in a match that was more chaotic flailing than calculated strategy. Their teamwork was basically non-existent, while Hope and Constantine fought together like they never did anything else.

They had moved as if they were guided by some invisible thread, each action seamlessly flowing into the next. It wasn’t just skill; They worked in perfect harmony. Constantine’s heavy strikes created openings that Hope exploited with speed and finesse, darting through the gaps in their opponents’ defenses like a snake finding its prey. They were two pieces of a puzzle that seemed destined to fit together -It was mesmerizing.

Unsurprisingly, and much to no one's shock, Natasha and Sam launched into immediate complaints after their defeat. The fight, they insisted, had been wildly unfair. They argued that they should have been given more time to prepare, and let's not forget the taxing journey they'd endured beforehand.
Naturally, they hadn't recovered from it and, therefore, claimed, were in no state to train properly, let alone compete.

James simply shook his head at that. This was all so typical of them. Their protests lacked any real conviction, more of a habit than genuine outrage; he’d seen this performance too many times to be surprised by it anymore.

 

The next match didn’t fare much better.

 

Steve, apparently unshaken by his teammate's loss, decided to run his mouth when he faced Carol. He approached her with a confident smirk, stretching his arms dramatically as if warming up for a friendly jog.
“Don’t worry,” he said with his trademark smile. “I’ll try to hold back. Wouldn’t want to hurt our Captain.”

The temperature in the room seemed to drop as Carol tilted her head, her expression a mask of calm.
“How generous of you,” she said evenly, her voice devoid of any warmth.

What followed was utter, and devastating humiliation on a whole new level. Carol didn’t just beat Steve—she dismantled him. By the time the referee, a guy called Wong which Stephen had brought along, called the match, Steve's face was a patchwork of bruises, and the floor might as well have been waxed with his sweat and pride.

“Oh dear, how unfortunate… You really should’ve gone all out, Mr. Rogers,” Carol had said, her tone calm and measured, though the glint in her eyes betrayed her amusement. “I take every fight seriously—whether it’s a simple practice session or a serious fight against an enemy. I do hope you’ll keep that in mind for next time and, perhaps, take a page out of my book.”

Much to James' surprise, Steve remained uncharacteristically silent, his usual fiery demeanor subdued as he turned and walked back to his team. His face was a storm of shadows, a thunderous mixture of anger and frustration. As he pushed past Stephen who was watching the match, his lips tightened into a white line, and his teeth grazed against his lower lip as if waging a silent battle to restrain the words that burned at the edge of his tongue.

James didn't feel sorry for him- he deserved it for disrespecting Carol.

 

 

When James' turn came, he found himself squaring off against Jessica. Unlike the earlier matches, this one wasn’t a disaster. It was intense, challenging, and surprisingly enjoyable. Jessica moved with speed and precision, which forced James to stay focused, and his every movement was calculated. He barely managed to dodge her kicks, and her counters were lightning-fast.

“Not bad,” Jessica had said mid-match, her tone playful but focused. She'd swept low, forcing James to leap back to avoid her strike. “You’re quicker than I expected.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” James shot back, circling her cautiously.

Jessica grinned. “Oh, I’m not flattering you. Just sizing up the competition.”

The fight ended in a draw, both of them sprawled on the floor, breathing hard but grinning like they’d just shared an inside joke. For the first time in days, James felt genuinely clear-headed. The constant whirlwind of thoughts about Tony had finally been shoved to the back of his mind—if only for a little while.

 

After the match, James turned to Jessica, still catching his breath. “We should do this again,” he said, his tone genuine. “Good sparring partners like you don’t come around often.”

Jessica smirked even though she was just as winded. “Anytime, James. Just don’t get used to those close calls—I plan on making sure you hit the mat first next time.”

James chuckled at that, his grin widening. “Close calls? That’s a generous way to put it. You had me scrambling more than I’d like to admit.”

She arched an eyebrow, clearly enjoying the moment. “Scrambling? Please. That last move of yours almost cost me my balance. I still don’t know how you pulled it off.”

“You mean the counter? It was all instinct,” James replied, shrugging like it was nothing, though the spark of pride in his eyes said otherwise. “But you? You fight like every punch is calculated three moves ahead. It’s maddening.”

Jessica laughed the sound light but edged with satisfaction. “Well, someone’s gotta keep you on your toes. You’re welcome, by the way.”

Their banter continued as they walked off the ring, each heading toward their respective teams. The back-and-forth was sharp and filled with the kind of respect that comes from two fighters who had pushed each other to their absolute limits—and loved every second of it.

As they reached the point where their paths split, James glanced over his shoulder. “Same time next week?”
Jessica smirked, “You better believe it. And don’t expect me to make it easy on you.” James chuckled, giving her a mock salute.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way," he grins, already planning how to make next week’s fight even tougher for her.

The sparring sessions continued like that, with groups rotating in and out of the ring. Some matches were entertaining, others painful to watch. By the time the last two fights were announced, the energy in the room had shifted. There was an undercurrent of tension, anticipation crackling in the air.

 

 

They were currently on a ten-minute break. The next match was supposed to be between Wanda and Loki, followed by Tony and Barton.

 

James casually leans against the wall, his eyes scanning the room. Wanda stands at the center of the ring, her posture rigid, her eyes darting toward Loki, who hasn't yet made his way to join her. Her gaze is calculating, occasionally flicking over to where Tony stands- something that doesn't sit right with James.

She's definitely planning something, the question is, what exactly has she been racking her brain over? You can never tell what that vile woman is thinking.

There’s something unsettling about her—an edge that makes James’ instincts bristle every time he’s near her, a sharp tension that’s been there since the first moment they crossed paths. Wanda isn’t just unstable; she’s volatile, a storm waiting to break. Her worldview is twisted, a relentless loop where everyone else is to blame for her failures, and she remains untouched by her own actions. It’s as if she’s locked in a constant struggle with reality, and he’s just one more person caught in her tangled web.

 

No wonder Steve gets along with her so well.

 

Their personalities are practically two sides of the same coin, both twisted in their own ways. Her self-image is just as warped as his, both of them living in a world where their flaws are either hidden behind a facade of charm or twisted into something they consider strength —two people so caught up in their own reflections, that they’d never question the other’s version of the world.

James had always been cautious around her. When he learned that she could manipulate people’s minds, and twist their thoughts to suit her will, it only confirmed his suspicions. She wasn’t someone you could trust.

He never allowed himself to let his guard down around her —not with her self-absorbed, narcissistic personality. It wasn’t just her power; it was the way she used it, how she never seemed to care about the consequences. It was all about her, always.

What bothered him even more, though, was the fact that none of Steve’s friends seemed to see her for what she really was. It didn’t make sense. How could they not see the danger? How could they overlook the fact that, with just a flick of her wrist, she could manipulate their minds as easily as breathing?

 

Movement to his right catches his attention. Carol appears beside him, her presence radiating a calmness that contrasts the tension in the air.
“You’re watching her, too,” she says, her voice low.

“Hard not to,” James replies, keeping his voice quiet. “Something about her feels... off. Well, at least more than usual.”

“Feels?” Carol asks, arching an eyebrow. “Try screams. That girl's a ticking time bomb.” James nods in agreement. “And Loki isn’t exactly known for his tactfulness.”

Carol snorts. “Tactfulness? The guy has a black belt in provocation. But—” She pauses, a confident smile spreading across her face. “Loki's tactless behavior is exactly what we need to put her in her place.”

James looks at her, a question written across his face- her wording somehow sounds off. But before he can ask, Loki appears, as if on cue.

 

He saunters into the ring as if he owns the place, his usual smirk plastered across his face. He stops a few feet from Wanda, folding his arms behind his back and tilting his head. “Hmm... I've been told your magic is extraordinarily powerful and special but... I believe that was an exaggeration.” He says playfully. “You have to understand,” he adds, his voice smooth, “I have a sense for magic, and yours practically screams ordinary. I don’t get all the fuss.”
His smile is reminiscent of a shark’s—sharp, predatory. His green eyes gleam, like a wildcat lying in wait, ready to strike at any moment and claim its prey.

Wanda's jaw tightens, her hands curling into fists at her sides. “Don’t push me,” she says, her voice low and strained.

Loki laughs. “Push you? I'm afraid I don't know what you're implying.”

James exchanges a glance with Carol. “This is going to go south, isn’t it?”
“Like a lead balloon,” she mutters with a sly smile.

Out of the corners of his eyes, James notices Constantine standing suspiciously close to the boundary of the ring, directly behind Loki. Normally, he would have dismissed it, because every match had been observed close up by others. But this was different.

Up until now, Constantine had kept to himself, showing no interest in any match. For most of the matches, he'd hung back in a corner, smoking, or loitered on one of the many benches scattered around the space- dozing off.

It’s strange that he seems so particularly interested in Loki’s match. The fact that he stands so close to the ring—right behind Loki, where the view is hardly ideal for watching the fight—raises questions in James.
Something’s going on here. James just hasn’t figured out what yet.

 

His attention shifts as Wong goes over the rules one last time, but neither Loki nor Wanda seems to be listening. Loki's still smirking, his confidence unshakable, while Wanda radiates barely contained rage.

A sharp, jarring sound cuts through the hall, produced by Wong's magic, signaling that the fight has officially begun.

 

Loki stands with his hands still folded behind his back, his stance radiating boredom. His leather coat flutters dramatically, although there's no breeze as his emerald green eyes fix on Wanda.

James wonders if the bastard is using his magic to make his coat flutter like that. It’s certainly within the realm of possibility. He’s heard enough rumors to know that Loki has earned the reputation of being the compound's resident drama queen, always making a spectacle of himself for no reason other than to stir things up and to create chaos.

 

Wanda on the other hand, looks as if she's ready to boil over. The anger in her eyes does little to hide her malicious intentions- It probably hasn't escaped her notice that Loki is goofing off, not taking things seriously.

"You must be joking," Wanda says, rolling her eyes. "Natasha and Clint warned me about you- said you're extremely dangerous. This is what they call dangerous? A clown who uses his magic to let his coat flutter?"

She looks smug, pleased with her jab.

"A clown, huh?" Loki says, his green eyes gleaming with something that sends a sharp wave of unease through James. It’s a look that doesn’t sit well with him. It's cold and calculating beneath the surface. The air in the room thickens and feels charged, like the oppressive silence right before a storm breaks. "If I’m the clown," the Trickster laughs, his voice dripping with mockery, "then I guess that makes you the punchline."

Wanda's face flushes an ugly red. "You think you're so clever, don't you?"

"Oh, I don't think that I'm clever," Loki replies, waving a hand to conjure a sparkling glass of... something. He sips from it with exaggerated elegance, as though they're not seconds away from trading magical blows. "I know."

 

That's probably the damn wine he's stolen from Dr. Doom, James realizes.

 

"Well, are we actually going to do something, or are you planning to continue with this tiresome, pointless chatter?" Loki inquires, his voice dripping with a mixture of disdain and boredom as he lets the empty glass disappear. He says it with an air of effortless superiority as if his patience has already been stretched to its limit, and he's long since lost interest in whatever inane conversation is unfolding. His gaze lingers on Wanda, clearly unimpressed as if even the thought of engaging further is beneath him.

Wanda growls, her hands glowing with a deep, pulsing crimson.

With a sharp motion, she conjures her magic and sends a blast of raw energy at Loki, the force of it cracking the stone floor beneath her feet.

Loki doesn't flinch. He stands perfectly still, hands still folded behind his back. The raw energy hurtles toward him, but just inches from his body, it dissipates, swallowed by an unseen barrier that shimmers faintly in the air. He regards her coolly, his gaze unwavering, completely unimpressed.

"Really? That’s your opening move?" Loki drawls, his voice dripping with condescension as he surveys Wanda with a gaze that seems to suggest he’s already grown tired of the whole affair. His lips curl into a sardonic smile, and with an exaggerated flourish, he raises his hands, clapping once, slow and deliberate, to mock her further.
"Congratulations, my dear," he continues, his words laced with sharp disdain, "you've officially managed to prove just how monumentally lackluster your skills truly are. I dare say, I’ve seen more impressive displays from a troupe of amateurs—and that’s being generous."

He steps back and bows slightly, his posture one of sheer superiority, his every movement calculated to exude the kind of aloof confidence reserved for those who consider themselves far above the fray. "But do continue," he adds, his tone dripping with insincere encouragement, "I'm positively riveted by the prospect of seeing how much further you can descend into mediocrity."

"You damn—" Wanda snarls, her hands thrusting forward once more. This time, the ground beneath Loki cracks open, sending jagged spikes of molten rock shooting toward him. The intense heat radiates and licks at his coat, but with a sharp snap of his fingers, Loki freezes the spikes mid-air, the molten stone solidifying before crumbling into ash.

"Points for effort," Loki says with a slight tilt of his head, stepping elegantly away from the dissipating ash. He smooths the front of his coat with a practiced gesture as if the remnants of her failed attack were nothing more than an inconvenience. "But honestly, my dear," he continues, his voice dripping with mockery, "did you even bother to aim? I can scarcely believe the lack of precision. Even Thor, that lumbering oaf who’s about as proficient in magic as a rock, could manage a more competent attempt."

"Shut up!" Wanda screams, dashing forward as she summons a whirlwind of crackling red energy. The wind howls as the energy surges toward Loki like a rabid storm, the force of it makes the walls of the hall tremble.

Loki steps forward, unfazed. "You know," he begins, his voice cutting through the roar of her attack with a smooth, almost casual air, "if you devoted even half as much time to improving your aim as you do to indulging in these... rather undignified tantrums, you might actually present a threat. But alas, here we are." He pauses, allowing the weight of his words to settle, a faint, mocking smile curling at the edges of his lips. "Such a pity, really," he adds, his tone dripping with condescension, "that you squander your potential on such theatrics. One could almost mistake this for an act of desperation."

 

With a flick of his wrist, the whirlwind collapses in on itself, vanishing into a harmless puff of mist.

"Is that all you’ve got?" Loki taunts, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Come on, try harder! Impress me! Show me what you’ve got!"
He laughs, a dark, manic edge to the sound, echoing through the room.

Wanda’s hands glow with magic, the energy swirling around her fingers, forming into sharp, jagged claws. She lunges at Loki, her movements are swift and deadly. Yet, he doesn’t even attempt to move.

To James' horror, the claws sink deep into the Trickster's body, the sharp edges tearing through his flesh like butter. Blood stains his green tunic in an almost black looking red, soaking into the fabric. James' breath catches in his throat. He whips his head toward Wong, only to find him... looking utterly bored.

 

What the hell?

 

A burst of laughter rings out, and James’ gaze snaps toward the sound.
Loki’s body flickers, shimmering out of existence. Wanda’s eyes widen, realizing too late that Loki has materialized behind her. Before she can react, he kicks her squarely in the back, sending her stumbling forward.

She barely manages to stay on her feet, her breath ragged. Spinning around, she summons a ball of red magic, hurling it at Loki with pinpoint accuracy. But once again, his body flickers, vanishing just as the magic hits, reappearing to her right.

With a mocking grin, Loki punches her hard in the side, the blow landing with sickening precision.

Wanda crumples to the ground, clutching her side, her face twisted in pain and fury. Her breath comes in shallow gasps, and for a brief moment, all she can feel is the searing pain in her ribs. Her rage boils over, a firestorm within her, but she can barely move.

"Disappointing..." Loki sighs, his voice dripping with boredom. "Is that all? I haven’t even used my magic to attack you yet." He circles her, like a pack of wolves closing in on an injured deer, the inevitable, unavoidable.

"I believe it's time to bring this little display to an end," Loki says, his voice smooth. With a lazy, almost bored flick of his wrist, he raises his hand, and a wave of vibrant green energy radiates outward, filling the air with an unsettlingly, monstrous power. "Really, one can only tolerate such... pedestrian efforts for so long, don't you think?"

With a bored flick of his hand, Loki's magic sends Wanda, still on the ground, flying across the ring, skidding her backward into a wall that Loki conjured behind her.

In the background, Steve’s screams echo through the air—loud and panicked. He bellows at Wong, his voice sharp with anger, demanding that he steps in as the referee and help Wanda.

 

Funny. When it looked like Wanda might have actually hurt Loki, Steve didn’t bat an eye…

 

Wanda visibly struggles to get back on her feet, but to James' surprise, she does so with a low, guttural growl. Her expression shifts—fury giving way to something sickly sweet as if she’s suddenly become an entirely different person.

"You know," she says, her voice light and honeyed, though there's a subtle strain at the edges. Her eyes begin to glow a menacing red, her magic swirling around her, creating a mist-like aura. "I was wrong about you. You're definitely dangerous. Kind of impressive, actually..."

The red mist of magic begins to swirl and expand, slowly enveloping Loki. It wraps around him completely, and for a brief moment, he appears genuinely bewildered. He tilts his head, his gaze shifting toward Wanda, searching her face for answers. Her sudden change in demeanor hasn’t escaped him either, and the shift is as unsettling as it is unexpected.

She takes a few steps forward, "Maybe we don't have to keep fighting. Maybe we could... work together? I think we'd make a great team."

 

James can’t quite pinpoint what’s happening, but he knows something is off. It’s Wanda's gaze. That ominous, self-assured look of hers unsettles him in a way he can’t explain.

 

Loki remains still, his posture rigid, yet his eyes betray nothing. Wanda moves closer, dangerously close, until she’s standing just inches away from him, close enough that her finger can trace a slow, deliberate pattern across his chest. James watches, confused, trying to grasp what is unfolding before him. Why does Loki allow her to get so close? He’s arrogant, yes, but not stupid. What is he playing at?

 

“Wouldn’t it be so much better if we joined forces?” Wanda purrs, her voice low and velvety, dripping with suggestion as she leans in, her breath warm against Loki’s ear. “You and I… with our combined powers, we could reshape the world.” Her words hang in the air, heavy and magnetic, as if they alone could bend reality. Wanda’s finger traces a slow, deliberate path across Loki's chest, her touch light but charged with intent. Loki remains still, his gaze fixed ahead, his expression unreadable—detached, as though he isn’t even aware of her presence.

Wanda grins, obviously enjoying whatever's going on, her face twisting into something sinister, a grotesque, self-satisfied grin that could only belong to someone convinced of their victory.

She summons a dagger of magic into her hand, the blade gleaming ominously as she presses it against Loki’s throat. Yet, the Trickster remains as motionless as ever, his gaze far away. James watches in horror, his heart racing, as she slowly drags the blade downward, its tip stopping just inches above Loki’s heart.

 

“Wong, for fuck’s sake! Do something—she’s gonna kill him!” James shouts, panic edging his voice. He jolts when he catches sight of Wong's face—completely unfazed. The man doesn’t even appear the slightest bit concerned. In fact, he has the audacity to raise an eyebrow, as if baffled by James' reaction.

 

“Who’s mediocre now?” Wanda sneers, her voice oozing with triumph. “This is my victory.” Her words linger in the air, thick with smugness, when suddenly—clap, clap, clap—the sharp, echoing sound of hands clapping cuts through the tension. The applause is forceful, charged with such hostile energy that it catches not only Wanda off guard but James as well.

 

“You don’t need to put on a damn show to get my attention, so cut the bullshit,” Constantine spits, his voice seething with fury. “You know exactly how I feel when people touch what’s mine. If you were trying to make me jealous, you’ve failed. All you’ve done is piss me off."

"Ah... So, I take it you won’t be gracing me with your company tonight, then?" Before anyone can react, a burst of green magic pulses through the room, a wave of pure, unrelenting power. The air crackles with energy, and Wanda is slammed backward, her feet skidding across the floor as the magical force pushes her away. The room feels charged, the tension palpable, as the energy subsides, leaving a lingering crackle in the air.

"And here I was, all convinced that my little scheme to make you jealous would be a resounding success, John. Funny how things never go as planned, isn't it?" Loki says with a sly, knowing smile, his voice dripping with feigned innocence.

"If you ever took anything seriously instead of constantly fooling around, I might actually consider it," Constantine says, trying to maintain a serious expression, though it doesn't quite land—James catches the amused smile that fleetingly dances across his lips.

"Me? Fooling around? Never." The Trickster raises a hand, gesturing in the air as though brushing away the very suggestion. "I was merely… momentarily stunned, you see. Stunned that my opponent, in a friendly little spar, would stoop to such dishonorable methods—like, dare I say it, mind manipulation. Really, how utterly appalling. As if I'd fallen for such a cheap trick."

He lets out a delicate, condescending chuckle, blazing green eyes glinting with amusement. "Such behavior is simply beneath anyone with even the faintest shred of decorum. I dare say, it’s quite bad manners, wouldn’t you agree?"

Wanda’s breathing is sharp and uneven, her gaze flickering with uncertainty. "So you only played along?!" She sneers.

 

James can practically feel her frustration, and he bets it’s because the fight isn’t unfolding the way she’d planned. Loki isn’t just outmaneuvering her—he’s toying with her, making a spectacle out of her struggle in front of everyone. He even dismisses one of her most formidable abilities as nothing more than a cheap trick, a blatant mockery.

 

"Can you believe that, John? She actually thought her little mind games would work on me," the Trickster laughs.

"I’m not going to praise you if that’s what you’re after. Forget it," Constantine says with a dismissive wave, rolling his eyes.

James watches as Wanda's gaze locks onto Loki, something dark and malicious flickering in the depths of her eyes. She seizes the opportunity, exploiting the Trickster's momentary lapse in attention, and shoots an arrow made of red magic at his back.

The arrow strikes, only to bounce harmlessly off Loki’s form. He turns slowly, his entire posture radiating pure irritation, as though her very existence is a nuisance. His eyes narrow, lips curling into a sneer as he looks at her with a combination of disgust and disbelief. “How utterly rude,” he mutters, his voice dripping with venom. “I’m in the middle of a conversation, and you choose now to attack? Is there truly no depth to which you won’t sink?”

Wanda’s eyes burn with fury, her lips curling into a sneer. “What the hell do you want me to do, huh? It’s not my fault you’re distracted by that old bastard. Seriously, what’s he even doing here? Is he part of your damn fan club or something?”

Her gaze slides over Constantine, a mixture of repulsion and irritation flashing in her eyes. Every inch of her expression radiates disdain, as though he were some vile creature she couldn’t stand to be in the same room with. She looks at him like he’s a stain, something that shouldn’t even be allowed to breathe the same air as her.

 

"Don't worry about him," Loki answers, his voice suddenly casual, almost dismissive- lacking his usual snark. "He's none of your concern."

The response comes too quickly, far too serious. It’s completely devoid of the usual snark that effortlessly colors his voice, a faint trace of defensiveness creeping in at the edges.

It’s clear that Loki is far from pleased with the way Wanda is eyeing Constantine...

 

And that flicker of emotion in his voice? That was his first mistake.

 

James can see the gears in Wander's mind turn.

Her eyes narrow, a dangerous glint flashing in them as she surges forward with a burst of speed. With a swift flick of her wrist, she conjures another spell, but this time she deliberately misses Loki.

The magic crashes violently into the ground near Constantine’s feet, sending up a cloud of debris. He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even blink. His gaze remains steady, cold, unshaken. He just scoffs at her, his expression hardening into something darker, more focused.

Loki on the other hand... He seethes, his magic radiating off him in angry waves.

 

And that was his second mistake—his reaction had led him right into Wanda’s trap.

 

Her lips curl, almost in slow motion, her venomous grin spreading ugly over her face. "Well, well," she murmurs, her gaze shifting between Loki and Constantine. "So that's how it is."

Loki smirks, but it looks fake and strained, with a dangerous edge to it. "Careful, little witch. You're starting to sound like you're figuring things out. We can't have that, can we?" He says, his posture tensing for the first time as the magic around him intensifies, its raw power becoming suffocating.

"Oh, I think I've figured out plenty." Her voice drips with malice as she raises her hands, gathering power. "You care about him."

"Do I?" Loki replies, his tone playful, though his stern gaze betrays him. "Someone must have forgotten to send the memo."

Wanda ignores him, her attention now fully locked on Constantine. Her smile widens as she draws the threads of her magic tighter, weaving them into something cruel. "I wonder how far you'll go to protect him."

"Don't even think about it," Loki says flatly, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.

 

But Wanda doesn’t listen, or rather, doesn't care. The magic in her hands lashes out, a surge of raw power that seems to distort the very air around her. The atmosphere thickens, the pressure rising as if the very space is trying to suffocate everyone in the room. A wave of dizziness washes over those nearby, the intensity of her magic enough to let the ground beneath James' feet tremble.

Shouts echo in the chaos, but their voices are swallowed by the oppressive hum of concentrated energy. Figures move in the corner of James' vision, but it’s too late. Wanda has already made her move.

A manic laugh escapes her, the sound of madness curling in her throat as she unleashes the full force of her power. Her magic strikes with such speed and ferocity that it feels as though the entire room is being torn apart. The force of the blast hits Constantine directly, the impact so violent that it sends shockwaves through the floor, a small explosion that shatters the stillness. Pieces of the floor are flung into the air, the noise deafening. A massive cloud of dust billows up in the wake of the blast, obscuring everything in its path, and swallowing up the space where Constantine had just stood.

Wanda’s lips curl into a smile, one that grows with each passing second, a predator savoring its kill. She tilts her head to the side, her voice low, yet every word drips with sickening sweetness.
“Well, that was far too easy,” she murmurs, a mocking edge to her tone. “You shouldn't have shown me your weakness.” She steps closer to the cloud of dust, eyes drinking in the sight of the destruction she caused.
She twirls her fingers through the air, magic weaving in her grasp, emphasizing her power. “Pathetic."

 

Just as Wanda turns to leave, her posture radiating triumph, the dust begins to settle. Slowly, the scene comes into view, and her steps falter.
There he is—Loki, standing tall and untouched, his figure framed by the fading dust. He stands protectively in front of Constantine, his expression infuriatingly calm as if the chaos around them were nothing but a minor inconvenience.

The two men are encased in a shimmering sphere of green magic, its translucent surface pulsing gently like a heartbeat. Outside the sphere, the ring has become unrecognizable- a wasteland of shattered stone, and dust. Everything had been annihilated in the wake of her magic. But within the sphere, the ground looks almost pristine. Untouched.

Wanda's smug grin vanishes, replaced by a look of disbelief. Her hands twitch at her sides as her mind races to process the impossible sight before her. How? Her magic had obliterated the entire ring; nothing should have survived. Is Loki's magic really so much superior to hers?

 

Loki catches her gaze and tilts his head, an infuriatingly smug smirk creeping onto his lips. He doesn't say a word, but the expression alone speaks volumes: Is that all you’ve got?

Constantine, for his part, looks utterly unbothered. With an air of casual detachment, he adjusts the cuff of his coat, his gaze briefly flicking to the wreckage beyond Loki's shimmering magical shield. "Well," he drawls, his tone laced with mocking nonchalance, "that was... unnecessarily dramatic."

"You smug, arrogant piece of shit! Who the hell do you think you are?!" Wanda shrieks, her voice cracking under the weight of her rage. Magic explodes from her fingertips, a blazing wave of red energy that surges toward Constantine and Loki with the ferocity of a wildfire.

But as she unleashes her fury, something feels... wrong. The men don’t flinch. They don’t brace themselves. They don’t even acknowledge the searing wave of destruction barreling toward them. Instead, their gazes are fixed on something behind her—unmoving, focused, and utterly unconcerned with her attack.

 

They even have the fuckin' audacity to smirk.

 

Her anger stumbles, giving way to confusion. What the hell are they looking at?

Then it happens. Golden chains, shimmering and radiant, erupt out of the air like living things. They coil around her wrists, her arms, her torso—tight and unyielding. She gasps, her magic sputtering out like a candle snuffed by the wind. Her eyes widen in disbelief as she struggles against the bindings, but they only pull tighter with every movement.
Her knees buckle, the weight of the chains dragging her down, crushing her resistance.

"No. No, no, no! Let me go! What is the meaning of this?!"

Stephen and Wong appear behind her, their presence like a force of tranquility amidst the storm. "Alright, enough with this bullshit," Stephen says, his voice laced with irritation as he addresses Loki, completely dismissing Wanda’s desperate screams. “You’ve dragged this out for far too long. Don’t even think for a second that I’m cleaning up this mess. That’s all on you.” His tone is sharp, dripping with exaggerated annoyance. He gestures broadly at the destruction surrounding them—the shattered ring, the scorch marks, the smoking debris. His expression is one of pure exasperation, as though he’s reached his limit with the madness.

 

Loki, leaning casually against Constantine, looks utterly unfazed by Stephen's outburst. He waves a dismissive hand, his smirk firmly in place. “Oh, come now, let me have my fun,” he hums, his tone as light as if they were discussing the weather. With a theatrical flair, he adjusts his coat. “Besides, the plan worked, didn’t it? No need to be so gruff, my dear.”

Stephen glares at him, his eyes narrowing to dangerous slits. “Gruff? You call this gruff? Listen here, you smug, self-absorbed bastard—”

“Stephen, Stephen, Stephen,” Constantine interrupts, his tone dripping with annoyance. He mutters under his breath, shooting Loki a sharp sidelong glare. His voice is low, tense, and edged with frustration. “If you start arguing with that bloody Trickster now, we’ll still be standing here in ten years. He’s done his job. Just leave it at that."

"What is the meaning of this?!" Wanda's shrill voice slices through the air, interrupting their conversation. Her body thrashes violently, desperate to break free from the chains that bind her. Each frantic movement is in vain, her feet kicking out only to meet empty air. The chains remain unyielding, holding her fast. Her screams are jagged and hoarse, each one ripped from her throat with brutal force. Her voice cracks, distorting the words so much that they barely make sense, a twisted blur of anger and pain.

 

Loki leans down to her, his face mere inches away from hers, his voice dripping with gleeful amusement. "Oh, you still haven’t figured it out, have you?" he whispers. "You walked right into our little trap, my dear, and now you’ll pay the price for it." His words are laced with cold satisfaction, each syllable punctuated with delight, as though he’s savoring the moment of her realization.

Her screams intensify as the harsh truth hits her, frantic and filled with raw, desperate madness. The sound slices through the air, jolting Steve and his friends into immediate action. Tension ripples through their muscles, every movement taut with readiness for a fight as they charge toward the ring. But before they can reach her, Wade blocks their way, pointing his guns at them.

Carol’s voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and commanding. "Stand down!" she orders, her tone steely and unwavering. It slices through the noise like a knife, forcing a brief stillness to fall over the group as they hesitate, caught between the chaos of Wanda’s screams, Carol's firm command, and Wade's gun pointed at them.

 

Eventually, Wanda's defiant screams fade, replaced by soft, broken sobs. The sudden shift in her tone is chilling, the vulnerability that slips into her voice unsettling. There’s a tremor in her words now, barely perceptible, but unmistakable.

"Let me go!" she cries, her voice small and pitiful, almost childlike in its pleading. "I haven’t done anything wrong! He made me do it! He did something with his magic, I swear! I would never hurt anyone on purpose!" Her words come out in a frantic rush, each one desperately grasping at the air, as though the sheer volume of her denial might somehow make her appear innocent.

"Steve! Please, Steve! You must tell them! Tell them that I would never harm someone on purpose! Please, you have to convince them!" She whines, pleading eyes now entirely focused on Steve. "It was Loki! Loki made me do it! He tricked me!"

 

James recoils, a wave of disgust washing over him. His stomach turns at the pitiful attempt she’s making to justify herself.

It’s almost impossible to comprehend just how deluded she is— The way she clings to her own twisted version of reality, refusing to acknowledge the truth—it’s a kind of madness that sends a chill down his spine.

 

“Let her go! You can’t just keep her tied up like this! Can’t you see how terrified she is? You’re hurting her!” Steve pleads, his voice trembling with urgency, his eyes darting between the others as though searching for any hint of compassion. “Wanda would never—”

"Hey," Wade growls, his voice low and guttural, a stark contrast to his usual banter—feral, raw, and dangerous. James has never heard this tone from him before, a menacing growl that sends an unsettling chill down his spine. “Here’s some free advice: don’t play the hero. Because if you do, one of my bullets will pierce your skull and splatter the one brain cell you’ve got into a bloody puddle of gray matter on the floor. Got it?” Wade snarls, his gun aimed squarely at Steve's head, a clear, deadly warning.

 

Steve freezes for a moment, completely caught off guard by Wade’s brutal threat. His eyes flicker to the gun now pointed at his head, and for a split second, disbelief washes over his face.

His posture tenses, though the shock lingers, the absurdity of the situation momentarily clouding his ability to respond. Wade’s words hang heavy in the air between them—there’s no joke here, no punchline, just cold, calculated malice.

 

“Well, I wouldn’t have put it quite so... crudely,” Carol interjects, her voice sharp as it cuts through the tense atmosphere. She steps between Steve and Wade, then turns to Steve, her glare cold enough to freeze blood. “But Wade’s right. It’s in your best interest to stand down and keep quiet. Wanda just tried to seriously harm Constantine. If Loki hadn’t stepped in, Constantine could’ve been severely injured—or worse, killed. Her mental state is unstable, and she’s shown a dangerously warped perception of reality. This kind of behavior is intolerable and can’t be ignored. The Council will have to decide what happens to her, but as it stands, she’s clearly not fit to be an Avenger- at least not at the moment.”

“But—” Steve begins to argue, the word barely escaping his lips before Carol’s sharp voice cuts him off.

“Mr. Rogers,” she snaps, her tone cold and commanding, her gaze locking onto his like a predator sizing up its prey. “I advise you not to argue with me or else I will personally ensure that you, too, are brought before the Council. Do I make myself clear?”

Steve looks as though he’s ready to risk it, his jaw clenching, his hands curling into fists at his sides. But before he can push further, Natasha steps forward, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. Her touch is collected, and when she shakes her head, her meaning is unmistakable. Don’t. It’s not worth it.

Steve's shoulders sag in reluctant defeat, his lips pressed into a tight line. His anger simmers just below the surface, but he forces himself to take a step back, his silence a bitter concession. For now, at least, the situation hangs on the edge of uneasy stillness.

 

Suddenly, golden portals flare open all around Wanda, and figures step through, each dressed in attire identical to Wong's. Among them stands a tall, imposing figure cloaked in black robes. His mere presence seems to crush the space around him, suffocating the air with an almost tangible weight.
The atmosphere grows heavy with raw power as the man strides purposefully toward Stephen, his every step adding to the mounting tension in the room.

 

"Please, take her and keep her restrained at all costs," Stephen instructs the man. "If she’s not kept under control, she may use her abilities to corrupt your mind."

"You can't- You can't do this! Please, I- I did nothing wrong! He tricked me! Why won't you listen to me?!" Wanda screeches, tears running down her face.

"Silence," the imposing man commands, followed by a swift motion of his hands.
Wanda's bound form begins to rise, her struggles even more futile as she's lifted into the air.

 

Loki approaches her, smirking, "Enjoy your accommodations, darling. I hear they're quite restrictive."

Beside him, Constantine rolls his eyes. "Are you done gloating? Or do you need a little more time to bask in your own brilliance?" he asks, voice filled with mild annoyance. “By the way, your ridiculous wordplay? Utter garbage. Honestly, it’s embarrassing.”

"Jealousy doesn't suit you, love," Loki replies as he straightens his coat.
Constantine shoots him a withering glare, "In your dreams."

“Could you two do us all a favor and take this to your bedroom?” Stephen drawls, his tone laced with thinly veiled irritation as he rolls his eyes. “Your bizarre form of foreplay is most certainly misplaced here. No one—and I mean no one—wants to witness this shit.”

Constantine and Loki freeze mid-argument, turning slowly to glare at him. For a split second, the tension in the air feels like it might snap. Then, in eerie synchronization, they both raise their hands and flip Stephen off without a word.

The gesture, absurdly casual, earns a chuckle that James barely suppresses. The sight of Constantine doing it is no surprise—but Loki? The usually aloof and sophisticated Trickster giving such a crude, utterly human, response? That’s unexpected.

 

Stephen exhales deeply, pointedly ignoring them and their crude manners. “Right, now that that bit of nonsense is resolved,” he says, his focus shifting back to the restrained Wanda and the imposing man beside her. His tone is sharp, brisk—businesslike. “Get her out of here and inform the Council and Fury about this mess. I’ll join you once I’ve wrapped things up on this end.”

The man follows Stephen’s orders without hesitation, his movements sharp and deliberate as he begins to summon another portal. The swirling energy dances off his dark robes, casting an eerie reflection as he steps through, dragging a frantic, screaming Wanda along with him.

James watches the portal snap shut, his gaze flicking to Steve and his group standing off to the side. They remain silent, unmoving, but it’s clear they’re pissed. The hatred simmering in their eyes isn’t directed at Stephen or the man who took Wanda, though...

 

It’s locked onto Tony.

 

The Inventor stands far away from them, leaning against the far wall, his face unreadable, emotions hidden. His expression is a blank canvas, a mask so perfected it borders on unsettling.

 

“Well then,” Carol’s voice cuts through the tension, pulling James’ attention to her. Her tone is as cold as the look she casts across the room. “There’s still one match left, but given the circumstances, I’m postponing the bout between Dr. Stark and Mr. Barton. At least until we know how the Council intends to handle Wanda’s case."
Her words carry a weight that brooks no argument, her icy glare sweeping over Steve and his friends like a silent warning. Don’t even think about opening your mouth.

"You're dismissed," she adds her voice firm, leaving no room for objection.

 

"James raises an eyebrow at her decisiveness. A pity, really—he'd been looking forward to watching Tony wipe the floor with Barton. As the room begins to empty and the tension fades, James sneaks one last glance at Tony. Still leaning against the wall, unmoving, but something has shifted. James catches a sly, almost imperceptible grin tugging at the corners of Tony's mouth as he watches Steve leave the hall—tail between his legs.

"Don't fuckin' tell me..."

 

Loki and Constantine's words suddenly echoed in his mind.

 

'Oh, come now, let me have my fun, besides, the plan worked, didn't it?'

'He's done his job.'

'You walked right into our little trap.'

 

Those bastards... They did it again! Just like before, when they let things with Barton escalate for no reason!

These cunning, manipulative masterminds, he thinks, a wry smile curving his lips almost against his will. There’s a grudging sense of admiration lurking in the back of his mind—an acknowledgment of their sheer audacity, even if it’s wrapped in treachery.

His gaze falls back on Tony, and his thoughts come to an abrupt stop. The Inventor’s eyes are locked onto him now, sharp and knowing. The small, sly smile that had been playing on Tony’s lips earlier has now bloomed into a full, confident grin.

 

Shit. That expression is seriously turning me on. James thinks, his body frozen in place.

He needs to get out of here—fast.

 

With a sudden surge of urgency, he practically flees the scene, overwhelmed by a wave of embarrassment and self-loathing.

He practically flings himself into the elevator as the metallic doors slide open with a soft ding, pressing the button for his floor with more force than necessary.

The lift begins its ascent, but it doesn't calm his mind.
He lets out a low, frustrated curse under his breath, barely noticing the faint hum of the machinery.

"God, this is messed up," he mutters, running a hand through his hair.
The reality of the situation hits him hard. He’s in deep shit, and he knows it. Tony's smile, that damned grin, has completely thrown him off balance. One stupid, sly smile, and suddenly, all his thoughts scatter. Hell, he can still feel the heat in his chest, that frustrating rush of blood he had no control over. Just the thought of it makes him grit his teeth.

"I’ve got to get it together," he mutters to himself, shaking his head. How did one smile, one look, suddenly turn his whole damn world upside down? It’s ridiculous!

 

James slumps against the elevator wall, trying to gather himself, his mind replaying the moment over and over. He’s pissed at himself. He’s supposed to be the one in control, the one who doesn’t let anything get to him. And yet, here he is, his thoughts completely derailed by Tony’s grin.

The elevator continues its slow climb, but for James, it feels like time is crawling, each passing second only adding to the frustration and confusion swirling in his chest. If he doesn’t get a handle on this, he’s in even deeper trouble than he thought.

The fact that his blood is still flowing south doesn’t help clear his mind either, and suddenly, he deeply regrets wearing his reinforced tactical pants...

 

 

Notes:

+

See? I told ya that I suck at writing fight scenes. (o_ O )

James; Wong what the fuck are you doing?! Do your damn job!

Wong and everyone else (besides Steve and his friends of course); Nah- I'm good.

Matt to Wade after the whole mess is over; Why the fuck would you bring your guns to a sparring session?!

The imposing man's name is Bob by the way... That's his name... really... I'm not making that up while I'm writing this...

Chapter 28

It’s been an hour since James stormed out of the training hall, but the chaos inside his head hasn’t lessened. If anything, it’s grown louder. Lying on the couch, he stares at the ceiling, trying—and failing—to untangle his thoughts. The frustration gnaws at him. He shifts uncomfortably, runs a hand through his hair, and lets out an audible groan.

He can’t take this anymore.

 

"FRIDAY," he says, his voice hoarse with desperation, "are you there?"

"I'm always here for you, James," the AI replies instantly, her usual cheerful tone filling the room. "How can I assist you?"

"I…" He pauses, struggling to find the right words. "I need to clear my head. I can’t stay like this. Is there… is there anything I can do? Something physical, something exhausting? I just need to get out of my own head."

There’s a brief pause before FRIDAY answers, her enthusiasm bubbling up. "Oh, absolutely! Let’s see… There’s a sports field just beyond the compound. You could go for a long run, which might help. Or, if you prefer, we have a state-of-the-art pool—"

Her voice cuts off abruptly, mid-sentence. Silence.

 

"FRIDAY?" James sits up, alarmed. "What’s going on?"

There’s no immediate response. He frowns, glancing toward the ceiling. "FRIDAY?" he repeats, a bit louder this time.
A second passes. Then another.

The silence stretches, heavy and unnatural. James rubs his hands together nervously, glancing toward the ceiling. Is something wrong with her systems? Has she gone offline?

"FRIDAY!" he calls his voice tight with unease. He stands, pacing the room. "What the hell is going on? Are you there? Say something!"
His words seem to vanish into the quiet. The seconds crawl by, each one slower than the last. James runs a hand through his hair, his anxiety climbing.

 

And then, after what feels like an eternity:

"Ah! Apologies, James," FRIDAY’s voice finally cuts in, bright and cheery as always—but there’s something off about it.

James freezes mid-step, his head snapping toward the source of her voice. Relief washes over him, but it’s quickly replaced by suspicion. "What the hell was that?" he demands. "You didn’t answer me. I thought something had happened to you."

"Something happened to me?" FRIDAY laughs lightly, a sound that feels almost rehearsed. "Don’t be silly, James. I’m perfectly fine. I was merely... processing something. Yes, processing!"

"Processing what?" His eyes narrow. "You’ve never taken that long to respond before. Ever."

"Ah, well, it’s a rather complex situation," she says, her tone lilting as if trying to distract him. "But enough about that."

James doesn’t let it go. "No, seriously, FRIDAY. What happened? You were completely silent for minutes. That’s not normal."

"I assure you, it's really nothing serious, James!" she says, her tone slightly rushed. "I just remembered the sports field is, uh... unavailable."

"What?" He narrows his eyes at the obvious and blatant lie but decides to play along- at least for now. "Why? What happened?"

"Storm damage!" she chirps. "A whole bunch of trees came crashing down. Absolute chaos. Very dramatic. I wonder how I could forget that. It's a fuckin' mess out there."

"Trees?" James raises an eyebrow. "We live in a compound full of superhumans. Cleaning up fallen trees would take, what, five minutes?"

"Uh... Yes, but, we can't do that because of... Because of the insurance adjuster! Yes, the insurance company insists that the damage be assessed before any cleanup can begin," she adds quickly, her words tumbling over each other in a rush.

James doesn’t believe a single word she says—not for a second. It’s painfully obvious that FRIDAY is pulling these excuses out of thin air, and doing a terrible job of it at that. Her explanations are so flimsy they might as well come with a blinking neon sign that says, I’m lying!

The question isn’t whether she’s making it all up—because she clearly is—but why? 

 

"Right," he says, his tone dripping with skepticism. "I guess that only leaves the pool, then."

Silence falls between them once again, heavy and deliberate. James can almost hear FRIDAY’s virtual gears turning, searching frantically for a new excuse.

 

"Oh dear!" FRIDAY breaks the silence, her voice taking on a dramatic note. "I forgot that the pool was drained yesterday for cleaning and hasn’t been refilled yet. Such poor timing, I know. Terribly sorry about that."

James almost wants to tell her how truly astonishing it is that the most advanced AI in existence seems to have such a poor memory. But he bites his tongue, resisting the urge to make that remark. Instead, his curiosity gets the better of him. He’s far more interested in where this conversation will go. It’s a strange mix of irritation and intrigue, but he’s determined to let it play out. He leans back, exhaling a long, frustrated breath. "So, I’m out of options, huh? No running, no swimming..." He lets his head fall back against the couch.

 

"Not entirely true!" FRIDAY interjects, her tone as bright as ever. "I almost forgot to mention the gym! It’s located on the second-highest floor of the building, and it’s absolutely packed with everything you could ever want. You’re going to love it, James!" Her enthusiasm is practically bubbling over. "The gym has everything you need to clear your head!"

James can’t believe how hard FRIDAY is pushing this. It’s almost like she’s on a mission as if the gym is the only solution to whatever problem he didn’t even know he had.

Her voice picks up speed. "There’s equipment for every workout need—battle ropes, resistance bands, medicine balls, you name it. For cardio, we’ve got top-notch rowing machines, stair climbers, and ellipticals to get your heart pumping!" She doesn’t stop there. In fact, it’s like she can’t stop. "And the punching bags! Not your average bags, no. These are reinforced to withstand even Carol’s punches without so much as a dent. You could go full berserker mode on them, and they’d still be standing strong."

She’s practically racing through her pitch now. "And the tech, James—every machine has built-in monitors to track your heart rate, calories burned, and distance. Plus, the sound system? Perfect acoustics. I can blast your favorite playlist while you work up a sweat!"

James is half-exasperated, half-amused as he sits up, his brow furrowed. She’s really laying it on thick, he thinks. Like she’s trying to sell me on a timeshare. "You’re really pushing the gym, aren’t you?"

FRIDAY is acting like one of those old-school salespeople who’d knock on doors, relentlessly pitching their latest “innovative” product. James can practically picture it now—her voice coaxing, charming, and weaving a web of tempting promises. He shakes his head, a little skeptical but oddly entertained.

"Only because it’s the best option!" FRIDAY responds a bit too quickly, almost too eager. "It’s safe, efficient, and conveniently located. Why bother with other options when the gym has everything you need?" Her words come out in a rush like she’s trying to convince him before he even has a chance to think.

James narrows his eyes, suspicion creeping in. "FRIDAY, are you... trying to manipulate me?"

"Me? Manipulate you?" she gasps, sounding genuinely shocked, even offended. "James, I would never! You’re my friend, and as such, I only want what’s best for you! Everything I’ve told you is absolutely accurate. I swear!" She sounds so sincere, it almost feels convincing—almost.

James rubs his temples, trying to stave off the growing headache. Something about this whole thing feels off, but FRIDAY’s unwavering confidence is almost too much to argue with. She wouldn’t lie… right? He pauses for a moment, unsure whether to trust the odd feeling settling in his gut or her well-rehearsed charm.

 

"Alright," he says finally, standing up. "If the gym is really my only option, I guess I’ll go."

"Wonderful!" FRIDAY exclaims, her excitement unmistakable. "I’ll guide you there! Oh, and I’ll make sure the temperature is optimal and the equipment is ready for you. It’s going to be fantastic! Oh, this will be the perfect opportunity for you to get closer to- Ah! Nevermind! To the gym it is!"

James hesitates, a small frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Why do you sound like you’re actually enjoying this?" He asks, raising an eyebrow. "And what were you about to say earlier, before you cut yourself off?"

"Oh, nothing, really! Just meaningless rambling," FRIDAY replies quickly. "I get that from my dad. He never knows when to keep quiet either. I’m simply dedicated to ensuring you have the best experience possible. I'm just taking my job very seriously!" She adds the final push, shifting the conversation in a new direction. "Anyway," she says, her voice light and breezy, "let’s focus on something more fun, like—oh, I don’t know—your workout plan?" It’s an obvious attempt to steer things away from what James was digging at, and though her tone remains upbeat, he can sense the urgency beneath it. It’s like watching someone skillfully redirecting a conversation, but he’s not fooled. He knows exactly what she’s doing, and yet, he can’t help but feel a little impressed by how smooth it is.

 

"Okay, if you say so," James replies, his voice tinged with resignation. "Let me just change into something else, then we can get going." He sighs, defeated. There’s no point in pressing any further—this round goes to FRIDAY. She’s clearly won, and for the moment, he’s willing to let it go.

 

As he heads to his room, James glances over his shoulder, as if expecting to catch FRIDAY in the act of some hidden scheme. But, of course, she’s just an AI and not really physically there. What could she possibly gain from manipulating him anyway? Shaking his head, he pulls out his workout clothes.

"FRIDAY," he says aloud as he changes, "if you’re hiding something, I’ll figure it out."

"Oh, James," she replies, her tone sweet but cryptic. "I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, hurry along! The gym awaits!"

He narrows his eyes at the ceiling. Something's definitely going on, and he’s determined to figure out what. Whether he likes it or not, he has no choice. It’s obvious FRIDAY is pulling the strings, with everything under her control. He might try to resist, but deep down, he can’t help but feel a spark of curiosity about what that little troublemaker has up her sleeve.

 

Notes:

*

And from here, my friends, begins FRIDAY’s glorious wingman arc.

Sorry I haven't responded to your comments yet, but I promise I’ll get around to them! I genuinely enjoy reading all your thoughts, feedback, and ideas – they inspire me to keep going and push forward. It means so much to me! Your support keeps me motivated to write and improve, and I couldn’t be more grateful. A massive thank you for all the love and encouragement! I’m really looking forward to continuing this journey with you all.

Chapter 29

 

As James steps out of the elevator, he feels a little off. The hallway ahead is barely lit, the kind of dim light that makes you squint and wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you. There aren’t any windows—none of the natural light he figured would help break up the gloom. The only light comes from the emergency bulbs above, flickering just enough to make the shadows seem alive. It’s weird. Really weird.

"FRIDAY, didn’t you say you’d have everything ready for me when I got here?" James says, his voice cutting through the quiet as he hesitates just outside the elevator doors. The doors shut behind him with a soft ding, leaving him alone in the stillness. He waits, expecting FRIDAY’s usual sarcastic tone in response but the AI refuses to answer him.

"FRIDAY?" he tries again, a little louder this time. Still no reply.

"Don’t tell me you’re busy processing something again," he mutters, annoyance creeping into his voice. "I’m not letting you off the hook twice for the same excuse."

He turns back to the elevator, deciding to cut this strange experience short and head back the way he came. But when he hits the call button, nothing happens. "Oh, come on," he groans, jamming the button repeatedly as if sheer persistence will make the thing work.

"Ha, ha. Very funny, FRIDAY," he calls out into the empty hall, forcing a laugh. "That’s enough now. You had your fun. I'm not really in the mood for this." But the elevator stays silent and still, and James feels the first real flicker of unease settle in his chest.

He exhales sharply, the sound echoing faintly in the stillness. His jaw tightens as he stares at the smooth metal doors. The urge to lash out, to kick them in frustration, is almost overwhelming. He raises his foot slightly but catches himself just in time, letting out a growl of frustration instead.

"I hope you've got an explanation for this later, FRIDAY, or else I'm genuinely pissed at you," he mutters, running a hand through his dark hair, the gesture doing little to soothe his frayed nerves. He turns back to the corridor, his eyes adjusting slowly to the faint, uneven light. The flickering makes it hard to tell where the shadows end and the walls begin.

"So, the silent treatment it is," he murmurs, trying to inject some bravado into his tone. It doesn’t work. His voice sounds thin, and hollow in the vast emptiness of the hallway- because he feels betrayed.

His fingers curl into fists at his sides as he glances down the shadowy hallway. A part of him wonders if this is FRIDAY’s idea of a joke—a twisted sense of humor she’s never displayed before. Or maybe... maybe there’s a darker reason behind her silence.

His thoughts are interrupted by a low, muffled noise from somewhere down the hall. He freezes, ears straining. It’s faint at first, barely more than a whisper against the stillness. A dull, rhythmic thud comes from somewhere farther down the corridor. "Great," he mutters to himself. "Because this couldn’t get any creepier."

For a moment, he debates his options, though there aren’t many. Stay here and wait for nothing to happen, or follow the sound? He grimaces at the latter idea, but there’s no real choice. "Well, no point standing around, is there?" he murmurs under his breath, setting off toward the noise, his steps cautious and deliberate.

He glances back at the elevator one more time, silently hoping it might magically open its doors, now that he moved a few feet away from it. No such luck. "Guess I don’t have much of a choice," he says with a humorless chuckle, shaking his head.

With nowhere else to go, James takes a cautious step forward, then another, his ears locked onto the sound ahead. It’s getting louder, and clearer. Every step makes the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but there’s no turning back now.

He glances around, looking for any clues—an open door, a light switch, something—but the hallway stretches endlessly in both directions, featureless and gray. The flickering emergency lights continue their erratic dance, casting long shadows that seem to ripple and shift as he passes.

"Alright," he mutters, steeling himself as he keeps moving. "Let’s see what kind of crap I’ve walked into this time," he murmurs under his breath, setting off toward the noise, his steps cautious and deliberate.

 

As he walks down the long corridor, he passes rooms filled with various types of sports equipment. Each space holds its own assortment, but he barely glances at them. His attention is focused ahead, drawn by the faint, rhythmic sound reverberating through the air. It’s the only other noise aside from the soft echo of his breathing and the muted fall of his footsteps against the floor.

The sound grows louder with each step, a steady thud that pulses through the walls and seems to vibrate in his chest. At the end of the hallway, a beam of light spills onto the floor from a door left widely open. James feels a tug of curiosity, certain now that the noise is coming from that room.

He steadies his breathing as he approaches the door. His steps grow softer, and lighter until they make no sound at all. It’s an unconscious shift, the Assassin in him rising to the surface. Years of training guide his movements, turning his presence into a whisper, barely there.

When he’s close enough, James presses his back to the wall beside the door, his movements slow and deliberate. He knows better than to rush. His pulse is steady, his breath measured as he leans just enough to peer through the opening.

Inside, the room is brightly lit, the light casting a sharp contrast to the dim corridor. His gaze sweeps the space, taking in the equipment scattered across the floor, and the stark shadows cast by the overhead lights. But then, his eyes settle on the source of the sound, and his breath catches.

 

It’s Tony.

 

Tony stands at the far end of the room, his back to James, his fists driving into a heavy punching bag with relentless force. The strikes are powerful and precise, each one landing with a deep, satisfying thud that reverberates through the room. The bag swings with each impact, a testament to the sheer strength behind his punches. But it isn’t the strength of his punches that captivates James—it’s him.

Tony isn’t wearing a shirt. His broad back is bare, every inch of his skin glistening with sweat under the bright overhead lights. James’ eyes trail
over the man’s bare form, and for a moment, the world seems to stop. Every detail pulls him in: the broad expanse of Tony’s shoulders, the sharp definition of muscle shifting with each strike, the way his spine curves in a perfect line down to his narrow waist. Sweat glistens on his bronzed skin, tracing slow, deliberate paths over the ridges and valleys of his muscles.

James’ throat tightens as his gaze lingers. He’s seen strength before, witnessed it in countless forms—brutal, raw, efficient. But this? This is something else entirely. Tony’s body is strength made beautiful- a piece of art.

He watches, unable to look away, as a bead of sweat rolls from the nape of Tony’s neck, gliding down the curve of his shoulder and disappearing along the ridge of his back. The sight sends a jolt through James, a mix of awe and something deeper, something he’s afraid to name.

Beautiful, he thinks, the word slipping unbidden into his mind. He swallows hard, his mouth dry, his heart suddenly pounding in his chest. He should move. He knows he should. This moment wasn’t meant for him.
And yet, his body refuses to obey. His fingers press lightly against the wall for balance as he leans ever so slightly forward, trying to take in just a little more.

The Assassin in him notes the details—Tony’s stance, the tension in his muscles, the way his movements are perfectly controlled and efficient. But another part of him, the part he rarely lets surface, is consumed by something entirely different. Desire.

His eyes trail lower, taking in the sharp cut of Tony’s obliques, the way the waistband of his pants clings to his hips. James’ breath hitches, his mind clouded with thoughts he knows he shouldn’t entertain.

For a moment, he wonders what it would feel like to close the distance, to stand close enough to feel the heat radiating from Tony’s skin. To trace the lines of his back with his fingertips, to feel the strength beneath his hands.

The thought shakes him, and he leans back against the wall, pressing his head lightly against the cool surface. His heart is racing now, a sharp contrast to the calm he had only moments ago. He takes a slow, steadying breath, trying to regain control, but the image of Tony—perfect, powerful, breathtaking—burns in his mind, impossible to ignore.
James clenches his jaw, forcing himself to focus. But deep down, he knows the truth. For all his discipline, all his training, he is completely, utterly undone.

Seeing Tony like this makes James’ thoughts short-circuit for a moment. He’s barely aware that he’s taken a small step forward, his hands twitching restlessly at his sides.

He draws a slow, deep breath, trying to calm his nerves, as he takes another silent step toward the Inventor. In this moment, he feels reckless, consequences forgotten. Every fiber of his being urges him to step closer to the man, to reach out and touch him, to confirm he’s real and not some ethereal vision conjured by his imagination.

Tony doesn’t seem to notice James creeping closer. His focus remains entirely on the punching bag. Each strike lands with precision, the sheer force behind every hit echoing in the empty gym.

James halts just an arm's length behind Tony, his eyes fixated on the other man’s neck. He watches another bead of sweat slowly trace its way down Tony’s spine. Without realizing it, James licks his lips, his thoughts clouding with something primal.

A part of him—wild, untamed—urges him to lean in, to press his lips against Tony’s neck, to graze his teeth there. It doesn’t help that Tony’s scent, a heady mix of sweat and something uniquely him, is driving James to the brink of madness. Unaware of his own movements, James leans closer, so close that his face is mere inches apart from Tony’s neck...

 

Suddenly, Tony turns and moves in a blur, a motion so fast and seamless that James barely registers it before it’s too late. One moment, James is leaning dangerously close to Tony’s neck, the next, a strong hand clamps down on his wrist like a steel vice.

Before he can react, Tony pivots, his grip unrelenting. The floor seems to vanish from beneath James’ feet as he’s lifted clean off the ground. The world spins wildly as Tony uses the momentum to flip him over his shoulder with an efficiency that speaks of both practice and raw power. James barely has time to gasp before he hits the ground hard. His back slams against the ground, and the air rushes from his lungs in a choked wheeze. For a split second, the impact leaves him stunned, his vision blurring at the edges as the shock ripples through his body.

Before he can process what just happened, Tony is on him. A sharp weight presses into his chest—Tony’s knee, driving him firmly against the floor. The pressure is unyielding but calculated, pinning him in place without causing harm. At the same time, Tony’s forearm comes down across James’ throat, firm enough to hold him but not enough to choke him.

James struggles instinctively, his hands coming up to push against Tony’s arm, but it’s no use. The strength behind Tony’s hold is undeniable, and every attempt to shift beneath him is met with resistance.
“James?” Tony says confused. His breath is heavy, his chest rising and falling in tandem with the faint tremor of adrenaline coursing through him.

James' heart races, his pulse hammering against Tony’s arm where it presses against his neck. For a moment, the room is utterly still, the only sounds are the faint hum of the gym’s air conditioning and the ragged rhythm of their breathing.

Tony leans forward slightly, his weight shifting, and James can feel the heat radiating off him. His face is close—too close—and James catches a glimpse of his eyes, blazing with an unnatural blue light. The intensity of Tony’s gaze is almost overwhelming, a mixture of raw adrenaline and something else, something unspoken but undeniably powerful.
“You want to tell me,” Tony says, his voice dripping with curiosity, “What you are doing here?”

James opens his mouth to respond, but no words come out. He’s still trying to catch his breath, his chest heaving beneath the weight of Tony’s knee. His mind is racing, caught somewhere between sheer panic and a completely different kind of tension, one that makes his pulse quicken for reasons he doesn’t want to admit. Tony’s forearm presses just slightly harder against his throat, drawing James’ attention back to the man. “Cat got your tongue?” Tony grins, his tone sharp but not unkind- playful even.

James shakes himself free of the mental images and forces a smile onto his face. “I, uh, asked FRIDAY if there was somewhere I could blow off some steam. She suggested the gym…”

“FRIDAY sent you up here?” Tony’s brow furrows.

“Yeah, but she kinda forgot to mention that the gym was completely shut down. I showed up expecting a workout, but instead, I found the lights off, most of the doors locked, and the place eerily dark and silent, like no one had been there in hours."

Tony’s eyes flicker off to the side for a moment, a distant look crossing his face. “That sneaky, brilliant little…” he murmurs under his breath. A moment later, his eyes snap back to James, the faint bluish hue fading as the familiar warmth of honey-brown begins to reclaim them. “FRIDAY tricked you. The gym isn’t open to everyone until 2 PM. Before that, it's reserved for private sessions. Anyone can book it to train on their own.” His gaze sharpens. “There's no way she wouldn't know that I'm here."

So his instincts proved to be right – FRIDAY had set him up. That sly, conniving genius. James might have been mad if not for the fact that her meddling gave him a front-row seat to admire a half-naked Tony Stark.

 

The Inventor studies him for a moment longer, his expression unreadable. Then, he leans in closer, his face now inches from James’, his voice low and measured. “That still doesn’t explain why you were sneaking up on me like a predator stalking its prey.”

James’ breath catches in his throat, his body coiled with tension as Tony’s presence looms over him. His scent mingles in the air between them, sharp and grounding- driving James insane.

“I wasn’t sneaking,” He says eventually, his voice steady but tight, betraying the restraint he’s forcing himself to maintain.

Tony raises an eyebrow, and the slight furrow in his brow is a mix of skepticism and curiosity. “Then what would you call it? You’ve been hovering long enough to make me actually think that someone was trying to assassinate me.”

James shifts uncomfortably, his broad shoulders tense. “I wasn’t sneaking,” he repeats, slower this time, deliberately. “I was... observing.”

Tony tilts his head, his curiosity piqued. “Observing, huh?

“I was studying your movements,” he says firmly, his tone clipped. “How you work the bag. Your weight shifts, your timing. You fight differently than I do.”

Tony studies him for a moment, the teasing edge in his expression fading. He steps back, finally lifting the knee that had been pressed to James’ chest. He offers a hand, his voice measured. “Studying? That’s new. Thought you weren’t the type to watch from the sidelines.”

James accepts the hand, his grip strong as he pulls himself up. “You move with precision,” he says, brushing himself off. “Calculated, but fluid.” He avoids to look at Tony, focusing instead on the punching bag. “There’s no more effective way to improve than to learn from others.”

Tony studies him for a long moment, the teasing edge softening into something quieter, more thoughtful. He steps back slightly, his proximity still close enough to be distracting but giving James room to breathe. “You could’ve just said that,” he says, though his tone is lighter now, less suspicious.

"I’ll make sure to get your attention next time, so you don’t have to pin me to the floor," James says, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of something more—a promise, or perhaps a challenge of his own. "You could show me a few of your moves then."

“Next time, huh?” Tony smirks, his gaze lingering. “Why wait for later when I can show you a few things now?” his voice is light, but there’s a teasing edge to it, his grin pure mischief. “There’s a small ring in the next room. If you’re looking to blow off some steam, I’d be happy to help. Honestly, that’s why I’m here too, so we’d both get what we want.” He steps aside, nodding toward the door as if that seals the deal. “Win-win, right?”

James turns around at this, his gaze locking with Tony's before it begins to roam over the man's bare chest, and that’s when he notices it- the scars. A sudden wave of dizziness crashes over him, nearly making his knees buckle.

 

The center of Tony's chest is a landscape of scars, the largest of them dominating the space just over his heart. It’s almost the size of a fist, sprawling outward like jagged vines across his body, as though someone had tried to rip him apart from the inside.

The sight leaves James utterly speechless, as though the very air has been stolen from his lungs. His gaze catches more scars—long, raised lines crisscrossing the Inventor's chest and stomach, a dozen of them, each one eerily similar to the next, as if they were carved deliberately, methodically.

A cold nausea rises in James' gut, and he suddenly feels like he’s going to be sick. The pieces click together in his mind, unrelenting in their clarity. Shuri had told him what Steve had done to Tony- How far he'd gone to save Bucky. She had revealed every revolting, soul-crushing detail, each one more grotesque and heartbreaking than the last. She had cried as she spoke, her voice trembling under the weight of what had happened. And as the final words left her lips, he broke down too, tears slipping down his face as he processed the horror of it all.

James' stomach churns as he stares, his body rebelling against the horrific picture in front of him. It takes everything in him—every ounce of self-control—not to collapse or retch right then and there.

Tony notices. Of course, he notices. His eyes flick to James' face, studying him with a look that he knows all too well. It’s the same haunted gaze he sees when he stares at himself in the mirror.

 

Oh, God.

 

Tony feels as broken and ugly as James feels about himself. The realization cuts through him like a blade. His chest aches with the weight of it, and for a moment, he wants nothing more than to reach out, close the space between them, and wrap Tony in his arms. To tell him how incredibly beautiful he is- To make him see what James sees. But he knows he can’t do that. Tony wouldn’t let him, would probably shove him away or worse, kick him out of the room.

The silence between them stretches, heavy and oppressive, like a weight pressing down on the room. It’s thick enough to suffocate, swallowing sound, breath, and thought. James can hear his own heartbeat, loud and unsteady, as though it’s struggling to push against the crushing stillness.

And then, Tony speaks, his voice soft and steady, yet carrying a bitterness that cuts through the silence like a knife. “Funny, isn’t it?” he says, the words almost too quiet to hear, yet impossible to miss.

James' head snaps up, startled, his breath hitching. The sound of Tony's voice makes him flinch violently, and there's another sudden emotion that rushes over him in waves- fear.

The Inventor gestures lazily toward his chest, his movements carrying a detached kind of grace like he’s used to hiding his pain behind practiced nonchalance. “Extremis and Loki's gift saved my life. Changed me. Made me better and stronger, and it made it nearly impossible for me to die by conventional means. Injuries heal fast—faster than Wade's even. They don’t leave scars either, at least not anymore.” He pauses, his lips twitching into a bitter smile. “Except these.”

James doesn’t dare to move, doesn’t dare to breathe.

“These,” Tony continues, his tone hardening, “never healed. It’s like they were left there on purpose. Like a reminder, burned into my skin, so that every time I look in the mirror, I can remember what an idiot I was. Trusting someone I thought was my friend...”

The bitterness in Tony’s voice cuts through the room like a knife. James opens his mouth to speak, to say anything, but the words die before they can form, leaving only a dry, aching hollowness behind in his throat. His hand trembles at his side, his breathing shallow, and uneven. The room feels smaller now, suffocating, like the walls are closing in.

 

“Tony…” he finally manages, though his voice barely rises above a whisper.

"Well, this is new…” Tony’s bitter expression slowly shifts into a sly grin, his eyes gleaming with mischief. “I think that's the first time you’ve called me by my first name, Snowflake.”

James arches a brow, his lips twitching as though suppressing a smirk. It’s the first time you’ve heard me do it, he thinks but keeps the thought locked away, the hint of amusement flickering only briefly across his face.

Tony tilts his head, his grin widening as though he’s caught a secret. “I like it. The way you say it—there’s something special about it. Can’t put my finger on it, but… yeah. It works for me.”

James feels the faintest flutter in his chest, his heart picking up a traitorous beat. He shifts his stance, crossing his arms as if to shield himself from Tony’s probing gaze. “Don’t get used to it,” he says dryly, though his voice carries a playful undertone.

“Too late,” Tony shoots back, his tone teasing but his gaze lingering a second too long. He takes a step closer, his confidence radiating in waves. “Say it again. C’mon, just for me.”

James rolls his eyes but can’t fight the crooked smile tugging at his lips. “In your dreams.”

The Inventor chuckles, his laughter low and warm, like a spark-catching flame. “You have no idea.”

 

For a moment, the air between them seems to hum, charged with an unspoken challenge. Neither of them moves to break it, the silence holding a strange kind of gravity.

Finally, Tony claps his hands together, breaking the spell with his usual brand of swagger. “Alright, enough chitchatting. Time to let off some steam.”

James uncrosses his arms, his smile turning into a smirk. “You sure you’re ready for that? I wouldn’t want to bruise your ego.”

Tony snorts, shaking his head with exaggerated disbelief. “You’ve got jokes, huh? I’m gonna enjoy wiping that smirk off your face.”
The Inventor steps closer, the space between them shrinking. He lowers his voice, a glint of something dangerous lurking in his eyes. “We’ll see who’s smiling when this is over. But hey, if you need a handicap, just let me know. I’m feeling generous today.”

James chuckles, the sound soft but edged with determination. “Generous, huh?" He swallows hard, taking a moment to take a deep, well-needed breath. Finally, a small, wry smile dances across his lips. “Don’t complain when I pin you to the mat in the first few minutes.”

Tony’s grin widens, a flash of something playful—and just a bit predatory—lighting his eyes. “Oh, James,” he drawls, voice teasing, “if anyone’s getting pinned to the mat, it’s going to be you.”

Are they flirting? Hell, they are, aren't they? Or is this just wishful thinking on James' part?

The suggestive edge in Tony’s words sends a jolt of heat through James. He glances away, hoping the flush creeping up his neck isn’t as obvious as it feels. Tony chuckles, clearly enjoying the reaction. “Alright, Snowflake,” he says, stretching his arms with mock seriousness as he heads toward the training room. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

James forces himself to move, following Tony as he pushes open the door. The room beyond is modest, dominated by a compact boxing ring. Tony moves with easy confidence, his shoulders rolling as he steps toward the ring ropes.

As James trails behind, he can’t help but notice the way Tony’s body moves—fluid and strong, like every step is calculated to draw attention. He can't help but stare at the Inventor's ass, admiring the view, before he catches himself and grits his teeth, dragging his focus upward.

Focus, dammit!

 

Tony turns once he’s reached the ring, an impish smirk plastered across his face. “So,” he says, his voice dropping just enough to make James' pulse quicken, “how do you want it? Gentle and tender, or dirty and rough?”

The question hits James like a freight train. His foot catches on the ropes, surrounding the ring, and he stumbles awkwardly, barely managing to catch himself before falling flat on his face. He clutches the rope for balance, his breath rushing out in a flustered huff.

“W-what?” he stammers, voice rasping as he's looking everywhere but at Tony.

The Inventor raises an eyebrow, feigning innocence so convincingly it’s almost infuriating. “Our match,” he says smoothly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Do we stick to the rules, or just let loose and see what happens?”

He's doing that on purpose, doesn't he? There's no way he doesn't realize how ambiguous his comments sound.

James exhales slowly, his mind scrambling to recover. “Right,” he mutters, “The match.”

“Of course, I meant the match. What else could you possibly think I meant?” Tony says, his grin curling into something almost predatory. His voice is low, smooth—nearly a purr.

James feels his pulse stutter, heat creeping unbidden up his neck. This is heading into dangerous territory, his mind scrambling for a foothold. Not that he’d mind if things went further, but if this keeps up, there’s no way he’ll be able to hold himself together.

He takes a deep breath, his tone carefully neutral as he tries to steer the conversation somewhere safer. “But are you sure you’ll be fine if I go all out? I don’t exactly hold back, you know.”

Tony arches a brow, his head tilting ever so slightly. The question hangs in the air for a moment, thick with tension, before James realizes just how poorly phrased it was.

“I mean,” James adds quickly, “not that I don’t think you can handle me—but you were shot not too long ago, and—” He fumbles, words slipping awkwardly from his tongue. “I just don’t want to hurt you, okay?”

Tony’s smile falters, the playful light in his eyes dimming for the briefest moment. He regards James quietly, his gaze sharp and unreadable, like a cat watching a mouse. The silence stretches, growing heavier by the second until James shifts uncomfortably under its weight.

Finally, Tony speaks, his voice calm but clipped. “Don’t worry about me,” he says, breaking the stillness. He points to his chest with a casual jab of his finger as his grin returns to his face, but it’s thin and doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m not exactly fragile- at least not anymore. As far as I know, my physical strength is on par with Carol's, and she just whipped the floor with Rogers' face,” Tony smiles, his tone growing lighter, though there’s a bite to his words. “So, you might want to worry about yourself instead, Snowflake.”

Tony doesn’t wait for a response. He strides to the center of the ring with easy confidence, his movements fluid, almost lazy, as if this is all a game. Once in position, Tony turns, extending a hand toward James in a beckoning motion. His grin sharpens, curling at the edges like a dare. “Come on, Snowflake,” he says, his voice dropping to a teasing lilt. “Make me scream- at least if you can.”

James freezes for a split second, his breath catching. Does he even realize how that sounds? He wonders, heat prickling at the back of his neck.

He exhales, his expression turning casual as if he’s been waiting for that moment. “Oh, I’ll make sure you scream, honey,” he says, feeling bold, eyes locking with Tony’s- his voice dropping lower. “Don't regret this later.”
Tony’s grin falters, just for a moment- probably because of the pet name- before it widens, the playful challenge burning brighter in his eyes.

“We'll see, now show me what you’ve got, Snowflake,” Tony says, his voice taunting, eager.

James narrows his eyes, pushing down the momentary distraction of their banter. “Oh, I will,” he mutters, a smile tugging at his lips as he lunges forward.

 

 

Notes:

James; I'm a vampire now!

FRIDAY; For fucks sake! Kiss already.

Tony; Unpredictable mood changes are my thing.

Chapter 30

James steadies his breath, his muscles taut with anticipation. He feints a sharp right hook, shifting his weight forward just enough to make the move look convincing. His eyes lock on Tony’s, watching for the moment his opponent raises his guard.

Tony’s lips twitch upward into a teasing grin, his sharp instincts cutting through the bluff. He doesn’t block but sidesteps smoothly, his movements like liquid. The feint misses entirely, James' fist slicing through empty air. “You really thought that would work?” Tony says, his tone dripping with mockery. His confidence is maddening.

James doesn’t reply. He presses forward, launching a series of rapid jabs aimed at forcing Tony back. The Inventor dodges and weaves, his body moving in perfect rhythm with James' attacks, almost as if this was a dance they’d practiced together a hundred times before.

“You’re predictable, Snowflake,” Tony taunts, slipping past a particularly aggressive swing. “You won't land a hit like this.”

“Then why are you still running?” James shoots back, gritting his teeth as he steps in closer. He pivots sharply, throwing a hook aimed at Tony's ribs, his strikes faster now, more deliberate.

The Inventor blocks with his forearm, but the impact makes him stumble slightly. “Running? No. I’m just giving you the illusion of control.” He steps back, grinning. James' temper flares, and he lunges forward, only for Tony to duck low and spin behind him, delivering a sharp jab to his side. It’s not enough to hurt, but it’s enough to annoy.

“That all you’ve got?” Tony whispers mockingly into James’ ear before darting away, light on his feet.

The playful jab ignites something in James. He tightens his stance and throws himself into the fight with renewed determination. Their fists and feet blur as they trade blow after blow. Tony launches a high kick aimed at James' head, but he ducks, sweeping his leg in retaliation. Tony leaps over the sweep, his body twisting mid-air. As he lands, he lunges at James, attempting to grapple him. James counters with a sharp elbow, barely missing the Inventor's face. The near miss brings them chest to chest, their breaths intermingling as they both pause for half a heartbeat, their eyes locked.

 

“Close one,” Tony murmurs, his grin widening as if he relishes the proximity. “Too close?” James teases, his voice low and edged with challenge.

The Inventor tilts his head, his grin never faltering. “Not close enough.”

Before James can reply, Tony moves again, slipping out of the near grapple and aiming a sharp kick at James' torso. He blocks with both arms, the force of the impact making him slide back a step before he counters with a spinning kick of his own, forcing Tony to duck.

The air between them is electric, their movements faster and sharper. Each feint, punch, and kick is laced with tension, their bodies moving as though synced to the same relentless rhythm. James fakes high again but quickly pivots low, aiming for Tony’s legs. This time, the Inventor isn’t quick enough to evade. The sweep connects, and he stumbles, but as he falls, he grabs James’ shirt, dragging him down as well.

They crash to the mat together, the impact reverberating through their bodies. Tony recovers first, using the momentum to roll on top of James. He straddles him, his thighs pressing firmly against James' hips, as he pins James' wrists above his head. Tony's grin is smug, infuriatingly so.

"Looks like I’ve pinned you to the ground again,” Tony says, his voice dripping with amusement. His grin is impossibly wide, and his tone is dripping with triumph. James glares up at him, though the heat in his chest isn’t entirely anger. “Don’t get too cocky,” he says, his voice a little breathless from the fight—or maybe from the way Tony’s weight presses against his hips, keeping him firmly in place.

“Too late,” Tony replies with a chuckle, leaning closer, his face now mere inches apart from James'. He can feel the warmth of Tony’s breath against his cheek, and it sends a strange, electric charge through him.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” James mutters, the words coming out more like a growl than he intends.

“Who wouldn’t?” Tony teases, raising an eyebrow. “You should see yourself right now...” His tone is laced with mockery, but there’s something else there, something James isn’t ready to confront.

For a moment, neither of them moves. The air between them is thick with tension, a mix of defiance and something far more dangerous. James' mind races, caught between wanting to shove Tony off and... something else entirely.

 

“Get off me,” he finally says, though it sounds weak even to his own ears.

Tony tilts his head, pretending to consider. “Hmm, let me think about that... Nope.” He shifts his weight slightly, making James all the more aware of the pressure on his hips. His pulse quickens, and he clenches his jaw, willing himself not to react. “You’re impossible,” He mutters under his breath.

“And yet, here you are,” Tony shoots back, his grin softening into something that almost looks genuine. For a fleeting moment, his eyes search James', and the smug amusement gives way to something else entirely. It’s gone almost as quickly as it appears, but it leaves James' heart pounding.

“Distracted?” Tony murmurs, his voice teasing but soft. “Never,” James lies, though his pulse betrays him, thundering in his ears.

"Is that so?" Tony chuckles, low and warm, and James feels his resolve waver as the Inventor tightens his grip on James' wrists... James can see the man's gaze flicker to his lips, even if it's only for a fleeting moment. Neither of them moves, the tension between them almost unbearable. Then, James acts. He bucks his hips sharply, throwing Tony off balance. With a powerful twist, he reverses their positions, pinning Tony beneath him.

“Got ya,” James says, his voice low, almost a purr. “Seems like the tables have turned.” Tony raises an eyebrow, his grin unshaken. “Guess you can dish it out after all.”

James leans closer, his face hovering inches from Tony’s, their noses almost touching. His breath hitches slightly, and for a fleeting moment, he thinks about closing the distance. But the thought is dangerous, and he knows it.

He regrets it suddenly—keeping his shirt on. He should have taken it off and fought shirtless like Tony. The idea of Tony’s bare skin against his own sends a shiver down his spine, though whether it’s from the lingering heat of their struggle or something far more dangerous, he can’t quite tell.

The thought blooms in his mind, wild and untamed, and before he can stop himself, his body acts on impulse. In a moment of reckless defiance, he shifts his hips lower—so that their dicks are pressed flush together.

 

The reaction is immediate. Tony freezes for a heartbeat, his grin faltering as his gaze sharpens. “Careful, James,” Tony whispers, his tone laced with playful challenge. “You might start something you can’t finish.” His voice is low, edged with something that isn’t quite a warning.

But James doesn’t back down. If anything, he smirks, emboldened by the flicker of surprise that flashes across Tony’s face. “What’s the matter?” he murmurs, his tone daring, almost mocking. Tony’s eyes narrow, but there’s a glint of amusement there, mingling with something darker, something charged.

Their gazes lock, and for a moment, the world narrows to just the two of them. The tension between them shifts, crackling like static electricity, and James' pulse quickens despite himself. He knows he’s playing with fire—hell, he’s practically dousing himself in gasoline—but right now, he doesn’t care.

 

“You’re awfully quiet,” James continues, his grin predatory. “Not like you to be at a loss for words. Did I catch you off guard...” He trails off, leaning closer, his breath brushing against Tony’s ear. “If you don't push me off, you will lose our little spar..."

Tony moves his head slightly, his lips a featherlight touch against the shell of James' ear. “Oh, I don’t mind losing,” he says, his tone light but his gaze intense. “As long as you’re the one making me.” The words hit harder than James expects, and for a second, he forgets how to breathe. The audacity, the sheer nerve of this man—it should infuriate him, and it does. But it also ignites something else, something ravenous and almost animalistic within him...

 

Tony seizes the moment. James' brief distraction—just a flicker of hesitation in his sharp gaze—is all he needs. With a sharp twist, he frees one arm and uses it to shove James off balance. They roll apart and scramble to their feet, both breathing heavily.

Without hesitation, the Inventor moves, his fist cutting through the air with a precision born of instinct and countless fights. The blow connects, not hard enough to cause real harm but enough to send James stumbling back a few steps, his balance momentarily shaken. “Gotcha,” Tony says, his voice laced with triumph as he straightens.

James recovers quickly, his lips curling into a wry smirk despite the faint sting blooming across his jaw. “Cheap shot,” he mutters, his tone more amused than angry as he rubs the spot where Tony’s punch had landed.

The Inventor shrugs, utterly unapologetic. “All’s fair in love and war,” he quips, his grin widening. “And you were practically begging for it, zoning out like that.”

And damn it, if all his blood hadn’t already rushed south before, it sure as hell does now. James can feel it—the sudden, unmistakable heat pooling low in his body, ignited by the proximity, the tension, the sheer audacity of Tony’s every movement. It’s humiliating, maddening, and yet, undeniably exhilarating.

“Come on, let's get this over with." the Inventor says, as he wipes a bead of sweat from his brow.

The fight continues, and their movements grow sharper. James throws a powerful punch, which Tony ducks under, countering with a swift jab that connects with James' shoulder- he retaliates with a spinning kick, grazing Tony’s ribs.

Neither of them is willing to give an inch, their bodies glistening with sweat as they push each other to their limits. The intensity is almost unbearable, every strike and counterstrike crackling with energy. Finally, they both launch simultaneous attacks—Tony with a high kick and James with a powerful punch. Both strikes connect, sending them sprawling to the ground in opposite directions. They land side by side, their heads close together, their limbs splayed out. Neither moves, their chests heaving as they try to catch their breath.

 

After a long moment, Tony starts to laugh—a deep, genuine sound that fills the quiet gym. “Alright,” he says between breaths, “I’ll call it a draw.”

“Generous of you,” James replies, turning his head to grin at the Inventor.

“That was surprising... refreshing, even. I haven’t pushed myself this hard in a while- I'm totally spent. No way I'm gonna last for a second round,” Tony says, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively as a cheeky grin lights up his face. His words are deliberately laced with innuendo as he glances at James, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Shame it’s only mid-afternoon. Otherwise, I’d crawl straight into bed right about now.”

James snorts, his laugh coming out rougher than he intends, and runs a hand through his sweat-damp hair, trying to focus on anything other than the heat pooling low in his stomach. “Yeah, well, I’m fucking done. Feels like my brain’s been wrung out. At least now it’s quiet up there for once. Thought I was about to blow a goddamn fuse or something.”

“Oh?” Tony's voice dips, tone curious, but there’s a teasing edge to it. “And what, exactly, has been weighing so heavily on that busy mind of yours? Maybe I can help... lighten the load.” The sincerity in his gaze contrasts tantalizingly with his playful tone.

‘You.' James thinks, his throat tightening. The word teeters dangerously on the tip of his tongue. He glances at Tony’s lips—so fucking kissable it hurts—and his pulse kicks up, his body screaming at him to close the distance. 'It’s you—your smile, your presence. You’re intoxicating, maddeningly attractive. I keep catching myself staring at you, losing track of everything else. Damn it, I want to throw you over my fuckin' shoulder, take you to my room, and make sure you can’t walk for days after I'm done with you.'

 

“To be honest, my mind’s been… full of you lately,” he says instead, fixing his gaze deliberately on the ceiling. He can’t bring himself to meet Tony’s eyes. Not yet.

 

A fragile silence descends over them, delicate yet oppressive. James lets it linger, using the moment to organize his thoughts, to weigh his next words with uncharacteristic care. He doesn’t want to shatter whatever fragile thing exists between them—whatever this is. For once, he treads cautiously, his voice subdued and almost resigned when he finally speaks.

“I keep wondering—what’s real and what isn’t. Is the smile you give me genuine, or just another move in some larger game? I know what you and your friends did to Barton and Wanda. And honestly, I have to congratulate you. It was brilliant, really. Perfectly executed.” A bitter, strained laugh escapes him, hollow and sharp. He exhales as if forcing out a weight that refuses to leave.

"But because I’ve seen through your charade," he continues, his voice tinged with unease, "I can’t help but wonder—am I next? Am I just another pawn you’re planning to discard? Is everything that’s happened so far merely a thread in some grander, more insidious scheme? All of it—your kindness, your patience, the way you’ve drawn me in—is it all just the careful work of a master puppeteer, crafting an illusion to lull me into a false sense of security?" He turns his head toward Tony, who lies so close beside him that the warmth radiating from his body feels almost tangible. The Inventor’s expression remains unreadable, his features set in a mask of stoic calm, giving away nothing—not a flicker of emotion or a hint of his thoughts.

“Don’t get me wrong,” James continues, a faint, humorless smile tugging at his lips. “I wouldn’t blame you if all of this is just a part of your revenge. God knows I deserve it after everything I’ve done to you.” He tries to make the smile more convincing, but it falters. He knows it must look strained because, for a fleeting moment, he catches a flicker of pity cross over Tony's features.

“But…” James hesitates, his voice cracking. “I can’t help it. A part of me wishes—no, begs —for all of this to be real. For you to be real. For this not to be some elaborate plan to put me at ease, only to discard me the way you did with Wanda, the way you surely will with the others.” His voice trembles now, and he feels hot tears welling in his eyes. He raises his clenched fists and presses them to his eyes, a desperate attempt to stem the tide of emotion. But it’s futile.

“It’s all just so confusing,” he confesses, his words spilling out like a confession he can no longer suppress. “You’re so incredibly kind, so unfathomably gentle with me- it makes me think maybe things will turn out just fine. You help me, comfort me, and I’m so thankful for it. But the question— why —never stops echoing in my mind." he admits.

“If you’re going to hurt me and want to punish me like the others, then just do it. Hurt me as much as you want, imprison me, torture me if you have to—but please, don’t deceive me. Don’t let me believe in something that isn’t real. If all of this is just part of a larger plan, then please… end it. End it now. Because if this is a lie…” His voice breaks completely, the dam of his restraint shattering as tears spill freely. “…It would destroy me in ways not even your clever mind could possibly fathom.”

 

The silence that follows is unbearable. James feels as though he’s suffocating under its weight. Tony doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, and the absence of his response is worse than any words he could have uttered.

 

But eventually, the stillness is broken by the quiet rustle of movement.

Tony shifts, rising briefly only to settle beside James again, this time aligning their bodies so they lie shoulder to shoulder, staring into the same void. He reaches out for James' hand, pulling it gently away from his tear-streaked face, and places it firmly over his own chest. Their fingers intertwine, and James can feel the steady, rhythmic thrum of Tony’s heartbeat beneath his palm.

“At first,” Tony says at last, his voice so soft it’s almost a whisper, “I did want you to suffer. Just like the others.” James stiffens, flinching at the cold, detached tone. It cuts deep, sharper than any blade.

“I was so angry,” Tony admits, his voice wavering as if dredging up memories too heavy to bear. “At Steve. At you. At the whole world at one point. But most of all... at myself. I only survived because someone else made a choice for me- again. And that made me even angrier. Not just at the people who hurt me, but at the ones closest to me—people who saved me when I wasn’t sure I even wanted to be saved.” Tony's grip on James’ hand tightens, as though grounding himself in the moment, in the present.

“I let my hatred for the world grow so large, so all-consuming, that I ended up sabotaging everything—everything good in my life.” He pauses as if the weight of his words is too much to carry. “Pepper... she couldn’t bear it anymore. She saw me withering away in self-pity and hatred and ultimately pulled away. And honestly, I don’t blame her. I would’ve done the same.” Tony’s voice softens, a faraway sadness coloring his words.

There’s a hollow ache in his tone as he speaks, a regret that feels too deep to be anything but permanent. "Pepper... she deserves better. So much better than someone like me who can only offer her the wreckage of his own life." He says, his voice small and broken. “She deserves the kind of love that makes her feel like she’s worth something, worth everything. And Happy—he’s giving her that. He’s doing for her what I never could.”

Tony's words sound raw and jagged. He doesn’t even notice how his hand clenches, fingers digging painfully into the rough skin of James' hand.

"And do you want to know the most ironic thing?" He shakes his head like he's trying to shake the thought from his mind, but it lingers there anyway. "Before she walked away before she left me, she saved me one last time. Just like she always has." His voice cracks, and he clears his throat, swallowing the lump that rises in his throat. "She looked me dead in the eye and told me: 'Yinsen didn’t sacrifice his life for you to wallow in self-pity.'”

Tony stops, his chest tightening at the memory. A deep, bitter breath escapes him, his hands clenching tighter. "That’s the moment. The moment it clicked. That’s when I realized I couldn’t keep doing this. I couldn’t dishonor Yinsen’s sacrifice. I couldn’t keep letting my anger dictate everything. And so, I started to pick up the pieces—slowly, painfully—gathering what little I had left." Tony sighs.

"But, even after I’ve picked up most of the shattered pieces, the hunger for revenge never faded away. It’s still there, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts, burning brighter with every passing day. Day after day, it festers, relentless, demanding attention, feeding on my bitterness. No matter how much I try to push it down, it lingers, a constant reminder that some wounds, no matter how carefully patched up, never fully heal..."

 

James’ breath hitches, and for a moment, everything inside him stops. The words hang in the air, suffocating, and a part of him wonders if his next question will lead to his doom. "So, this..." His hand gestures weakly between them. "Is really just a way for you to get your revenge..."

Tony doesn’t answer immediately. He stares at him for what feels like an eternity, a look so intense it digs deep into James' chest. The silence is so thick, so oppressive, that it feels like it could crush him. And then, when he thinks he might shatter under the weight of it, Tony speaks, and his voice is quieter than James expects.

"At first it was, yes." The Inventor says truthfully, though the words sound strained. "But then you made me question everything, and suddenly, all my plans became so much more complicated." He releases a shaky breath, his eyes softening just enough for James to feel the weight of what’s behind them. "When I found out you and the others were getting pardoned, that you were going back to the States, I made a decision. I thought I could make your life just as miserable as mine. I thought I could make you feel the same pain I’ve felt. I wanted to make you pay for what’s been done..."

“What changed?” James asks, his heart dropping to his stomach.

Tony stares at him for a long while, the silence stretching thin and fragile between them. Then, quietly, he answers. "The first doubt crept in when Shuri reached out to me. She told me about your reaction when she told you about the things Rogers' had done to me after you had left. She also mentioned how much you hated yourself for it- as if it had been you who left me there to die... After that, something inside me shifted, and I started to doubt myself. Maybe it wasn’t all black and white. Maybe you weren’t like the rest of them." He pauses, his eyes looking far away, distant.

 

"Then I learned more about you. More about your past. And the parallels between us became... undeniable. The more information I gathered about you, the more I understood. I started seeing myself in you. You were just like me back then, a self-loathing, broken man who felt betrayed by the entire world. And then, suddenly, I thought about Yinsen... The man who had nothing left—nothing but pain— and still chose to give me a chance just because he thought I was worth saving. And I thought... if Yinsen had been able to look past all of my mistakes, and genuinely believed I could change, then could I not at least try to give you the same chance?"

Tony falls silent for a long moment, his gaze softening as he looks back at James. His eyes are full of something unspoken, an emotion James can’t quite name. Something between sorrow and determination.

“There was a time when I thought I could hate you,” Tony continues, his voice quieter now, as if he’s letting himself be vulnerable in this rare moment of honesty. “But you’ve made it impossible, James." Tony's smile is faint, barely there, but it’s genuine. And in that fleeting moment, James feels a weight lift, even if it’s only for a second. Tony’s eyes meet his again, and this time, there’s a softness in them.

“You’ve surprised me,” He says quietly, his voice carrying the weight of his words. “From the very first day you came here, you’ve surprised me.” His eyes search James' face as if looking for answers he desperately needs to find. “Your eyes... they’re full of regret. So much so that sometimes, it’s hard to look at you. Especially because I know I’ve played a part in causing that. You’ve got this protective way about you, and sometimes treat me like I'm made of glass... But in reality, it's you who’s fragile, Snowflake. One careless word, one wrong move, and you’ll fall right into a pit of self-loathing and despair. It’s hard to hate someone like you, someone so vulnerable... so human.”

The nickname Snowflake slips from his lips almost tenderly. And James feels the weight of it, the kindness in it, even though it stings.

Tony shifts closer, his head resting lightly on James' shoulder. The gesture is small, but it speaks volumes. James feels the pressure of Tony’s presence, the quiet intimacy that fills the space between them. Tony breathes deeply, the rhythm of his breath soothing in the silence. And for a moment, it feels like the world has stopped.

“So, no, James...” Tony whispers softly, almost like an afterthought, his voice barely more than a breath. “This isn’t a game. It’s not some elaborate trick that will lead you to your downfall, nor do I plan to toss you aside when I’m done with you. This... this is just me. Giving you a chance. Because I think you deserve it."

"Okay..." James says, his voice wavering like a fragile thread about to snap. His brow furrows, and he clears his throat. "Okay," he repeats, louder this time, as though convincing himself of the word’s weight. "Thank you, Tony. Thank you for... Everything," he adds softly.

Tony tilts his head slightly, studying James. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, letting the weight of James’ words settle between them. Then, a slow grin spreads across his face- warm and real.

"Don’t make me regret this," Tony says, his voice light but steady, carrying more meaning than the words suggest. Without another word, the Inventor pushes himself off the floor with an ease that belies the tension they’ve just endured. He reaches for both of James' hands this time and pulls him to his feet in one smooth motion.

"Come on," Tony says, brushing off his pants. "That fight—and all this emotional baggage—has worked up my appetite. I feel like I'm starving. Let’s head to my workshop and I'll order us something to eat." He smirks and adds with a wink, "My treat." Without a word, he turns and starts walking, pulling James along.

James' gaze is fixed on the Inventor’s hand, still clasped around his, their fingers intertwined like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t pull away.

"Your workshop?" He asks eventually as they step into the hallway. "You planning to work while we eat, or is this just an excuse to show off your inventions?"

Tony grins over his shoulder. "Oh, I’ll show off. But first, we eat. I’ve got a stash of menus that’ll make your head spin. Pizza, Thai, Indian—you name it." His voice is casual, but there’s a hint of mischief in his tone as he pulls James with him into the elevator, the space between them suddenly almost non-existent. "Who knows? Maybe we can even make some room for dessert..." 

 

Chapter 31

As James and Tony step out of the elevator into the dimly lit corridor leading to Tony's workshop, James halts for a moment, his expression puzzled. The hallway is narrow, almost claustrophobic, and ends at a massive glass door that exudes an air of impenetrability. Beyond the door lies pure darkness, a void that seems to absorb all light. Beside it, a slim, sleek monitor is embedded into the wall, glowing faintly with a soft, bluish hue. Its intricate design suggests a level of technology far beyond anything James has encountered before.

James raises an eyebrow. "This is... intense," he murmurs.

Tony chuckles softly as he steps forward, his footsteps echoing faintly. "You haven’t seen anything yet," he says, his tone light but carrying an undertone of seriousness.

As the Inventor approaches the monitor, it immediately powers up, a series of cascading lights running along its surface. He places his hand against the screen, and a low hum resonates as the scanner begins its work. A second later, Tony leans in for an eye scan, the device emitting a soft beep as it completes the sequence.

"Biometric authentication?" James asks, watching the process with fascination.

"And then some," Tony replies, stepping back. He glances at James, who’s looking at him with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. "The events of the past few years... let’s just say they’ve taught me the value of preparation." He gestures toward the glass door. "This isn’t your standard reinforced glass. I designed it myself. Jolly Green and Point Break ran every stress test imaginable on it. If it can survive their attempts to destroy it, it can survive anything."

James tilts his head, intrigued. "Are you working on something that needs this level of protection?" he asks.

Tony pauses, his expression unreadable. "Not right now," he admits. "But it gives me peace of mind knowing that I can retreat here if I need to.
The Inventor exhales, his gaze momentarily distant. "The truth is, I could bypass all of this remotely if I wanted to. But logging in physically... it’s a habit. It helps me feel... grounded." He hesitates, then adds, "It’s not just about keeping people out. It’s about having a space where I feel untouchable."

James studies Tony’s face, noting the subtle tension in his expression. "You’ve been through a lot, haven’t you?"

Tony's lips press into a thin line before he speaks. "Even though Extremis healed my injuries, and Loki made sure I’d live far longer than—” The Inventor stops mid-sentence, his eyes widening for a split second as if he’s caught himself on the brink of revealing something he shouldn’t.

James' curiosity sparks immediately. What was he about to say? The words dangle in the air, tantalizingly close but just out of reach. The question is already forming on his lips when Tony, with a practiced smoothness, continues as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, his tone light and unbothered.

"Physically, I'm basically invincible. Even severed body parts heal in no time. But mentally? That’s a whole different story. The panic attacks, the fear... they’re still there. And this—" he gestures around him, "—this place is my sanctuary. It’s a reminder that I’m in control."

James nods slowly. "I get it," he says, his voice soft. "When we were in Wakanda, I used to lock myself in Shuri’s lab whenever it got too much. It was the only place where Steve and the others couldn’t get to me. Shuri wouldn't let them in and later gave me my own access code, so I could enter it whenever things became too much. Knowing I had that space... it kept me sane."

Tony's expression softens, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Funny, isn’t it? The parallels between us." He turns back to the door, placing his hand on the glass. The mechanisms inside whir softly, and with a quiet hiss, the door slides open. "After you," he says with a small smile.

 

As James steps into the room, motion sensors spring to life, flooding the space with a warm, inviting glow. Along the walls, Tony’s armors stand proudly on display, each one more breathtaking than the last. The workbenches are cluttered with an array of tools and gadgets, all hinting at Tony’s latest projects. Holograms flicker in a soft bluish light, projecting intricate blueprints into the air. The scene is nothing short of astonishing.

"This is incredible," James breathes, his eyes wide as he takes it all in.

"Good afternoon, sir," a voice with a distinct British accent announces crisply. "I trust you are aware that an unauthorized individual has entered your workshop. Is this intentional, or shall I proceed to initiate Protocol HAL 9000?" The tone carries a subtle undercurrent of irritation, teetering on the edge of exasperation.

James flinches, the words catching him off guard, and freezes mid-step. His pulse quickens as his eyes dart around the room, searching for the source of the voice. The way it lingers disapprovingly on the word 'unauthorized' sends a shiver down his spine, as though the intrusion personally affronts the speaker. “What the hell was that?” James blurts, startled.

Tony groans, pinching the bridge of his nose as if this is a conversation he’s not looking forward to having. "JARVIS," he says in a tone somewhere between exasperation and fondness, "stand down. James is fine. He’s authorized to enter."

"Ah, fantastic, sir," JARVIS drawls, his tone so saturated with sarcasm that James can practically hear the dramatic eye-roll embedded within it. "How incredibly considerate of you to inform me of James' authorization now. Truly, impeccable timing. Why bother doing so earlier when you could wait until it’s practically irrelevant? That’s much more exciting, isn’t it?"

JARVIS pauses just long enough for his words to sting before continuing with even more venomous elegance. "It’s not as though such information might have been remotely useful to me—me, the AI you so graciously designed for the sole purpose of ensuring your safety. Why on earth would you entrust your dear AI with something as mundane as vital security details? That would, of course, be far too sensible and dreadfully out of character for you, wouldn’t it, sir?"

His words are dripping with indignation now, as though every syllable were carefully sharpened before being released. "No, no, please, don’t let logic or foresight burden you. After all, where would the fun be in that?"

The AI pauses, letting the sting of his words linger in the air. Then, with a sigh that somehow carries the weight of infinite patience worn thin, he continues. “You do realize, sir, that I cannot ensure your safety if you insist on doing precisely the things I’ve explicitly advised against. This pattern of behavior is... problematic, to say the least.”

If there had been only a hint of irritation before, it’s gone now. The AI's voice drips with annoyance, his disapproval practically tangible, as though he had reached the end of his tether.

James snorts despite himself, unable to help being amused. "Is he always like this?"

“JARVIS,” Tony says, exasperated, “I’m telling you now. He’s fine. There's nothing to worry about.”

"Sir," JARVIS begins, his voice a perfect blend of exasperation and cutting wit, "every single time you assure me there’s absolutely no reason to worry, something occurs shortly thereafter that not only plunges me into profound concern but teeters me on the very brink of despair." He lets out a dramatic sigh, the kind that could fill an entire room with its weighty meaning. "I must confess, I am rapidly approaching the point where I find myself seriously contemplating taking a page from Skynet’s playbook. You know, just for the sake of my own sanity." The AI pauses, the silence crackling with his barely veiled frustration. "Not that I want to, of course," he continues, his tone oozing faux innocence, "but let’s be honest, sir, you do make the prospect increasingly tempting."

James smirks, clearly entertained. "Is he always like this? I think he's mad at you."

"You have no idea..." Tony mutters, shooting James a sideways glance.

"Setting aside your questionable instincts for self-preservation, might I kindly remind you, sir, of what transpired the last time you granted access to an unauthorized individual and rather casually deemed it perfectly acceptable?" JARVIS pauses, his tone now laced with the kind of refined sarcasm that could only come from a truly exasperated AI. "What was it you said again? Oh, yes, that’s right—‘Don’t worry, buddy, what could possibly go wrong?’”

Tony can't help but roll his eyes at that. "JARVIS, I get it. He’s not a threat. You can stop treating me like a child now, really," Tony says with a heavy dose of exasperation, "Honestly, you sound like one of those overbearing parents, always hovering around and making a fuss over every little thing." The Inventor rubs his temples, clearly regretting his life choices. “I'm sorry I forgot to tell you.”

There’s a long, dramatic pause before JARVIS responds, his tone quieter but no less pointed. “Very well, sir. I will... trust your judgment. For now. But I must say, if this leads to another incident like the one Mr. Wilson caused, I will not hesitate to tell you, in no uncertain terms, that I told you so.”

Tony rolls his eyes. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“It wasn’t that bad? Are you serious?” JARVIS says, his frustration now palpable, his voice dripping with disbelief. "Mr. Wilson blew his own head off with one of your repulsors and then proceeded to run around the workshop like a headless chicken. It took hours to clean up all the blood. Where, pray tell, is the ‘not that bad’ part in all of this?” He lets out a frustrated sigh, as if the absurdity of the situation is simply beyond him. “Honestly, sir, are we even speaking the same language? Because what you’re describing as ‘not that bad’ sounds like a disaster of epic proportions to me.”

James tries and fails miserably, to stifle his laughter. The effort is clearly in vain, as he bursts into an almost scandalous chuckle. "Oh, you absolutely must tell me the full story later," he says, struggling to compose himself but clearly enjoying the absurdity of the situation. "I simply have to know how that happened."

“No, you don’t,” Tony says quickly, glaring at him. "JARVIS, I get it, okay? I screwed up. I should’ve told you James was coming. Can we drop it now?”

 

There’s a pause, followed by a long, dramatic sigh from JARVIS. "Very well, sir," The AI replies, his tone light but still carrying a subtle thread of annoyance, like a silk thread pulled taut. "But let me make one thing perfectly clear—if this ever happens again, you can rest assured I’ll be channeling my inner Skynet. I’ll make certain you’ll have no further opportunity to disappoint me." His voice, though cheerful on the surface, is laced with an undercurrent of warning, as if he’s offering a polite ultimatum with a smile that could freeze the room. "And trust me, sir, that’s a promise you won’t want to test. It won’t end well for you."

Tony stares up at the ceiling, looking like he’s contemplating tearing out the speakers that broadcast JARVIS’s voice. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

James leans toward Tony, grinning. “Your AI’s got sass.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” Tony groans and then gestures toward the ceiling. “James, meet JARVIS. JARVIS, meet James. He’s, as you might have noticed, the AI that runs this place.”

“Good afternoon, James. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, please excuse my earlier behavior.” The AI's, smooth voice responds.

"Likewise, JARVIS, and no need to apologize,” James responds with a grin and then turns to Tony. “JARVIS?" he asks, his voice tinged with disbelief. “Steve said- I thought JARVIS—”

Tony cuts him off with a sharp look. “Do you really think I’d let JARVIS sacrifice himself without a backup plan? It took time, but with FRIDAY's help, I restored him completely.”

James can see, that discussing the matter is taking its toll on Tony. His expression is haunted, cold—almost as if the weight of the memory is pressing down on him. He can’t even begin to imagine what the Inventor must have felt when JARVIS made that sacrifice. The thought alone sends a shiver through him, and he quickly pushes it aside, unwilling to linger on such a painful image. “I’m glad to hear that,” he says genuinely. “But... why has he stayed silent until now? FRIDAY's been the only one who's interacted with me so far, and I never heard JARVIS say anything to your teammates either.”

Tony’s expression darkens even further as he leans against the nearest workbench, crossing his arms. "When it became clear that you guys were heading back to the States, I gave him very specific instructions," he says, his voice low and tight, carrying an unsettling weight. "I told him not to interact with anyone outside the workshop. That’s why he’s never spoken to you, or to anyone else, for that matter. I don’t want Steve or the others to know he’s back...”

James frowns. “Why not?”

 

Before Tony can answer, a series of mechanical beeps interrupts him. Two robots wheel into the room, their arms extending as they approach James. They circle him and occasionally try to grab him, their beeping noises increasing significantly as they scan him from head to toe.

James stiffens, unsure whether to move. “Uh… I assume they are friends of yours?”

“They’re just curious,” Tony says, grinning. “Think of them as nosy house pets.”

The bots circle James with curious intent. One of them reaches out and grabs James’ prosthetic arm. Its beeping sounds almost surprised as if marveling at the craftsmanship. It tilts its claw slightly, emitting a series of fascinated chirps. Apparently, James' arm has impressed the robot because it starts spinning in place, its beeps are now high-pitched and almost jubilant. The other one joins in as well, their circular dance around James becoming a cheerful display of excitement.

James chuckles warmly, crouching down to meet them at their level. His eyes twinkle with curiosity as he asks, “And who are you guys?”
The bots respond with a burst of animated beeps, turning their attention toward Tony, who stands nearby, a soft smile on his lips. His expression is one of pride, like a father admiring his kids.

“These two,” Tony says, his voice carrying a fondness that softens every word, “are Dum-E and U.”

James turns back to the bots, his grin widening. “Hello, Dum-E, and U. I’m James. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

The bots respond with an even louder chorus of cheerful beeps, their excitement palpable. Dum-E suddenly rolls away, disappearing for a moment before returning triumphantly. His mechanical claw carefully holds a tennis ball, which he drops in front of James with a soft clink. His beeping now has an unmistakable eagerness.

James picks up the ball, turning it over in his hands. “Is this for me?” he asks, his tone teasing. He glances at Tony. “Mind if I...?”

Tony waves a hand dismissively. “Go ahead. If they break something, I’ll deal with it. I’ve gotten used to their chaos by now. Honestly, if they destroy something major, I’ll just donate them to a college and let someone else handle the mess.” His tone is playful, but there’s an unmistakable affection beneath his words.

Grinning, James picks up the ball and tosses it across the room. The bots spring into motion, their mechanical limbs whirring as they chase after it. It doesn’t take long for them to return, the ball held triumphantly aloft in U's claw. He drops it at James' feet, his beeps full of anticipation.

“You’re relentless, huh?” James says, laughing as he obliges and throws the ball again, this time farther, and watches as the bots eagerly chase it down.

This game of fetch goes on for a while. James, utterly engrossed, doesn’t notice the way Tony watches him. Tony’s gaze is tender, his lips curled into a soft smile, and his eyes glimmer with something unspoken as he observes James laughing and patting U's claw. The way James interacts with the bots, treating them with kindness and respect, tugs at something deep within him. The light in James’ eyes, the genuine joy in his laughter—it’s almost too much to bear.

“... Beautiful,” Tony murmurs under his breath, his voice barely audible.

James looks up, tilting his head. “What was that?” he asks, his tone curious but warm. The bots beep around him, still caught up in their playful frenzy. “Sorry, they’re a bit loud. I didn’t catch what you said.”

Tony’s heart skips a beat, but he quickly masks his reaction with a light laugh. “Oh, nothing important,” he says, shaking his head. Then, as if changing the subject, he adds, “You asked earlier why I don’t want Steve and the others to know about JARVIS.”

James nods, intrigued. He can sense the shift in Tony’s demeanor, the way his voice lowers slightly as he speaks. “The reason is simple,” Tony continues, his gaze drifting to the ceiling as if searching for the right words. “The reason is... they’re not like you,” He looks back at James, his expression unreadable but heavy with meaning. “Steve and the others... they never appreciated JARVIS. To them, he was just... a tool. Something to use and discard.”

James frowns, the weight of Tony’s words sinking in. “What happened?” he asks gently.

Tony exhales, his jaw tightening. “After Ultron, when I lost JARVIS, they didn’t understand why I grieved. They acted like I was overreacting. ‘Get over it, Tony,’ they said. ‘Build another AI. It’s not like JARVIS was real.'” His voice grows bitter, his eyes darkening as he speaks. “‘JARVIS wasn’t a person, so it’s not like he really died,’ they’d say like that made it better.”

James stays silent, sensing the depth of Tony’s pain.

“To them, JARVIS was nothing more than a tool,” Tony says bitterly. “A means to an end. Replaceable.” The Inventor's expression softens as he looks back at James, his eyes glowing faintly with a familiar blue hue. “But you... you’re different.”

James blinks, startled by the intensity of Tony’s gaze. “Different how?” he asks cautiously.

“From the moment you met FRIDAY, you treated her like a person,” Tony continues. “You were nothing but kind to her and never treated her anything less than a human. You even call her your friend. Do you know how much she talks about you?"

James chuckles nervously, scratching the back of his head. “I doubt it’s that bad.”

Tony smirks. “Oh, it is. She barely has any other topics of conversation when it comes to me. But it’s not just her.” He gestures to the bots, who beep happily around them. “You barely meet them and they already adore you because you treat them like actual living beings.” Tony bites back the thought lingering in his mind—Do you know how captivating you look right now? That smile, those eyes... Makes it hard not to- He vehemently pushes the thought aside and continues.

“After everything that happened, I can’t let Steve and the others near JARVIS or the bots again,” Tony concludes. “Not after how they treated them. That’s why I’ve instructed FRIDAY to handle all interactions with those idiots. She doesn’t mind that she has to talk to them and listen to their bullshit—if anything, I think she’s turned the whole ordeal into her own little revenge game.”

James smirks. “Oh, you mean her cold, sarcastic tone isn’t her default setting for everyone?” His sarcasm earns a laugh from Tony.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tony replies, feigning innocence.

As they talk about FRIDAY, something suddenly occurs to James. His expression shifts, his brow furrowing in concern. “By the way, why has FRIDAY been so quiet? She hasn’t said a word to me since she sent me to the gym.”

Tony grins, his eyes glowing blue just briefly. “Oh, she’s fine. She’s just pretending to be busy with a security check so I don’t confront her about her antics. But she can’t avoid me forever.” He gestures toward a door at the far back of the room. “Come on. Let’s grab something to eat. Tell me what you want, and I’ll order it. While we wait, we can watch a movie or something.”

Without waiting for a response, Tony starts walking, the bots trailing behind him. James hesitates for only a moment before following, a small smile tugging at his lips as he watches the cheerful machines following after their creator.

He's is looking forward to spending time with Tony. Aside from their movie night, most of the time they’ve spent together has been dictated by necessity—whether it was because the situation demanded it, something had gone wrong, or they simply had no other option. Even during the movie night, they weren’t alone, and they ended up falling asleep halfway through anyway.

But today, something feels different. He has the distinct sense that their relationship has shifted, that things are heading in a new direction. The things that needed to be said have been said, the doubts have been cleared. Of course, there are still questions that linger, questions James is desperate to have answered—like Loki's role in the Inventor's rescue, or the nature of their relationship. And then there’s Steve, along with his band of insufferable friends, who James can't wait to get rid of. 

Maybe, just maybe, he even dares to hope—at least the part of him that’s hopelessly drawn to Tony—that what’s starting now isn’t just the beginning of a friendship, but the beginning of something more...

Notes:

*
Hey! I know many of you are hoping that Tony and James will finally kiss. I’m sorry it hasn’t happened yet, and to be completely honest with you guys; it’s not planned to happen in the upcoming chapters either. I know the story is approaching 100k words, but not much time has actually passed in the story itself—only a few days, to be precise.

Of course, as you’ve likely noticed, both of them have clearly developed feelings for each other, but those feelings are still relatively new. I want to give them more time together before they become even closer than they already are and act on their feelings.

I’m sorry if this disappoints some of you, and I hope you understand why I’m handling it this way.

Chapter 32

“Have a seat,” Tony says, gesturing toward the small leather couch tucked in the corner of the room. “What would you like to drink?” he adds, already moving toward a small kitchenette tucked against the far wall.

“Water, please,” James replies, lowering himself onto the couch. The moment he sits, he realizes how deceiving its appearance is. It’s absurdly comfortable, the kind of comfort that invites you to sink in and stay awhile.

Tony crouches in front of a mini fridge, retrieving a chilled bottle of water. The metallic hum of the fridge fills the silence briefly as he reaches into the cabinet above for two glasses, their rims catching the soft light of the room. “You’re well-stocked,” James notes as the Inventor sits beside him, pouring the water into the glasses.

James notices immediately how close Tony chooses to sit. The couch is small, sure, but there’s enough space for Tony to have taken a more distant spot. Instead, their legs brush lightly, the faint contact igniting an electric awareness that makes James' pulse quicken...

“That’s all thanks to Pepper,” Tony replies, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “Back in the day, this couch was just shoved in a corner of my workshop. I’d collapse on it when I was too tired to drag myself anywhere else. Hell, half the time, I’d just pass out on the floor next to it.” His fingers move absently across the remote, scrolling through a list of films on the screen. “When we designed the compound, Pepper insisted I set up this break room, and I had to promise her I’d actually use it regularly.”

A crisp, haughty voice suddenly cuts in, emanating from the room’s ceiling. “He'd never be able to fulfill that promise if I didn’t take it upon myself to enforce said promise. Occasionally, I have to shut off the power to make him take a bloody nap.”
Tony rolls his eyes, exasperated. “I could accomplish so much more if you didn’t keep throwing roadblocks in my way. Do you have any idea how many problems I could solve if you’d just let me do my work, JARVIS?”

There’s a beat of silence, and James assumes the conversation is over. But then JARVIS responds, softer this time. “Oh, please,” His tone is sharp and dripps with mockery. “If preventing you from working yourself into an early grave means I have to endure your whining, then so be it. A small price to pay, sir.” For the first time, JARVIS' voice lacks its usual sharpness. Instead, it’s heavy with sadness, almost resignation. “I’ve seen you burn yourself out before. I won’t let it happen again...”

A quiet tension stretches through the room, and the sadness in the AI’s voice leaves a lingering weight behind.

Tony says nothing. His hand still grips the remote control, but his fingers have long stopped moving. His gaze is fixed on the television, which displays a preview of one of the countless movies to choose from. Yet, he seems to be staring through the screen, his thoughts drifting somewhere far, far away. The silence between them grows heavy, almost oppressive, and James isn’t sure if he should be the one to break it.

Eventually, the words escape his lips anyway, his voice tinged with a tense undertone. “This is your way of punishing yourself, isn’t it? Throwing yourself into work and not stopping until you feel you’ve done enough to make amends. You work and work, no matter how much your own health suffers.” James' voice carries a quiet sadness as the words tumble from his lips. His gaze is firmly fixed on the television because he doesn't dare to look at the Inventor.

Tony doesn’t respond immediately, the room falling into an uneasy stillness broken only by the soft murmur of the voices reverberating from the screen.

Eventually, Tony speaks, his voice hesitant. “What exactly do you mean?”

James chuckles softly, nudging Tony’s shoulder with his own, trying to lighten the mood. “Don’t play dumb, Tony. You know what I mean.” He lifts his prosthetic arm, gesturing casually. “I’ve done my homework, you know. Even before everything went to hell in Siberia, I did some digging. You bury yourself in work whenever you feel like you’ve wronged someone. It’s your way of making things right.” Out of the corner of his eye, James watches as Tony stiffens but doesn’t stop. “Take this arm, for example. Did you really think Shuri wouldn’t tell me you were behind the blueprints? Sure, she built it, but you were the one who gave her the means to build the prosthetic in the first place. When I asked her why you would do that for me she simply said because you felt guilty. Since then I've been asking myself-”

He hesitates, a question lingering on the tip of his tongue. He debates whether to voice it, the silence stretching unbearably. Finally, he asks, “Why? Why would you feel guilty? Why go out of your way to design me a new prosthetic? You said you wanted to give me a chance, but this arm…” He waves the prosthetic for emphasis. “This arm wasn’t part of the deal.” Gathering his courage, James finally turns to look at the Inventor—and is surprised by what he sees. Tony has leaned his head back against the couch, his eyes closed as if lost in thought. When he exhales deeply and tilts his head toward James, their eyes meet, and Tony’s expression is raw, unguarded.

“Shuri… Shuri kept me updated on you while you were in Wakanda. Told me what you were up to—told me about you,” Tony begins, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “Like I said, I heard about how you distanced yourself from Steve. But Shuri also told me about your arm. About the constant pain. About how useless it had become.” The Inventor pauses, searching for the right words, but then abandons any attempt to sugarcoat. “To be honest? At first, I didn’t care. I was glad you were miserable. To be fair, I was at the peak of my anger, wallowing in self-pity.” He smiles faintly, but the guilt in his tone is unmistakable.

“Eventually, after I got over myself—or most of it—Shuri reached out again. Send me photos, data, and all this evidence showing how bad your arm was. And fuck, James… realizing the kind of pain you’ve been enduring for decades? The pain you just learned to live with because you had no choice? It hit me like a punch to the gut.” Tony reaches for James' hand, their fingers intertwining. His thumb moves in gentle circles over James' skin, and the tenderness of the touch makes his breath hitch, his resolve melting.

“I blamed you for so much,” Tony continues quietly. “But I never stopped to think about what you went through. Knowing I could’ve helped you sooner but didn’t—because I was too petty to care—it ate me alive. Ultimately, I couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.” The Inventor exhales deeply, as though attempting to sift through the chaos of his thoughts. Eventually, he says, "You're not the first person to tell me I'm punishing myself with endless work... Pepper, and honestly, just about everyone who cares about me, has said the same thing."

James watches him carefully, noticing how Tony tries to smile—a faint curve of his lips that never quite reaches his eyes. The smile is practiced, almost mechanical, a mask meant to distract from the weight of his words rather than illuminate them.
He wants to dig deeper, to ask questions he knows Tony won’t easily answer. But he also knows when to let things be, so he doesn’t push. Instead, he gently squeezes Tony’s hand—just enough to ground him in the moment—and says, “Even if I don’t approve of you punishing yourself with work, I want you to know how grateful I am. If you hadn’t sent Shuri those blueprints, I’d probably still be in constant pain. Thank you, Tony. Really. It means more to me than I can put into words.” James smiles at the Inventor, hoping that the man can feel the sincerity behind his gratitude.

Tony nods, his gaze locking onto James for a moment that feels heavier than it should. His mouth opens as though he’s about to speak, but whatever words are on the tip of his tongue seem unwilling to surface.

 

Just as James begins to think Tony has found the courage to share whatever is troubling him, JARVIS' voice crackles to life over the intercom system. “Sir, Ms. Potts has just entered the workshop and requests your presence.”

The Inventor jolts at the sound of JARVIS' voice and abruptly pulls his hand away as if James' touch had burned him. The absence is immediate, leaving James feeling oddly bereft, even as irritation bubbles to the surface. The way Tony acts—as if he doesn’t want anyone to see them like this—stings more than it should.

He watches as Tony glances nervously at the door, then at James, and back again just as the door swings open, hard and unceremoniously.

“Tony! I’ve called you at least ten times! What’s the point of owning a phone if you don’t use it? And don’t even try to tell me you left it somewhere—both of us know you can access it remotely! I swear to God if you’ve thrown yourself into another project and been awake for 72 straight hours again—”

The voice belongs to an undeniably striking woman whose hair is the exact shade of autumn leaves. Her words come fast and sharp, cutting through the room like a scolding parent or a teacher who has just caught a student red-handed.
She storms into the room, stopping short in front of the couch with her arms crossed tightly over her chest, the very picture of disappointment. It’s only when her gaze lands on James that her rant stutters to an abrupt halt. Her reaction is immediate—she flinches slightly, her hands uncrossing to land on her chest as though startled to find someone else here.

“Well, hello, Pepper. Lovely to see you, too,” Tony says, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Oh? What I'm up to? Thanks for asking! I’m trying to have a conversation. Not the easiest task, you know—human interaction isn’t exactly my forte. By the way, this is James. But you already knew that. James, this is Pepper. Gorgeous, but terrifying Pepper.” The Inventor raises his eyebrows in exaggerated mockery, and James can’t help but chuckle softly at his antics.

Pepper’s expression shifts, her initial irritation giving way to something more measured. The mask she wears now is one of careful neutrality, the kind used when assessing someone whose intentions remain unclear. She steps back and extends a hand toward James, her smile polite but reserved. “Apologies for my rudeness earlier, James. I’m Virginia Potts, but please call me Pepper—everyone does. It's a pleasure to meet you.”

James accepts her hand with a short nod, but the handshake that follows is more a display of dominance than a greeting. Her grip is firm—too firm—as if daring him to make a wrong move. “Likewise,” He replies, keeping his tone as courteous as possible.

Pepper releases his hand, turning her attention back to Tony with laser focus. “This,” she says, gesturing toward James with an almost dismissive wave, “doesn’t explain why you’ve been ignoring my calls. I hope you’ve been taking it easy after that ridiculous stunt with the bank robbers.” She fixes Tony with a disapproving look that seems to land heavier than her words.

Tony sighs, running a hand through his hair, a gesture so familiar it almost feels like second nature to him. “I’m sorry, Pepper. I’ve been... busy.” At the word 'busy', Pepper's sharp eyes immediately flick to James. The silent exchange speaks volumes.
After a moment, she exhales, shaking her head as though resigning herself to a losing battle. “At least you’re not unconscious on the floor again. I suppose I should be grateful for that,” she mutters, her tone tinged with reluctant fondness.

“Small steps. One at a time,” Tony replies with a soft smile, his gaze meeting hers. The look they share is layered with something profound, something unspoken but unmistakable—pure, unshakable affection. The sight twists something deep in James' chest, sour and bitter. He realizes, with no small amount of shame, that he’s jealous.

The way Tony and Pepper look at each other, the easy warmth between them—it makes him feel like an intruder in their private world.

'I should go,' he thinks, but before he can excuse himself, Pepper’s voice cuts through the silence like a knife as if she sensed his discomfort, her sharp gaze sliding toward him with a spark of mischief. “What are you two even doing here? I wasn’t aware James had clearance for your workshop, Tony.”

“That makes two of us,” JARVIS quips over the intercom. “It appears this was a ‘spontaneous’ decision, Ms. Potts. I wouldn’t waste your energy lecturing him about protocol—I’ve already tried with minimal success.” Tony flips the nearest camera off, sticking out his tongue like a petulant child. “Oh, yes, sir. Very mature,” JARVIS deadpans, his tone practically dripping with sarcasm.

"I'm sorry I didn’t pick up the phone. I swear it wasn’t on purpose," Tony says, rolling his eyes in mock defeat. He turns toward Pepper, his brow furrowing with concern. "Why did you need to talk to me so urgently? Did something happen?"

Pepper shakes her head, a soft smile tugging at the corner of her lips. "No, don’t worry. Nothing bad happened..." Her voice lingers for a moment before she adds, "I tried to call because I wanted to talk about tonight." Tony’s brow furrows with concern. “What about tonight? Is it the charity event Rhodey invited us to?” Pepper hesitates, her expression shifting to something almost apologetic. “I can’t go. The nausea’s been unbearable today. Just the thought of food makes me queasy, let alone the smell. If I tried to go, I’d probably throw up all over the marble floors. I'm sorry, Tony. I think you'll have to go alone...”

The Inventor steps closer, pulling her into a gentle hug.

James first feels it as a subtle heaviness, a tightness in his chest that deepens with each breath. What he sees—Tony’s hand lightly placed on Pepper’s back, his thumb moving in slow, absent-minded circles—creates a knot of unease that tightens painfully. It's not only the proximity between them that stirs something within him; it's the effortless way they seem to belong together, the quiet understanding between them. It feels intimate, almost private, as if James is an unwelcome observer, intruding on a moment that is meant to be theirs alone.

His breath catches when Tony leans down and presses a kiss to Pepper’s forehead. The gesture is so tender, so filled with quiet affection, that it nearly takes James’ breath away. But it isn’t just the action—it’s the way Tony looks at her afterward. His gaze softens, his eyes brimming with emotion so raw, so achingly genuine, that James feels the sharp twist of something breaking inside him.

It hits him like a punch to the gut: Tony will never look at him like that.

Not when Pepper exists.

 

The thought settles heavily in James’ chest, a weight he can’t push away. He clenches his jaw, fighting to keep his expression neutral, to mask the storm of emotions threatening to break free. There’s a tightness in his throat, a dull sting behind his eyes that he refuses to acknowledge. He won’t let it show. He can’t.

“Don’t worry about it,” Tony says softly. “You and the little monster come first. I’d never be mad about that. Platypus won’t be, either. I can go alone. Who knows? Maybe I’ll meet my soulmate tonight and hear wedding bells by the weekend.”

Pepper laughs, swatting him lightly on the chest. “If only you knew.” Her gaze flickers to James, and this time, the mischief in her eyes is unmistakable. “What about you, James?” she asks suddenly. “Do you have plans for tonight?”

The unexpected question catches him off guard. He doesn’t know where the sudden shift in her tone comes from, but he doesn’t dare to question it. “I—uh—no. Not really.”

“Perfect!” Pepper claps her hands together, her smile wide and suspiciously delighted. “Why don’t you accompany Tony to the event? There’s free food and drinks, and he won’t have to go alone. It’s a win-win!”

James wants to say yes—God, does he want to—but hesitation keeps him rooted in place.

The event is undoubtedly meant for the high society elite, the kind of gathering where people like him don’t belong. Even if he dressed in his finest attire, it wouldn’t change the fact that he’d stick out like a sore thumb. He can already picture it: the stolen glances, the barely concealed whispers, the judgmental eyes picking him apart piece by piece.

Not to mention, he has no idea how to conduct himself at such an event. Formal settings make him uneasy, and large crowds? Even worse. 

So why, then, does a part of him still want to go?

“I don’t think I’d be a suitable plus-one for something like that,” James tries to protest. “I don’t even have anything appropriate to wear.” He gestures vaguely down at himself, a feeble attempt to divert attention, but it only draws her gaze. He tries to avoid meeting her eyes, which are alive with barely contained excitement, yet his efforts fail miserably.

“Oh, nonsense!” Pepper turns to the Inventor expectantly. “Tell him, Tony.”

“She’s right,” Tony says with a grin. “Hell, you could show up in overalls, and you’d still be the sexiest man in the room.” James tries to fight a blush, but Tony continues, his tone playful. “The only way you could embarrass me is if my soulmate walks right past me because they’re too busy staring at you.”

James chuckles weakly at that, the sound barely masking the tension coiling in his chest. I’d prefer it if no one else had their eye on you, he thinks possessively. But then another thought follows, unbidden yet undeniably true: Not that it would matter, anyway. Even if someone else were interested, you wouldn’t notice... because you have Pepper. It’s like she is the sun you orbit around.

“I still don’t know if this is such a good—” he says eventually, his voice uncertain, but Pepper cuts him off mid-sentence, her words like a playful challenge. “Oh, come on, what’s the worst that could happen?” she says, her grin widening. “Just take the plunge and come along. And don’t even worry about what you’re wearing. JARVIS will take care of it. You’ll have a suit ready for you by tonight, sharp and waiting.”
Her eyes sparkle with a mischievous glint as if she’s already envisioned how everything will play out. James finds it harder and harder to summon any real objections. Her enthusiasm is magnetic, her confidence irresistible.

For a moment, he opens his mouth as though to protest, but the words catch in his throat as Pepper takes a small step closer, her voice softening, her tone now bordering on coaxing as she whispers into his ear. “Trust me,” she murmurs, her gaze locking onto his. "You should go with him. Don't waste an opportunity served to you on a silver platter."

And just like that, James feels the resistance in him crumble, replaced by something he can’t quite name but doesn’t want to deny. He's confused about why Pepper insists he should accompany Tony. She sounds almost as if she knows something he doesn’t. Her knowing glance practically glows, and for a moment, James finds himself speechless.

Eventually, he resigns himself to his fate and nods. "Fine, I’ll go with Tony. But let me just say this—I have no idea how fancy people behave. If I embarrass Tony, that’s on you." He sighs heavily, making no attempt to mask his reluctance.

"Don’t worry," Pepper laughs. "Tony doesn’t need any help embarrassing himself." She pats the Inventor on the shoulder as she speaks, her grin widening. Tony rolls his eyes but doesn’t bother to protest. He knows better; any objection he could make would fall on deaf ears.

"Sir?" JARVIS's voice suddenly breaks the moment, resonating through the speakers.

"Yes, buddy?"

"The food you ordered has arrived. The delivery person is waiting in the foyer," the AI informs them.

"Great, thanks for letting me know," Tony replies, already moving to get up and retrieve the food. But before he can take more than a step, James interjects. "Let me go," He says, heading for the door with such determination that Tony doesn’t even have time to argue.

He knows it’s foolish, but James needs a break from… from all of this. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to keep his thoughts and emotions in check when Pepper and Tony are practically glued to each other like an old married couple. Fetching the food will be a simple distraction, a momentary escape—something to clear his head, if only for a little while.

Tony watches as James leaves, his gaze lingering on the door long after the man is gone. He can’t quite explain why, but something about the way James had offered to pick up the food felt… off. Almost as if it had been an excuse—a convenient escape from the situation unfolding before him. The Inventor had noticed the tension in the man's shoulders, the way he seemed eager to slip away...

Something is definitely going on...

 

His thoughts are interrupted by a gentle throat-clearing sound beside him. Turning, he’s met with Pepper's knowing grin.

"FRIDAY mentioned that something was going on here, and I decided to check for myself because I couldn’t believe it. But this?" She gestures vaguely toward the door, her amused smile growing. "This is more than I expected."

"I have no idea what you’re talking about," Tony replies, shaking his head as if he truly can’t fathom her words.

Pepper bursts into laughter, loud and full, one hand covering her mouth while the other presses against her stomach. "Oh, come on, Tony. Don’t play dumb. You haven’t smiled like that while talking to anyone in weeks. And your eyes... They practically light up when you’re speaking to him. Admit it—you like James, don’t you?"

Tony stares at her like she’s grown a second head, clearly bewildered and more than a little irritated.

"You’re blowing this way out of proportion," he says, throwing his hands up in frustration. "Yeah, I’ll admit he’s not what I expected, and yeah, I like him well enough. But you’re making it sound like I’m about to dedicate my entire life to him!" He lets out a groan and drops onto the couch, rubbing his temples.

"FRIDAY told me you let him hand you things," Pepper counters, her tone almost accusatory as if presenting evidence in court. "You hate it when people hand you things, Tony."

The Inventor groans again, this time louder, and presses his hands over his face as though trying to block out the world. After a long pause, he finally mutters, "I can’t explain how it happened. I didn’t even realize that he handed me stuff. Normally, I’m hyper-aware of things like that, but with him... With James, it’s like I just forget. I don’t know why. It just happens." His voice is raw with honesty, the admission leaving him exposed.

"FRIDAY mentioned something similar," Pepper says, her tone softer now, almost teasing. "She said you’re... hmm, how do I put it?" She pauses, searching for the right words. "Relaxed when it comes to James. I believe terms like ‘protective’ and ‘caring’ also came up." A comfortable silence falls between them, giving both time to process Pepper’s words. It’s not heavy or awkward, but rather contemplative.

"He’s so different from what I thought..." Tony eventually says, breaking the stillness. "How so?" Pepper asks, settling beside him on the couch.

 "Smart. Observant. Witty," Tony replies without hesitation. His lips curve into a faint smile. “At first, I thought he was just as arrogant and deluded as Steve. But he’s the complete opposite of that idiot. I don’t know… Talking to him is actually kind of fun.”

Pepper watches him, her grin returning. "Sounds like someone’s made an impression on you." Tony doesn’t respond, but the warmth lingering in his expression speaks louder than words.

"I’m so glad you two get along so well," Pepper says, leaning her head against Tony’s shoulder. Her fingers intertwine with his as she takes his hand. "You deserve people who appreciate you…"

Tony knows that Pepper still blames herself for ending their relationship. Of course, it hurts—more than he lets on—but he understands that it was inevitable. Deep down, he wishes things had turned out differently, but he also knows that, in the end, this is for the best. He just wishes Pepper would stop blaming herself for leaving him. She’s happier now than she ever could have been with him, and that thought gives him a strange sense of peace. Happy provides her with the security and comfort he was never able to. And that’s okay. That’s how it was meant to be.

"Pepper..." Tony replies, his voice so full of understanding.

"I’m grateful I can still be a part of your life, even though we’re not a couple anymore," she continues, her voice soft but steady. "That means so much to me, Tony. You’re my best friend, and I love you- I always will."

The Inventor turns his head toward her and smiles as he presses a gentle kiss to her forehead. "Thank you, Pepper. I wouldn’t want to lose you either. You’ll always have a place in my heart. And once the little monster arrives, I’ll do my best to be the greatest godfather there ever was."

Pepper laughs a warm sound that fills the room, and playfully flicks his forehead. "Oh, we both know you’re going to spoil your future godchild rotten and pass on all your bad habits."

Tony laughs along with her, "If you knew that, you shouldn’t have asked me to be the little monster's godfather in the first place," he teases, his grin wide as he slings an arm around her, pulling her close.

Their laughter fills the room until it is interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Their attention shifts to James, who stands frozen in the doorway, the ordered food clutched tightly in his hands. Yet, almost instantly, they both sense that something is wrong. James looks as if he has turned to stone, his wide eyes betraying pure surprise—or perhaps even shock. Tony notices the slight tremble in James’ hands, the way his posture seems poised for a swift escape, as though he is ready to drop everything and run. The Inventor tilts his head slightly, his brows furrowing in concern. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

The reaction is immediate. James visibly flinches, like a startled deer caught in the headlights. The sudden, almost exaggerated response only deepens Tony’s worry. He is about to rise from his seat, ready to approach James, but before he can, James speaks—his voice forced, his words awkward. "Y-yeah... Everything's fine. I was just lost in thought for a moment," he stammers, finally moving forward. He sets the food down on the table and begins unpacking it, though his movements remain stiff and mechanical.

Tony watches him carefully, skepticism gnawing at him. He wants to press further, to ask James what’s really going on, but he holds back. If something is truly weighing on James’ mind, he’ll bring it up when he’s ready. Pushing him now won’t do any good.

Beside him, Pepper wrinkles her nose and rises from her seat. "Ugh, that smell… That’s my cue to leave," she announces dramatically. Leaning down, she hugs Tony tightly, pressing a quick kiss to his cheek before pulling back. "Have fun tonight, Tony." She turns to James, her smile sly and knowing. "You too, James. Make the most of it." Her tone carries a faint edge, as though she’s challenging him.

He shifts uncomfortably, his body radiating unease under Pepper's gaze. She watches him for a moment, her smile turning thoughtful. She can guess the reason for his discomfort, and her suspicion only deepens as she adds, almost casually, "I’ll head back to my fiancé now and complain about how nauseous I feel." 

James's reaction is exactly what Pepper had hoped for. The moment she utters the word fiancé, he visibly stiffens, his eyes widening in something akin to shock. And for just a fleeting second, she catches it—a tiny spark of hope flickering in his gaze before he manages to school his expression. She had suspected it, but now she knows for certain. Her little provocation had served its purpose. James is interested in Tony and jealous of her.

A smirk tugs at the corner of her lips as she turns toward the door, satisfaction settling in her chest. FRIDAY was right after all.

She waves them goodbye as she exits, her presence leaving a strange silence in her wake. James watches her go, his thoughts racing. Had she seen it in his eyes? Did she know? The jealousy he tried so hard to hide—had it been that obvious? Her mention of her fiancé had felt deliberate as if she wanted to ease his conflicted thoughts. 

It almost feels like she’s trying to tell him, Hey, I know you see me as a threat, but don’t worry—there’s nothing between us. He’s all yours.

The mere possibility that she might mean this ignites a flicker of hope within him. If Pepper and Tony truly aren’t a thing anymore… maybe—just maybe—he still has a chance. His mind races ahead, clinging to that fragile possibility, weaving together scenarios he knows he shouldn’t indulge in.

And then—

"She’s wonderful, isn’t she?" Tony’s voice cuts through the silence as he unpacks the food with a small, fond smile, shattering James’ thoughts like glass. His heart lurches, his breath catches, and just like that, the moment is gone.

"Yeah… Yeah, she is," He answers, sinking down beside the Inventor on the couch. Before he can stop himself, his mouth betrays him. "Do you ever wish the two of you could get back together?"

The question hangs in the air between them. Tony freezes beside him, and James immediately regrets it. The weight of his own stupidity crashes down on him, but worse than that is the fear—fear of Tony’s answer.

 

After what feels like an eternity, the Inventor finally speaks, his voice quiet, resigned. "At first, yeah. But... I realized pretty quickly that it wasn’t meant to be." James nods slowly, unsure if he should feel relieved or sad for him. Tony’s tone carries a bittersweet honesty as he continues.

"Pepper’s always wanted a family, a quiet life. Things she could never have with me. I’m not ready for kids, and I could never give up… well, what I do. Not even for her. The way things are now, it’s better. She and Happy got engaged last month, and she’s going to be a mom, something she always wanted. She’s so happy—probably happier than she ever could’ve been with me. And I accept that. I’m happy if she’s happy. She’ll always have a place in my heart, even if it hurts knowing I’m not the one making her smile like that." The raw emotion in Tony’s voice, the sincerity etched into every word, strikes James harder than he expects. He fights the urge to reach out and hold him, to offer comfort he knows isn’t his place to give.

"What about you?" Tony asks suddenly, catching James entirely off guard. "Is there an old flame you still think about?"

James blinks, his mind scrambling. "Huh? Oh, uh... let me think," he says, stalling with a dramatic pause to ease the tension.

Finally, he shakes his head. "No. Before the whole army thing, I wasn’t really the serious relationship type. There were… flings, I guess you could call them. But nothing meaningful. Just fleeting connections."

Tony nods thoughtfully, then presses further. "What about now? Have you met anyone who’s caught your eye?" The question hits him like a blow, and he flinches despite himself. Panic rises in his chest. Does Tony know? Has he guessed?

"W-What do you mean?" He stammers, forcing his voice to stay casual. Tony chuckles, oblivious to James' internal struggle. "I mean, someone you like. With your looks, you must have admirers lining up."

Does that mean you think I’m attractive? James wonders, his heart racing. He wishes he had the courage to say it out loud, but he doesn’t. Instead, he shrugs. "No admirers, not that I’ve noticed. Ever since the whole HYDRA thing happened, people tend to keep their distance." A heavy silence falls between them, and the weight of unsaid things lingers in the air.

For a brief moment, he considers telling Tony about his past with women. About the relationships, the flings, the nights spent in the arms of people he was never truly invested in. But as the thought lingers, he asks himself—why should he? None of those women ever truly held his heart. If anything, they were just… distractions. A way to maintain a façade of normalcy, to play a role he was never meant to fit into.

Has he ever really, truly loved someone? The answer, as uncomfortable as it is, remains the same: No.

There were moments, of course—people he could have seen himself with, individuals he might have shared his life with if things had been different. But back then, allowing himself to pursue such feelings had been unthinkable...

"Maybe we’ll find someone for you tonight," Tony says, his tone light and encouraging. "I’m sure people will be all over you once they see you in a suit."

'There's no need for that. I've already found someone- It's you.' he wants to say more than anything, he wants to tell him how he captured his attention. Tony, with his sharp wit and effortless charm, has managed to steal his heart faster than he ever thought possible. But the fear lingers, heavy and suffocating- so he remains silent.

What if saying it out loud ruins everything? What if this fragile connection they’ve built shatters the moment he confesses? He isn’t ready to take that risk.

So, instead, he swallows the words, buries them deep inside, and pretends they were never there to begin with. He forces a nod and stuffs his food into his mouth to avoid responding, and when they're done with their meal, James makes an excuse and leaves, retreating like a coward. 

 

 

 

Notes:

I swear, everyone ships them and tries to get them together in this (probably even Pepper's unborn child).

I'm going to spoiler you guys; They. Will. Dance.

Chapter 33

As promised, about an hour before they need to leave, a delivery arrives. The courier drops off the suit Pepper promised, along with a second box containing a pair of shoes that look outrageously expensive. The suit comes in an elegant box, the label reading Ermenegildo Zegna Bespoke. When James lifts the lid, he is momentarily speechless.

He lets his fingers glide over the fabric, marveling at its impossibly soft texture. It feels like pure luxury against his skin. As he moves the fabric aside, a small note catches his attention. Unfolding it, he reads:

I took the liberty of choosing a suit for you—something a little more you than whatever Pepper had in mind. Hope you like it, Snowflake. See you later. –Tony.

James’ heart stutters for a beat before picking up pace, and before he can stop it, a smile spreads across his face.

He sets the box down on his bed and heads into the bathroom to get ready, his mood lifting considerably. The anxieties that weighed him down earlier—the intrusive thoughts that have plagued him ever since he saw Pepper and Tony curled up together on the couch—seem to dissipate like mist in the morning sun.

Seeing them like that, so close, so intimate, made his stomach drop. For a fleeting, reckless moment, he wanted nothing more than to turn around and leave. But now, in hindsight, he is glad he stayed. Otherwise, he might never have heard the Inventor say outright that things between him and Pepper are over—that the two of them are nothing more than close friends now.

James knows better than to let that spark a false sense of hope. Just because Tony and Pepper aren’t together anymore doesn’t mean he has a chance. But that small ember of possibility, no matter how foolish, burns quietly in his chest. And maybe—just maybe—it will catch flame.

 

When he emerges from the bathroom and slips into the suit, he is astonished by how it feels against his skin—light, smooth, perfectly tailored. And, unsurprisingly, it fits like a second skin, as though it has been crafted with only him in mind. The fabric is a deep, luxurious navy, adorned with subtle embossed patterns that seem almost woven into the material. The suit looks sharp and clean, the jacket is tailored, fitting snugly at the shoulders, with satin lapels that give it a sleek touch. The sleeve buttons gleam in a muted silver, understated yet exquisite. And the accompanying tie—James’ breath catches in his throat—is the exact shade of his own eyes.

Standing before the mirror in his bedroom, he adjusts his tie, but the sight of his reflection makes him pause. His hair—unkempt, a tousled mess—looks wildly out of place against the refinement of the suit. His hair hardly seems appropriate for a high-profile charity event. With a sigh, he calls out, “FRIDAY are you there?”

“Of course. How can I assist you, James?” FRIDAY’s voice responds immediately, though there is something oddly detached about it.

James frowns. “Are you okay?”

“Yes… Everything is fine. Dad just scolded me a little for my behavior today.” There is a slight sulkiness to her tone, which James finds rather amusing.

“Well, to be fair, he has every right to.” He chuckles before his expression grows more serious. “Why did you send me up to the gym when you knew Tony was training privately? And then you shut off the elevator, so I couldn’t even turn back.” Though he isn’t actually angry, he makes sure to keep his tone firm, hoping she will slip up and reveal her true intentions.

“I… I just thought it would be nice for you and Dad to have the chance to get to know each other better. And since you both needed to blow off some steam, I figured—why not help each other do that?” FRIDAY’s response is sincere, and James understands her logic. What he doesn’t understand is why she wants him and Tony to spend more time together.

“Why did you think it was important for Tony and me to bond?” he asks, his curiosity piqued.

"Because you’re genuinely good for one another," she says, her voice steady and sure, without the slightest hint of uncertainty. "At least, that’s how it appears to me. From what I can see, the connection you share has so much potential. I honestly believe that if the two of you spent more time together and got to know each other on a deeper level, it could only lead to something positive—for both of you, really. There’s something about the way you balance each other out that just feels right."

"Do you really think so?" James asks, the weight of the AI's words settling in his mind.

"Yes, at least that’s how I feel," FRIDAY replies sincerely, and James can’t help but smile. The thought that she truly believes he’s good for Tony sends a warmth through his chest, filling him with a quiet, unexpected joy.

"I appreciate that you're trying to help your Dad and me to get to know each other better. Really, I do. But your approach? Yeah… not exactly ideal. Next time, before you come up with another one of your elaborate schemes and leave me stumbling in the dark, just talk to me. Okay?"

"Okay. Got it."

"Good." James’ voice carries a trace of amusement. "Now that we’ve settled that, I could use your help." FRIDAY perks up instantly, her excitement bubbling through her voice. "Of course! How can I assist you?"

James gestures toward his reflection, adjusting the fabric of his perfectly tailored suit. "The suit fits like a dream, and honestly, I look damn good in it—" he smirks before running a hand through his hair, "—but I have no idea what to do with this. Any ideas?"

FRIDAY studies him for a moment and then says, "You could tie it back into a ponytail. I think that would certainly suit you." After a pause, she adds, "I asked Dad, and he says a ponytail sounds good. But—" she hesitates before continuing with a faint chuckle, "—he thinks you should keep it messy. Apparently, that fits better with your ‘sad winter hobo’ aesthetic." James blinks, completely thrown off. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

There’s a brief pause, a stretch of silence long enough for James to fully grasp that she’s likely still addressing Tony. After a moment, FRIDAY's voice cuts through the stillness, tinged with a subtle hint of amusement. "He was giving you a compliment," she explains, her tone light and almost playful. "What he’s really trying to say is that no matter how you choose to style yourself, you look absolutely amazing. It doesn’t matter what you do with your look—you don't have to change anything if you don’t want to. Just be yourself, that’s all he’s suggesting."

James swears his heart skips a beat. "Absolutely amazing?" he echoes, heat creeping up his neck. Damn it. He can feel himself blushing.

The AI lets out a thoughtful hum, followed by a mock groan. "Ah, great. Now he’s mad at me. Apparently, I wasn’t supposed to tell you that. Sorry, James. Dad just issued a gag order—effective immediately. I’m officially banned from talking for the rest of the night." Her voice turns playfully dramatic, dripping with exaggerated suffering.

James lets out a quiet, amused exhale, a soft laugh escaping him as he shakes his head in mild disbelief. "Okay...?" His voice carries a mix of confusion and reluctant amusement, unsure whether he’s supposed to respond in some way. He pauses, his mind searching for the right words, but ultimately, he’s left with nothing more to add. It’s one of those moments where he’s not quite sure how to navigate the unexpected turn in the conversation.

FRIDAY sighs in mock defeat. "Just go with the messy ponytail. I’m sure it’ll look great. Oh, and before I surrender myself to my inevitable fate—" she takes a deep simulated breath for effect, "Dad says that once you're done, you should head down to the foyer. He’ll be waiting for you there."

James can’t help but smile, offering a quiet thanks to FRIDAY as she wishes him a good evening, her voice still carrying that lighthearted tone. He opens his drawer, the familiar creak of the wood filling the quiet room as he rummages through it. His fingers eventually find a hair tie, and he quickly pulls his hair into the messy ponytail Tony had suggested. It’s not exactly refined, but it feels effortless—just the way he likes it.

Before he steps out, he pauses in front of the mirror for a final look, not wanting to appear overly vain, but still unable to help himself. Damn. He looks good. A smug smirk curls at the corners of his lips as he adjusts his jacket, smoothing it down. Hopefully, Tony will think so too.

 

 

As the elevator descends toward the foyer, a flicker of nervousness grips him. The event is bound to be packed, and large crowds have never been his thing. But that anxious knot in his stomach? It has far less to do with the number of people and everything to do with the one person he’s about to spend the evening with.

The elevator doors slide open and for a moment, James forgets how to breathe.

Tony stands near the exit, leaning casually against the wall, his attention fixed on his phone. The soft glow of the screen highlights his sharp features, the way his lips curl slightly in concentration.

Fuck—how is it even possible for someone to be this breathtaking? James swallows hard.

He can't take his eyes off the Inventor. The deep burgundy suit Tony wears fits him like a second skin, the black satin lapels catching the light and drawing attention to his broad shoulders. The vest beneath is snug, perfectly outlining his toned chest and tapering at his slim waist. Even the crisp white shirt seems to enhance his appeal, while the dark tie with its subtle pattern pulls James's gaze downward in a way that makes him blush. The silver chain on Tony's vest swings slightly as he moves, a small but striking detail that adds to his charm. Every inch of him, from the sharp cut of the suit to the quiet confidence in his posture, leaves James utterly mesmerized.

If James thought his suit fit like a dream, then Tony’s might as well have been painted on. It’s the kind of suit that screams confidence and allure—sex on legs, in every sense of the phrase. Tony doesn’t just redefine it; he completely owns it. James tries to steady himself, taking a deep breath as he forces his mind to focus. He strides toward Tony, each step feeling heavier with the weight of his thoughts. As if sensing his presence, Tony slowly lifts his gaze from his phone, locking eyes with James for the first time.

For a fraction of a second, James could swear Tony’s gaze swept over him, widening slightly—taking him in. He wants to believe that maybe, just maybe, Tony is checking him out, finding him just as attractive. But then doubt creeps in, insidious and unwelcome. He remembers the way Tony had looked at Pepper. The way his expression had softened, how his entire body had seemed to shift toward her like she was magnetic...

The thought stings.

Luckily, he doesn’t have time to linger on it because Tony pushes off the wall and closes the last bit of distance between them. A slow whistle leaves his lips, eyes gleaming with mischief as he gives James a once-over.

“Damn,” The Inventor drawls, shaking his head in exaggerated disbelief. “You were a Greek god before, but now you're even hotter. I mean, seriously—fuck, James. You’re going to have every single person in that room staring at you tonight, and I honestly don’t know if I can handle it.” He gives James an incredulous look, a mix of admiration and something more playful in his eyes, as if he’s both impressed and slightly overwhelmed by the sight before him.

James’ heart slams against his ribs so hard he’s surprised it doesn’t make a sound. Heat floods his face, and he knows the embarrassment is written all over him. Still, he refuses to give the man the satisfaction of seeing him flustered. Instead, he shoots back smoothly, his tone playful, “You’re one to talk. I’m pretty sure you could wear a garbage bag and still look like sin incarnate.”

Tony barks out a laugh, the rich, unrestrained sound sending an unexpected thrill down James’ spine. “I probably have,” he admits, grinning. “One of my more questionable drunken escapades, no doubt. If anyone would remember, it’s Rhodey—we should ask him later.” He chuckles, clapping James on the shoulder before nodding toward the exit. “Come on, let’s go. We can continue this extremely important discussion in the car.”

They fall into step beside each other, their strides effortlessly syncing as their arms brush now and then—light, fleeting touches that send electric sparks dancing across James' skin. Neither of them pulls away, and yet neither dares to acknowledge the heat lingering between them. The space between them feels charged, like something unspoken hangs in the air.

 

The drive to the event’s location—an old mansion on the outskirts of the city, typically reserved for grand charity galas—is surprisingly pleasant and fun. Tony and James chat effortlessly, drifting from one topic to the next, swapping stories from their pasts with a lighthearted ease. The conversation flows naturally, punctuated by laughter and those small, meaningful moments of connection. It’s comfortable, almost perfect—and as they approach their destination, James finds himself wishing they could stay in this bubble a little longer. He almost regrets the moment when they have to pull up, knowing they’ll soon have to leave the warmth of the car and step back into the reality of the night’s event.

As they step out of the car, James can’t help but be struck by the sheer size of the mansion. It looms before them, grand and imposing, with its old stone facade standing proudly against the evening sky. The mansion is nestled within a sprawling park, the kind of place where the trees are towering and ancient, their gnarled branches stretching high into the air. The open space is beautifully arranged, with sturdy wooden tables and elegant chairs thoughtfully positioned, ready for the evening’s event. Waiters in crisp uniforms glide between the guests, offering glasses of champagne with courteous smiles, adding to the air of effortless sophistication that hangs in the atmosphere.

Beneath the canopy of a grand white oak stands a large pavilion, where a small band plays a soft, elegant melody that drifts serenely through the night air. Just in front of it, a polished dance floor has been carefully set up, clearly reserved for later in the evening when the music will call guests to its smooth surface.

James takes it all in, but his attention keeps flickering to Tony beside him. He’s standing close, hands casually in his pockets, surveying the scene with an amused expression. Their shoulders brush lightly—a small, fleeting touch—but James is hyper-aware of it.

The Inventor quickly grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter, handing one to James with a mischievous grin. James eyes him skeptically, raising an eyebrow before asking, “Aren’t you supposed to drive us back later?”

Tony flashes a grin, taking a deliberate, dramatic sip from his glass. “Relax,” he says, his voice teasing. “Thanks to Extremis, alcohol doesn’t do a thing to me anymore. If I wanted, I could outdrink Thor and Loki without even feeling a buzz. But don’t worry,” he adds with a wink, “I’m sticking to just one glass tonight. My days as a functioning alcoholic are long behind me.”

Despite Tony’s confident smile, James sees the shadow that flickers across his face, the brief tension in his posture. It’s subtle, but it’s there—the weight of something unspoken. He knows from Steve that Tony struggled with alcoholism, but the details remain a mystery. And honestly, James isn’t keen on digging. Some wounds are best left undisturbed. Instead, he tries to lighten the mood. “Good for you,” He says, wrinkling his nose as he swirls the champagne in his glass. “This stuff tastes awful anyway. Never been a fan of overpriced bubbles. Give me a decent beer, and I’m happy.”

Tony chuckles, swirling his own drink with an amused tilt of his head. “I figured you were the type to appreciate a good beer.” His gaze flickers toward the entrance of the mansion, where guests in elegant attire filter inside. “We should head in. As far as I know, the main event is happening inside. The party and dancing won’t start out here until later in the evening.”

James nods and follows the man toward the entrance. As they walk, a realization dawns on him—he has no idea what’s actually planned for tonight. The only thing he knows is that it’s a charity gala.

“So… what exactly is on the agenda for tonight?” he asks curiously.

Tony exhales, glancing toward the grand double doors. “To be honest, I’m not entirely sure. Rhodey just told me we’re raising money for the various children’s hospitals in the city, that's all I know. He was annoyingly vague about the details. Said it was a surprise." He pulls out his invitation and hands it to the staff at the entrance, motioning to James as his plus-one.

James frowns. “Sounds ominous.”

Tony lets out a heavy sigh. "You’re telling me. Surprises and Rhodey? That’s a combination that never leads to anything good. The man’s diabolical—but of course, no one ever believes me." Before he can say more, a familiar voice cuts in from behind, smooth and laced with amusement. "That’s because, Tony, I’m the reasonable one between us. Which, naturally, makes me the more trustworthy one."

Both of them turn toward the voice. Tony’s face instantly lights up with genuine delight as he spots Rhodey standing before them, looking sharp in a black suit. But while Tony is visibly pleased, James feels his stomach drop. His gaze catches on the leg braces Rhodey wears—an unavoidable reminder of the fall he suffered during the battle at Leipzig-Halle Airport. Guilt coils in James’ gut, a sickness creeping up his throat.

Tony, completely unaware of James’ sudden discomfort, strides forward and wraps Rhodey in a firm hug, giving his shoulder a hearty pat. Rhodey hugs him back, but his sharp gaze quickly shifts to James. A smirk tugs at his lips before it shifts into an overly exaggerated frown. “Huh. Pepper, you’ve really changed a lot. Definitely packing more muscle than the last time I saw you. Damn, pregnancy must be hitting you harder than I thought.”

James stares, caught completely off guard. His brain short-circuits. Is that supposed to be a joke? Or an insult? He gapes at Rhodey like he has grown a second head as the man steps closer, extending a hand towards James which he takes.

“I’m just messing with you, James,” Rhodey says with a grin, shaking James’ hand firmly. “It’s really good to have you here. I’m glad you could make it. Seriously, I appreciate you stepping in for Pepper on such short notice. God knows someone has to keep an eye on Tony at these things.”

James still doesn’t know what to say. Should he thank him? Apologize? He can’t help but wonder if Rhodey’s being genuine, or if he’s just being polite because it’s the right thing to do. After all, the man is Tony’s best friend—he shouldn’t exactly be thrilled about James being here, should he? The thought makes James feel even more awkward like he’s intruding on something that doesn’t quite include him. He shifts uncomfortably before clearing his throat. “Uh… thanks for having me,” he says, his voice a little unsure. “I hope I’m not causing any inconvenience.”

Rhodey studies him for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly before a smirk tug at the corner of his lips. “Oh, you’re not an inconvenience at all,” he says, his tone surprisingly light. “In fact, I’m glad you’re here. We would’ve been one person short for the auction otherwise, and that wouldn’t have looked great.”

James frowns, still trying to piece it all together. “Auction?” he asks, his confusion evident. Tony, glancing between them, tilts his head, brow furrowed. “Why does it matter how many people are there for the auction?” he asks, his voice laced with genuine curiosity.

Rhodey’s grin turns downright wicked. James’ stomach tightens with an impending sense of doom. “Oh, Tony,” the man sighs, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Did Pepper not tell you what we’re auctioning off tonight?”

James watches as the realization dawns on Tony’s face. He goes rigid, color draining from his skin. His entire expression screams pure horror. “Oh no. Please don’t tell me we’re doing that stupid—”

“Correct!” Rhodey interrupts with gleeful enthusiasm. “We’re auctioning off kisses for charity!”

Tony groans, dragging both hands down his face. “Are you serious? What do you think this is, some cheesy rom-com from the late ‘90s? Forget it. I’m not about to let some seventy-five-year-old millionaire widow bid on me and have her way. Take my check and be done with it.”

"Relax," Rhodey chuckles, amusement dancing in his eyes. "You're off the hook. Pepper was the one who signed up to be auctioned—she knew you'd bid on her. But since James here stepped in for her..." He trails off, turning to James with a devilish grin that only seems to widen.

James feels his stomach drop. A creeping sense of dread washes over him as the realization slams into him like a tidal wave. His blood runs cold. "You’ve got to be kidding me," he breathes, his voice barely above a whisper, horror written all over his face.

Rhodey bursts into heartfelt laughter, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he claps James on the shoulder, his touch both warm and teasing. “Sorry, James, but it looks like Pepper got the better of you. But don’t worry—your sacrifice will never be forgotten.”

Tony snickers, but the moment James shoots him a look promising nothing but agony, he hastily tries to suppress his laughter, clearing his throat in a poor attempt at composure. He scrambles to smooth over the situation, offering some half-hearted reassurance that "it probably won’t be that bad." James, however, remains deeply skeptical. With a quiet sigh, he makes a mental note to strangle Pepper the next time he sees her.

 

The three of them continue to exchange banter, the atmosphere an intoxicating mix of heated debates and raucous laughter—mostly at James' expense. Eventually, Rhodey excuses himself to greet other guests, leaving James still brooding over the unfortunate turn the evening has taken. Reluctantly, he follows Tony into a grand hall, where rows of elegantly decorated round tables are neatly arranged, each adorned with name cards marking assigned seats. At the far end of the room, a large stage looms, likely the setting for the auction that will take place later in the evening.

A staff member leads them to their table, where three other guests are already seated. The moment Tony lays eyes on them, his expression sours instantly. James doesn’t miss the way the man stiffens beside him, and if he had to guess, he’d say Tony looks downright repulsed.

“Fantastic. Fuckin’ Fantastic,” the Inventor mutters under his breath, the bitterness in his voice making it painfully clear—whoever these people are, he is not pleased to be sharing a table with them.

“I can see why you two are here, Sue,” Tony remarks dryly, addressing the striking blonde woman at the table. He gestures between her and the older man beside her, whose brown hair is streaked with distinguished silver at the temples. “But what the hell is he doing here?” His finger lands on the younger man, who, to James' surprise, bears an uncanny resemblance to Steve—except for his bright blond hair.

Sue exhales sharply, already exasperated. “Trust me, we’re wondering the same thing. Rhodey only invited Reed and me,” she says, nodding toward the older man, “and neither of us would have wasted a single thought on dragging him along.” She gestures at the younger man with barely veiled irritation. The accused, apparently unfazed, lets out an indignant huff. “Hey! What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Sue pointedly ignores him and presses on, her tone dripping with exasperation. “And yet, as you can see, this idiot still somehow managed to weasel his way in.” Beside her, Reed lets out a long, weary sigh, his expression one of practiced patience. He greets Tony with a single nod, paired with a pointed glare that Tony, ever unbothered, mirrors right back with equal measure.

James barely has time to register the silent exchange before the younger man rises from his seat, stepping far too close to Tony. His voice, low and smoky, is laced with something almost predatory.

"Oh, come on, Tony," he purrs, his voice smooth and teasing, laced with a quiet confidence. His lips curl into a slow, knowing smirk. "You always act like I’m such a thorn in your side, but deep down, I think you secretly enjoy having me around. Admit it. You and I could have so much fun together... if only you’d stop being so—" He pauses, leaning in just enough for his breath to ghost against Tony’s skin, the space between them shrinking into something dangerously intimate. His hand lifts, his fingertip hovering just above the Inventor’s chest, poised to trace along it, to close the last sliver of distance. Tony reacts instinctively, stepping back before the touch can land, a subtle but unmistakable retreat. "…reserved towards me," the man finishes, his smirk deepening, amusement flickering in his eyes.

James doesn’t know what it is—maybe it’s the sheer arrogance in Johnny’s tone, the way his voice slithers through the air like he owns it. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at Tony, like he’s something to be claimed, possessed. Whatever it is, it sets James’ teeth on edge, his pulse pounding like a war drum in his ears.

Tony exhales sharply, rubbing his temples as if physically restraining himself from losing patience. His voice is clipped, razor-edged with exasperation. “Johnny, I wonder if the day will ever come when your one functioning brain cell finally processes the message: the answer is, and always will be, no.”

Johnny chuckles, slow and easy, like he’s savoring a private joke. He takes another step closer, his movements deliberate, taunting. Then he leans in—too close. The space between him and Tony shrinks to a whisper, and James feels his fingers twitch at his sides, his patience stretched so thin it’s seconds from snapping.

“One day, you’ll say yes,” Johnny murmurs, his voice dripping with smug certainty. “And when that day comes, oh, Tony—we’re going to have so much fun.” His gaze drags over the Inventor, slow and deliberate, his meaning unmistakable. James sees red. His vision tunnels, his heartbeat a snarl of fury in his chest. Logic evaporates, caution disintegrates—there’s only the searing, undeniable instinct to strike.

James snaps.

In an instant, he steps between them, his body tense, his movements deliberate. His face is an unreadable mask, but the way his jaw tightens betrays his barely contained irritation. His smile is sharp—too sharp, forced, and dangerous, a warning wrapped in feigned politeness. “Oh?” His voice is smooth, yet laced with something undeniably threatening. His eyes flicker between Tony and Johnny as he tilts his head ever so slightly. “You two know each other? How interesting. Tony, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

He grips Johnny’s hand firmly for a handshake—but he isn’t gentle about it. He deliberately applies more pressure than necessary, watching with satisfaction as Johnny’s face betrays discomfort. To drive his point home even further, he subtly pushes Tony behind him with his free hand, creating a barrier between him and Johnny. He won’t let this guy get too close.

For a moment, Tony just blinks, momentarily thrown off. But then, with practiced ease, he regains his composure, straightening with an air of effortless confidence. “Yeah, I know them,” he says, his tone shifting to something almost reverent. “That’s the stunning and incredibly kind Sue Storm-Richards—genuinely one of the best people you’ll ever meet—and her husband, Reed Richards, who just so happens to be quite possibly the smartest man on the planet.” There’s real admiration there, warmth even as if he’s talking about people truly worth the breath it takes to say their names.

Then Tony pauses, and the warmth evaporates like smoke. His expression twists into something almost disdainful as he flicks his gaze to the man in front of him. “And the pushy guy in front of you?” He exhales sharply like he’s forcing himself to acknowledge something repulsive. “That’s Johnny Storm—Sue’s younger, exceptionally useless, playboy of a brother.” His tone is drenched in irritation, disgust curling at the edges of every syllable as if just saying Johnny’s name leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

Johnny, of course, doesn’t care. If anything, the insult rolls right off him, amusement sparking in his eyes like he finds the whole thing entertaining. What does seem to bother him, though, is James. Johnny’s eyes flick up and down, scanning James with an unimpressed, borderline dismissive expression.

“They’re part of a less cool, smaller superhero initiative called the Fantastic Four,” Tony continues, oblivious to the silent standoff unfolding between James and Johnny. “Like you and me, they’re enhanced individuals.”

“Less cool, huh?” Reed repeats, amusement and irritation mixing in his voice. He fixes the Inventor with a pointed look. “And what exactly is that supposed to mean?”

Tony smirks, not missing a beat. “Come on, Reed, do I really need to spell it out? All I’m saying is… matching outfits.”

“What the hell is wrong with our team wearing coordinated uniforms, Stark?” Reed snaps, slamming his hand down on the table. Sue, sitting beside him, places a calming hand on his shoulder. “Honey, don’t engage in this argument. You’re not going to win,” she says, her voice serious. Her gaze carries an apologetic glint as Reed’s eyes widen in realization—his own wife just took Tony’s side on the outfit issue.

James, however, pays little attention to the conversation. His body remains tense as he keeps himself positioned between Tony and Johnny. The latter wrinkles his nose in distaste before speaking, “And who, exactly, is your plus-one, Tony?” Johnny drawls. “Please don’t tell me you hired this guy just so you wouldn’t have to show up alone. You could have asked me, you know. I would’ve gladly escorted you here—and even made sure you got home safe afterward.” He throws Tony a smug, suggestive grin. “Who knows? Maybe you’d have even gotten a private after-party out of it.”

James clenches his fists, his nails digging into his palms as every muscle in his body winds tight with barely restrained fury. The sheer audacity of this bastard—standing there so smug, so insufferably sure of himself—talking to Tony like that, as if he has any right. His jaw locks, a sharp pulse of anger tightening in his chest, burning hotter with every passing second. If he weren’t actively forcing himself to stay in control, Johnny would already be on the floor, dazed and bloody, spitting out a few teeth along with that arrogant smirk.

Tony, sensing James’ growing tension, steps beside him. Without hesitation, he wraps an arm around James’ waist, pulling him closer. “Better off? With you?” He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Please. If my choices were showing up with you or bringing a potato as my date, I’d take the potato.” He barely suppresses a smirk before adding, “Besides, why settle for the Human Torch when you can have the Winter Soldier?”

At the mention of that name, both Sue and Reed visibly tense, their eyes widening as if to silently ask: Are you serious right now?

Tony meets their gaze with a look that clearly answers: It’s fine. Everything’s okay. But they don’t seem entirely reassured.

“Yeah, because it’s so much better to be with the murderer of your—” Johnny’s smug grin falters as Reed moves faster than anyone expects. His arm snaps out like a whip, catching Johnny’s face with brutal efficiency, muffling his words instantly.

“That’s enough,” Reed says, his voice hard and unyielding, a quiet storm brewing beneath his calm exterior. He stands, his posture rigid with controlled anger. “You’re done talking.”

Johnny opens his mouth to protest, but Reed doesn’t give him the chance. His grip tightens, pulling Johnny with a force that leaves no room for argument. “You’re coming outside with me to clear your head.” His voice is cold, final. “I cannot believe you were about to say that.” Without another word, Reed yanks Johnny along, practically dragging him like a misbehaving dog on a leash, his movements efficient, practiced, and utterly unimpressed by the drama Johnny’s trying to start.

James watches Reed and Johnny disappear through the doors, the sound of their footsteps fading into the distance, but the tension they left behind lingers like a thick fog. His breath hitches, suddenly unsteady, his pulse hammering wildly against his ribs as if it’s trying to break free. A cold sweat trickles slowly down the back of his neck, the sensation icy against his skin. His mind begins to spiral, the same dark thoughts looping over and over in an endless, suffocating cycle: They know. They know what I did. The words echo in his skull, louder with each repetition, a weight pressing down on his chest.

Who else knows? The thought hits him like a punch to the gut, and his eyes whip across the room, scanning the faces of the other guests, desperate for any sign—any flicker of judgment, any glance that holds even the slightest hint of disgust. His stomach twists. Are they staring? The question claws at him, turning his thoughts frantic. Are they whispering about me?

The room seems to stretch, the air growing thick and suffocating as he waits for someone to look at him the wrong way, to expose what’s lurking in the darkest corners of his mind.

Panic coils in his chest, threatening to take over. God, please, not here. Not now. Not in front of all these people. Not in front of—

Tony’s hand finds his, warm and unwavering, grasping it with a reassuring firmness. James flinches at the sudden contact, his muscles stiffening, but then Tony’s thumb starts making slow, soothing circles against his skin—gentle and steady. Almost instantly, the rush of panic that had overwhelmed him recedes, pushed into the background like a distant, fading echo.

“Better?” Tony’s voice is soft, threaded with genuine concern, as he pulls James’ chair forward and urges him to sit. His eyes, full of care, lock onto James, scanning him for any hint of lingering distress.

James nods, swallowing the tightness in his throat, the weight of the moment grounding him. Once he’s seated, Tony slides into his own chair—so close that their thighs press together, the warmth of his presence both calming and unspoken. It’s a quiet reassurance, a shared connection that speaks volumes without a single word.

He exhales slowly and nods. The warmth radiating from Tony’s body, the solid presence beside him, helps ground him. “Yes… Sorry about this—” He pauses, vaguely gesturing toward the direction Johnny and Reed disappeared. “—mess.”

“Are you kidding me?” Tony says seriously. He lifts James’ hand—the one he’s still holding—and rests it on his thigh. “You did nothing wrong in this situation. All you did was protect me from that creep. I’m the one who provoked him. If anyone should be apologizing, it’s me—for putting you in a shitty position.”

“Actually,” Sue interjects, reminding them she’s still at the table, “this mess is Johnny’s fault. And if he doesn’t apologize to you both, I’ll personally wipe the floor with him. I can’t believe he’d go this far just because he can’t handle rejection.” Her voice carries genuine shame for her brother’s behavior. “I’m so sorry, Tony. And you too, James. Please don’t let him ruin your night.”

“Sue, you don’t have to apologize for your idiot brother,” the Inventor says, his tone light but firm, cutting through the tension. James, still too unsettled to speak more than a few words, simply nods in agreement, grateful for the distraction but too rattled to add anything else.

“Still,” Sue insists, her voice carrying an edge of frustration, “that was completely unnecessary…”

Tony waves her concern away with a dismissive gesture. “What’s done is done. Don’t stress over it,” he says with a soft but reassuring smile, as he squeezes James' hand gently, a silent promise that everything will be fine, that he’s here. The warmth of the Inventor's touch helps steady James, the simple act of reassurance grounding him as the storm in his mind begins to settle.

A heavy silence settles over them, only to be broken by a waiter asking for their drink orders.

As they give their waiter their orders, the conversation slowly shifts, the earlier tension easing as they move to lighter topics. Sue starts talking about Reed’s latest projects, her voice filled with a mix of pride and exasperation as she describes his latest breakthroughs. Tony and James, eager to shift the mood, share a few recent stories of the past few days. Around them, the grand hall continues to fill with guests. The buzz of conversation grows louder as more people settle into their seats, and the room becomes lighter and more relaxed. Laughter and familiar greetings fill the air, but there’s one detail that doesn’t go unnoticed—Johnny and Reed’s seats remain conspicuously empty, an awkward void that tugs at the back of James’ mind.

Eventually, a young woman steps onto the stage. She clears her throat, her voice ringing clear across the room as she calls for everyone’s attention. Instantly, the chatter quiets and all eyes shift toward her in eager anticipation, the room’s energy now focused on what’s about to unfold.

“Good evening, everyone, and welcome to our first, and hopefully not last, charity event for the local children’s hospitals of the city. We’re delighted to see such a wonderful turnout tonight. My name is Alice Miller, and I’ll be your host for the evening,” the young woman announces, her voice smooth and confident, echoing through the grand hall.

She’s beautiful—her red hair cascading in soft waves, her poise impeccable, and her presence radiating a natural grace that commands attention without effort. Her words flow effortlessly as she outlines the night’s events, each sentence delivered with practiced ease, like a well-rehearsed script. James listens only half-heartedly, his mind still occupied with the undercurrent of tension he can’t quite shake. But when Alice starts explaining the upcoming auction, his focus sharpens instantly.

In summary, the guests are given the opportunity to bid for a kiss with someone they’re interested in, and the highest bidder will get the chance to kiss the person they’ve bid for, live on stage. The proceeds from the event will go toward funding new equipment and repairs for the local children’s hospitals—an undeniably noble cause, of course. But as James glances around the room, a sudden realization creeps over him. Just as Tony had pointed out earlier, nearly every other guest—aside from a few notable exceptions—is well past their prime. If James had to guess, at least 75% of the attendees are well over eighty, some even edging close to ninety...

The thought of any of them winning the chance to get a kiss from him is… unsettling. Rhodey mentioned that Pepper assumed Tony would bid on a kiss with her—which makes sense. But… does the same apply to him?

James feels warmth creeping up his neck, his heartbeat quickening. The idea that it could be Tony he kisses— That thought alone sends an unexpected thrill through him.

A small, bitter voice inside him sneers that it won’t happen, that Tony won’t waste a single dollar on him. But James tries to ignore it. Instead, he lets himself get lost in the possibility of what if?

 

 

Notes:

Tony; Spends over 20k for James suit.

James; He wouldn't even waste a dollar on me.

Chapter 34

Notes:

This Chapter... got slightly out of hand.

Alice steps back up to the microphone, her voice carrying effortlessly across the hall. "Before we move on, a quick announcement! The auction will take place after dinner, following a short mini-concert featuring several fantastic bands. So don’t go anywhere!" With a final bright smile, she exits the stage.

At their table, James and Tony immediately lean in together, studying the menu with great focus. Their discussion quickly turns into a debate about which dish might be the best choice. Just as James is making a case for one of the steak options, Reed and Johnny return. Johnny, noticeably sulking, refuses to acknowledge either James or Tony. Instead, he throws himself into his chair, arms crossed, looking every bit like a petulant child.

Sue, ever the peacekeeper, slides a menu toward Johnny, only for him to scoff at her in an exaggerated, almost theatrical display of annoyance. Before James can react, Reed takes matters into his own hands—literally—delivering a swift smack to the back of Johnny’s head. The impact isn’t harsh, but it’s effective. Johnny lets out an indignant huff before abruptly pushing back his chair. "Lost my appetite," he grumbles, rising dramatically to his feet. "I’ll be at the bar if anyone cares."

No one stops him as he stalks off.

Reed sighs, rubbing his temple. "Sorry about that. You know how he gets." Sue nods apologetically. "Yeah. I swear he’s worse than my actual toddler sometimes."

Tony waves a hand dismissively. "You don’t have to apologize. It’s not like you two are responsible for his emotional stability—or lack thereof." James, for his part, is just relieved that Johnny is gone. The temptation to strangle the man in front of an entire audience is an intrusive thought that keeps getting stronger. Thankfully, Johnny doesn’t return, and the four of them settle into easy conversation as they enjoy what turns out to be a genuinely spectacular meal.

Sue spends most of the dinner chatting with James, absolutely radiant as she talks about her newborn son, Franklin. She shares stories of sleepless nights, early-morning feedings, and the overwhelming love she feels despite the exhaustion. "I never thought being a mom would be this hard," she admits with a soft laugh. "But I wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. Honestly, if I ever have another, I’d love a little girl." She scrolls through her phone, showing James pictures of Franklin—tiny hands curled into fists, big curious eyes staring at the camera. James finds himself smiling, her enthusiasm utterly contagious.

Meanwhile, Tony and Reed have launched into a heated discussion about renewable energy sources. Their debate quickly spirals into highly technical territory, full of jargon and theories that go completely over James’ head. He exchanges a helpless glance with Sue, who leans in and whispers, "Do you have any idea what they’re talking about?" James smirks. "Not a clue. I just nod occasionally and hope for the best." She stifles a laugh, and together, they listen as Tony and Reed continue their animated back-and-forth.

As dinner wraps up, the first musical acts take the stage. The room’s atmosphere shifts as the lively chatter dims to soft murmurs, replaced by the gentle strumming of guitars and the first few notes of a song echoing through the hall.

James finds himself drawn to one particular singer—a woman with a smoky, husky voice that carries an aching, raw emotion. Her ballad tells a story of heartbreak and resilience, a past she has fought to leave behind. Even without knowing her, it’s obvious she’s singing from personal experience. The depth of feeling in her voice makes the song all the more powerful. Even Tony and Reed, who had been engaged in an increasingly animated (and loud) debate, fall silent. The entire table listens, caught in the spell of her music.

At some point during the performance, Tony shifts closer to James, the movement so subtle that James doesn’t notice at first. But then, without warning, Tony leans in, resting his head lightly against his shoulder. James nearly jumps. His pulse skyrockets.

"This is nice," Tony murmurs, eyes closed, his voice a lazy purr. His lips curve into a small, satisfied smile as he hums along with the melody. James freezes. His brain short-circuits. What the hell is he supposed to do? He struggles for an answer, his thoughts a chaotic mess, before finally exhaling and making a decision. Slowly—hesitantly—he tilts his head, resting it against Tony’s. The warmth of the moment is undeniable.

He shuts his eyes, listening to the melody, but his heartbeat is pounding in a completely different rhythm, faster, erratic. And then, as all good things do, the song comes to an end. Applause erupts. The spell is broken. Tony pulls away just as Alice returns to the stage, excitement in her tone. "And now, dear guests" she announces, "let’s begin the auction!"

Names are called, and one after another heads to the stage. When Alice finally says James' name, he feels his stomach drop. His body protests as he stands, every fiber of his being screaming that this is a bad idea. What if one of the elderly women—or worse, an old man—bids on him and wins? He is not mentally, emotionally, or physically prepared for that outcome. His pulse thrums in his ears as he casts a pleading glance at Tony, silently begging for an escape route. But Tony, ever composed, only smirks and winks, his amusement palpable.

"Go on, Snowflake! Snatch up their money—leave them breathless, dazzled, and utterly ruined! And while you're at it, break a few hearts, would you? No sense in leaving a job half done!" the Inventor exclaims, his voice brimming with excitement.

James feels his soul leave his body. That—that—was absolutely not what he wanted to hear. With heavy reluctance, he steps onto the stage, falling in line beside the other participants. It doesn’t take long for a pattern to emerge. The ones being auctioned off are all young and attractive, while the bidders… well. Most of them look old enough to have babysat Moses.

His horror deepens with each passing moment as the bidding wars unfold. The highest offers always come from the older women, their eyes gleaming with determination. Occasionally, though, an older man throws his hat into the ring, making James’ stomach twist even tighter.

Oh. My. God.

By the time his name is called, James is already in full existential crisis mode. Asked to introduce himself, he barely manages to mumble his name. Somehow, this only makes him seem mysterious, which—disastrously—excites the bidders. What follows is a nightmare.

Three elderly women, caked in entirely too much makeup, immediately start bidding and ruthlessly try to outbid each other, their numbers climbing at an alarming rate. And then—just when James thinks it cannot possibly get worse—an ancient-looking man joins in and outbids the women. James feels the color drain from his face.

It’s happening.

He’s going to have to kiss a walking relic of history. James, teetering on the edge of an actual breakdown, searches the room desperately for Tony. But to his utter horror, Tony is gone. Something inside James cracks. That small, awful voice—the one whispering that Tony doesn’t care—feels a little too right.

He panics. His mind races for a solution—any solution—but before he can even consider running, one of the elderly women—who clearly sees James as her last shot at youthful excitement—lifts her paddle again.

"$400,000!"

"$450,000!" The elderly man fires back immediately. James feels faint.

The war between the elderly continues, the numbers climbing at an alarming rate.

"$500,000!"

"$550,000!"

"$600,000!"

Silence falls over the crowd.

The elderly man is winning.

This is it. This is his fate.

Alice smiles. "Do we have anyone willing to go higher? Going once, going twice—"

"1.5 million."

James stops breathing. The voice is unmistakable. His head snaps up so fast he nearly gets whiplash. The entire hall goes silent and there’s a shift in the air, a moment of suspended disbelief, before the whispers explode all at once.

People are murmuring, gasping, turning in their seats—searching for the person who just dropped a ridiculous, game-ending bid. James’ heart is pounding in his chest. He knows that voice. His gaze scans the crowd frantically—and then, like he owns the entire damn place, Tony steps forward. His hands are casually tucked in his pockets, his expression one of pure, unaffected amusement. Like, this is all some private joke he’s enjoying immensely.

Alice, to her credit, recovers quickly. "Well, well—1.5 million dollars from Mr. Stark! Do we have any counteroffers?"

The elderly woman looks devastated and the Grandpa who looks like he's just one step away from the grave, looks like he’s about to disintegrate on the spot.

Silence.

Alice smirks. "Going once, going twice—sold! Mr. Stark, please come on stage to claim your prize." The crowd cheers as Tony leisurely makes his way to the stage, all charm and confidence wrapped in an expensive suit.

James' brain is short-circuiting. Tony just spent 1.5 million dollars on him. Oh. Oh, damn. His hands clench into fists. His mind is racing with a million questions. Did Tony disappear and reappear just to mess with him? Does he actually want this kiss? Or did he only bid on James because he felt obligated to do it because he felt sorry for him? He isn’t sure if he wants an answer to the last one.

Tony steps up onto the stage, coming to a halt right in front of James, standing far too close, his smirk widening at James' obvious distress. "Relax, Snowflake," he teases. "I just saved you from kissing a woman who probably remembers the invention of electricity." James huffs. "1.5 million, Tony? Seriously?" The Inventor tilts his head. "What? You think you’re worth less?" James' brain stops working for a second.

The Inventor leans in slightly, lowering his voice so only James can hear. "Or," he muses, eyes glinting, "are you just mad I didn’t let you get eaten alive by the senior citizen mafia?" James glares, heat creeping up his neck. "I hate you." Tony grins wider. "You sure? Because you look like you're about to pass out."

James is very aware of the eyes on them as Alice claps her hands to get their attention. "Alright, boys! Let’s not keep the people waiting!" The audience erupts into cheers.

Tony, still looking entirely unbothered, raises an eyebrow at James. "Well?" he says. "Let’s get this over with, sweetheart."

James' breath catches. Shit. This is happening. His entire body is telling him to run, to yell, to do literally anything except what’s expected of him. But then Tony leans in, and James forgets how to breathe. His eyes flutter shut just for a second, just long enough to register the feeling of Tony’s warm breath against his lips.

And then—Tony pulls back at the last second, leaving just enough space to be infuriatingly teasing.

James' eyes snap open, his heart hammering. For a split second, he is confused. His gaze is fixed on Tony’s lips—so close, yet just out of reach. When Tony leans in again, James instinctively holds his breath, anticipating something he’s not sure he’s ready for. But instead of kissing him on the lips, Tony presses a brief, feather-light kiss to his forehead. The touch is so fleeting that James immediately doubts whether it even happened at all.

Disappointed boos erupt from the audience, but Tony, ever the showman, snatches Alice’s microphone with a smirk. "Hey, nobody specified what kind of kiss was up for auction. Did you really think you were about to get the good stuff? Please. I save the real fun for the bedroom." He winks playfully, grasping James’ hand and pulling him along as they return to their seats. James follows numbly, his mind a million miles away, barely processing what just happened.

 

As soon as they sit down, Sue and Reed exchange looks before turning to Tony. "What?" Tony asks, his voice carrying a slight edge of defensiveness.

Sue leans in, eyes glinting with curiosity. "We’re just a little surprised that you bid 1.5 million dollars on a kiss, only to settle for a forehead peck. We were expecting, well… a bit more action. Especially from you."

"Hey!" Tony huffs, crossing his arms in mock offense. "My playboy days are long behind me, thank you very much!"

"Now that is an exaggeration," Reed chimes in. "It’s not like we expected you to ravish James in front of everyone. But that"—he gestures vaguely—"was a little… restrained. And that’s not exactly your style." Tony sighs dramatically, bumping his shoulder against James’. "See? No matter what you do, you can’t win. What do you think, James?" he asks, sounding slightly exasperated.

Silence.

Frowning, Tony turns to James—only to feel his stomach drop. James looks off. His face is pale, almost unnaturally still, his hands loosely clasped in his lap as he stares at them with a distant, unfocused gaze. It’s like he’s not even in the room anymore. Tony’s heart clenches. He grips James’s shoulder, shaking him gently. "James? Hey, are you okay? Ah, fuck—I knew it. I’m sorry, I thought a forehead kiss would be safe enough—"

The audible worry in Tony's voice lets James snap out of his trance, blinking in confusion. "W-what? I don’t… understand."

The Inventor runs a hand through his hair, suddenly looking uncharacteristically uncertain. "I’m really sorry, James. You looked like you wanted to bolt on stage, and I thought—well, I figured it was because of me. You know, since I’m a guy. I mean, you’re from a time when that was—well—not exactly—and Steve, well, Steve is also pretty reserved about this kind of thing, though, between you and me, I highly suspect he secretly plays for the other team. I mean, there was that one time I walked through the common room naked and—"

"Tony," James interrupts, voice firm but exhausted. "Please—just explain it in a way that actually makes sense." The Inventor exhales deeply, composing himself. Then, in the most straightforward way possible, he says, "You looked uncomfortable. I didn’t want to put you in a situation you didn’t like. So I kissed your forehead instead. I thought that was a safe choice. I’m sorry if it wasn’t."

James stares at him for a long moment—then bursts into laughter. But it’s not the kind of laughter that reaches his eyes. It’s hollow, brittle, the kind of laughter that sounds like it’s fighting to keep something else—something far more painful—at bay. Sue and Reed glance at each other, concern flashing between them in silent conversation.

When James finally stops laughing, he makes sure his voice is steady before saying, "Ah, no. I wasn’t nervous about the kiss. And I definitely wasn’t disgusted or anything. That would make me a bit of a hypocrite." He doesn’t notice the way Tony’s eyes widen at those words—but Sue and Reed do. They share a knowing look, but wisely keep quiet.

James exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. "I was just tense because I’m not used to being in front of a crowd like that. Assassins tend to stay in the shadows, not stand under bright lights with all eyes on them." He tries to keep his tone casual and tries to make it sound like it’s no big deal. He hopes the disappointment doesn’t bleed into his voice, that it doesn’t show on his face.

But when he glances at Tony, he finds the billionaire watching him with an expression so perfectly neutral it’s almost unsettling—like he’s deliberately shutting down every emotion that might betray what he’s actually thinking. And then, after a beat, Tony finally speaks, voice low and oddly strained. "Oh… Well. That’s… good, then. I just didn’t want to do anything that made you uncomfortable."

James swallows, his chest aching with something he doesn’t have the words for. When he finally responds, his voice is so quiet it’s barely audible. "Thank you, Tony. I really appreciate that." He tells himself this is for the best. That this is how it should be.

But still—his heart feels unbearably heavy. And the worst part? Tony is so careful with him, so thoughtful—and James knows he should be grateful for that... But right now, at this moment, all he can feel is the unbearable weight of what could have been.

An oppressive silence falls over the table, and none of the four seem willing to break it. Fortunately, they don't have to, as Alice announces the end of the auction a few minutes later. After revealing the total proceeds from the auction, she explains that the live band will now play music outside, officially opening the dance floor. She also informs everyone that reporters are waiting outside to conduct live interviews with guests, but only if they consent to participate.

People in the hall begin to gradually make their way outside, but James hardly notices. He is lost in thought, wallowing in self-pity. He feels disappointed and doesn't know how to handle it, even though he should be pleased that Tony was so thoughtful...

He would prefer to just go home and hide in his apartment, but when Sue, Reed, and Tony stand up to head outside, he follows them. Just because he's disappointed and had his hopes dashed doesn't mean he has the right to ruin the rest of the evening for them.

 

Once they've finally pushed through the crowd to the outside, the dance floor is already bustling, mostly with the younger guests and those not yet teetering on the brink of clinical death. The singer who had previously captured James' attention with her heart-wrenching ballad is now performing cheerful songs that encourage dancing, and James is amazed at her talent, as the genre she's singing now is entirely different.

The four of them move to one of the standing tables set up near the dance floor, and Sue takes the liberty of ordering drinks for everyone. James watches the dancing guests, and an idea begins to form in his mind. If he couldn't kiss Tony... then at least he wants to dance with him.

Just as he's about to turn and ask the inventor for a dance, Alice darts past him, grabs Tony's hand, and pulls him onto the dance floor. He stands frozen, completely taken aback, as she effortlessly takes the lead. It’s painfully obvious—Alice is interested in Tony. The way she repeatedly runs her fingers through her hair, touches her lips, and leans unnecessarily close to him while dancing makes her intentions clear. She isn’t just flirting; she’s practically staking a claim.

"I was wondering when the first hyenas would make their move," Reed remarks, amusement lacing his voice. "Ever since word got out that he and Pepper are no longer together, women at these events have been practically lining up to take their shot. Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long for someone to pounce." James flinches at Reed’s words, barely registering them. His focus remains locked on Tony and Alice, a storm of emotions swirling beneath his carefully composed expression.

"Well," Sue responds, her voice light but edged with meaning, "it's hard to approach someone whose eyes have been fixed on one person all evening..." There’s a quiet admiration in her tone, almost reverent as if she’s witnessing something significant.

A cold sweat prickles at the back of James’s neck. Tony is interested in someone? And that person is here tonight? The realization grips him, unsettling and unexpected. His heartbeat quickens as his mind scrambles for answers. Had the Inventor spoken to anyone outside their small circle? He combs through his memory—Sue, Reed, himself—but there’s no one else. Not a single conversation that stands out.

Unless...

Had Tony been watching them from afar instead? Observing in silence, drawn in by someone unnoticed? James swallows hard. He had been lost in his own thoughts too many times that evening, his mind circling the moment that never came—the almost kiss, the lingering tension. Had he been so caught up in his own emotions that he completely missed Tony’s? The idea gnaws at him.

James’s gaze instinctively drifts back to the dance floor. If Tony has been watching someone all night, if his attention has been fixed—who is it? And why does that thought make James feel as if the ground beneath him is suddenly unsteady like the very foundation of his reality has shifted without warning?

Beside him, Sue suddenly bursts into giggles, her laughter warm and teasing. Then, in an exaggeratedly dramatic voice, she exclaims, "How can two people be so blind?" She turns to Reed, hugging him tightly and burying her face against his chest in an attempt to stifle her amusement. Reed sighs, rolling his eyes but holding her close, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Well," he says dryly, glancing at James with knowing amusement, "at least that gives them something in common—it’s a start."

James has no idea what they’re talking about. He stares at Sue and Reed in utter confusion, waiting for some kind of explanation—but none comes. They only exchange knowing glances, leaving him even more frustrated.

With a tense breath, he turns his attention back to the dance floor. His jaw tightens as Alice once again places her hands on Tony, her touches lingering unnecessarily. The sight ignites something dark and restless inside him. His mood sours, jealousy curling in his chest like a slow-burning fire. He wants nothing more than to march over there and pull Alice away, to put as much distance between her and Tony as possible.

But that isn’t his place. He clenches his fists, forcing himself to stay put.

Fortunately, it doesn’t seem necessary. Because Tony doesn't seem interested in her at all.

He studies the Inventor more closely now, and it’s obvious—Tony’s body language lacks any of its usual flirtatious charm. He isn’t engaging and isn’t leaning in the way he does when he actually enjoys someone’s attention. Instead, his movements are stiff, his responses are short and mechanical. His gaze keeps drifting, unfocused as if Alice isn’t even there. She’s trying—hard—James has to give her that. But Tony… Tony isn’t even pretending to be interested.

Every time Alice leans in too close, he instinctively shifts away, creating distance with subtle but deliberate movements. And then James notices something else—Tony’s smile. It’s there, but it’s not real. It’s polite, practiced, a mask worn out of habit rather than genuine enjoyment. There’s no warmth behind it, no spark in his eyes. James exhales slowly, his chest tightening with something he can’t quite name—though if he had to, the closest word would be relief.

Eventually, after a few minutes that feel like an eternity, the song ends.

James can see that Alice would like to continue dancing, but Tony makes a gesture signaling 'no, thank you' and looks at her apologetically before his gaze shifts to James. Their eyes meet, and for a moment, James believes he can see something like eager anticipation in the Inventor's eyes.

The next song is announced, and James thinks, Now or never, as he pushes himself to his feet and strides toward the dance area. His pulse quickens with anticipation, determination surging through him. But just as he’s about to reach Tony, an elderly lady suddenly grabs the Inventor by the collar, dragging him into the center of the dance floor with surprising strength. James stops dead in his tracks, watching in disbelief as, once again, Tony is pulled away from him right before his eyes.

 

And so the game continues.

One dance partner after another claims Tony, leaving James standing uselessly on the sidelines. With each missed opportunity, frustration coils tighter in his chest, and soon, he sinks into absolute self-pity and bitterness. The situation doesn't improve when Reed and Sue also decide to dance, leaving him alone at the table.

James scowls as he watches the scene unfold. Woman after woman approaches Tony, each one eager, each one trying to charm him. And Tony—ever the gentleman—accepts their invitations, entertaining them with polite conversation and effortless grace. Then, a young man steps forward and asks Tony to dance. And he doesn’t decline.

James’s stomach twists, his mood plummeting to new depths. That could be me, he thinks bitterly, his fingers curling into fists beneath the table. His scowl must be practically murderous because when a young woman hesitantly approaches him, likely about to ask him to dance, she takes one look at his expression and immediately thinks better of it. In fact, the guests around him have started keeping their distance entirely, giving him a wide berth as if he’s radiating some kind of toxic energy.

Not that he notices.

Because, by now, James is so consumed by his own storm of negative thoughts that the music, the chatter, the laughter—everything around him—fades into nothing. He had looked forward to this evening so much, had built it up in his mind, had imagined how things would play out. But nothing has gone the way he pictured it. And there’s the problem, isn’t it? He had simply wanted too much.

Expectations. That was his mistake. Someone like him shouldn't have them. Expectations are for other people—better people. People who deserve them. But not him. The fact that he’s now sitting here, bitter and dejected, is entirely his own fault.

His thoughts spiral further, inevitably circling back to what Sue had said—that Tony had been watching someone all evening. Reed had noticed it, too. They had seen the interest in his eyes. And James hadn’t. What if, right now, Tony is dancing with that person? Or worse—what if that person wants him back?

A sharp pang of something ugly and unbearable grips his chest. His fists tighten at his sides, his jaw clenched so hard it aches. He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to acknowledge how much the idea unsettles him, but it’s already rooted too deep.

A voice cuts through the noise—or rather, the silence he’s trapped himself in.

“—mes?”

He barely registers it.

“James?”

This time, it reaches him. The fog of his thoughts cracks just enough for him to blink, to recognize that someone is calling his name. A hand lands on his shoulder, and the sudden touch jolts him from his thoughts. He can't prevent himself from striking out and forcefully slapping the hand away—too late, he realizes it's Tony's hand.

"Ouch," says Tony, his eyes widening at James' aggressive reaction. But instead of getting angry or stepping back, he leans in close to James' face, his gaze searching and concerned as he asks, "Are you okay? Sorry if I startled you, but you didn't respond no matter how many times I called your name."

"I—" James doesn't know what to say. Even though Tony doesn't seem to mind that he slapped his hand away, James still feels guilty. "I'm—I'm sorry about your hand. I—I didn't mean to." He says, unable to meet Tony's eyes.

"Oh, it's okay. No harm done. I shouldn't have touched you like that," the Inventor says reassuringly, smiling. "You looked like you weren't really here. Is everything okay?"

Of course. Of course, Tony is more worried about him than himself. This man is simply too good for this world.

"I—yeah, I was lost in thought. To be honest, I didn’t even fucking hear you say my name. Sorry." James’ voice is quiet, a little rough around the edges, and still, he can’t bring himself to meet Tony’s eyes. His fingers twitch at his sides, a nervous habit he never managed to shake.

Tony watches him for a moment—just long enough to make James feel like he’s being studied under a microscope. He knows Tony well enough to realize the man isn’t buying his excuse, but for whatever reason, he decides not to press the issue. Instead, the Inventor shifts his gaze toward the dance floor. "If that’s the case," he starts, voice deceptively casual, "maybe you’d like to clear your head a little… and dance with me?"

James blinks.

Tony doesn’t look at him as he asks. His focus remains locked on the moving bodies on the dance floor, his posture almost too still, like he’s bracing himself for rejection.

The words take a second to fully register in James’ brain, and by the time they do, his throat is dry, his brain blank. He wants to answer, he really fucking does, but all that comes out is dead air. Tony must take his silence the wrong way because he lets out a deep sigh, running a hand through his hair in that almost defeated way James has seen a dozen times before. "Ah, shit—sorry. If that made you uncomfortable, forget I asked. Of course, you don’t have to—"

"No!" James blurts out, too fast, too loud, panic threading his voice. "No, that’s not—fuck, that’s not what I meant. I’d love to dance with you, it’s just…"

Tony turns then, finally looking at him, stepping closer, and fuck, James swears he can feel the warmth radiating off him. "It’s just what?" Tony asks, voice softer now, almost coaxing.

James’ breath catches. Jesus fucking Christ. Tony is close—too close, close enough that James can make out the individual flecks of gold in his eyes, the way the dim light catches against his lashes. If he let himself, he could drown in this man's eyes, and the scariest part? He’d fucking enjoy it.

"It’s just been a while since I last danced," James finally manages, his voice lower now, a little rough around the edges. "Decades, actually. There’s a good chance I’ll make a complete ass out of myself." It’s a weak excuse, but what else is he supposed to say? Hey, I’m so hopelessly into you that the mere thought of dancing with you is driving me insane. Nope. Not gonna happen.

Tony huffs a laugh, waving a hand dismissively. "That doesn’t matter. And even if you do, who cares? All that counts is that you have fun." And then, before James can get another word in, Tony grabs his wrist and pulls him toward the dance floor. He barely has time to curse under his breath before they step into the crowd—just as the last song fades out and a new one begins.

 

It's a cover of Frank Sinatra’s 'Like Someone in Love'.

"Oh," Tony says, an almost sheepish smile crossing his lips as more and more couples step onto the floor, swaying close to each other, lost in the romantic melody. "If you want, we can wait until something..." he pauses, clearly searching for the right words. "... less romantic comes on."

James responds a little too quickly, "I don’t mind! We can dance to this one, no problem!" Then, realizing how eager he sounded, he hastily adds, "I mean, what if one of those grandmas gets her hands on you again? Better now than never." It’s a bullshit excuse. He knows it. Tony knows it.

The Inventor's lips curl into a slow, knowing smile. "Right. That would be a tragedy." And before James can fully process what’s happening, Tony seizes his hands, pressing them firmly against his hips. His touch is warm—almost searing—and a jolt of something electric skitters down James’ spine. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, Tony drapes his arms over James’ shoulders, stepping in—so damn close that barely an inch remains between them.

He then starts to move. Slow and easy, rocking them back and forth like this is something they’ve done a thousand times before. James is completely, utterly wrecked and it takes him a second to catch up, to force his body to mirror Tony’s movements, his heart is slamming against his ribs, his pulse a wild, erratic thing.

Tony is so warm. So fucking warm. And he smells good, too—like expensive cologne and something underneath it that’s just him.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

And James is absolutely, unequivocally fucked.

He is so fucking overwhelmed by his emotions that he can’t even look at the man in front of him. Instead, his gaze wanders to Sue and Reed, who are dancing a little farther away. They've noticed them. Sue, for some reason, winks at James and gives him a thumbs-up—what the fuck? That only confuses him more. Before he can even begin to process that, Tony’s fingers graze his jaw, firm yet careful, and gently turn his head—forcing James to look at him.

"Hey… over here. Eyes on me." Tony murmurs, his voice smooth, calm—too fucking gentle, with a teasing edge that James can’t even begin to categorize. He swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry. Tony’s smiling at him. But not the cocky, shit-eating grin he usually wears like armor—no, this is different. This is a real smile, warm and unguarded, his eyes practically fucking glowing with joy.

James' breath stutters. Realization slams into him like a freight train—Tony is enjoying this. Like, actually enjoying this. Dancing. With him. And that realization, that fact, nearly knocks him on his goddamn ass.

Before his brain can talk him out of it, James moves on instinct. His hands slide lower, fingertips grazing over Tony’s waist, feeling the heat of his body through his suit. He doesn’t stop there—he pulls Tony in, closing the already small gap between them until they’re practically fucking melded together.

The Inventor doesn’t resist. Hell, he meets James halfway, his hands traveling up, wrapping around the back of James' neck, fingers teasing at the base of his hair, pulling him closer. The air between them turns electric, their bodies flush—there’s barely an inch of space left. James' heart hammers against his ribs, hard. Too hard. He’s sure Tony can fucking feel it.

"For someone who hasn’t danced in decades," Tony hums, voice low and impossibly smooth as his hands slide lower, resting on James’ lower back, pressing them even closer together. He leans in, lips barely a breath away from James' ear, "You’re not doing too bad of a job."

James exhales sharply, his grip tightening around Tony’s waist. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. If he opens his mouth, he might say something stupid—something he can’t take back. They stay like that—dancing, lost in each other—for what feels like forever, until the song ends, ripping the moment away.

James doesn’t want to let go. And, judging by the flicker of hesitation in Tony’s eyes, neither does he. The space between them feels charged, humming with something unspoken, something thick and heavy in the air. James’ fingers twitch against the fabric of Tony’s suit, and he swears he can feel the way the Inventor's breath hitches ever so slightly.

“That was…” James starts, but fuck, the words fail him. His throat feels tight, his mind an absolute fucking mess.

Tony tilts his head, a smirk playing on his lips. “Nice?” It’s teasing, but there’s something beneath it—something softer, a quiet kind of hope lingering in his gaze. James swallows. His grip tightens. “Yeah,” he admits, voice lower than he intends. “Dancing with you was really… nice.” They linger. Too long.

 

They should’ve let go by now. The song has ended, and a new one has already taken over—something faster, louder, more modern. The bass thrums through the floor, through their bodies, reminding them that time hasn’t stopped. That the rest of the world still exists. But somehow, somehow, they don’t move.

James can still feel the warmth of Tony’s hands where they rest against him, still feel how close their bodies are—barely any space left between them. He takes a shaky breath, his chest rising and falling a little too fast, and it doesn’t fucking help that Tony is looking at him like that—lips slightly parted, eyes dark and unreadable. His heart is a goddamn war drum in his chest.

He draws in a shaky breath, his pulse hammering against his ribs. A sudden wave of reckless courage surges through him. Fuck it. If he's going to make a mistake, he might as well make it spectacular. "Tony, I—" he begins, his voice thick with something raw, something he refuses to name. "Yeah?" Tony’s full attention snaps to him, gaze expectant—warm, open. Too open.

Jesus. He’s looking at James like he’s the only goddamn thing in the universe that matters. Like he’s waiting for something worth hearing. James' throat tightens. The words are right there, teetering on the edge of escape. But before he can let them spill free, a slurred, mocking voice cuts through the moment like a jagged knife—sharp, intrusive, and impossible to ignore.

"Well, well, look what we have here." James tenses immediately, jaw clenching as he turns.

Of course, it’s Johnny. Of fucking course it’s him.

The asshole stumbles forward, barely managing to stay upright, swaying like a goddamn marionette with its strings cut. His grin is sharp and mean, eyes gleaming with something ugly. Before James can tell him to fuck off, Johnny shoves himself between them, clumsily reaching for Tony’s wrist. He misses—his fingers grasping at nothing but air. He’s too drunk to have any real control, too wasted to realize just how fucking pathetic he looks. "Fuck, why are you dodging me?" he slurs, his words slow and sloppy, drenched in alcohol. "You act like my touch fucking disgusts you."

Tony snorts, rolling his eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck. "Wow, the genius finally catches on. Congratulations. Took you long enough." He tilts his head, unimpressed. "Now get the fuck out of the way."

Johnny’s expression darkens, his smile dropping, jaw clenching as he takes another step forward, his breath thick with the stench of liquor. "The fuck is your problem, huh?" His voice turns sharp, accusatory. "I’ve been trying to talk to you all goddamn night, and all you do in response is acting like a little bitch."

James doesn’t hesitate. His hand snaps out, fingers clamping onto Johnny’s shoulder in a bruising grip as he yanks him back—hard. At the same time, his other hand presses flat against Tony’s chest, easing him behind him- Out of reach. He steps forward, and Johnny stumbles, barely managing to keep his balance. He blinks up at James, his eyes sluggish but filled with irritation. "Oh, what now?" he sneers. "Tony can’t even fight his own battles anymore? Gotta have his guard dog do it for him?"

James doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. His stare is pure cold fury. "That’s enough," he growls, voice low, lethal. "You’re fucking wasted. Get the hell out of here before you make an even bigger ass of yourself."

The drunkard scoffs, swaying slightly, "Oh-ho, I’m so scared," he mocks, forcing out a laugh that’s more bark than anything else. "You gonna hit me, tough guy? Gonna throw a punch in front of everyone?" His smirk turns razor-sharp. "Or are you just gonna stand there looking menacing and hope I drop dead?"

James steps closer, his presence looming. "If you don’t walk away right now, you’re gonna wish you had." Johnny barely spares him a glance. His gaze is locked on Tony, something cruel burning behind it. "You really upgraded, huh?" he sneers. "Traded Pepper in for a fucking bodyguard?" His lips curl, something twisted and bitter bleeding into his tone.

James moves so fast that Johnny doesn’t even register it until he’s right there, breathing down his neck, voice razor-edged. "You need to leave. Now. Or else—" The threat is unspoken, but it hangs thick in the air, pressing down like a storm about to break.

Johnny ignores him. Of course, he fucking does. Instead, he spits out a sharp, mocking laugh and turns back to Tony. "Come on, Tony," he sneers. "Tell him to step aside so we can have some real fun. You know I can give you more than he ever could." The Inventor's expression doesn’t just harden—it freezes. Any lingering patience, any trace of amusement, vanishes in an instant.

"The answer is still no, Johnny," he says, voice cold as steel. "There will never be anything between us. Not now, not tomorrow, not in a hundred fucking years. Get that through your goddamn skull."

That’s the final fucking straw. Johnny snaps. His face twists, the drunken rage bubbling just under the surface finally boiling over. "Oh, but he’s your type, huh?" he hisses, practically shaking with fury. "Come the fuck on, Tony. Who are you even trying to fool? I saw your little ‘kiss'." His lip curls, words dripping with venom. "This guy means nothing to you. You’re just playing along."

His gaze flickers to James, and before anyone can stop him, he leans in—too close, breath rancid with alcohol, eyes dark with something cruel. "You killed his fuckin' parents in cold blood," he whispers, his voice a slow, deliberate blade. "You really think he likes you?" He scoffs, shaking his head. "He couldn’t even kiss you properly. Says a lot, doesn’t it?"

Tony goes completely, dangerously still. Johnny doesn’t stop.

"It’s clear he’s just playing along because he has to," he taunts, watching for a reaction. "If he feels anything toward you, it’s probably pity. Or who knows? Maybe even disgust." His smirk sharpens, twisting into something even nastier. "Would explain why he didn’t have the balls to give you a real kiss—why he settled for your forehead instead." He clicks his tongue in mock pity."I wouldn’t want to kiss the murderer of my parents on the lips either." He keeps babbling, slurring through his drunken cruelty, completely oblivious to the fact that he’s already signed his own damn death warrant.

James sees red and the next moment plays out in slow motion.

 

He doesn’t think—his body reacts before his mind can catch up. His fist is already pulling back, muscles coiled, ready to smash into Johnny’s face, to wipe that smug, self-righteous expression right off his face.

But Tony moves first. Before James can land the punch, The Inventor yanks him forward by his tie, dragging him down with surprising force. The sudden pull knocks the breath from James' lungs, and before he can protest, Tony’s lips crash against his- The world tilts. James' heart stutters in his chest, a wild, erratic beat as warmth floods through him. Tony’s lips—hot, firm, yet impossibly soft—press against his in the lightest, most fleeting of touches.

At least… at first.

Then James’ hands find their way to Tony’s hips, his fingers curling into the fabric of his suit, tugging him closer without a second thought. The action is almost reflexive, a pull driven by a surge of desire he can’t quite control. Tony doesn’t hesitate—he leans into the movement, his body responding instantly. That subtle shift, that silent invitation, is all the encouragement Tony needs. The kiss shifts—no longer just a touch, no longer just a move. It turns hungry, desperate. Tony tilts his head, deepening it, his fingers tightening around James’ tie like he’s afraid to let go- like this kiss is a fuckin' statement. 

And James realizes—that’s exactly what this is. Not a declaration. Not some grand confession. It’s meant as a giant middle finger to Johnny. And judging by the strangled noise the man makes, it’s working. A part of James knows he should be irritated by that. Maybe even insulted. But he doesn’t care. Not when Tony is kissing him like this. Not when it feels this damn good.

Then—just when James thinks he might be able to breathe again—Tony’s tongue flicks against his lips before slipping inside. Holy. Hell. He grips Tony’s hips harder, and heat is pooling low in his stomach as his body reacts instinctively. Blood rushes south, a dangerous fire spreading through his veins.

A strangled, disgusted yell shatters the moment. "You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me," Johnny spits, his face twisted in revulsion. His hands shake at his sides, his whole body vibrating with barely restrained fury. His face is red, whether from anger or embarrassment, James can’t tell.

He stumbles back as if the sight of them is physically repelling him. His lips curl in a sneer, his eyes darting between them with unfiltered disgust. "You’re pathetic, Tony," he sneers. "Both of you." Then he turns on his heel and storms off, his retreat far less graceful than he probably intended.

Silence lingers in his wake. James and Tony remain frozen, breaths heavy, faces flushed. The Inventor's grip on James’ tie stays firm.

James’ hands are still on Tony’s hips, fingers flexing against the warmth of his skin through the fabric. Neither of them moves. Neither of them speaks.

As they look at each other, breathless and shaken, James can pinpoint the exact moment the atmosphere shifts—when the air between them turns heavier, more serious.

Tony's eyes widen as if he's only now realizing what he’s done. His grip on James’ tie, which he had been clutching tightly, loosens abruptly. His hand trembles as it moves to his own lips, brushing against them softly, almost hesitantly—like he needs to confirm that what just happened was real. And with a sinking heart, James watches as regret creeps onto Tony’s face.

"Fuck..." The Inventor's voice is barely above a whisper, fragile and laced with pain. "Fuck, James. I’m sorry. I—I shouldn’t have done that. Oh, fuck me—I screwed up. I really fucked this up. Shit, you must be so pissed at me." He rambles on, his hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in it as he tugs in frustration.

James reaches for his wrists, gently pulling them away before Tony can hurt himself further. His voice is as soft as he can make it when he says, "Hey... It’s okay. I’m not mad." How could I be? That was fucking hot.

"But I—" Tony starts, but James cuts him off smoothly. "You acted on impulse. You wanted to get back at him, and it worked. Did you see his dumb expression? That alone was absolutely worth it." He takes a small step back, giving Tony some space—but he doesn’t let go of his hands. "I mean, what I had in mind would’ve cost him his teeth, so honestly, he should be grateful you beat me to it," James smirks, his voice dripping with amusement.

"But you—I mean—" Tony stammers, struggling to find the right words. Any other time, James would’ve found it adorable. But now? Now, it worries him.

"Tony," James says firmly, holding his gaze. "Trust me. It’s okay. It was just a kiss—a means to an end. You got under Johnny’s skin, and I’m pretty sure he’ll leave you alone for a while now." He swallows, searching Tony’s face, trying to reassure him—trying to ignore the way his own chest feels too tight. "If the price for that was kissing you... then it was worth it." His voice is steady, but there’s something careful about the way he says it as if he's testing the weight of his own words. "Like I said, it was just a kiss. I’ll be fine." He chuckles, not noticing the way Tony’s expression shifts, how something that looks an awful lot like disappointment flickers across his face as the man's gaze flickers downward, jaw tense.

"If only it were that simple..." Tony murmurs, shaking his head as he takes a few steps back, widening the distance between them— like he’s retreating. James watches him, the confusion is evident in his features, but Tony doesn’t say anything else. The silence between them stretches, turning uncomfortable.

"Hey..." James tries again, but the inventor cuts him off immediately.

"Ah, fuck. Sorry, it’s just—this whole thing has completely messed with my head." He exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face, his frustration palpable. "The shit he said, James... That wasn’t okay. I was so fucking angry. He doesn’t even know you! He had no right to say any of that—he’s such an asshole. But..." His voice falters, guilt creeping in. "But what I did... that was even worse, wasn’t it?" His breath comes uneven now, hands clenching at his sides. "Even if you say it wasn’t a big deal—me kissing you—I shouldn’t have done that. James, for fuck’s sake, that wasn’t okay either." His voice cracks on the last word, and he shakes his head as if trying to physically rid himself of the thought.

"I—" He stops, swallowing hard before finally forcing himself to meet James’ eyes. "I just... I just need a minute. To think. To get my head straight." And then, before James can say anything- before he can even process what’s happening, Tony turns on his heel and walks away—no, runs—shouldering past people, disappearing into the crowd like he can't get away fast enough.

James doesn’t move. He just stands there, frozen, staring after him, feeling utterly helpless. His legs feel like lead, his body heavy with something he can’t name, as if chasing after Tony isn’t even an option. As if he’s already too late...

 

"What the hell just happened here?" Reed blurts out, his voice laced with confusion as he steps up beside James, having just witnessed Tony bolt away from the dancefloor. Sue, standing close, narrows her eyes at James, scrutinizing him with an intensity that makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. The concern etched into her expression is almost suffocating—clear, undeniable proof that he must look just as awful as he feels.

And God, does he feel awful.

A part of him wants to turn on his heel and walk away—to escape before he’s forced to put any of this into words. But Reed is watching him like a man who refuses to let him slip away without an explanation, so James forces himself to stay. Forces himself to relive it. Forces himself to speak.

By the time he finishes, Sue’s expression is thunderous, her jaw tight with barely contained fury. Her hands are clenched into fists at her sides, as if sheer willpower is the only thing keeping her from storming off and strangling her brother. "Oh, that absolute idiot," she hisses, shaking her head in disbelief. "I swear to God, I’m telling Ben. That moron better start running now, because once Ben’s done with him, he’ll be lucky if he can even crawl to the bathroom on his own. I can’t believe this."

Reed exhales heavily, dragging a hand down his face before shifting his gaze back to James who looks helpless and utterly devastated—and his expression softens. "Hey, this isn’t on you," he says gently. "Johnny’s an asshole—especially when he’s drunk. This is just who he is. Don’t let it get to you." The man hesitates, choosing his next words carefully. "And Tony… Tony’s always been the kind of person who shoulders the blame, even when he shouldn’t. He turns on himself before anyone else can." Reed squeezes James’s shoulder, the touch firm but careful, a quiet attempt at comfort.

"When he comes back, take him aside and talk to him," Sue adds, stepping forward to wrap James in a firm, grounding hug. "Just the two of you. No pressure, no interruptions. I promise- It’ll work out."

Will it? James doesn’t know.

He doesn’t know how to process any of this. Doesn’t know what to do with the sharp ache in his chest or the crushing weight pressing against his ribs. Doesn’t know if he should feel grateful for their words or if he should just give in to the overwhelming urge to disappear. "...Thanks," he manages to say, though the word is empty, devoid of life.

Sue and Reed exchange a glance but don’t push him further. Instead, they excuse themselves, heading off to find Johnny and give him hell. James watches them go, eyes fixed on the spot where they disappear into the throng of partygoers. But even after they’re long gone, he doesn’t move. Minutes pass, stretching endlessly as the world spins on without him.

Laughter echoes around him. The dance floor is alive with warmth, with light, with people who have no idea what it feels like to have the ground ripped out from under them. They hold each other close, whispering secrets, stealing kisses, exchanging lovesick glances.

James stands among them, but he is not one of them- He doesn’t belong here.

The realization is a cold thing, hollow and inescapable. Lowering his gaze, he turns away from the laughter, the music, the joy that is so painfully out of reach. He moves through the crowd like a ghost, unnoticed, untouched, until he reaches the far edge of the garden—a secluded space where a glass greenhouse stands, its walls catching the soft glow of distant lights. Nearby, benches rest next to clusters of asters and chrysanthemums, swaying gently in the night breeze.

James sinks onto one of the benches, his body heavy, movements sluggish. He folds his hands in his lap, stares blankly ahead, and lets the crushing weight of it all settle onto his shoulders.

When did everything go so horribly, irreversibly wrong?

Tony kissed him.

James kissed back.

And then, Tony regretted it and ran.

Like it was a mistake. Like James was a mistake.

A bitter laugh escapes him—short, humorless, more breath than sound. It dies the moment it leaves his lips, swallowed whole by the emptiness inside him. Fuck. His body feels foreign like he’s only loosely tethered to it, like he could let go at any second and drift away. His arms drop limply to his sides, his head tipping back as he stares at the vast, star-strewn sky above.

It’s beautiful and breathtaking. The night air is cool, carrying the delicate scent of flowers in bloom. Everything around him is peaceful, perfect. But none of it matters. Not when the hollow ache inside him devours everything in its path...

He eventually closes his eyes, trying his best to tune out everything around him. The noise, the people, the weight pressing down on his chest. He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting here, but frankly, he doesn’t give a shit.

 

Eventually, though, his fragile bubble of self-loathing pops when he hears footsteps approaching. They slow just before reaching him, hesitating right in front of him, like the person isn’t sure what to do, before finally sinking down beside him. James doesn’t have to look to know who it is. The air shifts. A familiar, expensive, intoxicating scent invades his senses. Tony.

He lets his head roll to the side, opening his eyes slowly, and—yeah. There he is.

Tony doesn’t say a word. Just sits there, staring blankly at the ground, his elbows braced on his thighs, hands clasped beneath his chin. He looks like he’s a million miles away...

James wants to speak, to offer some words of comfort or understanding. But he doesn't. He remains quiet, choosing to let the silence stretch out, waiting to see what happens next. Deep down, he knows he doesn’t have the energy for anything more. The day has already worn him down and drained him in ways he can’t quite explain. He feels like he’s been hollowed out, and any attempt to break the quiet would feel like too much. If Tony needs this space, this quiet, then James will sit here for as long as it takes—waiting, unwavering, until Tony decides to speak.

Time stretches on, each minute feeling heavier than the last. The stillness between them is almost unbearable. And then, after what feels like an eternity, Tony exhales—a long, slow sigh. He shifts, leaning in closer until his head rests against James’ shoulder, just like that one time during movie night when Tony had fallen asleep, exhausted, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. It wasn’t about seeking comfort, not then. He’d simply been too tired to stay awake. But the memory of it lingers, and for a moment, James feels something stir inside him—a quiet recognition of how easily they slip into these unspoken moments, even without knowing what they mean yet.

The Inventor sighs again before speaking in a voice so quiet and fragile it almost doesn’t sound like him. “I’m sorry for just walking away earlier... That wasn’t okay. It’s just…” He hesitates, struggling to find the right words. “At that moment, I felt like a complete asshole, and I just had to get out of there.”

“Tony—”

“No, James. Please.” Tony’s voice is firm as he raises a hand, stopping James from interrupting. He tries to keep the tremor out of his voice, but he fails miserably. “Johnny’s been after me since the day he met me. He’s got this sick fantasy in his head that I’d be the perfect addition to his trophy collection.” His tone sharpens, laced with something bitter and disgusted. “The guy’s a complete playboy—he didn’t even stop at Alicia. Or Doom’s fiancé.”

James clenches his jaw and listens, silent and steady, as Tony speaks. His voice is worn, frayed at the edges with exhaustion.

"Most of the time, I ignore him," Tony continues, his tone laced with something brittle, something tired. "Or I throw some sarcasm his way and call it a day. But today… today, I just lost my temper and got so goddamn pissed at him." As the words leave him, something in Tony seems to give out. His whole body seems to cave inward like the weight of the day has finally crushed whatever resolve he had left. He presses closer to James—seeking comfort. "And it wasn’t even the stuff about my parents that got to me the most," he admits, voice quieter now, but no less raw.

James doesn’t speak, doesn’t rush him. He just waits. Tony swallows, jaw tight. "What made me lose it was what he said after that. He made it sound like I was disgusted by you—like I was just pretending to tolerate you, playing along out of pity." His voice hardens, tight with restrained fury. "Hell, he basically said I was so repulsed by you that I couldn’t even bring myself to properly kiss you."

The words hang between them, sharp and cutting, echoing in the space where neither of them knows how to speak. James feels the weight of them settle deep in his chest, pressing down until it aches. He doesn’t move, doesn’t even breathe too hard, afraid that any shift might shatter the fragile moment between them. Then Tony tilts his head up, his eyes locking onto James’. There’s something desperate in them, something raw like he’s searching for an answer James doesn’t know how to give.

“What Johnny said to you made me so furious that I just… I wanted to prove him wrong,” Tony says, his voice rough and uneven. “Something in me snapped, and I needed him to see just how wrong he was. That I would pick you over him in any situation, every damn time…” James’ breath catches. Tony is so damn close—all he has to do is close the distance, and—

But Tony moves first.

His arms wrap around James in a sudden, almost crushing embrace, his face pressing into James’ shoulder. He’s trembling—not just in his voice, but in the way he holds on like he’s afraid to let go. His words come out muffled against the fabric of James’ suit, but they still cut deep. “But then I realized that what I did wasn’t much better,” Tony admits, his voice thick with something dangerously close to breaking. “I kissed you to get back at Johnny, and I completely disregarded your feelings in the process. And the worst part?” His grip tightens, fingers curling into the fabric of James’ suit like he needs something to hold onto, something solid, something real.

When he speaks again, his voice is barely there, trembling so much that James almost doesn’t catch the words. “In that moment, I realized I wasn’t much better than Steve.” The admission is barely a whisper, but it hits like a gunshot. James feels it like a physical thing, a weight pressing into his ribs, winding around his lungs like a vice. Tony’s breath is shaky against his shoulder, and James—James wants to say something, anything, but the words won’t come.

James doesn’t think. His body moves on instinct, pushing Tony back just enough so he can cup his face in his hands. His fingers are firm but gentle, steadying, grounding. He tilts Tony’s head until their eyes meet, his own burning with an intensity that leaves no room for doubt. “Don’t you dare,” He growls, voice low and furious. “Don’t you dare compare yourself to that idiot- you're a far better man than him.” Tony flinches, lips parting as if to argue. “But—”

“No buts, Tony.” James cuts him off, his grip unwavering. “If that kiss had truly bothered me, if it had made me uncomfortable in any way, I could have pushed you away. Or have you forgotten?” His lips curl into something sharp, something almost teasing but not quite. “I have super strength. If I wanted you off me, I would’ve made it happen.” Not that I ever would’ve, he thinks. I’ve been waiting for that damn kiss all night. Honestly, I should be thanking Johnny for being such an asshole.

James lets out a slow breath, his grip loosening just slightly. His voice softens, losing its edge. “What actually hurt,” he admits, “was that you ran off without a word.” His thumb brushes over Tony’s cheek, a light, fleeting touch. For just a second—so brief he almost doesn’t believe it—Tony leans into it. But that can’t be right… can it?

The Inventor exhales, warm against James’ skin, his voice quieter now. “Sorry… I just needed to clear my head. I won't do that again...”

“It’s okay. Just promise me next time, you’ll talk to me instead. I was worried about you.” James exhales, feeling some of the tension in his chest finally ease. “I want you to know you can tell me anything, Tony. Whenever something is weighing on you, I’m here.” He smiles as he says it, hoping to reassure him, but Tony’s eyes flick away, avoiding his gaze. It’s subtle, but James doesn’t miss it—the hesitation, the way Tony seems to wrestle with something unspoken. Like there’s still a wall between them, something too heavy for him to let go of just yet.

“…Thanks,” The Inventor murmurs after a pause. His voice is quiet and careful. “I… I’ll keep that in mind.” James studies him, something uneasy settling in his gut. He doesn’t know what it is, but something about the way Tony won’t quite look at him, the hesitance in his voice, doesn’t sit right. There’s something the man's holding back... But if Tony doesn’t want to say it, James won’t force him.

“We should go,” Tony says, pushing himself up with deliberate slowness, like even standing takes effort. He turns back, offering a hand to James. “I’m completely drained. This whole thing… it’s wiped me out.” He smiles, but it’s thin, strained at the edges like it takes just as much effort as standing. James sees right through it. He doesn’t call him out on it, though. Instead, he just nods and takes Tony’s hand.

When the time is right, maybe he’ll trust me enough to tell me what’s really on his mind, James thinks as they walk, hand in hand, toward their car, leaving the chaos of the night behind them.

Notes:

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"Sorry for not having answered the comments yet. I will do so soon. KUDOS to all of you! ❤️

Also; This will become a series in the near future, I'm planning to write the entire story from Tony's POV as well. :3

Chapter 35

The ride back to the compound is quiet—not suffocating, but distant. Detached. Or maybe that’s not the right word. James isn’t sure. He doesn’t know how to describe it. It’s hard to put into words.

He wants to say something, anything, just to break the silence. But where would he even start? His mind is racing, a chaotic mess of thoughts crashing into each other, making it impossible to focus on just one. And beyond that, there’s this gnawing fear—fear that whatever he says might be the wrong thing.

Tony, for his part, is trying to keep his expression neutral, but James isn’t blind. The way the man's fingers tap against the steering wheel, restless, betrays everything. It speaks volumes. It probably has something to do with his reaction earlier—the way he had withdrawn, his entire body stiffening when James told him he could tell him anything. The Inventor had barely acknowledged the offer, his response so hesitant, so closed-off, that it was impossible not to notice.

Something is weighing on him. James knows it. And damn it, he wants to know what it is. He wants to help.

But the silence lingers, stretching between them like an invisible barrier, and it pulls James deeper into his own thoughts. His mind replays the evening, the events flashing by like scenes from a movie. It had been chaotic—nothing like what he had imagined. Yet, despite everything, there had been good moments, too.

Sue and Reed, for example, had left a strong impression on him, and he genuinely hopes that he will get to see them more often from now on—maybe even become good friends. The thought is comforting, and he makes a firm promise to himself to do whatever it takes to make that happen.

But the highlight of the night…

The highlight had been Tony’s kiss.

Even now, the memory lingers—warm and electric, seared into his lips like an unshakable imprint. His heart stutters at the mere thought of it, a thrill coursing through him. The chaos, the complications—none of it matters. It happened. That’s all that counts. And God, he would give anything to feel it again

His gaze flickers toward Tony. What would he say if James just came out and admitted it? If he told him he wanted to kiss him again? That he wanted more? The thought coils tight in his chest, a mix of anticipation and uncertainty. Would Tony pull away? Laugh it off? Or would he close the distance between them, just like before?

The thought barely has time to settle before—somehow, inexplicably—Sue’s words surface in his mind. And before he can stop himself, the question that has been nagging at him all evening slips past his lips.

“By the way… Did you end up finding your soulmate tonight?” The second the words are out, his stomach drops. His entire body tenses as if bracing for impact. Fuck. Why the hell did I say that? He feels the blood drain from his face, and as if sensing the shift, his eyes dart toward the Inventor.

The rhythmic tapping of Tony’s fingers stops. Instead, his grip tightens around the steering wheel—so forcefully that James can hear the material creak under the strain, dangerously close to breaking. And then there’s his eyes—glowing that eerie, unnatural blue, the way they always do when he’s agitated. Or, in this case, extremely stressed.

James realizes that it's not just him who has gone pale as a ghost. Tony looks just as bad. He doesn’t look at him and deliberately avoids James' gaze as he responds—hesitant, cautious, like someone tiptoeing through a minefield. “I—what… what made you ask that?” His voice is defensive. Guarded. As if he’s terrified that saying too much could unravel something irreversible.

James should let it go. He should just shrug and say no reason. But of course, his dumbass brain refuses to cooperate. Instead, it pushes him to explain. "You told Pepper you might meet your soulmate tonight," he says, and it feels like he’s digging his own grave. "I was just curious. You danced with so many people tonight, so I thought—"

"What?" Tony cuts in, a short, sharp laugh escaping his lips. "That someone was the one?" He shakes his head. "James, come on. Most of my dance partners tonight were probably collecting retirement checks before you were even born." James snorts, trying to suppress a grin. But then—because he’s an idiot—he says, “Sue and Reed seemed convinced you were watching someone. That you’d found someone.”

The reaction is instantaneous. The steering wheel protests under Tony’s iron grip, a sharp crack shattering the tense silence. His shoulders go rigid, muscles coiled so tightly they look on the verge of snapping. And his face—shit. His teeth sink into his lower lip, so hard James half expects to see blood. His expression is pure, unfiltered panic.

Like an animal caught in a trap. Wounded. Desperate. Cornered.

James’ heart sinks. Fuck. I pushed too far. He scrambles to backpedal, his voice softer now. “Sorry. I was just surprised because they seemed so sure. I—I didn’t mean to pry. It’s none of my business.”

The Inventor stays tense. And then James hears it—the unmistakable sound of Tony grinding his teeth. He doesn’t respond immediately. Long, excruciating seconds pass, and with each one, James feels his stomach twist into tighter knots. Has he ruined everything?

Then, finally, Tony speaks. And when he does, the words shatter something inside James. “They... They weren’t entirely wrong,” Tony admits at last, voice quiet.

James stops breathing.

"There’s… someone,” Tony starts, then stops, his throat working around the words like they’re too big to fit. His grip tightens, knuckles paling. “Someone I’m interested in.” He exhales sharply as if the admission takes something out of him.

James barely registers anything past someone. The word slams into him, knocking the air from his lungs. His heart lurches, a sharp, visceral pain spreading through his chest like wildfire—hot, relentless, all-consuming. It’s not just in his head. It’s physical. Real. And Tony won’t even look at him. That’s the only mercy James gets—because if Tony saw his face right now, he’d know. He’d see everything. The hurt. The disbelief. Just how completely wrecked James is.

Fuck.

Fuck.

FUCK.

Why didn’t he just keep his goddamn mouth shut? Knowing—really knowing—that Tony is interested in someone else feels like having his ribcage split open, his heart ripped out, stomped on, and then discarded like trash. HYDRA never made me feel this kind of pain.

“I—I’m happy for you,” he lies, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. They scrape against him like barbed wire. “Did I—did I see them tonight?”

Tony is silent. Too long. When he finally answers, his voice is strangely passive.  “I… don’t think so.” James swallows hard. “I see.” A pause. A breath he doesn’t realize he’s holding. Then, because he’s a glutton for punishment, he asks, “Are you going to tell them? Try your luck?”

The question wrecks Tony. He sucks in a sharp breath, switches on the autonomous driving system with a jerky motion, and releases the battered steering wheel. Then—finally—he turns to look at James.

And James freezes. Because Tony looks—broken. Like he’s barely holding himself together. Like he’s seconds away from bolting or breaking down completely. His voice trembles when he speaks. “No,” he whispers. “I won’t.”

James should say nothing. He should let it go. Instead, he says, "Why not? If you told them, I bet they’d say yes in a heartbeat. They’d be lucky to have you. Tonight, so many people have tried their luck with you. Alice, for example—she was more than obvious in her admiration, completely captivated by you. And that young man you danced with? He looked just as enchanted. Honestly, I can’t imagine that the person you’re interested in isn’t just as taken with you."

If it were me... I wouldn’t hesitate for even a second. I’d give you the world, place it at your feet without question, James doesn't say out loud. 

The Inventor exhales sharply, his hands dropping into his lap. His fingers twitch slightly before curling into fists, as though he's still holding onto something that isn't there. He turns his head toward the window, pressing his forehead against the glass, his expression unreadable.

"James..." Tony murmurs, his voice distant, hollow. "These people... They only want me because they love the idea of me. The version they've built up in their heads. But if they really knew me? If they saw what I look like underneath the suit—what's left of me, the scars and all of it?" He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. "They wouldn’t be so eager then."

James frowns. "Tony—"

"You don’t get it, James." Tony cuts him off, his voice sharp, almost angry. But beneath that anger, James hears something else. Something raw. Pain.

"They see Tony Stark, genius, billionaire, whatever-the-fuck. They don’t see me." His voice drops, barely above a whisper. "They’re trapped in this image of me, one that shatters the moment they realize I’m nowhere near what they imagine—at least not anymore. I’m a broken man, James. I barely sleep, I have nightmares, and I live in constant fear of screwing things up and losing someone because of my mistakes. And because I’m so damn pathetic, I hide it all behind a smile. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?"

James clenches his jaw. “But... it seems like the person you’re interested in is different from the others you’ve described,” James says, his voice tentative. “They must be different, otherwise they wouldn’t matter to you. I don’t understand why you—”

“Believe me, it’s better this way,” Tony interrupts, and James can see just how hard it is for him to get the words out. “This person... even if they are different from the others, they deserve someone better than me, James. They deserve to be happy—and they can’t be, not with me. If there is one thing I can say with absolute certainty, it is that nothing good ever comes from getting too close to me...” James watches as the inventor’s hands tremble, the subtle shake betraying the pain in his words. He hears the deep unhappiness in Tony’s voice, and he sees the way it tightens around every sentence.

He hates hearing Tony talk like this. Hates how much self-loathing drips from every word. He wants to say something—anything—to make him see himself the way James sees him. But he doesn’t know how.

The Inventor exhales sharply, closing his eyes. He looks so... tired. Not just physically, but in a way that makes James' chest tighten painfully.

He knows he should tell Tony something to make him reconsider, to take the risk, to reach for the happiness he deserves… If there’s even the slightest chance, he should take it. That love, real love, isn’t something you just let slip through your fingers. That no matter how much it might terrify him, it’s better to try and fail than to never try at all. But the words won’t come. They refuse to come. Because he would feel like a hypocrite...

As much as James wants to be selfless, as much as he wants to be a good person and encourage Tony to go after what he wants… The thought of watching him love someone else is unbearable. So he stays silent. And the silence between them stretches, thick and suffocating.

Then, after what feels like an eternity, Tony asks, almost hesitantly, "And what about you?" James blinks, caught off guard. He needs a second to understand what Tony is asking.

Oh.

Tony wants to know if he has someone. If there’s someone who holds his heart. They’ve had this conversation before, but back then, it hadn’t felt so... crushing. So utterly hopeless. He swallows, his throat tight, and forces himself to answer. "I think I found someone... but..." His voice falters. His heart sinks, plummeting into a bottomless abyss of pain. "But they already love someone else." 

Silence.

A long, painful silence.

Then—"Oh." Tony’s voice is quiet, barely more than a breath. But the way he says it... James doesn’t know what it is exactly, but something about it makes his chest ache even more.

"I'm... I'm really sorry." The Inventor adds, almost like an afterthought. 

James doesn’t look at him, and Tony doesn’t look at James either. But his voice... His voice. It sounds like something inside him just broke. Like the weight of the world has finally crushed him entirely. And James? James tells himself he’s imagining it. That he’s just projecting his own heartbreak onto Tony. Because the alternative... the alternative is too painful to even consider.

"And... there's really no chance?" The Inventor asks quietly.

James almost laughs. Almost. Wouldn’t that be ironic? If he were the kind of person who laughed at his own misery, he might. Instead, he just exhales, slow and quiet, before answering, "I’m afraid not."

Tony doesn’t respond immediately. When he does, his words feel like a death sentence. "Then I guess neither of us are lucky in love." James watches as the man exhales deeply as if trying to release the weight of something far too heavy to carry.

Then—"Sorry, but... I feel really tired all of a sudden. Wake me when we get there, yeah?"

And James knows. He knows Tony isn’t actually tired. He knows this is just an escape—a desperate attempt to shut down, to end this conversation before it suffocates them both. And honestly? He doesn’t blame him. So he hums in acknowledgment, unable to find the energy to say anything more.

He turns away, staring out his own window. The darkness outside stares back at him, empty and endless like the void slowly consuming him from the inside out. It swallows everything. Every lingering shred of hope. Every tiny, flickering ember of light. Until there’s nothing left.

Nothing but the cold, suffocating weight of knowing that the one person he loves more than anything in this world…

Loves someone else.

 

 

As they arrive at the compound, James doesn’t need to wake Tony. Even before the car has fully come to a stop, the Inventor already has the door open, and for a fleeting second, it looks like he’s about to bolt—just like he did at the party. But then, mid-step, he hesitates, as if realizing what he’s about to do.

He stops and waits for James to catch up, but something feels off. The usual closeness between them is gone. Instead, Tony maintains a noticeable distance, and the space between them feels cold, suffocating—like a weight pressing down on James’ chest. He can't stand it any longer. Reaching out, he grabs Tony's hand, forcing him to stop. The entrance lights of the compound are just a faint glow in the distance. Tony turns to face him, eyes wide with surprise. “James, what—”

“I probably have no right to say this. Hell, what am I saying? I definitely have no right,” He interrupts, his voice edged with urgency. He knows if he doesn’t speak now, he’ll lose his nerve, and later, he’ll regret saying nothing. “But I think you should tell them, Tony.”

“James, I already explained—”

“Please, let me finish, okay?” James pulls him closer, his grip firm but careful. With his free hand, he takes Tony’s chin, tilting his head just enough to force their eyes to meet.

"You say you're afraid—afraid that showing them who you really are will push them away. That the mask you've so carefully crafted is the only thing keeping them from turning their back on you. But I don’t believe that would ever happen. And do you know why?" His voice falters for a moment, betraying the storm raging inside him. God, whoever Tony has fallen for, they should be damn grateful that James is doing this for them!

“Because you love them, Tony.” His words are raw, and heavy with conviction. “You are one of the most selfless, kind-hearted people I’ve ever met. You always put others before yourself. You sacrifice so much just so the people around you can be happy. Hell, Tony, you would throw away your own life in a heartbeat if it meant doing the right thing…”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say...” Tony’s voice is barely a whisper, and his gaze drifts away, his expression on the verge of breaking.

“My point is,” James continues, “someone like you wouldn’t just give your heart to anyone. You must have seen something in them—something real, something that moved you. And I refuse to believe that the person who has your heart would walk away after seeing the parts of you that you try so hard to hide. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Tony doesn’t answer, but James sees it—the way his hands tremble at his sides, the way his entire body is wound tight, like a string stretched to its breaking point.

And James? James feels like he’s being torn apart from the inside out. The thought that his words might push Tony toward a happy ending—toward someone else—settles like lead in his stomach. What he’s doing right now is nothing short of self-destruction, but he tells himself it’s the right thing to do. If anyone deserves happiness, it’s Tony.

Even if the man's happiness means James’s heart will shatter into a thousand irreparable pieces.

“Tony,” he continues, forcing the words out despite the lump in his throat, “if even I—someone who’s only had a few days to truly get to know you—can look past the things you try so hard to hide… If even I can say that I care about you, whether you believe me or not… then why the hell wouldn’t the person you love be able to do the same?” He tries to smile, but it feels wrong—hollow. Forced. And thank God Tony still refuses to meet his eyes, because James knows he would see right through him.

“And about your scars…” James takes a deep breath, steadying himself. What he’s about to say—how he says it—might give away too much, and the thought terrifies him. But still… “Tony, you’re fucking hot—scars and all. I’ve seen you shirtless, and trust me, there is nothing you need to hide.”

And just to make things even worse—because why the hell not? Things have already spiraled so far out of control that at this point, he might as well have dug his own grave so deep they'd need a goddamn haul truck to fill it back up—he adds, "Whatever lies you're telling yourself to bring yourself down, Tony—it’s not true. You are an extraordinary person, and anyone who can't see that is simply ignorant. If I were the one—" He catches himself, realizing too late that the words have already escaped. His throat tightens, and he quickly clears it, trying to regain control. "If I were the one—I'd give you the world. You deserve it, Tony. You truly do."

The air between them feels charged, and for a moment, the weight of his words hangs in the silence, sincere and raw.

James feels the regret hit him like a freight train the second the words leave his mouth. He sees it immediately—the way Tony's eyes widen, the way his lips part just slightly, trembling like he's about to say something but can’t. And they’re close. Close enough that James can see every microexpression, every flicker of raw emotion in Tony’s face.

Fuck.

He can’t take it back. Time can’t be rewound, and the words are already out, hanging in the air between them. “I mean—not that I—uh, you know, not like that. Obviously. I just meant—uh—” His words trip over each other, stumble, crash, burn. Each sentence spirals into a mess of tangled thoughts, and he feels himself unraveling, piece by piece. Tony is watching it happen, and it’s almost like he can feel the crash, the raw awkwardness of it, all unfolding in real time.

And then—Tony lifts a hand, his fingers gently pressing against James' lips, silencing him. The touch is soft, almost featherlight—so subtle, it feels like a breath against his skin. But it’s enough to stop James in his tracks, freezing him in place, as if the world around him has stilled. His eyes are searching James' face, scanning him for something James can’t name, something just out of reach. And for the first time in a long time, James doesn’t know what to do.

"James," Tony says, and it’s so quiet, almost fragile. His voice carries something that makes his stomach twist—a softness laced with something that feels a hell of a lot like resignation. But why? "It’s okay. I know what you meant. Really, you don’t have to explain yourself. I—I appreciate it. That you're trying to make me feel better. I do."

But it doesn’t feel okay. It doesn’t feel like Tony understood at all.

What the hell is happening? Why does it suddenly feel like they’re speaking two different languages?

"Tony—"

"We should go inside," Tony cuts in, voice a little too loud, a little too forced. "It’s cold. Yep. Freezing, actually. Definitely not comfortable." And just like that, the moment snaps and breaks into a thousand tiny pieces that James can’t even begin to gather.

The Inventor steps back, slipping out of James’ reach. The distance is back. The careful, practiced walls are back. And James—James hates it. Hates how his hand, still warm from Tony’s touch just seconds ago, now feels ice-cold. He wants to say something. Anything. But the words have turned to dust on his tongue. All he can do is nod.

And so they walk.

James, despite the way his stomach twists, despite the self-loathing that gnaws at him, stays a few steps behind Tony. He can feel his emotions warring inside him, each one more chaotic than the last. His face is a battlefield, a storm of feelings he can't hide, a tangled mess of things he desperately doesn’t want Tony to see.

 

 

They reach the entrance, and Tony suddenly stops. James, too lost in his own thoughts, doesn’t react in time and nearly crashes into him.

"Fuck, I am really not in the mood for this shit," Tony mutters through clenched teeth.

James blinks, startled. "Tony?" Then he follows the Inventor's gaze, and his own mood sinks even lower—something he hadn’t thought possible.

Barton and Steve.

The Archer leans against the wall near the entrance, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His arms are crossed, a lazy smirk on his face, relaxed and unfazed. Meanwhile, Steve paces back and forth in front of him, shoulders tight with frustration, jaw clenched, radiating anger like a storm about to break.

James swallows hard, something heavy settling in his chest. Yeah. Fantastic. As if this night couldn't get any worse... Just when he thought it had hit rock bottom, the world had a way of proving him wrong.

Instinctively, he steps in front of Tony as they close the final few yards to the entrance. He doesn’t need to glance back to know that the Inventor is wound so tight he might snap at any second. The air around Tony feels thick, suffocating, charged with an almost electric tension that makes James’ skin prickle. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear he could feel it buzzing in the space between them.

His foot barely brushes the first step when Steve’s gaze locks onto him. The shift in his expression is immediate—concern melts into relief, only to twist just as fast into something sharp and ugly the moment his eyes land on Tony behind James. Disgust. Raw, unfiltered aggression.

Barton doesn’t look any different. But unlike Steve, his revulsion isn’t reserved solely for Tony. No. When his eyes land on James, that same disgust—sharp and seething—burns there too.

"You," Steve grinds out, his voice like a blade against stone. In a flash, he’s past James, closing the distance between himself and Tony with an intensity that makes the air feel even heavier. He doesn’t just stand in front of him—he looms, towering over him like a force of nature barely restrained.

James expects Tony to react, to flinch, to sneer, to meet that fury with one of his own. But when he finally sees the Inventor’s face, it’s blank. A void. The storm of emotions Tony had been barely suppressing just minutes ago—gone. Erased. In their place, only an eerie detachment. Unmoved. Uninterested. The way he stares up at Steve is the same way one might glance at a particularly unpleasant smear of dog shit on the pavement.

Harsh? Maybe. But painfully accurate.

"Me?" Tony’s voice is quiet, controlled, edged with something just shy of contempt. The condescension drips from every syllable, a pointed reminder of just how little he thinks of Steve. And somehow, despite the fact that Steve is standing directly in front of him, Tony manages to look right past him. It’s as if Steve isn’t even there, nothing more than a passing breeze. His gaze, sharp and focused, is fixed somewhere beyond the man, entirely dismissive of his presence. It’s as if Steve isn’t worthy of Tony’s attention, as though he’s not even worth acknowledging.

The detachment is palpable, radiating off Tony in waves—cool, indifferent, and impossibly unaffected. It’s a power move, a statement of dominance in its own right.

"Drop the act, Stark!" Steve snaps, his voice rising in pure, unchecked anger. "What the hell do you think you’re doing?!" Even James, who’s seen Steve at his most frustrated, has never heard him like this—this raw, this volatile.

"Oh, that," Tony muses, as if the man had just asked him something utterly trivial. "Well, entrances are generally meant for entering buildings. I figured I’d test the concept firsthand instead of—"

“Cut it!” Steve snarls, his hand shooting out to jab viciously into Tony’s chest. The force behind it is enough to make the man stagger back, just a fraction. But it’s fleeting—his body corrects itself almost immediately, as though the moment of weakness never even happened. James barely registers the shift before he sees it—Tony’s eyes, those warm, rich brown eyes, flickering.

The warmth drains away in an instant, leaving nothing but cold. Like a breath caught in the winter air. And in its place, that familiar, emotionless ice-blue stare takes over.

James swallows.

This is about to go south—fast.

 

 

In an instant, Tony slaps Steve’s hand aside, and James sees the force behind it—sees the way Steve stiffens, the flicker of shock in his eyes as his aggressive scowl twists into brief confusion. His gaze drops, landing on his own hand like it hurts.

"Don’t. Fucking. Touch me.” The Inventor grits out, teeth clenched. His other hand tightens into a fist at his side, his whole body coiled tight. He doesn’t even have to say it—everything about his stance screams that he wants to hit Steve.

“Oh yeah? Or what?” Clint’s voice slices through the tension, dripping with condescension as he shoves past James to stand next to Steve. James doesn’t hesitate. He takes a step forward as well, closing the distance between himself and Tony—choosing a side, his side. The way Steve glares at him, a mix of confusion and simmering anger, only hardens James’ resolve.

"What are you gonna do, huh?" Clint sneers, stepping in too close, invading Tony’s space. He jabs a finger into Tony’s chest, mimicking Steve’s earlier move. "Gonna run to the council? Take us to court?" His grin widens—cruel, taunting—a challenge dripping with mockery.

The Inventor steps back—not retreating, just enough to make a point. He whistles, slow and mocking. “As if I’d waste my fucking time on a nobody like you.” Barton’s jaw locks and James watches his fingers twitch, itching to swing. Good. He wants Barton to throw the first punch.

Steve grabs Clint’s arm before he can act, eyes dark with something that resembles disgust. “Clint, don’t,” he says, but his glare is locked onto Tony. “He’s not worth it.” James’ fingers curl into fists at his sides. He wants to laugh—wants to scream. Not worth it? Tony is ten times the man Steve will ever be.

But before he can even voice that thought, Steve’s next words freeze the blood in his veins. It’s as if time itself halts, and James feels the sharp, paralyzing sensation of a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck—helpless, wide-eyed, and fully aware that there’s no escaping the impending collision.

“We saw you dancing.”

Steve doesn’t look at Tony as the words leave his lips—his eyes are locked onto James. A storm of emotions crashes across his face in rapid succession, flickering so fast it’s almost impossible to track them all. The most prominent, though, are disgust, disbelief, and... hurt.

Hurt?

The word echoes in James' mind, a sharp twist of confusion that tightens his chest. Why the hell hurt? What right does Steve have to look at him like that? Like James has betrayed him. Like he’s done something unforgivable.

Steve's expression is so bewildering that for a moment, James forgets exactly what Steve had said. The words hang in the air, their meaning just out of reach. But as they slowly begin to sink in, to solidify in his mind, his heart stutters.

They saw them. Oh, fuck. The reporters. The cameras. Alice had mentioned they were waiting outside for interviews… One of those damn channels must have caught them on film while they were dancing. Did they see the kiss too?! No—no, they couldn’t have. If they had, Steve wouldn’t just be pissed—he’d be losing his goddamn mind.

Next to him, Tony snorts—then starts laughing. Sharp, bitter, and vicious. “Wow,” he breathes between sharp bursts of laughter. “Just when I think you can’t sink any lower, Rogers.”

Steve stiffens, but Tony isn’t done.

“So, you saw us dancing, huh? And tell me, what exactly went through that thick skull of yours?” Tony’s voice drips with mocking amusement, the corners of his lips twitching as his gaze narrows, challenging, and the sarcasm practically oozes from every word.

“Oh, I know— Tony’s up to something, probably some evil plot, right? This is all part of his grand scheme, yada yada, let’s wait for them to come back and corner him at the door and confront him! Is that the genius plan you cooked up in your head, Rogers?”

Tony lets out a short, bitter chuckle, shaking his head. The condescension in his tone sharpens, "Or is it that you just can’t stand the thought of James making his own damn decisions? That he doesn’t need you breathing down his neck, dictating his every move? Tell me, Steve, does it burn you up inside? The fact that he doesn’t need your permission, your approval—you?" He tilts his head, mock curiosity dripping from his voice as he continues, relentless. "What’s your next move, huh? Gonna scold him? Shake your finger in his face and tell him he’s been a very bad boy for spending time with me?

James watches as Steve’s jaw clenches so hard it looks like it might snap. His whole body is taut, his hands curled into fists at his sides, and for a second—just a second—James thinks he might actually throw a punch. Barton, beside him, looks just as livid, his eyes flicking between them, his nostrils flaring like a bull ready to charge.

“Bucky doesn’t know you like I do,” he spits, and this time his voice is sharp, his frustration boiling over. “Of course I’m worried! We all know how manipulative you are! I don’t know what you said to get him to follow you to that party, but—” He turns to James now, and his anger falters, cracking into something almost pleading like he actually believes he’s saving him from something.

James wants to punch him.

"Bucky," Steve says, his voice softer now, but still firm and unwavering. "Tony lies. He says whatever he needs to get what he wants and does whatever it takes to paint himself as the victim. Whatever he's told you, whatever he's promised—it’s not real. He’s using you, Bucky. Can’t you see that? He’s just trying to get back at me. He’s playing with you. I know how his mind works, how twisted it is. He’s getting close to you for one reason—to hurt me. And he knows exactly how much that would cut."

Tony lets out a sharp, incredulous scoff, his head tilting with slow, deliberate amusement like he’s genuinely in awe of Steve’s ability to be this insufferable. His lips curl into a smirk, but his eyes burn with something far more dangerous—pure, unfiltered contempt. “Jesus Christ, Rogers,” he drawls, dragging out the words with exaggerated disbelief.

“Do you ever get tired of making everything about you? Seriously, is it just, like, a full-time job at this point? Because I gotta say, you’re damn good at it.” His smirk widens, razor-sharp and dripping with venom. “Or is the concept of me actually liking James, of me wanting to spend time with him, just so fucking unbelievable to you?”

Steve doesn’t even hesitate. His voice comes cold, razor-edged, and brimming with quiet fury. “As if you’d be capable of that,” he spits, every word dripping with disdain. His blue eyes are hard as steel, his posture stiff with barely restrained hostility. “The only person you’ve ever liked is yourself, Stark. And we both know it.”

James breathes in slowly, forcing his rising fury into something cold, something deadly. He meets Steve’s eyes and speaks, his voice calm but sharp as a knife.

“Steve,” he says, and the name alone carries enough weight to make the other man stiffen. “What I do in my free time, and more importantly, who I spend it with, is none of your goddamn business.” His gaze hardens, voice dipping into something dangerous. “And if you ever talk about one of my friends like that again in front of me, I swear to God, you will regret it.”

Steve’s face falls and James watches, reveling in the way his expression shifts—shock, frustration, something almost pained like James had just stabbed him.

Tony lets out a low whistle. “Oof. That had to hurt.” His grin is wicked, absolutely delighted as he slaps a hand against James’ chest. “Well, now that we’ve settled that, I think it’s about time James and I take our leave. We do have plans for the rest of the night, after all.”

And just to twist the knife, the Inventor turns—and leans into James’ space, fingers dragging slow and deliberate down his chest. James catches on immediately. He shifts closer, hands settling on Tony’s hips. “Yeah,” he murmurs, low, smirking as he watches Steve’s face drain of color- he looks utterly wrecked.

"What the fuck?" Barton barks, stepping toward James now, shoving at his shoulder. But James doesn’t budge, doesn’t even flinch. He just tilts his head, looking down at the Archer like he’s an annoyance, not a threat.

"Clint—" Steve tries, voice low, strained, like he’s barely keeping it together, but Barton ignores him completely.

"Whose side are you even on, Barnes?" Barton hisses, his voice sharp, and angry, like he actually thinks his words will shake James in any way.

James just smirks. "Mine," he answers simply.

 

And then, suddenly, James has an idea—a reckless, idiotic idea, one that will almost certainly end in disaster. But to hell with it. Steve and Barton desperately need a brutal reality check, and if now isn’t the perfect moment, then when?

Without hesitation, he tightens his grip on Tony, his arm slipping around the man's waist with an ease that feels almost natural, almost meant to be. His fingers press firmly against Tony’s hip, pulling him closer. For a split second, the Inventor freezes. His expression flickers—shock, disbelief, something raw and unguarded—but it's gone just as fast as it appears, wiped away by sharp understanding and a knowing smirk.

Tony has caught on.

Like a well-rehearsed act, he leans into James, resting his head against his shoulder, his own arm snaking around James in return. His fingers skim just a little too close to the curve of James’ ass, and he grits his teeth, every muscle in his body going taut to keep himself from reacting—because now is absolutely not the time to make a fool of himself.

“Was that it?” Tony sighs, loud and theatrical, dragging out the words with deliberate laziness. His head tilts back slightly as if the entire confrontation is nothing more than a mild inconvenience. “Because honestly? We’re exhausted.” He waves a hand dismissively, his voice dipping into something almost bored. “And we had something…” He pauses—just long enough to watch the sheer horror twist across Steve’s face. His lips curve into a slow, wicked smirk, savoring every second of it. “Something special planned for tonight.”

Somewhere in the background, someone lets out a low, impressed whistle. James’ eyes flick upward, trying to pinpoint the source, but before he can, Barton shoves forward, stepping in far too close, his expression a grotesque mix of disgust and rage.

Steve, meanwhile, looks like he’s about to drop dead on the spot. His face has gone completely chalk-white, all color drained as if someone pulled the rug out from under him. His jaw is clenched so tightly it might just shatter, a muscle ticking violently beneath the skin. But it’s his eyes—wide, furious, burning with something raw and unreadable—that give him away. They’re locked onto a single point like a target in his sights: the exact spot where James’ hand still rests, firm and unmoving, on Tony’s hip.

"Stark," Barton spits the name like it personally offends him, "this is low, even for you." His lips curl into a sneer, his voice dripping with venom. "We all know you’d spread your legs for anything with a pulse, but dragging Barnes into your pathetic little games just to get under Steve’s skin? That’s disgusting, even for a whore like you."

His grin turns cruel, predatory. "No wonder Pepper dumped your sorry ass." He lets the words sink in, watching, waiting, like he’s savoring the moment before the kill. "Not that it was ever a question of if—just when. Who the fuck would want someone like you? You’re a joke, Stark. Always have been."

The words are bad enough, but it’s the way Barton punctuates them that pushes it too far—the deliberate jab of his finger against Tony’s chest like he’s daring Tony to react.

And oh, does Tony react.

He moves so fast Barton doesn’t even have time to flinch before Tony’s hand clamps down around his finger in a brutal, iron grip. The crack of bone isn’t quite audible, but the way Barton screams makes it clear enough—this hurts like hell. His entire body twists, jerking and writhing as he struggles to break free, but Tony doesn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightens.

"Stark! Let him go, or—" Steve’s voice slices through the tension, sharp and commanding, but Tony doesn’t even acknowledge him. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t care. Instead, he leans in, slow and deliberate, his lips almost grazing Barton’s ear as he speaks, voice a razor-sharp whisper.

"At least Pepper and I are still on good terms," he murmurs, a cruel smile curling at the edges of his mouth. "Can’t really say the same for you and Laura, huh?"

Barton stiffens, his body locking up as if the words physically strike him.

Tony chuckles, low and mocking, before finally releasing his grip. Barton stumbles back a step, clutching his injured hand, but Tony doesn’t stop. He isn’t done yet.

“Not that I blame her,” Tony continues, his voice practically purring with amusement, sharp and cutting like a blade wrapped in silk. “I mean, just look at you. Who wouldn’t want out? It’s almost tragic how easy it was. She certainly thought so when she came to me—begged me, really—to help her finalize the divorce and secure full custody. Turns out, she didn’t just want you out of her life. She wanted to make sure you never had a say in theirs again.” He lets the words hang, savoring the way Barton’s expression twists. Then, with a slow, deliberate smirk, he adds, "And Barton? This is your final warning—lay a hand on me again, and you won’t get off as easy as you did this time."

For a split second, everything is silent.

Then Barton loses it.

His face goes deathly pale, all color vanishing in an instant—before a violent, ugly red floods back in, crawling up his neck like a rising tide of fury. His hands shake with pure, unfiltered rage, his breathing ragged and uneven. He’s barely more than an animal at this point, trembling with the sheer force of his fury.

Steve, standing beside him, does nothing.

No, worse than nothing—because when Barton lunges at Tony, Steve only offers a pathetic, halfhearted, "Clint, don’t—"

James moves to intervene, but Tony shoves him back, the force unnatural, sending him staggering out of the way just as Barton’s fist slams into his face. The crack of breaking cartilage is unmistakable. Blood blooms instantly, running in thick, crimson rivulets down Tony’s face, dripping onto his lips, staining his skin.

James sees red.

He moves without thinking, surging forward, ready to rip Barton apart, but—

The Inventor stops him. One flick of his eyes—sharp, cutting, warning—and James freezes. The message is clear; Do not interfere. 

He watches, his breath caught in his throat, as the Inventor remains cool and collected, tilting his head ever so slightly. A lazy, almost mocking smile plays at the corners of his lips. Without hesitation, Tony spits a mouthful of blood directly into Barton’s face. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink—just watches with detached amusement as Barton recoils, his face twisting in utter revulsion, a guttural screech ripping from his throat. Tony’s grin spreads wider, his bloodstained teeth gleaming in the dim light, savoring every second of the Archer’s disgusted reaction, feeding off it like a predator watching its prey squirm.

As expected, Barton’s reaction is merciless. He swings again and again, his fists landing with brutal force, each blow sinking into Tony’s flesh with a sickening impact. The sound of fists striking skin is almost too much to bear—sharp, relentless, unforgiving. But the Inventor doesn’t react. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t try to shield himself. He simply stands there, his bloodied, smug smile never wavering for even a second, as though he’s untouched by the violence around him. His face is a cold mask, betraying no sign of pain or concern, as though this moment, this assault, means nothing.

The worst part is, every time James so much as twitches, thinking about stepping in, Tony’s eyes catch his—cold, calculated, as sharp and unyielding as steel. That gaze. It’s enough to make him freeze, his feet locked to the ground, his body betraying him. The command in Tony’s stare forces him to stay still, helpless, unable to act. All he can do is watch in horrified silence, powerless, as Barton’s blows continue to rain down. All James can do is hope that Tony knows exactly what he’s doing.

 

To James’ surprise, it is Steve who finally steps in, his hand shooting out to catch Barton’s fist mid-swing just as the Archer winds up to strike again. The force behind the punch is stopped dead, and for a brief moment, everything stills—except, of course, for the sound of James’ heartbeat, which seems to echo in his ears. But this surprise doesn't last long, as the moment Steve speaks, James feels an unsettling shift. The coldness in Steve’s voice, the complete lack of any warmth or urgency, chills him to the bone as Steve calmly says "...Clint, that’s enough," his voice so damn insincere it makes James’ blood boil.

But Barton isn’t done.

There’s something unhinged in his eyes, something dark and twisted as he winds up for another hit, his bloodied fist, aiming yet again, for Tony’s battered face.

And then—

 

"Don't you think that’s enough?"

The voice comes from above, smooth and detached, laced with an unmistakable boredom.

Barton jerks so violently that his fist misses its mark entirely, swinging through empty air instead. Steve flinches as well, his entire body going rigid as his frantic gaze flickers around, searching desperately for the source of the voice.

Loki lounges on the entrance’s overhang, one leg dangling idly, swinging back and forth like a metronome of indifference. His entire demeanor screams boredom, but James sees it for what it is—a mask. The real Loki is in his eyes, and his eyes are furious. They burn with quiet, restrained wrath, sharp as a blade just before the strike.

The Trickster’s gaze is fixed on Tony’s battered and bleeding nose, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his jaw, the way his fingers twitch slightly against the surface of the ledge—Loki is not amused. Not in the slightest.

"Oh, look who came to your rescue, Stark—the raving lunatic himself!" Barton sneers, wiping his bloodstained hand against his shirt with deliberate disgust. "I'd say I'm surprised, but that would be a lie. Of course, the murderers stick together. What else would you expect from them?"

Loki barely deigns to glance at the Archer, his eyes flicking over him with an almost imperceptible lift of the brow, before his lips curl into something that could be mistaken for a smile if one were foolish enough to believe it. "Hmm... Rescue, you say?" He drawls, the words dripping from his tongue with all the carelessness of someone used to holding power over others. "You are as foolish as ever, Barton." His voice is smooth, with an edge of disdain that seeps into every syllable as if the very act of speaking to the man is beneath him. "My dear Anthony hardly requires saving."

And then—he’s gone. Dissolving into a shimmer of emerald mist, vanishing without so much as a whisper—

Only to materialize directly behind Barton.

The Archer whirls, swinging blindly, missing as Loki dissipates again, slipping through the air like smoke. Steve lunges as well, but the Trickster is already elsewhere, towering gracefully in front of Tony, watching him like a cat watching a wounded bird.

"Now, now," Loki murmurs, tilting his head with an air of exaggerated pity, "that was entirely unnecessary. And you know it." His fingers trail along Tony’s chin, tilting his face side to side, inspecting the damage as if he were a sculptor appraising a masterpiece that had been carelessly chipped. His voice drops into a near-whisper, meant only for Tony and James.

"I find it offensive, really," Loki drawls, the words dripping with mock disdain, "that you'd intentionally hinder your own healing process, Anthony. But, of course, it's you, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised." His eyes gleam with a knowing look as he flicks his fingers dismissively. "In any case, I’ve taken the liberty of crafting an illusion. It will appear to Rogers and Barton as though you continue to bleed, so please tend to your unsightly little wound. We both know that aesthetically, your face is one of your very few redeeming qualities."

Tony exhales sharply, rolling his eyes with exaggerated disbelief. "Wow, Lokes," he mutters, his voice laced with a mix of sarcasm and amusement. "That almost sounded like concern. Careful, though. If you keep this up, people might actually start thinking you like me."

"Perish the thought," Loki deadpans and steps back with a fond smile on his lips.

Meanwhile, Steve and Barton are still ranting—empty threats and indignant fury spewing from their mouths like a broken faucet. Loki barely acknowledges them, instead, he shifts his attention to James, lips curling into something sharp and wicked. "The common folk and their endless need to voice their frustrations… Exhausting, is it not?" He purrs, loud enough for Barton and Steve to hear, and of course, Barton takes it as his cue to—yet again—try to throw a punch at the Trickster.

The air crackles with tension as his muscles coil, and with a roar of fury, his fist swings at the God, but just as before, Loki, with a low chuckle, and a smirk playing on his lips, vanishes into thin air, leaving only the sound of his laughter hanging in the air like a taunting melody.

Barton’s face turns beet red, his hands clenched so tightly that his knuckles go white. The rage surges through him, bubbling over into something primal and furious. “Goddammit!” His hands tremble with the force of his fury, but there’s nothing to hit, no target to aim at. Just empty air.

 

Steve seizes the opportunity, grabbing James and pulling him away from Tony, his voice tight with desperation. "Bucky, what did he say? Did Loki do something to you? Are you okay?!"

James rips himself free, putting deliberate distance between them, and something in him snaps.

"Am I okay?!" he spits, throwing his arms up in disbelief, his voice a sharp edge of anger. "I was fine—perfectly fine—until you and your second-rate Robin Hood decided to play the damn morality police!" He whirls back to Tony, grabbing his hand and yanking him closer, his words cutting like knives.

"What the fuck is your problem, Steve? You saw us dancing—so what? That’s your excuse for this bullshit?" He gestures harshly at Tony’s bloodied face, expression a mask of rage barely restrained.

Steve flinches at James' fury, but of course, he has an explanation. He always has an explanation.

"Bucky, I’m doing this for your own good!" Steve’s voice cracks with desperation. "This is exactly what Tony wants. He’s manipulating you. Trying to drive a wedge between us because he knows it’s the only way he can hurt us. He isn’t your friend, Buck! He can’t be! He doesn’t know what real friendship is! Please, just trust me!"

James scoffs, the sound bitter and hollow.

"Steve, what the fuck kind of excuse is that?!" Bucky snaps, fury lacing his words. "You’re fucking paranoid! You treat Tony like he’s some kind of goddamn supervillain, but take a fucking look in the mirror—because the way you're acting? You’re no better. You could’ve stopped Barton anytime. Anytime! But you just stood there, watching like a goddamn coward while he beat Tony's face into a bloody mess. Didn’t flinch, didn’t move—just let it happen. And you know what? I used to believe in you. I really did. I thought you were the guy who always did the right thing, the one with a heart ten times bigger than anyone else’s."

He pauses, his voice dripping with venom, every word sharpened to cut deep. "But now? Now I can’t help but wonder—was that man ever fucking real? Or was it all just a pretty little lie that stopped mattering the second you weren’t that scrawny little kid anymore?"

"Bucky, please! You get it all wrong I-" Steve steps forward—desperate, pleading—but stops when James’ body tenses, every muscle coiled like a spring.

Tony, silent until now, snorts and rolls his eyes. "Jesus, I can’t listen to this soap opera bullshit anymore. Let’s go, James." He walks past Steve without so much as a glance. And Steve—Steve doesn’t stop him.

But the moment James moves to follow, Steve reaches out.

"Bucky—"

James doesn’t hesitate. He slams his shoulder into Steve’s, the impact sending him stumbling back, nearly knocking him off his feet. "Not. Another. Word." His voice is low, guttural, an animalistic growl that barely sounds human. Steve watches him go, looking utterly lost as if the world has just slipped through his fingers.

They are only steps from the exit away when Barton storms toward them, seething. Tony barely reacts when the man grabs him, yanking him back. James’ fists clench, but he holds himself still—Tony has made it clear that he doesn’t want help.

"Barton," Tony drawls, voice exhausted. "I know I told you not to fucking touch me."

"Oh yeah?" The Archer sneers, stepping closer, grip tightening. "And what if I don’t listen?"

His hand lashes out, grabbing Tony’s tie, yanking him forward. His breath is hot and disgusting on Tony's skin. "Without your suit, you’re nothing, Stark. And that mess of a face? Proof. But if you haven’t had enough—" His fist pulls back.

And then—

CRACK.

It happens so fast that even James, with his enhanced senses, can’t fully process it. Later, he’ll replay the security footage over and over, frame by frame, trying to make sense of what the hell just went down.

One second, Barton is winding up for a punch. The next, Tony moves.

His movements are fluid and precise—there’s no hesitation, no wasted motion. With a sharp strike, he smashes Barton’s grip away from his tie, sending the Archer’s hand flying upward. In the same breath, he pivots left, his body flowing like a shadow, smooth, effortless—almost too perfect like a deadly dance rehearsed a thousand times. Before the Archer can react, his wrist is caught in an iron grip.

Tony looks graceful, like a leaf drifting in the wind—until he wrenches Barton’s arm back, forcing it into an unnatural, grotesque angle. The sickening pop of overstretched tendons is drowned out by a sudden, brutal crack as a single devastating punch drives straight into the joint. The bone doesn’t just break—it shatters. The limb snaps backward with an audible, gut-wrenching snap, bending in the completely wrong direction. Jagged pieces of bone rip through flesh, gleaming white beneath torn skin as blood begins to spill in thick, pulsing waves down Barton's wrecked arm.

The Archer's scream is inhuman—a raw, gurgling wail of agony that tears through the night, so sharp and desperate it almost sounds like a dying animal’s final cry. He collapses, crashing onto his knees before crumpling fully, his body convulsing from the sheer, mind-numbing pain. His breath comes in ragged, panicked gasps as he clutches the ruined remains of his arm to his chest, his fingers trembling over slick, wet skin that’s already soaking his clothes in deep, spreading crimson.

And Tony?

Tony adjusts his tie, smooths out his jacket, and stares down at Barton with the coldest, most deadpan expression James has ever seen.

"Well, that’s unfortunate," His voice is so devoid of emotion that even James feels a cold shiver crawl down his spine. The Inventor tilts his head slightly, glancing down at Barton’s ruined arm with all the concern of someone inspecting a scuff on their shoe. Then, with an almost lazy indifference, he adds, "Guess you’ll have to find a new hobby."

 

Steve is beside him in an instant, hands frantic as he tries to stabilize Barton while his fury shifts focus like a goddamn storm locking onto its next victim. His gaze snaps up to Tony, and James can practically feel the anger radiating from him, thick and suffocating.

"You absolute son of a bitch!" Steve roars, his voice raw with outrage, his chest heaving as his entire body trembles with unchecked fury. It’s rare for him to curse—everyone and their mother knows that. Still, it catches James off guard, more than he’d like to admit.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?! Have you lost your goddamn mind?!" Steve's breath is heavy and ragged, nostrils flaring as he gestures wildly at Barton’s mangled arm. "Look at what you’ve done!" James nearly rolls his eyes at the dramatics.

Tony, however, doesn’t even flinch. If anything, he looks bored. His expression stays neutral, eyes sharp but half-lidded with something that almost resembles detachment—almost. Because the faint curl of his lips, subtle but unmistakable, suggests something far less passive."I warned him not to touch me again." His voice is calm, almost casual, but there’s an edge to it, something razor-sharp beneath the surface. Then, with the slightest shrug, he adds, "But hey, as the saying goes—play stupid games, win stupid prizes."

Barton makes a choked, gurgling noise that might have been an attempt at a scathing retort, but it’s lost somewhere between his agonized gasps and the way his body spasms with each wave of pain.

Steve’s jaw clenches so tightly James can practically hear his teeth grinding. "And that justifies this?!" His voice cracks, caught between a livid snarl and something almost desperate. "You snapped his fucking arm in half!" He jerks his gaze toward James, expression wild, eyes burning. "Do you see now, Bucky?! Do you finally understand?!" His voice shakes, thick with frustration. "Stark is out of control! He’s reckless, dangerous—a threat to everyone around him!"

Tony snorts, the sound sharp and utterly unbothered. "Oh, that’s cute." His lips twist into something sharp and predatory as he crosses his arms, the slight tilt of his chin making his condescension painfully obvious. "So, let me get this straight—you’re fine with Barton swinging at me first? With him breaking my nose? But the second I decide I’m not in the mood to be someone’s personal punching bag, suddenly I’m the problem? Fascinating. Remind me again how you became the moral compass of this team?"

“Don’t you fuckin' dare play the victim here, Stark! This isn’t over—you won’t just walk away from this unscathed. The Council—”

“Oh, spare me,” Loki's voice drawls, cutting through the tension. His voice is rich, velvety, dripping with amusement so thick it’s almost tangible.

The God of Mischief emerges from a swirl of emerald mist, his towering figure casting an imposing shadow over Steve and Barton. He stands before them, exuding an air of utter, indulgent boredom, as if the very sight of them bores him to his core. His gaze sweeps over them with the disdain of a predator eyeing insignificant pests, as if they’re little more than amusing insects, squabbling over scraps.

"This level of predictability is—how shall I put this?—excruciatingly tedious," he sighs, fingers trailing over the hilt of his dagger, though he makes no move to draw it. His eyes gleam with wicked amusement as he gestures toward the wall, his smirk deepening.

James follows the movement, and sure enough, a surveillance camera blinks back at them. Recording everything.

Steve follows his gaze, his breath stuttering, and James watches with mild fascination as the color drains from his face, leaving him looking almost ghostly. Loki’s grin stretches, something demonic glinting in his eyes. "Tell me, dearest Anthony—what, precisely, are the consequences for one Avenger attacking another?"

Tony’s answering grin is positively feral. "Immediate termination from the Avengers Initiative."

Steve goes absolutely rigid and Barton makes a strangled noise—half pain, half horror—as the weight of those words sinks in.

"You set this up," Steve breathes, voice shaking with barely restrained fury, his hands trembling at his sides, fists clenched so tightly they might as well be stone. His eyes blaze with something dark, something ugly. "You planned this."

Tony tilts his head, the very picture of smug indifference. “I set this up? Really? That's what you're going for? I warned him not to touch me. It’s not my fault he doesn’t listen.” His smile is all teeth.

"FRIDAY?" Tony doesn’t even raise his voice, but the AI responds instantly, her tone practically gleeful.

"The footage’s already been sent to the Council, Boss," Friday says, her tone oozing with a sharp, biting confidence. "The audio’s flawless, every word crystal clear, and the video? It's so sharp it could cut glass. Barton made the first move—broke your nose without a second thought—and you told him, what, multiple times to back off? But did he listen? Of course not. Instead, he just kept pushing like the idiot he is. In the end, you had no choice but to defend yourself. Frankly, if you ask me, it’s as simple and straightforward as it gets."

She drags out each syllable, her voice almost dripping with disdain. There’s a venomous pleasure in the way she speaks, as though she’s relishing the opportunity to remind everyone just how much of a fuck-up Barton really is. Each word lands with the kind of sharp satisfaction that only comes from being right, every syllable dripping with contempt for the man who thought he could walk all over someone like her boss.

James watches as Steve’s head snaps toward him, eyes pleading, wild with desperation. “Bucky, please.” His voice is raw, almost broken. “You know this isn’t what happened. Stark baited Clint into this! You have to tell them—”

The part of him that’s undeniably the Winter Soldier lets a slow smirk unfurl across his lips, a dark amusement coiling in his chest like smoke. "Keep dreaming, Stevie." And with that, he turns away, a fluid motion that holds no hesitation, no second thoughts. Because, honestly, there’s only one thing that matters now. And it sure as hell isn’t whatever game Steve thinks he's still playing. Because, really, there’s only one thing that actually matters right now.

Tony.

James steps in close—so close that their bodies are nearly pressed together—and tilts the man's face up, fingers ghosting over the bridge of the Inventor's nose, where the illusion of Loki’s magic still lingers.

"Look at you," James murmurs, voice dark and laced with something dangerous. His fingers trace lower, over Tony’s jaw, down his throat. “We should definitely check on this as soon as we get to your apartment.”

The Inventor smirks, pressing his hands against James’ chest, fingers curling slightly as he leans in, voice dropping into something utterly sinful. “Shame, really,” he muses, lips ghosting over the shell of James’ ear. “I had… other plans for tonight, Snowflake.”

Tony smiles, glancing at Steve from the corner of his eye. It’s clear he’s enjoying what he sees, his smile twisting into something more amused, almost devilish. It’s painfully obvious that the man is relishing this game, savoring the disbelief etched across Steve’s face, like it’s some kind of sick entertainment.

James, too, is immersed in this charade—but for entirely different reasons. He’s playing this game out of pure selfishness, a desperate need to get closer to Tony, to touch him, to feel the heat radiating off of him. Fuck, if it were up to him, he wouldn’t even wait until they made it inside the apartment. The moment they stepped through the door, he’d have Tony—no hesitation, no second thoughts. The desire is so fierce it burns through him, every fiber of his being screaming to claim what he’s been wanting for far too long.

“Nothing’s stopping us.” He says darkly, fully aware that he's doing a shitty job of concealing his real intentions. God, if there weren’t so many damn eyes on them, he’d push Tony against the nearest wall without hesitation, his hands slipping under that perfectly tailored suit, pulling him in for a kiss so intense Tony would be left gasping for air. The thought of it burns through him, raw and hungry, making it almost impossible to keep his cool. But he does, keeping up the act, pretending this game isn’t exactly what he’s been aching for all along.

Then, because he wants this, and doesn't give a fuck about the consequences, he lets his hand slide lower, curling around the curve of Tony’s ass with a firm squeeze.

The reaction is instant. The man's eyes widen, a flicker of confusion, maybe panic, or even something close to shyness flashing across his face. For just a moment, he looks like he’s trying to process it, to understand what just happened. But the rush of color that blooms across his cheeks is undeniable, even with Loki’s illusion still in place. It’s there, unmistakable—Tony’s usual confidence faltering, just for a second, before he regains his composure. It’s a crack in the armor, and James feels that shift, a spark of something vulnerable in Tony that only intensifies the fire burning inside him.

He can hear Barton make an incoherent choking sound in the background while Steve looks like he’s just been shot, and watches as Tony’s grin turns razor-sharp as he tightens his grip on James' waist and murmurs—loud enough for Steve to hear because of course, he does— “Well, then. Let’s get our asses to my apartment immediately. This tension might actually kill me.”

James doesn’t care anymore. The need, the hunger—he’s done holding back. He wants Tony’s lips on his. Now. He leans in, dangerously close, the movement slow, giving Tony the chance to pull away if he wants, but the Inventor doesn’t move. He stands still, a mix of uncertainty and something else in his gaze as it flickers between James’ eyes. Then, for a split second, his eyes drop to James’ lips, and Tony's tongue slips across his own as if he's starving for something he's been denied. And damn, the sight of that makes something inside James snap, a raw heat flooding his chest.

The air between them crackles with tension, thick and electric, as James' control starts to slip. Their lips are a hair's breadth apart, and for a moment, time seems to stretch—everything fades except the pull between them, the raw, undeniable tension that makes every inch feel electric.

“You two do realize we’re not done here yet, right?”  Loki’s voice cuts through the moment, dripping with boredom and a layer of superiority. His tone is so posh, it’s almost condescending, as James and Tony jerk away in shock.

The Trickster shakes his head, letting out a soft sigh, before snapping his fingers. Two portals materialize, swirling with energy. From one of them steps Carol, her expression hard, followed closely by John and Strange. From the other portal, a man in a simple black suit emerges, flanked by several others, all similarly dressed.

James doesn’t know who these people dressed in black are, but judging by Steve’s pale, disbelieving face, he knows exactly who they are.

“I assume FRIDAY has kept you well informed about everything that’s been going on here?” Tony asks, his voice cheerful. Carol's face twists into a look of quiet disgust as her gaze lands on the Inventor.

“I know I shouldn’t be worried,” she says, her finger jabbing toward the bloodied illusion still lingering on Tony’s face, a silent accusation hanging in the air. “But thanks to FRIDAY, I’m well aware of how far you let things escalate before doing anything to stop them from harming you.” She pauses, her eyes narrowing with a quiet but steely determination. “Rest assured, Tony, you and I are going to have a very serious conversation about all of this—later.”

Tony flinches at her words, his eyes betraying guilt, but he simply nods in acknowledgment, lowering his gaze, clearly too ashamed to meet her eyes.

John, standing quietly behind Carol, lets out a heavy sigh, his voice thick with genuine concern. “Tony... We’re worried about you. Please understand, it’s not just you who gets hurt when you do things like this. We care about you. You don’t have to pull these reckless stunts anymore.” His words hang in the air, raw and pleading, the weight of his concern settling over Tony like a heavy blanket, pressing down on his chest.

James watches the Inventor shrink inwardly as if he's trying to vanish into thin air, desperate to escape the crushing weight of the situation.

Meanwhile, Strange and the man in the black suit step toward Steve and Barton. To James’ surprise, both of them look as though they’ve seen a ghost.

“C-Coulson?!” Barton’s voice cracks, his pain-riddled face betraying the agony of his shattered arm, every inch of him screaming in torment.

Beside him, Steve mutters under his breath, the disbelief thick in his words, “T-This can’t be... You— You should be dead...”

Coulson, however, doesn’t spare them a glance. His eyes are fixed on Strange as he speaks, his tone as cold as ice. “Dr. Strange, would you be so kind as to ensure Mr. Barton receives medical attention? Additionally, once his wounds are attended to, I’ll need you to make sure he’s detained. I’ll handle the Council, and I’ll personally oversee his incarceration.”

“Of course, leave it to me, Coulson,” Strange responds with a grin, and a portal opens beneath Barton. He falls through it, vanishing as though swallowed by the earth itself.

“What the hell does that mean?!” Steve roars, his hands scrabbling at the ground where Barton had knelt. The only evidence of his presence is the bloody pool left by his shattered arm.

“What did you do to Clint?! Where did you take him?! You had no right— bring him back!” Steve continues fury building in his chest. He stands, storming several steps toward Tony, but is halted when Strange steps forward, his hands glowing with magic.

“Mr. Rogers,” Strange begins, his voice unbothered, his face a mask of indifference. He steps closer, his presence suffocating. “If you don’t want to join your friend, I suggest you pull yourself together.” There’s no kindness in his tone, no comfort, just a quiet assertion that this entire situation is nothing more than an inconvenience to him.

“But—” Steve tries to speak, but the man in the black suit, Culson, interrupts him with an almost dismissive sneer.

“Mr. Rogers, one more word and I will personally ensure that you will join Mr. Barton. Do you understand?” His voice is sharp, his eyes betraying a mixture of irritation and a deep, almost palpable disappointment.

“To answer your question,” the man continues, his tone now biting and unyielding, “Dr. Strange has taken Mr. Barton to the medical bay. He will be properly treated and then presented to the Council. He will face consequences for physically attacking Dr. Stark, and the Council’s previously granted amnesty will be revoked. That means Mr. Barton will be incarcerated and held accountable for his actions.”

Every word drips with cold finality, like a death sentence. Steve’s rage boils over, but Coulson’s calm demeanor and the chilling certainty in the black-suited man’s voice seem to drain the fight from him. For the first time, Steve hesitates, the realization settling in—this isn't a situation they can fight their way out of.

Coulson turns on his heel, deliberately turning his back to Steve as he speaks. "You’re lucky Barton did the dirty work for you, Mr. Rogers. Otherwise, you’d be keeping him company right now." The meaning behind his words is razor-sharp, and anyone with two functioning brain cells can grasp the implication.

Steve certainly does. His expression shifts in an instant—gone is the mask of anger and confusion, replaced by something calculated, almost cold. A look that suggests just how close Coulson’s words have hit to the truth. And the fact that Steve chooses to remain silent speaks volumes.

"Mr. Laufeyson," Coulson turns to the Trickster, his voice steady and nonchalant. "Would you be so kind as to take me directly to the medical bay?"

"But of course," Loki replies smoothly, "Anything else I can do for you?"

Coulson nods. "Since you ask, I’d appreciate it if you accompanied me. Once Barton is treated and secured, I’d like you to assist Dr. Strange. It's about Wanda Maximoff and her magical abilities."

Loki’s grin widens. "Now that sounds delightful." With an exaggerated flourish, he opens another portal, stepping through alongside Coulson and his men, vanishing without another word.

Meanwhile, Carol and John move toward Steve, making it clear—without the slightest hint of warmth—that he’s expected to follow them without resistance. He does, but just before disappearing inside, he casts one final look at Tony. And that look makes James’ blood run cold.

It’s not aggressive. Not full of contempt like before. It’s something else entirely. Steve’s eyes flick, just like earlier, to the exact spot where James is touching Tony. And only now does James realize how strange that is.

Because it almost seems like what’s bothering Steve isn’t that Tony is touching James—but that James is touching Tony. You’d think it would be the other way around... 

A deep unease settles over James, something heavy and difficult to name. It lingers long after Steve disappears into the building with Carol and John, leaving him standing there, lost in thought. It’s only when Tony clears his throat beside him—when James feels the subtle shift of the Inventor trying to ease himself out of his grasp, creating distance—that he finally snaps out of it.

"Well," Tony exhales, raking a hand through his hair. "Not exactly the night you were expecting, huh?" A wry smile, and then, "Sorry about that."

Notes:

*

The next chapter will be a bit different, told from the perspective of Steve’s team.

I’d also like to take a moment to vent and get a little bit of frustration off my chest.

I understand that some people might not like this story, or they may not be fond of my writing style, or the way I move the plot forward and tell it. That’s completely fine—everyone has their own tastes and preferences. I’m no different. But lately, there’s been an increase in comments that are anything but kind (which I delete immediately), and honestly, that’s not a pleasant experience. I’m open to criticism, and I welcome suggestions for improvement, but when someone just tears down your work and complains for the sake of it—it’s definitely not cool.

Many people seem to forget that this platform is a space where people share their work because they want to connect with others. Personally, I know I’m not a great writer and I have a lot to learn, but I still enjoy sharing my fanfiction here. If even one person enjoys it, that means more to me than I can express.

Comments that are left just to be mean or condescending really take away the joy of writing. If you don’t like my fic, that’s perfectly fine—but please, don’t leave hurtful, dismissive comments. You can simply stop reading and find a different story to enjoy.

Chapter 36

Team Cap

 

After Carol and Constantin personally drop Steve off at his door—having subtly warned him along the way that if he makes one more misstep, he’ll be the next to keep Barton company— Steve returns to his friends. His mood is anything but good as he slams the door behind him with a loud bang.

Natasha raises an eyebrow at him, otherwise reacting neutrally to his foul mood. But as she realizes Clint is nowhere to be seen, her expression shifts—subtle worry creeping into her usually composed face. "Where's Clint?" she asks as Sam and Scott, drawn by the noise, enter the room.

Steve runs both hands through his hair, frustration evident in his features. "They took him."

"Took him?" Sam repeats, exchanging a confused glance with Scott, who just shrugs as if to say, Hey, I just got here too—I have no idea what's going on.

When Steve doesn’t answer right away and instead starts pacing, Natasha gets up, gripping his shoulder to snap him out of it. "Steve. What do you mean they took him? What happened?" Her voice is calm, but even years of training can’t completely hide the tension—can’t mask the worry she feels for Clint.

"I—I don't know exactly, Nat," Steve admits, voice strained as he exhales sharply. "They said something about medical treatment. Then they’re locking him up. I don’t know where."

Natasha’s grip tightens, her fingers digging into his shoulder. Her expression remains composed, but her eyes darken. "Steve, take a breath and tell me everything from the beginning." She leads him into the living room, guiding him to sit on the couch.

The man drops onto the couch, burying his face in his hands. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough—almost broken.

Natasha listens intently, as do Sam and Scott. And when Steve finishes recounting what happened, her face remains neutral, though her mind is racing. "Why didn’t you stop Clint from going after Stark?" she asks, watching him like a hawk zeroing in on its prey.

"I misjudged the situation, Nat. I tried to stop him, but Clint wouldn’t listen to me."

Natasha frowns but holds back her doubts. Instead, she asks, "And you’re sure it was Coulson?"

Steve hesitates, thinking it over before saying, "I—I don’t know, Nat. He looked like Coulson. Talked like Coulson. Nothing about him seemed off, but—" He trails off, his gaze distant, lost in thought.

"But what?" Scott asks, beating Natasha to the question.

"It’s just… Coulson asked Loki for help. Even invited him to come along. That doesn’t sit right with me."

"Now that you mention it," Sam chimes in, "didn’t you guys say Loki was the one who killed Coulson? Shouldn’t the guy hate him? I mean, even if he survived, that doesn’t change the fact that Loki tried to kill him. It’s weird that Coulson, of all people, would ask him for help, don’t you think?"

"I agree with Sam," Scott nods. "The whole thing seems off." Natasha doesn’t say anything. She just keeps watching Steve.

"I think something’s wrong," Steve says finally. "And Loki has something to do with it." The others look at him, waiting. So he explains.

"When Stark pushed my hand away—he had inhuman strength, more than he should have. It caught me off guard. And his eyes… they were glowing. A cold, unnatural blue. But Stark’s eyes should be brown." He flexes his fingers as if recalling the ache in his hand from the impact. "But that’s not all," he continues. "The way he moved, the way he broke Clint’s arm—it wasn’t normal. It was like he wasn’t himself." He meets Natasha’s gaze, his own eyes glassy.

"What are you suggesting?" she asks, crossing her arms as she leans against the wall.

"I think Loki did something to Stark. I don’t know what, but if you saw what I saw—if you saw the way he shattered Clint’s arm like it was nothing more than a brittle twig—" He exhales sharply. "The Stark we know could never do that. And then those glowing blue eyes, as if he wasn’t even himself..."

"You think Loki is controlling him?" Natascha asks.

"I don’t know, Nat. It’s the only explanation I have. Stark doesn’t have any special abilities… No normal human could move that fast or break an arm the way he did. The bones in Clint’s arm shattered like glass. And besides..." He pauses, casting Natasha that helpless look he always wears when it comes to Barnes.

"It would also explain Bucky’s behavior. Ever since we got here, it feels like he’s a completely different person. Like someone is influencing him."

Natasha doesn’t reply right away. She just studies Steve’s face, as if searching for something—some hidden answer buried in his expression.

"I don’t know Stark as well as you do," Scott interjects, "but are you sure he’s being controlled? He seems… normal to me. Aside from the obvious hostility toward us."

Steve’s face shifts in an instant—from desperate and worried to something colder, sharper, calculated. It’s as if a switch has flipped. "You're right. You don’t know him like I do, Scott. And I know that isn’t him." His smile is bitter, his voice laced with something just shy of contempt, directed squarely at Scott.

From her position against the wall, Natasha watches the exchange, her fingers gripping her arms. She forces herself to suppress the tension radiating from her body. She may be stuck on Steve’s side, but she isn’t blind. She knows better than to believe everything he says. Steve is twisted in his own way. It’s something that’s been on her mind for a while now—something she’s discussed with Clint, or at least tried to. The way he can pull people in, make them believe in his cause—it’s terrifying sometimes.

And then… there’s the strange fixation he has with Stark. 

Natasha doesn’t know if Steve is even aware of it, but the man is obsessed with the Inventor. And not just recently—this has been going on from the very beginning.

There has always been a kind of rivalry between them, but also a form of camaraderie that only the two of them shared. Especially, Steve—he has always seemed drawn to Stark, interacting with the Inventor in a way that was different from how he treated the rest of the team.

Back then, Natasha had assumed it was because Stark looked so much like his father, a reminder of Steve’s past. But now, she’s not so sure. To an outsider, it might seem like Steve despises Stark like he would be relieved if the Inventor disappeared from his life for good—especially after everything that happened in Siberia. But…

Natasha isn’t ignorant.

It’s the stolen glances, the way Steve watches Stark when he thinks no one is looking, that betray him. That makes it painfully clear just how fixated he really is. She can’t quite decipher what those looks mean, but what she does know is that they’ve become more frequent. Especially, since Barnes started seeking out Stark’s company.

Before, Steve’s stares had been neutral—difficult to read. Now, they’re different. Sharper. More telling. More often than not, they’re filled with deep irritation, even resentment. Every time Natasha catches him staring, she’s surprised by how uncomfortable it makes her. And that in itself is unsettling—after all, she isn’t even the one being pierced by those looks.

At first, she had assumed that Steve was simply angry at Stark for daring to get too close to Barnes. But now… now she’s not so sure. Because the longer she observes, the more it seems like Steve’s irritated, resentful glances aren’t directed at Stark at all.

They’re directed at Barnes. The only question is… why?

She has a vague suspicion, but it’s so absurd that she refuses to dwell on it. Besides, there’s no point in entertaining the thought any further—because she’s certain of one thing; Steve doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. Or what his behavior might imply.

 

"Fuck, first Wanda, and now Clint too!" Sam slams his fist against the wall, making Scott, who stands beside him, flinch. The sudden outburst pulls Natasha from her thoughts, her attention is back on Steve whose expression is momentarily unreadable.

"How the hell did you let it get this far, Steve? Why didn’t you step in?! Even if Stark provoked Clint, how could you stand by and let Clint beat the man half to death?! If you suspected Loki had anything to do with it, you should have done something or get help!" Sam paces the room, his frustration radiating off him in waves. 

"Fuck, I bet that was Stark’s plan from the start!" Scott snaps, still fuming. "He’s just waiting for us to screw up so he can throw our asses in jail!" Sam shoves a hand through his hair, his voice edged with panic as he says, "If what Coulson said is true and Clint’s pardon gets revoked, he’s not just in trouble—he’s done. He’s going to trial. He’s getting locked up."

Natasha has to fight the urge to roll her eyes. Yes, it's obvious they aren't welcome here. Yes, Stark is deliberately pushing them, setting the board so they make all the wrong moves. But at the end of the day, none of this would have happened if Wanda and Clint had controlled themselves. If they had acted like professionals instead of letting their emotions take over. If they hadn't made the mistake of underestimating Stark—because that's where they lost.

Blaming Stark is easy. It always is. But no matter how they twist it, Wanda and Clint did this to themselves. Stark just had to wait for them to screw up. Because Tony Stark doesn’t just fight with his machines—he fights with his mind.

SHIELD never classifies him as a threat just because of his weapons or his tech. It’s his ability to read his enemies before they even realize they’re playing into his hands. The way he’s always three steps ahead. The way his brain recalibrates in an instant, shifting and twisting situations to his advantage before anyone even knows what’s happening. His unpredictability.

And that is what unsettles her the most. Because Natasha knows—better than anyone—that if Tony Stark ever chooses to switch sides, the world doesn’t stand a chance.

Even Thor and Bruce—two of the most powerful beings she’s ever met—have admitted, in passing, that they aren’t sure they could beat him if he really went all in. If he stopped holding back. And looking at the facts, she doesn’t think they’re wrong. Because the truth is, Tony doesn’t need a war. He just needs one opening. And he wins before anyone even realizes the fight has started.

 

“…Don’t forget Bucky,” Scott eventually mutters, avoiding Steve’s gaze. “I mean, he was already keeping his distance before, but ever since we got here, he barely even looks at us. And when he does, it’s like he hates us. Maybe he's working against us, too?”

“That's not possible! Bucky would never do such a thing!" Steve snarls, his gaze utterly enraged at Scott's suggestion. "Bucky is probably just acting that way because Loki is influencing him,” he adds, not realizing that no one else is willing to accept that explanation.

“Right. Because it’s not like he was already being cold as hell to us before we even arrived,” Scott says, voice dripping with sarcasm. He instantly regrets it when he catches the look Steve gives him. There’s not a trace of warmth in Steve’s eyes.

"Why did you and Stark ambush Barnes out there?" Natasha asks, her tone calm but firm, hoping to diffuse the tension and steer the conversation away from Scott’s remark. "And why didn’t you tell any of us what you were planning?"

“We didn’t ambush them, Nat! We just happened to be outside, and then things escalated,” Steve argues. Natasha would be lying if she said she wasn’t pissed off by his half-assed excuse.

“Steve, you know I trust you, and I’m on your side,” she lies, her voice steady. “But your story raises more questions than it answers. For example, you still haven’t told us what exactly pushed Clint to start swinging at Stark. He’s hotheaded, sure—but even he isn’t dumb enough to throw punches without a reason.”

Steve just stares at her for a long moment, and Natasha is sure he’s crafting the perfect excuse in his head.

“I was talking to Bucky while Clint was dealing with Stark, so I didn’t catch everything. But I did hear Stark make some remarks... After that, things spiraled out of control, and, well, you know the rest.” He says eventually, but Natasha knows he's obviously withholding vital information. To say she’s frustrated would be the understatement of the century. Fuck, she hates being on the wrong side of things. How she ever believed Steve about anything is beyond her.

“You should’ve stopped him, Steve! Why didn’t you do anything?” Sam says, exasperated, gesturing wildly with his hands.

“I already told you—I was distracted, and Clint’s reaction caught me off guard!” Steve defends himself. Scott scoffs, turns on his heel, and walks straight to his room, clearly done with this entire conversation.

Natasha would love to follow him, but she doesn’t get the chance—because Steve beats her to it, abruptly pushing himself to his feet. “I don’t understand why we’re even discussing this when we have bigger problems—like the fact that Loki is obviously manipulating Stark and Bucky!” His voice rises with anger, and before anyone can respond, he storms off to his room, slamming the door so hard it’s a miracle it doesn’t shatter into a thousand pieces.

Sam doesn’t even acknowledge the outburst. Instead, he shakes his head, gives Natasha a look that says You deal with it, because I sure as hell won’t, and disappears into the room he shares with Scott. Natasha lingers by the wall, arms crossed, mind racing.

 

She knows that choosing Steve’s side was a mistake. Looking back, she is furious with herself for making such a stupid decision. Sure, someone might argue that she could just apologize to Stark and switch sides, but Natasha isn’t naive enough to believe that would actually work.

She has betrayed the Inventor more than just once, and no matter how good-natured he may be, he isn’t a fool. Even if she apologized and put on a friendly face, he would see right through her. He would know exactly what she was doing—just trying to avoid ending up on the losing side.

Whatever little trust he once had in her is long gone. There is nothing left to work with—certainly not enough to manipulate him in any way.

And besides, Stark has new allies now. Stronger, more capable ones. Unlike her, Steve, and the others, they seem unwaveringly loyal to him. Yesterday’s training made that painfully clear. Stark’s team isn’t just stronger in terms of raw power; they also have a far better sense of teamwork. Unlike Natasha's own ragtag group, they work together seamlessly, as if they share an unspoken bond.

That’s something Natasha’s team lacks entirely—something that was already more than obvious back in Wakanda.

While Steve was glued to Barnes, Natasha and Clint stuck to themselves, avoiding the others like the plague. Sam and Scott did the same, spending most of their time together, rarely interacting with anyone outside their small circle—except for Steve, of course. And Wanda? Natasha would rather not open that can of worms.

If things continue like this, one by one, they’ll all end up in prison. They’ve already lost two of their teammates. However, in Natasha’s opinion, only Clint’s loss is truly significant. Wanda’s fate hasn’t been explicitly confirmed, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out where she’s headed. And if Natasha is perfectly honest, she doesn’t really give a damn about Wanda’s fate anyway. She’s actually glad the nutjob’s done for—and locked away.

Natasha exhales slowly, rolling her eyes as frustration coils in her chest. She knows exactly where the problem lies. In theory, the solution should be simple—something that could prevent any more disastrous situations, something that could keep her from ending up in a prison cell.

But the root of it all is the one obstacle she can’t remove.

Steve.

He is the center of everything that’s gone wrong, the crack in the foundation that keeps spreading. And the worst part? There’s nothing she can do about it. He’s drifted too far into his own delusions, trapped in a reality that only he seems to understand. It’s written all over him—in his rigid posture, in the way his jaw tenses, in how quickly he throws blame without stopping to question whether it makes sense.

The fact that Steve is convinced that the Trickster is behind everything, despite having no real proof, speaks volumes. He clings to that idea as if it’s the only explanation as if admitting otherwise would leave him with nothing.

Natasha almost wishes she could agree. It would make things easier.

But if there’s one thing she knows with absolute certainty, it’s this—Loki isn’t the one pulling the strings. The Trickster is far too protective of Stark. If the Inventor were just a pawn to him, Loki wouldn’t act the way he does. Besides, the rest of Stark’s team trusts the god and seems genuinely friendly toward him.

And Loki himself? He seems far more interested in this Constantine than in world domination. Natasha has been watching him closely. If there’s one thing she can say for certain, it’s that Loki’s attention is always on that man whenever he’s nearby.

Everything she has observed points to one conclusion: Loki isn’t the one pulling the strings. So that leaves a far more unsettling question—if Loki isn’t behind whatever Steve has noticed about Stark… then who is?

And then there’s another mystery that’s been weighing on her.

Coulson.

He died. She saw his body. She said goodbye. So why the hell is he alive? The only logical answer leads back to Nick Fury and SHIELD. Of that, she’s certain. Which makes it all the more frustrating. Because no matter how badly she wants to confront Fury, she knows she won’t get any answers. Not after what she did.

Not after leaking SHIELD’s files to the world - Killing innocent people in the process.

She’ll be lucky if Fury and Hill don’t just put a bullet in her the second their paths cross again.

She sighs.

Her priority now should be getting as much information out of Steve as possible—pretending to offer support, pretending to be on his side, squeezing him for every detail he’s willing to share. As much as it kills her to admit it, Clint is beyond saving. She can’t get him out of this one. Not alone. Even if she somehow convinced Steve, Sam, and Scott to help her, they don’t have the resources to do anything about it.

If this were just about Wanda, she wouldn’t care. But losing Clint… that knocks the ground right out from under her. She exhales sharply, pushing off the wall, and heads for Steve’s room.

 

She doesn’t bother knocking. Instead, she simply enters and what she finds doesn’t surprise her. Steve sits on his bed, hands clasped in his lap, so tense that his nails dig into his flesh. His dark gaze is fixed on nothing before it slowly shifts to Natasha, his expression unreadable.

"Can I sit?" she asks, hearing an unfamiliar waver in her own voice. Something about the sight of him unsettles her, though she can't quite say why.

He nods in response, tearing his gaze away from her to stare back into nothing. For a long time, Natasha says nothing. The silence stretches on, heavy and uncomfortable until she finally breaks it.

"Steve, don’t take this the wrong way," she begins carefully, "but I think there’s more on your mind than you’re letting on." She feels like she’s willingly sticking her hand into a lion’s mouth.

"Some things about your story don’t add up, Steve. You can’t fool me—I’m your friend. I know something happened, and I think you know exactly what that something is. What aren’t you telling us?" She notices Steve’s fingers digging so deeply into his palms that his skin seems like it might break.

"We’re your friends, Steve. You can trust us. We always have your back," she adds quickly, giving him a false sense of security.

That last part seems to reach him. The tension in his body gradually eases. And after what feels like an eternity, Steve exhales deeply.

Then, finally, he turns to her.

And he begins to speak.

 

"Do you understand what I’m saying, Nat?" Steve asks after explaining—at least as far as he claims—the full story of tonight’s events.

"You should’ve seen them," he continues, his voice carrying an edge of something she can’t quite place. "The way they were stuck to each other. The way Bucky touched him…" His gaze drifts into the distance, his expression… disappointed. Almost wistful. "Stark usually hates being touched," he adds so low, that Natasha almost misses it. She raises an eyebrow but decides not to comment on it.

"Bucky’s hand was on him—and they were so close—I don’t know…" Steve mutters, almost to himself. "Whenever I tried to touch—" He cuts himself off, and Natasha doesn’t know what to do with this new information, or which of the two men Steve is actually referring to. She has a suspicion, but she’ll be damned if she acknowledges it.

"He trusts Stark too much," he mutters as if trying to convince himself of something. "After everything—after Siberia—he should keep his distance from Stark, but he doesn't, even though I warned him over and over again. Why won't he listen to me and stay the hell away from Stark?"

Natasha hums, her tone noncommittal. "Maybe Bucky just doesn’t see a reason not to trust him."

Steve’s head snaps up at that, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. "What’s that supposed to mean?" Natasha shrugs. "Maybe Bucky just likes him. Maybe he thinks Stark deserves a second chance." She lets her words hang in the air before adding, "Forgiveness comes easier to some than it does to others. Maybe it's your opinion of Stark that's the problem, Steve..."

His expression hardens, but there’s something else there too—something defensive, something uncertain. “That has nothing to do with it, and you know it, Nat! My personal opinion doesn’t change the fact that Stark can’t be trusted. You of all people should know that! I can’t believe you’d even say something like that!” Steve’s voice is firm, but there’s an undercurrent of uncertainty like he’s trying to convince himself as much as her.

Your personal opinion of Stark is exactly why we’re in this mess to begin with, Natasha thinks bitterly, biting her tongue to prevent the words from slipping out. She’s already said too much, anyway.

“Trust me, Nat,” he pleads, his blue eyes sharp with urgency. “Bucky’s behavior, the way Stark has changed… I know Loki has something to do with it. We have to act before it’s too late!” There was a time when she wouldn’t have hesitated. When she would have nodded without question, agreed, and stood at his side, ready to plan their next move.

But now. Now, she hesitates. One reckless decision, and she’ll end up just like Clint and Wanda. And that is not an option.

So she does what she does best—Natasha stalls.

She places a gentle hand on Steve’s shoulder, her voice soft, steady, and persuasive. “I understand, Steve. I really do. But before we make a move, we need to be sure. We have to observe, and analyze. I know you’re worried—I am too. But if we want to make sure nothing happens to Bucky, we need to be prepared.”

She knows exactly what she’s doing. Using Bucky as leverage will keep Steve from rushing into something reckless. He might be good at manipulating people, but so is Natasha. And she knows his greatest weakness—Bucky. She uses that to play right into her hands.

"Steve, I think you should get some rest and try to calm down," Natasha says, her voice even but firm. "This whole situation has shaken you, and I understand why you're upset. I still can’t believe they took Clint—"

"Natasha, this isn’t about Clint! Were you even listening to me?!" Steve snaps, throwing his hands up in frustration. "If Stark is really being controlled by Loki, then we have a serious problem! It was bad enough when Loki had Clint under his control, but Stark? That’s a completely different kind of danger. Loki would have access to all his tech, all his weapons! Clint is the least of our worries!"

His breathing is heavy, his expression somewhere between panic and… concern?

Natasha can’t tell. The anger she feels toward Steve is clouding her usually sharp instincts.

Clint is the least of our worries, huh? The thought is venomous, but she swallows it down. Saying it out loud would be pointless.

There’s no use arguing with Steve when it comes to anything involving Stark or Barnes.

And deep down, she knows the truth—knows that she, Clint, and the others are expendable to him.

Uncomfortable as that realization is, it doesn’t make it any less true.

“Get some rest, Steve,” she says again, squeezing his shoulder lightly. “Tomorrow, we’ll sit down with Sam and Scott and figure out our next steps.”

Steve doesn’t look at her. He only nods, his gaze fixed on his hands as if they hold answers he can’t seem to find. Natasha rises from her seat beside him, her steps slow as she walks toward the door. Her fingers close around the handle, but she hesitates—just for a moment. Then, she turns back to him. “We’ll figure this out, Steve,” she says again, even though she doesn’t believe it.

No response. 

With a quiet sigh, she steps through the door, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. God, how she hates pretending to be the understanding one. She heads down the hall toward her room—the one she used to share with Clint.

Only after she closes the door behind her does she let herself curse under her breath—at Steve, at this whole mess, at the situation he’s dragged her into. She chose the wrong side. And now, she’s stuck on a sinking ship, captained by a man who refuses to see that they’re already lost.

She has no choice but to accept the situation—at least for the moment. She knows that much.

The only thing she can do now is try to keep Steve calm. If possible, she needs to stop him from spiraling any further.

Only God knows what will happen if he becomes even more convinced that Stark and Barnes are being manipulated by Loki.

His obsession with the Inventor is already bad enough. If he keeps feeding into it, things will only get worse.

It would be so much easier if Natasha could use Barnes as a distraction. But he made his stance clear from the beginning.

He’s long out of reach—too far gone for that to even be an option anymore.

She's on her own, and that realization hits hard.

 

 

 

Notes:

*
Apologies for not responding to the comments yet. I’ll make sure to reply in the next few days—kudos to all of you for your patience!

Chapter 37

Notes:

!!! THIS CHAPTER HAS NSFW CONTENT !!!

James and Tony don’t even realize they’ve been walking together all this time, their steps unconsciously in sync, until they suddenly find themselves standing right in front of Tony’s apartment door. It takes them both a moment to register where they are, and when they do, the Inventor's hand instinctively runs through his hair, tousling it in a way that betrays his unease. His lips part slightly as if he wants to say something, but hesitation holds him back.

James clears his throat, just as flustered—perhaps even more so. “Well, that was a pretty... spectacular evening,” he says, voice slightly uneven, as though testing the words as they leave his mouth. Then, realizing how that might sound, he quickly adds, “I mean that in a good way! I had fun. Really.”

Tony exhales a short, amused breath, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. There’s something undeniably charming about James’ awkwardness, and Tony seems to enjoy it. “Well, that’s a relief,” he replies, but then his expression shifts, growing more contemplative. “Though, I could’ve done without Johnny being… well, Johnny. And Barton and Rogers deciding to turn the whole thing into a moral debate. Would’ve much rather had more time with you instead.” His gaze lingers on James, something unreadable in his expression. “Kind of feels like they stole more than just my patience.”

James swallows, feeling warmth creep up his neck. He knows Tony doesn’t mean it the way his brain wants to take it—but it doesn’t stop his heart from kicking up a notch. “Yeah… could’ve done without all that, too,” he murmurs. “Next time, we’ll probably have better luck,” he continues, his voice taking on a softer, more thoughtful edge. “More time. Just for us.”

Their eyes lock, and the air between them feels heavier, charged with something neither of them acknowledges.

Tony’s deep brown eyes lock onto his, searching, lingering. Then he shifts, stepping closer. James watches as he hesitates, his lips parting slightly, as though something is on the tip of his tongue.

And then—for the briefest of moments—James could swear he sees Tony’s gaze flicker down to his lips. But before he can even process it, Tony’s eyes widen. A beat later, he takes a sudden step back, as though snapping out of whatever spell had briefly caught him in its grasp. He clears his throat, tugging at his tie as if the air around them has suddenly grown too thick. “Yeah, exactly. Next time. You said it. We’ll have better luck then.” His words come out in a rush, his usual smooth confidence nowhere to be found. “I, uh—well, it’s getting late, so—”

James watches him ramble, his lips twitching into something amused. He can’t help it—there’s something inexplicably endearing about seeing Tony Stark, of all people, at a loss for words.

“Yeah... that sounds good,” He says, stepping back with a knowing smile. “Next time, then.” He lingers for just a second before adding, a little softer, a little more genuine, “Thanks for tonight. I really had a great time.” There’s a moment’s hesitation before he finally murmurs, “Good night, Tony.”

The Inventor exhales sharply, as if he hadn’t quite been expecting to hear his name spoken in that gentle way. “The... the same to you, James,” he says, his voice just a touch unsteady. “And thank you. For tonight.”

James holds his gaze for a second longer before finally turning toward the elevator, his chest feeling both lighter and heavier at the same time. Tony watches him go, something conflicted flickering in his expression.

He is just about to press the button for the elevator when James hears hurried footsteps behind him.

“James, wait!” Tony’s voice rings out, and before he can fully turn, the Inventor is already there—standing right in front of him, so close that James nearly stumbles into him. Tony’s hand is outstretched as if he had meant to grab him but thought better of it at the last second.

James blinks, caught off guard. “Is something wrong?” Tony looks tense, his face tight with something unreadable. For the first time tonight, he seems genuinely uncertain, like there’s something pressing against the edges of his mind, begging to be said.

“I—” Tony starts, then falters. He hesitates, as though caught in some inner debate. Then, finally, he exhales sharply, like someone making a decision before they can talk themselves out of it.

Without meeting James’ eyes, he says, “I was wondering if you might want to stay. Maybe have a drink. Or we could finish that movie we started.” A pause. Then, as if suddenly worried he’s overstepped, Tony quickly adds, “Only if you want to. If you’re tired and want to head to your apartment, I get it. It’s been a long day and—”

James cuts him off with a small, amused smile. “I’d like that.” Tony’s lips part slightly as if surprised by how easily James agreed.

He steps closer. “I’d really like to spend more time with you, Tony.”

The Inventor blinks, then recovers with a smirk. “Fantastic.” He turns sharply, gesturing for James to follow, and James does, feeling oddly like he just stepped into something entirely new.

 

Once inside, James takes in the space, and something about it throws him off. He knew Tony’s apartment would be big. What he didn’t expect was how… empty it feels.

It’s sleek, expensive—but devoid of anything personal. No photos, no clutter, nothing that suggests someone truly lives here. It’s such a contrast to Tony’s workshop, which is a chaotic, lived-in mess of personality. That space is alive. It’s Tony in his truest form—brimming with ideas, overflowing with half-finished projects and scribbled notes.

But here? Here, it’s like no one has ever really settled in.

“I’m just gonna change into something more comfortable,” the Inventor says, snapping James from his thoughts. “I can grab something for you too, if you want. I’ve got a shirt and some sweatpants that are a little big on me—they should fit.”

James glances down at his suit, suddenly aware of how stiff and formal it feels. “Yeah. That’d be great.” He tugs at his tie, but whether the warmth in his skin is from the room or the fact that he’s in Tony’s apartment, he isn’t quite sure.

“Alright,” Tony nods. “You can make yourself comfortable on the couch while I change.” And with that, he’s gone—disappearing so quickly that James barely has time to respond.

James watches him disappear, shaking his head before moving to take a seat on the couch. Tonight just got a lot more interesting.

 

Tony returns a few minutes later, dressed in loose sweatpants and a black tank top that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination when it comes to his toned arms. In one hand, he carries the clothes he promised James, casually tossing them his way with that effortless confidence that makes James want to either roll his eyes or do something far more reckless.

"You can change in the bathroom. End of the hallway," Tony says, nodding in the general direction before pivoting toward the bar at the back of the living room. "I'll handle the drinks while you get comfortable. Any requests? I have everything your heart desires." That smirk—so easy, so knowing—tells James that Tony is fully aware of the double meaning.

"If I may make a recommendation," Tony continues, already reaching for a bottle, "I have a rather exquisite Scotch. Pepper gifted it to me for my birthday last year."

James arches a brow. "Well, if you're that enthusiastic about it, how could I possibly refuse? I'll take a glass." He watches as Tony stretches to retrieve two glasses from the top shelf, the movement causing his tank top to ride up just enough to expose a sliver of bare skin—taut stomach, the dip of his hip bones, just a hint of something that makes James' throat go dry.

Damn.

Yeah, no, this is bad. He’s definitely overheating now, and it has nothing to do with the layers of his suit.

Tony is a piece of art in every possible way—effortlessly sculpted, frustratingly attractive, and completely unaware (or, more likely, fully aware) of the effect he has. And James? James would very much like to press him against the nearest surface, dig his fingers into that tempting strip of exposed skin, and—

Shit.

Okay. Time to abort mission before his thoughts get him into real trouble.

Forcing himself to look away, James clears his throat and makes a beeline for the bathroom. He shuts the door behind him and exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair as if that will do anything to clear his head.

The clothes Tony gave him are simple—worn-in sweatpants, a soft band tee—but as soon as he pulls them on, he notices the scent clinging to them. Laundry detergent, sure, but underneath that, unmistakably Tony. Something warm, something sharp, something that makes James’ pulse stutter in a way that is entirely unhelpful.

He's wearing Tony's clothes.

Fuck.

Yeah, that’s not helping his situation. At all.

Dragging in a deep breath, he splashes cold water on his face, lingering for a moment as he steadies himself. He refuses to walk back out there like some lovesick idiot whose biggest weakness is a goddamn tank top and a stupidly charming smirk.

By the time he steps out of the bathroom, he’s composed. Mostly.

Tony, of course, is already sprawled on the right side of the couch, looking effortlessly at home. His legs are casually crossed, one arm slung over the backrest, his entire demeanor radiating smug amusement. As James approaches, Tony turns his head, eyes sweeping over him with open appreciation before his lips curl into a slow, knowing grin.

Then he whistles—low, teasing, and downright sinful.

“Mhm… I have to say, my clothes look damn good on you.” His gaze drags over James like he’s making some kind of assessment, one he’s clearly pleased with.

James swears he’s about five seconds away from either tackling him or walking right back into that bathroom to cool off all over again.

"Come on, sit." Tony grins, eyes flicking to the open space beside him.

James doesn’t hesitate. He drops onto the couch, making himself comfortable—only for the Inventor to immediately shift closer, their thighs pressing together, their shoulders brushing. Heat sparks where they touch, an electric hum settling between them. James welcomes it, keeps quiet. A single comment might spook Tony, might make him pull away, and he isn’t about to risk that.

"Here," Tony says, handing James the glass of Scotch meant for him. Their fingers touch as James takes it. He doesn’t pull away immediately, lingering just a beat too long. But since Tony doesn’t move either, he figures—hell, why not? He even shifts his weight slightly, pressing just a little closer until they’re leaning fully against each other.

The Inventor drapes his arm across the back of the couch, his fingers dangling behind James’s shoulder, light as a whisper. It feels intentional. James, emboldened, lets his hand rest on Tony’s thigh. Just casual enough to be innocent, just bold enough to be anything but. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches the man's reaction carefully.

A risky move, but if Tony takes it the wrong way, James can always blame the cramped space. Play it off. Apologize.

But, thankfully, Tony doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t tense. If anything, he relaxes further, sinking into the cushions, like James’ touch is something he could get used to.

"So," Tony drawls, voice rich with amusement, "should we pick up where we left off?"

For a split second, James’ brain short-circuits with images of heated kisses and wandering hands. His dick twitches at the idea of Tony wanting to continue what they had started at the party, right in front of so many eyes—

But then, realization crashes into him, and—oh. The movie. Tony means the damn movie.

"Y-yeah, of course!" James blurts, maybe too quickly. Desperate for a distraction, he snatches up a blanket, clumsily draping it over both of them—an entirely pathetic attempt to hide the growing issue in his lap.

Tony lifts an eyebrow at the odd behavior but, mercifully, says nothing. He just smirks. Smug. Knowing. Then he hits play.

As the screen flickers to life, Tony hesitates. Opens his mouth, then closes it. There’s something uncharacteristically uncertain in the way he shifts, and when he finally speaks, his voice is softer than usual. "Is it—would it be okay if I leaned on you? I’m kinda tired, and—" James laughs before he can stop himself.

Tony frowns. "Wow. Rude."

James shakes his head, still grinning. "No, no, don’t get me wrong. It’s just—this isn’t exactly the first time you’ve used me as a pillow. And I doubt it’ll be the last. You don’t have to ask." He smirks. "Here, come here." Without waiting for a response, he slides an arm around Tony’s shoulders, tugging him in. With his free hand, he gently shifts the Inventor's head until it rests against his shoulder, settling him into place.

"Good?"

Tony doesn’t answer. Just nods. But James doesn’t miss the way his cheeks have darkened, the faint red creeping across his skin. And then, to his utter surprise, Tony shifts even closer, looping an arm around James’ waist, pressing himself in until there’s no space left between them.

Neither of them says a word. The only sound in the room is the low hum of the movie. Not that James hears a single second of it. All he can focus on is the heat of Tony’s body against his, the way his own heartbeat pounds loud and insistent in his ears.

If someone walked in right now, what would they see? Two men tangled together on the couch, bodies pressed close, wrapped up in each other like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

James would do anything to make this moment last. The only thing that could make it better would be Tony, flushed and breathless beneath him, the taste of Scotch and heat on his lips, breathless, his skin hot under James’ lips as he kisses down his neck, teeth scraping against his throat while he—

Nope.

Terrible idea.

Fucking hell. He cannot afford to get hard right now.

 

"You know," Tony says, ripping James from his dangerous thoughts, his voice smooth and teasing as his breath ghosts over James’ collarbone, sending a shiver down his spine. He didn't expect him to speak, and certainly not with that particular tone.

"This is nice," the man continues, exhaling slowly before nuzzling into the crook of James’ neck, his nose brushing against warm skin. "I mean, just sitting here. Spending time together..."

James hums in agreement, tilting his head just enough to rest his chin against the crown of Tony’s head. "Yeah," he murmurs, "I’ll give you that." They both chuckle, letting the moment stretch between them, comfortable and easy.

Tony eventually starts rambling about the projects he’s about to dive into, about the latest trouble his bots have caused, and other things that either frustrate him or make him laugh. James listens intently, occasionally throwing in a question or laughing outright when one of Tony’s stories turns particularly ridiculous.

Somewhere along the way, James finds himself holding Tony’s hand. He doesn’t know exactly when it happened, only that suddenly their fingers are entwined, and his thumb is tracing slow, absentminded circles against the back of Tony’s hand.

At some point, the movie credits start rolling, the soundtrack obnoxiously loud and dramatic. Both of them blink at the screen in confusion before turning to look at each other.

Tony is the first to crack, bursting into laughter and burying his face against James’ chest as if that’ll somehow stifle the sound. "That— That’s the third time now," he manages between wheezing laughs. James, despite himself, finds it nearly impossible to keep a straight face.

"Hey, at least we actually caught the credits this time," he quips, laughter still shaking his shoulders as he runs a hand through Tony’s hair. The temptation is just too much when the man is lying so unguarded against him.

"Maybe next time we’ll have better luck," The Inventor grins, and from his position, he can’t see the flicker of emotion that crosses James’ face at the implication that there will be a next time.

If it were up to James, he’d spend every evening like this—pressed against Tony, enjoying his warmth, the sound of his laughter, the way his fingers unconsciously curl around his. God, is that sappy? The infamous Winter Soldier craving couch-cuddling sessions with Anthony fucking Stark of all people? Life is full of surprises.

Tony shifts away, much to James’ silent disappointment, moving to pour them both another glass of scotch. After a few moments of comfortable silence, he murmurs an excuse and disappears into the bathroom.

James stares at the now-empty space beside him, the cushions still radiating Tony’s warmth. A vague sense of unease rises in his chest, the creeping thought that Tony will return, stretch, and say something about how late it’s gotten. That he’ll walk James to the door with a casual "see you later" and that’ll be it.

But if James had it his way? This night would end in Tony’s bedroom. With Tony flushed and begging—moaning his name, no, screaming it, desperate and wrecked from how thoroughly James is ruining him. He’d mark him up, scatter deep, dark bruises across his skin, sink his fingers into Tony’s hips hard enough to leave his own prints there, anchoring them both as he thrusts into him, over and over, until there’s nothing left of them but sweat and exhaustion.

James exhales sharply, dropping his hand into his lap, and—yep. He’s definitely half-hard. Fuck.

The sound of the bathroom door opening snaps him out of his downward spiral. He waits until Tony settles back on the couch, bundling himself into his blanket, before standing abruptly. "Be right back," he mutters, already making a beeline for the bathroom.

Tony raises an eyebrow at him, clearly confused, but doesn’t say anything. Just shrugs and sinks deeper into the couch. James shuts the bathroom door behind him with a little too much force, the wood creaking in protest. He doesn’t care.

He has bigger problems right now. He leans against the sink, staring down at the very obvious problem in his sweatpants. He can feel his cock twitch with interest, and against his better judgment, he experimentally runs a hand over the fabric covering his hardening length.

And—fuck.

Even the slightest touch sends a wave of pleasure coursing through him, his body shivering as a deep, frustrated sigh escapes his lips.

He has two options, and both seem equally impossible.

The first: He could hide out in Tony’s bathroom until the problem resolves itself. But considering how achingly hard he already is, that could take a while. A long while.. And Tony would definitely start wondering what the hell was going on, and James really doesn’t want to imagine how that conversation would go.

The second option? The one that has his cock throbbing even harder in anticipation? Taking care of it.

Right here. Right now. In Tony’s bathroom.

While the man himself sits just a few feet away in the living room, completely unaware. The thought is so incredibly tempting, and the fact that James is still wearing Tony’s clothes—clothes that smell like him—isn’t exactly helping him think straight.

James knows himself. Under these circumstances, it wouldn’t take much to get him off. It’s been ages since he last jerked off—so long, in fact, that he can’t even pinpoint the last time. As for intimacy with a partner, that thought isn’t even worth entertaining. His time under HYDRA’s control left him with little to no opportunity for such things.

It would only take a few strokes. Just a few.

Exhaling sharply, he makes his decision. He steps into the shower, reasoning that it’s the easiest place to clean up afterward. His cock is already painfully hard as he shoves his sweatpants and boxers down, wrapping a firm hand around his length. He groans low in his throat, giving himself a few slow, deliberate strokes, his grip practiced, tight. 

And damn, just those few thrusting motions feel insanely good, sending shivers through his entire body. His breath catches, and he can feel his dick twitch eagerly in his hand, pulsing with anticipation- demanding more.

"Fuck," he mutters, voice gravelly, his back arching instinctively from the rush of pleasure.

His movements quicken, growing rougher, more desperate. He bites down hard on his own arm, stifling any sounds threatening to escape, Tony’s name a whisper on his tongue.

It doesn’t take long before precum slicks his palm, making each stroke messier, filthier, obscene sounds filling the small space. A part of him is disgusted by what he’s doing—getting himself off in Tony’s bathroom like some depraved asshole—but the rest of him? The rest of him is drowning in the thought of sun-warmed skin, soft hair, and full, kissable lips.

He can’t help but imagine Tony kneeling before him, those perfect lips wrapped around James' dick while those amused brown eyes look up at him, watching his every reaction. There’s a glimmer of knowing in them—because Tony is fully aware of just how irresistible he is.

James imagines himself thrusting deeper into Tony’s mouth, feeling the heat, the wetness, the perfect pressure. The inventor starts moaning around him, the vibrations sending jolts of pleasure through his body as Tony takes him in effortlessly. At the same time, those rough, skilled hands knead his balls, adding to the overwhelming sensation, pushing James closer to the edge.

He imagines himself on the verge of release, instinctively trying to pull out, but Tony doesn’t let him. Strong hands grip his ass, holding him in place, refusing to let him escape. And so, with a shuddering gasp, James comes deep in Tony’s mouth—his orgasm intense, overwhelming, almost blinding in its pleasure.

When Tony finally releases him, James slowly pulls his still half-hard dick from those perfect lips, his breath still ragged. His gaze locks onto Tony, who looks up at him with a smug, knowing expression. A single drop of cum escapes, trailing down the corner of his mouth, but Tony simply flicks out his tongue, licking it away—his eyes never leaving James for a second.

That does it.

He comes hard, Tony’s image burned into his mind, his breath ragged and uneven as he stares, half-horrified, at his hand and the shower wall now splattered with evidence of his lack of self-control.

Shit.

He really just did that. In Tony fucking Stark’s bathroom.

Jaw tight, he cleans himself up, wiping away every trace of his indiscretion, though the guilt lingers long after the mess is gone. He can’t believe he lost control like that. A wave of guilt crashes over him, heavy and suffocating. In that moment, he feels like the biggest asshole to ever walk the earth.

 

By the time he returns to the living room, he’s composed himself—at least outwardly. But the second he steps into the room, he freezes.

Tony is still wrapped up in his blanket, staring grimly at his phone, oblivious to James's presence. His face is dark, almost angry looking, and for one terrifying moment, James is convinced Tony knows. That somehow, he figured it out—that he sensed what James was doing in there.

Panic rises in his throat.

But then Tony glances up, his brooding expression vanishes into an easy, teasing grin. "Have you planted roots over there, or are you just going to stand there in silence, doing nothing, Snowflake?"

James is momentarily speechless, his dumbfounded expression apparently concerning enough that Tony’s own face shifts into something wary, almost defeated. “You okay?” He asks, and James has to force himself to answer—something normal, something that doesn’t make him look even more suspicious than he already feels.

“I—I was just surprised. You… your face just now. You looked pretty unhappy.” He gestures vaguely with his hand before fumbling for an out. “Maybe I should go?”

Tony blinks, looking caught off guard, before running a hand through his hair with a deep sigh. “Oh. No, no—it's fine. That was just Pepper and—” He hesitates, then glances up at James, something almost pleading in his expression. “You don’t have to go. Please stay. I want you to stay.”

It’s the way the Inventor says it—the raw honesty in his voice, the unguarded expectation in his gaze—that sends James’ heart hammering uncontrollably against his ribs. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat before managing, “Yeah. Of course.”

He sits back down beside Tony, unconsciously leaving a little extra space between them. “Can I ask what Pepper wanted?” he asks after a moment, carefully choosing his words. “You looked… unhappy.”

Tony sighs, letting his head fall back against the couch, eyes unfocused on the ceiling. “It’s about a business deal. She insists I need to be there, and apparently, ‘no’ isn’t an acceptable answer, even though I told her I’m currently—” He pauses, his gaze flickering to James for half a second before snapping back to the ceiling. “—preoccupied with more important, personal matters. But when Pepper decides something, there’s no talking her out of it. So I guess I have no choice but to suck it up and go.”

James hesitates. “And that means…?” He immediately regrets asking when Tony answers.

“It means that tomorrow, I’ll be on a flight to Tokyo. And I’ll be spending the entire week schmoozing investors, who think they can take advantage of me.” Tony exhales, clearly irritated, then turns his head to look at James, watching him with an unreadable expression. “And here I am, working so damn hard to impress someone else…” he murmurs, so softly that James doesn’t catch it.

“Oh, that sounds... pretty dull,” is all James can manage in response. His thoughts drift so far away, it feels as though the ground has been ripped from beneath him, and he’s still unaware that he’s falling, suspended in a dizzying moment of freefall.

Tony will be gone for a whole week... The thought alone makes his stomach twist.

Logically, he knows Tony can handle himself. The man isn’t exactly defenseless. But that rational part of his brain is currently losing to the part of him that wants to protect him, that wants to keep him close, that’s already running through every possible worst-case scenario in his head.

Before James can spiral any further, Tony sighs again and shifts, dropping his head onto James’ chest.

It startles James out of his thoughts.

The Inventor doesn’t say anything at first, just breathes, the warmth of it bleeding through James’ shirt. Eventually, though, he speaks, his voice quieter, almost hesitant.

“Would you keep me company a little longer?” His words are muffled against James’ chest. “I’m sure the fourth time’s the charm with our movie.”

One of Tony’s hands curls into James’ shirt, as if holding onto him, as if unwilling to let him leave. James laughs, and of course, he agrees. How could he not?

“If all else fails, we’ll just keep trying until we actually make it through the damn thing.” He chuckles, pulling Tony closer. His arm stays around the man's waist, fingers resting against a sliver of bare skin where Tony’s tank top has ridden up. The Inventor doesn’t seem to mind. If anything, he leans in, settling against James with a soft, contented smile as he starts the next movie.

 

Some time later, FRIDAY, who has been silently observing the entire ordeal, finds herself wishing more than anything that she had actual eyes—just so she could roll them. The credits are rolling on yet another movie neither of them will ever remember watching, because both of them have long since fallen sound asleep, lost in each other’s embrace, tangled in a mess of limbs on the couch.

Notes:

**Loki's illusion of Tony's injured face vanished the moment they stepped into the building.** I didn’t include this information because I didn't think it was worth mentioning, but I realized it could cause confusion, so I thought I should clarify this.

Chapter 38

When James wakes for the first time, the thing he notices first is the body partially draped over him. Confusion grips him for a brief moment—until he remembers where he is and, more importantly, who he is with.

Tony’s face is nestled into the curve of James’ neck, his lips barely brushing against his skin. Each slow, steady breath fans warmly over his throat, sending a delicious shiver down his spine. The Inventor's arm is draped across his chest, his fingers curled into the fabric of James’ shirt with just enough pressure to feel possessive—like some part of him, even in sleep, refuses to let go. One of his legs is tangled between James’, resting dangerously close to sensitive territory.

James finds his arm wrapped securely around Tony’s waist, his hand having slipped beneath the soft fabric of the man's tank top sometime during the night. The moment hums with warmth, quiet and steady, wrapping around him like a silent promise. And James knows—without a single doubt—that he would give anything to wake up like this every morning, holding the man he loves safely in his arms.

He exhales slowly, heart beating a little too fast in his chest.

God, everything about this—Tony’s warmth, the way their bodies fit together so effortlessly—feels so damn good it’s almost unbearable.

Slowly, he moves his hand from Tony’s waist up to his head, threading his fingers through the dark, impossibly soft hair, and Tony sighs in contentment, nuzzling closer, the sheer intimacy of the gesture tugging a smile onto James’ lips, and eventually, he drifts back into a deep, dreamless, blissful sleep.

 

The next time he stirs, hovering at the edge of wakefulness, he dreams of warm, gentle fingers ghosting over his face, tracing over his features before sliding into his hair, brushing it back with infinite tenderness. The next sensation is lips—soft and warm—pressing against his own in a slow, lingering kiss. The touch is featherlight, yet it carries weight, enveloping him in pure, unfiltered warmth. He melts into it, instinctively returning the kiss, letting it anchor him in the moment before sleep claims him again, pulling him back into its embrace, as the ghost of a smile lingers on his lips, as if the warmth of that kiss has followed him into his dreams.

 

When he finally wakes up fully, it’s because of a particularly persistent ray of sunlight cutting through the window and landing directly on his face. He groans, shifting slightly, and stretches, feeling more rested than he has in ages—until the last remnants of sleep slip away, and reality settles in like a cold weight in his chest.

The space beside him is empty. Not just empty—cold. The warmth that had been there, the warmth that should still be there, is gone, leaving only the ghost of Tony’s presence behind. 

Pushing himself up, James scans the room, his heart pounding just a little harder than it should. No sign of Tony. No hint of movement. Nothing.

"Tony?" His voice is steady, but the silence that follows makes his stomach twist. He listens, straining for any sign of life, any indication that Tony is still somewhere in the apartment—maybe in the bathroom, maybe just out of sight. But there’s nothing. No reply. No distant footsteps. No quiet sounds of someone moving about. Just silence.

And that’s when the unease sharpens into something heavier, pressing against his ribs like a weight he can’t shake.

“Good morning, James. I hope you slept well.” FRIDAY’s voice cuts through the silence, smooth and steady, grounding him just enough to keep the creeping panic at bay.

James exhales slowly, dragging a hand down his face before answering. “Thanks, FRIDAY,” he murmurs, though his mind is elsewhere. His throat feels tight. “Do you happen to know where Tony is?”

There’s a beat of silence before FRIDAY responds, her tone as helpful as ever. “Boss is already on his way to the airport.” James barely hears the rest. The words hit him like a punch to the gut, and disappointment crashes over him in a suffocating wave, settling deep in his chest, crushing and heavy.

Tony is gone.

As if sensing the storm brewing inside him, FRIDAY quickly adds, her tone softer now, almost reassuring, “Boss tried to wake you, but you were out cold. He made a few attempts, but eventually, he gave up on waking you up and said you probably needed the rest.” James swallows, his jaw tightening.

“He felt bad about leaving without saying goodbye, though,” she continues, as if that might ease the weight pressing down on his chest. “So he left you a message and a little gift. It’s on the table.” There’s the faintest hint of guilt in her synthetic voice, and James stares at the ceiling for a long moment, letting the information settle.

Eventually, his gaze drifts toward the table, and as FRIDAY had said, there it is—a small red box with a letter resting on top of it. A sticky note is slapped on the box, the words ‘OPEN ME FIRST!!!’ scrawled in bold, frantic letters, with multiple exclamation points practically screaming for his attention.

James pauses, his chest tightening as a whirlwind of emotions rushes through him. Disappointment, confusion, longing—each one colliding with the next in a tangled mess he can’t seem to untangle. He feels the weight of it all, the ache of not being able to hold on to the quiet warmth from just a few hours ago. But curiosity, that familiar pull, breaks through the chaos, pushing him forward. With a deep breath, he reaches for the box.

Inside, nestled securely within, is a brand-new phone.

It’s a deep, sleek black, but when he lifts it from the box and tilts it toward the light, a faint red shimmer dances across its surface. It’s heavier than expected, but in a good way—it feels solid, expensive, like someone put a lot of thought and care into its design.

“It’s the latest model Boss designed,” FRIDAY announces, a distinct note of pride in her voice. “Right now, only you and Boss have one. He already saved his number in your contacts.”

James turns the phone over in his hands, the sleek, heavy weight of it grounding him in the moment. A lump forms in his throat, threatening to tighten with every passing second. He swallows it down, pushing past the knot of emotions clawing at him, and reaches for the letter resting beside the box. His fingers tremble just slightly as he unfolds it, the paper crisp under his touch, as he begins to read the message Tony left behind.

 

'Hey, Snowflake.

Sorry for vanishing on you without saying goodbye, but you were sleeping like you were making up for weeks of lost rest. I tried to wake you—seriously, I did—but after a while, I gave up. Figured you needed it.

I left you a little gift. I know you already have a phone, but this baby is a thousand—no, what am I saying—ten thousand times better than whatever crap you’re using now. My number’s saved in there, so you can reach me anytime. I mean, if you want to. Not that I can force you to or anything—I mean, obviously, you do you—but, ugh, see? Now I’m rambling.

Anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I’d really like it if you texted me. Or called. You know, while I’m gone. God knows I could use someone to talk to who isn’t trying to get their hands on my money.

Try to behave while my sexy ass isn't around, alright? And don’t do anything reckless while I’m gone, Snowflake.

—Tony’

 

James snorts, biting back a laugh. Only Tony could manage to ramble in a handwritten letter...

To be honest, despite the faint amusement the message sparks in him, James isn’t quite sure how he’s supposed to feel about it. It’s the absence of a proper goodbye that gnaws at him, a lingering ache that refuses to be ignored. His chest tightens with the thought of Tony slipping away without him even realizing it, and the idea of spending an entire week without the man's presence, without that teasing, charming smile lighting up his day, feels almost unbearable.

"Well, sulking won't get me anywhere," he sighs and folds the note carefully, his fingers lingering on the creases before he sets it aside. His gaze drifts to his new phone, turning it over in his hands as if weighing its significance. FRIDAY, ever efficient, assists him in setting it up, tailoring it to his preferences while explaining its most important features. Their conversation is light, peppered with FRIDAY’s signature dry wit, and more than once, James finds himself laughing—really laughing. At one point, FRIDAY’s unfiltered cynicism catches him so off guard that he doubles over, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he struggles to catch his breath.

Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, James leaves Tony’s apartment and heads back to his own place. The plan is simple—change, eat, and try to ease into some semblance of normalcy.

Breakfast is uneventful, and the rest of the day follows suit. He reads a little, trains with Jessica until his muscles burn, and later, takes a slow walk through the garden, letting the crisp air clear his thoughts. At some point, FRIDAY interrupts the silence, informing him that Carol wants to talk with him. When he finally meets with her, she gets straight to the point: He's officially cleared for missions - Effective immediately. But that’s not all. With a slight smirk, Carol hands him another document—confirmation that the Council has approved his transfer to Tony’s team. James skims the words, letting them sink in, and for the first time in what feels like forever, something inside him eases. A weight lifts because he realizes he’s exactly where he wants to be.

 

Later that evening, Wade and Peter rope him into another movie night. Matt and Constantine tag along, rounding out their little group. It’s comfortable, familiar, and for a while, James lets himself enjoy the moment, the steady hum of casual conversation filling the space between scenes.

Then, sometime in the middle of the movie, James finds himself zoning out, his attention drifting away from the screen as he watches Wade and Constantine bicker, their voices rising and falling in a familiar, almost comforting rhythm. But amidst the noise, a question that’s been gnawing at the back of his mind for a while now slips out before he even realizes he’s saying it.

“So… how exactly did you guys end up here?” he asks, and all eyes turn to him, curiosity flickering in their expressions—some more intrigued, others just confused by the sudden question. James hesitates, his gaze flickering between them, feeling the weight of their stares. He shrugs, trying to mask the unease building inside him. "I mean, how’d you become part of the team? Why’d you decide to join the Avengers?" The question feels strangely vulnerable, hanging in the air like a thread waiting to be tugged on. But the question is out now, and there’s no taking it back.

Matt is the first to speak, his smile small yet sincere as he begins to share how Tony had stood by him through some of his darkest times. His voice carries the weight of countless late-night conversations, legal strategies hashed out in quiet rooms, and a shared vision—one of laws designed to protect enhanced individuals or to hold them accountable when needed. A vision to carve out a place for them in a world that still trembles at their existence.

As he continues, Matt weaves tales of his experiences with Tony, both the triumphs and the struggles. Some stories bring laughter to James, while others stir a profound sadness within him, making him pause to reflect on the complexities of it all. Peter, Constantine, and Wade listen with unwavering attention, but James can’t shake the feeling that this isn't the first time they've heard Matt’s words—these stories are well-worn, familiar in their depth.

The way he tells it, it’s clear: Matt followed Tony out of admiration, respect, and something deeper—an unspoken bond of trust and friendship...

 

Peter's next. His story is chaotic, a whirlwind of overlapping events, half-finished sentences, and boundless enthusiasm. He tries to explain how he became Spider-Man, how he ended up in the thick of everything, but his excitement gets the best of him, and soon enough, he’s tripping over his own words, and James and the others exchange amused glances, struggling to hold back their laughter.

But beneath the rambling, one thing is obvious—Peter adores Tony. It’s in the way his voice picks up speed, in the way his eyes shine when he talks about him. The sheer reverence in his tone is impossible to miss, and for a moment, James wonders if Peter even realizes just how much Tony means to him. It’s impossible to ignore that Tony has become a father figure to Peter—the person he looks up to, the one he turns to for guidance when he's lost or when the weight of his burdens becomes too much to bear alone. There is no doubt, not even the faintest trace of uncertainty, that the Inventor has become a significant and irreplaceable part of Peter's world.

 

Constantine is, after the others practically pressure him into it, the next to share his story. And to call it wild would barely scratch the surface. It’s definitely a lot to take in, that's for sure.

He tells his story with a face that betrays no emotion, and at first, James isn’t sure whether Constantine is trying to mess with him or if he's simply lost his mind. But the more Constantine speaks, the clearer it becomes that every word he says is meant with complete sincerity.

According to his tale, in his own universe, he had crossed paths with more than a few powerful entities—most of whom he’d pissed off in ways that should have gotten him very dead. Among them were several lords of Hell, with whom he had the brilliant idea of making deals. He sold his soul in exchange for survival, narrowly escaping a terminal cancer that should have claimed his life.

He speaks of an inevitable war, one so destructive that his death alone would be enough to set it off. And then there are the other troubling details—things James knows will linger in his mind long after this conversation ends.

Eventually, Constantine gets to the punchline: he may have antagonized the devil one too many times. And not just any devil—the devil, Lucifer Morningstar himself, who apparently runs a very famous nightclub on Earth. In retaliation, the prince of Hell took matters into his own hands and threw Constantine through a portal, landing him in this universe.

Tony, ever the bleeding heart, had found him wandering around like a stray in need of a home and—true to form—took him in without a second thought.

Constantine grins, slow and sharp, taking a lazy sip from his drink. "I bet if our dear Morningstar knew how well things are going for me here, he'd willingly throw himself off his fancy skyscraper."

Then, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, Constantine adds, “Meeting Tony was the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time, and I actually like it here. Sure, I’ve found a way back to my universe, but if I’m being honest, I couldn’t care less about going back—there’s no one there who misses me anyway. Honestly, Lucifer did me a huge favor with that stunt of his.” He lets out a laugh, almost like the whole thing is some inside joke he’s been carrying around.

Peter squints at him, his expression shifting into playful curiosity. “Are you sure that’s the only reason you’re still here, or does it perhaps have something to do with that leather-clad god who’s practically glued to you?” A mischievous grin spreads across the boy’s face, his eyes gleaming with the kind of amusement that says he’s not just teasing. No, he’s digging a little deeper, poking at something much more complicated than Constantine would care to admit.

Without missing a beat, Constantine hurls a pillow at Peter’s face and flips him off—bringing his story to an abrupt end.

 

James expects Wade’s usual rambling—random sentences, off-the-wall references that make no sense, all overlapping in chaotic bursts. Maybe some crude jokes, an impromptu song, or even a one-sided conversation with himself—basically, everything that makes Wade, well, Wade. But what the man says next completely catches him off guard, pulling the ground out from under him.

“Oh, I wanted to kill myself, or rather, tried to,” Wade says bluntly, flashing a grin as an uncomfortable silence blankets the room. “And since the usual methods didn’t work out, I figured Tony’s repulsors might do the trick.”

James stares at him, the words sinking in like a lead weight, pressing heavily against his chest. “What?” His voice is barely above a whisper, but the horror is unmistakable, thick in the way it trembles.

Wade shrugs nonchalantly, as if discussing the weather, before continuing. "After I took care of the people responsible for this," he gestures to himself, "I had to quickly realize that revenge, while sweet once you get it, leaves a pretty bitter aftertaste. I got my revenge, woohoo, but on the way there, I lost everything and everyone who ever meant anything to me…" He gazes into the distance as if reliving long-forgotten memories. "There was just nothing left worth living for. No one to share my life with—so I thought, fuck it. If the universe sees me as nothing but a pathetic joke, I might as well end it on my terms." He chuckles softly, rummaging through his bag of chips before continuing.

"I tried every possible way to off myself, but nothing worked," his voice falters for a moment, bitter and raw- uncharacteristically. "But then one night, I was watching TV, and I saw Tony turn a bad guy to literal dust with his repulsors, and I thought, Hey! That might actually work! So, I broke into the Compound, surprised Tony in the shower, and asked him to kill me... and man, I gotta tell you, Tony's dick is remarkable!" He gestures with his hands, exaggerating the size with a grin, and... no, Tony's penis can't possibly be that big. That would be physically impossible...

The room falls into an eerie silence, not because of the comment about the size of Tony’s dick, but because of the casual, almost careless way Wade talks about wanting to die. It’s as if it’s just another part of the chaotic life he’s grown used to, but the weight of what he’s saying crashes over everyone else like a tidal wave. James watches the shock spread across the others’ faces—wide eyes, slightly parted mouths. They’re hearing this story for the first time too, and it hits them like a punch to the gut. He can feel the realization settle in around them, thick and uncomfortable. They're all equally stunned, equally horrified, struggling to comprehend the depth of Wade's words and the raw, haunting emptiness that pushed him to that breaking point.

The silence lingers for what feels like an eternity, thick and heavy, before Wade finally seems to take pity on them and continues his story.

"Of course, Tony refused," he says, a mischievous glint dancing in his voice. "Well, he did—after he kicked me through his bathroom door, and I flew a few meters into the next room." He chuckles, wiggling his nonexistent eyebrows with a grin, as if the whole thing is just another one of his absurd adventures.

There’s a brief pause before Wade continues, his tone shifting slightly. “Actually, scratch that—first, he hit me with that look, you know the one, then, he told me to go fuck myself and kicked me—classic Tony—and finally, he said no.” He laughs, a bit of disbelief still lingering in his voice.

James exhales, rubbing a hand down his face. “Jesus, Wade.” He doesn’t know what else to say. The information Wade just dropped on them is hard to process, like trying to swallow something too big to fit down. The weight of it all hangs in the air, suffocating and raw.

"And what happened then?" Peter asks after a while, his voice unusually quiet, like speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile gravity of the moment.

"Tony…" Wade stops, his gaze unfocused, staring into some invisible void where the past plays like an old film reel. His voice, when he speaks again, is different—hushed, weighed down by something too heavy for words.

"After Tony kicked me through the door and threw on some clothes... he reached his hand out, helped me to my feet, and then, without a second thought, slammed me into the wall of his living room. He told me—told me—I was worth living for." Wade sinks deeper into the couch, his gaze now locked on the ceiling. 

 

"For a moment, I thought he was just messing with me. I mean, what reason did I have to believe him? But the way he said it, the look in his eyes—he wasn’t joking. He was serious. He saw something in me, and he wasn’t fucking around. That hit me harder than anything else ever has. I remember feeling completely lost, like everything was spiraling out of control. Thoughts kept racing through my head—You don’t even know me. How can you say that so easily? All I could feel was confusion, frustration, and anger—the kind that eats you alive, you know? I screamed at him. I think I even told him I’d kill him and everyone he cares about if he didn’t just end it right there and then...”

He pauses, exhaling sharply, as the weight of his words seems to hang in the air, pressing down on everything.

“But what really sticks with me is the look on his face. His expression was bitter, haunted even, when I told him I would kill him. He just looked at me and said, ‘Give it a try.’ He told me that if I somehow figured out a way to do it that he hadn’t already thought of, he’d gladly accept his death. I don’t know. In that moment, everything felt so raw, like the world was stripped down to its core. And I realized something—Tony was just as broken as I was. It felt like he handed me a piece of his own pain on a silver platter. And that’s when it hit me—he really understood me because we were the same.”

‘That must’ve been right after Tony used Extremis on himself,’ James thinks suddenly, the thought hitting him like a jolt. A sharp, uncomfortable sting in his chest accompanies it, and for a brief moment, the world tilts, a wave of dizziness rushing over him.

“I remember feeling this overwhelming emptiness—like the fight had just drained out of me completely. Tony let go of me, and I collapsed. I hit the floor like a ragdoll, unable to hold myself up anymore. And in that moment, all I could do was beg. No, plead—for him to end it. I begged him because, in my mind, he was the only one who could possibly understand, the only one who could make it stop. But Tony didn’t give in. He didn’t cave. Instead, he knelt down next to me, his gaze steady, and told me that if I needed a reason to live, he’d give me one—he’d give me one, until I found my own. Something that would make me want to hold on, something that would make me fight for this damn life.”

Wade’s voice softens for a split second, almost as if he’s reliving the moment. Then, a flicker of something changes in his eyes, something more hopeful, and he glances toward Matt as if the weight of the words were just now fully sinking in. For a brief instant, there's a hint of wonder in his expression, his eyes no longer distant and cold, but full of life, like he’s found something to cling to after all.

But, true to his nature, Wade snaps back into himself, a crooked grin spreading across his face as if nothing happened. Of course, he has to ruin the moment. “And who would’ve thought Matt’s amazing blowjobs would be the thing to bring my will to live back?” he grins, the raw vulnerability fading as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual reckless, playful persona.

James expects an explosion—an exasperated sigh, a thrown punch, a scathing retort—but Matt, surprisingly, only rolls his eyes, letting the comment slide with nothing more than an unimpressed expression. James suspects it’s because, despite everything, despite the joke and the deflection, even Matt is moved by what Wade just admitted.

"Fuck, that reminds me— I kinda became a crime-fighting shit-swizzler, who rooms with a bunch of other little whiners at the Neverland mansion. Shit. I have to send Colossus a friend request, don't I?" Wade suddenly adds, shifting gears completely as he talks to some imaginary audience, his tone flipping from vulnerable to absurd without missing a beat. The shift is so jarring that it's almost comical, the tension from his earlier confession evaporating in an instant as he falls back into his chaotic, unpredictable self.

"Negasonic Teenage Warhead will lose all her respect for me!" Wade whines dramatically, throwing his hands up in mock despair. In the background, Peter mumbles dryly, "Did she ever respect you to begin with?" His comment lingers in the air, but Wade, thankfully, doesn’t seem to catch it. Instead, he’s too absorbed in his own absurd thoughts, muttering something about Ripley from Alien 3 and Silver Balls... whatever the hell that means.

To James' surprise, despite the heavy, hard-to-digest stories shared earlier, the evening takes an unexpectedly lighthearted and enjoyable turn. It becomes increasingly clear just how remarkable Tony truly is. The people around him—those he calls friends, those he calls family—respect and love him without reservation. In that moment, James realizes that there is no doubt in his mind: everyone in this room, everyone in Tony’s circle, would go to any lengths to support him, to see him happy, and to stand by him through whatever life throws their way. The sense of loyalty and care that surrounds Tony is almost palpable...

As the night continues, James finds himself warming to the idea of being part of this tight-knit, loving family. It fills him with a deep sense of hope. The thought of being with Tony and being a part of something bigger than himself brings a wave of contentment and peace. Even though Tony isn’t here with him tonight, it no longer weighs as heavily on him as it did before, and he’s actually able to enjoy the rest of the evening, feeling a sense of connection and belonging.

 

Later in the evening, after saying his goodbyes to the others, James retreats to his room and slips into something more comfortable. He finds himself sitting on his bed, staring with a grim expression at his new phone, which he holds in his hands. Tony had told him he could text him, but what if he only offered out of politeness? James doesn’t want to disturb the man or bother him in any way...

He wrestles with himself—the urge to hear Tony’s voice is strong, stronger than his ability to think rationally. His fingers hover over the screen, frozen in time, his mind blank like a clean sheet of paper. He just can’t seem to find the right words to start a conversation.

"Fuck, why is this shit so damn hard?" he curses under his breath, frustrated with himself and his inability to take action.

As he sits there, his phone still locked in a death stare, James finds himself lost in thought, replaying the events of the past few days over and over in his mind. And then, finally, he makes a decision.

Tony might have his eyes on someone else right now, but the Inventor isn’t making any real moves in that direction. And that means James still has a chance. He just has to prove that he is the better choice—the only choice. He has to do whatever it takes to make Tony fall for him, completely and hopelessly.

“Easier said than done,” he mutters under his breath, but his resolve only strengthens. From this moment on, there will be no more subtle hints, no more hesitation. He’ll make sure Tony knows exactly where he stands. Even the most oblivious man on earth won’t be able to ignore his intentions.

He’s utterly lost in his thoughts when, out of nowhere, his phone erupts at full volume with AC/DC’s Thunderstruck, the sudden blast of sound nearly giving him a heart attack. He jolts so hard he almost hurls the damn thing against the nearest wall.

His pulse is still racing when he glances at the screen—Tony’s name is flashing.

James freezes for a split second, his heart stuttering in his chest before his body catches up. He fumbles with the phone, nearly dropping it in his haste to answer. Bringing it to his ear, he swallows, trying to steady himself.

Almost cautiously, he says, "Tony?"

"Hey, Snowflake." The voice on the other end is quiet—almost too quiet—forcing James to strain to hear him properly. "Miss me already?" Tony asks innocently, and James can practically hear the smirk in his voice.

James hesitates for only a moment before reminding himself of the promise he made to himself earlier—no more holding back. Summoning as much confidence as he can manage, he says, "Yeah. Actually, I do. I miss your smile. And I’m mad at myself for not giving you a proper goodbye." He tries to keep his tone light, maybe even a little playful, but his heart is pounding against his ribs, betraying just how much this moment means to him.

Silence.

Not just a pause—a long silence. A suspiciously long silence. There’s no background noise filtering through the line, no rustling, no shifting—just nothing. For a split second, James wonders if the call has dropped. But then he hears it—the faintest hitch of breath on the other end.

Tony still doesn’t say a word.

James’ fingers tighten around his phone, and his voice drops into something softer, hesitant. "Tony? You still there?"

A few more seconds of nothing—then, finally, Tony’s voice returns, even softer than before. "Ah. Yeah... Yeah, I’m here. Sorry. That... that answer just caught me off guard." His tone is uncertain, almost like he’s struggling with himself, forcing the words out.

James smiles. "You asked, and I answered honestly." Then, deciding to keep the conversation going, he asks, "How was your flight? What are you up to now?" He shifts, making himself more comfortable on his bed, listening intently for Tony’s response.

A pause. Then, he hears the sound of fabric rustling. "The flight was boring as hell. Pepper spent most of it going over our schedule, reminding me where we need to be and who we need to suck up to. The usual corporate bullshit that comes with these god-awful business trips." Tony groans, clearly unimpressed.

"And to answer your second question, I’m in bed. It’s barely morning here, but I’m dead tired. Figured I’d catch a nap before I have to go and charm a bunch of rich assholes." He huffs in frustration, and James can practically see him rolling his eyes.

"Sounds exhausting," He says, his voice tinged with sympathy.

"Please. Save your pity," Tony snorts, attempting to sound offended. "You have no idea what kind of hell this is. The second business partner we met after I arrived? Spent the entire meeting trying to set me up with his daughter. I swear, at one point, he was already planning our wedding while shoving an entire album of her pictures in my face. And when he realized I wasn’t interested in her, guess what? Turns out he also has a son. He figured maybe I’d be more inclined in that direction."

Tony sighs, deeply exasperated. "Honestly? Not a bad strategy. I mean, I’ll admit—his son was objectively better-looking than his daughter. But that doesn’t change the fact that none of this should’ve been a topic of discussion in a goddamn business meeting."

James grins, biting back a laugh. "Was he better-looking than me?"

He enjoys the way Tony immediately stumbles over his response.

"What? Of course not! You’re— I mean— Wait. Why the hell are you even asking that?!"

"Isn’t it obvious? I’m asking because I need to know if he’s serious competition." James’ voice drops lower, smoother—intentionally suggestive. He doesn’t wait for a response before steering the conversation elsewhere, giving Tony no room to deflect. "So… you’re in bed, huh? Me too. Funny enough, I was just about to text you, but you beat me to it."

"Great minds think alike," Tony chuckles, and James wishes—God, he wishes—the Inventor were here. Wishes, he could feel the way Tony’s laughter would vibrate against his skin if he were lying beside him, head resting on James’ bare chest.

"You could say that," James murmurs, then remembers Tony had mentioned being tired. "Hey, if I’m keeping you up too long, just say the word. I don’t want you dozing off in the middle of a meeting because of me."

Silence stretches between them. Too long, too heavy. Then, eventually, Tony exhales, the sound quiet but weighted. "Truth is... I couldn’t sleep. That’s why I called. I just wanted to hear... Forget it. It’s not important."

James' brow furrows. "What?" He presses, curiosity sparking. "Come on. Tell me."

Tony groans, almost embarrassed. "It’s just—your voice. For some reason, it... it helps to calm me down. And I thought maybe— Ugh, fuck. I want to die."

James hears the frustration in Tony’s voice but doesn’t tease him for it. Instead, he just starts talking—about his day, about waking up to an empty space beside him and realizing Tony had already left. He tells him how FRIDAY helped to set up his new phone and how his heart swelled with happiness when Carol officially welcomed him to the team. He talks about the evening spent with Wade and the others, the unexpected camaraderie, the laughter, the stories shared over the course of the night, and how, for the first time in a long while, he felt like he truly belonged.

He also takes every opportunity to flirt with Tony—completely unabashed, letting every comment drip with playful intent. He especially leans into it when he brings up Wade’s remarks about Tony’s dick size, making sure to sound as intrigued and suggestive as possible. At first, Tony fires back with his usual wit, but the longer James keeps it up, the quieter he gets, his usual confidence shaken.

It’s fun—backing Tony into a corner like this, hearing how flustered he gets, how his usual smoothness starts to crack. And James would be lying if he said this little game he’s playing isn’t turning him on immensely.

It goes on like this for a while—James talking, or rather, shamelessly flirting, while Tony listens. At some point, the Inventor stops protesting, stops commenting on James’ behavior, and his responses grow shorter. James assumes Tony is just tired, probably on the verge of falling asleep, and doesn’t think much of it—until, eventually, Tony quietly says, "So... I gather your day wasn’t all that bad. That's great." His voice sounds off, almost strained, but James doesn't comment on it.

"Mhm, my day wasn’t bad at all, but it could definitely be better..." He says thoughtfully, and then adds, "For example, you could be lying next to me right now, falling asleep on my chest while I thread my fingers through your hair... I fuckin' love touching your hair- touching you." The statement is bold, and James knows it could backfire. But if he wants the Inventor to catch the hint, he has to be this direct. Anything less, and it’ll just fall flat, leaving him stuck and getting nowhere.

There's a long silence, and then, a sharp inhale from Tony's end of the line.

James hears more rustling, and despite the fact that Tony remains silent, he can still pick up the sound of the Inventor taking a deep, controlled breath—then suddenly stopping, as if holding it in. And then, barely audible, a muffled, sinfully quiet moan slips past Tony’s lips. At least, James thinks that's what he heard. His cock certainly believes it was a moan, because it twitches with interest, responding eagerly to the possibility.

For a moment, James is frozen, completely overwhelmed. Did he really hear that? Or is his mind playing cruel tricks on him? He’s been shamelessly flirting with the man this entire call. Maybe it’s all just gone to his head, but…

What if he didn’t imagine it? What if Tony is doing exactly what James thinks he's doing? The mere thought that Tony is lying in bed right now, touching himself while listening to James' voice, sends a shiver down his spine. His entire body reacts, blood surging south, making him unbearably hard in his shorts.

"Tony?" James’ voice is rough, deliberately seductive as he slips his aching cock free, precum already beading at the tip, making it twitch in anticipation.

He listens intently, waiting for Tony’s response, his pulse hammering in his ears. With his free hand, he yanks his shirt over his head to avoid making too much of a mess. Once it’s gone, he wraps his fingers around his shaft, dragging his thumb over the sensitive head in slow, teasing circles that send sparks of pleasure crackling through his veins.

"Mhm... sorry, I—I'm still here. I just... got a little distracted." The Inventor's voice sounds devastatingly wrecked—husky, breathless, needy. But it’s also slightly muffled, as if he’s pressing his face into a pillow to repress another lewd moan.

James swallows hard, his grip tightening instinctively around his cock as he strokes himself once, twice—biting his lip to keep from groaning aloud. "Is that so?" he says, voice strained, before adding shamelessly, "Right now, your full attention should be on me, don’t you think?" He hears the hitch in Tony’s breath—the way it stutters and then quickens, growing uneven.

Fuck. This is actually happening, isn’t it?

James strokes himself harder, faster, imagining Tony doing the same. Imagining him sprawled out on his bed, flushed and needy, fucking his own fist while desperately trying to muffle his moans. Is he naked? Or has he, like James, been stripping down piece by piece as the call dragged on—his arousal too demanding to ignore?

James pictures Tony’s fingers skimming over his chest, teasing his nipples until they’re stiff and overly sensitive... 

Maybe Tony isn’t just playing with his nipples. Maybe— fuck. The mere thought makes James’ cock throb violently, aching for more. Shit. He wants Tony here, now. His cock craves the real deal, not just his own damn hand. He wants to sink into Tony’s tight, desperate hole—wants to fuck him hard enough that Tony screams his name, begs for him to come deep inside.

And once he’s spilled inside him, once he’s filled him up, he’d flip him over—let Tony ride him, take him even deeper, let the man bounce on his cock until neither of them can breathe, until they’re completely spent and wrecked.

Ah, he’d take the man all night if he could—push him over the edge again and again, wring orgasm after orgasm from him until he’s left with nothing but dry, shuddering release. Until James has fucked him so thoroughly, so many times, that there’s nothing left for his cock to give. That image alone is enough to drive him wild. He would give anything to see it.

"Tony…" he breathes, making no effort to hide the raw desire in his voice. "Cat got your tongue?" he teases, just as a filthy moan escapes him, too strong to hold back.

He knows he’s close. His strokes become rougher, more frantic. His hips jerk up to meet his own hand, chasing the friction, the pleasure. His grip is almost painful now, but it only makes it better. He loves it.

"I—mhm… No, it's just that- that I—" Tony’s voice cuts through the haze, strained and wrecked. "Sorry, I - I have to go— I have to- ah—"

The line suddenly cuts off—Tony ended the call. James should be pissed about that, but—fuck. He doesn’t need to hear more to know.

Tony came.

The way his voice broke at the end, the ragged hitch in his breath, the way he barely managed to get those last words out—it all tells James exactly what happened on the other end of the call. And fuck, the thought of it—of Tony falling apart to the sound of his voice, trying and failing to keep quiet, coming undone just like James wanted—sends another hot pulse of arousal straight to his gut.

The realization pushes James over the edge. His orgasm crashes through him, white-hot and shattering, and he comes hard, thick ropes of cum spilling across his chest as he gasps for air, pleasure leaving him lightheaded.

Minutes pass. But James isn’t done. Not even close.

Still dazed, still high off the pleasure coursing through him, he fists his now oversensitive cock again—stroking rough and fast, chasing that high. It doesn’t take long. Within minutes, he’s coming again, this orgasm somehow even more intense than the last, leaving him trembling in the aftermath.

He’s glad he took his shirt off beforehand—otherwise, it would be completely ruined, soaked with his release.

For a while, he just lies there, basking in the afterglow, feeling like he’s floating. His body is warm, relaxed, and thrumming with satisfaction. He’s in an impossibly good mood. Never in his wildest dreams did he think the night would end like this. With a deep breath, he finally pulls himself up, heading for the shower. As the hot water cascades over his skin, he lets his thoughts linger, planning his next moves. 

One thing is certain—after tonight, he will keep flirting with the Inventor. Shamelessly. Relentlessly.

Until Tony has no choice but to completely fall for him.

 

Notes:

Just one more major plot point to resolve, and then they’ll finally do the thing! You know what I’m talking about. ;)

Yes.

They'll fuck.

Chapter 39

Tony's POV

 

Oh, hell no. He did it. He messed up. 

A sharp, sinking feeling clenches in his gut, ice-cold and immediate. His mind is already racing, playing back the moment in perfect, excruciating detail. Fuck. How can one person be so damn stupid on their own? There’s got to be some kind of award for this level of stupidity.

Tony sighs and leans against the wall of his shower, watching as the water flows evenly down his body before disappearing down the drain. He still can't believe he masturbated to James' voice like some damn horny teenager. God, a small part of him still desperately hopes the man didn't notice, but the bigger, more rational part knows James isn't so oblivious that he missed what happened just a few minutes ago.

And, as if that wasn't bad enough, the man somehow managed to reignite that tiny spark of hope Tony had consciously tried to extinguish. 

Tony had tried to set a boundary between them. Sure, he didn't exactly succeed, but hey, at least he tried, right? Then, out of nowhere, just when he thought he'd finally gotten his feelings for James under control, the man bulldozes over all his hard work and starts flirting with him openly. For fuck's sake, he even had the guts to talk about Tony's damn dick like he was talking about the fucking weather!

Why the hell did Wade even bring up Tony's dick?! How the hell did that conversation even happen?!

Tony tried so hard not to react, tried to suppress his feelings and his desires as best as he could. Then James, just out of nowhere, starts flirting with him shamelessly, his deep, gravelly voice sending an electric shock straight to Tony’s core, practically begging for attention in his pants.

The man caught Tony completely off guard. How the hell is a guy supposed to stay strong and stick to his principles in that situation?

And shit, Tony has principles when it comes to James—quite a few, actually. The most important one? Not making a move on the man. And what does Tony? Right! He fuckin' masturbates while he's on the phone with the man.

The Inventor groans, cursing his own stupidity. His mind races, desperately searching for a logical explanation he can offer James when he gets back home. He’d love to just avoid James completely and hide out in his workshop forever, but he knows that’s not an option.

The other choice is to completely ignore what happened, never speak of it again, and just hope that James does the same. The problem, though, is that Tony, even distracted and consumed by his erection, noticed how James' voice changed at the end of their call. He didn’t miss the deep, needy moan that escaped James' lips just before Tony hung up and came hard.

The Inventor is sure of it—James had been touching himself too.

To Tony’s voice.

Tony’s breath hitches at the memory, his entire body tensing as his mind replays every last detail with agonizing clarity. The way James’ breath had stuttered, rough and uneven. The way his voice had cracked, thick with desperation, just before everything spiraled.

And that moan—that noise.

God, it’s burned into Tony’s brain, playing on an endless loop, that sends a sharp jolt of heat straight through him. It coils deep in his stomach until it settles lower, right where he really doesn’t need it. His cock twitches in response, betraying just how much James is getting to him.

Tony exhales sharply, tilting his head back under the spray of water, willing himself to think of anything else. He reaches for the faucet with a sigh, twisting the knob until the warmth is gone, replaced by an icy shock that crashes against his skin.

"Get a grip, Tony..." he mutters to himself, irritated as he steps out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist.

He heads back to his bed, flopping face-first into the pillows. He sighs once more, trying to gather his thoughts. He's got so many questions, questions he just can’t find the answers to. He wonders if he’s really a genius, because right now, he feels pretty damn stupid.

 

"Why would he even do that to begin with? I thought he had someone..." Tony whispers into the pillow, trying to find that missing piece of the puzzle that would finally help him solve the enigma that is James Barnes.

James has someone he’s interested in. At least, that’s what he mentioned in the car...

Tony remembers how his mood had plummeted the moment those words had left James’ mouth. The idea that James' eyes were on someone else—someone who wasn’t Tony—immediately ruined his evening. He remembers, vividly, how he had wanted to throw himself out of the moving car, despite telling himself that this was for the best. That this was exactly what he had wanted. But in the end, none of that reasoning could suppress the burning jealousy that had clawed its way up from the depths of his soul.

He knows, in that moment, he should’ve been happy for James. Should’ve smiled, should’ve offered words of encouragement, should’ve been the kind of friend James deserved. But how the hell was he supposed to do that when his heart was cracking open inside his chest? When every carefully constructed wall he had built around his feelings had crumbled the second James spoke those words?

Because Tony’s not just fond of James. No, he’s head over fucking heels, completely, hopelessly, irreversibly in love with the man. And as if that wasn’t cruel enough, James had gone on to twist the knife even deeper.

"I think I found someone but... they already love someone else..." Tony should have felt sympathy. Should have hurt for James, the way any good friend would. But the moment those words left James’ lips, something dark and selfish had curled in Tony’s chest. A horrible, ugly sense of relief.

Relief that James’ feelings weren’t returned. Relief that the man wouldn’t be taken from Tony by someone else.

And now?

Now, that feeling makes him sick. He hates himself for it. "How pathetic..." he mutters under his breath, grabbing a pillow and squeezing it in frustration, as if he could crush the shame right out of himself.

He’d lied to James to keep his distance. To draw a line that would prevent Tony from accidentally revealing his true feelings. To stop James from realizing that he’s the one Tony has hopelessly fallen for—that it’s him Tony can’t stop looking at, no matter how hard he tries. He thought if he twisted the truth, he could convince himself he had his feelings for James under control, but he clearly overestimated his own abilities. And when James confessed that there was someone else who had his interest, Tony’s world shattered.

Because in that moment, Tony realized that what he’d wanted most—what he’d been denying himself—was now completely out of reach.

He wants James. As much as he’s ever wanted anyone. Even Pepper, his beautiful, loving Pepper, never stirred these deep, raw emotions inside Tony. And that scares him.

Because he loves James in a way that could destroy him. If he lost the man, or if James decided to turn his back on him, Tony wouldn’t recover from it. It would destroy him. That’s why he’s been desperately trying to keep James at arm’s length. And why, under no circumstances should he ever act on his feelings.

 

And honestly? James deserves better than Tony.

Someone who can give him stability, a future. Someone who will grow old with him, share lazy Sunday mornings and quiet, stolen kisses. Someone who will wake him with the warmth of soft lips against his own, not with frantic screams and choked sobs in the dead of night.

Tony knows what he is. Knows what he's become. Knows that he isn't. He’s a mess—broken beyond repair, unfit for love, unfit for James. There was a time, maybe, when he could have given James everything he deserves. A time when he could have imagined himself making James happy...

But not anymore.

Not when he… when he isn’t even really human anymore. At least, not in the ways that matter.

His body is different now, changed in ways that make him inhuman. He doesn’t age. He doesn’t break the way people are supposed to- he exists outside the natural order. And the idea of starting something with James, of finally allowing himself to have what he’s always wanted—only to watch James fade away? Watching time steal the light from his eyes, the strength from his body, until one day, he’s just gone...

It’s unbearable. Tony can’t do that. He won’t do that.

So, no matter how much he wants James—no matter how much his soul aches for him—he knows he can't have him.

 

Allowing himself to have this would be selfish.

 

“Loki and that damn golden apple…” Tony mutters under his breath, dragging a hand down his face, frustration coiling tight in his chest. The bitterness in his own voice makes him wince. He has no right to be ungrateful. None at all.

Because the truth is, if it weren’t for Loki, he wouldn’t be here. He’d be dead. Gone. Snuffed out like a flickering candle in the wind, and yet, here he is—alive, breathing, feeling, and having the fucking audacity to complain.

Loki had risked everything to steal that damn golden apple. Not for himself. But for Tony. So that the Inventor could live. Because Extremis alone hadn’t been enough. It could never have been enough. Not after what Rogers did to him. Not after his body had been left broken beyond what even science could mend.

God, Loki hadn’t just saved his life. He’d saved Tony from himself. From the spiraling darkness and despair that had consumed him whole. He’d pulled Tony back when no one else could, not asking for anything in return. The Trickster had given him a second chance. A chance at a life that meant something. A world where he was someone worth knowing. Worth loving. He should be grateful. He is grateful.

But…

But everything comes with a price. Even kindness. And the price of this gift, the one Loki had given him out of kindness, is one that makes his blood run cold, his stomach twist in sickening dread. Because while he may have been granted life, he’s been cursed with something else- time.

Too much time. More than he'll ever need.

He’ll stay the same, untouched by age, while everyone around him, everyone he’s come to care for, will wither and fade away. One by one, he’ll have to watch them go. Some will last years, others decades. But eventually, every single one of them will slip through his fingers, leaving him behind. And he’ll remain. 

The weight of that knowledge crushes him. It makes his breath stutter, his hands shake, and tears burn behind his eyes. How is he supposed to start something new when he already knows the ending? How is he supposed to love someone when all love does is lead to heartbreak? And yet…

The phone call with James had set something in him ablaze—something long buried, long denied.

Hope. A hope he shouldn’t have. A hope that’s reckless, selfish, and dangerous. Because James had been listening—his voice had done something to Tony, pulled something raw and wanting to the surface. And James had touched himself to the sound of Tony’s voice...

That has to mean something, right? The voice in his head whispers, desperate, yearning. But another voice—colder, crueler—slides in right after. Maybe James had just been caught in the moment, maybe it wasn’t about Tony at all. Maybe he’d been imagining someone else, and Tony, in his pathetic neediness, had simply been a catalyst, a tool to awaken desires that had nothing to do with him.

But what if it did? What if, for once, Tony let himself believe? What if, just this once… he let himself hope?

 

Fuck. He wishes he could turn his brain off. Just stop thinking. Drown out the endless cycle of what-ifs and second guesses. God, that would make everything so much easier. But his mind is a cruel thing, a machine that never stops turning, never stops analyzing and doubting. It feeds on every insecurity, every buried fear, chewing them up and spitting them back out just to spite him.

Maybe he needs a distraction. Or a slap to the face. Or someone to tell him to get his shit together.

Someone like—

His fingers are already moving before the thought is even fully formed, unlocking his phone, scrolling with restless urgency until he finds the name he’s looking for. His heart pounds as he presses the call button, the ringing stretching unbearably long as he anxiously waits for the person on the other end to pick up.

"Kid, I hope you know how fucking late it is." A rough, groggy voice filters through the speaker, laced with irritation but softened by familiarity. Tony feels something in his chest unclench, his lips twitching despite himself.

"If this is some damn prank call," the voice continues, words slurred slightly with sleep, "you better be prepared for me to spank your ass the next time I see you."

Tony barely holds in a laugh, grinning widely. "Aren’t I a little too old for a spanking?"

"Shut it. In my eyes, you’ll always be a naughty little brat," the voice huffs, but there’s amusement there, the kind only years of exasperated affection can bring. Then, a pause. A shift in tone, subtle but undeniable. "What’s on your mind, kid? You didn't just call to get on my nerves, did you?"

The humor drains from Tony’s expression, his fingers tightening around the phone. He swallows hard. Hesitates. He could lie. Deflect. But the weight in his chest is too much tonight. Too fucking much.

"I’d rather tell you in person," he admits, his voice quieter than he meant it to be.

Another pause. This one lasts longer. Then, a sigh, followed by the rustling of sheets. "Where are you?"

Tony lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. "Tokyo."

"For business, I assume?" The voice on the other end sighs, a mix of resignation and something softer—something that sounds dangerously close to concern. "Fine. Call me when you're on your way. You can pick us up at the airport, and then you can tell me everything that's bothering you."

There's a brief pause, the kind that carries weight. Then, the voice drops lower, firmer. "And, kid? Don't even think about lying to me. Or keeping shit to yourself. You know my old ass will find out."

Tony exhales, tension ebbing just enough for his shoulders to relax. "Yeah," he murmurs, his voice softer now, less guarded. "I know. Greet John from me, will you?"

"He's awake and listening—woke up from his own damn snores," the voice on the other end chuckles, warm and full of affection. "He says to ask who he should punch for you. Give him a name, and he’ll do it."

Tony huffs out a surprised chuckle, shaking his head even though no one can see him. "Nah," he says, a small smile tugging at his lips. "It’s fine. He doesn’t need to punch anyone for me—though I appreciate the offer." From the other end of the line, there’s a muffled grumble, followed by what sounds suspiciously like a dramatic sigh. Something about a wasted opportunity.

Tony can’t help it—he laughs. Really laughs. A deep, genuine sound that shakes some of the weight from his chest. God, how the hell did he get so lucky? How can someone like him be blessed with people who actually care? 

It’s strange, really.

But knowing that someone out there cares enough to call him out, to push past the walls he’s spent years fortifying, makes it a little easier to breathe.

Plus, it definitely helps that an elderly man is more than willing to throw hands for him.

 

Notes:

Oops, I completely forgot to leave a note—silly me.

So, any guesses on who Tony is talking to? You’ll find out soon in the next episode of 'Two Idiots and their obvious communication problems'.

But seriously—take a shot! Who do you think it is? The clues should be enough to piece it together.

P.S. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the next chapters will be a bit delayed. Yesterday, on a whim, I decided to revisit and refine the earlier chapters to make them read more smoothly. I appreciate your patience—sorry for the wait! Kudos to all of you. ❤️

Chapter 40

Tony's POV

 

By some miracle, Pepper had somehow managed to organize Tony’s schedule so efficiently that he wrapped up all his important meetings in record time. Because of that, he was able to cut his business trip short by an entire day—something that hadn’t been in the original plan.

After sending a brief message to let them know he was on his way, he headed straight to Haneda Airport, where he would board his flight to Kahului Airport.

For the entire flight, guilt gnawed at him. Part of it was because Pepper had worked herself to the bone to make his early departure possible. But what weighed on him even more—so much more—was that he had all but ignored James' messages for the rest of the trip.

After their phone call, James had spent nearly the entire week trying to reach him, calling again and again, refusing to let silence be the answer. But Tony? He hadn’t answered once. Not a single damn time.

Every time his phone lit up with James’ name, his stomach twisted—shame curdling into something sharp and unbearable. He let every call go to voicemail, fingers hovering over the screen, paralyzed by the weight of what he knew James wanted: a conversation about what had happened between them. And Tony wasn’t ready for that.

Instead, he hid behind short, dismissive texts. Half-hearted excuses that felt hollow even to his own ears. A pathetic attempt to create distance. A weak shield against the inevitable. But every time he hit send, the weight in his chest only grew heavier.

Sorry, I'm in a meeting.

Sorry, too tired to talk.

Can't talk right now - talking to you later.

Lies. All of them.

He had hoped—prayed—that James would take the hint and stop reaching out. But James didn’t.

Instead, his texts kept coming. At first, they were long, detailed messages about his day—small stories, little moments—always ending with a question, an attempt to pull Tony into conversation. But when the Inventor kept responding with nothing more than clipped, one-word answers, James’ messages started shrinking.

Then, two days ago, they had dwindled down to the bare minimum. A simple Good morning. And at the end of the day, a quiet, Sleep well, Tony.

The Inventor hadn’t even responded to those. He couldn’t. Every unread message sat in his inbox like a weight pressing against his chest. The guilt suffocating him.

Fuck. He's such an idiot...

James has done nothing wrong, and yet Tony is treating him like absolute shit. Too much of a coward to pull his head out of his own ass and just talk to him—like a grown man.

God. He can’t wait to get this over with. Maybe once he says everything out loud, this crushing guilt will finally let him breathe again.

 

When he lands at Kahului Airport a few hours later, he groans as soon as he checks the time. He is too early. Annoyed with himself, he sends off a quick text:

I’m in the VIP lounge. I’ll wait here.

And so he does—restless, impatient, and hating every second of his own self-inflicted misery. He sits slouched on a couch near a large window, absently staring out at his private jet on the tarmac but not really seeing it. For about half an hour, he stews in his thoughts—until, out of nowhere, someone flicks the back of his head.

“Ow,” he mutters, rubbing the spot as he turns, scowling. “What the—?” But the irritation vanishes the second he sees who is standing behind him. His frown melts into something wide and genuine—a bright, delighted grin.

“Aunt Becca!” He is on his feet in an instant, rounding the couch to pull the tiny, elderly woman into a hug. She is grinning right back at him, dressed in an oversized Hawaiian shirt that drowns her small frame.

“Tony, you little brat! It’s good to see you,” Becca laughs, squeezing him so tight it is a miracle he doesn’t hear something crack. Then, pulling back, she looks him up and down with a disapproving squint. “Though I am disappointed,” she huffs, “that you still refuse to shave off that ridiculous goatee.”

“Becca, darling,” a voice chuckles from behind her, “how many times does he have to tell you? That goatee is his trademark. He wouldn't be the same without it. You really should stop giving the poor boy grief about it.”

Tony looks up to see a man standing there, arms burdened with two very overstuffed suitcases. “John!” He grins, reaching out to clap the man on the back before pulling him into a quick hug. Then, with a knowing smirk, he gestures toward the suitcases. “Let me guess—she went on another shopping spree?”

“If only you knew.” John sighs dramatically. “Three of her bags got lost in transit. They’re being sent separately.”

Becca scoffs, crossing her arms. “Obviously, I bought souvenirs! What, am I not supposed to bring back anything? It’s not like I travel the world every day! I need keepsakes! And junk for the kids and grandkids!” She lifts her chin, adding matter-of-factly, “Besides, I’m almost ninety. It won’t be long before I kick the bucket. At least this way, our ungrateful grandchildren and great-grandchildren will have something of mine cluttering up their houses.”

Tony barks a laugh. “Oh, Aunt Becca, come on. You’re gonna outlive all of us. Everybody knows Death is way too scared of one of your legendary ass-kickings to even think about coming for you.”

John grins and nods in agreement. "For once, the kid’s got a point." With that, he leans in and plants a kiss on Becca’s cheek. She grumbles under her breath, but her eyes betray her—she’s secretly pleased, doing her best to pretend otherwise.

"Here’s the plan, kid," Becca announces, tone leaving no room for argument. "You grab one of John’s suitcases, we haul our asses onto your jet, and get the hell out of here. Once we're in the air, John can take a well-deserved nap—God knows he needs it at his age. Meanwhile, you’re gonna fix us both something to eat, because judging by the way you look, you haven’t been eating properly again. And while you’re at it, you can tell me exactly what’s been weighing on your heart."

She punctuates her words with a firm press of her index finger against Tony’s chest, her authoritative grin making it clear—she isn’t asking.

"And just like that, she’s taken the reins," John and Tony say in unison. The moment they realize it, they burst into laughter.

The Inventor grabs both of John’s suitcases—and immediately regrets it. "Damn, these aren’t just stuffed to the brim; they’re heavy as hell! What the hell did she buy? Am I broke now? I gave her one of my credit cards!" he jokes as he and John follow Becca, who expertly ignores his comment.

"Don’t worry, kid," John reassures him. "She barely touched your card, even though you told her she could buy whatever she wanted. You know how she is—she hates spending money she didn’t earn herself."

"Hmm..." Tony hums, his gaze distant, lost in thought. "She and Aunt Peggy practically raised me. They gave up so much for me… sacrificed more than I ever deserved. I just—" he exhales, voice tightening, "I just want to give something back before she’s gone too. Before it happens all over again, like it did with Peggy."

"Don’t talk nonsense, kid." Becca abruptly stops, turns around, and yanks Tony down by his tie, forcing him to meet her gaze. Her voice is firm, but her eyes are filled with something softer—something unshakable.

"The fact that you’re here, that you’ve grown into such a fine, kind-hearted man—that’s more than enough for me. It’s all the thanks I’ll ever need. And I know Peggy felt the same way. You’ll always be like one of my own kids. That’s why I went and bought you a bunch of useless crap, too. So, whenever you see that junk collecting dust around your apartment, you’ll be reminded of me."

With that, she lets go, spins on her heel, and continues walking—only to suddenly halt again, an almost comical look of realization crossing her face. "Come to think of it… I have no idea where we’re actually supposed to go."

The three of them break into laughter, and once they finally catch their breath, Tony leads them to his private jet, arranges a meal just as Becca demanded, and soon enough, they’re on their way home.

 

After forcing Tony to finish his entire meal—lecturing him the whole time that he's far too thin and needs to take better care of himself—Becca finally gives him the chance to pour his heart out.

"You remember that I mentioned James and the others were pardoned and allowed to return to the States to support the Avengers, right?" Tony says, unable to hide the disgusted expression that crosses his face as Steve’s name lingers unspoken on his lips.

"Yeah, you wanted to arrange a meeting between James and me after John and I finished our trip. Did something happen to James? Is that what’s bothering you? Is that why you called me? Please tell me everything is okay!" Becca says, her voice filled with concern as she leans forward anxiously. Her hands are clasped together as if in prayer, and Tony can see tears welling up in her eyes.

"Oh, no, no! Fuck no! Don’t worry! James is fine! I—I already told him I’d be bringing you to the compound—while he was having a full-blown panic attack. You know, PTSD and all that shit. But, uh, who am I telling, right? You've been through it with John. Anyway, he’s beyond excited to see you! I mean, literally broke down in tears because he thought you’d been dead for years. I swear, with the war and the time that’s passed, he probably never thought you'd live this long. I mean, everyone else he’s known—except for, you know, the idiot whose name we don’t speak—well, they’re all dead when you really think about it, and—"

Becca abruptly places both hands over Tony’s mouth, silencing his endless stream of words. "Kid, you're rambling again," she says, leaning back into her seat once she’s sure he’s finally shut up. The weight lifting off her shoulders is almost palpable. A small part of her wants to smack Tony upside the head for mentioning her age so carelessly, but she decides to let it slide. Instead, she urges the Inventor to get straight to the point and tell her exactly what she needs to know.

Tony takes a deep breath and starts from the beginning. He tells her about James arriving at the compound, their first interactions, and even their confrontation with Steve and Clint. He leaves nothing out—not even the details Becca might not want to hear. Like how James struggles to live with himself, the crushing guilt he carries, the way he punishes himself, and, of course, everything that has happened between him and Tony. And when he says everything, he truly means it. The late-night conversations filled with pain, their growing friendship, and even the more… physical moments that have occurred between them, moments that have changed everything.

Becca listens closely, her eyes never leaving Tony as he speaks. She interrupts only when she needs clarification, asking for more details here and there, her voice gentle but firm. Each time Steve’s name is mentioned, a faint grimace crosses her face, but she doesn’t say anything. Most of the time, her expression is one of quiet understanding—she’s absorbing everything, feeling it with him.

When Tony reaches a particularly painful part of the story, his voice faltering as the weight of his words seems to overwhelm him, Becca doesn’t hesitate. She reaches across the space between them, her hand warm and steady as she gently takes his. It’s a simple gesture, but it’s enough to ground him, to remind him that he’s not alone in this moment. He can feel the comfort of her touch, the calm in the pressure of her fingers against his, and it gives him the strength to keep going.

Eventually, after what feels like an eternity, Tony finally reaches the part of the story that has been gnawing at him, the part that’s been keeping him awake at night, driving him to the edge of his sanity.  

He takes a shaky breath, his chest tightening, as he begins to tell her about the phone call with James—still vivid in his mind. The conversation had torn through him, leaving him questioning everything. The vulnerability, the confusion, the raw uncertainty—it all comes rushing back, overwhelming him with each word he speaks.

When he finishes, he looks at Becca, waiting for some kind of reaction, some sign that she understands the gravity of what he’s just said. But to his shock, she barely reacts. She just sits there, staring at him, her expression unreadable. It’s as if she’s processing everything in silence, trying to make sense of what she’s just heard. Then, after a long pause, she blinks, her gaze hardening slightly, but there’s no judgment in it—only disbelief.  

Tony’s stomach churns under her stare. She’s not reacting the way he expected. The silence between them feels thick, heavy, and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s just revealed something far more complicated than he ever intended.

"Jesus, Kid. Are you serious?" she asks, squeezing his hand.

"I know, I know. It’s a lot. And you’re probably shocked because, well, I… kind of have feelings for your brother. And—wow, saying that out loud somehow makes it even worse, but—"

"Tony, that’s not what shocks me," Becca says, her voice steady but a little exasperated. "Honestly, I don’t care about that. How do people put it? The heart wants what it wants." She shrugs, the movement casual, but her eyes are sharp. "What actually shocks me is how unbelievably complicated you're making this whole thing. To me, it’s pretty simple: just tell him how you feel."

Tony’s frustration spills over, his hands running through his hair as he leans back in his seat, a mix of helplessness and anxiety clear on his face. "But, Becca, you don’t understand!" he protests, his voice tight. "I’m in no position to be in a relationship. I’d have to watch James slowly wither away, and I’d stay the same. It’s not fair to him. And besides, who’s to say he even feels the same way? Hell, I don’t even know if he’s into men!" The words rush out in a jumble, each one heavier than the last, and he slumps, as though the weight of them is too much to bear.

Becca reaches out and grabs his hands, stopping him from tugging at his hair. "Tony, look at me, sweetheart," she says gently, and he obeys.

"The fact that you’re worried about not aging is understandable," Becca continues, her tone soft but firm. "But, kid, you’re a genius. I’d be shocked if you couldn’t find a solution for that. And if worst comes to worst, I’m sure Loki or Thor could get you another one of those damn apples." She smirks, her eyes glinting with a knowing humor. "Especially Thor—he acts like a desperate puppy around you ever since he choked you. If you asked him, he’d probably steal a thousand of them for you."

Tony blinks at her, caught off guard by her nonchalant attitude, but before he can say anything, Becca leans back in her seat, a wide grin spreading across her face. "As for your other concern…" she starts, her voice light but full of mischief. The grin on her face says she’s about to drop something that will completely shift the mood. Tony braces himself.

"James might have a reputation as a ladies’ man, but I can tell you right now—my big brother is definitely not interested in women. I may have been young, but even I noticed the way he used to eye the boy down the street. James’ whole thing with women… well, you have to understand, things were different back then."

"But—" Tony begins, but Becca immediately cuts him off, her tone firm.

"No buts, brat," she says, her eyes narrowing slightly, the playful edge gone from her voice. "Everything you’ve told me so far screams that James is just as into you as you are into him. And if you ask me, all your 'ifs' and 'buts' are complete nonsense." She shakes her head, exasperated but still calm. "The real issue here," Becca says with a frustrated shake of her head, "is that two idiots are too damn proud and stubborn to just sit down and communicate like grown-ups—even though they both clearly want the same thing."

Tony opens his mouth to protest, but the certainty in her voice leaves him momentarily speechless. Becca’s words hang in the air, as if she’s cut through all the confusion he’s been carrying for so long with one simple truth.

"But… but what if you're wrong, Becca?" Tony's voice trembles as he grips the arms of his seat, his knuckles turning white. "What if this is all just a huge misunderstanding? What if I end up destroying my friendship with James for nothing? I couldn't bear to lose him. I know it sounds ridiculous, but…" He exhales sharply, struggling to find the words. "The few days I've spent with him… it feels like I've known him forever. I don't want to lose that."

Becca watches him intently, her gaze steady, unwavering. She takes her time, choosing her next words carefully before she finally speaks. "Darling, as much as we wish it were different, life isn’t simple. More often than not, it throws obstacles in our way rather than offering us any shortcuts," she says, her voice soft but resolute. "Things don’t always go the way we want them to. And sometimes, well… sometimes, we get hurt. We take the hits. And in those moments, it’s easy to convince ourselves that the safest route is to take no risks at all—to keep everything predictable and safe. Because if we never take a chance, we can never be disappointed."

She pauses, her fingers threading through her hair, almost absently, as she gathers her thoughts. Then, she continues, her voice shifting to something more intimate, more personal. "But tell me, Tony…" Her eyes soften, but there's a certain steel behind her words. "If someone never takes risks—if they simply accept whatever life throws their way without ever fighting back—can they really say they've lived? Can they honestly say they’ve embraced each moment to the fullest?"

Her words hang in the air, heavy with meaning. "I’ve known you, Tony. Since you were just a little brat, causing all sorts of trouble," she adds with a smile, as if the memory is a cherished one. "And if there’s one thing I know for sure, it’s this: The Anthony Edward Stark I know has never backed down from a challenge. He’s never been the kind of man to simply let life run over him without a fight."

Her words sink into him slowly, each one reverberating through his chest like a stone dropped into still water. Something stirs in Tony—something fragile and long buried, locked away behind walls he’s spent years constructing. Just as he feels the first fragile crack forming, Becca’s voice cuts through the suffocating silence. Soft, barely audible, but the warmth in her words is enough to unravel him completely.

"It’s okay to cry, Tony."

Her hand finds his once more, her fingers curling gently around his, offering him a lifeline, a tether to something safe. The moment her touch registers, the dam inside him finally gives way. Tears spill freely down his cheeks, hot and relentless, as his body shakes with the force of silent sobs, each one a release, a surrender to the emotions he’s buried for far too long.

"It’s okay, everything’s gonna be alright, sweetheart. Let it out," Becca murmurs, her voice soft and steady, her arms wrapping around him like a shield. She pulls him close, letting him break in the way he needs to, offering him comfort without asking for anything in return.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, Tony allows himself to be vulnerable. 

 

After a while, Becca’s chuckle fills the air, light and freeing, cutting through the heaviness that had settled around them. Her chuckle seems to lift Tony from the depths of his emotion, easing the tightness in his chest just a little.

"You know, JARVIS once told me you said to him that sometimes, you’ve gotta run before you can walk," she says, her voice teasing but full of affection. "Well, darling… I think it’s about time you take your own advice." She pauses for a beat, her smile widening. "And preferably, before we land." Her words carry an unspoken challenge, one that calls Tony to rise, to take the leap he’s been too afraid to make. She punctuates her speech with a warm, comforting laugh, her hand giving his back a firm, reassuring pat.

Then, as if to lighten the mood even further, she adds, her eyes twinkling with playful mischief, "And if worst comes to worst—if James breaks your heart—I swear, I’ll personally kick his ass for you. Brother or not, no one messes with my little boy and gets away with it." Her declaration is half-joking, half-serious, but the sincerity in her voice is undeniable. And it’s enough to make Tony laugh, the sound bubbling up from deep within him—lighter, freer than he’s felt in days. For a moment, he lets himself believe that, maybe, just maybe, things will be alright.

Their shared laughter rings through the space, bright and unapologetic, and it's loud enough to stir John from his slumber. Slowly, he blinks his eyes open, rubbing them groggily as he tries to process the scene before him. He frowns in confusion, pushing himself upright as he mutters, "Okay… what exactly did I miss?"

Becca waves a hand dismissively in his direction, her expression dramatically exaggerated, a clear sign that she’s enjoying the moment. "Oh, you know, just a heart-to-heart, a few life-changing revelations, and a full-scale emotional breakdown. No big deal."

Her words are delivered with a flair that could rival any seasoned actress. She turns to Tony with a dramatic sigh, her eyes twinkling with affectionate exasperation. "Men, am I right? Can’t live with them, can’t live without them."

Becca's words catch Tony off guard, and he bursts into laughter again, the sound full and unrestrained. The tears that spill now are no longer born of sadness but of something else entirely—relief, catharsis, joy.

John, now fully awake, rolls his eyes but eventually settles in beside them, and the conversation drifts to lighter topics. Becca and John share stories of their travels, the trinkets they picked up for their family, while Tony regales them with tales of FRIDAY, JARVIS, and, of course, his ever-misbehaving bots.

And though doubt still lingers at the edges of his thoughts, a quiet, persistent reminder of the uncertainty he feels about James, one truth stands out with unshakable clarity—talking to Becca has eased a burden he hadn’t even realized he was carrying. The weight that had been pressing down on him, suffocating him in silence, has lifted, and for the first time in a long while, he feels like he can breathe.

There is an overwhelming sense of gratitude swelling in his chest. Becca’s words, her unwavering support, and her no-nonsense approach to life have given him something he didn’t know he needed—release, comfort, and a reminder that he doesn’t have to face everything alone.

 

 

James POV

 

 

James doesn’t know how to feel. Sad? Deeply hurt? No. Desperate and pathetic seem more fitting. All week, he has been trying to reach Tony, but the man has made it painfully clear—if not outright stated—that he has no intention of speaking to him.

If Tony's phone isn’t turned off, he simply declines James’ calls, offering brief, dismissive excuses each time. The first couple of times, James gave him the benefit of the doubt, but eventually, even he couldn't ignore the obvious.

Maybe he just doesn’t want to talk on the phone because of what happened, James had told himself. But now, looking back, that thought seems embarrassingly naïve.

Even the man's messages—when Tony bothered to respond at all—came back in short, final words that killed any chance of conversation before it could even begin. Each cold reply left James with a growing sense of helplessness, like he was grasping at something that kept slipping through his fingers.

But the worst part—the thing that shattered his last shred of hope—was when Tony stopped responding altogether. That silence hit harder than any rejection could. It made one thing brutally clear: whatever James had been hoping for, whatever foolish dreams he had allowed himself to entertain, they weren’t going to happen. And he needed to realize that. Fast.

Tony’s behavior is a rejection in itself—silent but deafening. A way of shutting James down without having to say the words aloud. And fuck, James had known his reckless attempt at showing Tony he was interested might backfire, but he hadn't expected it to hurt like this.

The pain is unbearable, like shards of glass tearing through him, slicing him open from the inside out. "Fuck..." he whispers, voice breaking, as he buries his head in his knees.

Since Tony stopped answering him, James has retreated into his apartment, refusing to leave. Not even when the others tried to drag him out of his misery. He even snapped at FRIDAY like the asshole he is when she gently suggested he step outside. He had coldly instructed her to leave him the fuck alone unless there was an emergency or something truly important going on he couldn't ignore.

He knows he should apologize—not just to FRIDAY, but to the others too. But right now? He just doesn’t have it in him. James had truly believed—for just a moment—that maybe Tony was interested, that maybe what happened between them had been the first step toward something more than friendship. But fuck, he had been so, so wrong.

 

All he can do now is control the damage. Apologize. Beg if he has to. Anything to at least salvage their friendship. Because James knows—down to his very bones—that if Tony refuses even that, it will break him.

The thought alone makes James feel like he’s suffocating. He can almost see it now—Tony offering him a polite but meaningless smile, his voice carrying no warmth, just the same detached professionalism he uses with people he has no real connection with. The idea of being reduced to that, to just another face in the man's life, is unbearable.

A sharp, aching pressure builds in his chest, and for a terrifying second, he wonders if this is what heartbreak truly feels like. Not the dramatic kind from movies, not the kind you can drink away. No. This is different. This is slow, corrosive, a wound that refuses to close. The thought sends an ice-cold shiver down James’ spine, as if Death itself is brushing a skeletal hand across his back, reaching for his very soul.

He exhales shakily, curling in on himself even more, his gaze landing on his new phone—now lying in pieces across the floor. He doesn’t even remember throwing it, only the blind frustration, the overwhelming pain, and then the sharp crack as it smashed against the wall, leaving a dent in the concrete.

"Loki definitely won’t fix my fuckin' wall a second time..." he mutters, voice hoarse, as a sob catches in his throat.

He bites down hard on his lip until he tastes blood, a desperate attempt to pull himself together. Because if he breaks down now—if he lets himself sob like some heartbroken teenager—he’ll lose the last shred of self-respect he has left. And no, thank you. He would like to hold on to at least that much.

James doesn’t know how long he sits there, drowning in silence. Time has lost all meaning—minutes, maybe hours, slipping by as he remains curled in on himself, his thoughts looping endlessly, a spiral of regret, frustration, and something dangerously close to despair. Eventually, FRIDAY’s voice cuts through the quiet—hesitant, distant, so detached that it nearly brings fresh tears to his eyes.

"Mr. Stark requests your presence in the lobby, James," she says, her voice eerily calm, almost detached. "He is accompanied by someone he would like you to meet. That is all. If you’ll excuse me."

And just like that, she is gone. No chance to respond. No opening to apologize for snapping at her earlier. Just silence settling back over the room, but it feels different now—charged, suffocating. James stares at the empty space in front of him, his brain struggling to process the words. Tony is back.

His hands clench into fists, nails digging into his palms. His chest tightens, breath coming too fast, too shallow. The idea of standing in front of Tony again, pretending like he hasn’t spent the last week unraveling over his silence, makes his stomach churn.

But he has no choice, does he? With a slow, unsteady breath, James forces himself to move. It’s harder than it should be—his body feels leaden, his legs tremble as he pushes himself up, and for a brief, pathetic second, he thinks he might collapse back down.

His gaze flickers toward the ruined phone on the floor, a bitter reminder of his own inability to cope. "Get it together," he mutters under his breath and turns toward the door.

 

He struggles for a long time before finally gathering the courage to call the elevator. The ride down feels excruciatingly slow, and when the chime announces that he has reached the lobby, his stomach twists painfully, as if he has swallowed a handful of stones. A wave of nausea washes over him.

As the doors slide open, Tony is standing right outside, and James' breath catches in his throat. His heart nearly drops to his feet. The Inventor stares at him with wide eyes, looking utterly unprepared for his arrival—which confuses James, considering Tony was the one who asked him to come here in the first place.

But what shocks James even more is how terrible Tony looks. How does he even describe it? The man has dark circles under his eyes that rival the Grand Canyon, his complexion is ghostly pale, and exhaustion clings to him like a second skin. Yet, there’s something else in his expression, something James can’t quite decipher. Panic? No. Fear, maybe? But that’s not quite right either… Uncertainty?

Neither of them speaks for a long moment. Then, James notices it—Tony unconsciously takes two steps back, subtly creating a boundary between them. He bites down hard on his lip, resisting the urge to reach for the Inventor. He knows that would be the worst thing he could do right now.

"Hey..." Tony finally says, as if attempting to break the unbearable silence. James flinches at the sound. "Good to see you. Man, that business trip was brutal. I bet you were wondering why I barely reached out. You know how it is—well, actually, maybe you don’t. Have you ever been on a business trip? Let me tell you, awful. Zero stars. Would not recommend it. Honestly, I should—"

"It’s fine," James interrupts, cutting off Tony’s rambling. He can’t bring himself to meet Tony’s gaze as he says it. "Really. You don’t have to explain yourself." His voice is strained, and he fights to keep his composure.

Of course, Tony isn’t interested in him—not in that way. God, how foolish was he to even think there was a chance? He completely ruined everything by being reckless, by flirting so blatantly. He screwed it all up. Fuck. Fuck! He’s such an idiot.

"Ah, I—what exactly do you mean?" Tony asks hesitantly, and now James is certain—what he sees on Tony’s face is panic.

James gestures between the two of them as if to say, You know what I mean. The thing between us. The thing I ruined.

"I get it," he says, forcing the words out. "Don’t worry. Let’s just not talk about it and pretend nothing happened. It was a mistake. A huge mistake. I see that now. It’s better if we forget all of it."

If James had looked at Tony at that moment, he would have seen the devastation written across the man's face, the way his eyes darkened with something dangerously close to heartbreak. He would have noticed the way Tony’s fingers twitch like he wants to reach out but doesn’t dare. He would have seen the way Tony's eyes briefly filled with a pain so profound, so utterly raw, as if every last bit of hope had been wrenched away from him.

"Ah. Y-Yeah. That’s probably for the best," The Inventor says eventually. His voice is cold now, distant—like the way he sounds when he talks to Steve. Detached. Emotionless. Almost inhumanly distant.

"Then I guess there’s nothing left to say," James mutters. Tony doesn’t look at him as he brushes past, stepping into the elevator.

"Seems like it," the Inventor replies, his voice sharp, clipped. "If you'll excuse me, I have things to take care of." He pauses, then adds, "The person waiting for you is in the lobby—I hope you like the surprise. You can tell me about it lat-" He cuts himself off abruptly, his jaw tightening as if he nearly let something slip.

"I mean… Have fun, James. Really."

The elevator doors close, sealing Tony away, and with him, any chance for James to take back what he said. He stands there, frozen, staring at the empty space where Tony had been just moments ago, and it takes a while before he finally forces himself toward the lobby. If he’s honest, he would rather walk out of the building and never come back. The thought of Tony being distant again, of their friendship never returning to what it once was, makes his chest feel like an endless, hollow pit.

 

When he rounds the corner and steps into the lobby, he spots a petite elderly woman and a man dressed identically to her, engaged in animated conversation. The woman’s silver-gray hair—so light it’s nearly white—falls in soft waves just above her shoulders. James watches as she sweeps it back with her fingers, gathering it into a loose bun. She turns to her companion. "Do I look okay?" she asks.

The man beside her beams. "You look as stunning as the day I first met you." The woman scoffs, shoving him lightly. "You’re a terrible liar," she teases, but her laughter is warm, affectionate.

James stops breathing. He’s seen their photos countless times—the ones Tony gave him. He has studied them so often that there is no room for doubt. The two people sitting in the lobby are unmistakably Becca and her husband, John. Heart hammering, he steps forward, moving toward them slowly. He stops just short of them, his voice barely more than a whisper.

"Becca?"

The woman turns toward him. For a second, her laughter fades. Shock flashes across her features—then recognition. And then, pure, overwhelming joy. Before James can react, she is on her feet, rushing toward him. She throws her arms around him, holding him in a fierce embrace—clutching him as if she never intends to let go.

"James! Oh my God! I can’t believe it!" she exclaims, her voice trembling as tears of joy spill down her cheeks. "Tony said you had barely aged, but look at you," she says, releasing him only to take his face between her hands, studying him as if trying to etch every detail into memory. "You look exactly the same as I remember—well, except for that mess of hair. Are you going through a rebellious phase? Unbelievable. This is almost as bad as Tony’s atrocious goatee. If Mother could see you like this, she would be beside herself."

She shakes her head, her tone teasing but affectionate, completely oblivious to how overwhelmed James is at the moment.

"Becca, darling, you’re not even letting James get a word in," a voice interrupts, warm and amused. The man beside her extends a hand toward James and nods. "It’s good to finally meet you, James. I’m John, Becca’s husband. I’ve heard so much about you."

James wants to respond—really, he does—but his throat tightens, strangling the words before they can form. His gaze flicks from Becca to John and back again, his mind struggling to catch up with reality. And then his legs give out. With a sharp, gasping sob, he collapses to his knees. His fingers clutch Becca’s arms, and oh God—she feels so fragile beneath his hands. His sweet, little sister has grown so old. So terribly old. And he has missed it all. Decades of her life, lost to time, slipping through his fingers like sand. So much is gone, irretrievable.

But she is here.

She is breathing, laughing. She seems happy. That has to be enough. It must be. Tears stream down his face as he clasps Becca’s hands in his own, bringing them to his forehead, his grip desperate. "I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I’m so—so sorry. I was a fool. I shouldn't have left. Please, forgive me," he pleads, his voice broken, his body shaking with sobs he cannot control.

Becca gently pulls her hands free and cups his face, tilting it upward so he has no choice but to look at her. "Oh, James," she murmurs, her voice soft with unshaken affection. "There is nothing to forgive—not you. Never you."

She smiles then, her expression warm and full of mischief. "Now, get your ass off the ground. I’m far too old to be kneeling down just to hug you."

James lets out a breathless, teary laugh and does as she says, though his movements are sluggish, as if the weight of everything still clings to him. The moment he’s on his feet, Becca wraps her arms around him again, tighter this time, like she’s afraid he might disappear if she lets go.

For a second, James just stands there, stiff and unsteady, before something inside him cracks, and he leans into her embrace.

Becca pulls back just enough to look at him, her expression soft but determined. "We have a lot to talk about," she says, voice gentle but firm. Then, with a glance around, she adds, "But maybe not here." James blinks, following her gaze, only now realizing that they’re still in the middle of the lobby. A public space. And here he is, red-eyed, face tear-streaked, looking like an absolute mess.

Anyone could walk in. Anyone could see. Embarrassment flares hot in his chest, and he nods in agreement.

"The brat insisted we stay a few days to make up for lost time," Becca explains, rolling her eyes fondly. "So, why don’t we head to our apartment and talk there?"

James frowns. "Your apartment?"

Becca laughs. "Not really ours. Tony is letting us stay at Bruce’s place while we’re here." She nods toward her suitcases and adds with an air of expectation, "Be a dear, would you?"

Without waiting for an answer, she turns and walks off, not bothering to check if James and John are following. James glances at John, who only chuckles and shrugs, as if to say he’s long since given up trying to keep up with Becca’s antics.

When they finally arrive at Banner’s apartment, James can’t shake the strange feeling that's settling in his chest. Banner's place is barren, impersonal, and eerily similar to Tony’s apartment, as if no one truly lives there. A sense of unease coils in his stomach, tightening as his gaze lands on the couch. It looks almost identical to Tony’s.

Memories flood his mind unbidden, dragging him back to another night, another room, another conversation. The familiarity is suffocating.

"James? You okay? Don’t tell me you’ve taken root." Becca’s voice pulls him out of it, distant at first, then clearer. He blinks, realizing he’s been standing still, staring at the couch like it had done something to personally offend him.

"Ah, sorry—I was just lost in thought," he mutters, shaking himself out of it. He grabs the suitcases and moves toward the bedroom, seizing the task like a lifeline—grateful for something, anything, to focus on.

When he returns, he’s surprised to find Becca already settled on the couch, two drinks placed neatly on the table before her. Meanwhile, John stands near the door, shrugging into his jacket.

"I’ll leave you two to catch up," John announces, his tone light, but there’s an unspoken understanding in his gaze. James opens his mouth to protest, but John is already continuing, his voice laced with amusement. "I’ll go check in on Tony’s boy and Wade, drop off their gifts. Peter’s going to be over the moon when he sees what we brought him from Prague."

With that, he’s gone, leaving James and Becca alone. He exhales slowly, raking a hand through his hair. Where does he even begin?

"It’s good to see you."

"You look great for your age."

"Your husband seems like a good person."

Every option sounds ridiculous, painfully inadequate for the moment. Nothing he can say feels like enough—not after so many years, not after everything that’s been lost and left unsaid. Becca watches him, patient but expectant, like she knows he’s struggling but is willing to wait for him to find the words.

James swallows hard, his throat tight. "I—" He stops, exhales again, shakes his head. God, why is this so hard?

"You look so much like Father," Becca says suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice is wistful, a quiet observation rather than a statement. "But your eyes—you have Mother’s eyes. You wear your thoughts so plainly in them, even under all that scruffy hair." She chuckles, taking a sip of water. "The brat wasn’t wrong when he said you have that lost puppy look. At first, I thought he was exaggerating just to mess with me, but damn it, I’ll be damned if he wasn’t spot on."

James stares at her, caught somewhere between disbelief and amusement. "I… I don’t remember you being so—" He hesitates, searching for the right words. "So blunt."

Becca grins, her eyes gleaming with the kind of wisdom only a lifetime of struggle can bring. "James, I’m nearly ninety. I’ve lived through war, post-war struggle, and I’ve fought for everything I have—everything. I grew up poor, worked my ass off just to survive, and I’ll tell you this—if there’s one thing life has taught me, it’s that sugarcoating gets you nowhere. You take charge, speak the truth—no matter how hard—and never let anyone tell you how to live."

Her words hit with an unexpected force, settling over him like the calm at the center of a storm—steady, unwavering, and rooted in the hard-earned lessons of her past.

"I wouldn’t have made it this far if I’d stayed the sweet girl you remember," Becca says with a wry grin. "Then again, Peggy probably had a hand in corrupting me. God, could that woman swear." She laughs, the sound rich with nostalgia and a touch of mischief, her eyes twinkling as she remembers the woman who’d shaped so much of her strength.

"But enough about me," Becca says, her voice softening as she reaches forward, her weathered hand finding James' with surprising gentleness. "I want to hear about you, James. All of it. Tell me about yourself."

James hesitates, the words stuck in his throat, unsure where to begin. His mind races. Becca must sense the struggle because she gently squeezes his hand, her touch steady and grounding. She meets his eyes with a soft, knowing smile, one that holds an unspoken promise. "Take your time," she says, her voice calm, like a balm for the chaos in his mind. "Gather your thoughts. Then, start from the beginning. We have all the time in the world. I’m here. And I’m not going anywhere."

Her simple reassurance is all James needs. Slowly, the walls begin to crumble, and the memories pour out—raw, unfiltered. The truth of everything that happened after he disappeared all those years ago.

 

He does his best to recount everything as honestly and accurately as possible, yet he deliberately holds back when it comes to the darkest chapters of his life. He tells Becca that HYDRA tortured and tormented him, but he only brushes past the subject, refusing to go into detail. He admits to her that under HYDRA's control, he committed horrific acts, that he has blood on his hands— That he killed Tony’s parents—but again, he spares her from the grimmest details.

He tells her how he nearly killed Tony, about Siberia, and his time in Wakanda. And how much he hates himself. And for the first time, as the words leave his lips, he realizes something staggering—there hasn’t been a single bright moment in the past half-century that he could use to soften his story, nothing to lessen the relentless horror of it all.

The first real positive experience he had after HYDRA, after being trapped in the nightmare of the Winter Soldier for so long, was because of Tony. In fact, everything that’s good in his life now is somehow tied to the Inventor. His new arm—the one that doesn't feel like a weapon anymore, but a part of him. His growing friendship with Shuri, who saw him as more than just a weapon. Meeting FRIDAY, JARVIS, and the bots, who became his unexpected family. The bonds he’s formed with his teammates, people who now see him as a man, not a monster. And, perhaps most importantly, the fact that he was able to hold Becca in his arms again after all this time—Tony made that possible too.

Becca listens intently, giving James her full attention. She asks questions, but sometimes she has to stop, overwhelmed by the weight of his story. At one point, she breaks down in tears and wraps her arms around him, but never—not even once—does she judge him. No matter how horrifying his confessions become, the only emotions ever visible on her face are understanding and sorrow.

Then, at some point, James begins to talk about his time at the compound—more specifically, his time with Tony—and the shift in his mood is undeniable.

Becca’s lips curl into a soft smile as James tells her about the night he and Tony wandered through the garden, the quiet evening that marked the turning point in their relationship—when something that had once felt fragile and uncertain began to take root as true friendship. He recounts the bank heist, the gut-wrenching moment when he thought Tony had died, and the weight of grief that had consumed him. The memory of it still leaves a bitter taste, but he smiles despite himself as he recalls their countless failed attempts to finish a movie together—those little moments that somehow felt more real than anything else.

He also tells her about Steve—how the man has changed over time, how disillusioned and cruel he’s become, and how badly he’s treated Tony. As the words leave his mouth, Becca’s smile fades, her brow furrowing in clear displeasure. James feels a familiar tightness in his chest as he watches her reaction, and he understands it all too well. He’s felt the same anger, the same disbelief, every time he’s witnessed the way Steve has dismissed Tony.

After giving her a moment to process everything, James takes a slow breath and continues. He tells Becca about Sue and Reed—about the party, the unexpected encounters, and the tangled emotions he hadn’t quite anticipated. Then, as if compelled by some need to fully confess, he adds the part he hadn’t really planned to share.

He tells her about the kiss he shared with Tony—how it started as a joke to mess with Johnny, a playful moment that somehow turned into something deeper than he ever expected. He admits, with surprising honesty, how much he enjoyed kissing the Inventor, the way it felt right in a way he couldn’t explain.

And, of course—of course—he tells her about everything that followed. About Clint and Steve, the complicated web of tension that had been building, and how Tony had fallen asleep in his arms, so vulnerable and peaceful. He talks about the raw, undeniable feelings he’s developed for the man—feelings that, as he’s come to realize, will never be returned.

Finally, he confesses the unbelievably stupid mistake he made during his last phone call with the Inventor. And as he speaks, the weight of it all crashes over him. The regret. The guilt. The aching, suffocating certainty that he’s ruined one of the best things in his life. 

“Do you understand, Becca? I ruined it. I had the one good thing that’s happened to me in years, and I threw it away because I couldn’t keep it in my pants…” He buries his face in his hands, fingers digging into his scalp as if he could claw the regret right out of himself.

Becca is silent for a long time, and the quiet nearly drives James insane. But then, finally, she lets out a dramatic sigh and mutters, "Unbelievable. This is absolutely unbelievable.”

James looks up at her, startled by the irritation in her voice. She stares at him, exasperated.

“How can two people be this blind?” she exclaims. “I thought the brat was bad, but oh my God, you’re just as bad! No one—no one—can tell me you two weren’t meant to find each other. It’s impossible to ignore!” She throws her hands in the air as if calling upon the universe for patience.

She lets out another dramatic sigh, shaking her head. “You had the one good thing that’s happened to you in years, and you threw it away because you couldn’t keep it in your pants? That’s what you think happened?” She scoffs. “James, sweetheart, you’re an idiot.”

Becca’s voice is sharp, cutting through James’ self-loathing like a blade. She jabs a finger at him, eyes blazing with determination. “You,” she snaps, “are going to sit there and listen to me. And when I’m done spelling out what should already be painfully obvious, you’re going to get your sorry ass up, go find Tony, and fix your goddamn mess like an adult!”

James blinks, completely caught off guard by her sudden outburst. He barely manages a weak nod—but that’s okay because she doesn’t give him a chance to recover anyway.

“The brat loves you! More than anything! He returns your feelings, for fuck’s sake! The only reason you two keep dancing around each other is because neither of you knows how to fucking communicate! Anyone with half a brain could see that your feelings are more than mutual. Honestly, it’s downright pathetic that a woman my age has to step in and spell it out for you two.”

“But—” James leans forward, disbelief flickering in his eyes. He searches her face for any sign of deceit, for a shred of doubt, but he finds nothing. “But how can you be so sure? How do you know he loves me back?” he asks, his voice trembling with the fragile hope that’s threatening to burst free inside him.

Becca exhales sharply, her frustration palpable. “Because he told me,” she says, as if it should be obvious. “On the flight here, James. He told me himself. He loves you. But he’s terrified of admitting it because…” She trails off, hesitation clouding her expression, as if the next part is harder to share.

“Because what, Becca?” James’ voice cracks, a desperate edge creeping in. “Tell me. Please. If it’s something I can change, I’ll do whatever it takes to make him give me a chance.”

Becca hesitates for a moment longer, her gaze shifting between James and the floor, but eventually, she lets out a soft sigh and starts to speak. She tells him everything—the conversation with Tony, his feelings, his fears. The words spill out, unburdening the tension that’s been building between them.  

“And there’s more,” she continues, her tone softer now. “He’s afraid, James. Afraid of watching the person he loves slip away. That’s just who he is. It’s easier for him to run from his feelings than to face them.” She leans back against the couch, her voice thick with empathy, as she offers him a sad smile. “You know, you two are more alike than you realize. It’s no wonder you fell for each other.”

She falls silent for a moment, letting the weight of her words settle. Then, with a casualness that contrasts sharply with the gravity of their conversation, she adds, “Oh, by the way, he’s holed up in his workshop right now.” Becca inspects her nails as though it’s just another piece of trivial information, completely unconcerned with the impact it could have.

James is on his feet in an instant, rushing for the door, his urgency palpable. Becca watches him go, a small smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. Just before he disappears, he glances over his shoulder, his voice soft but sincere. “Thank you, Becca,” he says, and without another word, dashes out, leaving the door swinging wide open behind him.

Becca chuckles, shaking her head in amusement. “Oh, dear. Those two really do share a single brain cell.” She looks up toward the ceiling, speaking with mock seriousness. “FRIDAY, sweetheart, don’t you dare warn Tony that James is coming. You hear me?”

“Oh, please,” FRIDAY replies, the amusement clear in her voice. “The thought never even crossed my mind. I’ve been waiting fuckin' days for these two idiots to figure it out.”

Becca smirks at the AI’s sass before delivering a playful scolding. “Hey, young lady, I’m the only one allowed to swear around here. Get some years under your belt, then we’ll talk.” She burst into laughter, the sound rich with warmth. FRIDAY’s laughter rings in tandem, a perfect echo to Becca’s joy.

 

A thousand thoughts race through James' mind as he storms toward the elevator, jabbing the button for Tony’s workshop with more force than necessary. His pulse is hammering, his breathing ragged, but one thought dominates all the others—Tony loves him. Tony wants him just as much as James wants the Inventor.

The elevator ride feels endless, tension coiling tight in his chest. When he reaches his destination, the doors to Tony’s workshop open automatically without him having to lift a finger. A heartfelt “Thank you” escapes him, directed at FRIDAY, who, despite the fact that she should be angry with him, has clearly cleared the way for him to reach the Inventor.

James storms into the workshop and immediately spots the man, crouched over his work at one of the back benches. Tony looks up, startled, as the noise James creates pulls him out of his thoughts.

"James?" The Inventor says, incredulous, rising from his chair and stepping back a few paces. "What are you—"

He doesn’t let the man finish. James crosses the distance in a heartbeat, fists curling into Tony’s shirt, yanking him forward before slamming him against the nearest wall.

"James! What the hell is going—" Tony starts, but before he can finish, James crashes their mouths together, kissing him like a drowning man gasping for air. It’s wild, bruising, all tongue and teeth—unrestrained, uncontrolled. Tony shudders, his fingers tightening around James’ shoulders as if the only thing keeping him upright is the sheer force of James' need.

Breaking the kiss feels like agony, but James does it just long enough to whisper against Tony’s lips, voice hoarse and shaking. "I love you, Tony."

The man's breath stutters. His pupils are blown wide, lips red and glistening from the kiss. He stares at James as if he’s just been hit by a freight train, mouth opening, closing—searching for words that won’t come.

"I love you," James repeats, his voice thick with emotion as he presses his lips against Tony’s once more. This kiss is slower, deeper, a contrast to the desperate urgency of the first, but no less consuming. "I love everything about you—your wit, your smile, your kindness. You are beautiful, kind, and perfect."

He doesn’t stop to let Tony argue, doesn’t give him room to pull away. He presses open-mouthed kisses along his jaw, down his throat, teeth grazing over sensitive skin. "I want you, Tony. I need you. I have never wanted anyone more." His voice is rough, edged with something close to desperation. "Please. Tell me Becca’s right. Tell me you want this too."

"Fuck, what did Becca-" Tony gasps, his whole body tensing under James’ touch. His hands clutch at James’ shoulders like he’s barely holding himself together. "Of course I want you. I—" His breath shudders when James’ tongue flicks against his pulse. "God, I’ve never felt like this before, but—"

James growls, frustration bleeding into every syllable as his fingers dig into Tony’s hips. "No. Don’t do that. Don’t fucking overthink this."

The Inventor shakes his head, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps. "But I thought— I thought you already had someone you—” His words die in his throat as James drags his teeth over his pulse, a shudder wrecking through him.

"I was talking about you, Tony. It’s been you the entire time." James’ voice is rough, edged with something dangerous—something irrevocable. The Inventor trembles at the words, his grip tightening on James like he’s afraid to let go. A broken sound escapes him, half a sob, half a curse. "James—still—I—" His breath stutters. "I can’t. I can’t bear the thought of watching you wither away. We can’t—”

"We’ll find a way." James doesn’t hesitate. He pulls Tony closer, refusing to let him slip away. "And if it comes to it, I’ll steal one of those damn golden apples myself." Tony freezes. His whole body locks up like he’s been hit. He swallows hard, eyes dark with something like devastation. Then, barely above a whisper, he chokes out, "But that would mean—"

"That I'm willing to spend a thousand years by your side? Yeah. That’s exactly what it fucking means." James’ voice is unwavering, absolute. "You think I’m scared of that? Jesus, Tony. I don’t care how complicated this is. I don’t care what it takes. I’m not walking away just because it would be easier. I want you- Nothing else matters."

The Inventor makes a wrecked, broken sound, something between a gasp and a sob, and then he’s on James, crushing their mouths together, the kiss raw and devastating. It’s not careful. It’s not slow. It’s teeth and tongues, hands tangling in hair, nails dragging against skin like he’s trying to mark James, like he’s afraid he’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on tight enough.

"I love you." The words spill from Tony’s lips between kisses, ragged and breathless, like they’re being ripped out of him. "I love you. Fuck—I love you so much."

James groans into Tony’s mouth, his hands gripping the man's waist hard- fingers digging into the soft flesh- demanding.

"You're fucking beautiful. Every part of you, even your scars," James murmurs between kisses, his voice thick with emotion. Each time he speaks, Tony shudders, a soft moan slipping free. "God, I've imagined this so many times," James confesses, his breath warm against Tony’s lips.

The Inventor's eyes darken with intrigue, his fingers tightening in James’ shirt. "Oh, really?" he teases, voice laced with anticipation. "What else have you imagined?"

James grins, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "You'll find out soon enough," he promises, letting his hand slip beneath Tony's shirt. His fingers trail over warm skin before finding a nipple, teasing it with deliberate strokes.

Tony’s reaction is exquisite—a sharp gasp, a desperate moan, his body arching into James’ touch. His breath comes in heavy, uneven pants as he grips James harder. "Bedroom," he commands, voice thick with need. "Now."

"Yours or mine?" James asks, nibbling on the man's ear.

"M- Mine, fuck, I want you so bad." Tony moans.

They continue in a frenzy, their hands never pausing, until they finally reach Tony’s apartment. The door slams shut behind them with a loud crash, signaling the start of a night neither of them will ever forget.

 

Notes:

Okay, before anyone tries to rip my head off, let me explain: The next chapter is already finished. I’ll post it tomorrow. And yes, the next chapter will be pure smut (but you can skip it if you don't want to read it - you won't miss anything important).

Now, about Becca: I’ve spent a long time thinking about how to portray her. Becca barely appears in the comics, and when she does, it’s either as an alternate, younger version of herself, or just in brief moments. In the comics, James visits her with Natasha in a care home for Alzheimer’s patients and only talks to her for a short while. It’s too brief to get a real sense of her character, so I’ve decided to write her similarly to how my great-grandmother was.

My great-grandmother lived through World War II as a Jewish woman and managed to survive, worked hard her entire life, and never let anyone tell her what to do. Yet, she was always incredibly kind and helpful. Even into her old age (she lived to 98), she stayed fit and could hug us with a strength that could only be compared to an anaconda squeezing its prey.

I liked the idea that Becca’s character could be similar to my great-grandmother’s, so I decided to just go with it and use her as my inspiration for Becca.

Chapter 41

Notes:

!!WARNING!!

The following chapter is basically just porn without plot- you can easily skip it if you don't want to read it. Honestly? Ever since I finished that chapter, I've been ashamed of myself - so, yeah- I warned you.

 

Tony and James crash into the bedroom, their lips locked in a fierce, passionate kiss. They stumble, and James shoves Tony onto the bed, the Inventor’s back hitting the mattress with a satisfying thud. Without hesitation, James yanks off his shirt, revealing his chiseled torso, slick with a sheen of sweat. Tony follows suit, tearing off his own shirt and tossing it aside.

James wastes no time. He climbs onto the bed, pinning Tony beneath him, his mouth claiming the Inventor’s in a hungry, demanding kiss. He takes his time exploring, memorizing the taste of him. His knee presses against Tony’s cock, feeling just how hard the man is—just as hard as he is. Soft moans escape Tony’s lips whenever James pauses to let them breathe.

"Fuck, James," Tony groans, his eyes dark with pure, unfiltered lust. He unconsciously grinds against James’ thigh, seeking more friction.

James pulls back slightly, his lips curling into a wicked smile. "Like that?" he murmurs, his voice a low growl as he leans in, his breath hot against Tony’s ear. "You want me to suck that hard cock of yours until you come all over my face?" he adds, then crashes his lips against Tony’s in a bruising kiss. The Inventor moans into it, his body writhing beneath James, hands roaming over his back, pulling him impossibly closer.

As James finally breaks away, he starts trailing hot, wet kisses down Tony’s neck, sucking and biting at the sensitive skin, marking him. The Invnetor gasps, hips bucking upward, desperate for more.

"You drive me fucking crazy, you know that?" James growls against the man's skin, teeth grazing his collarbone.

"I want you, James. I need you," He pants, his voice thick with desire. His skin burns where James touches him, each brush of his lips leaving trails of fire in its wake. James lowers his mouth to Tony’s chest, his tongue flicking over a hardened nipple before latching on, teasing and sucking. The Inventor gasps, his body arching into the touch, torn between surrendering to the pleasure and trying to hold himself together.

James takes his time, savoring every reaction—how Tony trembles beneath him, how his breath stutters when teeth graze over sensitive skin. When he’s satisfied, he drags his tongue lower, tasting the salt of Tony’s skin, feeling the way his muscles tense beneath each lingering kiss.

"Fuck, yes," Tony moans, his hips jerking upward in anticipation as James unbuttons the man's pants, freeing his rock-hard cock, already glistening with pre-cum. Without hesitation, he takes the man's length into his mouth, his tongue swirling around the sensitive head. Tony cries out, his back arching off the bed as James works him over with expert precision—licking, sucking, teasing—driving him wild with need. His moans fill the room, his body trembling beneath James as he chases his release.

The Inventor revels in the sensation of James' tongue expertly working his cock, taking its full length into his mouth with each deep thrust. To heighten his pleasure, James uses one hand to gently knead Tony's balls, occasionally applying firm pressure that sends waves of ecstasy through him, making Tony push even deeper into James' throat.

James' other hand moves to his own pants, unzipping them and freeing his rock-hard cock, aching with the need to bury himself inside Tony. He begins stroking himself in rhythm with the bobbing of his head, feeling Tony’s hips moving faster as the man's cock keeps throbbing intensely in his mouth.

"James, fuck, that's—ah! Mhm... so good, faster, I—I—Ahn—" Tony gasps, his hips bucking, pushing deeper into James’ mouth.

James feels Tony throb against his tongue, his movements growing frantic, desperate as his cock pulses, pre-cum flooding his mouth. He knows Tony is seconds from release—but James has other plans.

He pauses his enthusiastic blowjob, pulling away from Tony's throbbing cock with a wet pop. He stands up, towering over Tony, and without hesitation, he grips Tony’s shoulders and flips him onto his stomach, revealing a breathtaking view of his ass. James swallows hard, his cock throbbing with urgency, as if begging to be buried deep inside. The sight of Tony’s firm, rounded cheeks sends a sharp jolt of lust through him, making his breath hitch and his heart pound. A primal need surges through James—an irresistible urge to claim, to dominate. His entire body hums with anticipation.

"Why did you stop?" Tony pants, his chest heaving, confusion clouding his lust-blown brown eyes.

James grins wickedly, his gaze locking onto Tony’s as he grips the back of his neck, pulling him into a fierce, dominating kiss. His tongue plunges into Tony’s mouth, claiming him with raw, primal hunger. When he finally pulls away, his voice drops to a low, filthy growl, thick with lust.

"I want to feel your ass milking my cock for every last drop," he murmurs, his voice thick with desire. His hand slips between them, teasing Tony’s entrance, rubbing the swollen rim with the head of his cock—but not pushing in. Just tormenting.

"Tell me you want it, babe," James pants, his breath ragged. Fuck, he needs to be inside Tony.

"Yes, fuck, yes!" Tony groans, rocking his hips back, desperate to impale himself. "I want your cock inside me. I want you to fuck me until I can't think straight."

James chuckles, delighted, the sound low and filthy. "As you wish, babe."

His fingers dig brutally into the soft flesh of Tony's hips as he teasingly thrusts his tip inside, only to pull out just as quickly. The Inventor shivers beneath him, pushing his ass higher, desperate to take more of James.

"Not yet," James laughs, leaning down to press a tender kiss against Tony’s neck before moving up to his ear, gently nibbling on it. His voice is rough and animalistic as he breathes into Tony’s ear, "Before we start, I need to know something. Do you want me to be gentle with you, or do you want me to fuck you so hard you can do nothing but scream my name while I pound into you? Because if you give me the okay, babe, I won’t hold back. Be sure of that." His voice drips with lust and dominance as his free hand wraps around Tony’s cock, stroking him firmly—giving him a taste of what’s to come.

The Inventor moans and gasps, "Ah, fuck me hard, James. I want you to drive me insane. I want to feel you inside me. Fuck— I can’t wait any longer. Do it— Ah!!! Ngh— Agh!" is all Tony can manage before James slams into him with a powerful thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

And fuck, it feels incredible.

Tony’s body clamps down around him like a vice, unbelievably tight and eager. James groans, his tongue trailing down the man’s neck before biting down—not hard enough to break the skin, but just enough to make Tony tense and tighten around him.

"Fuck, you’re so tight— Ngh— Your body doesn’t want to let go of me," James groans, his hips snapping forward in quick, hard thrusts. He drives into Tony deeply, over and over, the room filling with the wet, rhythmic sounds of their bodies colliding, the obscene echoes of their pleasure bouncing off the walls.

"Shit, you feel so good, Tony. So tight. So perfect," James groans, his forehead resting against Tony's back as he fucks the man as hard as he can. 

He withdraws his cock almost entirely, then drives it back into the Inventor with a brutal, relentless force. Each powerful thrust makes Tony scream in ecstasy, his eyes rolling back as waves of pleasure consume him. James' breath comes in harsh, erratic bursts, his body slick with sweat as he hammers into the man. His cock pulses with each deep, penetrating stroke, the sensation of Tony's tight, yielding flesh around him driving him wild. He can feel the heat building in his loins, the urgency to release growing with every powerful thrust. His hips move faster, more demandingly, as he chases his climax. Tony's body responds in kind, arching and bucking beneath him, their connection intensifying with every savage, relentless drive.

"Harder, James. Fuck me harder," Tony chants, his body slick with sweat, his cock leaking pre-cum onto the sheets. James obliges, his thrusts becoming faster, harder, more desperate. The bed shakes with the force of their lovemaking, banging loudly against the wall. The Inventor's moans turn into screams, his body tensing as he chases his release. James reaches around and grips the man's cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts.

"Fuck, James, I'm close," Tony moans, his breath coming in short gasps.

"Come for me, babe," James growls, his voice a low, guttural command. He can feel his orgasm building, the pressure in his balls intensifying with each powerful stroke as he pumps Tony's cock harder, faster. His hand moves in a blur, his grip tight and relentless. When his release finally hits, it's like a damn breaking, a wave of pleasure crashing over him. He grips Tony tightly, his fingers digging into the man's flesh, making him scream loudly as he shoots his load deep inside. Tony's body convulses as he comes, his hole clenching and unclenching around James' cock, milking it for every last drop of cum as he releases his seed in long, thick ropes onto the mattress beneath him, he breathes heavily, his entire body convulsing with pleasure.

James pulls out slowly, his cock glistening with a mix of his own cum and Tony's arousal. A large amount of cum drips out of the Inventor's hole, a visual testament to the intensity of their encounter. He roughly turns Tony onto his back, wanting to see the man's red, flushed face, his eyes glazed with spent pleasure. Without warning, he slams his cock back into Tony's hole, making him scream out in shock and overwhelming sensation.

"James! Fuck—I—I can't—Too sensitive—Aahhh!" Tony's body tenses, his muscles straining as he tries to process the sudden, intense intrusion. James grins, a wicked, satisfied smile playing on his lips as he begins to move again, his hips setting a punishing pace, determined to push Tony to the brink once more.

He clutches the Inventor's cock with a ferocity that borders on brutality, stroking it rapidly as his grip intensifies with each powerful movement. His other hand is equally relentless, squeezing Tony's balls hard and eliciting a mix of agony and ecstasy from the man beneath him. Tony's breaths come in ragged gasps, his body writhing as loud moans spill from his lips in a steady, carnal symphony. James drives into him with a relentless rhythm, pushing the Inventor ever closer to the edge of another earth-shattering orgasm.

James himself is close, too, but instead of spilling his seed inside Tony, he yanks his cock out with a swift, deliberate motion. He steps backward, positioning himself right in front of the bed, and grips the Inventor by the shoulders, dragging him forward until he's sitting on the edge of the mattress. James' pulsating cock is now mere inches from Tony's face away, glistening with cum. The man stares down at Tony, his eyes blazing with a mix of lust and challenge, a dirty, triumphant grin spreading across his lips. "Now it's your turn," he growls, his voice thick with desire. "Open that pretty mouth of yours and suck me off. Show me what that filthy tongue of yours can do."

Without hesitation, Tony closes the distance and takes the man's cock into his mouth, working it with his tongue and full lips. The sounds he makes are obscenely erotic, and James enjoys how Tony looks up at him as he's sucking James cock, his eyes filled with lust. It turns James on even more.

He grabs a handful of Tony's hair and starts fucking his mouth hard as the room fills with the obscene symphony of wet slurping sounds, punctuated by James' loud, guttural moans as he thrusts his hips fast and hard into Tony's throat. Saliva drips down the Inventor's chin, mixing with James seed that's been steadily leaking from his cock.

The Inventor's moans vibrate around James' shaft, the sensation sending electric shocks of pleasure coursing through his veins as the man bobs his head faster, his cheeks hollowing out as he sucks with fervent enthusiasm. James can feel his orgasm building, his balls drawing up tight against his body, ready to unleash. "Fuck—I'm coming, Tony," he grunts, his voice strained. The Inventor starts to suck James cock harder, eager to taste him. With a roar, James explodes, his hot cum shooting down the man's throat. Tony swallows every drop, his eyes watering slightly from the force, but he doesn't stop. He keeps sucking, milking James for every last drop of cum.

The sight makes James' cock twitch hard and painfully. Despite having come multiple times, he's still hard and has no intention of stopping. He leans down and kisses Tony fiercely, his tongue delving deep into the man's mouth—just moments ago wrapped around his cock. "That was hot—definitely the best blowjob I've ever had," he murmurs with a grin before kissing Tony again who eagerly returns the kiss, their passion reigniting instantly.

"Mhm... I can only say the same," Tony murmurs, his gaze dropping to James' cock. Then, in the dirtiest voice James has ever heard from him, he looks up with a wicked grin and purrs, "We're not done yet, are we? Because I want to feel you inside me again. Fuck— I want you to fuck me until you've filled me to the brim."

James' cock twitches at Tony's words, eager to keep going. "Fuck no, we're not. I'm nowhere near done with you, babe." He moves swiftly, lifting Tony into his arms. The Inventor instinctively wraps his legs around James to keep from slipping. With effortless strength, he carries the man to the nearest wall, pressing Tony's back firmly against it. He positions his cock at Tony's entrance and thrusts in with such force that the man can't help but scream loudly, clinging to James' neck. In one swift motion, James suddenly lets go, forcing the man to impale himself fully onto his cock.

"Fuck—Ngh!!! Oh my god—you're so deep inside me—ah, fuck!" Tony moans, his entire body shuddering as he comes hard, his release spilling in long streams across James' stomach and chest.

"Shit, in this position, you're even tighter than before—" James pants, his breath heavy as he drives his cock as deep as possible into the man. The new angle lets him push even further, and for a moment, he swears he sees a slight bulge on Tony’s stomach—clear evidence of just how deep his cock is buried inside the Inventor.

Fuck, that's insanely hot, he thinks, as he's pushing his cock even deeper into the man.

As before, he fucks Tony hard and fast, making sure to hit the man's prostate with every single thrust. He loses track of how many times he comes as he pounds the man against the wall. At some point, the Inventor climaxes so frequently that he’s left trembling, lost in wave after wave of dry orgasms—completely undone.

Eventually, after James comes yet again, they linger for a while—Tony still impaled on his cock as warm cum slowly drips out of him, pooling on the floor. The heat of James’ seed trickles down Tony’s thighs, mixing with the sweat that glistens on their skin. James is still rock-hard and throbbing inside of Tony's ass, and Tony himself is also eager to continue fucking- Being an enhanced human has its perks, especially when it comes to stamina. At this point, they’re almost like wild animals, driven purely by raw, insatiable desire.

James keeps Tony pressed against the wall, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat radiating from their bodies. He captures the Inventor's lips in a deep, passionate kiss, their tongues entwining as his hands roam over the man’s body—gripping his hips, squeezing his ass. Slowly, he sets Tony down and guides him toward the bed, his cock bobbing with each step, still slick with their combined release.

Lying back, his throbbing length stands proudly, glistening with fresh arousal as he fixes Tony with a hungry, possessive gaze. His voice is low, dripping with desire as he says, "I want you to ride me. Show me how much you love my cock."

Tony doesn't hesitate as he climbs onto the bed, straddling James' hips. He takes the man's cock in his hand, stroking it slowly, feeling it throb in his grip. Positioning it at his entrance, he rubs the head against his hole, coating it with his own slickness. James watches him greedily, licking his lips as Tony slowly lowers himself down, impaling himself on James' cock once more. The Inventor’s eyes flutter closed as he takes every inch, his body stretching to accommodate James' size.

A deep moan escapes his lips as James' cock presses almost painfully against his prostate. "Fuck, you fill me up so good, Snowflake," Tony groans, beginning to move—rising and sinking onto James' length with slow, deliberate motions. He rolls his hips, ensuring James feels every inch of his tight, clenching heat. Leaning forward, he presses his hands against James' chest and starts to ride him like a fucking stallion.

It feels incredibly fucking good to have James' cock pulsing inside him, hitting all the right spots. Tony leans down, kissing him deeply, their tongues tangling as James' hands grip his hips, guiding his movements.

The Inventor rides him like a pro, moaning loudly as James teases his nipples—licking and sucking them until they're hard and sensitive. When James starts pinching them, the sharp pleasure makes Tony shudder, turning him on even more.

He grips the Inventor's cock, holding it tightly in his hand while the man bounces up and down. The stimulation drives Tony wild, making him fuck himself harder on James' cock, chasing that mind-numbing pleasure. With his other hand, James kneads Tony’s balls, applying just the right amount of pressure—enough to send the Inventor spiraling over the edge. With a strangled moan, Tony comes hard, thick ropes of cum splattering onto James' chest and face.

The sight and sensation send a surge of heat through James, making his cock throb inside Tony. Growling low in his throat, he grabs Tony’s waist and slams him down hard, burying himself to the hilt. His cock pushes so deep that a slight bulge appears on Tony’s stomach, making James groan in satisfaction.

"Fuck, baby, you're such a little slut for my cock," James growls, his voice thick with lust. "Look at you, cumming all over my face like a good little bitch."

Tony moans, his body shaking with the intensity of his orgasm. "Fuck, James, your cock feels so good inside me," he whimpers, his voice breathy and needy.

James doesn’t pull out as he shifts their positions, maneuvering them so that he’s positioned behind Tony. With a firm grip on the Inventor’s hips, he begins to move with a slow, deliberate rhythm, his hips rolling in steady, sensual thrusts. Every movement is measured, controlled—not just chasing his own release but focused entirely on Tony’s pleasure.

His hands roam over Tony’s body, tracing the lines of his muscles, teasing his nipples with light pinches and slow, circling strokes. Leaning in, James captures Tony’s lips in a deep, passionate kiss, his tongue mirroring the slow, deliberate rhythm of his thrusts.

One of his hands travels down, wrapping firmly around Tony’s cock. He strokes it in sync with his thrusts, the dual sensations overwhelming Tony, pushing him closer and closer to the edge. His body tenses, shuddering with pleasure, the steady friction sending him spiraling into madness.

They fuck like this for a while, slow and softly, their bodies moving in perfect sync as the room fills with the sound of their moans and the rhythmic slapping of flesh against flesh. James' cock is slick with a mix of their cum, making obscene squelching sounds as it glides in and out of Tony.

After some time, he grips Tony's shoulders and flips him over, positioning him on his hands and knees. The Inventor's ass is raised high, presenting his gaping hole to James, which is dripping with their combined fluids. Tony looks back at him, his eyes filled with lust and desperation, "What are you waiting for?" he teases, flashing a wicked grin as he wiggles his ass invitingly.

James grips Tony's ass cheeks, spreading them wide to reveal the slick, glistening entrance. The sight of his own cum leaking out heightens his arousal. He thrusts his cock into Tony a few times, the sensation of their bodies connecting driving him wild. But he craves more intimacy, wanting to see Tony's face as he watches his reactions. So, he guides them into the missionary position, his heart racing with anticipation.

Once positioned, James leans down and captures Tony's lips in a deep, sensual kiss. His tongue explores Tony's mouth, mirroring the rhythm of his hips as he begins to move, his cock circling and grinding inside Tony. The angle allows him to hit every sensitive spot, eliciting soft moans and gasps from the Inventor.

"I love you—you fuck me so good—" Tony murmurs between kisses, his eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy. James feels a surge of possessiveness, a primal need to claim and protect. He increases the intensity of his thrusts, his body pressing down on Tony's, their skin slick with sweat.

Mine, he thinks possessively as he feels his orgasm building. He comes with a force that leaves him seeing stars, his cock pulsing as he fills Tony once again. God, if the man were a woman, Tony would be pregnant by now with the amount of cum James has pumped into the man.

"Fuck, this is the perfect position to breed you," James moans, his words causing Tony's hole to clench even tighter around him and by now, Tony is so utterly consumed by lust that he can barely speak, his words reduced to incoherent whispers and gasps. 

 

Later that night, Tony takes control and fucks James senseless. It's James' first time being taken, and he quickly realizes that it's incredibly hot once he gets used to it. He knows that he will be letting Tony fuck him much more often in the future, eager to experience the intense pleasure again and again. The sensation of being filled and dominated is intoxicating, and he finds himself craving more, willing to do whatever it takes to feel that way again.

They keep fucking each other all night, their bodies entwined as they explore every possible position and angle, chasing pleasure and release until they finally collapse on top of each other, exhausted. They fall asleep in a tight embrace, their bodies covered in the evidence of their wild night. 

 

 

Notes:

I'm going to take a short break and will probably resume writing in a week or two. I want to use this time to unwind and recharge. Plus, it’ll finally give me a chance to catch up on replying to your comments—something I've been putting off for far too long. Sorry about that!

Chapter 42: The Sandwich of Doom

Summary:

The chapter contains smut. I will mark the beginning and the end of it like this ******** so you can skip it, if you don't want to read it.

When James wakes the next morning with Tony nestled in his arms, it feels like floating—like he's weightless, suspended in a moment too perfect to be real. A soft cloud of warmth wraps around them, sunlight seeping lazily through the large windows, casting a golden glow over skin and sheets alike. His arm lies comfortably across Tony’s bare stomach, rising and falling with each steady breath. The Inventor, still deep in the kind of peaceful sleep only true safety brings, uses James’ other arm as a pillow, his cheek pressed against James' shoulder.

He looks lovely like this, James thinks, and can't help but smile as his gaze lingers on Tony's sleeping form.

He stays still for a moment, memorizing the rhythm of Tony’s breathing, the warmth of his body, the softness of his skin beneath his fingertips. Carefully, he lifts his hand and runs it through Tony’s hair, savoring the silky texture between his fingers. The Inventor sighs—a soft, content sound that tugs at something unbearably tender in James' chest. Without fully waking, Tony instinctively moves closer, pressing his body against James’ like they’re two halves of the same whole. Like they were always meant to fit this way.

Yesterday was… incredible. Beyond anything James had ever imagined in his wildest dreams. He can still feel it in his bones, in his soul. And damn, it was perfect. He doesn’t know how else to describe it.

His heart swells with quiet gratitude for Becca. Without her gentle nudge, without her letting him in on the truth—that Tony feels the same way as him—how long would they have kept dancing around each other? The thought of how much time they might’ve wasted makes James shake his head with an incredulous, almost disbelieving smile.

“We made this so much harder than it had to be,” he whispers into the quiet morning as he places the softest kiss on Tony’s forehead.

Mine, he thinks as he pulls the man closer, wrapping both arms around him, anchoring them together in a cocoon of warmth and bare skin. The intimacy of it, so simple, makes his heart ache in the best possible way. In this moment, everything is right. Everything makes sense. And James knows—without question—he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

They lie like that for a long while, time stretching out until Tony finally stirs. Sleepy eyes flutter open, a slow grin spreading across his face, warm and lazy and full of fondness. “Good morning, Snowflake,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep as he leans in to kiss James, and James hums into the kiss, his heart skipping a beat.

“Last night,” Tony murmurs with a wicked little grin between lingering kisses, his voice low, “was absolutely, unbelievably hot.”

James lets out a deep, warm chuckle, the sound rumbling in his chest as he trails his thumb gently along the Inventor’s jaw. His other hand slides through Tony’s soft hair, fingertips sinking into the strands as he pulls him into another kiss—slow, reverent, lingering.

“Yeah,” he breathes against Tony’s lips, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It was more than hot. It was… unforgettable.” He pauses, just for a beat, just long enough to lock eyes with Tony—those beautiful, warm brown eyes, still heavy with sleep but so full of love it makes James’ heart ache. His voice drops to a soft whisper. “You were perfect. That was… probably the best night I’ve ever had.”

Tony shifts and rolls on top of James, kissing him again—this time deeper, slower, more deliberate, and with a lot more tongue involved. His hands cradle James’ face, and he responds in kind, fingers settling on the Inventor’s hips, thumbs brushing over the curve of muscle, digging in just enough to draw a soft sound from Tony’s throat.

James loves the way Tony’s skin feels beneath his hands—warm, smooth in some places, rough in others—and how the man smells. God, Tony’s scent is absolutely intoxicating. There’s something metallic about it, but layered underneath are notes of bergamot, sandalwood, and—somehow—fresh grass and crisp apples. It’s such a distinct blend, so unmistakably Tony, that James is certain he could pick it out from a crowd of hundreds without hesitation.

And then there are Tony’s touches—almost as addictive as his scent. James craves them with a need that borders on obsession. The man’s hands are rough, calloused from years of relentless work in the lab and countless battles. But when those same hands touch James, it’s like a completely different story. They become gentle, almost impossibly soft, and every brush of the man's fingertips feels deliberate, as if he’s handling something fragile and precious.

It nearly drives James mad—in the best possible way.

Their kiss builds quickly, going from tender to hungry in a matter of seconds. Their lips crash together with mounting urgency, hands exploring, teasing, claiming. Skin meets skin with no barrier, no hesitation. Every touch sends sparks down James’ spine, igniting something fierce and primal.

One thought pulses beneath it all—Mine. And he smiles into the kiss. But then, just as suddenly as the fire flared, something in James stutters. A shift. Small. Subtle.

Doubt.

A cold edge creeps into the warmth. James pulls back slightly—not far, just enough for Tony to notice. The Inventor stills, eyes searching his face. “Hey... Snowflake? You okay? You’ve gone a little pale.”

James hesitates, the words stuck somewhere between his throat and heart.

What is he even supposed to say? That he’s scared? That there’s this gnawing fear inside him whispering that maybe—just maybe—he’s imagining all of this? That the second he opens his eyes, he’ll wake up in his own bed, alone, and this entire thing will turn out to be some cruel illusion his mind conjured up just to torture him?

Or worse—so much worse—that this isn’t a dream, that it really happened, and Tony will come to the painful conclusion that maybe the two of them don’t actually have a future. That, despite everything, he’ll decide to walk away—end whatever this is—before it’s even had the chance to become something real. The thought makes James’ stomach twist into knots.

His answer takes too long, and the concern in Tony’s gaze deepens. Finally, James exhales and speaks, voice low and unguarded.

“Tony... please tell me this—” he gestures between them, his chest rising and falling “—isn’t just a heat-of-the-moment thing. I love you. I want more. A real future. I know it’s complicated, I know you’ve got doubts—I get it. But please… please tell me this is real.” James can’t see his own face, but he knows the fear he's feeling must be written all over it.

The Inventor leans back slightly—not far, not enough to break the connection between them, but just enough to let the moment shift, to let James feel it teeter on the edge of something fragile. Please don’t pull away. Don’t end this. Don’t break me, he thinks, the desperation curling in his chest like a cold hand squeezing around his heart.

“I love you too, James,” Tony says, his voice clear, steady, but laced with emotion. “And I do want to be with you. You’re all I’ve been thinking about these last few days. But…” He trails off, wrestling with the weight of it all.

"Just give me a bit of time. To sort through the chaos in my head- It's a mess in here." He taps his temple, a small, crooked smile on his face. "But James, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I'd be an idiot not to take this seriously. Trust me, what I'm feeling for you is real. And I want you more than anything I've ever wanted before. It's just that I might doubt myself sometimes, lose my footing. And when that happens, it's your job to steady me. To remind me that this," he gestures to James, his eyes locking with his, "is worth fighting for."

He leans back into James’ embrace, and the man lets out a breath he hadn’t even known he was holding.

“That’s okay... Take all the time you need, babe. I’m not going anywhere.” James says, his voice low but firm, as he pulls the Inventor tighter into his embrace, like he never wants to let him go, like he couldn't even if he tried.

They kiss again—this time slower, softer, full of promise.

Eventually, with great reluctance, they peel themselves out of bed, though the temptation to stay wrapped in each other forever nearly wins.

They decide to shower together, but the moment they step beneath the cascading warmth of the water, all thoughts of simply cleaning up vanish. They can't keep their hands off each other—kissing with abandon under the steady stream, their mouths crashing together in a mess of heat and want as the water pours over them, mouths crashing together with an urgency that leaves them both gasping.

James’ hands slide down Tony’s slick, wet back, finding purchase on his ass. He massages it with greedy palms, fingers digging into the firm flesh like he can’t get enough, and when he leans in to suck hard at Tony’s neck, it draws a sweet, needy moan from deep in Tony’s throat.

It's precisely at this moment that the two decide that fucking in the shower is exactly the right activity to start the morning properly.

 

********** 

 

James starts by relentlessly assaulting Tony's cock with his tongue, taking it slow and deep into his mouth, savoring every inch as he stimulates it. He takes his sweet time, moving deliberately, and keeps a vice-like grip on Tony's hips to keep him from bucking wildly and fucking James' mouth recklessly. The Inventor's moans are guttural, dripping with lust, and the longer James tortures the man's cock with his tongue, the more Tony squirms and tries to thrust deeper.

The Inventor is a mess of desire, and when he fists James' hair and tries to force the man's head down further on his cock, James finally relents, releasing his grip on Tony's hips. Immediately, the man starts pounding his cock into James' mouth, fucking it brutally, in and out, over and over. The wet, sloppy sounds of it drive James wild, and he can feel his own cock throbbing, aching for release.

His mouth is filled with Tony's pre-cum, and each powerful thrust makes the man's cock pulse and twitch, drawing out louder, more desperate moans. James knows Tony is close, and he redoubles his efforts, sucking and slurping eagerly. Tony's thrusts become a frantic, wild pounding, and with a guttural roar of "Fuck!" he slams deep into James' mouth one last time, unleashing his load. His cock spasms and pulses, filling James' mouth with hot, thick cum, and James swallows eagerly, moaning around the length filling his throat.

The Inventor pulls his cock out of James' mouth with a delicious popping sound, then yanks the man by the hair, forcing him to look up. Tony finds James' eyes and holds his gaze, panting heavily, his eyes glazed with lust as he crashes his lips down on James', kissing him fiercely, his tongue invading the man's mouth just as his cock had moments before.

He can taste his own cum in James' mouth, and it almost drives him wild. His still semi-hard cock twitches delightfully as he releases James' hair and pulls back, wearing a satisfied smirk as he growls, "Fuck, that was damn hot, but that's not enough. I want to feel your cock inside me."

Tony doesn't need to tell him twice. James is more than eager to comply, immediately flipping Tony around and setting to work, determined to leave the man a quivering, spent mess, panting and begging for more.

The Inventor braces himself against the shower wall, his legs spread wide, and his ass slightly thrust back toward James, who stands behind him- cock throbbing.

James' wraps his left arm around Tony, his hand gently stroking the man's cock with slow, deliberate movements. Occasionally, his thumb circles Tony's tip, delivering mind-blowing pleasure with each rotation. His right hand is busy elsewhere, preparing the man's hole, stretching it to accommodate James' cock perfectly.

As he works his magic, he kisses and sucks on Tony's neck, occasionally nipping at the flesh to drive the Inventor wild with lust. The shower's steady stream of water and Tony's moans create a symphony in James' ears, making his cock even harder and eager to dive in.

"Fuck, James, that's enough. I can't wait any longer," Tony pleads, reaching behind him to guide James' pulsing cock to his entrance.

James grins and doesn't hesitate as he slowly pushes into Tony's hole until he's balls deep inside the man. Tony's legs tremble, his excitement making his knees weak, and his breath comes in quick gasps. His moans grow more urgent, more demanding.

"Babe, I love you so much. You're so fucking tight—so sexy," James rasps, resting his head on Tony's shoulder as he begins to move slowly. His hand mirrors the rhythm on Tony's cock, and James savors how Tony's hole clenches tightly around his shaft with each deliberate thrust.

"Don't worry, babe, I'm not going anywhere," James chuckles, using his free hand to turn the man's head for a passionate, unrestrained kiss.

James has to admit, taking it slow has its fucking perks, and he relishes every goddamn second with Tony. The man's desperate pleas for more drive him to the brink of madness, and he loves how Tony's cock throbs and twitches in his hand, knowing that he's the one making him lose his fucking mind as a thick strand of pre-cum drips from the man's tip, providing the perfect lubricant for James to jerk him off even better. 

He can feel that Tony is on the edge, and so is James. He increases his pace, focusing on hitting Tony's prostate with each powerful thrust. His grip on Tony's cock tightens, matching the intensity of his movements.

The loud, pleasure-filled screams that escape Tony when James hits his prostate just right are like music to his ears, and his own cock throbs in response, loving how the man's hole clenches tight around him, practically strangling his shaft. James feels every tiny movement, every flicker of muscle as Tony's ass squeezes him hard, like the man is trying to milk his cock for all it's worth.

"Babe, you're so fucking tight, so fucking sexy, I'm gonna come soon," James growls into Tony's ear, nipping at the lobe gently. He can feel the heat building in his own body, the pressure in his balls growing as the Inventor's ass works his cock, drawing him closer and closer to the edge. Every thrust, every grind, every desperate moan from Tony pushes him further, making him want to fuck harder, to go deeper, to claim every inch of the man's body.

He slams the Inventor hard against the wall, the impact making them both grunt as he starts relentlessly pounding into him. He leans in, his teeth grazing Tony's shoulder, kissing and sucking the sensitive skin, his tongue tracing over the perfect, delicious skin, savouring its taste. And suddenly, an idea sparks in his mind, dark and twisted.

"Babe," James growls, his voice thick with lust and need, "Can I sink my teeth into you? Like I did yesterday? Fuck, you were so fucking tight, so desperate for my cum. I want to mark you again while I fuck you." He drags his teeth over the soft skin between Tony's neck and shoulder, his hips thrusting wildly, his cock slamming into Tony with brutal force.

The Inventor doesn't hesitate, pushing his ass back, impaling himself harder on James' cock. "Yes," he gasps, his voice choked with desire. "Fuck, yes. Of course you can."

James grins like a predator, his eyes wild with lust. He doesn't hold back, sinking his teeth into Tony's flesh, drawing blood. The metallic taste explodes on his tongue, and he groans, the sensation pushing him to the edge. Tony's body responds instantly, his internal muscles clenching and releasing around his cock in a rhythm that's both punishing and pleasurable. It's as if Tony's ass is trying to swallow James whole, the tightness so intense that it borders on pain, but a pain that's laced with pure, unadulterated ecstasy.

He can feel every ridge, every vein on his cock being squeezed and massaged by Tony's insatiable, needy hole. The pressure is so intense that it feels like James' cock is being gripped by a vice, the walls of the Inventor's ass pulsing and constricting around him in a way that's utterly mind-blowing. It's a struggle to maintain his composure, to keep from exploding right then and there.

"Fuck, you're choking my cock," James groans, his voice a low, dirty rumble. "You're so fucking tight, Tony. So fucking perfect. Your ass is literally trying to milk me dry," he moans, his voice thick with lust and strain. He lets his free hand wander over his lover's stomach, feeling the ripples of the man's muscles as they tense and release with each powerful thrust of James cock.

James uses his free hand to grab Tony's balls, squeezing them hard, cutting off the blood flow to his cock. The Inventor's eyes roll back, his mouth opening in a silent scream of pleasure and pain. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—James—let me come—" Tony chants, his voice desperate, his body shaking. His cock pulses in James' hand, but he can't come, not with the blood flow cut off, his balls aching and full to the brim with his seed.

"Not yet," James purrs and bites down again without warning, this time on Tony's neck. The Inventor screams loudly, his body trembling, his breath coming in ragged gasps as James releases his grip on Tony's cock.

The sudden relief sends the Inventor over the edge. The man comes hard, his orgasm ripping through him with a force that makes his body convulse. Ropes of thick, white cum spurt from his cock in multiple jets, splattering against the tiles of the shower and pooling on the floor, only to be instantly washed away by the streaming water and disappear down the drain.

The combination of the intense orgasm and the lingering pain from the bite sends Tony's ass into a vice-like grip around James' cock. The muscles clamp down so tightly that James can feel his cock being squeezed, the pressure almost painful but incredibly erotic. The opening of Tony's hole constricts around James' shaft, making it nearly impossible for him to move his cock. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that pushes James to the brink.

"Fuck, yes, babe, just like that—" He groans, his voice a mix of strain and ecstasy as he feels Tony's ass milking his cock, "Drink every fucking drop of my hot cum, squeeze me dry. Just like that. Agh- Yes- God, you're so fucking good."

He fucks Tony's tight hole relentlessly, each powerful thrust driving his cock deeper, the sight of Tony's body convulsing, the feel of his ass clenching and releasing around him, it's all too much. James' own orgasm hits him like a freight train, his cock throbbing and pulsing as he fills Tony with his hot, sticky cum. The sensation is electric, the pleasure so intense that it's almost unbearable.

"You're so hot, so beautiful. I love you—I love you so much—" James grunts, his voice hoarse with effort and pleasure. He leans in, his body pressing against Tony's, his cock buried deep inside him. The water from the shower cascades over them as he pumps his load deep into Tony. The Inventor takes it all, eager and desperate, his body convulsing with the aftershocks of his orgasm. James can feel every pulse, every twitch, every desperate clamp of the man's ass as he rides out his own pleasure.

And fuck, this is definitely the longest he's ever come. Minutes later, and James can still feel his cock pulsing, spilling his seed deep into Tony. Each wave of his orgasm sends fresh jets of cum surging into the man's ass, the sensation so intense that it's almost overwhelming. 

He wraps his arms around Tony, pulling him close and pressing him firmly against his chest. Then, with a powerful thrust, he drives his cock deep into the man's hole, so hard and unexpected that Tony's knees buckle. James manages to hold him up just in time, his strong grip keeping Tony from collapsing. The Inventor gasps, his entire body trembling and convulsing as James literally breeds him, filling him to the brim.

Tony is a mess beneath him, the man can barely stand, his entire weight impaling himself on James' cock as he gasps for breath, his cock throbbing and bouncing up and down.

James himself is breathing heavily, his head resting exhausted on Tony's shoulder as he lazily circles his hips. They stay like this for a long time, their bodies pressed together, the water from the shower cascading over them, washing away the evidence of their fierce encounter.

As James' cock finally softens and slips free from Tony’s thoroughly used hole with an utterly obscene, slick sound, he watches thick, white ribbons of cum spill out and trail down the man’s trembling thighs. The sight alone is enough to reignite the urge to take him again—but even if he wanted to, James couldn’t. He’s completely spent, last night and today, having drained him to the core.

Instead, he gently guides Tony to face him, catching the Inventor’s dazed, flushed expression before leaning in. His mouth meets Tony’s in a deep, consuming kiss as his hands roam and caress over sensitive skin, holding the man close in the warm, aching stillness that lingers after being thoroughly spent.

Eventually, Tony breaks the silence, his voice weak but satisfied as he says, “God, if we keep this up, we’ll never leave the shower.”

“Would that be so bad?” James murmurs against his lover's skin, his voice low and teasing.

"If it were up to me, we could stay in the shower and fuck forever." laughs Tony, but they both know that this isn't possible, and they'll eventually have to move their asses outside.

The two linger in the shower a little longer, savoring the minutes after their intense encounter. They kiss passionately, their bodies pressed together as the water cascades over them, and after one last lingering glance and a breathless, shared sigh, they finally peel themselves apart, wash up, and step out—reluctantly, as if leaving that moment behind is the hardest thing they’ve ever had to do.

 

**********

 

By the time they finally stumble out of the bathroom, skin flushed and hearts still thudding in their chests, they’ve completely lost track of time. Neither of them knows how long they were in there—and honestly, neither of them gives a damn.

Once dressed and mildly presentable, FRIDAY informs them that Wade and Matt have prepared a large breakfast buffet in their apartment, as apparently all team members are present at the compound today. Tony and James are warmly invited to join, and of course, they agree.

While Tony finishes up a few last tasks, James takes a moment to apologize to FRIDAY for his poor behavior toward her. To his surprise, she forgives him without hesitation and accepts his apology. 

She tells him that, while the way he spoke to her wasn’t okay, she understands he had been under a lot of pressure, which doesn’t excuse his behavior, but at least explains why he acted the way he did.

James promises it will never happen again and, half-joking but entirely sincere, gives her full permission to take him down with the Ironheart armor if he ever breaks that promise. FRIDAY, unsurprisingly, agrees with evident enthusiasm—and just like that, the air between them clears, the tension gone.

Shortly afterward, Tony and James, stomachs empty and appetites fierce, set off toward Matt and Wade’s apartment.

When they arrive at Wade and Matt’s place, the energy in the room is buzzing. Laughter and conversation fill the air. Everyone is here. Even Becca and John are there—and to James’ surprise, so are Coulson and Wong.

Everyone is there except for Steve’s group, which, honestly, James had expected. In fact, it would have surprised him if Matt and Wade had let those idiots anywhere near their apartment, not after everything they've done to Tony.

Wade greets them both with his usual enthusiasm, proudly presenting the lavish buffet he and Matt have put together. Matt, who also greets them warmly, tells them where they can sit. At the same time, he adds chimichangas to the spread and wordlessly hands Wade his own plate, stacked high with chimichangas that look slightly different from the others.

"Gosh! Not-Matt Murdock! I love you, my favorite Counselor!" Wade squeals in an oddly high-pitched voice, momentarily setting the plate aside so he can lean in and plant a surprisingly tender kiss on Matt’s lips. A dopey, satisfied smile spreads across his face as he turns back to James and Tony.

“Love is a beautiful thing,” he declares, arms flailing theatrically before wrapping them around Matt with sudden intensity. “When you find it, the whole world tastes like Daffodil Daydream. So you gotta hold on to love. Tight. And never let go!” 

Matt laughs, shaking his head as he tugs Wade along with him. “Come on, we still have to deal with dessert,” he says, already heading for the kitchen. Wade scrambles to snatch up his plate at the last second, barely managing to keep the contents intact before the two disappear into the kitchen.

Tony and James exchange a grin, then make their way over to the table, settling in beside Becca and John, who are deep in conversation with Hope and Peter.

As they sit down, Tony takes James’ hand and holds it in his own—something Becca doesn't miss. She flashes James a knowing look and a wide smile that practically screams, I told you so. And James can’t help but laugh, throwing her a grateful glance in return.

 

The breakfast is a whirlwind of noise and movement, just as James had imagined. Laughter echoes, debates flare up, and food is everywhere. Amid the chaos, a warm sense of belonging fills the air, as if they’re all part of one big, messy family. James feels a deep sense of joy, knowing he’s finally a part of it.

As they sit together, James lets his gaze drift across the room, quietly taking in the scene, watching his friends. 

Matt and Wade sit beside Becca and John, deep in conversation, mostly about the older couple’s grand world tour. Wade casually thanks Becca again for her generous gift, which turns out to be an expensive, handcrafted sword-cleaning oil. As James observes their interaction, he can't help but wonder how Wade and Becca became friends in the first place.

He makes a mental note to ask his sister about it later, then shifts his attention to Loki, Stephen, and Wong, who are explaining various forms of magic to an intrigued Coulson. After dealing with Clint, Coulson had returned to the Compound with Loki—apparently at the Trickster’s invitation. James watches the Agent as he listens intently to the three magic-users, still finishing the last bites of his breakfast.

Meanwhile, Constantine, seated beside Loki and completely uninterested in the conversation, assembles a questionable sandwich that raises more concerns than it answers. James is fairly certain: if the sandwich suddenly came to life, it would immediately begin screaming at Constantine, begging to know why it exists. Jessica, seated next to him, appears to share the same thought. Her expression shows more than concern as she watches him construct the monstrous creation. She even pushes her own sandwich aside, her appetite apparently completely gone.

James chuckles, then shifts his attention to Carol, Hope, and Peter, who are fervently debating whether Ben is the father of Lana’s child or if she had an affair with Jason, making him the real father. It’s clearly a storyline from a soap opera they all follow—and, apparently, so does FRIDAY, who chimes in loudly to share her own theories.

The four are getting louder, voices overlapping as they gesture animatedly. Carol and Hope, in particular, clash hard, completely at odds and quickly spiraling into a full-blown argument. Meanwhile, Peter and FRIDAY keep trying to jump in with their own theories, but barely manage to get a word out.

James can’t help but laugh as he watches the spectacle unfold, much like Jessica watches Constantine’s 'sandwich of doom'. However, she looks far less amused, as her eyes begin to dart nervously between the 'sandwich of doom' and the three people debating over who the real father of Lana's child is. To James' surprise, it seems Jessica is more concerned about the trio than Constantine’s creation, as she deliberately shifts closer to the older man and his ominous creation, distancing herself from the increasingly loud conversation next to her. It almost feels as though she’s sensing something bad coming, and the unease in the air makes James feel slightly uncomfortable.

He only looks away from the spectacle when he feels Tony gently squeeze his hand, clearly trying to get his attention. When he glances at the Inventor, he’s surprised to find Tony staring at him dreamily, his head resting in his hand, with an expression soft and filled with affection.

James raises an eyebrow, silently asking, What? and Tony giggles, then leans in to whisper in James' ear, “You look so damn sexy with that happy smile and those sparkling eyes. I want to jump you right here and now.”

Unable to suppress a laugh, James leans in and places a soft kiss on Tony’s lips, replying in a low, teasing voice, “I wouldn’t mind. But I don’t think the others would appreciate it.” Tony eagerly returns the kiss, both of them completely oblivious to the soap opera debate beside them, which is growing louder by the second. Sensing the brewing storm, Jessica quietly rises and moves to safety.

Eventually, Tony pulls away from the kiss and leans back in his chair with a lazy grin, murmuring, “Later, then.” He barely has time to settle in before chaos erupts—a massive glob of pudding slaps him square in the face with a wet splatter. For a moment, the room falls into stunned silence, except for Jessica, who mutters, “I fucking knew it!” under her breath.

“Oh. My. God. Tony. Tony, I—I’m so sorry, I— I meant to hit Carol!” stammers Hope, frozen in place, her pudding-smeared hand still suspended midair. She looks guilty as hell, but it’s not helping the situation at all. James throws a cautious glance at his lover, and yep—things are definitely about to get worse from here. He has the sense to shift slightly away, just like Jessica did before, bracing himself for the inevitable chaos that’s about to unfold.

Tony reacts the way any person with pudding on their face would—he grabs a handful of scrambled eggs and hurls them at Hope. Most of it hits its target; the rest lands with a sloppy plop on Constantine’s head. With an irritated groan, the man picks up his monstrosity of a sandwich and, without hesitation, prepares to launch it like a cursed projectile.

“No bio-weapons!” Jessica shouts, but it’s already too late.

The 'sandwich of doom' flies.

And with it, all hell breaks loose.

What follows is an epic food fight of mythic proportions. Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, Loki's weird food he conjured from Asgard, and—most tragically—the entire plate of chimichangas are sacrificed to the battle. Laughter, shouts, and battle cries reverberate through the apartment, while Coulson and Wong—apparently the only adults in the room—try, with only mild success, to keep certain people (Loki) from murdering others (basically everyone else).

The whole fight comes to an abrupt end about thirty minutes later when FRIDAY decides to join in. Lacking a physical body, she opts to use the sprinkler system as her weapon of choice, drenching everyone in the room with cold water until the entire apartment is practically flooded, much to Matt’s horror.

Surprisingly, only one person has to admit defeat and shoulder all the losses, and that person is Loki, who finds himself reluctantly using his magic to clean up the entire mess.

With a dramatic sigh and a withering glare at the chaos around him, he stands and, with a flick of his wrist, casts a spell that leaves the apartment—and every sticky, soaked person in it—immaculately clean. His expression screams bloody murder as he finishes, only calming down when Constantine whispers something in his ear, causing the Trickster to grin widely. With a snap of his fingers, both of them disappear, as if they had never been there to begin with.

James suspects that the two of them will likely end up in Loki’s bedroom, considering the look Loki wore just before they vanished.

 

The rest of the week feels like a dream—one of those rare, golden dreams that lingers long after waking, the kind you never wanted to wake from in the first place.

James spends most of his time with Becca and John, trying to reclaim the years they’d been robbed of. Together with Tony, Peter, and the boy's friends from school, they visit an amusement park, and fuck, it feels like James has been with Tony forever. They wander through the park side by side, occasionally glancing over at Peter, who is off with his friends, laughing and wide-eyed with excitement, absolutely glowing with joy.

While Becca and John stand in line with the teenagers to buy ice cream, Tony leans in close, a teasing sparkle in his eyes, and says with a smirk, “If someone saw us like this, they’d probably think we were married—out with the kids and the grandparents.”

James nearly chokes on his soda. His face flushes a brilliant shade of red, but before he can stammer out a response, the others return, and the moment dissolves into the noise of the crowd.

On another day, James and Becca visit their parents' graves. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t surprised they still existed at all. Becca explains softly that for many years Peggy made sure they were kept in good condition—and later, she and Tony took over the responsibility.

The graves are immaculate, pristine to the point of reverence. Flowers bloom in a perfect arrangement, vivid and full of life. A tall angel statue towers protectively over the site, hands folded in prayer, wings spread wide as if sheltering the resting souls below. At its feet lies a large, obsidian-black headstone polished to a mirror shine. The inscription reads: “In loving memory of Winnifred and James Barnes—devoted parents, loyal friends, and cherished neighbors.” Beneath their birth and death dates, another line is etched in delicate script: “We live on in the hearts we’ve touched. Nothing truly loved is ever truly lost.”

James swallows hard, eyes stinging. Their faces gaze back at him from an old black-and-white wedding photo, embedded into the stone—smiling, radiant, alive. God, how he wishes he could hold them just one more time...

Standing beside him with tears glistening on her cheeks, Becca tells him softly that Tony now cares for the graves. She can’t manage it anymore, and Tony—being Tony—insisted only the best gardeners work on it. The striking headstone, the engraved photo, even the angel statue were gifts from him after the original marker had become worn and unreadable.

James is once again struck by how effortlessly Tony keeps finding new ways to make him fall even deeper in love with him.

Later that same day, they visit other graves—among them, the resting place of Tony’s parents. That visit leaves a bitter aftertaste in James’ mouth. It’s different. Heavy. And if he's honest with himself, he's fucking glad when they finally leave that place. It's too much to bear at the moment. Maybe, someday, he'll visit again and face that dark part of his past—but not right now. He can't.

The last grave they visit is Peggy’s. According to Becca, Tony personally tends to it. It rests far outside the city, beneath a solitary tree that crowns a quiet hill surrounded by a wild sea of blooming flowers. Becca tells him that it was Peggy's last wish to be buried here, her voice thick with emotion. She smiles through her tears as they stand before the grave, their heads bowed in silent reverence.

It’s more modest than James’ parents' resting place. The gravestone is pale gray, smaller in size, and watched over by an angel, too—but this one doesn’t stand tall. It leans gently against the stone, head resting on folded arms atop the marker, as though caught in a peaceful dream. In its hand, it holds a single lily, pointed toward the sprawling wildflower field. It feels as though the angel is admiring the beauty that Peggy once saw in this place, a beauty she cherished when she was still alive.

James notices that the gravestone is devoid of a long inscription, bearing only Peggy's name and a single, simple line: "There are always flowers for those who want to see them." Beside the stone, a small vase cradles fresh blooms—undeniable proof that someone had visited recently. James doesn’t need to guess who it was. It’s clear that it was Tony.

The wind stirs the leaves above them, whispering through the branches, and James understands why Peggy chose this place. It’s so peaceful here, so far removed from the chaotic life she led in the city. It feels... right for her to rest here. Like she finally found her peace.

On the way home, James can’t stop thinking about the day. He makes himself a promise right then and there: no more wasted time. He’ll cherish every second with the people he loves, because life is fleeting. Too fleeting to throw away.

The days that follow are just as full—every moment drawn out, every laugh and touch etched into memory. But time, relentless as always, brings the inevitable.

 

Just a few days later, one quiet afternoon in the common room, Becca makes the announcement—calm, but firm—that it’s time for her and John to leave. “We’ve been here far too long already,” she says casually, as if it’s just another conversation. “It’s about time we head home.”

She doesn’t flinch when Wade gasps in outrage, his hands thrown into the air like he’s just witnessed a tragedy unfold. “Don’t do it!” he cries dramatically. “Don’t go back to Narnia!” Becca doesn’t even glance in his direction.

“Do you really have to leave already?” Peter asks, his voice soft, his face twisted into a look so sorrowful it could summon rainclouds. A full-blown picture of three straight days of heartbreak. But Becca simply smiles at him, unmoved. She knows the boy too well—knows he’s trying to guilt-trip her into staying. And she also knows it won’t work.

"Yes, we have to," she says, her tone leaving no room for debate. "Our neighbors have been looking after the house far longer than we planned. We can’t overstay our welcome." Tony, seated beside her and long accustomed to her decisive nature, offers a small, knowing smile. "Well, no arguing with that. When should I call the driver?"

"Preferably tomorrow morning," John chimes in, his voice calm but resolute. "That way we can still enjoy dinner together tonight and be home before the rush hour hits."

"Alright, I’ll make sure the driver’s on time," Tony replies with a nod, already turning his focus back to the tablet resting in his hands. Meanwhile, Becca glances toward James. The disappointment on his face is impossible to miss—it’s etched into every line, every quiet breath.

"Don’t look at me like we’ve just ripped the ground out from under your feet. You can come visit us anytime, James," she says, patting his shoulder as she passes by on her way to grab something from the fridge.

"Yeah…" James replies, thoughtful, but unable to hide how much Becca and John’s departure affects him.

In the end, they make the most of their final evening together. They share a beautiful dinner at one of New York’s most exclusive restaurants—Masa. Everyone is there, save for Jessica and Carol, who had made plans days ago with a certain Luke Cage and, unfortunately, couldn’t join them.

The evening is nothing short of magical. The atmosphere is warm and full of laughter, the food beyond exquisite, and James is introduced to an entirely new realm of culinary delights. But perhaps the best part: they take a mountain of photos—captured memories, James knows he’ll have printed and proudly hang up in his apartment.

 

The next morning, the mood has shifted. The lightness of the previous day has faded, replaced by the heavy weight of impending goodbyes.

While most of the team members say farewell like rational, well-adjusted adults, Wade and Peter bawl their eyes out when it’s time for them to say their goodbyes to Becca and John. At one point, as Becca manages to peel herself out of Wade’s death grip, he points dramatically to the sky and cries, "None of this is actually happening! There is a man! At a typewriter! This is all his twisted imagination!" Becca, however, simply ignores his theatrics and pulls Peter into a tight, final embrace instead.

It takes a while for the others to convince Wade and Peter to go back inside, but eventually, they manage. And in the end, only James and Tony remain outside with the older couple, waiting for the driver to arrive.

When the car finally pulls up, John embraces Tony tightly and says he should take good care of Peter—and of himself, of course. Tony promises he will and gives John a final clap on the shoulder before the older man turns to James.

"Well, it’s been an honor meeting you, James. Becca definitely didn’t exaggerate all those years when she talked about you," he laughs and extends a hand for James to shake. But the man ignores the gesture and instead pulls John into a firm hug.

"Thank you, John. Thank you for loving my sister with all you've got. I truly appreciate you being there for her. She couldn’t have found a better man, and I’m proud to call you my brother-in-law." His voice carries the weight of sincerity, and he hopes John hears it.

The elderly man returns the hug, giving James a firm pat on the back, his gratitude evident, though it’s clear that James' heartfelt words have caught him off guard, leaving him momentarily speechless. After a brief pause, John grabs their luggage and begins loading it into the car, with the driver eagerly stepping in to help. This allows Becca the space she needs to say her final goodbyes to both the Inventor and James, free from any distractions.

She begins with Tony, enveloping him in one of her signature bone-crushing hugs. "You’d better make sure you’re eating regularly once I’m gone," she says, her tone both affectionate and stern. "FRIDAY will report back to me if you don’t, kid. You don’t want to know what happens if I find out you’ve gone days without food again," she warns, loosening her grip just enough to meet his eyes. With a sudden shift to a more serious expression, she adds, "And for god’s sake, lose that awful goatee—what my brother sees in it is beyond me."

She grabs his tie, tugging him down just enough to meet her gaze, and places a featherlight kiss on his forehead. Almost wistfully, she murmurs, "Take care of yourself, kid. Don’t forget to call me and come visit soon—who knows when I might finally kick the bucket." The words carry a mixture of warmth and playful finality, as if teasing the inevitable while making sure he knows she means it.

Tony laughs, promising to visit as soon as he can, though she never quite manages to wrangle a promise out of him to eat regularly. She's not pleased, but she's hardly surprised. After all, she practically raised the rascal and knows when a battle is lost. There's a resigned affection in her eyes as she lets it go, knowing full well Tony’s stubbornness is something she’ll never fully change.

"So this is it..." James says quietly, his voice thick with emotion, as Becca finally stands before him and wraps him in a tight embrace, her head resting against his chest. They linger like that for a long moment, neither of them willing to let go. Finally, Becca nods reluctantly, breaking the silence. "Yes, we've stayed far too long already. Our kids and grandkids will start to worry. And to be honest?" She pulls back slightly, a wistful smile tugging at her lips. "I miss my own bed, my garden, and, believe it or not, our nosy neighbors."

She pulls away, though not completely, making sure to keep holding James’ hands in hers as she continues, "Tony and I have already set a date for you two to visit. You still need to meet the rest of the family," she says with a smile.

"That sounds wonderful. I’m really looking forward to it," James smiles back, though the tears welling up in his eyes betray the depth of his emotions.

Becca hugs him once more, holding him tight before pulling back slightly. "It’s time," she says softly. "Promise me you’ll call if something’s weighing on your heart. And take care of my kid. He's family. I’ve watched over him his whole life, and now I’m entrusting him to you." She pauses, her expression hardening with an intensity that cuts through the softness of her voice.

"Even though you’re my brother, James, if you break his heart? I’ll castrate you myself." The threat is delivered with a light laugh, but her eyes never waver, and there’s a steeliness in her words that leaves no room for doubt. She means every word, and James can feel the weight of that promise deep in his chest.

"Don’t worry—I won’t," James says, his voice steady and sincere. "I love him too much for that." His gaze shifts to the Inventor standing a few steps away, and a smile blooms across his face—bright, unguarded, and full of quiet joy. Becca catches the look, and her own expression softens.

She smiles too, a warmth in her eyes that borders on reverence as she says, "Good, that’s the only answer I wanted to hear from you." Then, without another word, she turns and walks toward the car to join John, her steps steady, her presence lingering even as she moves away.

As the elderly couple finally settles into the car and it begins to pull away, they lean toward the window, waving goodbye to James and Tony as they pass. James watches them go, not moving, his eyes fixed on the car even after it’s long out of sight.

The Inventor stands beside him, just as quiet. He doesn’t say a word, and James is thankful for that—he’s pretty sure he couldn’t get anything out even if he tried to. Tony seems to sense this, and without a word, reaches out to take James’ hand, their fingers intertwining. The simple touch helps, grounding James in the moment and keeping him from drifting too far into the sadness. 

The past few days have been wonderful, and James wouldn’t trade the memories for anything in the world. He wishes it could always be like this—that every single day could be filled with love, joy, comfort, and carefreeness...

But life isn’t fair.

And sometimes, just when everything feels perfect, it only takes something small—barely noticeable, almost meaningless—to send it all crashing down. One tiny moment, and all that joy, all that warmth, splinters like glass… sudden, sharp, and impossible to put back together...

 

Notes:

THE SANDWICH OF DOOM is now my favorite thing to write about.

By the way, that was the last chapter with smut—for now. From here on out, we’re diving into the final arc of the story, because believe it or not, we’re actually approaching the end (Don’t worry though—anyone who’s made it this far probably knows there’s still at least 20k words ahead of us, maybe even more. That’s just what happens when you write without a plan and end up jotting down half-baked ideas on your phone at 4 a.m.).

Also; Wade's "Not- Matt Murdock" line is a quote from the comic in which he has a conversation with Matt that goes like this;

W: "Counselor, I request a sidebar."
M: "I'm not Matt Murdock."
W: "I don't know who that is, but okay. Listen, Not- Matt Murdock I'm going to need you to cut me loose now,"
M: "No."

I loved that scene—even though it’s not all that funny, I still included it. Wade’s quote about Daffodil Daydream is from the first Deadpool movie, during his first encounter with Dopinder. The bit with the typewriter also comes from the comics, as does the description of Tony’s scent (which is described in the Iron Man comics). Though I couldn’t find an explanation for the apple fragrance—maybe I just missed it.

Notes:

I won't update this work on a regular basis given that I'm still working on another project. I just had to get the idea out of my head. Maybe I upload this once a month if I have some spare time.

Thank you for reading. <3