a pirate in kneesocks

Turkey Day 2016!! Second Post

kahn — Thu, 24 Nov 2016 22:11:14 GMT

TURKEY'S DONE!! AND ALBLKAJALDFKBAGHLKHAD

I'M SO TIRED.

I feel like I had better control of the situation last year?? Is that a lie I tell myself to convince myself to do it again the next year around? This year felt like CHAOS, and I just couldn't get into the groove of things and then SUDDENLY EVERYTHING WAS FINISHING AND I HAVE NO SPACE TO PUT THINGS.

My lovely set of glass mixing bowls are getting a good workout today. A lot of recipes, aside from just having mixing elements, also are like, "okay, now that you're finished, put it in a bowl and set it aside for later." And then the next element is, "Okay, and now that you've finished step 2, also put that in a bowl and set it aside." And I'm like, "RECIPE HOW MUCH COUNTERSPACE DO YOU THINK I HAVE??" Answer: not much. I've started using the washing machine.

Now I'm just waiting for my Brussels sprouts to finish cooking, and then I'm taking a SHOWER. Because when you make your own crunchy onions for the green bean casserole you get COVERED IN OIL (due to the fact that you have to fry them. Not due to the fact that the recipe calls for rubbing yourself in oil). In all the chaos I almost forgot to make the sprouts. (Actually, more accurately, I forgot that I have what is essentially two ovens. And I was like--I have to wait for the turkey to finish before I start these! which is not true at all.)

OH MY GOSH, OKAY. And they're done! Gotta go! Hope everyone else's Turkey Day was excellent!

Turkey Day 2016!! Update 2

kahn — Thu, 24 Nov 2016 18:56:16 GMT

FUCK YOU SHALLOTS

MY EYES

ARRRRRGH

MOLLY YOU BETTER LOVE ME EXTRA HARD TODAY THIS PAIN IS FOR YOU

("Hey guys," I said. "I'm thinking of just making Brussels sprouts this year, instead of green bean casserole."
"That's cool," said Megan and Kelly.
"Yeah, that's cool," said Molly, and then made a sadface.
"Wait, what was that?" I asked.
"Nothing," Molly said.
But it was too late, for I had seen the sadface and that meant I was not making Brussels sprouts AND green bean casserole. And the Casserole requires shallots. That was the point of that story.)

Also, while buying pre-chopped mushrooms are super convenient, the slices tend to range from huge to FUCKING GIGANTIC OMG HOW BIG WAS THE WHOLE MUSHROOM WAS IT A MUTANT OR IS THE END OF DAYS COMING??

What that means is that I've stood over my pan for about the last three minutes or so STABINATING THE HELL OUT OF THEM with the sharp edge of my wooden spoon to reduce them into more reasonable chunks. Theraputic!

Turkey Day 2016!! Update 1

kahn — Thu, 24 Nov 2016 18:03:32 GMT

Heeeeeey, while cleaning I found the brussel sprouts I lost last night during prep.

On the one hand, yay no brussel sprout stealing gremlins live in my house.

On the other hand, boo no brussel sprout stealing gremlins live in my house (that would've been interesting).

Also HOW DO YOU MOP.

I haven't figured out a pattern of laying down the wet that doesn't immediately make me have to walk back over it and leav tracks. ADULTING HOW DO.

Also, BURN #1. So, aparently, the largest burning is a little larger than the pot I'm using to boil potatoes and WHAT THAT MEANS is that when I picked the pot up to move it to the sink, the HANDLE WAS CRAZY HOT. *sadface*

Kelly is making her traditional apetizers of olive-and-cream-cheese mix w/celery. THANK GOD because I am starving and am going to eat it all.

The turkey has no giblets which means a) the gravy is going to be store bought and b) I don't have any bits to snack on, so the apetizers are necessary. OKAY BACK TO WORK.

Turkey Day 2016!! First Post

kahn — Thu, 24 Nov 2016 17:50:16 GMT

Okay, you bastards, I'm up.

(and by 'you bastards' I mean the world at large, and not any of my lovely friends)

So I had leg cramps all night, which on the one hand means HSSSS STUPID SUNLIGHT; WHY MUST YOU HURT ME MORNING

OH IT'S AFTERNOON? WELL FUCK YOU TOO

But on the other hand, it means that I got a lot of prep work done, and Kelly was kind enough to get up in the ACTUAL morning (boo hiss) and get a lot of the rest of it done as well. SO. All the brussel sprouts (SO MANY) are prepped and the green beans (2 LBS BECAUSE WHAT IS RESTRAINT), and the yams are almost finished boiling and then they will have to be peeled and cubed.

I'm cleaning the house because I've just realized I'm LIVING IN FILTH. And I'm listening to bits and pieces of the Moana soundtrack which is amazing. So. How's your morning going?

(IT'S STILL MORNING SHUT UP)

TURKEY'S DONE!

kahn — Thu, 26 Nov 2015 19:07:26 GMT

Now to head into a flurry of endgame activity! See you on the flipside!

I need better organization for my spice cabinet

kahn — Thu, 26 Nov 2015 17:22:24 GMT

Self, WHY do you have 5 different jars of cloves??

Okay, so no carrots for the gravy, and all my onions are reserved for other things, so I used the left over shallots. I'm sure that'll be fine...

ALSO, almost set my house on fire, as per tradition. This time, it was because New Oven is a double decker, and I have hand towels dangling off the upper handle, but it turns out they dangle just low enough that I managed to shut one of them into the bottom oven where the turkey is cooking. BUT EVERYTHING'S OKAY HERE. I saved it. The towel is only lightly browned.

FUCK YOU, ALTON BROWN

kahn — Thu, 26 Nov 2015 17:04:11 GMT

HAVE YOU EVER TRIED CUTTING A TURKEY NECK IN HALF?? HAVE YOU???

You probably have, because you're a chef and stuff, but OH MY GOD. Thank god I have a meat cleaver.

Awwww, they won't let me have my Turkey Day Icon.

kahn — Thu, 26 Nov 2015 16:42:15 GMT

HAPPY TURKEY DAY!!

I did a lot of the prep work yesterday, so I'm mostly finished with the candied yams and the green bean casserole. This year, we're eating over at Megan (thechildoftime) and Molly's (minerva710) house, since they live right across the street, now, and they have an actual dining room table.

I don't have a dining room table because I'M AN ADULT AND I MAKE MY OWN CHOICES, and if I want to put my desk and computer where the table is probably supposed to go I CAN.

ANYWAY. This year, I put myself in charge of the turkey, the yams and the green beans and I also have Brussels sprouts for roasting (LOOK HOW ADULT I AM I'M WILLINGLY EATING BRUSSEL SPROUTS), but those should be quick, so I haven't cooked them, yet. I finished the bulk of the casseroles so that I can take them over to Megan and Molly's later and finish them over there. ("Finishing" being mostly just putting things on top and putting them in the oven to brown a bit and warm back up.)

I woke up early to start the turkey, and it's in the oven! This year, I'm staying true to Alton Brown's recipe, because I've tried turkey a bunch of ways, and his is, so far, the best I've had (that I can cook successfully, anyway).

Here are my recipes:

Turkey
(and at the last minute I'm going to attempt this gravy. I don't have all the ingredients--because I literally JUST DECIDED to do this, so it's not going to be exact, but I'm STILL GONNA TRY.)

Yams (This is the first time I've tried this recipe, but I tasted it last night, and it's SO GOOD. I've never thought of sautéing the yams in butter to cook them. It cooked fast and it looks AMAZING. I mean, I'm using about triple the recipe and it still took less than an hour to cook everything. I added cinnamon and nutmeg as per many of the review suggestions, and I'm finishing them off in the oven with the traditional marshmellows. Since everything is very vague in this recipe, if you attempted it, what I did was get the pot hot on high--because I'm hella impatient--and then reduce it to medium heat so that all the sugar didn't burn. When you first put everything in the pot, it doesn't look like there's going to be enough liquid to cook everything, but there will be, trust me!)

Green Beans (everybody listen to me. SHUSH AND LISTEN TO ME. This is the BEST green bean casserole recipe I have EVER HAD. I'm pretty sure you could use regular flour instead of gluten free flour and it could come out as good. TRY THIS. SERIOUSLY. Most of the people I eat with don't really care for green bean casserole BUT THEY LIKED THIS ONE. It sounds complicated and it IS more work than just making it from cans, but I don't think it's that hard, really, and it's WORTH IT.)

Brussels sprouts

AAAANNND, burn number one! It's my first year using my new oven (which is very shiny and I love it) and a meat probe, so in shuffling around the new configuration I managed to burn myself on the probe. Ah well. BATTLE SCARS!!

The turkey is in the second stage, and I'm going to start prepping the crispy onions. Hope everyone else's day is going well!! <3

(also OMG LIVEJOURNAL where the HELL is your spell check??)

Turkey Day!! Second Post

kahn — Thu, 27 Nov 2014 20:16:30 GMT

FINDING ICE ON THANKSGIVING DAY = HELLA DIFFICULT

Turkey Day!! First Post

kahn — Thu, 27 Nov 2014 17:49:57 GMT

The turkey is in! Plus: First burn of the day, taking out the top rack in the oven, which I always forget about until I try to put a 20+ lbs turkey in. Joining us this year are special guests: serafaina and mizunol, up from Savannah, GA, to be joined later by thechildoftime and minerva710 with nightwalker reprising her role of Patient Roommate and Provider of Breakfast (scrambled eggs and cinnamon rolls!).

I have to go to Walmart to get buttermilk, but first I'm waiting for the turkey's first 1/2 hour at 500 degrees to be done. This year, I'm going back to Alton Brown's Good Eats Roast Turkey, brining and all. I did not get all the cleaning done that I wanted to yesterday, which is on par for the course, so while I cook I'm also going to do some tidying. This year's adventures: New Sweet Potato recipe and a gluten-free Green Bean Casserole in which I will have to make the crispy onions myself. Wish me luck!

[Fic] You Can Leave Your Cape On - Tony Stark x Bruce Wayne Epilogue

kahn — Sun, 01 Jun 2014 08:24:47 GMT

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

Tony's basking in the afterglow and trying to catch his breath when Bruce looks up from the path of soft kisses he's been trailing down Tony's chest to ask, "You really don't remember anything about him?"

Tony's having trouble focusing. "Who?"

"Batman."

"Bruce," Tony starts, and then has to break off with a soft gasp as Bruce applies his teeth to Tony's nipple, gently. He grabs Bruce's hair with both hands and tugs. Bruce sits up and kisses him once, twice, brief but demanding, muffling bits of Tony's determined response. "If you flew seven thousand miles just to ask me about another man I'm going to throw you out the window and then sic the dogs on you."

There's something in Bruce's smirk that Tony doesn't know how to interpret. "You don't have dogs."

"I'll get dogs," Tony promises in a disgruntled mutter. "Was this your whole plan? Climb in through my window and seduce me with your ability to trespass effectively so you can soften me up to interrogate me about some guy dressed in a costume I met, like, once when I was drugged to the gills?"

"It worked, didn't it?"

Bruce is so smug that Tony has no choice but to attempt to smother him with a pillow. Bruce laughs as he rolls away and hangs over the side of the bed for a minute, scrounging through their discarded clothes, saying, "I had a plan B."

He sits up and drops something into Tony's lap, two tickets, the kind that are printed on sturdy paper and elaborated with fancy scrollwork around the crisp edges. Tony picks them up and examines them. "Haly's Circus? Your backup plan was to seduce me with things that I liked when I was five? Wow, you suck at this."

"It's for charity, and they have an act that's supposed to be phenomenal. The Flying Graysons. You wanna be my date?"

The look Tony gives Bruce is probably way too fond, if the grin he receives in response is any indication. "It's probably just the endorphins talking at this point but sure." Tony shrugs. "Should be fun."

You Can Leave Your Cape On - Tony Stark x Bruce Wayne Part 3

kahn — Sun, 01 Jun 2014 08:16:07 GMT

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Epilogue

It takes another year for Bruce to return. Tony finds out about it like this:

He's wearing an old tank top that at one point had probably been red before Tony's unfortunate foray into laundry had left it an off-red color that's too obviously an accident to really be called pink. It's got oil stains and so do his jeans, which sling kind of low because Tony's lost weight again. Tony doesn't care because they're his softest pair—but that's because they're also his oldest pair, threads held together by grime and a prayer. He's got his favorite aviator-goggles-cum-safety-glasses pushed into his hairline, undoubtedly making the uncombed mess even worse.

He's covered in plaster dust because he's in the middle of renovating his mother's mansion in Gotham which, at the moment, basically consists of Tony bashing in walls with a sledgehammer. It's very therapeutic. His therapist would be horrified. She doesn't seem the type to understand coping with tension through violence.

He's crossing past the second-story dining room, probably in his own little dust cloud, with the sledgehammer slung over his shoulder, when he sees a man-shaped shadow move by one of the tall windows. His heart's immediately in his throat, and he can feel phantom ropes around his wrists again, which his therapist has told him is a perfectly reasonable reaction to his trauma, but that doesn't make it any easier to live with. It makes him want to curl up and it makes him want to punch things. Instead, he just tightens his grip on his sledgehammer and moves to investigate with an aggressive sort of fearfulness.

Bruce Wayne stands in a pale cut of light, suit jacket slung casually over his shoulder, gray button down open at the collar, looking like an ad in a men's fashion magazine. They blink at each other and then Bruce raises an eyebrow, his eyes trailing a slow and thorough up-and-down-and-up-again.

Shit, he's gorgeous. Tony'd forgotten how goddamned beautiful the man could be, every movement elegant and controlled—moreso now than when they were kids, like he's perfectly suited to those stylish parties and high society functions that bore Tony out of his head. He can see the glint of crystal champagne flutes in Bruce's smile and the glitter of diamonds in his eyes. He's grown some, too, tall and broad shouldered, filling out his perfectly tailored suit. Tony feels small and dark and scruffy by comparison.

"Is that a sledgehammer or are you just happy to see me?" Bruce asks in a drawl that manages to make the old, worn cliché come off as charming.

"It's a sledgehammer," Tony says flatly, squeezing all the emotions that suddenly surge up at the sight of him, a wide range from joy all the way down to rage, out of his voice. He continues to hold the hammer in front of him because, frankly, he's contemplating using it on Bruce's head. It's either that or fling himself into Bruce's arms, and that would be completely unacceptable. "How did you get in here?"

"I like what you're doing to the place." He touches the dust cloth that's draped over one of the chairs.

"No, seriously, I need to know where the security breach is."

"I have the code to the gate."

"No, you don't."

"Sure I do."

Tony stops and stares at Bruce, hard. He's lying. He's lying right to Tony's face, and maybe it's not about something big—there are holes in this house's security all over the place; it's on the mental list of things for Tony to fix—but the ease at which he does it sets off all sorts of warning bells, triggers the little part of Tony that's been quietly seething since Bruce left him behind, hardens the shell around all of his soft bits.

"Since you seem to know this place so well, you must know where the door is." Tony turns away and starts heading in the direction of a guest room where he plans on knocking out part of the ceiling to install a ventilation system and a range hood. "You can see yourself out."

"It took me less than two minutes to hack the network hub, turn off the cameras and the alarms, get past them and then turn them back on. The system has a lag on when it loses power and when it sounds the alarm of three minutes."

Tony turns back reluctantly, pulled by curiosity and his inability to really ignore Bruce properly. "And the fact that you're lurking on the second floor?"

"I figured the upper level windows had a higher chance of being unlocked."

Tony narrows his eyes and waits.

"And I thought the challenge might be fun," Bruce says, shrugging. His expression is a friendly, open look that Tony knows from his own experience works really well on deflecting reporters, hangers-on and basically anyone Tony doesn't want to deal with but also doesn't want to piss off. That Bruce would use it on him makes his hackles rise, but it sounds like he's telling the truth. One way to be sure.

"Show me."

Bruce turns back to the window. "Well, if you want to watch, I could probably make the climb now—"

"I mean the network hack, you asshole."

Bruce grins and Tony has the sinking feeling that he's losing, despite the prickly resentment that Tony can feel under his skin like quills.

"Sure," Bruce says and leads the way toward the security room—a small, closed space with no windows and filled with monitors that Tony intends to make obsolete as soon as he upgrades the closed camera system to wireless that can be accessed from a tablet anywhere in the house.

"I'm not even going to ask how you know where this is, you creepy, floor-plan memorizing stalker."

Bruce's white teeth flash in the dark as he sits down and begins tapping through the screens with a competency that Tony finds surprising, even though he knows he shouldn't. Bruce has always been able to master anything he set his mind to. He slips his safety goggles off and tosses them into an extra chair, sets his hammer against the wall and settles in to watch Bruce demonstrate brilliance in yet another subject, only slightly begrudging.

"So," Bruce says after a few moments of silence. "I heard you had an encounter."

"Hm?" Tony's been lulled by the dance of Bruce's long fingers over the keyboard, the soft sound of rapid tapping, the mental calculations of how much effort needs to go into fixing the weakness in the system that Bruce is showing him.

"With the Batman."

The chill that coils down his throat and tightens around his stomach is expected, but the speed at which it ruins Tony's tentative calm is still surprising. He sits straighter, tries and fails not to fidget.

"I don't really remember it."

"No?"

"Are you going to pretend that you didn't read the articles?"

"Nobody tells the press the whole truth."

"Yeah, well, I wasn't exactly at my best." Tony swallows and can still feel the syrup sickly sweet taste on the back of his tongue from drugged drinks forced down his throat, the imprint of hands holding him down, despite the fact that he knew all those bruises had faded long ago. "Also, kind of super concussed from being nearly shot in the head. I'm fine, though. By the way." Because if he says it enough times, it's bound to be true eventually.

The room is kept cool to help the CPUs run at capacity, but Tony feels too hot. It's getting difficult to breathe evenly and there aren't enough exits. He stands up, angling for the door, but then Bruce swivels toward him and catches his arm. It's a soft hold, not meant to trap, or Tony would have fought it off and kept going. Instead, it stalls him.

Bruce's fingertips skim down Tony's arm, making him shiver, and touches the hand that Tony has clenched around his own wrist without even realizing it. Bruce doesn't even have to try hard to get Tony to let go, to turn Tony's arm over and press both thumbs against the reddening imprint of Tony's nails on the underside of his wrist.

"I knew you were all right," he says without looking up from the study he's making of Tony's veins and tendons. "I made sure."

Tony scoffs, but it comes out shakier than he would have liked. "How? Did you steal my medical records? Because I sure as hell didn't see you at the hospital."

The pause that follows might have been unnoticeable to anyone else, but it's just long enough that Tony knows whatever is going to come out of Bruce's mouth next is going to be another lie. "I talked to Obadiah."

And see, that answer actually makes sense , but it's still a lie, and Tony doesn't know what game Bruce is playing, but his thumbs start rubbing circles into Tony's skin and the little intermittent shivers become full body—and it's not fear. Tony's been flinching away from contact since he came back from Amsterdam—Obadiah, even Rhodey can't touch him without Tony having to fight through his first, reactive need get away . But Bruce puts his hands on Tony and Tony finds himself leaning closer.

Tony doesn't even think Bruce realizes how big that is, and it makes him want to headbutt Bruce in the face and also chain them together so that Bruce can never ever get away and neither of those reactions are healthy. Tony knows this, but that doesn't make the thoughts stop.

Tony has been clawing his way through this world without Bruce for almost a decade, and has spent the last year determinedly putting his life back together on his own. It shouldn't be this easy to fall back into Bruce's orbit. Tony shouldn't want to collapse into Bruce's lap and curl up and let him take care of things. Bruce is going to leave again, someday. Tony was never enough to make him stay. That's a sobering enough thought that he finds it in him to pull away.

"I need you to leave, now."

Bruce looks up at him, and it's that same fire Tony remembers from years ago, when they were two grieving boys sitting in a room together where day had come again, despite the fact that the world seemed to have slowed to a stop, caught in the endless loop of two gunshots, two bodies hitting the ground. It's banked, now, no longer wild but no less consuming, no less compelling. Tony looks away.

"Tony," Bruce says.

"Go." Tony puts all the forcefulness he can manage into that word, and then moves to the doorway just so he can put some distance between them. After a few moments, Bruce stands and follows him.

They walk all the way up to the foyer in silence, which some cleaning company has kept impeccable despite the fact that this place has been uninhabited for three years. Bruce moves way too quietly for a big guy in dress shoes. Tony wants to ask him about it, but doesn't. Even as socially awkward as Obadiah despairs him being, he guesses it would be bad taste to demand the secrets of someone you're kicking out.

"Tony," Bruce says, and Tony has to brace himself before turning toward him. He searches Tony's face for a moment, but whatever he sees shutters his expression, and the he smiles that bland in-front-of-cameras smile that makes Tony's skin crawl. "If you're in Gotham sometime, we should do lunch."

"Sure. Of course."

It's so generically polite it's almost physically painful. Then Bruce is turning away, walking out the front door and down the steps.

It's evening, which is a surprise—when did that happen?—but Tony barely even notices that he apparently lost about six hours to this house and its ghosts. Bruce's back is to Tony, and that's all Tony sees—his friend's back, the set of his shoulders in the stiff black suit, the gulf of space between them that seems to have grown wider than Tony thought possible. He remembers this feeling. This feeling is familiar. This feeling is a funeral, a death in the family. He doesn't have maps for this; they didn't plan for this and now he's not sure he can find the way.

All Tony knows for sure is that he's been waiting for something for a while, no matter how many times he's told himself that he's moved on, that life goes on, that Tony's world doesn't stop spinning just because Bruce Wayne isn't in it, that 'home' absolutely cannot be a person. People are too weak to build foundations on. He also knows that if he lets Bruce walk away he'll probably be waiting forever.

Tony is down the steps before he really registers the movement; his hands are on Bruce's black jacket and Bruce has turned toward him with that hideously neutral expression that Tony takes in both hands and kisses, hard.

Bruce kisses back like he's been waiting for this, which he may have been because he's always been annoyingly good at predicting Tony, the asshole. His large hands span the breadth from Tony's jaw to his temple, cradling as he tips Tony's head back to get a better angle, and Tony makes an annoyed sound, even as he shivers, and bites Bruce's bottom lip hard enough to make him back off a bit.

"You're sending a lot of mixed signals." Bruce's tone is light and teasing, but his hands still hold Tony with a determination that says a crowbar may need to be applied to get him to let go.

"Fuck you," Tony snaps, not in the mood to put up with any horseshit. "You are the king of mixed signals." He's dragging Bruce back toward the house determinedly, although he suspects they're only making progress because Bruce is letting him, giant, stupid, muscled jerkface. "You don't get to complain about anything."

"Is that so?"

"Seven. Years."

"I came back."

"On your own time. That doesn't earn you any points. You know what would earn you points, though?"

"Less talk, more kissing?"

"And people call me the super genius. Wait." They're at the steps, now, so Tony makes Bruce stand at the bottom as he takes two steps up under Bruce's bemused gaze. Then he pulls Bruce back in.

Two steps is enough to make Tony a little taller than Bruce, and he knows the moment Bruce figures it out by the shape of his grin against Tony's lips, his hands skimming up Tony's ribs, hitching his shirt up a little. It makes Tony think of being twelve, Bruce fourteen and leaving—again, this time with a sense of finality that made Tony want to do crazy things, like kiss Bruce just as the night turned over to dawn.

Even though it brings back the memory, this is nothing like it was when they were kids, making out in the furtive dark. Back then, Bruce had been saying goodbye and Tony had been trying to make him stay, and everything had been frantic and fraught and broken.

This feels like pieces settling back into place.

They find a guest room because Tony declares the master bedroom to be too creepy that's my mother's bed what's wrong with you? and unearth it from dust covers until Bruce declares it acceptable and Tony declares your obsessive tendencies aren't sexy; you know that, right?

When Tony's back hits the bed and Bruce's weight presses him down, he has a moment where he doesn't register that it's Bruce, his rabbit-brain only telling him he's trapped beneath someone larger and he needs to get away. It doesn't last more than a moment, at least Tony hopes it doesn't, but when he comes back Bruce is sitting up, watchful.

"We don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable," Bruce says, and the gentleness in his voice is underlined with a thread of something darker, like a promise that Bruce will break necks if Tony asks him to.

Tony's never been comfortable with the idea of Bruce having to rescue him. He's always been quietly convinced that it'll be his job, one day, to save Bruce.

"I know that, dipshit," Tony snaps, grabbing a handful of Bruce's shirt—his jacket oh-so-neatly hung on the back of a chair already—reveling in getting plaster dust all over the silvery silk as he pulls Bruce down. Bruce lets himself be pulled; Tony's under no illusions about his own strength. Physically, Bruce will probably always beat him. But Tony's relatively certain that he can out-stubborn Bruce at least fifty percent of the time. "I want to."

The small, worried line doesn't entirely ease from between Bruce's eyebrows. He reaches out a hand and Tony meets him halfway, but instead of guiding to down to his cock, hot and heavy and beginning to feel constricted it his pants so they can get on with it, he brings it brings it to his face and nuzzles into it because his subconscious mind wants to kill him with embarrassment, apparently.

"If it gets weird, I'll tell you," he says to Bruce's searching look.

Bruce curves his fingers, rubbing little circles into Tony's scalp, sending soft burrs of pleasure through him that make his toes curl.

"Promise." It's not a question; it's a command.

Usually, Tony would be contrary just to prove a point, but he thinks Bruce might need this, and maybe Tony does, too. He turns his head and presses a kiss into Bruce's palm. "I promise."

Then Bruce shifts his hand until it's hot against the back of Tony's neck and reels him in, still a little careful, until Tony huffs and pounces. His knees land on either side of Bruce's hips as Bruce rolls onto his back to accommodate, and he brackets Bruce's head with his arms as he leans down and kisses Bruce hungrily, loosing himself in for a few minutes in the softness of Bruce's lips, the slick tease of his tongue, the rough burn of stubble.

Bruce's hands skim up the backs of Tony's thighs and the grip his ass, pulling Tony down as he rocks up and Tony has to break off with a gasp and resist the urge to rut shamelessly against Bruce while they're still clothed. He bites softly at Bruce's shoulder through his shirt in retaliation.

"Hands-y," he says, breathier than he would have liked.

"Eager," Bruce retorts and looks unbearably smug as another squeeze makes Tony gasp again.

"Okay, pants off. And I hope you came prepared," Tony adds as he slides off the bed and goes about taking his shoes off with the least amount of clumsiness he can manage, "because if we have to use lube and condoms left here by my mother and whatever company she kept—we're still doing this, but I'm not going to talk to you for at least a week afterward."

Bruce is getting out of his pants in a much more graceful way, of course, and he's come prepared, of course, producing a tube of lubricant and enough condoms that Tony raises an eyebrow.

"Optimistic much?"

Bruce raises and eyebrow right back. He's still fiddling with his cuffs, and mostly turned away, shirt open, legs bare—and Tony should not be so distracted the legs of a man he's known practically his whole life. "Are you saying you're not up for the challenge?"

"Oh I'm up for it." And he rocks his hips in Bruce's direction, completely naked now and unashamed. Shame and Tony Stark have not been on speaking terms for a while, and besides, Tony likes his cock. It's a nice shape; it's a nice length, and he knows how to use it.

Bruce gives him a look so droll it's practically an entire dissertation about how much of a disappointment he finds Tony at this moment.

"Come on," Tony protests. "You practically handed that to me on a silver platter!"

Bruce finally finishes fiddling with his cuffs and slips out of his shirt in a liquid movement that looks like he's practiced for the sole purpose of seducing someone, and turns toward him, dropping. The shirt goes on the chair, folded neatly, and then Bruce turns toward him and all the air goes out of Tony's lungs, as does his ability to form coherent sentences, because fuck, Bruce is gorgeous.

Tony closes the distance between them, and presses a palm against Bruce's pec, rubbing down and over a nipple and smiles a little when Bruce leans into it. His other hand, a teasing slide of fingertips from Bruce's navel up to the curve of his ribs, finds a rough spot that feels odd, and Tony's smile drops away when he looks at it curiously. It's a healed wound, about the size of a dime and almost perfectly round, still fresh enough to be pink.

Bruce's hazy, lust-filled gaze sharpens a little, and he moves to pull away, but not before Tony snakes his hand around Bruce's back and feels the much messier exit wound, splayed out just beneath Bruce's shoulder blade.

"Did you get shot?"

"Polo accident."

Tony can't even—he can't even find words to express how much he does not believe Bruce at this moment, and his long, hard stare must convey at least some of that because Bruce looks a little abashed.

"Before you have to lie to somebody about that for real, you're going to make up something at least a little bit believable, okay?"

"Tony—"

He doesn't want to hear it, to have to deal with something else Bruce isn't willing to tell him, and lust is still hot in his veins, clouding his good judgment, so he blurts, "Can I suck you off?"

The please, gets stuck behind his teeth because Stark men don't beg (then again, they're not really supposed to suck cock either, Anthony, so why even bother with this last little hangup?), but Tony tries to put all his pleading into his eyes as he tilts his head back and looks Bruce in the face.

Bruce sucks in a sharp breath, pupils dilating, and a faint but fascinating flush moving slowly down his chest. Tony smirks and crowds Bruce backward until his knees hit the bed and he sits, a little less gracefully than usual. Tony kneels between his legs, nudging them apart until he's made space for himself, and then gestures imperiously.

"Condom me."

Bruce snorts, but he also practically falls backward in a scramble to find one in the folds of the classy cream comforter of the guest bed. The movement makes Bruce's half-hard cock rock a little closer and a little switch flicks off in Tony's head, the one that controls the no, stop signal.

With one hand still upturned and waiting, propped on Bruce's knee, he reaches with the other, palm skimming down Bruce's length. Bruce arches a bit and then goes boneless with a little, strangled sound that makes Tony smile and tip forward, fingers closing a bit more firmly, feeling the swelling heat of it, nuzzling down to the base where he presses his tongue to the bristly-soft hair in a firm lick that makes the cock in his hand twitch, makes Bruce's thighs tense and press against Tony as if to hold him there. Tony pauses for a self-check, waiting for the panic that would usually rear its head at the hint of being trapped.

When Tony determines that the rapid beating of his heart as nothing to do with fear and everything to do with how very much he wants Bruce's cock in his mouth, he lets himself relax a little, pressing himself up against the bed, the comforter smooth and a little cool and Tony rubs against it a little wantonly. He lifts Bruce's cock and presses a soft kiss to the underside, then lower, nuzzling and breathing deep. Bruce smells mostly of soap, something something with a warm, masculine undertone of fragrance, and hints of ozone.

Tony applies just the slightest edge of teeth to one of the soft, heavy sacs and then stops again, this time to check on Bruce. Not everyone is okay with teeth, and usually this is about the time that a hand grabs Tony's hair and guides him, but, except for the tension in Bruce's thighs and the intermittent, almost imperceptible shivers Tony can feel wracking Bruce's muscular frame, he hasn't really moved, much.

"Babe, you okay?" When that doesn't get a response, Tony sits up and rubs both hands over Bruce's thighs, a little coil of worry tightening around Tony's gut. Bruce has got both hands pressed over his face, and Tony can't get clear signals from Bruce's body language. "Bruce? You gotta use your words."

"Mmph," Bruce manages, and then wraps a leg around Tony, pulling him in. "Give me a minute."

Tony relaxes again and grins a bit. "I'll take that as a compliment...?"

"I'm not feeding your ego," Bruce grumbles, muffled.

Tony lets himself feel a little smug, rubbing his hands lightly over Bruce's thighs. Bruce should really appreciate the amount of control it takes Tony to not put his mouth on Bruce's cock. As it is, he has to swallow saliva before saying, "Why do you smell like an airplane?"

Bruce finally drops his hands and gets up on his elbows to look at him incredulously. "What?"

"Sorry. Just curious." Tony shrugs. "What, you didn't expect me to babble in bed?"

"Probably because I came straight here from one," Bruce answers as he sits up and drops a foil packet into Tony's waiting hand.

Tony's already got the corner in his mouth, rips it open and tosses the foil away before saying, "Didn't you stop in to see Alfred?"

"No. I called him to check in, and find out where you were, and then just—straight here."

Tony feels something twist in him as he glances up, a fight between the part that wants to interpret this as something important, and the part that knows from past experience that this is probably much more significant to Tony than it is to Bruce. Bruce is watching him with a rapt attention that sends heat through him, settling at the base of his spine, making his skin prickle and his mind hum, like he's deep inside a complicated equation that's finally beginning to unfold, variables clicking into place. It makes Tony want to show off a little.

"Hold on, babe," he says. "You're going to like this."

He gets the foil open and slips the condom over his tongue and gets a firm grip on Bruce's cock and swallows it down, slipping the condom down as he goes. He feels Bruce breathe deep and go tense, and Tony remembers this, how quiet Bruce was.

Latex rubs against his tongue, different from skin. It makes Tony regret the need, but only briefly because the stretch of his lips and the weight of Bruce on his tongue is perfect, makes Tony want to shiver and touch himself, but he keeps one hand wrapped around the base of Bruce's cock and the other clenched on in his lap because he wants this to last as long as possible. He takes as much of Bruce in as he can and chokes a little when Bruce's hips hitch forward. Bruce makes an apologetic sound. His touch is gentle in Tony's hair and that shakes something apart in Tony's heart, crumbles some last wall.

Tony touches his knee, it's okay, and then they find their rhythm, Bruce's hips canting in controlled little thrusts, and Tony greedy for more, taking in Bruce's entire length down to the root as much as he can, his hands braced on Bruce's thighs. His mouth is filled almost too full, but he loves the burn of it, the smell of Bruce, the heat, the way it fills him up and turns off the part of his brain that always thinks too much.

Then Bruce's hand tightens in his hair and Tony is no longer in his mother's mansion, no longer in Gotham at all. He's back in a too-hot room an ocean away, rope around his wrists and throat.

It's only a moment, and then he's back. Bruce has let him go, hands up like he wants to reach for Tony but he isn't sure if he should, his eyes are wide with worry, and Tony's still on his knees but he's pulled away, out from between Bruce's legs. His heart is pounding in his head and he's fighting to get his breath even and through the fading terror he's so angry. Because it's been going so well and he'd let his guard down and he doesn't want to feel like this anymore.

"Tony," Bruce says.

"Wait," Tony snaps, pressing the back of his hand over his mouth, and then tries to gentle his voice almost immediately. "Sorry sorry, just...give me a second."

"You've got nothing to apologize for," Bruce says, and other people have said the same thing, but there's something in Bruce's voice, a weight and darkness to it, that says he would rearrange the world with sheer willpower and fists if it could make Tony feel better, that calms Tony down.

Tony scrubs hands over his face and says, "Keep talking."

"I wish I'd been there. I wish I'd been able to—"

"Not about that," Tony says, hastily.

There's a pause, and then, "A lot of rain, for this time of year."

Tony drops his hands and glares at Bruce who looks, admittedly, a bit sheepish. "Really?"

"I'm not...particularly good with words."

"Nooo," Tony says, and then continues to say it as he crawls back over to Bruce and settles between his legs again. "You? Not good with words?"

Bruce smiles at him, relieved but still holding himself carefully, as non-threatening as possible. "Better?"

"Yeah, I think so. Problem is that it's always 'better' until it isn't."

"How can I help?"

"Kiss me?" Tony catches Bruce's wrists and lifts Bruce's hands toward his face, and Bruce doesn't need more prompting than that, cradling Tony's head and kissing like he can mend the cracks in Tony's heart with soft lips and slick tongue and long fingers that hold Tony like he's precious.

It's too much. Tony can't handle it; has to deflect with humor, has to break away and make a little face and say, "Okay we're getting tested as soon as possible and then neither of us are having sex with anyone else until we can do this again without latex breath."

"You have plans to have sex with other people?"

There's an undercurrent to the question that makes Tony look Bruce in the eyes, and raise eyebrows at the possessiveness he sees there.

It makes his mouth go dry. It feels like a punch to the gut, a blow to the last defensive structures he has. He has to swallow before saying, "Er, no? Not, like, officially or anything. But I didn't think this was going to be an exclusive thing..." Bruce's mouth thins into a hard line, and he looks away, and Tony might be rusty but he thinks he can interpret that brand of Bruce-silence. "But...it...can be? If you want it to—"

"Yes," Bruce says, with enough emphasis to surprise them both.

Tony feels his heart sort of melt into a little pile of warm goo, and his smile is probably completely embarrassing, but he doesn't care, as he says, "Okay, babe," and kisses the line of Bruce's mouth until it relaxes again, until he kisses back, hands sliding around Tony's back to pull him closer. "Okay, I've got you."

Bruce's hands slide over his back, tracing faint scars, the legacy of Howard's temper and skill with a belt, and there's something in Bruce's eyes that says he'd like to hide Tony away where no one else can touch him. Tony wants to let him. That's the part that should be particularly alarming.

"And I've got you," Bruce says an a low rumble that Tony can feel through his lips, down to his gut. His cock twitches with interest.

"Fuck me," Tony says, because if he doesn't, he might say something foolish. There's a part of him that feels like he's folding paper stars again, hoping that his father is wrong, that forever is something that people can hold on to.

"We don't have to—" Bruce sucks in a sharp breath as Tony takes hold of his cock.

He squeezes, just enough that he's sure he has Bruce's attention as he enunciates. "I want to."

Bruce doesn't need any more prompting, pulling Tony into a hard kiss and then onto the bed. It's messy and a little clumsy, and probably would have worked out better if either one of them had been willing to let go or stop kissing for a moment, but when they're finished, Bruce executes a final roll that leaves Tony straddling his waist as Bruce sprawls out beneath him, his cock rubbing against Tony's ass, and Tony's hands braced on Bruce's ridiculous abs.

"Yeah?" Tony has to ask, a little dazed.

"If it works for you."

And it...does. This way, Tony can retain enough control to, hopefully, not set off any more unfortunate incidents. Bruce's solution is a good one, and that he thought of it makes Tony want to squirm and look away from Bruce's searching gaze.

Instead, Tony straightens his shoulders and says, "Yeah."

Bruce nods. "Good." Then his expression turns a little wry. "Because I don't think I can hold out much longer."

"Yeah, me either." Tony grins and holds out his hand with an imperious flick. "Lube me."

What he meant was for Bruce to hand him the tube that's lurking somewhere in the sheets, but instead, Bruce catches his outstretched hand and pulls him forward a little so that his other hand, slick and warm and when did he have the opportunity to do that—part his cheeks and rub against the pucker of muscle. Tony makes a keening sound and falls forward, catching himself with a forearm against Bruce's chest, head dropping to press against Bruce's heartbeat.

"Tony?"

"Don't stop."

Permission received, Bruce opens him up in his focused, thorough way, refusing to be rushed, no matter how much Tony swears at him, voice hoarse and breathless. Tony can only gasp for breath and buck a little frantically, writhing and demanding more, wanting the burn of it, the roughness of knuckles, and faint scrape of nails. His cock hitches against Bruce's stomach, the soft-bristle buzz of hair a maddening texture that Tony rubs into desperately. It's not enough, and it's too much, and after only a few minutes, Tony has to grab Bruce's wrist.

"Okay," Tony pants. "That's enough."

Bruce practically pouts at him, and Tony has to laugh, delight and lust bright in his chest as he leans forward to press kisses to the line between Bruce's eyebrows, to his cheek and then to his mouth.

"Next time, babe," Tony promises against his lips. "We'll do it your way next time. You've got me; I'm not going anywhere. But right now I want you in me before I start getting gray hairs, okay?"

Tony flexes around Bruce's fingers for emphasis, and Bruce's eyes dilate. When he pulls out it drags a shudder from Tony, who has to bite his lip and focus on the pain to keep from coming immediately. He reaches behind him and grasps Bruce's cock, and he's too impatient to ease into it. Bruce gives a soft grunt as Tony drops his weight.

Pain zings through him. Tony chases it, breathes and makes himself relax, feels his mind whiting out when pain shifts over to pleasure, the heat and stretch of Bruce filling him. It's so good, it's perfect. Tony wants more. Bruce's hands are on his hips, thumbs pressing hard on the hollows of his hips, and that's good, too. Tony hopes he gets bruises, hopes Bruce leaves marks on him, hopes he isn't babbling that out loud.

The rhythm they find is frantic, but it works, or at least Tony's too far gone to care. Every time Bruce thrusts up it's electric, heat and sparks, like atoms splitting in Tony's brain. Bruce is watching him like it's trying to take Tony apart with this eyes alone, his hair a mess, sweat a sheen over his whole body and he's gorgeous, in a way that takes Tony's remaining breath away.

He isn't going to last long. He knows it. Takes his own cock in hand when he feels himself getting close, and then Bruce closes his hand around Tony's, palm hot against his skin, and that's pretty much it. The combined pull and heat from their hands and orgasm hits Tony hard, yelling and shuddering into it. Bruce slows as Tony collapses forward, catching himself with a hand next to Bruce's head.

Bruce looks up at him, eyes luminous, and something smug behind that, an expression Tony has to kiss away. Bruce's hands skim up Tony's sides until Tony murmurs, "Come on, babe." And Bruce's arms lock around him, one hand splayed on Tony's shoulderblades and the other on the back of his head, muffling Tony's cries with his mouth as he thrusts up, hard, once, twice, and then Tony feels it as Bruce comes, pulses that shake both of them apart, leave them panting and boneless on the bed.

Tony's head is propped on Bruce's chest, listening to the thud of his heart slowly return to a more sedate pace. Bruce's touch follows the line of Tony's arm until he finds Tony's hand and twines their fingers together. For a moment, Tony lets himself be still, lets the quiet of the house sink into his skin, lets himself believe that he can hold on to this moment forever, and that it will always be like this between Bruce and himself.

Eventually, Tony pulls away and gets them cleaned up with a corner of sheet because he honestly doesn't know where any towels are in this house, tossing the spent condom into a trashbin that looks like it might be plated in platinum, before settling next to Bruce again.

"So, one down. What, like, twenty to go?" Tony scans the bed, trying to make a count of the condoms they have left. "I am so so glad for teenage refractory periods."

Bruce laughs. It's quiet, but genuine. The rush of pleasure Tony gets hearing it is probably all kinds of pathetic, but he can't help but smile back, dopey with warm feelings, as Bruce pulls him back in for another kiss.

Tony is nineteen, a little sticky, and a lot satisfied, pressing greedily into Bruce's kiss and rubbing against him shamelessly, the first time he thinks I love you. He doesn't say it out loud, so he doesn't really get a reply, except he can feel Bruce's heart through through his own chest, a sound that fills all the dark spaces with the beat of home home home.

[Fic] You Can Leave Your Cape On - Tony Stark x Bruce Wayne Part 2

kahn — Sun, 01 Jun 2014 08:09:48 GMT

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Epilogue

As much as they get teased for being inseparable, Tony isn't with Bruce all the time. Sometimes, Tony has to go be with his family if they're going someplace public, and he has to behave in front of the cameras, which is dull. Also, once a year, Tony's father runs him through a series of aptitude tests to check his mental and cognitive development. It's a rigorous process that usually takes about a week, and that's where Tony is the night that Thomas and Martha Wayne are killed.

Tony doesn't hear about it until much later, when he's already wound tight with tension because Bruce hasn't called for days and his parents keep having furtive, hissing arguments when they think he isn't paying attention.

His parents have never hidden their quarrels from him before, always loud and upfront about any disagreement between them. Sometimes it's nice to be honest about things, but usually it just means that he's forced to take sides.

Eventually, it's his mother that comes and sits across from him, her hands folded in her lap, her expression solemn. It's her you have to pay attention, Tony, this is important look, like they're running another test. Tony is immediately alert, sitting up straight, mind at the ready. Then she tells him that Mr. and Mrs. Wayne are dead, and the world slows to a stop.

Tony doesn't understand, not really. There's a ringing in his ears and his fingertips feel cold, and there's a dull, impossibly huge pressure behind his eyes.

Bruce is ten when he loses his parents. Tony is eight, and it's the first time he attempts the journey between their houses alone and on foot, because he's not going to wait for his parents to come to a consensus about whether or not he should be allowed to see Bruce. Bruce needs him, so Tony needs to go.

He doesn't get far. His mother—careful coils of hair wrapped in a scarf, makeup impeccable, mouth a tense, deep red bow—finds him. As always, she looks like a movie star, but for the first time Tony can remember, she also looks tired and drawn. She leans out of the car and offers her hand, eyes hidden behind her sunglasses, expression blank. He climbs up next to her without touching her, but then she folds him carefully against her side as the driver takes them the rest of the way to the Wayne mansion in silence. It's odd. Her scent is unfamiliar; her perfume tickles his nose, but he leans against her, anyway, and feels marginally better.

When they reach the mansion, Alfred answers the door, looking grayer and older than Tony's ever seen him. He greets them politely enough, but there's a chill in the air that seems to settle on Tony's shoulders, makes him step closer to his mother and take her offered hand as they step inside to wait in the one of the front studies. Tony sits in a chair that's too big, his feet dangling off the ground as he stares at a grandfather clock that isn't moving.

Eventually, Alfred comes back, and this time his voice holds at least some kind of emotion—not a good or happy emotion, but somehow better than the hollow nothing of his first greeting—as he informs them that Master Bruce isn't interested in seeing them.

At first, Tony doesn't understand, so he says, "When will he want to see me? After dinner?"

Alfred hesitates and that sad—he's sad, Tony realizes—expression gets worse. "I'm not sure, Master Anthony."

"Tomorrow?" Tony presses.

But his only answer is, "I'm not sure. I apologize, Master Anthony."

Tony can feel something hot and heavy squeeze his chest as he stares into Alfred's dark gaze. It's painful, climbing up his throat and cheeks, prickling behind his eyes.

"Thank you, Alfred," his mother says, eventually, and Tony snaps his eyes to her, betrayal and frustration threatening to break apart the dam of his thoughts, drown him in feeling. Foolish, sentimental weakness, his father would say. "Can you give us a moment? We can see ourselves out."

"Of course, madam," Alfred says and then he's gone. Tony wants to call him back. He suddenly and desperately doesn't want to be here with only his mother for comfort.

She reaches for him. Tony tenses and knows that if she touches him all his rebellion will spill over and make things worse. He wants to scream. Not words, not reasoned argument, like his parents have taught him. He just wants to howl his pain to the sky and make everyone listen, make everyone suffer as much as he's suffering.

She hesitates with fingertips hovering near his shoulder, and then drops her hand.

"Grief is...sometimes a very private emotion," she says. "Do you understand, Tony? You'll get to see Bruce, eventually. But until he's ready, you'll have to be patient. Can you do that?"

Grief. Tony finally puts a name to what's been trying to crush him since he heard about Bruce's mom and dad, that great and terrible thing he managed to ignore while he was focused on getting to Bruce. But now Bruce doesn't want to see him and there's nothing holding back that awful feeling.

Tony is not like Bruce. He doesn't want to face something this intense, this huge, all by himself. But for Bruce, for Bruce he'll do it. He'll wait. He'll wait forever, if he has to.

Tony doesn't see Bruce again until the funeral.

It feels like a forever-long time, though it isn't. Strangely, it also feels as if time hasn't moved at all. Tony has been a wreck at home, lashing out with tantrums, unable to focus on his projects, being cruel to his mother who, in turn, has been kinder to him than she has ever been before.

"It's okay," she keeps telling him, while his father retreats to his labs in a show of stony disapproval. "It's okay to feel these things. It's okay to be angry; it's okay to cry."

Tony doesn't understand. He doesn't understand anything. Nothing feels okay, and his mother's unusual patience just makes Tony feel worse, caught up in a spiral of anger and guilt until he thinks he'll never feel better again. He can't let go, and can't get past this, and there's a hot knot in his throat that's getting so tight that it's starting to constrict words. He's afraid that, when he sees Bruce, everything he needs to say won't come out.

The world isn't moving. Tony's stuck in this horrible moment and can't see a way out.

The day of the funeral is overcast and gloomy, making all the solemn colors seem darker, making the whole world look like a bruise. Tony and his mother are late, his mother full of fury that makes all her edges razorblade sharp. It took a three hour long shouting match with Tony's father before they were allowed to come, and even then it took Tony's mother breaking several pieces of lab equipment and threatening to break even more before Tony's father let them out of the house. They slip in toward the back of the crowd and take a seat, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible.

Tony almost doesn't recognize Bruce, his friend seeming somehow diminished, small and silent, standing near Alfred. He's holding Alfred's hand, but there's still distance between them and it seems deliberate on Bruce's part, like he still can't stand to have anyone inside his space.

His back is to Tony, and that's all Tony sees—his friend's back, the set of his small shoulders in the stiff black jacket, the gulf of space between them that seems to grow wider without either one of them moving.

In the end, Tony doesn't get to say anything, never gets to test whether the hot-heavy feeling squeezing his throat shut will ease around Bruce, because Bruce leaves after the service without speaking to anyone, Alfred so quick and efficient about slipping them away that Tony almost doesn't see them leave, lost in the shuffle of people at the back. When he notices, he catches his mother's arm and tugs.

"Tony," she says, sharply.

He lets go, startled at his own audacity, enough for the muddled sadness miring this thoughts to clear, and to blurt, "Bruce—he's leaving."

"I see that."

Her tone does not encourage dissent, but it's important so Tony presses. "I need to talk to him."

"You can't."

"I have to!" his voice rises above the general murmur of the crowd. There are people looking at him, now. Tony thinks that might be a reporter scribbling on a notepad in a corner—his father taught him how to spot them so as to be extra sure not to do anything that might embarrass himself. Tony can't even make himself care. There's nothing more important right now than being able to see Bruce.

His mother's eyes flash, and Tony braces himself, fists clenching. Then she breathes out, her lovely-sharp features softening a little as she folds herself gracefully until her gaze is level with his. "Do you remember when I said that you need to be patient? Bruce will call for you when he's ready."

Her voice is kind, but that doesn't sooth emotions that Tony can barely recognize scraping the inside of his brain raw, pushing out words that are jagged and rough. "You're only saying that because you don't want to help me. You don't even care."

Tony regrets saying it almost immediately, as his mother's face closes off into icy composure and she straightens, but his teeth are clenched so hard against the rising threat of tears that he can't apologize, and he doubts it would make much difference if he did. He can recognize that look on his mother's face. It's much more familiar to him than this more recent gentleness.

"That's right," she says, quiet and cold, "because rude, ungrateful creatures don't deserve my help."

Tony keeps his face blank, though he can feel hot tears spill over his cheeks with the effort, his fists so tight that his nails make little crescents of pain on his palms.

"We're going home," his mother announces with a turn on her heel worthy of a runway model. "And if you make any more trouble for me, I'll tell your father what a spectacle you've made of yourself."

It is not an idle threat and his father's retribution, as angry as he already was when they left, would be—substantial. Tony scrubs his face quickly and follows his mother out. They ride in the car together, but Tony might as well be back at Wayne Manor for all the mind she pays him. Tony prefers it this way, or at least he tells himself he does. He works on breathing evenly and keeping his mind blank. If he starts crying, he'll be punished for sure, and he can't afford that right now.

New York never really gets dark, not like Gotham, nor do the streets ever really empty of people the way Gotham does after a certain hour. Tony lets his eyes unfocus until the lights are a blur, until he can close his eyes and not see Bruce's mother's smile, Bruce's father's favorite velvet smoking jacket, Bruce's strange stillness, so unlike the energetic boy Tony knows as his friend.

The Stark building is cold and dark, and his mother heads back to her rooms without a backward glance. Tony watches her go, the long line of her neck paler than the surrounding darkness of the hallway, her black dress, her dark stockings and shoes. Tony watches until the shadows swallow her, knowing it will probably be a long time before he sees her again.

Then he goes to his room, changes his clothes, grabs the backpack Bruce helped pack during one of the coldest days during last year's long, cold winter, and slips out, heading back to Gotham.

Tony can't ask Bill, their usual driver, to take him because he doesn't want to get Bill in trouble. The driver before Bill had given Tony candy for Halloween once and Tony hadn't seen him again after that. He likes Bill and doesn't want him to have to go away. In any case, it should be fine. He and Bruce have planned for this. Tony has money hidden, and a subway card that Bruce's mother bought him for emergencies, and an internal map with several alternative routes planned by Bruce, who always thinks there should be a plan B through F, just in case.

Tony is eight the first time he makes his way to Wayne Manor from New York and when he looks back on it, he'll be amazed at how he managed it without getting stopped by anyone, hostile or well-meaning both. In the moment, though, Tony's heart is beating so hard he can hear it in his head, feel the pulse of it in his toes, and he struggles to blend in, wearing cheap street clothes, brands that Tony's parents would never stoop to and had to be hidden from them, a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes.

It's not until Tony's at the door to Wayne Manor, and he's exhausted and a little spooked by how dark and quiet everything is, how large the world is without any adults to guide him through it, that he realizes that he came all this way without figuring out what he's going to say.

Alfred opens the door so quickly that Tony suspects, later, that he was possibly waiting for Tony to show up.

"Master Anthony," Alfred says, sounding surprised but not that surprised, the lines in his face deeper in the dark.

Tony takes a breath. Then he bursts into tears.

Alfred scoops him up immediately, even though he's probably too big to pick up easily. Tony clings to him, buries his face in Alfred's shoulder, mortified but unable to stop, surprised a little by the force at which the sobs rip out of him. Alfred doesn't shush him or tell him to be brave and quiet, he just carries Tony further into the house, murmuring softly about how it's going to be alright. Tony doesn't think that's possible, but he wants to let go of cold, driving logic and just believe that somehow, through magic that Tony absolutely doesn't believe in, Alfred will making the world okay again.

Eventually, Alfred sets him down so that he's sitting on something soft, and when he opens his eyes he recognizes his old bedroom, one that's seen little use since Tony started sleeping most nights in Bruce's bed. Tony tries to slip back down to the floor, struggling a little when Alfred holds him back.

"Bruce—" he says.

"Is asleep," Alfred says firmly. "And I would ask that you refrain from waking him, as he hasn't slept in longer than is healthy."

Tony chews his lower lip and then made himself stop. Nervous habits were for people who weren't Starks. "I need to talk to him."

"Yes," Alfred agrees, which takes a lot of the fight out of Tony, and he slumps a little. Alfred sits beside him and waits until Tony leans into him a little to put an arm around Tony's shoulders. He speaks softly to the crown of Tony's head. "This conversation is likely going to be a difficult one, and therefore better done when both of you have had a decent sleep. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I guess," Tony murmurs, scrubbing his eyes with his fists to rub the last of the tears away and to try to keep them from drooping. The safety of Alfred's embrace makes him realize just how exhausted he is.

"Now, I'll inform your parents of your whereabouts and—"

"No!" Tony gasps, abruptly awake. He looks up at Alfred beseechingly and receives a raised eyebrow. "Please, Alfred. They won't even know I'm gone. I'll go back in the morning as soon as the trains start again. Just—don't tell them."

"You know I can't do that, Master Anthony."

Tears are threatening again, and Tony is upset but he's also frustrated that he can't seem to get a firm hold of his emotions anymore. "They'll make me leave."

"I won't let them." For an instant, Alfred is so fierce that it surprises the distressed right out of Tony.

After a pause, Tony says, "Alright."

"Very good. Get ready for bed and I'll make that phone call." Alfred stands up and walks briskly from the room with a last, "And if you need me, Master Anthony, do not hesitate to call upon me."

Tony listens to his muffled footsteps retreating down the hall until everything is quiet. Then he falls back onto the bed, arms out to break his fall, legs still dangling over the side, and looks up at the shadowed ceiling, the lamp on the bedside table casting long shapes with warm yellow light. He can only stay anxious for so long before coping mechanisms kick in. The stillness of the room sinks through his skin, a numbness blotting out the restless anxiety scratching at his nerves. Mrs. Wayne is the one who taught him how to absorb the quiet—was the one—

Tony tries to veer away from that thought, but he isn't fast enough, and the grief rises up, not as violent as it was at earlier, but just as undeniable. And here, where there's no one else to see, Tony stops fighting it. Tears slip backwards , cool on his temples and into his hairline. Tony blinks as his vision blurs, sticking his eyelashes together as he tries not to make much noise, and there is something almost cleansing in the release this time, putting things to rest rather than stirring them back up. The house settles with little creaks. The wind whispers leaves together outside.

Tony doesn't mean to fall asleep, but somehow he does.

He wakes and doesn't know where he is for a moment, but then he sees Bruce sitting next to him, sees Bruce's back because Bruce is sitting at the edge of the bed, motionless and silent. It's dark outside and the room seems like its own little space, removed from the world. Tony is reminded of when they were little and hid in the wardrobe and told each other stories about pirates and princes and heroes that always saved the day.

He sits up carefully and looks at Bruce. Bruce doesn't turn toward Tony or even really acknowledge that he's there at all, just stares straight ahead, expression empty. Tony still doesn't know what to say. So, instead, he does the only thing he can think of, something Bruce did for him long ago. He lays his hand on the bed between them, palm up.

There's a moment, long enough that Tony begins to second guess his instinct, and then Bruce stirs, lifts his hand and laces their fingers together, holding on hard enough that Tony's hand aches a little, but he squeezes back and doesn't let go.

They stay that way until a new day starts to brighten the room, and then Tony says, his voice hoarse and too loud, "I wish I'd been there."

Bruce shakes his head. "You couldn't have stopped it." He pulls away to press his hands against his eyes, and his voice hitches, though he hasn't cried in all the time they've sat here. "I couldn't stop it. I can't make it stop. I just keep—keep seeing them and. I don't know what to do."

"We'll think of something," Tony decides. He's good at this—problem solving. It's a relief to have some kind of focus, something he can always rely on Bruce to provide.

"No," Bruce says, dropping his hands and looking at Tony with eyes so fierce that they're almost frightening.

Cold jolts through Tony's stomach. "What?"

"I can't—you can't help. If you do you could get hurt and then I."

Tony waits for him to finish the sentence, but Bruce glares at the closed door and says nothing, so Tony offers his opinion. "That's stupid. We're better together."

"I'm not strong enough to protect you, yet."

Annoyance surges up, from some place in Tony's heart that's made of iron, of steel, of a titanium alloy that he hasn't invented yet. "Maybe it's my job to protect you."

Bruce gives him a startled look.

"Let me stay," Tony says.

"I'm leaving," Bruce says at almost the same time.

That derails Tony all over again. "What?"

"I'm leaving. I can't stay here. I need—there has to be someone who can help me."

"I can help you."

"An adult."

Tony scoffs. "You're ten. How are you going to get any adult to help you with—what? Revenge?"

"Yes." There's a grim violence underlying Bruce's body language that makes Tony want to back off, but he holds his ground with a stubbornness that would've both infuriated his father and also made him proud. "And the how is easy. I have money. Lots of it."

That is, unfortunately, a good point.

"Take me with you, then."

"I can't."

Tony draws himself up to his full, admittedly limited, height. "Bruce."

"I can't, Tony."

"Why not?"

"Because you still have parents that'll come looking for you!"

The ringing echo of Bruce's words ripple between them. Tony swallows and Bruce looks away, his hands clenching and unclenching on his knees.

"They wouldn't even care that I was gone," Tony says finally, subdued.

"They would as soon as Howard needed you for a photo-op. And then there would be hell to pay. You know it's true."

"It isn't fair."

"I know."

"I loved them, too."

Bruce looks at him, and says, even more quietly. "I know." Then he offers his hand, palm up, and Tony knows he's loosing the argument even as he presses his palm to Bruce's. "I'm not saying 'forever'. I'm just saying 'for now'. Until I'm strong enough. You have to stay here and just...stay safe."

Tony can feel his jaw set mulishly, but he forces out, "Fine."

It's not good enough for Bruce. "Promise me." He uses their joined hands to shake Tony's arm a little in emphasis. "Promise that you won't come after me."

Tony meets Bruce's intense look with one of his own. "Fine. But only if you promise you'll come back for me."

For the first time since the funeral, Bruce's face softens with the barest hint of a smile. "Haven't I told you before? Always."

~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce's hands are gentle as he works the ropes. He's more-or-less ignoring Tony's hysterics, for which Tony's both grateful and resentful. His emotions are still all over the place and he can't focus his eyes well, but he thinks, maybe, the high is wearing off a little. At least enough that he can string words together in complete sentences. So he does.

"You're really good with your hands," Tony observes idly. "You know what I'm good with?"

Tony takes the Bruce's silence as permission to keep babbling.

"I'm good at appreciating people who are good with their hands. Really. You should try it. Lay your hands on me some more, is what I'm saying."

"You want me to take advantage of you when you're drugged?"

"Hey," Tony says, and he's sure there was supposed to be more of that sentence, but Bruce leans forward and suddenly Tony can smell winter wind and familiar skin, feels the heat of another body and he loses time. When next he's aware, his leather-fetishist rescuer is dragging him through the corridors of what looks to be a very posh hotel, and Tony should know. He's lived a large portion of his recent life in posh hotels. He drags his hand over the gorgeously detailed embossing of the wallpaper while somewhere to the right Bruce is doing painful-sounding things to an unfortunate guard.

"Are you rescuing me? Is that what's going on?" It's part bratty sarcasm and part actual need for clarification because it feels like he's standing on a waterbed and the lights are sparking tiny rainbows and Tony's not entirely sure of anything, right now.

Bruce swoops toward him, all billowing darkness and grim expression. Or maybe he's just walking normally and Tony's mind is adding drama. It has a tendency to do that.

"You ran afoul of the only slave ring in the area." There's a "I can't believe you're this stupid" in there, somewhere, though Bruce doesn't waste the breath to actually say it.

"Talent." Tony stares at the unconscious body at his feet, studying Bruce's weapon of choice. "I can't believe you have ninja stars shaped like bats."

"Style."

Tony squints at him while he searches for a pithy reply, almost immediately losing track of the conversation, but that's okay because something else pops up to take its place. "Did you come busting in through the window when you rescued me?"

"No."

Tony raises an eyebrow he hopes conveys I call you on your bullshit.

Bruce grimaces, but yields. "Glass doors."

"Why?"

"Fastest way in."

"Okay, so, why are we not leaving the same way?"

Bruce gives him the cold look of "please refrain from talking if you're just going to be an idiot" which he will become famous for in the future, and says, "Do you want to try climbing down eighteen stories of sheer glass?"

Tony frowns. "You need something. Rocket boots, maybe."

Bruce doesn't even justify that with an answer, which is fine because Tony's never needed justification to fill silence with his voice.

"At least a grappling hook," Tony grumbles.

"I'll keep that in mind," Bruce says and kicks a door in.

While Bruce is busy wreaking havoc on innocent architecture to, presumably, clear them a path out, Tony leans his head against cool plaster and tries to stay on his feet. It's a herculean effort. Seriously, Tony thinks it should've been one of the demigod's Labors: slay the Nemean Lion, capture the Cretan Bull, stay upright in this corridor that's somewhere in a hotel in Amsterdam without throwing up or passing out while some guy who maybe-possibly is the love of your life but forgot you existed for two years and is now dressed in a fucking superhero costume plays the rescuing prince.

Fuck, why is this his life?

Oh yeah, because sometimes Tony sucks at crisis management. And he also doesn't handle loss well.

Tony hears a sound behind him but can't make himself turn, all his muscles in unpredictable spasms, so it's almost not a surprise when someone grabs him and the barrel of a gun slams up under his chin, pressing into the soft underside. The sudden shift in equilibrium makes Tony's vision swim with black, like a film of oil over his eyes.

The man shouts in something—not English. Dutch? German? The translation portion of Tony's brain must be on the fritz. Wernicke's area, temporal lobe—oh, hello science. Anatomical fact-let. So good of you to be not helpful.

Tony really should have been paying attention, because now the guy has let Tony go—although that phrasing's a little gentle for the actual situation, which is that Bruce came around the corner like an avenging angel, cape flaring like wings, and did something, a blur of lethal intent which was somehow conveyed in just the stretch of his arm and a flick of his hand, and the guy is writhing and groaning on the ground behind Tony and Tony can smell electricity and singed hair-clothes-flesh.

The thing is, the man was kinda sorta holding Tony upright and now, without that support, Tony sags forward, pitching toward the ground—until he thumps solidly into Bruce's chest.

"Whoa, thanks," Tony says dreamily and slightly muffled, rubbing his a little into the swell of pectoral muscle. "High-modulus polyethylene? With—" Tony presses in a little more firmly, "—titanium plating?"

"Imbricated." Bruce tucks his hand around Tony's arm and tugs, pulling him along.

Tony nods and then has to close his eyes for a few moments as the world lurches sideways. He swallows a few times and tells himself very firmly that he's not going to vomit all over Bruce's very well constructed suit.

"For mobility," Bruce adds.

"I know," Tony answers, and if it comes out a bit snappishly well, Tony's having a bad day. He digs in, trying for something a little lighter. "Shame. Leather would have been sexier."

Bruce pauses and props him up with surprising gentleness. They stand together in almost companionable silence as a patron of the hotel, alerted by all the noise, and rightfully alarmed by all the bodies, runs past them on the way to the exit. Bruce has hidden them in an alcove, somehow finding a concealing spot of shadow in an otherwise well-lit hallway. The man doesn't see them, but Tony sees him, remembers his hands and his mouth and things he doesn't want to think about.

"Get him," Tony says before he even realizes it.

Tony doesn't know what Bruce hears in his voice, but he doesn't hesitate, tangling the man's feet in a bolas and jumping on him before the man even finishes his alarmed shout. Tony closes his eyes against the brutal sounds of an uneven fight. Then there's silence and someone grabs Tony's arm, stopping his slow slump toward the floor, and his chin, which actually does a bit to help Tony's mind focus.

Tony opens his eyes as Bruce tips his head up, fingers splayed against Tony's cheek and curving a little on his jaw.

"That's leather."

"Just the palmar aspect."

"For mobility?"

One corner of Bruce's mouth quirks. "And because leather is sexy."

Tony snorts. "Cute."

Tony considers him, trying not to let his eyes cross. Even this close, the mask hides almost everything. His eyes are blue, but Tony expected that. His smile's a little distant, slightly mean, but Tony expected that, too.

"So what is this?" Tony asks, finally. "What are we doing?"

How Bruce manages to convey raised eyebrow of doubting your intelligence from behind the mask is beyond Tony. "Rescue and extraction."

"Uh-huh. And then what? What's happening?"

The narrowing of Bruce's eyes say if you don't start making sense, soon, I'm going to go back to punching people in the face and leave you to babble at walls by yourself.

Tony blinks at him, trying to figure out how to circumvent the bullet-proof barrier of black polyethylene and flowing cape and years and miles that Bruce has built between them and just can't seem to get beyond the unyielding line of his mouth, of his stoic silences.

"You're beating people up for me," Tony tries. "That. That has to mean something. Doesn't it? I mean in, like, screwed-up-person language."

They stare at each other for another few moments, Bruce's hands drifting down Tony's body. It's weirdly impersonal, for being pressed against a wall and felt up—being checked over for injuries, Tony realizes. He blinks some more, and then thinks maybe he should try Morse Code, signal SOS SOS best friend is being a complete nutcase and refuses to explain self. Not that that's really abnormal, oh god, why is this my life with his eyelids.

"I'm screwed up," Tony continues, not really expecting a response. "So you'd think that I could, you know, that I'd be able to figure out these oh-so-stoic silences of yours but. I guess I'm just not very practiced in reading Bruce anymore." There's a radiating pain as Bruce's fingers tighten suddenly on Tony's arm.

"I think you're confused and drugged, Mr. Stark. Please try to remain calm and trust me to get us out of here."

"Ow," he protests, giving his rescuer his best I don't like you right now frown-y face, trying not to feel Mr. Stark like the dousing of ice water it is.

Bruce eases his grip and pulls Tony and they're moving down the hallway, again, and Tony realizes Bruce isn't going to say anything.

He hasn't seen or heard from Bruce in six years and the asshole is just going to pretend like they have nothing to say to one another. Or maybe he honestly thinks that Tony can't tell, doesn't know who exactly is behind the mask, and isn't that just completely insulting? Tony may not be cognizant enough to put one foot in front of the other with any consistency but his mind, even strapped into the hell's amusement park whirly-gig of benzodiazepines, is coherent enough to do basic math.

Tony will always know Bruce. That is the simplest equation in the world.

They're on stairs, now, turning sharp corners, Tony's clumsy steps sound loud, even though he's just in socks and where did his shoes go? Why the hell are there so many steps? What's wrong with the elevator? But then Tony thinks about a long ride in close quarters, pressed in on all sides by awkward silence and thinks—yeah, stairs aren't so bad.

Bruce leans Tony in a corner of the stairwell, as far away from the railing as possible, and then leaps into holyshit empty goddamned air—! Dropping out of sight and—as Tony lurches to the railing to follow his progress—landing two flights down, slamming a just-opening door back in the faces of the men coming through it before opening it again and diving into the fray.

Tony's knees go a little weak—relief or he's going to black out soon. Bruce seems to be holding his own with no problem, even though the bad guys have greater numbers and broader shoulders and very illegally modified guns. Tony leans against iron bars. Well, more drapes over them, and watches what he can see of the fight. It isn't until one of the bad guys stumbles out into the corridor, spots Tony above him and points a gun at him that Tony realizes that he's in trouble here, too.

A shot fires. There's an explosion of pain, and the world goes dark.

It's completely unfair that death should hurt so much. The throbbing red behind Tony's eyelids might be hell, which is a shame since Tony doesn't believe in God, but it would just figure that the devil is real. The surface beneath him is hard and cold and some demon is stabbing him in the head with an icepick. Something grabs his shoulder, hard, and Tony yelps and fights until the agony is too much and then he just lays still, trying to keep his head from exploding.

"Tony. Open your eyes. Tony."

What happened to "Mr. Stark"? Tony thinks a bit viciously even as he tries to comply.

Weirdly, he's reminded of their childhood, of Bruce and Tony sitting in a dark wardrobe, of Bruce telling elaborate stories and Tony believing them, just for pretend, just for a little while. There's this other person and he's not Bruce. He's someone in a stupid costume that should not be as intimidating as it is. He's someone with a utility belt full of spy gadgets and a head full of ways to drop a man who has an uzi and is standing twenty yards away.

When Tony finally manages to get his eyes open the world is in even less focus than it had been, and there's an opaque shadow looming above him. Hands sheathed in leather bracket his face, keeping him still.

"When I tell you to stay put, stay put."

Though Tony couldn't really make out details, yet, he could feel the glare accompanying those words.

"You told me to stay put?" Tony asks, because he honestly doesn't remember that part.

The blurry darkness above him sort of ruffles along the edges like a long-suffering sigh. "Can you stand?"

Tony blinks a few times, slow, and tries to wiggle his toes. "Maybe?"

Bruce pulls the entire world inside out, or maybe just hauls Tony upright.

"Am I dead?" Tony whimpers, eyes squeezed shut.

"The bullet grazed your temple." Bruce's voice is terse and harsh, a scraping rasp against Tony's ears. "You'll be fine, but we have to move."

"My parents are dead," Tony blurts. That's important, isn't it? It feels like it's something that needs to be said to this person who is and isn't his best friend. It's part accusation, part explanation for this mess he's gotten himself into. "They." Tony's throat closes around the words. It's embarrassing that he still can't talk about it. Howard would have been ashamed. "Where were you? When." Thumbs ghost along his cheeks and the gentleness of it makes Tony's chest ache. "I needed." Abruptly, Tony feels hot, his chest constricting, but he's not going to cry. "Shit. I can't. I just can't. Just...kill me? Please? Put me out of my misery."

"Don't even—"

The world upends again and there's a roaring sound in Tony's ears and suddenly he's on his feet and Bruce has shoved him up against the wall, leaning in to growl directly into his ear.

"Don't even joke about that."

Tony's ragged little laugh probably doesn't assure anyone, and he drags his arm across his eyes and winces as salt water stings the scrape trickling blood on his temple.

"Tony," Bruce says, softly, softer than he's been this whole time and he's warm even through the suit, pressed along Tony's side, holding him up, keeping him close.

"It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter anymore. I'm fine. I'm fine. Let's just get out of here, please."

There is a long moment while Bruce hesitates and Tony bites his tongue, trying to pull it together, trying to keep everything inside that wants to burst out in a festering rush. Neither one of them have time for that, now. Or ever, if Tony has anything to say about it.

Then they're moving again, Bruce's hand on his elbow. More stairs. Tony manages to breathe until he's wrapped mental duct tape several times over the cracks in his soul and he can focus a little on their surroundings. The sign on the next stairwell says twenty-two which, okay, at least it's not forty-ish, which is where Tony thinks they started, but Tony still resolves to only ever take elevators from now on, Jesus fucking Christ.

"If you won't tell me your name," Tony says into the semi-amicable silence, "then can I at least know what I should call you?"

"I'm Batman."

"Bat—really?" Tony gives him a disbelieving look, half-convinced Bruce is joking, but there's nothing but the grim determination of one foot in front of the other. "Batman. Okay. Anthony Edward Stark," Tony says, because his good manners have been so trained into him they're almost a compulsion, by now. "Pleased to meet you."

~~

There are, of course, explosions by the end of it. Near misses and car chases and holy hell Batman has a ridiculously awesome car. Tony wants to lick it. Seriously. Also, he's pretty sure Batman kisses him. Or maybe performs CPR. Tony's chest certainly hurts like his heart's stopped and he can't seem to find his breath.

Tony wakes in a foreign hospital with Obadiah asleep in an uncomfortable-looking chair at his bedside and has to be convinced it wasn't all some drugged-out dream sequence.

The news is in an uproar about the exposed slave ring and the new superhero that brought it down single-handedly.

Tony tries to hide how much he flinches away when people reach for him, and picks up the nervous habit of rubbing his hands over his wrists, trying to erase the feeling of rope cutting into his skin, but his sleep is mostly peaceful, guarded by a looming shadow that fails to be anything but a comfort.

~~

Apparently, Tony's introduction to Batman is the world's introduction to Batman. By the time Tony gets back to the States, news of The Caped Crusader's exploits have garnered enough public interest that the media is clamoring for interviews of anyone who's had an encounter. Tony's experience is no longer solitary but it is the most extensive.

Obadiah thinks it might be a good way to reintroduce Tony to the public eye, so he hops on the media circuit for a few lazy laps. The number one question on everyone's lips is, "Who is he?" to which Tony answers very honestly, "I have no idea, but I will buy him dinner next time he's in town."

He absolutely means it, too, on both accounts. The first part because there are large chunks of time missing for him—whole sections of that night that are nothing but a blur of lights and noise and one very prominent, person-shaped antithesis to both. The second because what he does remember is hot, and also full of burning anger, which he doesn't understand but he doesn't have to. Tony isn't all that good at analyzing his emotions, but he's perfectly comfortable with hate sex.

He has to…elaborate creatively on quite a bit of his story, but he figures that's okay because most of the reporters are more interested in sensation than fact.

There is one notable exception: a brunette firecracker from The Daily Planet who reams Tony for various inconsistencies and picks apart the gaps in his timeline. The Daily Planet is a vaguely respectable paper with a wide readership, which is just the sort of thing Tony is trying to avoid. The only reason he agreed to the interview was because they promised to send him a baby, barely-above-intern reporter who was just going to do a little fact-checking and maybe get a soundbyte.

It should be nothing, even so. Tony's been handling the press since he was eight, but she's very pretty and his guard is down, and she doesn't back off until Tony has a small meltdown, shouts at her and then finds himself shaking so hard that he can't even stand up to storm out properly.

He hopes Obadiah kept his father's PR department, because they're experts at smoothing over Stark dramatics by now and Tony's probably going to need that.

Her little assistant-shadow saves him, and Tony hadn't even really noticed his quiet presence until he's pressing a warm hand between Tony's shoulder blades, urging him to put his head down and just breathe. He's young enough that he probably is an intern, but he has steel in his voice and compassion in his sky blue eyes behind the lenses of his completely out-of-date black rimmed glasses.

The brunette is contrite but hardly mollified and it's thoroughly embarrassing for all parties involved. Tony thought he'd managed to shed shame and grow indifferent to humiliation, but apparently he's not quite as hardened as he thinks. As hardened as he'd like to be.

Obadiah is going to want the reporter reprimanded and, if Tony knows his business partner, fired and buried in teen pop magazine hell for the rest of her career and that's something Tony is going to have to head off because it isn't her fault he can't keep it together, but right now he's just working on not falling completely to pieces. He might be failing when the assistant-kid asks, "Are you okay?"

And Tony honestly doesn't have an answer for that.

Shortly thereafter, Tony goes looking for a good therapist.

Obadiah suggests one, a woman who's young to her field but has already gained a good deal of respect. She's gorgeous and blonde and Tony likes her stuffy librarian persona, so he returns to her week after week, though he's not sure how much good it does.

Obadiah never does find out the details of the interview, though he suspects it didn't go smoothly. The Daily Planet reporter doesn't publish the more mortifying aspects of her story, producing an unremarkable fluff piece that gets lost in the flood. Tony's grateful. He's even more grateful when, years later, he learns just how talented and relentless a reporter she is and how it must have burned her to stay her hand.

Life goes on. The days feel long and Tony feels stretched thin over them, like he's fraying at the edges and see-through in the middle.

[Fic] You Can Leave Your Cape On - Tony Stark x Bruce Wayne Part 1

kahn — Sun, 01 Jun 2014 08:04:25 GMT

Story Title: You Can Leave Your Cape On
Fandom: Marvel (mostly MCU and some 616 comics continuity)/DC (mostly Batman: the animated series and other cartoon cannons, plus some comics) mash-up
Alternative Link(s): AO3 | tumblr
Rating: NC-17 for explicit sex
Summary: He hasn't seen or heard from Bruce in six years and the asshole is just going to pretend like they have nothing to say to one another. Or maybe he honestly thinks that Tony can't tell, doesn't know who exactly is behind the mask, and isn't that just completely insulting? Tony may not be cognizant enough to put one foot in front of the other with any consistency but his mind, even strapped into the hell's amusement park whirly-gig of benzodiazepines, is coherent enough to do basic math.

Tony will always know Bruce. That is the simplest equation in the world.

Warnings: there's hinted-at darkness, but this is mostly fluff, much to my embarrassment, non-graphic child abuse/allusions to child abuse, cannon character deaths, Howard is unkind and Maria isn't much better, so if you have any love for those two characters I would respectfully suggest you skip this story, also, sections of this story are NOT BETA'D because I changed my mind and re-wrote some things without giving my beta enough time to look through it when I was done.
Pairings: Bruce Wayne/Tony Stark
GORGEOUS ART!!! part I: LINK
GORGEOUS ART!!! part 2: LINK

This art is SO BEAUTIFUL, that I can't even. My story pales in comparison.

Story Parts: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Epilogue

Tony's eighteen and on his knees with a stranger's hard hand in his hair and everything in a pretty halo of smeared light when he first meets the Batman. One second, Tony's pulling desperately against the silk ropes binding his wrists, snaking in intricate effective patterns up his arms, looping his throat—silk because Tony's an expensive commodity and that makes him laugh and laugh—the next, the man who paid good money for Tony, the man with a million-dollar smile and an expensive suit, designer shades—shades; shades indoors, what a douche—is gone, out of Tony's vision just...vanished. Tony's scalp stings. Tony thinks the man took a handful of hair with him, wherever he went.

Then the Batman looms over him, grim and all in black, like a living shadow sucking the light out of the room. Tony tries to focus on him, really tries, tries to understand what's going on, but he hasn't felt right for...days? For a while. Tony has a decent knowledge of drugs, mostly recently acquired, but they gave him a cocktail and though he's tried to figure out what was in it because then maybe he could counter it, maybe he could escape, he hasn't had much success, hasn't been thinking straight for...for days, weeks, maybe almost a year. Not since...

Tony shies away from memories of rain, of sharp, glittering displays of wealth, of problems a whole ocean away and flinches back when the Batman reaches out a spiky black gauntlet because Tony doesn't know the Batman from Adam and the Batman is terrifying, the hulking form of a demon, gargoyle, monster from under the bed when you don't know that he's on your side.

Later, Tony would come to learn that the Batman could be intimidating even when he was obviously an ally.

At the moment, though, Tony only barely manages to hold onto the fragments of his conscious not intent on freaking the fuck out and descending into trippy drugged-up madness, and only because the Batman hesitates, the tight line of his mouth wavering or maybe that's just Tony's eyesight going.

"Tony," the Batman says, rough and low.

That voice, that voice melts warmth down Tony's spine, fills the hollow spaces between his bones, speaks of home home home in a way that Tony's not heard in years.

Bruce, Tony thinks, but what he says is, "You're wearing a cape," and then he laughs and can't stop, even when he feels like he might throw up or start crying.

~~~~~~~~~~

Tony's three and on his butt in the dirt he's not supposed to be anywhere near, chewing on a galvanized copper gear bigger than his fist the first time he meets Bruce Wayne. Tony's sitting under a stone bench in a garden that seems bigger than the whole world. His parents brought him here with his nanny, one more party in a string of parties, each one full of sparkle and high heels and silk ties that Tony's not to touch. It's hot, but the big fountain is fascinating and the shadow under the bench is cool. Tony hasn't seen anyone he knows for a while, hasn't seen anyone for a while, in fact, but he's used to being alone, so that doesn't upset him, much.

Tony doesn't hear Bruce's approach, but he can't miss when the boy sticks his face in Tony's face, upside down because Bruce has somehow managed to climb on top of the bench without Tony noticing.

"Hey," Bruce says, loud in the relative quiet. "Hey, what are you doing under there?"

That's a very complicated question. Tony's not sure he has the words to answer. So he holds up his teething gear and then points to the fountain. These are the two things occupying his time, right now.

"Are you lost? Aren't you afraid?"

Tony thinks seriously about this, and then shakes his head. Tony's more afraid of the big-person-lady who's supposed to take care of him than he is of being here by himself in a strange place. Bruce doesn't seem to take his answer at face value, though, his face scrunching into a serious expression.

"Come with me; I'll show you how to get back. It'll be okay. I'll protect you. Keep you safe."

Safe is a word Tony's heard before, but hasn't attached much meaning to. He thinks it would be better if he stayed here where things are quiet and there are no big-people. He shakes his head again and scrunches his own face into something he'll later know to be stubbornness.

Bruce considers him, black hair a fringe pointing straight toward the ground. Tony wants to put his fingers in it, but he knows better than to touch without permission.

"Don't wanna, huh? Okay." Bruce flops back on the bench, seeming ready to settle in for the long haul. "I'll stay with you."

Something in Tony loosens, feels immediately better when he realizes the other boy isn't leaving.

"My name's Bruce."

To this, Tony has an ingrained response. "Anthony Edward Stark. Pleased to meet you."

Blue eyes fringed with think lashes peer at Tony over the edge of the bench. "That's a big name. For a little guy. How old are you?"

"Three and a half." And he holds up the correct number of fingers to prove it. The half finger is tricky, but he manages.

"I'm five."

Tony nods. Apparently satisfied, Bruce flops back on the bench and falls silent. Usually, quiet doesn't bother Tony, usually it's soothing, but now he finds himself distressed, wanting to hear the other boy's voice again. The world is suddenly too big.

"Boose," Tony says, as close as he can get to the unfamiliar name.

Bruce doesn't lean back over the bench, but his hand—bigger than Tony's but still much smaller than an adult's—gestures down at him, imperious, open, palm up as if to grasp sunlight.

"Take my hand, Tony."

Tony does.

"See?" Bruce says, fingers closing around Tony's, warm and solid. "Safe."

Years later, this is the moment that Tony will associate with that word.

~~

The next time he sees Bruce it's a lot colder. Tony is four. The sky is gray and the glass buildings of the big, loud city street loom above him. He's tired and hungry and doesn't want new shoes. He's fighting his nanny, on the verge of tears and her hand on his arm hurts and she's hissing viciously about how much worse it'll hurt if he doesn't shut up.

She yanks. He stumbles, but doesn't fall, and suddenly there are arms lifting him up and the smell of warm leather and crisp wool and a sweet hint of pipe tobacco.

Tony doesn't really understand what's happening, except that there's a man he doesn't know holding him securely, propped on a hip. He seems a little familiar, but not enough to be anything but frightening.

Tony almost reaches out to his nanny when she tries to take him back, but then there's another woman standing between them. Her eyes are blue and fierce and her voice is firmly disapproving as she speaks to Tony's nanny. There's a touch on Tony's ankle. When he looks down, Bruce is looking up at him, fingers wrapping more firmly around Tony's leg as they hold eye contact and Tony relaxes. Now that he has context, it's easy to recognize Bruce's parents. Bruce's father's arms feel like an endless hug and Bruce's mother, though a little scary in the face of Tony's nanny, is nothing but kind as she turns toward him, her hand soothing in his hair.

"Would you like to spend the rest of the day with us, dearheart?" she asks. "We'll tell your parents, of course."

The answer is obvious, and when the Waynes learn that Tony's parents are on an extended vacation somewhere far away, they offer to watch Tony until their return. Tony is a little surprised when his parents acquiesce. Surprised but tentatively happy.

Winter at the Wayne house is beautiful, not cold at all—full of tinsel and holly, smelling of pine and hot chocolate.

Hot chocolate is a staple at the Wayne household during the Christmas season, Tony learns. That and warm apple cider and hot, fresh bread. The Wayne's head chef is a large, boisterous man with a French accent that makes everything he says rub like soft fur against Tony's ears.

"Chef de cuisine," Anton says with exaggerated haughtiness. "That is my correct title." Then his eyes twinkle and he puts a little more powered sugar on Tony's pancakes.

The pastry chef—the pâtissier, as Anton insists—is a tiny Japanese woman with no discernible accent, but command of at least four languages as far as Tony has counted. She yells at Anton in two of them, declaring him lazy and arrogant and then slips the boys homemade chocolates with a wink and a grin that takes up most of her face, makes her eyes almost disappear behind her cheeks.

The housekeeper is Mrs. Williams. She wears her dark hair in a neat braid and her dark skin hides a wealth of laugh lines around her deep dark eyes. Her presence is calm and commanding as she introduces Tony to the rest of the staff, a full regiment of maids and groundskeepers, though most of the latter are gone for the season.

Then there's Alfred, the Waynes' butler, who has warm eyes and a gentle touch and when he rubs ointment on the bruises Tony's nanny left behind it doesn't even hurt.

Tony's not used to this many people. His own house is staffed very minimally—mostly a few lab assistants and a nanny for Tony and sometimes a girl who helps his mother with her day-to-day. But the Wayne household learns quickly that he doesn't like to be picked up or held or even touched, much. Other people's clothing is scratchy on Tony's skin and there are too many scents: lotions, shampoo, detergent, perfumes on the girls and cologne on the guys, tobacco smoke. His father keeps himself and the house very clean, sterile, in deference to his many delicate projects. The Stark staff follow suite and Tony almost never sees his mother so he has no idea what she smells like.

The Wayne household staff don't push him and let him set his own boundaries and are patient with his stubbornness and his skittishness. A few of the younger maids try to speak baby talk at him until they realize it makes Tony withdrawn and quiet. Word spreads quickly that the young master's new friend prefers to be addressed as an adult, despite being very far from one. They accommodate without much fuss.

Bruce stays at his side throughout it all. They go exploring their first day, running up and down hallways, dodging the swish of woolen skirts that the female staff wear in the winter, ducking into rooms, each one like a separate world. Every space had its own light and look, textures and colors all interesting and distinct. Tony's own house is uniform and exact. The Wayne house is eclectic and just a little whimsical. Tony could've lingered long minutes in any one of the rooms, but Bruce is impatient, making a quick circuit to show Tony his favorite bits and then lingering by the doorway, practically vibrating with the need to move on to the next.

Tony doesn't usually like to be rushed, but for Bruce he lets himself be dragged through the house at a ridiculous pace as he tries to absorb as much of it as he can as quickly as possible.

There's Great Aunt Mildred's sitting room which is wallpapered with pictures of cats, each one in a tiny, antique brass frame. The actual wallpaper is possibly a mint green or a teal; Tony doesn't get the chance to get close enough to see for certain. Cousin Claire had been an aspiring movie star in the forties. Her vanity is bright like the sun when Bruce flips the switch to show Tony. There is a collection of dusty makeup in the drawers, the pancake dry and cracked, the mirrors cloudy. A fake head sits on a stand to one side, sporting a stylish wig and a hat with a sweeping brim. Tony stares into the blank eyes until Bruce pulls him away.

Then there's a whole wing of guest rooms. Tony likes the room with the New York City mural painted on the walls. Bruce spends the longest time in the room with the collection of chairs and spare furniture, climbing on top of high things and jumping off again. He's already constructed a surprisingly sturdy stack that almost reaches the ceiling and he tries to coax Tony into its highest point, promising safety, but Tony won't be pressured, and he's never been much attracted to climbing.

"We'll go to the circus," Bruce decides. "Then you'll want to. They have these people—trapezists—they fly high above the ground with no net. It's amazing!"

Tony doesn't even know what a circus is, but it sounds both scary and impractical. He'll take Bruce's word about how it might be life-changing, but he doubts he'll ever see anything that makes him want to fly.

They both agree that their favorite is the room that has a projector that shines the night sky on the ceiling when the light is turned off. Everything there is dark blues and silvers and makes the shadows comfortable. There's an old pirate chest at the end of the bed full of maps drawn on actual parchment and books that crackle when they're opened, a compass, a silver letter opener, the handle in the design of a falcon's stern visage, a set of hair pins made of ivory old enough to be brittle and yellowing. There's also a wardrobe full of woolen coats that smell clean, which means one of the maids laundered them recently. It's deep enough for both of them to crawl inside and make up stories in the close darkness.

They chose a room for Tony, unremarkable except that it's across from Bruce's room. The interior of Bruce's bedroom makes it obvious that he spends a great deal of time outdoors and likes to bring his favorite pastime back with him. One of the two huge bay windows with cushioned seats is covered with a collection of plants, well-tended with a clipboard hanging next to them noting growth rates and water intake, written in Bruce's large but neat handwriting. There's a collection of bird nests on his desk and a wealth of all-weather shoes in his closet, all very clean but well-used. His ceiling is hung with mobiles, so numerous it almost looks like an upside down forest.

"My mother," Bruce explains when he sees Tony's fascination. It was an attempt, apparently, to display Bruce's various collections. Bruce prefers them in neatly labeled boxes under his bed, but he's out of space and his parents have yet to give in to his demands that they bequeath him another room just to keep his collections organized.

There are shells and stones, leaves and twigs, perfectly preserved moths and one mobile of fragile-looking flowers. There are several of sea glass, organized by color. Like everything in Bruce's room, all are meticulously clean of dust, catching light like trapped stars.

Aside from that, there are books, stacks and stacks of them, taking up what space remains. First edition Hardy Boys, Sam Spade, a shelf of old fairy tales in the original German, scrapbooks of old newspaper articles. It should be confusing and headache-inducing, too many details and too many textures, scents mingling together, but it's not. Tony clambers up on Bruce's large big-boy four-poster bed and feels at home.

Over the next few weeks, he and Bruce get into all sorts of trouble. There are a lot of places for two clever boys to find mischief in the Wayne mansion and on the surrounding grounds, enough that eventually Bruce's parents tag team them to keep them from breaking too many things. Tony is fascinated by the arts and crafts that Bruce's mother offers as an activity, but Bruce is much more interested in the mock war that his father proposes outside. In the end, they realize they have the time for both.

Bruce's aim with a snowball is always true. He shows Tony the best way to build a fort, to secure defensive structures and stockpile ammunition.

Tony's fingers are small but nimble, and he loves the shine of wrapping paper. He's quick to fold intricate shapes under Bruce's mother's fond, bemused gaze. He shows Bruce the best way to make a paper airplane and spends several hours experimenting until, by the end of the day, Tony's design and Bruce's aim land the nose of a red foil plane in a cup of just-poured tea.

Then they scamper and hide for a while because Alfred responds with his "now you're in trouble" raised eyebrow and Bruce's dad's got his corresponding "yeah, so much trouble; don't tell your mother how amusing I think this is" grin.

They fall asleep in the wardrobe in their favorite guest room, tangled around each other, to be roused by Alfred and a maid some time later and bustled off to dinner. Sometimes Tony nods off before they get through the soup course, and sometimes he makes it all the way to dessert, but no one says anything, either way. Sometimes, he wakes to comfortable darkness and soft blankets and rolls until he finds the edge of the bed, slides to the floor and pads across the hall to Bruce's room, clambers into the bed and falls asleep to the sound of Bruce breathing. Eventually, they stop bothering to put him in a separate bed.

It's probably safe to say that no one expects Tony to react to the prospect of Christmas at the Waynes' as he does. Bruce's mother stares at him in surprise and Bruce's father in horror as tears well in Tony's eyes and then spill down his cheeks. Bruce hugs him and Tony's just gone, crying miserably into Bruce's shoulder. He knows this is probably bad manners, but he doesn't have presents for anyone and that's unacceptable. Presents are the most important part of Christmas.

Tony's distress leaves everyone scrambling to find something to make him feel better, until he's alone with Alfred while the other three members of the house go to find a toy, some more scraps of paper for Tony's projects or to ask Chef Anton to make a cup of hot cocoa.

"Come, Master Anthony," Alfred says, hand resting lightly on Tony's shoulder blades. "Perhaps if you tell me what you need, we can get this sorted."

"I don't have anything to give them," he tells Alfred, whispered like a guilty secret.

"I'm sure they'd be content with nothing more than your happiness."

Tony shakes his head stubbornly; says, "That isn't enough. This is important, Alfred." And thinks, thinks hard. His eyes track out across the long table he and Bruce have been sitting at, making more and more elaborate paper airplanes and Tony's graduated to three dimensional shapes, trying out boxes and lanterns and square-ish balls, imagining that there was a way to make them fly as well. Suddenly, Tony knows what he needs to do.

He beckons Alfred closer. The butler bends his head and listens intently to the list of supplies Tony rattles off.

"I think most of that can be found in the house. Would you like to help me look?" Alfred holds out a hand. His very white gloves are soft and his grip is just the right amount of firm and gentle.

He and Tony walk the house, peering into nooks and crannies, opening old closets and wardrobes, gathering up the things Tony needs and a fair pile of things he doesn't, things that just caught his eye, like the box of antique buttons, a neat coil of silvery wire, a black and white photograph of the empty field that used to be where the house stands now. It feels like an adventure, like a game and after a time, Tony's completely forgotten his earlier distress.

When Tony's satisfied and both he and Alfred are weighed down with an armful of bits-and-things, the butler finds Tony a private room with a large, empty desk and bars the others from entering. Tony thanks Alfred, spreads his supplies out on the desk and sets to work.

He doesn't finish by dinner, but no amount of coaxing through the door breaks Tony's concentration. Alfred eventually ventures in just far enough to deposit a simple meal: a sandwich, a glass of milk and a cookie on a tray. Tony ignores that, too. When his body starts to shut down and he knows it won't be long before he passes out, Tony stumbles off his stool and curls up against the door, lying long-wise across the threshold. Later that night, a little bump startles him awake as someone tries to get into the room and ends up hitting him gently with the door, which is exactly why he slept in front of it.

"Go 'way," Tony mumbles without even looking to see who it is. "Not done, yet."

"I want to see it," Bruce says, crouched down so he can whisper close to Tony's ear through the crack in the door.

"No. Can't."

"I want to see you."

Tony thinks about this, tries to figure out if there's a way to let Bruce in or for Tony to leave without risking the secrecy of his gifts. But he's drowsy and not up for complicated problem solving.

"No."

Bruce sighs, as long and loud as an almost-six-year-old can muster. "Fine." He shuts the door, a little forcefully, and Tony hears a muffled thump and some shuffling from the other side, but he's asleep again before he can wonder too hard.

In the middle of the night, or maybe very early morning, Tony wakes to a rumbling stomach and a full bladder. He opens the door, intent on finding a bathroom and almost trips over Bruce, who has bedded down just outside the door, wrapped in a quilt and laying on a cushion Tony remembers seeing on one of the loveseats in a nearby reading nook. He's dead asleep, just a tousled mop of hair sticking up over his impromptu bedding. Tony reaches out and touches the dark locks before he thinks, enjoying the texture, the cool-soft slide of the strands through his fingers. When he realizes what he's doing, he jerks away, embarrassment stinging his checks.

The only other person whose hair he's ever touched is his mother's. She has beautiful, shining dark curls, usually worn in a perfectly elegant upsweep. Tony's own hair is thicker, coarser, more like his father's and Tony'd been curious about the difference. She had not been appreciative. The lecture on correct and incorrect behavior had lasted a half an hour. Tony had been too young to really understand most of it, but he'd come away with a very vivid impression of her anger, her words like the precise cutting edge of his father's utility knife.

Bruce stirs, burrows deeper, but doesn't wake. Relieved, Tony slips by him, closing the door firmly and then moving hastily down the hall.

He gets lost, of course, because he's in an unfamiliar wing of the house and most of the lights are dim or turned off. Normally, it wouldn't bother him. Darkness doesn't frighten him. But right now he's hungry and tired and needs to pee. He's so focused on his own frustration that he runs headlong into Alfred's leg and falls straight back on his butt.

"Master Anthony!"

"Alfred!" Tony's relief, strangely, makes him feel more upset, like suddenly he has permission to acknowledge all the stress he is suppressing.

"Are you all right?"

"Yes." He feels a little bruised, but the pain's already fading. "Bathroom?" And it's stupid that Tony's voice wavers on the word, like he's a baby and about to cry.

"Of course," Alfred says, taking everything in stride immediately. He's carrying a candle in an old-looking brass holder, the kind with a curly-cue of metal that serves as a handle. It looks like something out of a fairy tale, not that Tony knows much about things as frivolous as fairy tales. He's not dressed like he's working, but in a soft, striped dress-like pajama. He holds out his free hand and Tony takes it. Alfred never reaches for Tony, only reaches out, letting Tony decide if he wants to complete the circuit. His hands without gloves are a little rougher, but Tony still likes them.

He shows Tony to the nearest bathroom and then waits until he's done so he can lead Tony back to his work room. They both stop to observe Bruce, still asleep and oblivious to the world.

Alfred's voice is gentle in the dark. "He was very insistent on staying near you, Master Anthony."

For some reason, that makes Tony blush and tuck his head against Alfred's hip.

"Don't talk about me when I'm asleep," Bruce mutters, rolling over and squinting as balefully as an almost-six-year-old can manage.

"You're not asleep," Tony reasons.

"Don't talk about me when I'm not asleep, then," Bruce says with a bratty grin, sitting up after a brief struggle with the quilt.

"That makes no sense," Tony informs him, a little exasperated. Really, Bruce should try to be more logical.

Bruce shrugs which means he thinks he's won despite all evidence to the contrary. "Are you done hiding?"

"Not yet."

Tony should not find Bruce's pout compelling. Tony's parents are intolerant to any hint of whining, and have taught Tony to be the same. Still, he finds himself saying, "Maybe for a little while."

Tony's stomach flutters and the world seems to brighten with Bruce's smile. They settle into Tony's untouched dinner, splitting the sandwich and cookie between them. Alfred leaves them to it. Peanut butter and homemade blueberry jam on fresh bread with the crust cut off proves delicious. Tony is wary of the room temperature milk, but Bruce shows him it's tasty enough when you dunk cookies into it. Alfred returns fully dressed, just in time to whisk the empty tray away.

Bruce coaxes Tony from his project for almost half a day, but after lunch Tony is back at it, hunched over the desk and working until his back aches and his fingers feel raw. By the time he's finished, it's dark outside, again. Tony hears a thump outside his door and slips off his stool, stretching his arms and moving to investigate. He finds Bruce in the process of bedding down, a long-suffering look on his face.

"Silly," Tony says.

"You're more silly," Bruce retorts. "Done, yet?"

Tony nods and bites his lip.

"Well, c'mon, then," Bruce says and helps Tony carry the carefully wrapped gifts to the tree in the main den.

One of the maids is turning off lights and she pauses to coo over the packages. Bruce holds them up proudly as if he's the one that produced them, showing off for Tony's benefit. She turns a smile on Tony, who is too tired to fend off her hand when she pats his head. Bruce crowds between them, making her back up a step, protective though he's all smiles and boisterous movement and she doesn't seem to notice the rebuttal for what it is. She helps them arrange the gifts just so. Then all three stand back and admire them.

Of course it isn't until after the gifts are finished and wrapped and waiting under the tree that Tony thinks to be nervous. What if no one likes them?

The days leading up to Christmas are frantic, though, leaving Tony little time to fret. The boys get drafted to help with the cleaning, bringing wood in for the fire, carefully setting various tables and carrying already-prepared food to the huge refrigerators. There's a pre-Christmas party for the staff before everyone but Alfred goes home for the holidays. Tony falls asleep on Bruce's father's lap and wakes up to Alfred throwing the curtains open in Bruce's room. Beside him, Bruce grumbles and burrows deeper into the bedding.

"Alfred?" he queries over breakfast, sitting at a small breakfast nook by himself. He's much more of a morning person than any of the Waynes.

"Yes, Master Anthony?"

"Why aren't you going home?"

Alfred whisks eggs with efficiency for a few moments before answering. "My home is here."

Tony considers this, letting it settle in his mind as he cuts his tomato slices into precise triangles. When breakfast is over, he helps Alfred wash dishes and then slips away just as the Waynes are starting to stir. He returns to the study and the desk he's beginning to think of as "his" and begins a new project. Bruce finds him later and manages to distract him with the prospect of a snowball war.

The night of Christmas Eve is spent in the main den, watching every holiday-related movie in the Waynes' not inconsiderable media library, eating caramel apples and drinking hot chocolate. Tony and Bruce argue over what cookies to leave Santa. Bruce's mother suggests they leave carrots and celery because Santa could stand to watch his weight a little, but Bruce and Bruce's father reject that idea with almost identical looks of horror.

Bruce's father insists, "Santa likes those M&M cookies the best."

Tony falls asleep while a bell rings in an angel's wings on the big screen and wakes to an insistent poke in the side. He rolls and finds himself nose-to-nose with Bruce, who's already out of bed and standing next to Tony, eyes wide and full of excitement.

"It's Christmas!" Bruce crows and literally drags Tony from bed, catching him before he can face-plant onto the floor and hauling him to his feet and pulling him toward Bruce's parent's bedroom.

It is Christmas, but only just. The sky is barely light and even Tony doesn't want to be awake, yet. Unfortunately, gone is the drowsy, I-hate-mornings Bruce, replaced with a maniac intent on getting everyone up right now. Bruce's parents are resistant to the idea, but Alfred comes in bearing coffee and hot chocolate with a peppermint stick in each cup on a silver tray and forestalls the threat of a riot. Eventually, everyone's up, though Bruce's parents are sleep-mussed and lazy-eyed and wrapped in dressing gowns.

Santa has been to the house, the plate of cookie crumbs irrefutable proof.

Alfred puts on a record in an old fashioned kind of record player. Bing Crosby croons and Bruce begins passing out presents. Tony gets a gift form Bruce, one from each of Bruce's parents and one from Santa. Tony fingers the bright wrapping paper, enjoying the anticipation, and then freezing with nerves when Bruce finds the first of Tony's gifts for the family, passing it to his father.

Bruce's father dives in without preamble, making a delighted sound when he lifts the origami crown out of Tony's careful wrapping. He puts it on immediately and then shows off for Bruce's mother, light catching on the alternating red and gold foil. She smiles and says, "Very apt."

Tony feels the knot in his chest loosen, feeling easy enough to open one of his own gifts.

From Bruce's mother there's a thick packet of beautiful paper, cut in squares specifically for origami and a book on more advanced designs. From Bruce's father there's an exactly detailed model kit of a Lockheed SR-71 Blackbird.

Bruce's mother looks prettily pleased at her gift of tiny origami flowers strung together in a necklace and bracelet. She thanks Tony and gives him a soft kiss on the top of his head which he finds he doesn't mind, and then gets her to help him put them on before he returns to his own gifts.

Tony's gift from Bruce is a thick book on the theory and current research into artificial intelligence. Tony is lost almost immediately in the dense text. There's a lot of it that he doesn't understand, but what he does understand in fascinating. He's studying a diagram when Bruce opens his gift from Tony and almost misses the sound of fascinated appreciation that the older boy makes.

"Oh, Bruce," Bruce's mother says. "Look at that!"

Tony glances up to see Bruce standing on top of the couch cushions so that he has room to hold up and display the mobile that Tony's constructed for him.

"Bats?" Bruce's father says, amused. "That's not very Christmas-y."

The thing is, Tony only knows so many shapes, and most of them are girlish things and he didn't want to give Bruce butterflies or lady bugs. The whole house is decorated with his and Bruce's paper aircraft experiments, so it seems repetitive to make a gift of them.

Tony doesn't know what his expression looks like, but he can feel his lower lip wobble and his cheeks get hot. Bruce and Bruce's father look alarmed and Bruce's mother puts her foot down on Bruce's father's toes.

"Er," says Bruce's father. "What I mean to say is—bats! How perfect. How wonderful! Who doesn't like bats? I certainly like them."

"Yes, dearheart," Bruce's mother says to Tony with a great deal of sweetness as she turns a warm smile on him. "It's lovely."

"It's the best thing ever!" Bruce declares and wraps an arm around Tony, pulling him close. Tony beams at him, prickly disappointment turning into joy, and that is that.

Bruce's mother dons a red and green Christmas apron and makes breakfast for all of them, including Alfred. Everyone chooses their favorite plate and cup from a walk-in pantry stacked high with ceramic and glass. Tony chooses red and gold glass plate with sharp geometric shapes in black and a square, clear glass mug. Bruce chooses a cup and plate set, both dense black ceramic with a yellow rim. Then all five of them sit down at a small round table in one of the cozier dining rooms, eating off mismatched plates and enjoying the pale light that shines in through a large bay window. Outside, snow lays bright across the broad expanse of the Wayne Estate.

When breakfast is finished, Bruce and Bruce's father take Tony outside and attempt to teach him how to ski. When they learn that Tony's feet are not nearly as nimble as his fingers, Bruce's father brings out a set of sleds and Tony and Bruce spend the rest of the day testing all the hills around the Wayne estate for the best sledding location.

They get called in for dinner, which is simple but good turkey soup with rice. Afterward Bruce's father sits them on his lap together in a large overstuffed chair and reads "The Night Before Christmas" because it is, apparently, Wayne tradition to read it the day after. He falls asleep halfway through naming the reindeer and Bruce takes over, finishing the rest of the poem from memory, flipping pages so Tony can look at the detailed illustrations. Bruce's mom breezes in, her hair down, wearing a dressing gown and fuzzy slippers and snaps a picture before anyone notices that she's holding a camera.
Then she sweeps Tony up to her hip as Bruce clambers down from his father's lap.

"Bedtime?" she says, jiggling Tony a little and grinning at him. She smells like apples and cinnamon and dish soap.

Bruce is carefully taking off his father's reading glasses, but he mumbles an affirmative and then grabs a blanket, throwing it over his father, who sleeps through it all.

Tony keeps himself carefully still, trying to balance without causing too much fuss. "Where's Alfred?"

"Hm. Finishing the dishes, probably."

"I need to see him."

She considers him curiously, but doesn't question. "All right. Do you want us to walk you to the kitchen?"

"No, I can find it."

He doesn't squirm to get down, instead waiting patiently until she sets him on his feet. Bruce steps up beside him with his arms out and they switch places, Tony moving back as Bruce's mother picks him up and sets him on her hip.

"Oof, darling. You're getting so big!" They flash identical grins at each other. "Don't take too long, dearheart," she calls after Tony as he makes his way toward the door.

"I won't," he promises.

He has to stop by his study and pick up a final present before heading to the kitchen. Alfred is, indeed, there, wearing a frilly white apron with absolutely no sense of self-consciousness, his jacket off and his shirtsleeves rolled up, elbows deep in dishwater.

"Master Anthony," he says when he spots Tony, a note of surprise in his voice.

Tony swallows, suddenly nervous all over again. He holds up his gift and the wrapping paper crinkles as he clenches his fingers a little too much. "Merry Christmas."

Alfred turns to face Tony as he dries his hands on his apron, his face settling into gentle lines. "Thank you, Master Anthony. How very thoughtful."

Tony ducks his head a little and watches anxiously as Alfred takes the package from his hands and unwraps it with delicate skill, not ripping any of the paper or breaking any ribbon. When Alfred pulls the glass bottle full of tiny paper stars free Tony almost wants to take it back. It's a silly thing. Why did he think Alfred would want something like that? Alfred is a very tidy, practical person, not given to collecting clutter or indulging whimsy.

But Alfred's expression has warmed into a soft smile, moving from his usual patient fondness into actual pleasure.

"Lucky stars," Tony blurts.

"Yes," Alfred agrees.

"For luck," Tony adds and then bites his lip at the stupidity of stating the obvious.

"Yes, I know," Alfred says and crouches down. He holds out an arm and Tony only hesitates a moment before tucking himself into a gentle embrace. "When I was a little boy, my father was called to war. My mother made lucky stars for him, to bring him home. She had me help her. She said that if we could make a thousand, he would come home safely."

"That doesn't sound logical."

"Love rarely is."

"Did it work? Did he come home?"

Alfred squeezes him and smiles. "Yes."

Tony puts his arms around Alfred's neck and hugs him back, a little tentative, and finds himself smiling, too. Then he looks at the little bottle Alfred holds in his free hand.

"I didn't make one thousand."

"I don't have any wishes I currently need answered, so I think this is the perfect amount."

"Where are they, now? Your parents."

"Long gone."

And by that, Tony knows he means "dead," something his father had once explained to him. Tony's father dislikes using softer words to disguise facts.

"I'm sorry," Tony says, because a nanny had once told him that was the polite thing to do.

"I rarely think of it anymore, Master Anthony, but thank you."

Tony yawns in the middle of saying, "You're welcome" and Alfred's eyes twinkle.

"Shall I accompany you to Master Bruce's room? I dare say that it's about time for bed."

Projects finished and mission accomplished, Tony's body is finally shutting down. Alfred begins to pull away to stand and Tony tightens his arms, tucking his face into Alfred's shoulder. After a moment, Alfred shifts to hold Tony more securely and when he stands up he lifts Tony with him, settling him on his hip. Tony doesn't usually like being carried, but in this moment he wants to make an exception.

Alfred pauses to set his gift down on the counter top and then supports Tony with both arms as he carries Tony down the hallway. Alfred's coat smells like laundry detergent and faintly of wood smoke, and Tony breathes in, relaxing slowly.

"Thank you for my gift, Master Anthony."

Tony murmurs a you're welcome and rubs his cheek into the scratchiness of Alfred's jacket.

"Though it saddens me that I haven't anything to give you in return," Alfred adds. His tone says he’s open to suggestion.

"I don't need anything," Tony insists. He makes sure he states it clearly, so that Alfred knows for certain.

"Well, if ever you think of anything you need, please tell me and I'll do my utmost to obtain it."

"Okay," Tony says agreeably.

Bruce's mother is standing by the door to Bruce's bedroom and she smiles at them when she sees them, her hand gently ruffling Tony's hair when they're close enough. There's a neatly executed hand-off, and then he's being carried by Bruce's mother—to the bathroom to brush his teeth and then to Bruce's bed. Bruce has already cocooned himself in the quilts, but he stirs as Tony settles beside him.

"Everything good?" Bruce asks, words slurred by sleepiness.

Tony smiles and says, "Yes."

When the time comes for Tony to go home, there's a minor mutiny. Bruce yells and breaks things on purpose, being horrible to anyone who comes too close or tries to reason with him. Tony is tidying his room, putting his collection of paper airplanes in the boxes Alfred found for him, attempting to ignore Bruce. There's a knot of misery in his chest, but he's determined to ignore that, too. Bruce pushes a just-organized box off the bed and onto the ground. Tony starts crying and is horrified to find that he can't seem to stop.

Tony isn't sure what happens next, but one second he's hiccupping, trying to swallow sobs, dragging his fist across his eyes to rub out the tears and the next he's flat on his back, Bruce solid and heavy on top of him, holding him tight.

"Don't cry," Bruce says, voice muffled, face pressed to Tony's shoulder. "Please don't cry. I'm sorry."

Tony should feel trapped, held down, but he doesn't. He feels comforted, like Bruce is his favorite, though very heavy, blanket. He feels himself relax as he obeys Bruce's voice, feels the tension drain out of both of them.

Then Bruce sits up and takes Tony's hand and together they run to their favorite guest room to hide in the wardrobe. Tony sits in the dark, listening as Bruce spins tails of how they're going to evade the adults, live in the walls like fairy tale creatures, stealing food and playing tricks, or develop super powers and fly far far away. About how Bruce will keep Tony forever and never ever let him go.

But, eventually, Bruce runs out of stories and they're both hungry and neither one of them really truly believes in magic. People can get superpowers, but it's a rare thing and not to be relied upon. Not for something this important.

So they find Alfred and ask him for lunch, take the sandwiches back to the guest room and spread maps out on the floor to plot the distance between their houses. Bruce gets out his ruler and measures precise lines. Tony plans several alternative routes in case of flooding or rock slides or roaming bands of robbers. Something that could be possible, judging from the way Bruce's father grumbles about rising crime rates all the time.

"There," Bruce says, capping his marker with a small flourish. "Now, if you ever need me you can just come to me. Or I'll come to you."

"You will?" Tony asks. He looks over the maps, at the wide space between their two houses and can't imagine anyone crossing that distance for him.

"Always," Bruce says.

In that moment, Tony believes him.

~~

January is bleak, full of neutral colors and streamlined edges. His parents haven't hired anyone new to be his nanny and Tony's father declares him to be old enough to start learning to take care of himself. Tony's mother hasn't come home, yet, lingering in Cancun where it's warm while Tony's father has returned so he can oversee time sensitive projects in his lab.

Tony spends the first week hungry and cold. He figures out how to reach some of the food in the kitchen, but the door of the huge, sleek metal refrigerator and a lot of the cabinets have coded locks on them. Tony eats dry cereal and thinks longingly of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, of Chef Anton's hot chocolate and Alfred's gentle hands, of Bruce's parents, of Bruce.

He cries, once, curled up under his impersonal blankets, surrounded by the blank walls of his room, muffling the sound in his pillow, terrified that his father might hear.

Then he gets up, wipes his eyes and his nose and builds a rigging for the refrigerator door. The oven is a monstrous, complicated thing that Tony's not willing to tackle, but at least he has milk, now, and cheeses and fruit.

Next he finds the stashes of magazines that his parents keep around the house, in baskets under a coffee table, in some of the guest bathrooms, and carefully tears out the vivid photographs of night skies and rocket ships, Africa's vast grasslands and anything else that looks interesting. He finds a stapler and, considering this the simplest and most effective way of doing things—two markers of a good engineer, his father has told him—begins stapling the pictures to his walls, as high as he can reach, and when that's not high enough, he uses a chair.

It takes him a whole day of wandering and careful experimentation to find the thermostat that controls the temperature for his room. It takes him three more days of methodical testing to find the correct code to log in and gain access to the controls.

Later that day, Tony's father slams open his door and demands to know what the hell he's been up to. The environmental settings for Tony's room were, apparently, connected to one of the labs as well and Tony's ruined a whole day's worth of data.

Tony's ensconced on his bed, surrounded by several computer science texts, the book Bruce gave him for Christmas open on his lap. He was trying to puzzle through the first few chapters, using the other books as reference. In the face of his father's wrath, he wants to hide the book, but knows it will only draw his father's attention to it. If his father's angry enough about this, he'll take the book out of spite. Tony knows this from experience.

So, instead, he sits up straight and sticks his chin out and says, clearly, "That doesn't sound very efficient."

Tony's father stares at him for a second, and Tony can see that violence is still a possibility, though his father's momentum has slowed and now it's no longer an absolute. Sometimes the direct approach works, and sometimes it just makes things worse. Possibly, today is the former.

"Brat," Tony's father says, though it sounds more a nickname than a curse word. Then he takes a look around. "What the hell did you do to your walls?"

"Decorated."

Tony's father looks like he's about to start shouting again when a low, musical voice interrupts. "Oh, there you are."

Both he and his father freeze, but then his father's face softens and Tony uses his momentary distraction to stuff Bruce's book under the covers. Tony's mother steps into view, lovely and smartly dressed in an elegant cream blouse and midnight blue pencil skirt, her hair swept up, off her shoulders, revealing the long, slender column of her neck. She tips her head and accepts a kiss from Tony's father, gracing him with a hint of genuine smile. She doesn't look at Tony.

"Your son has done something to the kitchen," she reports.

Tony's father gives him a dire look and Tony refuses to quail. It never helps. "What," he demands.

"You should see for yourself," she says.

So Tony's marched to the kitchen with his father and mother and Tony's father gets a look at the rigging that Tony's made to open the refrigerator. Tony's father stares at it for a full thirty seconds, then a corner of his mouth quirks and his eyes crinkle and he laughs and laughs. Tony's mother looks on with a soft expression, and though her eyes never stray to Tony, her fingertips do drift down to brush gently against his shoulder, once.

Tony gets punished, anyway, though it's probably a lot lighter than it would've been if Tony hadn't been as amusing. Tony's father gives him a choice: the belt or the closet. Tony chooses the belt, because brief pain is preferable to agonizingly lonely, boring darkness. Tony's father puts him in the closet because sometimes it doesn't matter which Tony prefers. Tony's father says these are life lessons worth learning and someday Tony will thank him.

This time, Tony has the memory of Bruce's book to keep him company, and when Tony's dad finally opens the door again, Tony isn't fighting tears like he usually is, and Tony's father gives him a proud smile and declares that he's going to teach Tony to make a circuit board. He's clearly grown up enough to learn.

It's a difficult thing, much more difficult than it looks on the outside, and the hardest part is holding his hands steady to solder the tiny, delicate wires. Tony gets yelled at and cuffed more than once, but progress is steady, nonetheless, and it's worth it, to gain access to one of his father's labs.

When his father leaves him without supervision, which happens more and more as Tony's skill grows, Tony begins raiding supplies—small things, things that his father has in multiples of tens or more—to begin his own project. He's sure that his father notices, but he doesn't say anything and Tony doesn't offer any information on his own.

Tony spends January with oft-burnt fingers, developing his engineer callouses. He and his father have similar minds when they work, their focused narrowed down to the metal and the liberal application of electricity and adhesive—usually not at the same time. Both can go for long stretches without eating or sleeping, though his father has more endurance in both, much to Tony's chagrin.

Those times when tiny circuits and inductors start to blur, Tony retreats to his newly decorated room and takes up reading Bruce's book or practices folding origami, trying to figure out more patterns that the Waynes might like. Though he feels less of a stranger in his own house these days, these quiet moments are still his favorite part of the day, when he feels a warm peacefulness. Tony realizes that his mind is fully engaged in his father’s lab, but his heart is still at Wayne Manor.

~~

Tony doesn't stay away forever, even if that's what it feels like. It's summer by the time he returns, and each subsequent time is longer than that, until eventually Tony has more possessions at the Wayne's than he does at his own house. Tony's books stack on top of Bruce's. His paper creations, which eventually veer into metal and wire, are scattered throughout the house, until Bruce commandeers a second room and declares it their lab, moving all his experiments and Tony's creations into it, organizing them meticulously.

Tony isn't opposed to order, but doesn't adhere to it with the same rigid standards that Bruce does. They fight. They make up. Alfred brings them cookies as a reward every time, until he figures out that they sometimes fight just so that they can get cookies.

By the time Tony turns five, he knows the names of all the many people who come and go through the Wayne household. Susan is the maid who leaves one of the hallway lights on for him at night, because she knows he often slips out of bed when he has an idea and wander down to the lab to sketch it out or mock up a rough prototype. Ricky is one of the groundskeepers, but will carry heavy things for Tony with an unwavering amused patience no matter how many times a day Tony asks. Patrice, who dresses in a sharp suit and keeps business records for Wayne Corp, has an amazing head for math and they've had whole conversations in nothing but numbers. Aubrey, the Wayne's mechanic, lets Tony hand her tools and talks him through maintenance and repairs, promising to let him help when he's older.

Maurice is Bruce's tutor. The first time he gives Tony math homework, it's on a whim. Tony's finished a new design on a model airplane and wants to show Bruce, but Bruce is taking a test, so Tony hovers restlessly just inside the doorway to the study room until Maurice calls him over and gives him a sheet full of math equations. Maurice likely does it so that he'll stop distracting Bruce, but Tony genuinely likes math, so he finishes it. And the next, and the next after that. By the time Bruce is finished with his test, Tony's completed ten worksheets.

After that, Bruce's mother asks if Tony would like to join Bruce's lessons, and Tony says "Yes."

He and Bruce are pretty evenly matched. Tony can sometimes be quicker on the uptake, but Bruce has more focus. Every time they get a perfect score, which is often, Bruce's parents coo over it and pin it to the refrigerator with a magnet. Eventually, that gets so covered that Alfred has trouble getting to the actual food, and they put up a giant tack board to hold all the papers. Bruce keeps them organized by date and subject. Sometimes, Tony sneaks one out of alignment, just because, and whenever Tony's father notices he grins a bit and ruffles Tony's hair, and then plays innocent when Bruce discovers the sabotage.

Sometimes, quiet and furtive in the middle of the night, Tony folds paper stars at his desk, on the side of the "lab" designated just for him, and wishes very hard that the Waynes will keep him forever.

~~

Turkey Day

kahn — Thu, 28 Nov 2013 22:18:58 GMT

Molly here reporting on all the Turkey Day news. Megan and I are joining the festivities for the first time this year since we're actually in town and Sonnet invited us.* Megan and Sonnet have decided to try Black Turkey. Just Google that. I'll wait. Actually you might not want to since it's too late for you to make it yourself. Anyway, this is some Mad Turkey Science going on. they've been at it since 11:30 and I don't think it's even stuffed yet. It needs foreplay. Lots of foreplay, before you stuff it. It has about 15 spices, three kinds of fruit and the zest of two more, an entire loaf of bread, two other kinds of meat, the rendered fat of a sad dragon with no friends and probably a six-point racing harness. My point is, it's a pretty involved way to roast a carcass but enthusiasm remains high.

I've been to the store once so far. I think we're at at least one trip each. It was quiet but it looked like the scenes from Life After People: one week after people. I thanked the cashier for letting me buy the sodas I forgot and some Monster Rehabs for the cook.

When I got back from Kroger the house had progressed along the Holiday Smell Scale from We Just Cleaned Everything to Intriguing and Sonnet and Megan were doing things to the vile turkey neck. Things were being chopped, ground, and zested. I helped out by liberally peppering the turkey's various orifices and providing sexual innuendos before retreating to the living room to cruise Tumblr and eat hors d'ouevres. I should confess that I am the kind of guest who, when asked what I was going to bring for Thanksgiving, said "Wine?" But I'm on deck to peel potatoes later. MASH ALL THE POTATOES.

Update: Megan just finished mushing ground veal, breadcrumbs, egg yolks and god knows what else into paste. Girl looks fine in an apron. I would do this like the Food Network commentators on Iron Chef but the answer to all my questions would be "Up the turkey's ass" and "Get out of the way".

Update: No matter what you may have heard, or smelled, nothing is technically on fire. The turkey is totally fine and under control.

Update: The Holiday Smell Scale is at What's On Fire but it's just the spice rub. The extensive basting process has begun.

Update: That wasn't basting. Pasting. The spice paste is now applied. Basting begins when the paste runs out.

Update: Yeah so there was supposed to be flour in that. More like a glaze right now.

Update: SONNET OMFG YOU CAN'T EAT THAT PART

And at that point I died and handed the holiday over to others. Rest In Peace Molly.

*Actually Sonnet told me like 3 years that we were welcome if we wanted to come and she never amended that. Like Vikings spotting an undefended coastline, we have arrived.

Drinking Games part 2! teaser

kahn — Thu, 14 Mar 2013 20:13:07 GMT

Clint's voice was a low and intimate murmur in Tony's ear. "How do you feel about gags?"

"Is that code for something or are you just really bored?" Tony eyed Clint from across the room, regretting for the first time the amount of effort he'd put in the comlinks. No one needed to hear Clint's crystal clear bedroom voice when they weren't close enough to reach out and smack him in the back of the head.

"Just getting your weigh-in on a conversation you missed because you were rubbing nasties with eggheads."

"I'm sure that sentence made sense in some universe."

[Fic] Merrier the More - Rhodey x Tony x Steve

kahn — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 22:32:06 GMT

(Originally written for the cap_ironman's Winter Fic Exchange. I am very late posting it here. Sorry for those of you seeing this twice!)

Title: Merrier the More
Recipient: penumbren
Universe: MCU
Rating: PG for swearing
Warnings: cannon character death (though it's already happened off-screen); this is the prelude to a Tony/Rhodey/Steve threesome, currently featuring mostly Tony/Rhodey and Rhodey/Steve overtones; there is also the (to be expected) Tony/Steve but as this is Rhodey's POV it's more background
A/N: This was meant to be way more humorously light-hearted than it turned out. Instead, it sort of swings between seriousness and schmoop. Also, it turned out to be more of a missing scene than an extended timeline.
Many thanks to nightwalker for the beta!
Summary: Written from Prompt #1: As Steve becomes a bigger part of Tony's life, he, Tony, and Rhodey all have to make adjustments. (Rhodey helps put New York City back together and meets some of Tony's new friends.)

Links: AO3 | tumblr | or just click on the cut ^_^

Rhodey meets Captain America for the first time in the rubble of a ruined building in New York. Rhodey isn't familiar enough with the city to say where exactly or which building. It's going on thirty-two hours without sleep, and over twenty of those hours were spent just getting here, catching the earliest flight he could from Baghdad and then more or less bullying his way into New York with Pepper's help. Smoke darkens the sky. Emergency vehicles wail up and down what avenues are open. Rhodey is in one of Tony's earlier Iron Man designs, grumbling at JARVIS over the nitpicky complexities Tony added to the operating systems that he obviously cleared out of War Machine before Rhodey "stole" it. It's like having to adjust the rearview mirror of a friend's car before driving multiplied by a thousand.

Most of Rhodey's concentration, however, is on the life signs of at least two, possibly three heat signatures under the debris. It's a delicate operation to clear a path without causing a cave-in. He's got volunteers bracing a support beam as he cuts careful sections with a laser, and doesn't pay attention when someone near him looks up and makes a startled sound.

Then something's landing beside him with enough force to make even Rhodey stagger, supported by the suit's hydraulics and automatic balance adjustment software though he is. He stabilizes and grabs a volunteer that trips and starts to fall, then turns sharply toward a huge shadow that suddenly looms by his shoulder, backlit by the orange sunset light.

Even though he's seen the news feed and been debriefed by a singed but aggressively unflappable SHIELD agent, Rhodey's pretty sure the sound he makes when he comes face to face with The Hulk's massive head and stern glare is embarrassingly close to a squeak.

"METAL MAN HURT," the giant states and Rhodey can feel the vibrations of its voice in his teeth. He doesn't begrudge any of the people who scramble to hide behind him or run to cover, but he sort of wishes he could join them. "SHOULD BE IN..." Its face scrunches up and it makes a vague gesture down the street. "REST," it concludes finally, after a mental struggle.

Rhodey blinks and can only manage a faint, "What?"

"Hulk!" The new voice is accompanied by a hot blond number in a skin tight costume, the colors of the flag bright despite the soot and battle damage. Rhodey has time to take in an impressive breadth of shoulders and solid thighs and the hint of particularly nice ass. His tired mind slowly links classified photos and reports until he realizes he's ogling a childhood idol and embarrassment makes a determined attempt to overshadow initial interest. Really, the distinctive shield should've been Rhodey's first clue.

All thoughts rattle to a halt when The Hulk slams its fists into the ground, its voice a resounding growl, lower lip jutting out in a determined expression as it glares at Captain America. "METAL MAN HURT. CAP MAKE METAL MAN GO BED. DOCTOR. REST."

"Hey," Rhodey says, shaking off his daze and refocusing. "Stop that. There are people under there," he indicates the collapsed building, "and you're going to knock something loose that could hurt them if you keep shaking things up."

The Hulk's attention swings back to Rhodey, and Rhodey swallows but doesn't back down, not that The Hulk can really see Rhodey's determined glare behind the mask.
After a moment, the creature nods. "HULK HELP. THEN METAL MAN CAN REST."

Captain America nods and swings his shield onto his back before saying, "Stand back, please," to the gathering gawkers in a voice that brooks no disobedience. Even Rhodey finds himself joining the shuffle to a safer distance, and is immediately irritated when he realizes it.

It's a combination of awe inspiring and a little alarming to watch Captain America and The Hulk go to work. Seconds later, Rhodey is helping a mother with her young daughter and infant out of the wreckage, to the tired but hearty cheers of volunteers. He's makes sure they're seen off safely to emergency crew, before turning back and almost walking into Captain America's impressive chest.

"Tony," Captain America's frown of disapproval and concern are potent, but Rhodey also knows instinctively that it would probably just raise all of Tony's hackles.

"No, uh." Rhodey holds up his hands. "I'm not Tony. Tony's still at the hospital." With Happy and Pepper, who are tag-teaming watching Tony and volunteering with the medical staff.

Rhodey, jittery and knowing he could do more good on the streets, had extracted promises that Pepper would message him if anything changed and then grabbed the most advanced suit he was comfortable piloting and headed into the chaos of New York. Warzones are never easy, and this close to home, Rhodey feels almost as gutted as the city, but it's still better than waiting at Tony's bedside being useless.

The Hulk picks him up bodily in both giant hands and Rhodey barely resists instinctively socking him in the jaw which--by all accounts--would not work out well for Rhodey. Instead, he tries to hold still and be non-threatening as The Hulk turns him this way and that, like a child inspecting a toy.

"NOT METAL MAN?" There's a combination of curiosity and menace in The Hulk's tone, both of which Rhodey feels he could handle better if he were not currently upside down.

"No, uh, JARVIS? A little help?"

"Colonel Rhodes is one of Mr. Stark's most trusted and long standing companions," JARVIS reports across comlink channels, voice at a crisp clip. "He has permission to pilot the Iron Man armor and is not a danger to other allies of Mr. Stark. Please do put him down gently, Mr. Hulk. Mr. Stark would be rather vexed to see either the Colonel or the Mark IV damaged."

Rhodey breathes out as he's righted and set on his feet. "Thanks, JARVIS. Uh, Mr. Hulk." He nods to the giant. "And thanks for saving Tony," he adds, feeling a bit guilty for not saying it earlier.

But that just makes The Hulk look sad. "HULK HURT METAL MAN."

Rhodey recalls that the three broken ribs, fractured collar bone and wrist and concussion had likely been the result of Tony being caught mid-plummet by his fellow Avenger, according to the doctor who'd filled Rhodey in upon arrival. Tony had collapsed while helping rescue workers shortly before Rhodey had touched down in the States, and though he'd been conscious again before Rhodey had even made it to the hospital, they were keeping him for 24 hours of observation.

"Better than dead," Rhodey says, swallowing convulsively.

The Hulk looks a little less upset at that, and Rhodey resists the urge to pat his huge head.

Captain America, who has been studying him in silence, says finally, "War Machine," like he's figured out the answer to a long equation.

It surprises Rhodey, who, for the first time in this strange encounter, thinks that maybe he wasn't the only one to be debriefed and granted access to classified files. He's not entirely sure how he feels about that, and wonders how much they told Tony about what secrets were revealed.

"That's right," he says neutrally.

"Why the Iron Man armor?"

It's a fair question, Rhodey decides. "War Machine's tied up politically and--despite Tony and Pepper's best efforts--legally with the Air Force. Simpler this way."

Captain America nods and shifts his weight, swinging his shield off his back again in a graceful move that probably is a lot harder than it looks. He adjusts straps and says, "We appreciate the help, Colonel."

"It just needs doing, Captain. No need for accolades," Rhodey says, not sure whether to be annoyed or amused at the way Captain America deepens his voice when he's addressing someone formally. For a second it really does sound like he's stepped out of the pages of a comic book, all patriotic "Well done, citizen."

"Please let us know if you require further assistance," Captain America continues, obviously preparing to leave. His head is cocked slightly, like he's listening to something else. Reports from one of his other teammates through a closed comm channel, maybe. "JARVIS can get you in contact with us, apparently."

"Yeah, likewise."

With another nod, Captain America makes his exit, a graceful leap up and over an overturned bus that's part of a larger pileup that's blocked an entire street. Rhodey isn't sure how he feels about their encounter, but he still enjoys watching the man go.

The Hulk's hand lands heavy on Rhodey's back. "HULK LIKE OTHER METAL MAN," he declares and then he--jumps? Takes off? Rhodey isn't sure. But one minute the green giant is standing beside him and the next Rhodey's staggering in the wake of his exit, which is so powerful that it actually creates aftershocks. The Hulk vanishes with a massive leap, disappearing behind a building. Rhodey can only shake his head in wonder, just one more gaping bystander in the crowd that has gathered around them. With a huff of self-deprecating amusement, he orders himself back to work, digs into his reserve and soldiers on.

Rhodey meets Steve Rogers some hours later. Rhodey's lost all track of the day, knowing only that it's been dark for so long that it's started to get light again, just the gray hints of dawn at the edges of the sky. The power is spotty in this part of the city, so close to the worst of the damage, but apparently Tony, in his lucid moments, has done something to steady it in the area's hospitals.

Rhodey's mouth feels and tastes like grit. His feet drag and the fluorescent lighting stings his eyes. Fortunately, it's dim in Tony's room and everyone's asleep. Rhodey can just make out Pepper curled into the larger bulk of Happy a bed away, her face illuminated softly by the light of her cell phone, cupped loosely in her hand, tucked close to her chin.

There are four beds in total. The hospital is filled to capacity and then some, and Tony had insisted on sharing even though this is technically a private room. Because no one's awake to see, Rhodey allows himself a slightly dramatic flop into the hard chair at Tony's bedside. His legs feel cut off at the kneecap. His face feels numb. He stares blindly at the blur of beeping-blinking equipment keeping track of life signs in the bed across the way. Rhodey should know the actual names of all that machinery, but his mind is blank and it feels like it takes time and effort to drag his eyes shut and then open again.

"Hey." Tony's hand lands clumsily on Rhodey's head. His voice is a scratchy whisper, and that's more due to actual weakness than Tony's attempt at being quiet. "Hey, Papa Bear. Don't look so sad." His IV rattles softly as he attempts to stroke Rhodey's hair. Rhodey grabs his hand and pulls it down gently to cradle it against his chest, which is about as far as Tony can reach without bending his arm at an awkward angle.

"I'm not sad," Rhodey says immediately, because his friendship with Tony means that he has a kneejerk reaction to be contrary. It's not the best of instincts for a career military man. "I'm mad."

Tony struggles to pull himself a little more upright. Rhodey makes scoffing, scolding sounds under his breath that would've made his grandmother proud, God rest her, as he stands up and helps, adjusting the bed and Tony until he's in a mostly-sitting position and both of them are a little more exhausted.

"Mad?" Tony asks finally, panting slightly. The shift of blankets has revealed the arc reactor in a very faint shine through the double layers of Tony's shirt and the wrap keeping Tony's left arm immobilized. Happy had brought clean street clothes for Tony because he knew Tony wouldn't tolerate the hospital gowns.

"I met Captain America. You didn't tell me he was pretty." Rhodey bites down on the fact that Tony hadn't told Rhodey anything because that's one lecture that isn't entirely warranted. Rhodey's been on a mission until recently, unreachable. Not that that's ever really stopped Tony before.

"Oh." Tony perks, the ghost of a grin gleaming in the dimness. "Oh yeah, isn't he? Too bad he's a bit of a dick, though. But maybe I just bring that out in people."

"You do," Rhodey assures him. "But if you want me to, I'll still beat him up for you."

"You would?" Tony sounds so sweetly hopeful it makes Rhodey smile.

"Yeah. I mean, lend me one of the armors first but, yeah. I would. Totally."

"My hero," Tony murmurs with more warmth than sarcasm, turning his hand palm up on the bed.

Rhodey takes the invitation for what it is and drops his hand over Tony's, their fingers lacing. They sit that way in companionable silence, which is rare for Tony, as is the fact that he doesn't shake off Rhodey's grip after a few moments. Normally, Rhodey would wonder why, adding data to his ongoing Figuring Tony Out project, but right now he's so tired he feels like he could almost fall asleep in this hideously uncomfortable chair and not wake up for hours.

"I would've come," Rhodey says after a few moments, because it needs to be said, "if you had asked me to."

Tony doesn't answer for long enough that he thinks maybe the other man is asleep. Then he stirs, straightening a little. Rhodey sees the familiar movement of Tony's chin coming up. "I know."

"Really?" Rhodey sits up, tightening his hold on Tony's fingers. "Do you? Because I thought we had this conversation already. Didn't we? No more Lone Ranger bullshit."

"I wasn't alone," Tony protests sharply, voice rising. Pepper stirs and they both hunker down guiltily. Tony lowers his voice as he continues. "I had a whole team this time, Rhodey. I, like, followed orders and everything."

Rhodey feels the energy go out of his argument and he slumps a little, resting his spine against the chair's hard plastic curve and tries to see his friend's expression in the shadows. It's true enough, but it makes Rhodey a little uneasy that Tony says team and neither he nor Pepper or Happy are included in that word. They've been Tony's support group for so long that there's a rhythm to how they handle things and manage their own lives around the possibility of a Tony-crisis. It may not be particularly healthy, but it works, and Rhodey isn't sure of these new people, what they'll bring to the equation.

Tony must have interpreted his silence for disbelief, because he continues a bit defensively, "Well, I mean, not right away or anything, but when it mattered..." And then a sudden shift into suspicion. "What did Captain Perfect tell you?"

"Nothing. He's fine."

"But I'm the prettier one, right?"

Rhodey can hear the exaggerated pout in Tony's voice, can even see the hint of a lip wobble in the arc reactor's faint blue glow. He knows the deflection for what it is, but now is probably not the time for this conversation anyway, so Rhodey allows himself to be diverted. "You are the prettiest princess in all the land."

"But you like me best for my brain."

"Mama Bear, I like all of you."

Tony tugs on his hand. "Come sleep before you fall over."

Rhodey blinks, feeling as though there are grains of sand in his eyes, to match the empty wasteland currently between his ears. "I'm not going to risk jostling you while you're wounded."

"I don't want to have to drag your ass off the floor. I'll rip stitches. You don't want that. That would be worse than any damage you could do. The whining alone would be stuff of legend."

Rhodey snorts softly and can feel himself waver, both mentally and physically. The fact that Tony has the strength to pull him off balance in his current state is a testament to how close Rhodey is to just folding over and passing out.

"I'll hit the morphine button a couple of times and then I won't even feel the hurt," Tony offers.

"You hate drugs."

"If it'll save you from faceplanting on linoleum, porcupine, I'll suffer them."

Rhodey breathes out, a soft huff somewhere between exasperation and affection, which is pretty much Tony and Rhodey in a nutshell. "Don't."

He disentangles their hands, then shuffles less than gracefully around the end of the bed to the other side where there's more room. The bed is fairly wide, for hospital fare, and it makes Rhodey wonder why Pepper isn't already filling the space. Probably afraid that her need to leave every hour or so to take a phone call would interrupt Tony's rest.

"Shoes," Tony says imperiously as Rhodey starts crawling in.

"You and your kinks," Rhodey grumbles, flopping over to wrestle his boots off. Were the laces always this long and complicated?

"I think it's considered a kink to want people to leave their shoes on in bed," Tony retorts.

It's as the second boot finally hits the floor with a thump and Rhodey kicks both his legs up on the bed, pressing himself back into the pillows that Tony blurts,
"Phil's dead."

Rhodey pauses, and then continues his ease back against the pillows, feeling the distant echo of loss. He met Agent Coulson in passing, and heard--from Pepper mostly--how he'd more or less been adopted into the inner circle. Rhodey's been looking forward to getting to know the Agent better during his upcoming leave.

"I haven't been able to tell Pepper about it," Tony confessions in a hushed whisper. "I...I keep hoping someone else will. Isn't that awful? That's awful."

Tony had died, too, asphyxiating in a cold, dark place in a completely different dimension. Rhodey had heard it from JARVIS. Tony hadn't told anyone about that, either. There wouldn't have even been a body to bury. Rhodey is familiar with saying his goodbyes to empty boxes, and making speeches that attempt to provide closure for grieving loved ones, but there is something fiercely, selfishly joyful that he isn't in their place. Not today.

Rhodey has no platitudes to give, and Tony wouldn't want them, anyway. Instead, he leans carefully against his friend, waiting to see if there's any more Tony wants to say.

"He was stupid," Tony says softly, the worst condemnation from a Stark.

"And brave?" Rhodey asks, because the two are closely linked in Tony's mind. In Rhodey's, too, truth be told. Tony walks that line almost continuously and it makes Rhodey want to take him by the shoulders and shake him most days.

There's a sharp, choked chuckle. "The bravest."

Rhodey just eases more of his weight along Tony's side, careful of Tony's injuries, and listens as his breathing slowly evens out, staring out into the room that's gotten lighter in a gradual way that Rhodey hadn't noticed until now. In the hallway, Rhodey becomes aware of the bustle, the controlled chaos that's barely eased up in the early hours. In another bed, one of Tony's roommates whimpers in their sleep. Happy grumbles and shifts before falling silent again.

"You're a big jerk, you know," Tony murmurs after a long moment. "Coming back early. I had this whole thing planned out. We were going to meet you at the airport. There was going to be cabana boys. A marching band and fireworks. Elephants."

"What a shame I missed that," Rhodey says with all the dry sarcasm he can manage.

Tony snorts softly, and tucks his head under Rhodey's chin. "I'm glad you're here."

"So am I," Rhodey says.

Together they drift into something resembling sleep.

Rhodey jerks awake again in what feels like no time at all, though the light and the level of noise tells him otherwise. He blinks blurrily, disgruntled at consciousness and the world and comes face-to-face with a startled Captain America, who jerks back with a surprised sound when they make eye contact.

"Ah, sorry," the Captain blurts, looking a lot younger with hair ruffled, cheeks flushed. Goddamn, that jawline. "Miss Potts said I could stay and. You looked cold so."

Rhodey processes things like gears ticking over one at a time. He glances at the next bed over and ascertains that neither Pepper nor Happy are in it. He looks down and realizes that someone has placed a jacket over him. That "someone" obviously being Captain America, because he has a very distinctive uniform. It's still warm, like he was just wearing it. That shiny blue underarmor really clings to his biceps in a way that makes Rhodey's mouth water a little and also makes him a bit jealous. He's an active pilot in the US Air Force. Their physicals are rigorous and Rhodey always passes with flying colors, but he does not have biceps like that. What an indecently attractive asshole.

"Coffee," Rhodey says, because after a few seconds of mustering, that's the only word that would form.

"Yeah," Captain America says. "Yes, I can do that. Sir."

He leaves. Rhodey blinks at the ceiling for a few minutes and then elbows Tony very gently in the side.

"Your boyfriend's here," he says.

"Before coffee he's your boyfriend," Tony mutters, face half hidden against Rhodey's shoulder.

Rhodey settles a little, tugging the jacket closer around him. It smells like gunpowder and ash and Kevlar. Rhodey feels a smirk hook a corner of his mouth with a surprising amount of enthusiasm.

"I wonder if he says 'sir' in bed."

He gives Tony a sideways look and sees Tony slit open a single eye to peer at him muzzily. Then he sits up and opens both eyes when Rhodey only raises his eyebrows, not looking away. They grin at each other, in a way that reminds Rhodey of college. It's been a long time since either of them has played wingman for the other.

It probably should be weird, lusting after Captain America. Rhodey collected the comics when he was a kid. But the reality of the man doesn't really connect to the images in ink on paper, so Rhodey gives a little mental shrug and decides if it's a kink, it's one he can live with.

But it's probably fortunate for the Captain that Tony's dug out one of his many wireless devices and is distracted by the time he gets back. By the light of day, Tony looks worse than he probably is. He's pale and his left wrist is in a cast, the same arm that's been wrapped to help stabilize his fractured collarbone. They had to shave a patch of his head to put in stitches. His beard has crept out well beyond Tony's carefully maintained boundaries. Dark shadows are like bruises under his eyes.

"Tony," Captain America says, stopping dead in the doorway and bracing himself like he's ready to take a blow.

"Steve," Tony says without even looking up, though there's tension in the line of his shoulders.

Rhodey glances between them and then says, "Jim." They both look at him. "Sorry, just thought I'd join in."

"Your name is Jim?" Tony gasps, looking at him with mock betrayal.

Rhodey snorts and nudges him in the side and like that the tension is broken.

"Ow," Tony grumbles. "Don't make me laugh. Broken ribs suck. I need to develop some kind of magic fix for them. And by 'magic' I mean 'science.' The liquid ceramic compound works so well on the long bones."

Captain America--Steve, as Rhodey decides to call him, because he looks pretty far away from a national icon at the moment--steps around to Rhodey's side of the bed and hands him a large coffee cup, then takes the other and sips from it.

"Hey," Tony frowns. "Where's my coffee?"

"Oh, uh." The tips of Steve's ears go red. "I...didn't bring you any...?"

"Capsicle!" Tony barks, betrayed for real this time. Rhodey raises an eyebrow at the nickname but doesn't comment, too busy drinking perfectly hot, black coffee, bracing enough to curl Rhodey's nose hairs.

"You were asleep!" Steve protests. "And you need rest!"

"I need coffee," Tony counters with a stubborn set to his chin. "I need it to live." His eyes flick to Rhodey. "Give me yours."

"Like hell," Rhodey says and curls around his cup protectively.

"You're a terrible best friend," Tony declares.

"Steve can be your new best friend."

"Fine," Tony says and then flicks an imperious give me what I want immediately, peasant gesture in Steve's direction.

"But--"

"Does caffeine even have an effect on you?"

"Tony--"

"To live, Steve."

Rhodey has to give it to Tony's acting skills. Even he almost half-believes Tony is about three seconds away from dying from lack of proper caffeination. Further argument is interrupted, however, when a Pepto-Bismol-pink plastic cup, the ones issued by the hospital for water, flies across the room and very nearly clips Steve in the head.

"Fucking split the difference and shut up already!" the girl in the bed across the way shouts. "Some of us are trying to sleep!"

Rhodey laughs outright. Tony attempts a glare, but it morphs into a grin because he's always had a soft spot for the foul mouthed assholes of the world. Steve sheepishly pours half his coffee into the pink cup and hands the rest to Tony, then he drags a chair over and sits, sipping coffee with them in reverent silence.

Tony's finished his and has bullied Rhodey into giving him the rest of his cup by the time Steve straightens, having been nursing the dregs for a while, rolling pink plastic in his large hands. He clears his throat and opens his mouth.

"Can we not?" Tony says before Steve can get anything out.

Steve stops and swallows whatever he'd been about to say. "What?"

"You had that 'determined to do the right thing even if it kills me' expression. I don't want to hear it, whatever it is. Plus, Rhodey's promised to beat you up for me, and that's something I'd like to see. "

Steve flicks an uncertain look in Rhodey's direction, and Rhodey nods, keeping his expression solemn, willing to back Tony up even though he'd really just like to know what, exactly, this is about.

"It's true. Though knowing Tony I'll likely have another reason to punch someone in the face before the week's out."

Tony shoots him a dark look. Rhodey meets it with a raised eyebrow, and they hold like that until Tony dissolves into a grudging, "Yeah, okay. Probably."

Steve looks interested, sidetracked in spite of good intentions. Such is the way of people who spend time near Tony. "Does that happen often?"

"All the time in college," Tony says blithely. "After that, I sort of grew out of the need for backup."

Which makes Rhodey bristle and retort, "No one ever completely grows out of the need for backup."

And then they're stuck in a glare-off again. In the silence Steve says, a little desperately, "I wanted to apologize--"

"Oh god," Tony says, looking away from Rhodey to roll his eyes. "Stop; it's fine."

"It's not," Steve insists.

"Tony, shut up and let the man apologize," Rhodey snaps, and Tony's mouth shuts with a click of teeth. It's good to know That Tone of Voice still works on him. Rhodey uses it sparingly just so that Tony doesn't develop immunity.

Rhodey still isn't a hundred percent sure what's going on, but he's willing to encourage anyone who has the balls to try and make amends with Tony. Tony tends to burn bridges. With napalm. There are a very small handful of people who are willing to brave the way back while it's actively on fire, without ulterior motive, anyway. But Steve seems a good sort, even apart from being Captain America, and unlike Tony, Rhodey has good instincts when it comes to people.

Steve pauses for a moment, as if waiting to see if the silence will hold. When Tony makes an expansive well, go ahead gesture, Steve frowns, but he squares his shoulders and carries on anyway.

"I wanted to apologize for what I said earlier." Steve is still and serious and his gaze is direct and steady. Tony fidgets next to Rhodey, obviously agitated. "I was wrong. I made assumptions and...they were wrong. I'm sorry. I still don't understand you, not really, but I think I'd like to."

It's a prettily sincere little speech, and Tony managed to hold his tongue through the whole thing, which is surprising in its own right. Rhodey wonders if Steve has the patience for the long haul, because he's had almost twenty years of project Figuring Tony Out and he still gets blindsided by the chaos of Tony's whims from time to time.

"And if you ever--"

"Okay," Tony interrupts. "Fine. Great. I accept or whatever. This was terribly touching. And terrible. Just terrible. Can we never speak of it again? Also--ditto."

Rhodey, who'd been taking a sip of coffee and wishing, vaguely, for popcorn because something this entertaining deserves the full movie experience, coughs and sends Tony a startled glance. But Tony is staring resolutely at the wall.

"Um. I mean, I apologize for what I said, et cetera et cetera."

"Tony, you don't have to--"

"Look, Cap, this is about as sincere as I get so take it or leave it."

"I'll take it," Steve says with such a determined look of sincerity that Rhodey has to stifle a chuckle. "And if you need anything--"

"Oh god, no. Wait." The look Tony throws in Rhodey's direction is so sly that Rhodey's survival instincts kick in.

"I think I'm going to try and find breakfast," Rhodey says, sliding toward the edge of the bed.

"Oh no you don't," Tony says, up on his knees to awkwardly grab Rhodey one-handed, wincing a little. "Cap, flank him!"

Before Rhodey can figure out how to slip Tony without injuring him further, Steve's arms circle him from the other side, almost long enough to encompass Tony as well, and Rhodey is well and truly caught, reduced to glaring at his best friend, who's grinning wildly.

"Well, it's not cabana boys, but under the circumstances, I think it'll do. Nothing beats Captain America."

"What are we doing?" Steve asks.

"You said 'anything I needed'," Tony reminds him, glaring at Steve over Rhodey's head.

"Within reason," Steve retorts.

"You don't have to do anything you don't want to do, Steve. Don't encourage him; it'll just make him worse."

But then Tony presses a soft kiss against Rhodey's temple and murmurs. "Welcome home, Rhodey."

And then, after a small hesitation, there's just the lightest brush of lips on Rhodey's opposite temple as Steve echoes the action. "Welcome home, Jim."

Tony wrinkles his nose. "Jim? Is that going to be a thing? Because no."

"I hate you," Rhodey says, enunciating clearly.

Tony smirks. "You love me."

Rhodey pretends to take his time, thinking about that, as he sinks into the support of both of their arms. "Yeah, that too."

Sonnet Takes a Personality Quiz!

kahn — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 17:40:17 GMT

Remember when we used to take quizes and post results and be like HAHAHAHA I TESTED AS PIKACHU! Who misses those times? No one? WELL I'M POSTING THIS ANYWAY. Mostly because I think it's slightly more accurate than the first one I took which claimed that I was very concerned with being on time and organization. I don't remember the actual result, I just remember being like "HA HA HAHAHA NO."

I think the heavy emphasis on FINDING YOUR SOULMATE in the second paragraph is because this site is actually a dating site, maybe? I'm not sure; I've mostly been using it to take random quizes. If anyone is curious about my Dwarf identity, I am aparently Ori, the cute young one with a slingshot and a scarf!

INFJ - the counselor
You scored 45% I to E, 32% N to S, 14% F to T, and 42% J to P!

Your type is best summed up by the word "counselor", which belongs to the larger group of idealists. Only 2% of the population share your type. You are so empathic that you often know what others need before they know themselves. You are a complex person who can deal with complicated issues and people, almost prefer to, as you love problem solving. You can be something of an idealist or perfectionist, and should try to take yourself a little less seriously.

You are a supportive and insightful romantic partner, encouraging your mate to have dreams and work hard to make those dreams come true. Because you are so creative, you have a wealth of ideas to help them toward those goals. You need harmony so much that you are driven to resolve conflict quickly, as long as the terms don't violate your ethics. You feel the most appreciated when your partner admires your creativity, trusts your inspirations, and respects your values. It is also vitally important that your partner be open and emotionally available - in other words, that they be willing to share themselves completely.

Your type summary: INFJ

Some things:
a) Does this sound right? I never know how honest I'm being when I take these tests. Sometimes I think other people should take these for you because a lot of times how you perceive yourself is not now others have actually seen you behave.
b) Only 2% of the population? REALLY? *suddenly feels lonely*
c) OTHER PEOPLE SHOULD TAKE THIS TEST AND POST THE RESULTS IN THEIR JOURNAL OR IN THE COMMENTS BECAUSE I'M CURIOUS AND PEOPLE SHOULD INDULGE ME.

Turkey Day Post FINAL

kahn — Fri, 23 Nov 2012 21:25:41 GMT

So, in conclusion: canned ingredients are not as good as fresh ones. No surprise. The yams were not bad, but, sadly, the green beans are disappointing. Canned green beans just have a very distinct flavor that overpower the other flavors which are much more delicate. Ah, well. It's still edible!

On the other hand, my turkey is good and my gravy ROCKS. Sadly, of all the things I wanted to turn out well, I think the gravy was the one lowest on the list. Ah, well. Lessons for next year!

Kelly's potatoes were garlicy and delicious and I LOVED the apple crisp. She made it with actual apples! Not from a packet! Also, Riggs likes apples, who knew? Willow, not so much. A lot of times I think she eats things just so that Riggs can't have them, but the look on her face is one of determined disgustedness.

Also, Kelly spent the latter part of the evening digging Christmas decorations out the dark recesses of the Zombie closet, so now there's a tree up in the guest room! With lights on! It's impressive! Also, she's trying to convince me that we should put up more lights and like DECORATE and things, but I haven't decided if I'm going to participate or just sit back and reap the rewards after everything is already in place.

So my Dad is feeling chest pains again, but wouldn't go to see the doctor. Mom had to take an emergency fly down (up?) to Minnesota to force him to the doctor. They're waiting for test results and whatnot. Most days I succeed in not worrying about it. And then sometimes I worry a LOT constantly. Like now when I'm writing about it. So, time to stop, LA!

My brother is working on buying a house down in Myrtle Beach. He weathered Sandy without difficulty and he's trying to convince me to buy him a $1,500.00 Batsuit (like Batman) or to get one of my cosplayers to make one for him. I have yet to convince him that's not happening. Hope eternal and all that.

Fandom-wise, I'm still deep in The Avengers. I've also re-picked up Sherlock and I've just recently started watching Elementary, which I ADORE, much to my surprise. I LOVE SHERLOCK & WATSON IN THIS VERSION. I JUST LOVE THEM. I still want them to hook up, like nearly ALL Sherlock Holmes/John Watson's in every version, but I also adore them as BFFs. Joan Watson FLOUNCES and her HAIR and she's SO PRETTY and SUCH A PERFECT BITCH. I love her. I LOVE HER. And SHERLOCK. I love how he's clearly still socially inept but he's much more Tony Stark (i.e. driving people away with assholishness because NO I DON'T WANT TO BE HURT ANYMOOOORE, coupled with actualy being an introvert who doesn't care to interact in deep ways with most people) than sociopath. And his TATTOOS and his clear affection of Watson that is deep and true but also not sexual. (I want them to hook up--eventually, but I'm a big fan of male-female platonic friendships, too, and I appreciate that this show didn't give them HAWT SEXUAL TENSION right away because it would be SO EASY and SO CHEAP to go there with Watson being female and of course WOMEN CAN ONLY BE LOVE INTERESTS.) I didn't expect to like the show, so I'm kind of blindsided by my affection.

Also has everyone seen Wreck-It Ralph? Yes? YES?? Good.

For work-related things, please see previous post.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING, EVERYONE! I love you! I'm grateful to have you in my life. :-D I hope everyone had a lovely day, and if not, I hope you got through it with minimal scarring.

Sonnet Talks about Boobs

kahn — Fri, 23 Nov 2012 02:30:08 GMT

So, usually I take some time out during the Turkey Day post to talk to Family and Job and Fandom, but I was trying to plan ahead and got stuck on what to say about my job, and then I thought about all the things I've learned about boobs since I started working for a plastic surgeon that I thought might be useful for people to know--things that no one ever talks about, but every assumes everyone else knows, and a lot of preconceived notions that I've always thought that were wrong.

So is that okay for everyone? If not, now is a good time to look away and scroll quickly.

SONNET'S LIST OF THINGS ABOUT BOOBS THAT PEOPLE SHOULD KNOW:

1.) 30% of women will/do sag. This does not have to do with age. Most people who are inclined to sag sag from pretty much the get-go. This does not make your breasts weird. That's just how they are. If you have saggy breasts, they also likely developed very early. I don't actually know why that is, but it seems to be the case. The two points of a woman's life in which she will likely sag are during puberty or during pregnancy. IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH AGE. Your sag might be more appear more noticeable with age, but it's a genetic thing and you were always predisposed to sag if you sag at any point in your life. If you do not sag you will likely never sag barring large fluctuations in weight or some other hormonal change that causes excess of estrogen.

2.) 70% of women have stretch marks. NOTHING GETS RID OF THEM. (This also goes for scars and bruises.) Again, most stretch marks appear during puberty or pregnancy. Estrogen: it's a fucking bitch.

3.) Humans have a milk line like animals (think cats, who develop nipples all the way down). Our breasts can develop at any point along that line. That's why one breast can be attached to the chest wall at a literally different point. One breast can be higher than the other. No, you're not weird, either. That's normal.

4.) Bra sizes ARE RELATIVE and scaled to PROPORTION. If you are a 36C and cannot find a bra that fits you, try a 34D or a 38B. If it's the same bra/manufacturer, your the cup size should be the same. Go down a band size, go up a cup size. Conversely, go up a band size go down a cup size. Because manufacturers figure that your C-cup breast on a body that fits a 34 band is going to be smaller, proportionately, on a larger person.

5.) Also, on a related note, the # of that mysterious bra equation is supposed to be the size around your ribs. Like, that may have been really obvious to some people, but it was not to me for a very long time.

6.) Bra sizes are really arbitrary. Like, REALLY. I realized while working at a plastic surgeon that this is probably something we chesty women understand a lot sooner because we have to struggle with the fit of a bra way more often. I have ornery boobs that have VERY specific fitting needs and punish me for any wrong decisions I make on the matter. People with less mass to wrestle into the cup-of-choice probably don't realize just HOW arbitrary bra sizes are.

7.) On a side subject, those people who measure you in stores? They're measuring you for the bras THEY CARRY. And since bra sizes are arbitrary (see above for a mini-rant) the measurements you receive from these people cannot be carried to another store/bra line. So, it's fine if you get measured, but just be aware that it is not an absolute.

8.) Victoria Secret sizes their bras way larger (smaller?) than anywhere else. If you are a C at Victoria Secret, you're likely a B or smaller everywhere else.

9.) One boob will likely be larger than the other. This is sort of low down the list because I think most people know this...? But if you don't, trust me, I've seen A LOT of boobs, and I know that over half of women are built like that. I don't have an exact percentage, though.

10.) No matter how small you think your breasts are, trust me, I've seen smaller. And larger. And saggier, and more weirdly disproportionately shaped.

I think that's it, for now. I might add to this list as I think of more things.

Turkey Day Post 6

kahn — Thu, 22 Nov 2012 21:25:37 GMT

Either I'm getting worse at HTML or something is going on with LJ because it keeps eating my entries and spitting them out as gibberish. I had to go back and completely reconstruct part of my first entry. Which is when I discovered that I no longer have Word. When my computer died, they must not have re-uploaded it. Microsoft WORKS?? NOOOOOO!!!

I found the stuffing! Some enterprising feline smacked it off the counter and then batted it under a chair. Or maybe that was me? Anyway, it was under a chair in my dinning room. I used my left over mushroom water from when I reconstituted the shiitake and it smells good!

Notes on gravy:

I bought a packet of gravy mix after I failed to find the Gravy Master stuff that my office manager told me about, but I don't think I'm going to need it. Of all the things I made today, the gravy is the thing made most from scratch. I actually sacrificed some of the giblets to it (just the neck and liver; the rest were MINE) and bought ACTUAL SHALLOTS. Usually, when a recipe calls for shallots I just roll my eyes and use an onion, but I saw them and they came in a little 2-bag so I was like--why not? Shallots are apparently a bit like garlic-onions. Sort of on the line of being both and neither. Still stung my eyes like crazy, though.

For the base, I used left over water from the giblets/brine and more of the mushroom water, so it should be good!

Turkey Day Post 5

kahn — Thu, 22 Nov 2012 20:53:33 GMT

Where the hell is the stuffing? I swear I touched it last night as I was putting everything else away, but now I can't find it anywhere. Elves took my stuffing. Maybe Baby Kitten ate it? She tried to eat her way into the marshmallow bags last night. It was probably Beckett. He's the most evil of all my cats.

Turkey Day Post 4 (Sonnet sets something on fire part 2)

kahn — Thu, 22 Nov 2012 20:48:25 GMT

So you know what's really hard? Putting marshmallows on top of your yams while they're still in the oven. One escaped straight down onto the heat coil and immediately burst into flames. Also, note to self, the tins are very flimsy this year, so if I get this same kind next year I should probably get two for each so I can double them up so they'll be stiffer.

Yeah, this is about the time that I lose control of everything and it's all just a mad dash to get things done while everything sort of finishes up and needs to be taken care of all at the same time.

I should go I smell something else burning.

Turkey Day Post 3 (Gravy Blues)

kahn — Thu, 22 Nov 2012 20:33:17 GMT

Place the giblets, neck bone, broth, carrots, celery & shallots in a large saucepan; bring to a boil. Reduce heat; cover and simmer for 1-1/4 hours.

1 1/4 hours

1 1/4 hours

JFC I always forget this part. Well. THAT'S NOT HAPPENING. RAWR. *stomps back to the kitchen*

Turkey Day Post 2

kahn — Thu, 22 Nov 2012 20:02:58 GMT

Well, I WAS going to say that it's all just a waiting game, now, but it took so long to write that first post that the turkey is NOW DONE. It went from not done to DONE very quickly! Hopefully, I put the meat thermometer in correctly and I'm reading it accurately. I actually had to look up a video on how to put the thermometer in this year, just as a refresher and the lady on the video's first time was, "Make sure that your thermometer is meant for MEAT, and is oven-safe" and I was like..."Does that actually happen?" Like there's someone looking at a turkey and holding like a baby thermometer or something and is like, "Well, I've stuck this up my infant's ass so...I'm sure it would be fine to put in this turkey."

Anyway, now on to cook the yams and green beans. I STILL managed to buy WAY TOO MANY green beans, despite counseling myself to temperance every year. Kelly was nice enough to take them out of their cans, drain them and put them in the baking tin. I had to take about half of them out again, however, and put them in a bag to freeze them. I think I can use them in soup later.

Next year, maybe I should do with the mushrooms what I did with the sugar--which is to say, make them the night before so that the cream has time to soak in the mushroom flavor.

Ah well--time to finish up and start the gravy!