Chapter Text
One more time.
If Arty stubbed her toe one. more.time. on this godforsaken day, in this godforsaken city and on this godforsaken planet, she was leaving the apartment and walking straight into traffic—a nice, quick death.
It was a promise to every entity in the universe.
At least, in any other city it might have done the trick. Considering traffic in New York moved about as fast as a line at the DMV, she had considerable doubt it would get the job done to her standards. Great.
“Stub something again?” Brit’s voice emanated from the other room, in her playful I-know-you-absolutely-did-and-am-definitely-enjoying-your-suffering-because-as-your-friend-I’m-legally-allowed-to way.
Arty glared through the wall with all the empty hatred she could muster.
Her chosen response of ‘Screw this, and you, I’m moving back home’ was discarded quickly in favor of chucking Brit’s favorite throw pillow at the wall. It bounced harmlessly to the floor, as futile a gesture as her actual annoyance.
She heard a snort on the other end.
Taking a deep breath and balancing awkwardly on one leg to rub her sadly abused foot, Arty drew on every ounce of calm she could to remind herself that she loved Brit very much and was here to support her. She couldn’t just leave.
She’d been telling herself that for two months, of course, but it hadn’t made the adjustment any easier—her mangled feet were proof of that.
“How much longer do you need in there?” Arty called out to distract herself from the pain, working some blood into the area to lessen the bruising. “You’re the one who said you wanted to leave by 9.”
“Almost done!” The response from the master bedroom was muffled under the racket of closing drawers and shuffling paperwork. “Just lookin’ for the last of Marcos’ damned tax returns. I swear the stupid things disappear like that!” Her own taxes, she meant. Marcos was a meticulous record keeper who’d probably never lost a thing in his life, but it was easy to blame him when he was halfway around the world. “Never can be certain they didn’t walk off themselves, honestly, what with the—Aha! Found them!” There was more shuffling and the thump of a dresser before Brit continued, voice drawing nearer as she came around the corner of the living room. “That’s the last of what the letter said I needed, so I think we should be—hey. Why are you chastising me on time when you don’t even have shoes on?”
“Golly gee, professor,” Arty drawled out in her best monotone, “do ya’ think I’ll be able to fit anything smaller than a slipper on this baby?” She raised her leg dramatically and aimed her swollen big toe in the others’ direction. “Real and true?”
Brit took a close look at the hovering appendage and frowned seriously. “I think a clown shoe’s your best bet at this point. In my expert opinion, of course.”
Arty grabbed another pillow from the couch and threw it at her, smiling. “Call your brother, then, tell him to let me borrow his.”
“Excuse you,” Brit said with all the faux-offense she could ladle into her impressive height, flipping her long red hair theatrically over her shoulder, “you know damn well he moonlights as a mime, thank you very much. Absolute sacrilege.”
Arty fell onto the couch with her best put-upon sigh. “At least his miming pays for his groceries—wouldn’t mind me a slice of that,” she mused thoughtfully. “Where does one apply to Mime’s College Anonymous? Your local basement?”
Brit shrugged, grabbing her purse and easing the papers she’d gathered into them. “Or the neighborhood barn.”
Arty hummed an acknowledgment and watched her friend’s movements with growing apprehension. And maybe a little bit of laziness. She eyed the crammed shoe rack next to the door with distaste, thinking of forcing a pair of those on. “Are you sure you want me to come? Honestly, I’ll probably just be more of a problem to get through security. Besides,” the excuses started to flow easily despite her sincere interest in tagging along, “I’ve got those numbers JT wanted me to look over, the Valley Site article could use some more editing, and—”
“I’ll make you my aunt’s s'mores cake if you come.”
Arty forced shoes on, was out the door with bag in hand, and down the stairs in a minute flat.
*
New York City wasn’t all that bad, Arty knew as they made their way on foot through the streets of the mid-morning metropolis.
It certainly stood heads and tails above some of the other places she’d lived—to say nothing of its history and culture and everything else it had going for it—it just wasn’t for her. And Arty was having an increasingly difficult time pretending it was.
They crossed the street at a jog, aiming for one of the bigger avenues.
The first month or so had been easy enough to get through. It had even bordered on genuinely enjoyable. Between the moving and the unpacking, the sightseeing and the museums and the ‘Best Donuts in the World’-s on every corner, there had been enough to do to ignore her growing sense of restlessness and a creeping sensation of error. Once the novelty of it all had worn off, and the tiny apartment was too tiny to do anything but stand, and the buildings were too ominous as they watched over everything, and she couldn’t move or relax or breathe, the thought that maybe she had rushed into this whole ‘Move Across the Country’ thing became a shadow of her every waking moment.
Back home had it’s fair share of unresolved problems waiting for her too, but it was home…and she missed it terribly.
As they were buffered and maneuvered by the surrounding crowds, air warming quickly and the sounds of the city already deafening around them, Arty shrunk tight to herself and shook off the line of thought, keeping close to her companion.
It was only temporary, she reminded herself. Brit needed her. As long as her friend needed her, Arty would endure just fine.
At least the aliens had provided a halt to an approaching downward spiral.
When the grey-skinned, snarly, ‘Definitely Not ET’ looking guys had rained down from the sky two weeks ago, hell bent on taking over, the city certainly hadn’t earned any points as a place she’d like to put down roots. But it had been a break to routine and given her a new appreciation for human compassion. Even now, as they passed stalls for relief efforts and storefronts with hand-painted ‘Donations and Volunteers Welcome’ signs in their windows, Arty was reminded of her species’ ability to bounce back from just about anything. Anything they wanted to, anyways. Things were hardly “normal”, but life went on and people had places to be and things to do.
The superheroes had been really cool, though. Not that they’d seen any.
Brit had sensed her agitation at the time and taken her to some beach down the coast for a surprise-slash-thank-you weekend. Fortuitous timing, one might say. They’d come home three days later, after the news warned residents to give it some time to settle down and for crews to clear debris from the roads, to find their apartment building intact but the one next to it half impaled by a giant, armored, purple, whale-looking thing.
It was bizarre to say the least, and the smell lingered even two weeks later, but they were from California—weird and bizarre was often the norm.
They were passing near a construction crane lifting a giant slab of warped alien metal when Arty spotted something out of the corner and eye and pulled her friend to a quick stop, eagerly pointing at the food cart across the street. “How much do you love me to make a pit stop?”
Brit followed the finger for a closer look. Ice Cream. Always.
“You know, our ancestors would have a thing or two to say about having ice cream for breakfast.”
“Let them say it,” Arty grinned, taking off toward the stand. “No one can hear ‘em where they are. ‘Sides, maybe I can use it to bribe the guards for an easy in.”
*
“Do you think they’ve got them locked in a basement somewhere?” A man in a blue baseball hat asked to no one in particular.
“Yeah,” huffed some guy in a construction vest, leaning against a nearby railing, “the governments basement. Probably the same one they made them in.”
There was a murmur of agreement, some joking and some not, among the crowd milling nearby.
Arty and Brit leaned beneath an awning with their ice cream, doing their best to stay out of the May sun and out of the way of the people passing to and fro beneath it, listening to the conversation with casual interest. They’d left the apartment with plenty of time to spare, and one did not consume the treat of the gods in a rush; there was no harm in enjoying a few minutes before they continued to fight their way through the packed streets.
Others had the same thought, apparently.
Quite a mismatched congregation, the dozen or so people sitting and standing around them clearly came from different walks of life—a pencil skirt and a business suit here, three teenagers with their skateboards there, and even a parent or two with their young ones, easing them back into a routine—but all had endured the same event and were in the same boat of how to deal with it.
And all were trying to escape the heat, packed around the area the ice cream cart had claimed for its own.
“It’s totally obvious that guy claiming to be Captain America is a clone,” said one of the teens, as if preaching the word of the internet theory he’d stumbled upon the night before. “Not even the real Captain America could survive in ice like that.”
“Clone,” repeated one of his buddies, nodding mechanically.
“They’re probably all engineered,” said the same guy in the construction vest, conspiracy leading the way, “made in some lab by some scientists who think they know best and want to change us.”
There were clearly mixed feelings among the group, dissent being one of them.
“I for one am glad they’re here, engineered or no.” It was one of the ladies sitting on a concrete block, a garishly salmon top half hidden behind the wide-eyed toddler on her lap, feeding a spoonful of lemon sorbet to the small human. “None of us would be here if it weren’t for them. I say they can save my as—butt any day of the week.”
Another murmur of agreement.
“That’s what they want you to think.” Construction Guy, back at it again. “Get ya’ all cozy and warm and then BAM! We’re all under martial law and the governments playing with our brains in jars.”
Arty’s head was spinning with the leap in logic as she tried her best not to giggle. What an intellect.
“—probably did the aliens too, just think about it—”
Christ. She had to force another spoonful of Chocolate Fantasy into her mouth just to stop from snorting.
A groan from the crowd captured her feelings perfectly.
“I personally wouldn’t mind if that Thor guy came back,” said one of the women in a pencil skirt. “That’s an alien who can conquer my world any day, free of charge.” A garrison of agreement rose up like a wall, from ‘Mm-hmms’ to ‘That’s right’s.
Arty herself could hardly disagree as she watched the crane across the street do its work, occasionally lifting more alien debris to deposit on the bed of a parked semi. The sun glinted off the alien metal in fascinating ways, painting passing cars with a strange, rolling effect of color.
This was the conversation these days. Sort of. Alien invasion was definitely new: new to the status quo, new to humanities understanding of their place in the universe, new to simple, everyday dialogue. But ever since Tony Stark had bada-bing, bada-boomed himself into Iron Man the weird shit in the world had been getting progressively weirder. It was up to everyone at this point to decide how they wanted to adapt and roll with the punches.
Ice cream helped it all along, as far as Arty was concerned. It was hitting just the right spot. She refocused on the conversation, stealing a bite of Brit’s Raspberry Delight before the taller girl could stop her.
“—clearly not hurting his wallet, I can tell you that,” said one of the men in a suit and tie, hair slicked back. “Stark’s actually making money off this mess,” he gestured about wildly, “taking charge of the clean up’s probably put a nice fat check in his pocket. Bet that’s why he did it.”
Arty felt a sliver of ice creep into her bloodstream that had nothing to do with the 10 am dessert. Similarly, she felt Brit stiffen beside her, words ready to go.
“He flew a nuke through a wormhole,” Arty spoke up, containing herself. “You think he pulled a suicide mission for a fortune he already has?”
Mr. Business snorted indignantly. “I think rich people will do anything to get richer,” he sneered haughtily, “especially if it means continuous profits for a company that took a hit after it shut down its weapons divis—”
“This coming from a guy who looks like he was born and raised on Wall Street?” chimed another voice. “If you’re trying to appeal to the lowly masses, guy, you could use a better disguise.”
He looked like was about to respond, Rolex flashing in the sunlight beneath his sleeve, when Arty joined in again. “I think he might just be upset Stark Enterprises is doing better than ever—without weapons. Why?” She raised a brow at him. “You work for the competition?”
“Hammer Tech is biting the dust, man,” said the first man in the baseball hat. “Not a hill you want to die on.”
“Our friend here is also oh-so-conveniently ignoring the fact Tony Stark isn’t even CEO anymore,” Brit commented dryly beside her. “He let Pepper Potts take the reigns so he could focus more on protecting people like you.”
“Ha! You must be some of those pathetic groupies that stand around his tower all day, fawning over him,” he barked loudly, but his face was mottled and pinched now. Iron Man was well-liked by the general populace these days, even well-loved since the whole ‘Nuclear Bomb’ thing, and going by the faces and murmurs around him, Mr. Business now seemed to be realizing he was outnumbered.
Whatever else he might’ve said was drowned out by an ear-piercing squeal coming from the closest stoplight.
A few bystanders were huddled around what appeared to be a young couple, embracing each other fiercely and barely able to stand still as they proclaimed their joy to the world through uncontainable laughter and barely decipherable jabbering.
They couldn’t pick up any words from this distance that would tip them off to a reason for their outburst, but they didn’t need to.
It was the body language of the closer spectators that really gave it away: an elderly couple, withered and gray and hunched over by time, holding hands and exchanging looks of love and deep remembrance; a man in his middle age, looking for all the world bitter and resentful at the encounter; a small child, tugging on their parents hand as they pointed eagerly at the sight, waiting for their own time to come.
Awe, longing, resentment, nostalgia, hope.
All the medley of responses that normally accompanied a public Finding.
On this small street corner in New York City, two young people had just found their soulmates.
Arty’s gut flipped.
She looked away quickly, even as her stomach rolled and chest clenched and it was suddenly very, very hard to breathe. She squeezed her eyes shut, tight as could be, and focused on easing air back into her lungs.
One breath.
Two breaths.
Three.
It was all right, Arty reminded herself, even as the smell of leather and gas clouded her mind. Just a panic response.
A physical reaction, not an attack.
‘You’ve seen plenty of Findings before, Arty,’ she heard Johhni’s comforting voice in her head, ‘and you’ll see many more before your time is up. Just breathe.’
She worked to unclench her jaw as the skin on her back burned a fervent reminder.
Just a panic response. Not an attack.
Through the haze, Arty felt a gentle hand hook around her arm and guide her away from their place beneath the awning, toward a crosswalk as far away from the event as possible. Walking was beneficial, blood pumping through her veins beginning to soften her seized limbs as they once again aspired to their destination.
“You know,” her redheaded friend began conversationally, “what color do you think Black Widow uses? I’m thinking of going a shade or two darker, and I really like her base.” Brit dawned a pondering look even as she tapped a finger lightly along Arty’s arm, sensation methodic and reassuring, gently guiding her out of herself and into the conversation. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she made her own—do spies even trust commercial brands?”
Sometimes, Arty had to stop and thank the universe for bringing Brit into her life.
From the depths of her will she was able to summon a response, wrestling the shadows of her mind back into complacency. “Spies might be the commercial brands, for all we know,” she managed, her voice more than a little shaky, but it was a start. “I think her red would go really great with your routine, though. The shade you’ve got now kind of clashes with the outfit.”
Brit frowned in thought. “Dammit,” she agreed, “you’re right. Too pink.”
Arty took a steadying breath, strength flowing back into her as she tossed the remains of her ice cream in the nearest trashcan. She hated wasting it, but now she couldn’t stomach the treat. It wouldn’t taste so good at the moment, anyways. “You know whose hair I’d like to take tips from? Or even whose hair I’d just like to take?”
“The god dude?”
“The god dude,” Arty agreed. “Man doesn’t look like he’s ever had a split end in his life.” They were now on the shaded side of the street, on a straight path to their target. “Either all space gods have hair like that or he’s just a good boy who listened to his mama on proper hair maintenance.”
“Maybe it’s special space shampoo. The kind you get from sacrificing virgins and that sort of thing.”
Arty shrugged, considering it. “He should come down again, share the Old Knowledge with the rest of us.”
“I wanna’ touch his muscles,” Brit proclaimed.
“You’re married.”
“Still wanna’ touch his muscles,” she sing-songed, a groove creeping into her step. “I wonder if the Captain America clone would let me touch his muscles if I paid him.”
“For scientific purposes?” Arty smiled, feeling infinitely better.
“Of course.” Brit grinned mischievously. She was milking this line of thought for all it was worth to make Arty forget what they’d seen. “You think he wears cologne? Did they even have cologne in the 40’s?”
“Perfume’s been around since the dawn of civilization,” Arty said. “He probably wears some kind of ‘Justice and Liberty’ line. An All-American, Made in the States kind of scent.”
“Tony Stark definitely smells nice,” Brit said, playing off her friend’s admiration for the man. “Marcos said so.”
Unable to help it, Arty giggled. “I’m sure the fuck he does. You don’t look like that and not smell like a billion bucks.”
“Mm-hmm,” she hummed, “Marcos says he smells like ecstasy and sin. And a little bit of coffee.”
She laughed out loud this time. “Might I just say, for the millionth time, how much I love your husband and his secure masculinity,” she said, wondering just how many times Marcos had been near enough to his employer to know what he smelled like. Probably just the once.
“On behalf of Marcos and his secure masculinity, I thank you.”
Brit kept up the banter until her friend was smiling more than a few seconds at a time, feeling her job complete. But as they walked toward Stark Tower for Brit’s appointment, and even as the redhead did a fantastic job of chasing away her friend’s demons with a broom, a part of Arty was still back there on the sidewalk, watching the Finding take place, and vowing that would never be her.
* * *
“Sir.”
Tony Stark ignored him.
“Sir.”
Tony ignored him harder.
“Sir, once again, might I suggest—“
“No.”
"As part of my job description, I feel it is my duty to inform you tha—”
“Heard it already, JARVIS,” Tony said, toweling his hair—perhaps a little too harshly—as he increased his speed to get as far from the pool room as possible.
He definitely wouldn’t be going back there for a while. Or ever.
“Sir, I really do believe it will be beneficial if you—”
“I’m sorry, is this Bring Stupid Ideas Back To Life Day? I missed the memo.”
JARVIS was silent at the remark—more out of respect to allow his creator time to calm down, said creator knew, than any real taken offense.
As Tony made it to the wide stairs that opened to the upper levels, taking them two at a time in his agitation, he began his usual process of pretending nothing had happened.
Tony still wasn’t sure what had happened in the first place.
He’d woken up from a nightmare like normal, had barely been able to stomach a cup of coffee like normal, and had dreaded perused his high-priority messages like normal. Despite his totally normal morning, a thrum of disquiet had settled over his mood; it had tightened around him in a fashion so persistent he found himself almost jumpy, the likes of which he’d never experienced before. And he couldn’t do anything to shake it.
It couldn’t be the stress—he’d been stressed before. It couldn’t be the cleanup of the city, either; he’d done that before, too. It couldn’t be the press, or the approaching move-in day for the Avengers now that their individual suites were complete, or the almost dying. He’d almost died plenty of times he told himself.
JARVIS had begun to form his own theory, but it was a stupid theory so Tony ignored it. The end.
So, in an effort to get his whatever-it-was under control, Tony had the bright idea to do laps, even though he never used the pool, to cool off and work away some of the tension he’d found started living in his spine. A win-win.
Not.
The laps had gone just fine. Even seemed to be working.
It wasn’t until he’d gone full submersible, endeavoring to increase his ability to hold his breath under water, when it decided to happen.
He’d been floating weightlessly, maybe even enjoying the lack of oxygen and brief thought that ‘hey, this not-really-existing-thing-is-kinda-nice’, when his body rebelled and Tony found himself in the fight of his life just to break the surface. He couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t move, he had no control, he was going to die up here—wait, no, down here, alone, all alone, always alone, no one to even hear him or—
Once he’d managed to cough up most of the water he’d inhaled in his fit and was able to peel himself off the pool ledge, he couldn’t get away from the place fast enough.
Now here Tony was: back in his bedroom, definitely not cured, not even a bit treated, worse off than he was before. The only difference was a new set of clothes and a renewed ache in his chest from the arc reactor; it hadn’t taken kindly to his near-drowning experience.
He was peeved to say the least. What was he supposed to do now?
He had a meeting with the Mayor later in the day, otherwise he would pop off to go bug Rhodey. Or Pepper. Or even Happy. A cross-country trip for the sake of Petty Things usually did a number to lift his spirits. Running some of his ideas by Bruce was out of the question, too—the big guy was out of town for a month taking care of some “business”. He could always go play with something in the lab, that was his usual go-to, but then he’d have the problem of being alone with himself and his “problem”, the thing JARVIS said he needed to approach and actually deal with like a sensible adult—
No.
A distraction. That was what he needed.
Perfect.
“Sir—”
“Nope.”
Tony Stark left the penthouse, stairs in mind, as he set off for his distraction.
* * *
Getting past Stark Tower security hadn’t been as much of a hassle as they’d anticipated, bribes not necessary. The guards had given Arty the stink eye, looked her up and down with suspicion, and questioned why she was here if she didn’t have an appointment. ‘Moral support’ was the answer, a better one than ‘my friend’s antidote to boredom’, but all it took was Brit’s batting eyelashes and the big doe-eyes of someone who “just plain doesn’t feel safe alone in the city since the Incident” to get them to consider letting Arty through. She’d gone through their array of security measures and let them scan her bag, records, and ID—smiling sheepishly when the guards raised a brow at her full name—before they were convinced she was harmless and let them pass.
Up they’d gone, just like that. When Stark had tech that could spot a fleck of glitter in someone’s hair, never mind a weapon, Arty really was laughably harmless.
“How long’ll this take, you think?” Arty asked in her whisper-voice even though they were the only two in the elevator.
“Honestly? No idea,” Brit whispered back.
Legend had it if you spoke too loud in a building as fancy as this one, being generally un-fancy and lower class as they were, you were liable to be dragged off by the Suits for punishment.
“Last time didn’t take too long,” Brit added, “but Marcos was also here—didn’t have to jump through so many hoops. Not to mention aliens hadn’t attacked the building last time, so,” she shrugged.
Perhaps it was best to settle on a couple of hours, then. It made no difference to Arty: she had a book and some headphones to keep herself occupied. She should have listened to her gut and brought her laptop to work on that article, but she’d figured it wouldn’t be allowed past security. Oh well.
The elevator came to a stop with a light ding.
They edged out onto the sixth-floor lobby, and stopped.
Arty let out a low whistle.
Damn.
Even with the Incident, Stark Tower moved fast: all the superficial damage had already been repaired or replaced, debris cleared out, and everything was back in perfect working order.
Everything looked perfect, period.
The HUMAN RESOURCES—INTERNATIONAL DIVISION floor they were on (it had a whole floor) was huge and pristine.
The lobby was expansive, stretching from nearly one end of the building to the other, and took up nearly seventy percent of the available space. Aside from the direction they came from, which was lined with ten meters of floor-to-ceiling glass between every one of the six elevators, the remaining sides of the level were designed to hold the offices and break rooms for employees. Most of those were glass, too, providing a wide-open, breezy feel.
It was all very Zen with the amount of natural light suffusing the area—it reminded her a little of home.
Everywhere in the lobby were grey-upholstered couches and lounge chairs, some arranged in large semi-circles for conversation and some going solo for privacy; tables with refreshments and drinks and high-tech coffee machines; immaculately abstract sculptures and vases of bamboo; and desks loaded with free-use Stark tech. It was as hoity-toity as it was laidback, designed to impress the eye as much as it was for genuine comfort and human interaction.
‘Impressive’, Arty thought, tempted to sketch it and pondering the interior designer.
The only thing odd about Human Resources was the lack of, well, humans. Arty could see employees in a handful of offices, working on their computers or pacing as they talked on the phone, but the lobby itself was practically deserted. There were only two other individuals occupying the space, both keeping to themselves as they read magazines or took advantage of another cup of coffee.
Just as Brit was sifting through her purse trying to find the letter from hers and Marcos’ caseworker, a balding but kind-looking man stepped out from one of the far offices to call softly in their direction, adjusting his glasses as he did. “Mrs. Cardenas?”
“That’s me,” Brit confirmed as she and Arty picked their way gingerly around the furniture.
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Thomas Pritchard, your husbands new liaison. I’ll be taking care of your resubmission today.”
“Brittany,” the redhead insisted, shaking the hand eagerly and adjusting to the professional setting. The man nodded politely and Arty gave a small wave beside her; she was really just a tag-along. “Will we still be connecting with my husband? I brought all the paperwork you mentioned, but I’d feel better if I could clarify some of the plans with him personally.”
“Not to worry, miss, we’ll be speaking with him shortly,” Pritchard assured her with a smile. “He’s been very eager to see you as well.”
Beside her, Arty felt some of the tension drain away from her friend—she put on a good show, but Brit had been plagued with worry ever since Marcos left six months ago.
Pritchard stepped back and gestured an inviting arm toward his office, “If you’re ready then, we can get started.”
Arty reached out to cover her friend’s hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. You’re about to see your man, everything’s going to be alright, the action said. Once Brit nodded, she was so very, very ready for this, Arty gave her one more squeeze and let go. Off to business they were. But until they connected with Marcos her job was to keep Brit focused on something else, just as the redhead had done for her down there…and she had just the thing in mind.
“I’ll just make myself comfortable,” Arty called over her shoulder as she hunted for a prime seat, eager to see just how comfy these cushions were.
* * *
From his place behind the two-way glass, leaning casually against the slate pillar beside him, Tony Stark was practically glued to the floor.
He’d finally found his distraction.
It may have taken him three lounge areas, two conference rooms, a dining hall, and the mid-level observation deck to find it, but find it he had.
Absolutely riveting.
Across the HR—INTERNATIONAL DIVISION lobby, on the other side of the glass from which Tony now hid, a very spirited game of charades was taking place.
Player Number One, whom he’d tentatively dubbed Kit-Kat after he’d seen her pulling one surreptitiously from her bag, was currently the active contender: sitting cross-legged on one of the wide, gray lounge seats in the otherwise deserted lobby, she was gesturing theatrically but with precision, a look of concentration set firmly on her lovely face. Player Number Two, to whom he’d swiftly and decisively settled on Big Red (because with a height that impressive and a hair color that loud what other option could there have been), was seated in an office opposite but facing her friend, drumming her fingers on a desk as she struggled to put the clues together. Sitting on the other side of the desk, head bowed over a collection of papers, was Thomas Pritchard—good man, Thomas—absolutely none the wiser.
He said players, but really Kit-Kat was the one putting in most of the work.
It had taken three rounds of her dramatic pantomime and some of the best face-acting he’d ever seen to grasp they were playing for movie titles; as far as he could tell, there seemed to be no rules on genre or age. It was a film free-for-all. So far he’d seen Toy Story, Beetlejuice, and Rush Hour.
Tony ripped off another piece of scone and popped it in his mouth, watching Kit-Kat with rapt fascination.
They were on a new round.
The girl was still for a moment as she thought out the best way to convey the next film. Then, with an almost imperceptible grin, she leaned forward in her seat: arms hovering mid-chest and out in front of her, she tilted her head to the side with a wide-eyed, goofy smile and mimicked moving up and down every few seconds, rising and falling with every exaggerated breath.
Breath…
Ha!
Jurassic Park.
Put a hat on the girl and her Sam Neill impression was dead-on.
It took Big Red another set of clues before she, too, got it; Kit-Kat had to resort to imitating Lex’s frozen, shaky spoon moment and Dennis’ sassy finger-wagging before it clicked and she mouthed the correct movie with conviction. Kit-Kat nodded, throwing her a thumbs up.
Proud of his immediate catch, Tony helped himself to another bit of scone, readjusting his position on the pillar so it could dig into the knot between his shoulder blades.
The next one was too easy. Imitating rotating something in one hand, then plucking said invisible thing with the other hand to ‘blow’ it in a different direction, Big Red and Tony got it almost at the same time: Labyrinth.
Distracted only momentarily as Pritchard looked up to ask her something, then back down again with his answer, the redhead jumped back in the game by narrowing her eyes at her friend as if to say ‘Really? That all you got?’.
If Kit-Kat’s straightening spine and perfectly arched left brow were anything to go by, she had plenty more up her sleeve.
Game on.
Tony felt the first genuine smile of the day, maybe the week, creep onto his face.
Their friendly competition was proving an even better distraction than he could’ve hoped for. Due to the understandable time-off requests of employees to handle family matters, after the whole ‘Aliens Take New York’ thing, Stark Tower wasn’t back to full staff. It might be a while, yet. But that meant that when he’d set out for his earlier diversion to people-watch, or people-bug as Rhodey called it, there’d been a severe lack of, well, people. The dining hall had provided the chance to grab a box of fresh scones for later, and the fifth-floor lounge an opportunity to watch one of the interns dissect his brunch by color instead of food group, and that had been it. Not enough minions for habitual variety, not enough minions to cause drama worth investing in.
This, though…not only was this worth his investment, but the vibrant girl in the lobby with the increasingly playful you-dare-challenge-me-to-a-duel eyes was doing everything to continue earning said investment as he waited for what she’d do next.
Not that she knew that.
For which Tony felt kind of bad, and more than a little guilty.
He’d lived his entire life knowing what it was like to be watched, wanted or not. That’s why he’d added this passage and elevator system into the tower to begin with: so he could get around his own damn building in peace without fear of being mobbed or scrutinized. Now that the rest of the Avengers were going to be taking up residence here, too, it was more imperative than ever to have a means of privacy. He had the utmost faith in his own people to respect their distance, but it was nice to have, just in case. Tony felt a more secure knowing it was there.
Still…
He should probably leave. Let them have their fun while he sought out something else to pique his interest that didn’t involve being an unobserved audience.
Tony shifted on his feet, preparing to make himself scarce.
Going back to his penthouse was the last thing he wanted to do. The thought of what awaited him up there, what might happen alone with himself, was enough to slow his retreat as pressure began to gnaw at his chest. The sensation in the pool was bleeding back to the forefront of his mind, struggling to breathe as the air around him was suddenly so very cold—
Out of the corner of his eye, not that he was looking for something that could give him reason to stay or anything, Tony saw Kit-Kat shift purposefully in her seat, looking over her shoulder and all around in a manner he’d almost describe as impishly conspiratorial.
Tony paused near his pillar, intrigued.
After she was certain there was no one in her immediate vicinity, oblivious to the elevator poised to release an occupant behind her, the girl rolled her shoulders and shook her hair, prepared. A hot second later she looked down at her chest with alarm, mimed grabbing something firmly in each hand, and arched her back, throwing her hands over each breast as she pretended to shriek with comedic terror. Wrenching her head back even further, Kit-Kat shook her whole torso, really getting into it as she pounded her chest and pinched her eyes shut with faux-mania.
Tony choked on air.
Mrs. Doubtfire. Fuck.
Poor girl was so into it she didn’t notice the man who’d left the elevator frozen behind her, staring.
Tony doubled over, laughing hard enough he felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. By all the gods of his new-friend-Thor’s people, she was good.
Just what he’d needed.
He pulled himself together in time to see the myriad of expressions that exploded across the girl’s face when she realized she wasn’t alone. Kit-Kat was bright red in two seconds flat, blushing all the way to her toes, he was sure, and doing her very best to pretend what she’d just done was not, in fact, what she’d just done. Passing a hand over her face, Tony could make out a sheepish “G’morning” on her lips as she tried her best not to make eye contact with the stranger.
The man stared at her a full four beats more, probably as wracked with bewilderment as Tony was with exhilaration, wondering just where the hell this reaction from him had come from.
It felt nice, a wonderfully brief reprieve.
The stranger moved on carefully, as though he were afraid the girl might turn rabid. Once he was gone for good, disappearing into one of the many offices, she dropped the hand from her face and laughed in her friend’s direction, eyes bright with mirth and a smile—
Oh wow.
Wow.
Tony Stark never thought he’d see a smile that could be described as So Powerful It Convinced Genghis Khan Himself To Retire And Take Up Sweater Knitting For Hairless Kittens, but that was exactly what he was seeing.
Between the smile, the twinkling eyes, and her barely suppressed laughter, Kit-Kat was breathing so much radiance into the room the state-of-the-art design now looked like a dirt-soaked alley by comparison.
For a brief moment Tony was disappointed the two-way glass was soundproof. He’d have liked to hear her laugh.
Kit-Kat wrangled herself under control the same time Big Red, who’d thrown both hands over her mouth in desperation, managed to pull herself together; poor Thomas Pritchard had been jarred from his process to look around wildly for whatever had set his client off, both girls projecting innocence to their fullest when his eyes turned on them.
Once the man was firmly embedded back in his work, the game started all over again.
And before he knew it Tony was back in the game too, episode in the pool blessedly forgotten as he watched, mentally ticking off every movie Kit-Kat brought to life: Cliffhanger, Speed, Man In the Iron Mask, A League of Their Own, Lion King, Wrath of Khan, What About Bob. He was determined to get them all.
*
Two hours, three scones, and one noticeably sore ass later, it was all coming to an end.
The section of granite floor on which Tony had taken up residence wasn’t in any way what he’d describe as “cozy”—he still couldn’t recall when, exactly, he’d sat to begin with—but it had been Home for at least the past hour and he was loathe to leave it. He liked his floor-spot.
But out in the lobby, a flurry of movement from the girls and his dear employee Thomas Pritchard indicated their business was finished: Kit-Kat was closing up the book she hadn’t been reading and unfolding herself from the chair, carefully minding the wires of her headphones so as not to yank them from her ears; Pritchard was reentering the office he’d vacated twenty minutes ago, smiling sympathetically; and Big Red was doing her best to wipe away the tears till streaming down her face, graciously accepting the tissue Pritchard held out.
It had been an interesting turn in the type of distraction, that.
Kit-Kat had been in the middle of acting out another film, doing her best to imitate riding a horse and pointing at every source of Stark tech and light source she could, growing hilariously frustrated when her friend just wasn’t getting it—clearly it was Electric Horseman, Tony had sighed with commiseration—when Big Red’s attention had been swept right out from under her. Pritchard had finished scanning and uploading his client’s papers and was loading up some type of video feed on his tablet when the connection went through and a man appeared on the other end. Dark haired, dimple-cheeked, and eager as anyone Tony’d ever seen from half a room away, the man was clearly Big Red’s husband. From her wedding ring to her heartfelt reaction, it was easy to figure out.
Once her time was otherwise occupied, the element of entertainment had changed; it hadn’t ended, merely morphed from a game of charades into one of Tony’s more innate pastimes of deduction. Not as light-hearted, but equally engrossing.
So deduct he had.
The papers she’d brought, her very presence on this distinct floor, and her appointment with Thomas Pritchard, specifically, all indicated thus: Big Red was the spouse of one of his overseas employees, either in North Africa or Western Asia, and she was here for the renewal process due to the change in Stark Industries’ eastern-seaboard headquarters. Benefits, life insurance, stuff like that. Said employees face ticked a familiarity box deep in Tony’s mind, but without a closer look he couldn’t pin him down. From the exuberance with which the couple engaged, lots of happy tears and smiles and blown kisses, it was obvious they hadn’t seen each other in a while—maybe one of his personnel in the more politically charged countries? Likely.
Kit-Kat was obviously a close friend…maybe a sibling; without a closer examination of the girls’ features he couldn’t say one way or the other. Regardless of the distinction, she was clearly glad to see The Husband too. After her initial reaction Big Red had practically ripped the tablet from its docking station, shocking the hell out of poor Thomas Pritchard, to point it excitedly at the girl in the lobby. Tony deemed the playful-yet-clearly-loving exchange of middle fingers and stuck out tongues between the man on the screen and said lobby girl affectionate.
There had been a brief exchange of conversation between the two-and-a-half in the office, business to take care of, before Pritchard had excused himself to give the couple some privacy.
Bob’s your uncle, Fanny’s your aunt, and the genius had been left with nothing to do but observe. The moment between the couple was far too intimate a thing to watch; given the still-otherwise-deserted lobby, after Pritchard had bounced for greener pastures (presumably to raid the tea supply on the third floor), the only thing left to observe was the girl occupying the lounge chair.
He’d watched as Kit-Kat pulled a book from the bag at her feet—the cover a forest green, the title indecipherable from this distance—only to promptly ignore it. From the astonishing collection of bookmarks peaking out from between its pages (really, who needed two dozen bookmarks?) it was clear her snub came more from restlessness than actual disinterest. She had clearly read it before.
He’d watched as she pulled out her phone and a pair of headphones too, apparently to find her investment in music just as neutral. She’d probably only made it a third of the way through each song before tapping to the next.
He’d watched as she got up to wander over to the window, looking down and out and everywhere across the skyline she could set her sights on. The slight frown on her face and the slump in her shoulders indicated it wasn’t what she’d been hoping to see. Not scared of heights, if he had to hazard a guess, just disappointed with the view. Huh. That wasn’t the usual response.
He’d watched as she abandoned the window to pass by, ever so slowly, the refreshment table. She’d eyed the croissants and the donuts and the fresh fruit with gusto, consuming the table solely with her gaze. Then she’d moved on, back to her not-reading and not-listening. Kit-Kat had stood up once more to grab an office door for a lady juggling a stack of reports in one hand and a coffee carrier in the other, who smiled and thanked her profusely, and when she’d passed by the table on her return it was only to fill a small cup of water, glare at the security cameras in the room, and longingly pull herself away from the pastries.
‘Just grab a damned donut’, Tony had wanted to say. ‘Those are for public consumption, the fuzz aren’t hiding around the corner.’
Well. He might’ve been, but he wasn’t the fuzz. He was Iron Man.
And he’d watched as she’d bounced her foot, idly flipped pages and song choices for something, anything, to steal her far-away attention, occasionally glancing at the office and sipping her water. There was clearly something nagging at the girl, leaving her antsy and desperate to be forgotten.
‘Welcome to the Club, kid’, he’d said to himself, ‘Want a scone?’
But the question he’d never asked never got an answer, because now it was all over as they shuffled around out there.
Business was done, and it was back to the big, wide world.
Back to the big, wide world for them, back to the tight, constricting, Don’t Mind Me Just Drowning In A Pool world for him.
And Tony felt the walls closing in.
He didn’t want to go back. Not now.
It was quaint, this little window into a life that wasn’t his. The lives of ordinary people who did ordinary things and had ordinary jobs and loved other ordinary people and who never flew into wormholes to die in space cold and alone and—
Nope.
Who said it had to end?
He was Tony Stark: playboy, genius, billionaire, philanthropist.
He might not have been able to control or even predict whatever the hell had happened this morning, JARVIS’s mother-hen theorizing notwithstanding, but he could sure as hell end this on a note of his own choosing.
Tony stood up, brushing bits of scone from his fingers, ignoring the ache in his back and the mostly self-serving thing he was about to do. He keyed the release to the hidden door…and made his way to Thomas Pritchard’s office.
Just a little something to help carry him through the rest of his day.
Kit-Kat was in the office now, bag against the wall and headphones still in as she helped her friend collect the files she’d brought, a comforting hand on her shoulder as Big Red wiped away the last vestiges of tears. Pritchard was hovering nearby, not wanting to intrude as his client collected herself.
Tony was aware he didn’t have a plan so much as a last ditch effort to avoid his problems, but whatever—he was a professional at winging it.
He approached the office door, slipping into his second-nature skin of devastatingly seductive charm, inherent good looks, and lightning-fast wit kept on standby at all times. His Entitled Playboy side, Rhodey and Pepper called it. Apt, and exactly what he was going for.
Entitled Playboy Tony Stark didn’t have Iron Man’s problems. He wasn’t that person, but maybe if he donned the persona once again he could forget what he was hiding from. Maybe if he felt like the carefree, rich, genius brat, even for just a little while, he would feel less like a sacrificial chess piece with nightmares and a sudden fear of being alone.
Worth a shot.
He reached for the handle, steps silent on the carpet.
A smile was what he was aiming for…and maybe a teensy bit of blushing, if he was honest with himself. Wide eyes, a little bit of awe, an ounce of fainting—something along those lines. The usual reactions to ‘Holy Shit It’s Tony Fucking Stark’. But what he was really hoping for was one of those sunshine smiles Kit-Kat had set free in the lobby. That first ray of pure light had done a number for his messed up morning, maybe if got one more up close it would fuel him all the way through his meeting with the Mayor.
Shaking hands with Big Red, asking about her day, and complimenting her husbands good work (whoever he was) wouldn’t hurt, either. Despite his competitors beliefs, Tony genuinely cared about his staff and their families and he genuinely cared they were being taken care of—now was a nice chance to show it. A little appreciation, an in-person display of gratitude and understanding, always did wonders to spread morale and encourage company pride among staff and their loved ones.
What would that be called, synergy? Synergy.
A service for the people.
Kit-Kat was just crouching down, oblivious to his presence as she struggled to fit the papers back in their bags, when Tony entered the office.
Big Red saw him first: she’d been exchanging pleasant goodbyes and thank-you’s with dear old Thomas, but now she fell silent, mouth falling open as she stared in disbelief. The balding man noticed the presence of his boss’s boss’s boss a tick later and immediately straightened—Tony could’ve sworn the man was fighting down a salute.
He smiled inside, feeling some of the weight vanish from his chest.
“Mr. Stark, s-sir,” Pritchard managed to stutter threw his shock, “I wasn’t aware you’d be stopping by today.” He adjusted his glasses hastily. “If I’d known there was an—”
Tony waved him off with ease. “Not an inspection, Thomas,” he reassured him, nipping that line of thought in the bud, “Nothing of the sort. Just had some time on my hands and thought I’d do a little research for a project I’ve got going on.” He felt the idea forming rapid-fire in the back of his mind and let it take charge.
Big Red, even taller now that he was up close, and with some freckles, too, was slack-jawed and lightly nudging the girl with her back turned to them. Kit-Kat shrugged her off, headphones still in place as she maneuvered things in the bag so the papers wouldn’t be crushed.
Thomas Pritchard was nodding sharply, shock fading away into business. “Absolutely, Mr. Stark, anything I can do to help.”
Tony gave out a huff of a laugh, grinning, and said, “No need to be formal, big guy, this is more of an unofficial undertaking that I think you,” he stressed, before turning to face the other captive member in his company, “and these lovely ladies will be able to help me with.”
Flashing his most award-winning, melt-them-at-their-core smile (really, his smile had won awards), he extended his hand toward the redhead. She snapped her mouth shut, seeming to remember she had that capability, and extended hers right back, beginning to blush around the ears.
Shiny-eyed and flustered, check.
Big Red shook his hand gingerly, staring from it to him and back again. He could practically see the gears falling into place in her head: ‘I’m shaking hands with Tony Stark I’m shaking hands with Tony Stark I’m shaking hands with Tony Stark’. More than a little star-struck, she looked like she might start giggling at the absurdity of it all, but there was no trace of embarrassment. In fact, she looked like she was thoroughly enjoying herself, filing it away as something to tell the kids someday. Her smile grew ten times its size as she persisted in tapping her friend to get her attention.
Tony hoped she succeeded.
“You see I’m working on something,” he began, commanding all the energy in the room, “that I’ll be discussing with the Mayor later today.”
Big Red was all but smacking her friend in the shoulder now, not a hint of subtlety to be found, and Tony’s self-esteem grew with each hit.
Take that, pool.
“Now that things have started to cool down—”
Smack.
“—and stock’s been taken of the situation—”
Smack.
“—I’m hoping to establish a broader sense of peoples’ opinions on the cleanup efforts—”
Smack.
“—and welcome any input for improvement—”
Smack.
That did it.
Kit-Kat stood up briskly, yanking out her headphones in one quick swipe. She didn’t get a chance to voice her annoyance before she followed the starry-eyed direction of her friends gaze.
The ‘What In The Seven Hells Could You Possibly Want’ look resting on her features, and she did have very pleasant features, vanished like a drop of water on a sunny day.
Up close, the analogy fit better than any other he might’ve dreamed of.
Ocean Eyes, Tony decided. It was much more suitable than Kit-Kat.
From the golden-spun hair she’d woven into a loose braid, now draping lazily over her shoulder, to the bright-eyed awareness on her pale, honeyed complexion, her eyes really were a piece of the sea dropped directly onto a field of sunlight.
Eyes that were now wide with utter incredulity.
And awe.
And a little bit of pink, dusted around her cheeks.
Check, check, and check.
If this were any other day, he might deem it complete. But it wasn’t, and he was hoping he could catch her smile up close to commit it to memory.
Without further ado Tony offered her his hand, dialing up the intensity of his Smolder, gave her the most charming grin he’d ever cultivated, and waited.
It took her a little longer than it had her friend to come around to the fact that yes, this was happening. The ‘Oh My God Mom Why Aren’t You Answering Your Phone The Coolest Thing Ever Just Happened’ look, as he liked to call it. Pritchard was waiting patiently in the corner, having endured the likes of this before; he had, in fact, been in this very position himself.
When she finally snapped to, gaping like a fish only slightly and staring at the proffered hand as though it belonged to a god—to which Tony was of course flattered and familiar—Ocean Eyes allowed herself this small thing and let him take her hand in both of his.
And she smiled.
It wasn’t the same one from the lobby—not as severe, not as uncontrollable, not as borderline blinding—but it was just as mesmerizing and it was directed entirely at him. Just at him. It was all sorts of luminescent as it danced at the corners of her lips, drawing and igniting her whole being into one, supercharged beam.
It was far more lethal than the one before could’ve ever been.
Tony was unequivocally, unreservedly spellbound.
Inside, he suddenly felt like the fish.
Decades of public-consciousness had at least trained him not to act like one. Jesus.
It was because of that training, he supposed, the need to fill uncomfortable silences, or maybe he was just too preoccupied with how snuggly her hand fit in his that he went and did the stupidest thing he could’ve done.
Tony Stark opened his big fat mouth:
“I thought you did great on that last one, by the way—a Redford classic, but not one of his most well known.”
Her grip slackened…
…and the smile fell from her face.
If his brain had caught up with him before he’d said the words, it would’ve slammed against his skull with a sledgehammer to shut him the hell up: She didn’t know she had an audience, idiot.
It took him a little longer to realize it didn’t matter. Through whatever sixth sense people possessed, stronger in some than in others, Tony realized it was not the implication behind the words so much as the words themselves.
No matter the suggestion, it wasn’t enough to warrant the reaction he got.
Alarm? Yes. Uncertainty and apprehension? Definitely.
But a warped design of the Five Stages of Grief? No.
Terror was certainly the last thing he’d expected.
Ocean Eyes was looking at him as if he were the damn Oracle of Delphi, handing out terrible and unavoidable fates, and all of them to her. The expression that endured beyond the others had settled onto her face like an old lover, familiar to her features, but unwanted and as if it hadn’t been seen in a long time. It was wholly discomforting, so utterly wrong and sad and grave. It had no business being there.
He didn’t like it, and he certainly didn’t know what he’d done to sanction it.
Her hand started to tremble in his. He could see and feel the tremors working themselves through her now-very-small-looking frame. It was as if her body jumped straight to crying but left the tears behind.
She looked like she wanted to die.
In his mad scramble of confusion, his half-baked jumbles of fix this, fix this, fix this now, he failed to notice Big Red had gone stock still beside the two, amusement at the situation nothing but a distant memory.
Before the girl with the ocean eyes and the sunshine smile even seemed to taste them, the words slipped from her lips:
“Dear god, not you.”
He heard them.
Tony was sure she hadn’t meant for him to hear them, but he did.
Dear god, not you.
Dear god, not you.
Dear god, not you.
Ah.
A strange sort of flutter danced down his spine.
He had tried for decades, decades, to forget those four words. To forget them and twist them and appeal to all known and unknown forces ‘please don’t let them mean what I think they mean’. A mistake of phrase, surely. They had haunted his steps, mocked him, poisoned him. They had taken pieces of him, perhaps the best pieces, and ripped them to shreds, before shoving those shreds back into the cavity left behind.
He could feel them even now, burning on the inside of his left forearm with a fire so fierce he thought she might combust in turn.
Tony could practically hear the cackling of Fate as it danced around him now, singing: “Well—here you go.”
Yeah. Here they went.
Somewhere out in a tiny corner of the finite Infinite, where it succeeded in shattering the glass bubble of his own, this moment had just clicked, been noted, and was being filed away in the memory of the universe.
A fixed moment for the cosmos.
Paramount.
He knew. She clearly knew.
Her eyes, those ocean eyes, were wide with panic as she realized what she’d done.
There was a split second where Tony knew what she was going to do before she did it. Still, he wasn’t prepared.
His Soulmate bolted.
*
In retrospect, he wasn’t sure what to call it.
Panic?
Desperation?
A lifetimes worth of insecurities and abandonment issues culminating in a whole Nope’s worth of overreaction?
All valid, all likely.
At this point he vaguely longed for the input of, well, literally any one of his more clear-headed friends.
Or JARVIS. Yeah.
If he’d been in his lab, or even the suit, then JAY would be advising him sternly that, ‘No, sir, I do not believe chasing one’s Soulmate across a lobby counts as a positive first impression.’
His better judgment certainly would’ve advised him against tackling her to the floor.
Which, without JAY’s better judgment, he of course did.
They hit the ground in a sprawling mess, mere feet from the motion-opened elevator.
She was strong for such a scrawny thing. Or maybe she was just that determined to get away from him.
Either way she was fast, already wriggling free of his awkward grip, quick as a whip as he did his damnedest to hold on.
When it was clear he was going to lose this round—her twisting and turning was just too wild and he didn’t want to lose a limb—he shouted out one of his voice-activated security measures and hoped they were distinct enough to be heard.
The elevator doors were still wide open, but a clear protective barrier began to descent over the entrance.
His Soulmate saw this.
With one last hallelujah and a blessed near-miss to the groin, Ocean Eyes squirmed free of Tony’s grasp and slipped under the barrier, just in time. But she was missing something.
Tony looked at the shoe he’d managed to wrestle free in her escape, then looked at her.
She looked at him, then to her shoe.
Tony could’ve said something nice. Or noteworthy. Something suave or endearing or diplomatic or placating. Could’ve, probably should’ve suggested they both take a breath for a second and just calm down.
Instead he brandished the poor shoe like a bargaining chip and declared, “Well, it’s mine now.”
Ocean Eyes glared at him.
He stared at her, challenging.
“Gimme’ back my shoe,” she said finally, voice not sure of the tone it wanted to take.
“No,” he said.
“Give it.”
“Nope.”
“It’s my shoe,” she snarled.
“It’s mine now,” he clarified. “You’ll have to come get it.”
She stared at him, at a loss for words.
Tony watched her eye the shoe, look back at him, back to the shoe. He expected her to argue some more. Expected another demand. Instead she backed as far away as she could, never turning her back on him as though he might pounce through the glass, and pressed a number into the elevator.
The billionaire watched as the door closed over her sea eyes and her sunlit hair, taking his Soulmate far, far away from him.
He could command a stop to the elevator or have her detained downstairs. Could order any number of things.
But he didn’t.
He let her go, too dumbfounded to contemplate anything else.
Tony stood there, blind and deaf to the world around him, breathing hard and not from the struggle.
She’d run from him. His Soulmate had run from him.
He doubled over, hands on his knees and shoe still clutched in his fist, to search for some kind of solid ground. He barely noticed when Big Red sidled up next to him, staring at the space her friend had been in. She had both bags slung over her shoulder and was clutching a pair of discarded headphones in her hand. His Soulmate was so desperate to be as far from him as possible she had left her belongings, and her friend, behind.
Big Red looked at Tony now, studying and dissecting him as if the meeting in the office was nothing but a fantasy and she was only just seeing him for the first time.
When she opened her mouth, all that came out was a mystified, “Huh.”
The redhead bit her lip in thought, sweeping him up and down with no shortage of consideration. There was an edge to her look, a tightness in her gaze that did nothing to put him at ease; she was struggling with an enigma all her own, and from her face it was a conundrum for the ages.
“Huh,” she said again.
That was all he got.
That was all Tony Stark got as Big Red left him there in a daze, sidling off to the melody of ‘huh’ in pursuit of her friend, leaving him clutching a shoe like a lifeline and wondering just where the hell gravity had gone to.