Archive of Our Own ^beta

1.
They found out Obadiah Stane was double dealing about a week in after that scandalous press-conference – one of the maids found his rapidly cooling body inside his home office, brain matter coloring the window behind his office chair. Going through the documentation the man left behind, Tony, or rather the rational side of him, understood, why he chose the easy way out…
Cutting corners to fatten up his share, Stane sold a shipment of faulty guns to the wrong people, simultaneously pushing Stark Industries up to its ears in debt to the Russian mob. And the clock building up interest was still ticking…
So Tony stops and just… thinks. What do they know about the Russian mob? A bunch of stereotypes, but… there was a grain of truth in all that too.
They sure as hell did not respect cowards.
He sells 95% of his personal assets, moves into an empty company warehouse with his robots and favorite couch, and with only a quarter of the sum on his hands arranges a meeting with the Boss…
Steve, his on and off boyfriend of 5 years, is highly against the idea and wants to let the police handle it or (which is worse in Tony's book) go with him. They have their first lover’s spat, then - super-cool make-up sex, but in the morning Tony goes alone anyway, abandoning Steve handcuffed to the bed post, asleep and blissfully unaware…

2.
The night club the meeting is to be held at is packed. Loud music is tearing up the speakers, the eager dance crowd is stomping the dancefloor to the block-rocking beat, all heat, sweat and adrenaline rush, and Tony is still young enough to appreciate the atmosphere and the man on the opposite couch who in turn is quietly appreciating him…
With long legs clad in practical black cargo pants and heavy combat boots casually prepped against the glass coffee table, he is calmly sipping his tea, cold blue eyes hard and calculating. Strangely, this eases the genius engineer’s fears a bit. With ‘calculating’ he can work...
“Tea, Mister Stark?” the Russian’s voice is deep, Tony would even call it smoky, that distinctive accent hidden under impeccable grammar.
“I prefer coffee… if it’s okay with you.”
“It is good tea. Indian. Do you not drink it when on business trip?”
Tony stilled. The thing - he did. Once. It was an international weapons expo of some sort, and SI was sizing up the competition. Had he been tailed even then?
“Oh, so this is about business…”
“More or less. Sit, Mister Stark… over here would be nice,” a gloved hand pats the couch cushion on his left. “Your coffee will arrive momentarily, along with another helping of tea for me.”
After that - silence reigned. Tony fiddled with the straps of his gym bag. The Boss admired the game of light and shadow on the semi-transparent glass that made one of the walls of the room. The light made his irises glow neon blue…
“It’s not one of those back rooms, is it?”
“Where I ravage your unwilling body and then leave you to bleed? No,” the Russian’s face betrayed nothing. “I am not really interested.”
“In men or in me?”
“Men here are so very breakable, therefore pose little to no challenge at all.”
“And you like a challenge?”
“Yes, I do,” the Boss finished his tea and set the mug aside. “And you? What do you like, Mister Stark?”
“In men… or in you?” his sassy mouth would certainly be the death of him, but, for some reason, the man lets it slide.
“About your preferences in men I am well aware. Let us say… I am curious?”
“O-kay… I’m going to be brutally honest here, so…” Tony took a fortifying breath and willed his fingers to stop their fiddling. “We have been talking for… half an hour now? And you haven’t smiled once… a good thing in my book. Means you’re honest. And you agreed to listen to me, despite the fucking astronomical numbers I owe you…”
Something in the depths of those icy blues shifted. A spec of interest? Tony didn’t know.
“You, Mister Stark, owe me nothing. Your company does.”
“I am my company.”
“Mr. Stane said differently.”
“Of course, he did…”
Suddenly, the only door in the room is kicked open, and a red-headed man walks in, carrying a middle sized tray with two mugs, a sugar-bowl, a small tea pot and a small coffee pot. Regular motherfucking mugs, the fancy stuff limited to a couple of intricately made silver tea spoons. Tony is surprised and doesn’t mask it.
“Expected something… exquisite?” if it wasn’t for the deadpan expression the genius would have thought he was made fun of.
“Aren’t you guys the mob or something?”
“We are… where it matters. Tea cups? No.”
The red-head set the table, quick and efficient, before sauntering off to do whatever he did on the other side of that door.
“I don’t want to be impolite, but… I brought the money?”
“All of it?”
“… a quarter of the sum. Minus the interest.”
“Hm,” the Boss poured himself a cup, gestured for Tony to do the same. He did, trying to not think about poisons in drinks. “You talk like you have… a proposition?”
“More like… an offer?”
“Apologies… my English sometimes escapes me.”
“Well, if I were a woman I would’ve been thoroughly scandalized,” Tony, deciding to be brave till the end, takes a hearty gulp of his coffee. Yeah, the good stuff. From the corner of his eye he sees it again, that blink-and-you-miss-it shift behind the lair of ice that is the Russian mob boss.
“You would, wouldn’t you…”
“Good coffee, by the way.”
“I will keep that in mind.”
“Speaking about the offer, I want to change the conditions of the contract you had with Stane… and separate the payment from the interest.”
“Oh?”
“I can pay you back, a quarter at a time. And I can return the interest - as services.”
“I am still listening.”
“Well, I’m a genius, for one. Secondly, I am an engineer… a very, very good one.”
“You are also very modest.”
“… and I can figure out what Stane really sold you.”
“He said guns.”
“What may look like a gun isn’t always a gun.”
“Hm?”
“Could be a prototype, at best. Could be guns decommissioned due to inner faults, at worst… with gun barrel defects which promote high risks of explosions…” Tony took another gulp of coffee, but this time it tasted like ash on his tongue. “You didn’t distribute them among your men, did you?”
“… no, I did not.”
“What stopped you? If it’s okay to ask…”
The Russian indulges him.
“Stane thought us to be stupid. Like those Middle East terrorist groups he used to bargain with, who don’t know the difference between a Russian made AK-47 and a Chinese knock-off…” the Boss shook his head, theatrically sympathetic. “A vice you do not suffer from, yes?”
“Science-wise? I’m your man! But when people and feelings are thrown in the mix? They get me every time…”
That earned him an upward quirk of lips. A smile! Albeit a miniscule one, but never the less it made Tony preen. He did that! It never lasted, though, because the horror of the situation hit him almost immediately: what the actual fuck?!
While he was busy freaking out about the unusual that found its way into Tony Stark, the Boss announced his decision:
“I find your deal interesting, Mister Stark. No clock – you will pay as soon as you are able to. And Arseniy will be your shadow until the matter between us is settled.”
“Um… who is Arseniy?”
“It was he, who brought the tea.”
“Oh. That’s… nice?”
“Do not try to run from him… it is useless.”
“… you obviously have no idea how smart I am.”
“On the contrary, Mister Stark, I know exactly how smart you are. Who do you think told Raza to wait?”
The rest of the evening went by in a blur. His body moved, performing all the necessary motions, but his mind felt like somebody cast a thousand volts through it, shocking it to the core. Arseniy drove him home where Steve greeted him with shouting and accusations and a broken bed post, but Tony just walked past him to their shared bedroom and closed the door in his boyfriend's face, locking himself in with a twist of the handle.
He had a lot to think about.

3.
Having an eidetic memory is both a blessing and a curse. Three months of hell in the hands of Afghani terrorists will always be with him, but when Tony started analysing his stay there, looking for something specific? It proved to be an asset to behold.
It was Yinsen who told him. When he started enumerating the languages that were used around the place they were kept in and among them Russian, Tony knew then and there that he hit the jackpot.
Because why would they speak Russian? Only because they were in contact with Russians. What was the Russian Underworld doing in Afghanistan? Simple! They were doing business, just like Tony did, only… from the other side.
Rumors travel fast, if one Tony Stark gets captured. Can’t judge a man for being curious, he could give the Boss that. He could have told them, but instead he gave him and Yinsen extra time. A chance to break free… and Yinsen still didn’t make it.
Steve was on the other side of that door. Tony could hear him pacing, speaking to his best friend Buck over the phone, one step away from falling into hysteria. Rhodey didn’t like Steve. Too out of it to feel the familiar sweetness of attraction for the man, Tony was sort of starting to understand why…
Tony was the man in their relationship: he was the one who provided for them, he was always the one who understood, always the one who made amends for the mistakes they both made, so… why was he the only one being constantly fucked?
“Jarvis?”
“Sir.”
“I need you to find something for me.”
“Always a pleasure, Sir. What are we looking for?”
“Information. The other team knows a hell lot about me, while we know barely a thing about them… unfair, don’t you think?”
J answered by opening four different windows at once: Interpol, FBI, CIA, police data bases…
“Add Russian sources.”
The AI complied.
Several hours later he was still in the bedroom, and it was still the middle of the night. The search, however, was only beginning…
Idle sitting wasn’t his style, but it took a startling one hour for J to finally say:
“I think I found something, Sir.”
“That was… a lot of time, baby-boy.”
“I am sorry, Sir. It would seem these people are very good.”
“It’s alright, J. No harm done… and they are good,” Tony took a deep breath and told himself that he wanted this. “Show me what you found.”
Not much. One might even say, very little: just a bunch of bad photos and some short notes made by agents doing the surveillance.
The man he met in the night club was called the Soldier. He had a military background, but where he served and in what capacity? No one knew. Either way, he cut through the ranks like a hot knife cuts through butter, straight to the top. His people were loyal to him and only him. The red-head he saw, Arseniy, was his right-hand man and also former military.
Not bandits. Not by a long shot. They had structure, they had organization, they had chain of command…
“Shit… anything about their… um, business?”
“They don’t seem to deal any narcotic substances, Sir. Neither do they occupy themselves with human trafficking or prostitution…”
“Oh.”
“Yet they hold strong positions in the fields of illegal gambling and weapons trade. I believe, one might say they have a reputation…”
“So the weapons Obie sold them may have been for somebody else?” Tony was a bit freaked out by now.
“That might be the case, yes,” Jarvis’ voice radiated sadness. “A very unfortunate situation indeed…”
“… I need to talk to Rhodey.”
“Connecting, as we speak.”
Rhodey was on the other side of the planet, in Afghanistan, for the rest of his tour, so when J reached him Lieutenant Colonel was busy shuffling through paperwork.
“Tones?”
“Rhodey-bear! Busy?”
“Just pushing some papers… any specific reason you’re asking? Or should I start worrying this very second…”
“Well, you might want to when I tell you everything.”
“O-kay…” the shuffling stopped. “Spill it.”
“You know that Ob… I mean, Stane was selling Stark weapons on the side?”
“…yeah?”
“I might have found out to whom,” Tony sighed. “And then he… um, scammed them.”
Rhodey was silent for a few seconds, mulling it over.
“… from one to ten how serious are we talking?”
“Eleven. I found out about it when I looked through his things… after they found him. He put his share of SI on the line, Rhodey! All 35% of it…”
“Wait, Tones, that’s not how this works.”
“The amount of money he owed them… the amount of money we owe them… is way over his 35%!”
“Hold on… we?!”
“He signed the deed with my signature. It was easy… then, because I was either drunk, or stoned or drunk and stoned.”
“Tones…” there was a quiet type of sorrow in his best friend’s voice.
“I sold everything. The flat in London – gone, Switzerland cottage – gone, Malibu house – gone, bikes and cars – gone, art Pep usually keeps stored away – gone. Any personal savings I had – added to that pile too.”
“So, basically, if I understand you right… you’re broke?!”
“Bankrupt, yeah. I moved into a storage container in one of SI warehouses, but it’s only until I solve this issue.”
“Does Steve know?”
“Not the ‘broke’ part. I never told him that.”
“Why?”
“Because… he wanted to go to the police with this, Rhodey-bear! That would have only made things worse in the long run… and those guys just want their money back.”
“Oh, Tony, don’t tell me you did what I think you did…”
“Relax, platypus! It was nice. We talked terms.”
“Terms, huh? Is that why your voice sounds so strangled?”
“It’s just their Boss. That man… is something else… ”
Rhodey sniggered.
“Handsome?”
“I… don’t know. It was dark in there.”
“That’s a first… you noticing nothing.”
The billionaire couldn’t help a laugh.
“He’s like a knife in a sheath, honey-bear. You see the outline of the blade, but the rest is covered by leather… he knew about Afghanistan.”
“...how?!”
“He was there… at some point of my three month stay, anyway. That’s why I’m calling, actually. Were there any news about Russians in the area?”
“Officially, no. Unofficially, though… there were rumors, about a month in. Someone big was passing through, but he came and went, and nothing changed…”
“Wow… our intelligence sucks or what?”
Rhodey barked out a laugh.
“Well, we did get you back… eventually.”
“Yep, after I broke myself out and wandered the desert for three days… alone.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘alone’ per se. I thought I saw a jeep driving away after we picked you up.”
“Huh. Learn something new every day… ”
“Think it was them? The Russians?”
“I don’t know. Could be?”
“Tones, I’m going to be frank here, if it was them and you are working with them now, then… you’re in a pinch. Or not. Depends on how soon you manage to piss them off.”
“Knew you were in my corner, platypus,” but he was smiling, oddly reassured.
“Tis’ what best friends are for, dude! And, Tony? Tell Steve.”
“That’s another thing. I don’t feel like I want to…”

4.
When he came out of their bedroom, Steve was gone. No overnight bag, no sneakers and no leather jacket. Tony sighed…
His mobile rang when the pot of Steve’s old coffee machine was half full, and Tony himself cursing seven ways to Sunday tried to not burn his bacon.
“J, speaker!”
The phone screen lit up for a second, activating that particular feature.
“Good morning, Mister Stark. Trouble in paradise?” the all too familiar voice with a hint of accent sent icy shivers down his spine.
“Are you spying on me?”
“No. Arseniy is. He saw your man leave with another, and I was curious.”
“Tall, dark hair, grey eyes, one arm, looks like a hobo?”
A moment of silence.
“Yes.”
“That’s his friend, grew up together.”
“Interesting.”
“It really isn’t. Am I in trouble?”
“No. But I would like to treat you to breakfast…”
Tony nearly dropped the pan he was slaving over.
“You really don’t have to. I have bacon… and coffee.”
“I know where you really live, Mister Stark. There – you have nothing. Therefore I must insist.”
“Oh man… Why are you even up in this ungodly hour of the morning?”
“Hardly, ungodly… and I wake up with the sun,” the man was mocking him, 100%. “The car will be waiting outside in ten minutes. You can share the coffee you brewed with Arseniy – a shame to let it waste.”
The call ended. The genius numbly stared at his bacon, cursed and turned the burner off. Time to get presentable…
Later, at the still ungodly hour of 8 am, the engineer found himself sitting in an unfamiliar kitchen. The apartment around him was spartanly furnished, barely anything personal to gauge the owner’s personality from. A framed photo, a closed laptop on the desk and a loaded gun on the nightstand, safety off – think what you like.
Tony, though, liked coffee. The aroma was so tantalizing that he ventured into the small kitchen almost in a zombie like trance… familiar too. Like the coffee from the club. He decided not to think about it.
The Boss was doing casual today: black tank top, grey draw-string sweatpants, bare feet, longish hair tied up in a messy pony-tail…
He was cooking. You know, by hand like common people do, out of actual groceries?
“American style or Russian style?”
Wow, he was allowed to choose…
“Um, just food, please… of any style.”
A nod and the man continued dicing the vegetables. From his perch Tony couldn’t see his face, only his back, and honestly? It was more than enough to let the mind wander.
The Russian was tall. Had an inch on Steve even, which made the genius feel uncomfortable. In his book tall often equaled strong and strong often meant ‘I knew you liked it rough, baby’. Thinking about Steve made him want to scowl…
The ‘tank and pants’ combination also left practically nothing to the imagination, hugging the body in all the right ways… wow, he went commando! A habit? Or a planned move? Another thing to not think about…
He couldn’t help, but compare: the man he spent 5 years with and the man who (let’s be frank here, people) owns him in an almost slave like capacity until the debt is paid. He crossed away the height already, so Tony went straight to another attribute they both shared…
Steve, a former Army Ranger, looked good: he went on daily runs, frequented the gym, had a diet he stuck to. As a result his physique was beautiful, but all the work-out left him bulky, like a pit bull, made to run with a car tire attached to its harness for days on end.
The Russian was a different definition of strength. Yes, he was built too, but with lean wiry muscle, which moved under scarred skin like cords of steel. Tony, ever the numbers man, counted knife wounds, bullet wounds, some in places that would have resulted in near 100% death…
“See something you like?”
“Trying to understand what makes you tick…”
The Boss (or should he call him the Soldier?) shrugged.
“I wish you luck. And the food will be ready in several minutes.”
“Oh. Okay.”
The man turned around, served him coffee and Tony got a good look at his face. Man, Steve had nothing on this guy, despite rocking the beauty of a Greek god. High cheek bones, noble nose, piercing gaze, strong jawline – his beauty was wild, predatory and glacial cold. Tony felt stupid being afraid of this… this… ice-cube, but he couldn’t really control it.
“Is there a logical reason behind your invitation, Red October?”
“… Red October,” the Russian sounded almost amused. “You like to give people nicknames, yes?”
“I can stop.”
“Why? You obviously do not know my name…”
“I must confess, I did look.”
“Was your search successful?”
“No. Your organization can keep its secrets.”
“Information is power in this new world. You must agree.”
Tony nodded. The man then continued, while making himself tea with one hand and stirring the vegetable mix in the pan with the other (ambidextrous?):
“I prefer to be invisible, Mister Stark. A habit from the life before, and with this little endeavor we found ourselves in… it pulled me into the light against my best wishes… and you are a surprisingly popular figure. Arseniy told me he had to shake off three paparazzi cars on the way here.”
“Just three? Used to be more.”
“And here I thought you were going steady.”
“Me and Steve – it’s complicated. We’ve been breaking it off and coming together too many times for it to be believable,” Tony took another gulp of his coffee; the Soldier watched, gaze heavy. The engineer felt it like a physical touch: forehead, temple, across the cheek to the corner of his lips, currently downcast in a wry grimace. “After what I did this time around, though, he’ll probably dump me for good…”
“Share with me,” an order wrapped in suggestion like an iron fist under a velvet glove.
“I… handcuffed him to the bed during our after-argument sex and sort of left him that way.”
Once again something shifted behind that wall of ice, something heated and growly…
“Such sacrifice…”
“I had to meet with you. To know on what ground we stand. And I knew he wouldn’t let me or do something stupid like call the cops. You were reluctant to schedule a meet-up as it is and thinking that I sicked the authorities on you? Just… no.”
The Russian was silent for longer this time. Silently served both of them omelet… straight out of the pan. Hot as hell and oh so delicious. Once they polished the pan clean, the table was set again: a plate of sliced bread, a jar of jam and a smaller plate with butter.
“Sandwiches, Mister Stark.”
“… I don’t usually eat this much.”
“Why?”
“I… don’t know?”
“Try one. It will not bite.”
Tony did. Bread, butter, jam. Some coffee to help it along. Huh. He still had room for another.
“What is this breakfast really about, Snowflake?”
“I thought you might have questions, because, yes, we do business in Afghanistan as well.”
“And you are willing to answer them.”
“I need our union to be fruitful. You were honest with me. I will be honest with you.”
“Are there any red lines I should know about?”
“I will tell you if you approach them.”
“Okay… here we go,” Tony bit into his second sandwich mostly to mask his trembling fingers. “How did you find out? You know, about me.”
“After about a month of your… imprisonment, Raza decided that you are useless to him. A waste of resources, so he sent out word… and was willing to sell you to the highest bidder. Many wanted the famous Tony Stark on their leash… not all of them for his intellect.”
“… sex slavery? A new one for me…”
“But Raza was also greedy…”
“How much ‘greedy’ are we talking about?”
“Five million dollars. For a whore to be worth that much she must be exceptional… and a virgin.”
It stung, that comment, but he wanted the truth, so suck it up, Tony, and listen.
“I was not planning to buy you… at first. Not until he showed me the footage of you building an arc reactor out of scraps. And yes, Mister Stark, I know what an arc reactor is.”
“…how? It was an only Stark Industries project!”
“Your father might be the one who built the machine, but the technology? Russian origin.”
“He didn’t steal it.”
“No. He bought it along with its creator, who was later discarded to end up in a labor camp in Siberia, the very place he wanted to avoid by negotiating with the Americans in the first place,” the Soldier sipped his tea. “But you are not your father.”
“You may be the only one who thinks this way…”
“…I paid him 2.5 million in advance with one condition: I want you all for myself and I would take you once I finish business in the region… and pay the rest of the money then.”
“Two months?!”
“I had a lot of business.”
“But I broke out, wandered the desert for several days and Rhodey… I mean, Colonel Rhodes saved me.”
“We also collected what was left of your robot suit.”
“Oh… I thought it was ruined… the landing was pretty rough.”
“No, you build things that last… sturdy.”
“Thank you… I guess.”
“No need.”
“And the 2.5 million you literally threw away?”
“Мелочи… (It was nothing…)”
“I don’t think so. And yes, I know some Russian beyond da, nyet, vodka, matryoshka…” Tony wiggled his eyebrows suggestively which earned him an upturned quirk of lips. “But you also got me curios…”
“About what kind of female company could cost that much?”
“Well… yes?”
“Ah… rich people prefer the term ‘escort’, but if you dig deeper, it is the same thing…”
Tony arrived to work at 10 am sharp that day (why the surprised look, Pepper? I can be on time!): full, caffeinated and bursting with new horrifying knowledge about the inner workings of the criminal underworld.
For some reason being a sex slave for the Soldier didn’t sound so bad – he thought the man would be gentle.

5.
“Tony, what is wrong with you?! You could’ve gotten hurt!”
“But I wasn’t.”
“He could have killed you!”
“But he didn’t.”
“You could’ve been kidnapped again!”
“Oh please…”
SI, main building, lobby. Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, causing a scene. Behind Tony’s right shoulder his red-head shadow was giving Steve the thousand yard stare, general expression neutral. Arseniy turned out to be a cool dude, even played fetch with DUM-E on occasion… and for reasons unknown he kept Tony’s secrets like his own. Soldier’s orders most likely.
Behind Steve’s left shoulder his one-armed best friend was scowling at Arseniy, but it seemed weak and fake. Answering the genius’s inquisitive eyebrow, Barnes grumbled out:
“For the record, Stark, I was against him coming here in the first place, but this punk never listens.”
Yep, the scowl at Arseniy might be fake, but in Tony’s case? Not so much.
“If you wanted some alone time with me, Sargent, you’d have to book a meeting with Pepper first, because my schedule for the next several weeks is packed.”
“Figured as much…”
“What do you want?”
“To understand what the fuck is going on. Stevie’s been crashing on my couch for weeks now! Neither of your little squabbles lasted this long.”
“I thought he dumped me.”
“Obviously, he didn’t!”
“Well, all things considered… I dumped him.”
“After what he had to put up with for the last 5 years you are going to leave him just like that?”
“… put up with?” only decades of living in the public eye helped him keep it together. “He had to put up with?”
“You’re the spoiled prick here, Tony, and you know it.”
“… Barnes?”
“Yeah?”
“Get out. I have nothing against you personally, you are a good friend, but… get out.”
Barnes stilled, watching him. Tony suddenly remembered that he was a sniper (one of the best even) before the accident with his arm and you don’t become the best for just good shooting.
“Tony, come on… let’s just talk, like we always do!” Steve inches closer, wanting to hug him… or at least put a hand on his shoulder. The engineer takes a step back, moving out of reach, because he knows once that hand lands on him… buy-buy, resolve!
“No talking. I’ve heard enough.”
“… are you sleeping with him?” a sharp glance in Arseniy’s direction, as if sizing him up. Barnes noticed… and frowned. Arseniy’s green eyes narrowed, attaining a steely gleam, sizing Rogers up too. Tony, though, was shocked.
“What?!”
“Stevie, maybe you should…”
“Are you cheating on me, Tony? With that man. Did he force you?”
If he was shocked before, now he just felt sick…
“… fuck you, Steve. Mister Kotov, we have work to do…”
The Russian silently nodded, they executed a perfect 180 turn and…
“Tony? Tony! Answer me, Tony!”
He didn’t look back.

6.
Funny, but it was Barnes who came to apologize.
“I only heard one side of the story, Mister Stark, I should have been wiser,” he said.
“How is Steve?”
“He moved on.”
So Tony nodded, said his farewells and drowned his inner turmoil in work. Kotov followed him everywhere, coaxed him into eating… the mother hen. And he still kept his secrets safe.
“Aren’t you even a little bit interested?”
“In the actual robots that run your private workshop or in the AI whose existence you are hiding behind the guise of a robotic butler? No.”
“Um… why?”
“We respect your secrets, because you respect ours.”
“An eye for an eye…”
“Something like that.”

7.
It happened sometime after Christmas. He was still poorer than a church mouse, because 80% of his personal income was reoriented towards paying off his debt. Half a year in and they barely moved past the 50% mark. Progress was slow. Absolutely no time to get himself kidnapped…
Tony woke up in a cage, gagged, collared and naked, surrounded by darkness, red velvet and candlelight. His mind was pleasantly fuzzy and his arms and legs felt like wet noodles. Heavy duty drugs, probably. He could hear voices around him. Men and women came in a variety of accents, all of them wearing ‘masks’ not unlike the one he concocted for the media. Another voice, posh and British, was announcing the bids…
It was a slow affair. Tony Stark was starting to fall out of trend.
The auction stopped at a measly sum of 1.5 million. The auctioneer called once, called twice, was about to call thrice when the room fell silent. You could probably hear a pin drop in there if you wanted to. Tony tried to focus, but the drugs made it problematic…
"Mister Anderson, we had an agreement, no?" that voice… Tony knew that voice; icy shivers… "I do not touch your things and you do not touch mine…"
"Mister Zimin, what am honor!" the auctioneer was on his back, vulnerable belly up in moments. "And a pleasant surprise! But I am yet to gather what you are talking about…"
"Benny, Benny… you seem to be losing your touch… Selling me faulty goods last time, hindering my business this time… you stole my best mechanic!" the Soldier's voice, emotionless before, now sounded almost… pleased. "I don't think I like you anymore…"
Must have been a signal of some sort… or the guys holding the guns simply knew their leader very well, because the finest synchronized swimmers couldn't have kicked their assault rifles into gear in such unison.
"Mister Zimin, I would never!" the one called Anderson was a thread away from panic. "We have a reputation!"
"Do you really?"
A pause. Tony waited. The rest of the guests waited too. None of them really wanted to die tonight.
"Can I offer you a… compensation… of sorts?"
"Yes, you can. And it better be worth my while… "
That dude Anderson didn't think of anything better than to let his Russian guest wander the halls and pick something out. Eventually he reached the cage Tony was lying in - the genius managed to wiggle two fingers in greeting.
"I wonder how much will you cost me now, malysh (little one)?"
Tony felt cheeky and raised three fingers.
"Ha! And how much Benny sold you for?"
Tony scowled around the gag, then raised one full finger and one half way up.
"... Idiots," a few moments of silence, then Tony heard in a much lower voice: "As for now, Antosha, you will have to pretend… I called you mine for a reason."
Well, damn. Can't a mechanic be simply that, a mechanic, with these people? But if he wanted to be free, then so be it… not like it was the first time he went on his knees for strange people either.
Feeling every inch a cat doped up on cat-nip, the genius rose on all fours, adopted what he thought to be a sexy crawl and sauntered to where he heard the voice coming from. Inches away from hitting the bars, gloved fingers appeared in his sweat damp hair, holding him still and, what was more important, steady. The caress was oddly gentle… for the first couple of seconds, then the grip on his hair tightened, tilting his head up and to the side, just on the right side of rough to make the engineer moan…
"Good boy…" the Soldier was smiling, his voice a pleased rumble. "Earned a reward… or, perhaps, a punishment? To let somebody catch you so easily - next time you will do better."
Tony moaned again, rubbing against the hand that was caressing him once again like an over-sized cat. He couldn't answer with his mouth, so he used his body instead. Part of him wondered about the punishment, though… what did the man have in mind?
"Look at that… So eager… what would you choose, little one, to have your reward in: an antique Rolls Royce or a 1960 Ford Mustang? Both in excellent condition…"
Both kind of sucked, so he gave a displeased whine and showed the Soldier his back, pouting.
"Hm, maybe you are right. Cheap rides are not for us… oh, this should cheer you up. An Audi, silvery white, custom design, custom build, custom engine, custom license plate… a ‘Stark 4’…"
He was by the bars faster than his body could take it. Strong gloved hands caught him again.
"It is a 'yes' then… Mister Anderson! We have made up our mind. We will be taking that one."
It was easy to imagine a hand stretched out in a gesture of power and people groveling at his feet. You're not a soldier, thought Tony then, you're a fucking general.
Multiple processes were set in motion at once. Tony was un-gagged, let loose and draped in a black suit jacket, big enough to drown in for such a pocket-sized man like him. He knew better than to talk, though. Cats don't.
They packed his former car in a transportable crate, loaded the crate onto a wheeled platform and… attached the platform to a military issue armored vehicle. It had eight wheels and a shape that suggested it could probably swim. Tony's eyes were glued to the weapon systems the thing carried. They were… interesting.
"This is a BTR-87, a Russian armored troop transport. Its elder brothers showed very good results during the Afghanistan campaign."
"So… If things went south…"
"We would have totaled the building."
"The cannon-machine gun complex is that precise?"
"Yes. If paired with a trained gunman."
Outside, in the open air with the wind blowing his way, the hold the drug had on him started to ease. The Soldier still carried him around on his arm like a ten year old, not minding the weight at all. A troubling sign: either the man was that strong, or Tony was just that thin. How long has it been anyway?
The Russian understood him correctly.
"Mister Jarvis contacted me right after he called an ambulance for Arseniy. In total you were missing for seven days."
"How is Sunny?"
"In the hospital. There were two groups of kidnappers. He took the first one out and managed to attach a tracker on the second car, before his injuries became too grave to continue the chase. These people changed it later, but Mister Jarvis got some good visuals of the participants. We went chain after chain after that. "
"Who else knows?"
"Apart from me, Mister Jarvis and… Sunny, Colonel Rhodes, because he was in charge of the Middle Eastern segment of the search, and Miss Potts, because we needed a believable story to cover up your absence. She is very competent… I approve."
"And… the most important part: where are we exactly?"
He felt the Soldier chuckle.
"You will be surprised… or perhaps not… I was born about two hundred kilometers west from here."
"Russia, huh?"
"Very much so."

8.
Everybody knew what their relationship was. Nobody knew what their relationship wasn't. It was safer that way, Yakov said. For everybody.
Tony felt special, though. He knew the Soldier's name! And while the rational part of him was swearing up a storm, screaming that he was in over his head again, the other one cherished the trust given. Tony Stark had a reputation of untrustworthy hanging over him like that mythological sword. But Yakov hadn't trusted Tony Stark. He trusted his mechanic.
His men thought of him, well, not little per se, but certainly not much. After the gag and collar routine they saw, it was strange to think of him much. Some were surprised, though, which meant he was nothing like the 'pets' their Boss brought home with him before. The genius didn't mind. Work kept him distracted enough to not notice anything past his laptop screen.
In total they stayed in Russia for two weeks, most of which were dedicated to recovery. Tony slept, ate and bickered with Jarvis, because the AI refused to unlock his starkphone. The AI sassed right back and blocked everything but the gaming section. After two days of Candy Crush, the bickering resumed full force. Even his guards seemed amused by their mutual bitching and someone must have told the Boss. Hence, the laptop.
On week three of this improvised vacation, they returned to the States. The flat Tony had breakfast in turned out to be rented, and was easily exchanged for an equally spartanly furnished rented house upstate with a big garage: for the Audi and for Tony's favorite couch…
Yep, he was moving in.
"If we are to appear in public, Red Peril, I need to introduce you somehow, because this," the genius engineer waved at their breakfast table, "is a boyfriend-meet-boyfriend type of situation."
"You are wondering about why I abandoned keeping a low profile," Yakov casually flipped the piece of toast he had in the pan from one side to the other. "The time has come for that, simply speaking."
"Are you going legal?"
"Something like that. Hiding in plain sight, yes?"
"And who are you posing as?"
"A private security agency. Already have our first client!"
"Wow!" Tony was suitably impressed. "And who is the sorry bastard?"
"You are."
"... wait, what?"
"Miss Potts thought it to be a good idea - our business interactions proved to be mutually beneficial and she was impressed how well we handled your rescue."
He was rendered speechless. What had he missed?
"When did that happen exactly?"
"Mister Jarvis will have the exact date, I am sure."
"Indeed I do, Mister Zimin."
They were ganging up on him. Tony huffed out his irritation, but let it go. The idea did sound… promising.
"If you want to go down this road I won't stop you. I still haven't thrown out that collar for God knows what reason, but… be prepared to be examined under the public microscope as well as by every tabloid known to man. And I'm not joking, Snowflake! Hope whatever legend you would be using will hold."
"Why use legend? The real deal is much more fun…"

9.
Major Yakov Igorevich’ Zimin and genius engineer Anthony Edward Stark weren’t that far apart in the timeline as it turned out. Only several years, but what a gap in character building that made…
While Tony was sleeping his way through the male and female population of MIT and building DUM-E at the tender age of 18, Yakov was shedding blood and losing friends in Afghanistan… he had medals to show, which the engineer was careful not to touch. He was there too, so he understood (to a degree, but he did) how much blood, sweat and tears were behind these pieces of metal.
When the Soviet Union fell apart, Major Zimin, as well as many of his colleagues, suddenly found himself jobless and on the brink of poverty. They still loved their country, still could serve to protect, but the new government had no need for people like them… no matter their level of professionalism. Then the First Chechen War broke out…
“I thought Afghanistan was a nightmare, Antosha,” said the Soldier as they talked over tea and coffee. “Chechnya was worse…”
“You fought there… ”
“Yes. The regular army… boys, rarely men: undersupplied, undertrained, most saw mountains only on pictures… the Chechens, on the other hand, knew every stone and had guns in every home. The brunt of the intelligence gathering fell on the spetznaz or ‘Special Forces’ as they are called here, and they were never numerous… I saw heads being chopped off, soldiers turned into slaves, grenades being held closer to ones chest than girlfriend photos… I rarely enjoy killing. It is just work. But those people I enjoyed killing very much.”
“…”
“When I finally returned home, decorated on the outside and broken on the inside, father, a former general himself, took just one glance and said ‘отвоевался’ (too much war for you). We stayed up all night with a bottle of vodka between us… neither drank. Two weeks later I started my business.”
“Isn't it war still? Albeit a different one."
"More exercise for the mind, yes."
Tony smiled and took a sip of his coffee. This man… this incredibly resilient, strong-willed, beautiful man… and, from the look of things, his.
Use me. I trust you to make the right decisions.
"Okay. We covered the serve-your-country part. What about the personal?"
"Ah, you asking me about my favorite color?"
The engineer's smile turned sly.
"And we haven't even fucked yet…"
Yakov laughed.
"You, Antosha, are a very attractive person. You have a beautiful body and a beautiful mind - a rare combination. I can appreciate the first, but it is the second that I find attractive the most. Must be because I understand some of it… the metal part of it at least. "
"Whoa! You have a degree in physics?!"
"Geology. It is a bit rusty, though."
"What was your thesis about?"
"Application of metals in heavy industry. Factories in particular. Later when I moved onto… Master?.. I ventured into application of various metals in the nuclear industry. Chernobyl was still fresh in everybody's memory, not a very safe topic to write about."
"The arc reactor," Tony tapped against the light in the middle of his chest. "was meant to be an alternative?"
"Yes. Clean yet powerful energy source."
"You know, Dad never told me where the design came from. I always assumed it was his."
"It was the end of the Cold War, which the Soviet Union was already losing. Probably, a government assignment."
"Corporate espionage, you mean."
"Yes, but no use speaking about it now. What was done was done… but I have a question."
"Shoot, darling."
"You did not want to build weapons, did you?"
"With who my father was? Not really much choice there. You probably chose a military career under your father's influence too."
"He never pressured us, but it was expected that at least one of his sons would end up an officer. I decided it would be me. Seva would not have survived the drills."
"You have a brother! That's nice."
"Two sisters also. Twins. Devilish beings, those two. Beat up upperclassmen when they bad mouthed those who returned from Afghanistan…" Yakov’s smile was fond. "Married now."
"And… Seva, right?"
"A shortening from Vsevolod. He went into architecture: builds bridges, tunnels, roads… Russia is big, lots of work."
"Oh," it was a good family, supportive, solid and Tony had a strange feeling he would meet them. "And what is short for Yakov?"
"Yasha. But if you call me that in public you will be kissed on the spot."

10.
Tony had zero to none experience with long term relationships. He always thought they would be stifling, so he feared them like the plague. Yakov, he suspected, was the same.
But Tony's PTSD got along swimmingly with the Russian's special brand of paranoia, the stress of Afghanistan and his debt to the mob (75% complete by now - the new starkphone was a success which brought them a tad more money than expected) was fading away and the genius started noticing things… those little sweet nothings that showed his significant other cared.
Tony liked coffee, it was his preferred morning beverage, but there was this particular coffee brand that made him moan in pleasure… literally. Yakov noticed, and now they never ran out. It's not just that, other interesting coffee brands begun to appear…
He was Tony Stark, though. He did not mull over things for long - he acted. So one morning Yakov woke up to find a passed out genius on the plush rug beside the bed and a little black box on the night stand. In it was a tie pin. Gunmetal grey, with a single ruby-red star and an intricate engraving of bay leaves around it. On a hunch he gently pressed on the star like he would a button and… yes, a blade springs out. It is sharp, well-balanced, matted steel doesn’t reflect the light…
A beautiful and practical gift.
Yakov smiled and went to pick up his wayward genius off the floor, because they were both past that age when such awkward sleeping goes unpunished.
“…Yasha?” his sunshine mumbled sleepily.
“Yes, solnyshko moyo (my little sun).”
“… like?”
“Love it.”
Still sleepy, but there is no mistake – the smile he receives is very, very smug.
“He-he… nailed it…”
It’s only the start, though, because… Tony goes on business trips too. He starts bringing souvenirs home. Fridge magnets, mugs with funny pictures, figurines – he felt like a magpie, but if it brought some color into their home why the fuck not? And if he secretly loved watching Yasha pause by the fringe each time when he spots a new one? Nobody’s business, but his own…
Then there is the Audi debacle. Nobody drives his Audi, except him and occasionally Rhodey. Pepper and high speeds – no love lost there. His illustrious assistant is content with simply traveling from point A to point B via boring rides with Happy. Tony may have built the car, but he also sold it… and Yakov bought it back, so it was his, and Tony noticed that nobody drove his cars, except him and occasionally Arseniy either. Who wears the Boss pants in this situation? Yep, you’re getting it…
“Rock, paper, scissors?”
“Only, if it is seven out of ten.”
“Ah, afraid you’ll lose to my superior intellect, are you?”
“Not one bit. But how about this: the wheel is yours, but… I get to show you where to steer.”
“Like an onboard navigator?”
“You will see that I am better…”
Must be the legacy from his Special Forces days, thought Tony moments later, when they reached the highway, because all his Russian needed was a road map and a watch to plan a course, accounting for both his and Tony’s need-to-be-there places. The only problem: the time frame. It’s going to be a pretty tight squeeze…
“Can you make it, lapochka moya?” innocent question, but he could sense the teasing undercurrent and… ping! All the right buttons were hit, and Tony remembered that he a) had an F1 certified driver’s license; b) built engines since he was six; c) built this one too.
“I’ll knock your socks off… get in the car!”
Hands raised in mock surrender, the man did just that. Tony drove like a man possessed that day, and they still barely made it, but damn… it was the most fun he had in ages and no drugs were involved. Judging by the wolfish grin his Soldier was sporting when he got out of the car at SI, he was the same.
“So, beautiful, did I pass?”
“My left sock is thoroughly knocked off, yes.”
“Ha!”
“On the way back lend me the wheel and I’ll show you how it’s really done…”
“Impress me, Snowflake.”
“I plan on it.”
The tabloids eventually catch onto the changes in his personal life, and they start being followed. Yakov’s guys, ever the somber bunch, have a betting pool going on: how long will it take for their Boss to rip someone's intestines out. When Tony heard about this from J, he was a bit appalled by the wording.
"Why not go for the throat?"
"The victim suffers more, Sir, it would seem."
They managed to get a few good shots in, though, and all the gossip rags of New York erupt in speculation: who is the man in the black suit accompanying the famous playboy-genius-philanthropist to the annual Fireman's Gala? Because a bodyguard he was not...
Christine Everhart from Vanity Fair sensed a sensation in the making like a media shark she was and went for the kill the same way she did in Vegas.
Tony was in the garage, tinkering on the old wreck of a Second World War era jeep when Jarvis alerted him.
"Do I need to get out there?"
"I believe Mister Zimin has it handled."
That made the engineer pause. Curiosity killed the cat, no?
"Give me a visual, J, but, you know, carefully?"
"Of course, Sir."
Yakov made a pretty picture: black drawstring sweatpants, shirtless, with shower damp hair dripping water sinfully down his shoulders and chest… unashamed, unabashed, unamused. Christine had trouble keeping her eyes on his face, and Tony is started by the thoughts he caught coursing through his head: part of him puffed up proudly (my man!), but there was also a part that wanted to gauge those pretty grey eyes of hers out with a spoon (that's my man you're staring at, bitch, quit it!).
"Can I help you, Miss? Because you must be lost…"
"Oh, on the contrary… Have we met somewhere before, Mister…?"
"I highly doubt it."
"Is Tony home? I would like a talk with him."
"He will meet you?"
"Yes, he will. Furthermore, I believe, he would be delighted to see me!"
"It is your right to assume," Yakov casually leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest; the Special Forces tattoo a stark contrast against his pale skin. "You seem to be good at it."
"Beg your pardon?"
"I have read several of your articles, Miss Everhart. You write well, but the evidence you base your assumptions on? Spotty. Do scheduled interviews not satisfy you, so you have to ambush authority figures in such unsavory places as high-end Striptease clubs? Posing as an exotic dancer no less… "
Tony's jaw dropped. Christine was shocked speechless.
"…what?!"
"You are very cutthroat, Miss Everhart. For future reference, though? Politeness is also a virtue. Have a good day."
And he closed the door in her face. The minute the lock clicked shut, the genius was running out of the workshop/garage and into the living room, where Yakov continued to dry his hair with a towel, grumbling in Russian under his breath.
"What was that, sugarplum?! Did she really?!"
The Soldier huffed out a quiet laugh.
"Yes. Collected dirt on a Congressman for a shocking reveal… not Vanity Fair then," the half smile Yakov sent his way from under the towel was for the lack of better words wicked. "I was sitting two tables to the left…"
"And she didn't recognize you?!"
"Not all have photographic or near photographic memory, Antosha. And I looked differently then: shorter hair, a dark purple bruise covering the right half of my face, never mind younger…"
The earlier excitement ebbed a bit, and Tony sat down on the nearby couch.
"What happened?"
"A fight, in which our side won. And, as a reward, our side went to that club to celebrate."
"Pick up some girls…" a suggestive eyebrow wiggle should have been appropriate, but the engineer had a feeling that he was wasting time and effort on normal teasing here. The Russian confirmed it, when he opted for a mysterious:
"That was also an option, yes."
Tony shook his head.
"You know, we never really talked about the being gay thing…"
“Are we gay? I am not really feeling it…”
“What I meant was: have you been always attracted to men?”
“I am attracted to character. Man or woman – it is secondary.”
“Oh.”
“Have you always known you were attracted to men, Antosha?”
“College opened my eyes to a lot of things…”
“That time, at breakfast, you were afraid of me… it has something to do with that?”
“… yes. Did you know that I started MIT at fifteen? Almost everybody had from three to five years on me... and even if I didn’t stay at a Fraternity House, dorm life wasn’t much different. Until I met Rhodey, I thought everybody was after my father’s money, and many were ready to do anything to get it… including fucking a minor on tape.”
Yakov stilled, piercing him with a sharp glare. Tony managed a crooked smile, before rubbing his face with a sigh.
“I don’t remember much of that night… which is for the best, I think.”
“And your later choices?”
“Wanted to get the fear out.”
"Understandable."
"... if you are disgusted with me now, well, that would be understandable too…"
The sofa beside him dipped, taking additional weight, and suddenly he found himself with a lap full of nearly naked Russian. The engineer was not expecting this, so he sort of let it happen… and was reminded of a big dog, which simply plops on its master's legs when it wants to be petted.
"You, Americans, have a saying I do not particularly like," Yakov’s voice was strangely soft. "It is called 'fake it till you make it'. Therefore… we are doing this the Russian way."
"And what is ‘the Russian way’?"
"Fighting fire with fire…"

11.
The first time they have sex… they don't. Tony slips into his playboy persona like he usually would with Steve, Yakov senses it and… everything screeches to a halt.
They stare at one another for two long heartbeats, then the Soldier surprises him by rolling onto his side and settling near, nose in his hair, breathing in deep. Tony is usually quick on the uptake, but it still takes him a minute to understand.
Yakov wasn't taking anything Tony didn't want to give. For some godforsaken reason he respected Tony enough to treat him like something worth waiting for.
"... Yasha?"
"M-m?"
"... thank you."
A low humming noise is his answer.
"If you betray me, I will kill you, Antosha."
Such a grave statement, but it made Tony smile.
"You obviously don't know how smart I am…"
"Ha!"
"Aha…"
The kiss on the back of his neck felt hot, with a hint of possessiveness that sent sparks of pleasure up and down his spine, making him bend into it, chasing that alluring touch of lips and teeth and tongue…
"... naughty-naughty Snowflake…"
"Ты даже не представляешь какой… (You have no idea…)"
"Oh… shit… now I think… I have a language kink…"
That bear of a man behind him had the audacity to snigger. A wall of solid heat pressing into him. The big spoon. Tony used to dread these things. With Yakov he craved them…
When they started sleeping together, you know, in one bed, the engineer thought he'd end up kicking the Russian in the ribs at some point of the night. But it was Yakov who said:
"If I start talking in my sleep or screaming, you should get away. But do not run. Fast movement can set me off… and I do not want to hurt you, kotyonok."
Tony froze like a deer in headlights, eyes wide with sudden awareness.
"... set you off? How, exactly?"
"You have dreams about Afghanistan, yes? I have dreams about Afghanistan too. And Chechnya sometimes."
"Oh…"
"If you cannot get away, try to be very still and very calm."
Tony suddenly remembers the panic attack he had in the shower a few days ago, how gently and calmly Yakov coaxed him out of the shower stall, how they breathed together, how he was treated to hot chocolate with mini-marshmallows, so sweet it could melt your teeth. A thing terrorists wouldn't have.
The water-boarding didn't break his resolve. It even gave him an idea of an escape plan! His psych, though, suffered a blow. One blow.
...Yasha's must be black and blue.
"Okay. I'll be careful."
"It is all I can ask…"
Tony's creepers visited them more often, but when the Soldier's did… each moment was memorable. One of those times Tony recalled vividly, because it imprinted in him much like the water-boarding did.
Something woke him that night, a sound so out off place it pierced the muck of his slumber.
Whimpering. He heard whimpering.
Slowly Tony opened his eyes to a dark bedroom, drapes closed. He was alone in their bed. Heading Yasha's warning, he didn’t try to get up, listening to the sounds around him instead…
Whimpering again. From the far corner of the room, between the bookshelves and the worktable where a dark shape was curling in on itself, shaking slightly. Tony could see it from the corner of his eye, it and the metallic gleam…
His Soldier was holding a knife.
Crazy, thought Tony, this is crazy, but… he had changed the old model of the reactor for a newer, more powerful… brighter one a day (or maybe a couple - the work binge blurred the lines) ago. He couldn’t touch, but he could at least bring some light into Yakov’s dark place, and arc reactor light was special. Plus, he hoped it would help him find his way back…
The engineer lowered the sheet they were sleeping under and slowly unbuttoned his sleeping shirt. Wasn't quite the pillar of light he was hoping for, but it did illuminate the room… somewhat. Reflected in Yakov’s icy irises making them impossibly bluer. He hid the knife and was watching him head cocked to the side. A peculiar gesture… as if he didn’t recognize Tony at all.
"Ты не похож на моего куратора (You do not look like my handler)."
Screech… boom! Genius mind full stop… handler?!
"Ty prav (You are right)," God, his Russian was horrible. "Ya ne tvoi kurator (I am not your handler)."
Wrong thing to say apparently. The knife he lost track of? Hello there, gorgeous! Buried in the matras one millimeter away from Tony's jugular… ouch!
"Тогда кто ты? (Who are you then?)"
"Tvoy drug. (Your friend.)"
"У Солдата нет друзей. Только цели. И миссии. (The Soldier has no friends. Only targets. And missions.)"
Keep calm, Tones. You escaped terrorists in a tin can built out of rocket parts… this? This is nothing.
"A ya tvoya missiya? (Am I your mission?)"
That made the man pause and lean back a little.
"Нет (No)."
Tony released a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.
"Horosho (Okay)..."
"Your accent is horrible," whomever the Soldier was (a split personality or simply a mindset that Yakov adopted when under extreme stress) he decided to humor him and speak English. "My usual handlers have nearly none."
"Well, excuse me… I haven't spoken the language since I turned twelve!" Tony felt offended; honestly, it's a miracle he remembered how to talk on it at all!
"Do you work for the CIA?"
Loaded question. As loaded as a loaded gun. The genius had a feeling that the way he answers now will determine… something. He didn't know what, but something important regarding him, the knife that was still a cold presence at his throat and Yakov’s murderous alter ego.
"No, I don't."
"... good."
A moment of silence. The knife is gone, thrown across the bedroom to settle embedded in the wooden door frame. Tony doesn't flinch, because the man beside him telegraphed his every movement with exaggerated slowness. Instead he asks:
"Are they the ones who did this to you?"
Silence is as good an answer as any. Tony eventually falls back to sleep. The Soldier stands sentinel over him all night. When morning comes he is Yakov Zimin again.
They don't talk about it. There is no elephant in the room, but Tony starts working on Mark II of his robot suit. His gut tells him he is going to need it.

12.
Arseniy was shadowing him again. The man still looked a bit green around the gills, but judging by the way he murder glared Tony into silence when he asked about the state of his health, there wasn't a doctor alive who could hold him in.
They fell into a familiar routine: Tony works, Sunny reads. When something sensitive needs to be done he distracts DUM-E. At noon they have lunch.
The genius decides to be bold.
"So, Sunny, have you known the Boss long?"
The red-head stopped playing with his noodles and gave him a long appreciative stare. Must have come to some conclusions in Tony's favor, because he answered:
"Yes. Long years. Why are you curious now?"
"I want to ask a very inappropriate question and… I can't ask him."
"Ah. It is about Soldat, yes?"
"Oh, so you know…"
"All of us know, because we are to stop him, если что (if something happens)."
He nearly drops his cheeseburger, because… what the hell?! Sunny's smile is understanding.
"You know that during the First Chechen War the extremist and separatist groups there were supported by a number of Western governments? Promoted the so called democracy. A number of high profile American government agencies had agents there too: supplied the Chechen field commanders with information and weapons…"
"Not at all from noble intentions, I gather."
"No. They wanted intelligence of their own. My homeland still had many secrets to benefit from, but all Russians they caught were useless - солдатики (young soldiers), who knew nothing. Rarely they got officers, but those either died under torture, or from wounds and mistreatment… some preferred death over imprisonment," Arseniy sighed. "Major Zimin was our commander. A scouting mission our team was performing went wrong. We were surrounded, all twenty of us. Lost six wounded in the first ten minutes… if hell truly exists, I saw it then."
"What happened next?"
"We held out for two days. Made the bastards regret it, but the forces were too uneven. Six wounded turned into four dead. The higher commander said to not budge - while they were attacking us, they weren't watching over the mountain pass, allowing our troops to move more freely… Zimin told him to go fuck himself, because really how much time can a group of twelve people buy, eh? A day? Or, maybe, two? And when we die, what would those troops do?"
"... he told you to go."
"Yes… and called in an airstrike."
"That's…"
"He survived… only to end up in the hands of CIA interrogators. Told them nothing."
"How long did he…?"
"Six months. When the torture did not work, they switched to brainwashing. Wanted to turn him into some sort of assassin…"
Tony felt sick. Because whatever those fuckers did it worked!
"... he hates them. His handlers."
"Understandable. They took everything from him. It has been… fourteen years? And he still has relapses," Arseniy offered him a small smile. "You are with him. You must know."
Tony narrows his eyes at him.
"Have you been gossiping about me behind my back?"
"We saw the tie pin. Very cute."

13.
Shit hits the fan at the yearly Veterans Association fundraiser, when Tony recognizes the blond hanging off Steve's arm. She's from CIA and was an active member of project 'Asset'...
He read those files. There are very few places Jarvis can't get into, after all. Good thing Snowflake was in India on business, so he did not have to see his boyfriend puke in the workshop trash bin…
He feels the exact moment Yakov notices her too, because the body next to him goes rigid for one agonizing second and… that's not Yakov offering him his elbow to hold onto, it's the Soldier. He is courteous and strangely gentle, treating the genius like he was something breakable. Tony pouts. He’s not a crystal vase, damn it!
“Snowflake, sugar buns, what are you doing? I’m not some 19th century Jane Eyre damsel!”
“Never liked Jane Eyre…”
“What do you like then?”
“Dumas. The Three Musketeers is a very good book, yes?”
“All for one and one for all, huh?”
“Boys love their adventures…”
Tony smiled and pulled his murderous companion onto the dancefloor. And the Russian let him, managing to look both charming and dangerous at the same time. On the floor everyone gives them a wide berth. Suited the engineer just fine, because he surrendered all his control to his partner, letting himself be lead and liking it…
“The Captain looks jealous.”
“Fuck him…”
“He would be bad at it…”
“How do you know?”
“He made you pretend.”
To hell with appropriateness – Tony hugged him, hiding his face from the world in his dance partner’s black shirt, breathing in his unique scent: woodsy on behalf of the cologne, hot and alive all on its own… made him want to sink his teeth in… playfully… for science’s sake.
He was hugged back, one arm a pleasant weight over his shoulders; forehead, temple, tip of the nose kissed and nuzzled in affection…
“You are purring, zvezda moya (my star).”
“I feel good, so I purr…”
“Ah… will you purr if I give you massage?”
“Depends on how good you are…”
“Excellent.”
“… let’s run away from here then, darling. Jarvis can secure us a ride… maybe, even a five star rock band tour bus! My boy is creative like that…”
The Soldier laughed, bits of Yakov returning here and there.
They danced several songs, then Tony pulls his boyfriend away for drinks. Perfect time for an ambush, and Miss CIA doesn't disappoint.
"Mister Stark, what a surprise! And here Steve tells me you don't attend these kinds of functions… Sharon, Sharon Carter."
"A pleasure, Miss," Tony's media mask slides down with a clink. "And Steve is such a worry wart… never invited me! Not even once! A shame, really…"
"And your… companion?"
"My better half," Tony acted totally love-struck in that weird 19th century virgin way, that made Yakov fight a smile. "Major Yakov Zimin, at my service."
"Retired, dusha moya."
"Details! Unimportant… anyway, sugarplum, let me introduce you to Captain Rogers, one of my closest friends."
The Soldier's smile is delightfully wolfish.
"... a pleasure."

14.
Antagonizing Sunny for such a big man like Steve might have seemed easy. The redhead had the constitution of a rogue assassin, meaning easily pushed around… until the redhead gets fed up with it and the blades sink in, green and poisonous. Game metaphors aside, the real Sunny was even more deadly and could off 'the big man' Steve in two seconds flat with a paper clip.
Tony wasn't going to tell. Let Steve find out on his own if he wants it so badly.
Now, though, the genius was concentrating on the little things. Sharon Carter was trying to start something by slipping what suspiciously resembled code phrases into her easy banter…
…trying to take Yakov away.
A ten phrase code? Clever. But you're not there yet. Tony Stark was a master of the seemingly random, and his barbs teared through the webs she was trying to weave with ruthless efficiency.
Snowflake, in the meantime, was having a face-off with Steve, of all people, who realized now that he hated the wrong Russian. And unlike Sunny, Mister Zimin was no rogue.
"So, Mister Zimin, I've heard you served in Afghanistan?"
"Yes. I did indeed."
"How many tours?"
"We did not do tours in Russia at that time. You go where the government sends you, sometimes for years at a time…"
"And how many years have you served there?"
"Two. Interesting experience it was, yes," although Yakov was smiling, it never reached his eyes; there - Siberian blizzards reigned. "What about you, Captain?"
"Me?" for some reason Steve looked like the question startled him.
"How many tours to Afghanistan you had?"
"I've never been to Afghanistan."
"Oh?"
"I was in Iraq."
"Also an interesting experience, yes?"
"... I can't call it that. People died."
"People die every day. During war it simply happens faster."
"You are… surprisingly pragmatic."
"I am. A trait we both share, yes?"
Steve opened his mouth to answer, but Sharon subtly elbowed him in the side. Unlike the Captain she recognized the barb for what it was – an implication that Rogers was with Tony for his money. It was partially true, because when he met Steve at that memorable gay-friendly bar it was supposed to be a one-night-stand, but the man was an early riser and found his wallet before Tony did. And the billionaire was a sucker for those who showed care.
"Such a trivial question, but…"
"Where did we meet?"
"Taking words out of my mouth, Mister Zimin!"
"People are curious…"
"You obviously meant nosy, sugarplum."
"Hm."
"And we met in a nightclub. I made a fool of myself, Yakov took pity and drove me home to wash the cocktails off my clothes…" which was a lie, and judging by how smoothly Steve and Agent Carter went with it, they knew it too. "The following morning was even more colorful, because - mother of all hangovers, Jesus Christ! Tried out a Russian hangover remedy… did you know they drink pickle? Shocked the headache right out, let me tell you…"
"I was out of aspirin, but mother sent me a jar of pickled cucumbers the other week… works about the same."
"Wait… your mum made those?"
"They have a vegetable garden. I am glad you liked them, dusha moya."
"Can't argue with facts and they were tasty in that spicy crunchy sweet and sour kind of way."
"She will send a jar of pickled tomatoes next. You should try them too."
“I heard the guys talking about pickled watermelons… and they didn’t seem to be joking.”
The Soldier smiled.
“No, they were not. I’ll treat you to some when we visit Russia – the locals can’t even make borscht right…”
Tony couldn’t help, but grin.
This part of their banter wasn’t a lie. Tony decided to treat his boyfriend to dinner and chose a place he thought was a good one – Jarvis brought up some reviews and they were mostly in the four-five star spectrum. The place had a reputation of being an ‘authentic’ Russian restaurant with ‘authentic’ Russian cuisine… he should’ve known something was fishy, living with a real ‘authentic’ Russian and all. It was quite the disaster when he saw what was positioned here as beet-root soup – it had a barely visible reddish hue, while he was used to seeing it in an alluring deep purple with a dash of cream on top. The evening was ruined. Yakov, though, turned nostalgic. It reminded him of his early army days…
“…Tony?” Steve for some godforsaken reason looked surprised, like he’d never seen Tony before… or only started noticing him now? “I can’t believe it…”
And then he turns incredulous:
“You’re serious!?”
Tony’s grin falters, but only just. He’s too well trained, his external armor is still too thick.
“… I am.”
“You’ve never been serious about anything in your life!”
“… things change.”
“Yeah, but not you! You just bounce back as insufferable as ever!”
“… well, this can change too. Snowflake?”
The Soldier - and it’s the Soldier through and through, the personality of Yakov Zimin taking a step back, fading into the shadows – inched closer; Tony has his undivided attention. Agent Carter noticed the shift almost instantly, and now was fighting every instinct in her body to not reach for the gun hidden in her purse.
"Слушаю (I am listening)."
"My uhodim (We are leaving). Priyatnogo vechera, agent Karter. (Have a nice evening, agent Carter.)"
Was it smart to taunt a government agency with questionable morals? Probably not, but sometimes to catch a cunning rat you need a big chunk of bate…
He's going to fight for his man. And he's going to fight dirty.

15.
The debt is cleared in late November and they have a little celebration at SI. All of them, excluding those stuck on guard duty and patrol, but Jarvis saves them some cake regardless. His AI has taken a shine to the bunch of crazy Russian people roaming the property. Well, no wonder, them operating under a similar set of directives and all.
Yakov’s men respect Jarvis too. On missions he is their eye in the sky and their guardian angel, at home - their guide and companion. No one really treats him as a computer program anymore.
Tony Stark, billionaire-playboy-philanthropist, is starting to learn what happiness feels like.
Then the Soldier leaves for Mexico, and a two day trip turns into a seven day absence. Doesn't take a genius to guess what happened…
Tony is calm. This is what he's been waiting for. Didn't make it easier, though. If he wasn't up to the eyebrows in planning, he would be running around screaming like a little girl, panicking his head off.
They huddled in the very same hangar that served as his home once upon a time. Now it resembled a military command center with monitors and holograms showing video sequences from street cameras, security cameras, smartphone cameras…
Jarvis was building chains for them to follow. But… J sometimes didn’t understand human logic. Tony on the other hand understood it too well, especially where money and power were concerned…
"Mexico was obviously a set-up," Tony felt like he too was developing a second personality judging by the levels of dzen he executed. "CIA is an organization with fingers in enough criminal pies to stage just about anything. I'm no military, so correct me if I'm wrong…"
"Not wrong," Arseniy urged him to continue. "So far."
Yakov’s right hand man was right there with him along with a fully armed STRIKE team of fifteen, the same people that rescued Tony in Russia.
"If they hadn't tranquilized him from the very start, Snowflake most likely left bodies behind. Things they had to dispose of - otherwise their cover would be blown. J, were there any spontaneous fires in Mexico a week ago? Within city limits."
"Yes, Sir. A hospital, a multistorey building and several warehouses on the outskirts of town."
"You think warehouse?"
"A normal person would… I think hospital."
"Why?"
"Drugs," Tony gives him a crooked grin. "Yakov has a wicked tolerance. If they tranqued him and he started waking up halfway to the landing strip, someone may have peed their pants a bit and suggested to raid the joint…"
"And steal an ambulance," Arseniy caught on fast. "Mister Jarvis?"
"Indeed. An ambulance car was reported missing after the fire… sighted leaving city limits. Standart crew - four. On sight weight calculations suggest from ten to twelve passengers…"
"Tight fit!"
"Abandoned near a private airfield… they never boarded the plane though."
"J?"
"It would seem there were five minivans inside the hangar. Tinted windows, all the same weight… crossed the border in different places."
"Damn…"
"I am sorry, Sir."
"Just means we engage from the side…"
"Sir?"
"If you guys know about Soldat, then you know about Project Asset?" fifteen nods, some slow, some curt, some clipped, were Tony’s answer, which was… fascinating in a way, because they all knew their boss could flip at any moment, yet no one ran. "Then you must know that every Project has a person responsible. While they expect us to chase geese, we'll go for the snake's head. He, without any doubt, is already informed… the problem, though, is that the only face we've got is that of Sharon Carter."
"Useless."
"Well, yeah, but… use her we still can!" channelling his inner Master Yoda, Tony let his fingers fly over the virtual keyboard, hacking his way into the national tourist agency. "You should have seen her go: code phrase after code phrase, pew-pew-pew! If she knew that much, than she's no greenhorn…"
"What are you looking for?"
"I don't know about Russia, but here, in the States, we have a tradition of building super secret potentially dangerous bases under unsuspecting backwater towns… and here we are! A backwater town in a backwater state of Maine… and Miss Carter flies to this sorry place every other month, like clockwork. Guess what, gentlemen and gentlemen, she's heading there as we speak…"
Arseniy nods. A few handsigns send the ball rolling. The Russians were going to war.
"You are going with us."
"You sure? I'm a civilian."
Sunny looks at him like he's stupid. A couple of seconds later, when Tony analyzed what he said, the engineer admitted that perhaps he was.
"I'll follow you in the armor. I didn't build it for stealth, so…"
"Not a problem. When the hammer falls, there will be no time to take photographs."

16.
They beat Carter to it. Stark tech was called the best for a reason. Tony didn't feel like wiggling his eyebrows in triumph though…
While the guys took care of the last preparations, he hacked into the facility's video and audio feeds. What he saw there made him want to suit up too and level the place with the ground it was dug in.
The base layout was simple: a handful of rooms for the visiting agents, a torture chamber, a med bay and a generator room. Rooms were separated by long narrow walk ways and doors with ID scanners. Cameras were everywhere, except bathrooms and showers. The generator ran on gasoline.
His Soldier… his Yasha was handcuffed to a metal chair in the torture room. Naked, which should have given his captors some mythological advantage, but didn't. Constellations of bruises covered his torso, arms, legs… Gunshot wound to the shoulder, gunshot wound to the opposite side, gunshot wound to the thigh… Rope burnes on his neck… an IV-drip with clear fluid of questionable origin, applied to the vein in his left arm…
His Soldier sat utterly still, more statue than man, eyes fixed on the wall, vacant and unwavering. A machine waiting on standby.
"Jarvis…"
"Sir."
"...we're not taking hostages."
"With pleasure, Sir."
Tony moved on to the security room, where two lesser agents were watching his Snowflake on the monitors and freaking out over his stillness.
Why the scared faces, you little bitches? Terrified of your own handy work?
A light tap on the button opened a direct audio feed…
"You know, Abe, I've read the files, but to think he's the real deal… it's like fucking science-fiction, man!"
"Yeah, only its fucking not. You saw what he did to Jaspers? And he said the Words!"
"Why isn't he listening? Sharon said the programming was successful!"
"A little too successful, if you ask me… Fury called her back in."
"What? Why?"
"She said she'll fix it."
"Fix it? Like there is something left to fix in there - he's totalled!"
Tony shut them off, turning to Sunny instead.
"Ironman to Red, Ironman to Red… the package is in the nest, I repeat, the package is in the nest…"
"You watch too many action movies, Stark… this is a secure channel," the Russian sounded mildly amused.
"Shush you! I've always wanted to say that… jokes aside, my matryoshka loving friends, our Soldier is here. They have him. Couldn't break him, are waiting for the big guns."
"Понял, принял. (Acknowledged, understood). Group One - secure outer perimeter. Group Two - look out for possible enemy reinforcements. Group Three - with me."
A chorus of affirmative grunts and murmurs.
"Stark, gut their computers."
"Roger…"
"If you see us keeling over, intervene."
That actually makes Tony pause. These guys really are professionals, with no illusions whatsoever… someone might die and it's a fact.
"Roger that too. But keep the keeling over to a minimum, capish?"
Another chorus of affirmative murmurs and grunts.
"Alright then…"
"Начали! (Go!)"

17.
Tony lived through his fair share of kidnappings - when you're a billionaire's son, such things tend to happen often. In 80% of those cases he escaped on his own, but that one time he was accidentally rescued by a FBI-affiliated SWAT team. His kidnappers were, apparently, also drug dealers and got what they deserved, but watching Arseniy lead his men into battle over the video feed made him remember that SWAT team…
Tony from his perch in the quinjet (SI-built aerial troop carrier… which didn't fly until he perfected the repulsor tech) could only make their way in smoother: looped camera feeds, disabled proximity sensors, silenced alarms…
His mind was with his Soldier, though, in that torture room. He needed to get him out.
Reckless.
But he did it anyway.
"Yashen'ka," he whispered through the room's speakers. "Yashen'ka, vstavai, dorogoi. (Yashen'ka, dearest, get up.)"
The Soldier slowly, agonizingly slowly, turned his head to the right, in the direction where he could hear Tony's voice coming from.
"Ty ne shodish s uma. (You are not going crazy.) Eto deistvitel'no ya. (It is really me.)" Tony fell silent for a moment, understanding all too well that what he was about to ask of him would be agonizingly difficult, especially in his state. "Oni tebya ne vidyat. (They can't see you.) Rijik shturmuyet bazu. (Sunny is storming the base.) No vremeni u nih ne to chtoby mnogo, poetomu… mne nujno chtoby ty vstal. (But they don't have much time, so… I need you to get up.)"
The Soldier is silent as he turns away, but Tony has faith in him, and… yes! He pulls at his restraints, sluggishly, then with more purpose, as if gauging their strength. The cuffs are metal, so he is most likely stuck…
Yakov doesn't think so. Another mild tug tells him all he wants to know, because the Soldier stills, strangely statuesque; Tony notices the change in his breathing, it’s odd meditative depth… and then the man starts to rise. He starts to rise and doesn't stop! The metal groans in protest, cuts into the flesh of his already bruised wrists…
Tony can only stare in shock. Until he remembers a possibly very important detail.
His Snowflake is a metallurgist. Soviet school, which meant he probably can tell what kinds of metals and alloys where used to craft his torture gear just by looking at the color of the metallic gleam it casted off in the artificial lighting (Russian's were scary like that; for Tony's competence kink, though? The man who said brains aren't sexy was a hypocrite…) and what metals and alloys were used to manufacture the nuts and bolts. The days he spent strapped into that contraption? More than enough to rattle a few screws loose…
For a few moments there it seems that the struggle between the man and the man-made will end in a stalemate, but then Yakov does something with his body weight, and Tony hears a very distinctive 'ping-ping-ping!' of small metal pieces hitting the floor… followed by a heavy 'thud!' of the cuffs, which the Soldier discards with cold disinterest. The IV-drip is disposed of next, and then the Soldier is moving again, a killing machine on the prowl.
Tony is in love all over again.

18.
They meet each other halfway to the surface: Yasha on his way out, Sunny's team creeping in. Sunny examines the black cargo pants and US Army issue combat boots with professional interest, and when the Soldier raises a questioning eyebrow he just shrugs with a smirk… and throws him a shirt.
It takes about five additional minutes to patch Yakov up. Examine the gunshot wounds, disinfect, check for bullets in them (the Russian was lucky; all his wounds were clean through-and-throughs’), more disinfectant and dress it with gauze - field medicine in action.
They are almost at the exit, when the overwatch team throws in a code red. The CIA came earlier than they expected, gloomy looking agents following an equally gloomy looking STRIKE - team. When Tony sees who's in the lead, he can't help a humorless cackle. Steve mother fucking Rogers! Rangers lead the way!
He forgot to turn the mic off and the entire base hears him go. The new arrivals are startled out of their bullet-proof vests, because due to the echo and the less than perfect quality of the sound coming from those speakers the cackling sounds almost like someone let a demon loose in here. The Russians just smirk and huff in mild amusement - they always appreciated the more darkish sides of humor well.
"What an interesting life you are leading, Captain Rogers: humble Iraq veteran by day, undercover special agent by night… spying on my sunshine…" Yakov smiled the same smile Tony saw him give Steve at the gala. "If you loved him so much, why didn't you pull in all the favors you owed like Colonel Rhodes did when he went missing? You simply let it happen…"
"Like you're the one to talk… You did the very same thing by just leaving him there!"
Well, no. Despite the not-so-shocking-as-it-should-have-been reveal Tony saw the difference. Rhodey, his platypus, his honey-bear, indeed gave it his all and, as the Russian saying goes, всеми правдами и неправдами (by all legal and illegal means) stretched the search as long as he could. Yakov knew of this because…
… he most obviously looked into the heart of the situation. He recognized what he and Yinsen were doing, estimated how much time they needed to complete it and bought them that time… literally. He believed in his genius and his skill. Hell, he believed in him! Long before anyone else would…
Plus, by gathering the scattered pieces of his armor after his crash landing in the desert, his men probably saved Tony from being kidnapped again, by his own government this time.
He may be overthinking things, of course… exaggerating here and there… being paranoid?
But then again! Brainwashed assassins were supposed to be a work of fiction too. Who wouldn't want an army of two-legged tanks? And the President was no idiot.
"Quit the talking, Steve. We are wasting time… Plus, we don't need this many to lure Stark in… we only need him.”
Lady, thought Tony, while standing up, fixing up his earbud-type comm and closing the laptop, you don't know what you are asking for…

19.
The first time Yakov Zimin met Tony Stark it’s nothing remarkable. It was a science conference in Europe, one of many for the western scientific society and one of the few where scientists from the former Soviet Union were still regularly invited. Beautiful women and champagne serve as perfect decorations. Howard Stark died last year and everybody is watching his only son and heir, wondering what kind of Titan he’ll grow into…
Yakov plays the role of a young specialist. He is relatively young and he is a specialist in his field, but he is not what the locals are accustomed to, because he is also tall, his back is too straight, practically screaming military and he doesn’t bother projecting politeness.
They think him to be KGB…
The boy that bumps into him doesn’t care about these trivial things. He is dressed to the nines, hairdo must have cost a small fortune to arrange… must have… once upon a time… now it is reduced to a disheveled shock of dark hair and it suits him more. Yakov also takes note of the paleness, the frantic panicky gleam inside his honey-brown eyes and surprises himself by offering:
“Walk with me?”
The boy stares at him, eyes wide, for several heartbeats, then… just nods. They steal some real, non-alcoholic drinks (his companion drinks his coffee so black it reminds him of crude oil, while he prefers plain bottled water to everything) and disappear into the gardens. It is not as empty as he would have liked, too many dark corners occupied by kissing (and way past kissing) couples, but they find a small unoccupied gazebo near the pond.
Yakov watches the young man sip his coffee, humming (moaning?) pleasantly between small gulps, his own water bottle forgotten. He is beautiful… and vulnerable, because he clearly isn’t used to being the center of everybody’s attention.
No armor, no mask. Anthony Stark was not what he expected at all.
“Obie wants me to give a speech. About Howard. It’s been a year since he… passed and I don’t really know what to talk about, because… he wasn’t a good father.”
“I don’t think these people want to hear about what a father he was…”
This startles him.
“Why?”
“We are at a conference where people are supposed to be appreciating science, yes? Instead all I see is them play guessing games: am I from KGB or am I not?” he accompanies his words with a barely there up-turn quirk of lips, full of self-irony.
That startles Tony again, into a laugh this time. The panic and stress are slowly fading from his features, replaced by interest and flirty humor.
“Are you? From the KGB, I mean.”
“No, but if I were, the problem with your speech would have been the least of your worries…”
“Oh?”
“We would have been half-way to Moscow by now, and I would have given my all to the mission of recruiting you to our nefarious cause… every… hour… of the way…” Yakov could be flirty too, but when most opted for sassy, he showed his more savage side, sharp fangs in wolfish grins; if his person of interest started coming up with excuses to run… well, then he wasn’t worth the effort.
Tony Stark does no such thing: he just shows some pointy canines of his own in an answering grin, honey-brown eyes glowing faint gold in the lighting, almost cat-like…
“I could take you up on that offer, you know…”
“You would, wouldn’t you?”
“Hell yeah…”
But he doesn’t, because they are interrupted… and Yakov never wanted to kill somebody so viciously before he met this… man. He is big, bald and is the perfect example of a typical American businessman. He goes by the name of Obadiah Stane and dwarfs Tony out with his superior bulk.
They leave, but Tony still manages to look back one last time. Gratitude… and hope for another meeting? Yakov silently salutes him with his unopened water bottle… deep down he is hoping too. But the following year brings war with it, he returns to active duty and the next time they meet it is almost twenty years later, both of them forever changed…
The Soldier inside him craves blood. He has his reasons, the main one standing meters away, but if they want to do to Antosha what they did to him…
The fire in him turned icy. Two mindsets, which had been tearing him apart for the last fourteen years, finally melt into one not because they want to, but because they need to. To protect what was theirs they needed to do become something new: not Major Zimin from before… not the broken assassin from after… something better. From the corner of his eye he notices Arseniy slightly turn his head to the left, as if listening to something and then…
‘Boom!’
A heavy hit, metal on metal. The agents jump out of their vests all over again, the back rows of their little group turning around to stare at a set of massive doors, blocking the exit, in suspicion and something akin to fear. The same set of doors that were now sporting a big punch shaped indent…
‘Boom!’
Another indent. The last rows of the STRIKE-team are backing away, guns rising higher with every step taken. They start bumping into the first rows, creating a small commotion…
The third ‘Boom!’ doesn’t come, though. The ground is vibrating under heavy footsteps instead, which stop… and then everything is swallowed by the screaming of metal being torn apart by two sets of metal fingers, done in a familiar shade of hot-rod red…
“Sharon?” Steve is weary, which is smart, because the unknown is indeed a thing to fear. “If this is what you’ve been waiting for, I sure hope you know what you’re doing…”
“I’m not afraid of your ex, Steve.”
“… just saying.”
The Russians share a look, and Arseniy pulls out a smoke grenade. Yakov shakes his head (что-то мелковато, братишка (kinda weak, little brother)) and Arseniy silently agrees with him (да, мелковато (yeah, it kinda is)) and pulls out something with a bit more punch...
The metal doors finally crack open and his sunshine steps inside in all his red and gold glory.
He is beautiful.

20.
When Tony walked through that door, he was calm. A familiar swagger could be read in his steps even with the armor on, and he was humming AC/DC's TNT under his breath…
Jarvis got them all lined up: friends were highlighted green, foes - red… Rogers, since he was in the picture, was outright burgundy, while agent Carter was so red she could go down in flames any minute now.
"If you wanted to see me, Sharon, you could have just called," his voice was calm too. "Booked a meeting maybe? Pepper would have been nice… But! You steal my man instead. Quite literally, I might add. How you expect me to react other than violently?"
Sharon Carter’s face goes carefully neutral, as if she didn’t order five men killed mere minutes ago. Nails had nothing on this woman.
"The Agency wants to recruit you, Mister Stark. You have shown extraordinary levels of skill and intelligence when you staged your escape from the Ten Rings, as well as in the field by successfully controlling the Asset. Your authority overrides even mine, and that is… impressive. Nickolas Fury, the chief director of Division 9, would very much like to invite you to work with us further. He thinks it would be a very prolific partnership."
Steve turned around so sharply Tony felt sorry for his neck. The stare the man was giving his girlfriend could only be described as incredulous. Ah, so he was working for this Division 9 thing too! Didn't hurt to ask about it, although he already knew his answer would be ‘hell no’.
"Steve's into it too?"
"Yes," Sharon nodded. "Would this be… a problem?"
"And in what capacity do you want me?" he ignored the bait, musing, what a strange relationship these two had: she was hinting that she was going to give him the boot to make Tony comfortable and he was okay with it!
"A consultant and, much like your father was in his time, a specialist in tech-support."
Oh, so Howard worked for them too. A day of many discoveries this one…
"Well, agent Carter, your offer would be tempting, if I wasn't so personally against any forms of contact with any government organization, including your Division 9 whatever the heck you busy yourselves with… plus, I would like to make several things clear here. I'll even use small words to make it easier for those of you who are mentally handicapped," he looked them in the eye, in every masked and unmasked face; on Steve he made sure to linger, before settling on agent Carter and staying there, a heavy weight of his gaze glowing arc reactor blue. "Project Asset is terminated. From this day onward it is gone: the code words - don't exist, the methodology - erased. You kidnap my man again - I burn your organization to the ground. I find out you kidnapped somebody else - I burn your organization to the ground. You go after me… well, you know the drill."
"If we let go of this project completely will you reconsider?" Sharon tried bargaining, appealing to the businessman in him.
"No, I won't."
"...".
"Don't go fishing for time either. No one will come. We made sure of that," that said he raised his hands, palms open with repulsors whirling to life. "So… ready to talk terms yet? Or are you done talking altogether…"
Decisions, decisions…
Tough ones, because agent Carter, a woman in a men's world, could only be that - tough! If she'll say she needs to consult with her boss… well, Tony would be a bit disappointed.
"Okay! Okay…" she didn't call her boss. "Steve… guys, stand down!"
"But… Sharon!"
"You ready to fight a tank, Rogers? While evading hand grenades?"
Steve obviously wasn't. Tony held his position by the wrecked doors till the very last of his people was safely out. Yakov paused long enough to kiss him right on the faceplate where his cheek would have been.
"Aw, Snowflake…" Tony all but melted in a puddle of happy pink goo.
"You are very sexy when you try to be cinematographically badass, zvezdochka (little star)."
"Ha! But it worked, didn't it?" a pause, then: “Wait… Cinemato-what? Is that even a word? And you said it like its ‘cupcake’…”
The Soldier smirks, that sexy dark thing that does things to his nether regions, before letting his left hand slide down his shoulder in an easy, yet meaningful caress, fingers tracing the red and gold armored plates…
The genius felt like sniggering despite the importance of the moment, because…
Daddy’s got a brand new kink!
He-he-he, nailed it again.

21.
They board the quinjet, the cargo doors close, ‘Take us home, J’… and only then, safe among his people, the Soldier allows himself to collapse. Scares his sunshine half to death, конечно (of course)…
He isn’t young anymore. Bouncing back takes effort. Tony catches him, stumbling out of his suit, but the height to weight difference is too great and they fall together. The metal floor is somewhat unforgiving, but neither of them particularly cares…
“I liked that trick with the chair.”
“Mhm… weak bolts and a little bit of Shaolin wisdom.”
“Oh?”
“The monks have a technique that is called ‘iron shirt’… can’t stop bullets, but with everything else… you saw.”
“And here I thought about calling myself Ironman… we should share the title…”
“I like Red October,” Yakov shifted a bit, nuzzling into his sunshine’s neck, breathing him in… coffee, metal, a hint of cologne… Tony. “But when you call me Snowflake…”
“I love calling you Snowflake…”
“Makes me want to do things to you…”
“Do them. I think we are long overdue…” Tony cuddled closer, doing some breathing in of his own. “God, I thought I lost you for a second there…”
“Never…”
“All the grey hairs you’ll find? Totally your fault…”
Yakov smiles against the side of his neck, before giving it a playful nip, a seductive lick… and marveling in the way Tony shudders for him…
"Переживем… (We’ll live through it…)”
“Sure we will… let’s get off the floor, though. It aches.”
Sunny had to help them with that - Yakov was mostly dead weight in his current condition. Together they moved him to a nearby bench. After several minutes of silence the space begins filling up with quiet murmurs in Russian… разбор полётов (after mission analysis), as Arseniy would have put it.
Tony doesn't pay it much attention. He is very curious about what in the stars is Division 9. Turned out, it was top secret, and they occupied themselves with catching criminals no one else could catch. What did they need Yasha for, if they were so badass on their own? He purposely didn't think about those crime lords who were better off dead and that perfect opportunity to ghost them using a killer that doesn't exist.
All in all he found a lot of interesting info on their servers. Project Asset wasn't the only bizarre shit they had cooked up. His dear old dad left a lot of unique specialized gear for them to use, some of which Tony vaguely remembered designing in his work binge haze.
"Snowflake?"
"Hm?"
"How'd you know Steve was an imposter?"
Yakov let out a quiet laugh… and shifted closer, so his head ended up lying on the genius's lap. The laptop was moved to the floor to make more space…
"Usually when you ask a person about traumatic memories, he closes off. If you ask Sargent Barnes how he lost his arm, you will practically see how the blinds are being closed on you… Rogers just looked startled. So I traded a few favors with my contacts in Iraq and found out that such a person never set foot on Iraqi soil… "
"So he is no war vet…"
"No. His service record with the Rangers is real, as is his rank of Captain, but everything else… a welcome career change. It will offend you, dusha moya, but he is also very much heterosexual…"
"Carter?"
"They came to know each other in Quantico and have been together since."
It hurt, but… he will learn to forget. For Steve their entire relationship was a mission, so all the fear, stress, hope and effort Tony put in it was misplaced. He even understood why Rogers was chosen - he was what Tony called his type…
"Well, guess that page of my life is officially turned… you didn't tell me, though."
"He hurt you enough… but I did not tell you for another reason."
"Oh?"
"It would be better if you didn't know should he disappear one day…"
For a second there his sunshine is left speechless, eyes wide and staring into space. But he shakes it off.
"I've read somewhere that the best revenge is living well. Let's stick with this plan for now…"
"Antosha is so kind…"
The engineer didn't answer, but the feel of calloused fingers, carefully treading through his hair was a good answer too.

22.
They stop renting places when Tony buys back his Malibu estate. While the outside of the house remains virtually the same, the sleek sophisticated interiors Pepper picked out were gone, replaced with insides that made his skin crawl, because they screamed 'eccentric' louder than the Hollywood sign screamed… well, Hollywood.
He asks Yakov:
"Was I such a douchebag when we met?"
The Russian shakes his head, somewhat distracted by the layout of the living room:
"No, just young… and scared."
That makes the engineer pause.
"Really?"
"And I thought you remembered everything…" the Soldier kicked the neon-orange beanbag to the side opening the carpeting underneath; the 'huh' he gave out a minute later is more than approving. "We should keep the rug."
Tony looked down. The rug was black and pleasantly soft, like an animal's pelt.
"Oh, I like your style, baby… but don't distract me here…"
"In 1992 you attended a science conference. In Warsaw, if I'm not mistaken…"
He needn't say more, because Tony was like a heat seeking missile: point him in the right direction and the mechanics of his brilliant mind will do the rest…
"I can't believe you… the KGB agent?! Who drank nothing, but water…"
"With you I didn't have a chance to do even that… not that I minded."
"Oh my God…" Antosha was shocked, then he turned adorably flushed, then he was assaulting him with a couch pillow. "You… absolutely insufferable… totally shameless… person! Have you any idea how many of my nights you ruined?!"
Yakov let him land a few hits before expertly tripping him right onto that rug they both liked so much. Tony, however, was a fierce fighter, startled yelp or no, so he lunged for the nearest stable object (Yakov) in a feat of almost catlike grace and dug his claws in…
Balance be damned.
They fall in a heap, laughing and squirming as Tony tries to escape the fate of being viciously tickled and predictably fails. At some point of this childish play he moves up, Yakov moves down… and sparks fly.
"Ah, Snowflake!" when did both of them get so aroused? Neither had any idea…
"Do you know what I liked about you then and what I simply adore about you now?" the Russian's voice is a seductive purr.
"My charming personality and irresistibly good looks?" the genius is breathless, cheeks flushed, eyes aflame with desire and want and need.
"I love your sass."
The answer must have been unexpected or unexpectedly wrong, because his sunshine suddenly goes still and silent, the fire from earlier snuffed out to barely glowing embers.
"... don't joke like that."
And everything stops.
"Solnyshko, I wasn't."
"Nobody likes my sass."
"More for me then…" Yakov inwardly distressed and slightly murderous leans in and nuzzles the side of his head in gentle affection. "So much more…"
That disperses the gloom a bit: Antosha is smiling again, his arms find their way onto his shoulders: one goes up into the hair at the back of his head, pulling lightly, the other goes down exploring the plains and ridges of his back…
The arc reactor light reflects off the ruby-red star in his tie pin, coloring it purple around the edges… a different tie pin; the original one perished in faraway Mexico, sunken deep into some CIA agent’s eye.
"God, Yasha, where were you all my life…" moaned Tony into his ear, as his hand disappeared down the back of his black jeans… only to find nothing but warm skin and sinewy muscle. “Did you know? Did you prepare? Of course you did… you’re, you know, you… or not… I’m lucky like that… and I’m going to get so lucky I’m gonna’ feel it for weeks… seriously, where were you, Yashus’ka?”
The Soldier's answering grin is absolutely wolfish and hungry, as he grinds his hips forward in a slow provocative manner, letting the billionaire feel just how happy he is to have the man pinned under him and a little bit more.
"In Moscow and, sometimes, in Sankt-Petersburg…"
"Did you plan… ever?"
"No, but hope dies last…"
Tony snorts.
"Dramatic Russian…" and then he is pulling him in. "Come here, gorgeous!"
The Soldier eagerly complies.

23.
Tony thought he knew what ‘insatiable’ meant - he’s been called that enough times to earn the ‘playboy’ part of his reputation. But, as it turned out, he knew nothing. Or did these mysterious Russians have it differently?
Nope, wasn’t the case - his man just waited too long for someone he truly liked. A man in his position, expected to behave a certain way… Who had he imagined while fucking all those beautiful but uninteresting women? Tony sincerely hoped it was him.
They lose their shirts in the living room, their pants – on the way to the bedroom. When they lost their shoes and socks? Ask something easier, because he, for the life of him, can't remember.
Yakov is glorious naked, while Tony is rocking a pair of canary-yellow boxers with little pink hearts sprinkled all over them - they clash horribly with the arc reactor blue in his chest and the royal silvery shine of the Tom Ford he discarded not so long ago, but who really cares? His most important person certainly doesn’t…
They make out like teenagers. Tony makes an absolutely undignified squeak when he’s suddenly hoisted up and prompted into hugging his man’s waist with his legs. It’s kissed right off his lips… it’s no problem, though. Tony’s always been pretty vocal…
The walls in this house are artistically ridged, making the notion of wall sex quite impossible, so he lets Yakov hold him… he clings to him himself, finding new meanings to old phrases like ‘climbing him like a tree’ while marveling at the sheer strength in those scarred arms and long legs… mumbling about doing it on a bed, tumbling in actual sheets… showering his Yashul’ka with dirty suggestions which make him grumble happily, half in amusement, half in want…
When they see what that ‘eccentric’ dude did to his bedroom, though, the romance nearly dies again. A king-size Vegas casino style round bed with sheets that look suspiciously like silk, really? And everything, from carpeting to window drapes - that cover the awesome view of the ocean he initially bought this patch of land for; what was wrong with this man?! - is done in shades of black and red. Yakov narrows his eyes dangerously at the pair of fluffy handcuffs casually lying on the side table…
“You want to hunt him down, don’t you?”
“Чуть-чуть. (A little bit.)”
“Hm… I can help, but… now I’m curious what we’ll find if we look under the bed…”
Whips, flogging sticks, cuffs, gags, collars and chains. An assortment of lube. An arsenal of dildos. Tony, who thought himself a progressive man, feels his cheeks and ears heat up.
"Wow… I mean, um, just wow…"
"Interesting…" Yakov poked one of the bigger imitations of a man's sex organ with his toe. "A sex addict or - how do you say… - in the scene?"
Tony made a face and dropped the lid back on the box with a soft thud.
"Where are the butt plugs then?"
One of the Russian's eyebrows shot up, as he repeated, clearly intrigued:
"... butt plugs?"
"Oh, you don't know? I've dated this guy in college… it was a short lived fascination, but when it lasted it was fun… Well, according to him, it's a must-have kind of tool. A lot of role playing games are built around it…"
And just like that the romance was back. The more Tony talked, the more leery his Soldier became.
"And what roles did you play, sunshine mine?"
Tony's eyes flashed molten gold, when he pushed the box away and stood up.
"After that display at the auction house? I thought you already knew…"
"And I enjoyed the show greatly along with all the other people in the room, but Antosha…" Yakov killed the distance between them with one prowling step, crowding him pleasantly, provoking him into standing up on his toes, fighting their height difference… the feel of Yakov’s large hands, settling on his waist, made him smile, the feel of them sliding lower, gliding over his bottom still hidden inside those ridiculous boxers only to reel him in by his hips, makes him gasp. "What do you really like?"
"Let's find out together?"
"M-m…"
"I'll take that as a yes."

24.
“What do you want?”
Bucky was never a ray of sunshine - more of a handsome devil kind of guy: cocky grin, wicked dance moves… The loss of his left arm changed many things towards the worst, but never was this doom and gloom directed at him. Until now. Steve was… startled and a little taken aback.
“Bucky, you okay? You seem especially… prickly today.”
“Prickly? Since when are you working for the American fucking government, you punk?”
He didn’t answer right away - his specialized training kicked in.
“Who told you?”
Bucky’s grey eyes hardened, adopting a steely gleam. Another thing that wasn’t usually directed at him… until now.
“They took my arm, not my brains, Stevie…”
“No, no… someone must have told you!”
“Oh come on! You’re so deep in this super-secret shit you’ve forgotten who you’re talking to!” Bucky… no, Sargent Barnes pulls the door open so hard it hits the clothes rack that stands between it and the apartment wall. “What else have you been making up, punk?”
And again Steve doesn’t answer right away. He’s too busy taking his best friend in: T-shirt, old jeans ripped at the knees, bare feet, hair pulled into a messy bun, angry eyes boring into him from under dark tresses…
“Um… maybe you’ll let me in first?”
“Oh, I don’t think so…”
A new voice joins them, one that makes Steve’s blood run cold.
“Впусти его уже, Джейми… (Let him in already, Jamie…) Он же будет говорить все что угодно, кроме того что ты от него действительно ждешь, прямо из коридора. (He is going to say anything, but the things you really want to hear straight from the walkway.)”
“Ja ob etom ne pojaleyu? (I won’t regret it later?)” Bucky’s Russian was flawless, if slightly accented.
“Нет, я уже поставил чай. (No, I’ve already set up tea.)”
“Oh, tea is serious shit... Come in, Stevie, but if I hear one disrespectful word out of you in this house I’ll put you through a wall.”
Soon they’re sitting in Bucky’s kitchen, staring into their respective cups. The awkwardness filled the small space like cigarette smoke, and Steve suddenly felt every inch that sickly five-foot-nothing Brooklyn boy, who regularly got beaten up in local allies by hooligans… he felt like his old foe, the chronical asthmatic disease, was back… and Arseniy, the red-headed devil, watched him from across the table, like a cat watching his prey. Bucky sighed and pushed a plate of biscuits his way. Earned him a small warm smile…
“I’m not going to eat him, Wolfie.”
“One could only hope! And don’t call me Wolfie, Kitty Cat.”
“… you know each other? How? When?!”
Their story turned out to be a true murder mystery with terrorist hide-outs, secret identities, bloodbaths in Afghani caves… a soldier romance.
Bucky was a NAVY SEAL before the Incident that cost him his arm, did tours to Afghanistan on a regular basis and during one of those tours he met Arseniy: first in a mountain cave when the Russian was casually executing his own escape while cutting through the local population of bandits, then a few years later in a bar in Kabul…
Despite it being love at first sight for both of them (the raging competence kink being the perfect match-maker, really), it started rocky: first the language barrier made them a disservice, then Bucky’s army service, then they learned how fucking complicated a long distance relationship can be, then Bucky lost his arm and broke it off altogether, thinking Arseniy wouldn’t want him as a cripple. The Russian, furious, cursed him seven ways to Sunday and broke it off from his side too. The next time they see each other is in Stark's lobby… and both realize how miserable they had been apart. So Arseniy moved in, and all the trashy alcohol Bucky tried drowning himself in moved out.
"But tell me this, Stevie, since when do you appreciate the fairest sex?" asked Bucky in that deceptively calm voice that spelled trouble. "As far as I know you're as blue as the deep blue sea…"
"Actually, I think I might be bi… "
"Well, isn't that nice… so that affair with Stark: how much truth was in it?"
"He is easy to like… and I really didn't wish him any harm."
And it was true. Tony was very easy to like, despite the annoying devil may care attitude towards his life, just enough to be able to find him attractive enough to sleep with (and Tony was glorious in bed)… and he would have been an absolutely shitty agent if he completely missed those convenient little tells the billionaire had…
Bucky… no, still Sargent Barnes saw right through him:
"But not enough to stop him from self-destructing, apparently… so what’s your next step? You came here for a reason."
“I… was thinking about apologizing too.”
Barnes knew his friend for so long they were considered brothers in all but blood, so the somewhat childish phrasing didn’t surprise him. Senya wasn’t Steve’s anything, though.
“If you go to their house in the next two-three days, you will die. I am not threatening you. It is a simple fact. You terrorized, possibly, the two of the world’s most dangerous people into constant vigilance… and while Mister Stark would, most likely, just try to scare you away, Yakov Igorevich was trained to react differently.”
“…differently?”
“He is not a killer. He can kill, yes, quite creatively at that, but we are all protectors in our core. We are ready to shield our comrade from a grenade using our body if needed every time we go on a mission. The same goes for innocent civilians and children, should they find themselves in the middle… " Arseniy smirks. "Солдат ребёнка не обидит! (A soldier doesn't wage war on children!)"
"What are you saying… that he will protect Tony no matter the cost?"
"Yakov Igorevich is a wise man. He doesn't care about the turned pages of those who are on his team, nor does he care about his lover's past, but if said past starts causing problems… he tears out the page."
"..."
"Before Mister Stark the lovers Yakov Igorevich had were for status. Mister Stark is… different. It started with money, but it was never about it."
"He loves that pompous ass, jerk. But right now, you're square out of brownie points with them both, so if you don't want your ass handed to you on a platter, stick with sending them a postcard."

25.
A man in a black suit walks into a bar.
He gives the evening’s patrons an unreadable once over, pausing for a fraction of a heartbeat on the section with the pool table where a bunch of bikers were having a blast, claims one of the bar stools…and orders a White Russian.
Sam Wilson, the resident night time barman, takes one look at him and it’s enough to start wondering: is the place he’s working at for some extra cash insured or not? But the man in the black suit raises a slow questioning eyebrow, and he scrambles for the shelves holding the liquor picking out the necessary ingredients for the cocktail… hasty, like his life depended on it…
He’s mixing the vodka with the coffee liquor in an Old Fashioned glass when he hears the bell over the door ding in greeting yet again. A quick glance up tells him it’s just Bradley and, predictably, he’s not alone, but with a new two-night-maybe-three-if-he‘s-good-stand hanging dreamily off his arm… short, lithe, pretty as a peach…honey-brown eyes sparkle under dark curls… the same type every time…
The man in the black suit snaps his fingers in front of his nose, breaking the spell:
“Forget the cream and double the vodka.”
Sam stills, the cream filled bottle millimeters away from the glass edge, gives the cocktail he’s brewing a haunted look (a White Russian for… a white Russian? really?) and whispers:
“Man, I don’t know what’s your angle in this, but don’t do it… there are a lot of innocent people here who just came here to have an after work drink and share some gossip… no one has to die…”
The man reaches out, takes the glass and the vodka bottle from his side of the bar and calmly fixes his drink of choice himself.
“You mistake me for a serial shooter, Mister…”
“Wilson. Sam Wilson.”
“…Mister Wilson,” a sip from the glass, and Sam gets a glimpse of a strong jawline, high cheek bones and ice-cold eyes hiding under longish bangs. “No gun, rest assured.”
“… somehow I don’t think this would be a problem…”
“The line separating the healthy pessimism from the unhealthy, Mister Wilson, is very thin.”
“Oh, God…”
“Do not call the police. An absolutely useless feat…”
The drink is gone in two seconds flat and Sam is left with an empty Old Fashioned and a blossoming pre-heart attack anxiety syndrome, when the Russian in the black suite casually slides off the bar stool and with a slight pleasantly buzzed sway to his stride (fake!) makes a beeline towards the exit…
Sam thought that he’s going to bump into Bradley and all hell would brake lose, but no. It is Bradley who notices the guy’s tie pin (a red star enclosed in bay leaves on silver) and decides to impress his date with his college degree level smarts and makes a stereotypical Russia related joke:
“Na zdorovya, tovarish! (You’re welcome, comrade!)”
The Russian’s reaction is instantaneous.
“Тамбовский волк тебе товарищ… (Wolves of Tambov are your comrades…)” comes out in a low, surprisingly menacing growl, and then the man in the black suit clocks Bradley square in the face.
It happened so fast that his doe-eyed date was left standing there, with a deer in head-lights expression. The appreciative whistling and cry outs coming from the group of bikers at the pool table make him jump, large hands landing on his shirt clad shoulders elicit a startled squeak…
Bradley is moaning in pain on the floor, painting his hands red with the blood from his broken nose and busted mouth, when the Russian steps over him like he’s a log or a sack of carrots and says:
“I am so very sorry for ruining your evening, but this man is really not the one you would want to spend it with…” his voice is still a low grumble, but when talking to the obviously scared young man it acquires a certain softness to it.
“W-why?”
“He is not a very good man.”
“… and I should trust you on this?! I’m a…”
“… law student, yes? Grand future ahead of you… why waste it on this scum?”
The young man is shocked into silence. The situation he found himself in is crazy, his thoughts are jumbled, waging war on each other, and this unknown man… the simplicity of his words strike a chord deep within. The Russian gives his shoulders one last reassuring squeeze and let’s go, taking a measured step back as if drawing the line between the innocent and the guilty. Now he is a beast on the prowl.
“Twenty three years is a long time, but… I am sure we can, as you say, make it work, yes?” a leg in a heavy army issue boot connected with Bradley lower back and judging by the pained yowl that brought out the Russian didn’t pull his kicks. “Antosha would not approve of such childish behavior, but what he doesn’t know would not hurt him too much, eh? And you nearly broke my sunshine in half… unacceptable.”
“What are you talking about, man?” rasped out Bradley, shuddering at the promises left unsaid behind that last unacceptable. “I don’t even know you… or your Antosha…”
That earned him another kick to the kidneys before he was roughly hauled up by the scruff and suddenly… they were face to face.
The contrast is jarring. Where the Russian resembles a statue carved out of a solid granite slab, not unlike those soviet soldiers at Russian WWII memorials, a picture of silent wrath, dressed in black, Bradley with his bloody nose and mouth, pale, pained and shaking didn’t look like a bad guy at all. If anything he looks like a victim. The next phrase Sam hears, though, makes at least two people in the room flinch…
“Then why does every man you bedded for the last several years look like him?” the Russian smiles, staring Brad straight in the eye, and it is positively wolfish. "The past is a contagious thing - doesn't let go no matter what you do. Now tell me, ублюдок (bastard), what or rather who inspired you to blackmail Tony Stark with that video tape?"
Sam's eyes go owlish wide, as the puzzle pieces fall into place. Tony Stark was the media's favorite chew toy for decades - the man was a walking talking scandal and no one really tried to understand why he behaved the way he did - the world just reveled in his suffering. Maybe, it was the PTSD counselor in him talking, but once he started thinking in this direction, the train just wouldn't stop...
Brad goes deathly pale. He is so scared that you can practically smell it, and when he shoots a panicked glance over the Russian's shoulder where his partner in crime… o, sorry, future lawyer is standing Sam understands that whatever was their initial plan Bonny and Clyde were in it together.
The Russian doesn't kill them. Just breaks about a quarter of the bones in Bradley's body and makes his law school boyfriend watch. The rest of the people in the bar, including, oddly, the bikers, end up being hostages of the situation, but no one tries to stop the man, because each and every one of them has the time to ask oneself what would have I done if I were in his shoes? The answers vary.
It's up to Sam to call the ambulance in the end. When he is asked by the paramedics what in the heavens happened, he lies about Brad getting into a car accident. The lawyer kid reduced to a sobbing crushed mess nodded along. Later the night barman asked him:
"What were you thinking? Honestly, that's just fucked up!"
The answer shocks him. They were in the middle of their pre-wedding planning phase, when Bradley stumbled upon an old college sex-tape… a beautiful wedding at someone else's expense - what could be better?

26. Epilogue
Part of the journey is the end, and Tony’s journey ended in Russia, a land of great distances, unique culture and… contrasts. Lots of contrasts. Some he understood, some were plain fascinating and others you needed to be born here to aprechiate.
He saw busted roads… and breath-taking nature. They drove through small villages with houses that, probably, remember the tzar… and into Novosibirsk, a high-tech industrial megapolis, raised from the ground up in the middle of Siberian nowhere. The bridge alone made Tony wax poetic about the engineering involved.
Yakov smiled that enigmatic half-smile of his and said:
"My brother was among those people who made this into more than an absentminded paper sketch."
"Really?" only the seat belt held Tony back from hitting his head on the jeep's roof in enthusiasm. "That's awesome! What did he do?"
"The frame, if I am not mistaken. And he roped me into helping with the cable support system… had to dust off that science degree of mine to offer him true professional advice."
"Oh, you poor thing…"
"You say that, my sunshine, but it was indeed quite excruciating catching up with the modern trends in industrial metalwork. But the bridge stands! So we must have done something right. Father was very proud."
"I bet! It's epic!" then something occurred to him. "Hold on a minute… you said father?"
"Yes."
"He is alive?"
"Of course."
"And we are going to meet with him?"
"Most certainly."
And Tony deflates like an old weather balloon. He isn't ready to meet the parents. Isn't even sure if he will ever be ready, but running is no longer an option.
Yakov watches him from the corner of his eye carefully. In other circumstances, in other relationships such behavior would have been disrespectful and the words openly offensive, but during the time spent with the genius he understood one simple thing - Tony's mind was as brilliant as it was, because it worked according to a set of different laws. He'd seen him fume over company contracts one morning (Miss Pepper, always a pleasure) when something in the name of his least favorite board member triggered to life an entire sequence of ideas which led to a three day engineering binge. Out of the blue questions? A normality of their lives by now.
"He doesn't speak English, Antosha. And the only relatively gossipy newspaper he could have read about us in is Комсомольская правда."
"You sound reassuring, but I don't get why."
"They love their scandals, but keep it mild enough to not shock their nation wide audience straight into cardiac arrest."
"So you're not my (Tony makes quote signs with his fingers) 'hot Russian lover' here."
"No. I might be a 'family friend', or I might not be in the picture at all."
"Huh…" Tony straightens up a bit. "But he knows about us, right?"
Yakov nods slowly before answering:
"I told him I met someone. And that he is remarkable. Actually I told him this when I got home from Warsaw… in 1992."
"Oh!"
"Now I told him I met that remarkable person again."
"In a tight spot you are putting me, Snowflake. Now I have to hold it together to not fall face first in the dirt…"
"This is not a test, dusha moya. My parents gave up on the idea of seeing any grandchildren from me a long time ago. I and my father are alike in many ways, but there is one character trait in us that puts the other ones to shame…"
"Let me guess, the possessiveness?"
Yakov laughs quietly, and it is a sound so intimate it sends shivers of pleasure down his spine.
"No, but it is a close second…" the Russian turns a bit more serious. "We, my sunshine, are boringly monogamous. So if he shames me for my choice, he would be shaming himself for his."
What an interesting relationship they have, thinks Tony, before showing his active disapproval:
"…boringly? There's nothing boring about you, darling. You're the most un-boring person I ever met. Maybe I should have said 'next to Rhodey-bear', but how can you compare a bird and a plane? It's just plain stupid - you're different people… hell, speaking of which, sometimes I feel like the dull duckling around you two!"
"Tosha, Tosha…"
"What? I've had stable, semi-stable, stable unstable… the thing we managed to create is so unusual that even Cosmopolitan hasn't got a clue!"
Yasha is laughing again.
"...Cosmopolitan, really?"
"I'm a numbers man, beautiful! And a man in turmoil needs his statistics and his facts. The absence of data makes me itchy…"
They drive through Novosibirsk at a leisurely pace, admiring the sights. Contrary to popular belief, there are sights to see.
His Soldier also has a flat here, a relic of his independent post-Afghanistan days. It's a small two-room bachelor pad in an old four-story building, where one room poses as a living room, and the other, which is just a little bigger than a shoe box, poses for a bedroom. The locals call such apartments hrushyovka, and Jarvis had to organize a small trip down history lane for Tony to explain why.
It would seem that after the Second World War the country was in deep crisis. Plainly put, the regular Joe didn’t have a place to rest his head after work! And people were cramped into communal flats all over the country. So when Joseph Stalin dies and Nikita Khrushev replaces him at the helm, one of the promises he makes to the people is to give every family its own living space. The funny part, though, was that he kept his word. The housing was low-cost, functional, the construction process - fast… and the houses still stood, which meant one thing: quality. But moving back to his Soldier’s flat…
There is also a kitchen the size of Tony’s closet, a bathroom (very soviet, in ways that make possible the impossible and whomever built it managed to cram into the small space a full size tub, not the smallest sink, some cabinets with mirror doors over it, a toilet, a snake like towel dryer on the wall, a God forsaken washing machine and… two ropes for drying the freshly washed over the tub - Tony, when he shook off the initial shock, found himself suitably impressed because after everything there was even some free space left to twirl in front of the mirror) and a match box sized balcony… also with ropes for drying things on.
"Claustrophobic much?"
He can hear Yakov bark out a laugh; the man is by the front door, locking up and shaking off his leather jacket.
"Better than living in a dorm with four other people - when someone steals someone's monthly scholarship pay, it's always a three against one. Difficult times."
"And here I thought living with Rhodey was a hazard back in college…"
"They did it to me once too. When I hanged their leader out to dry from the fifth story window, the guys reasoned that life is given to you only once and therefore more precious than rubles."
"You earned a reputation, eh?"
"I was notorious."
Thrilled by the interior design of the bathroom, Tony took a peek inside the other room that wasn't the living room (that one had a classic set up of couch, armchair, TV…), expecting to see something pretty much similar… and ending up being proved wrong. Well, as far as bedrooms went it was underequipped, if not bare, but what caught Tony's attention and held it was the old, well-used wooden mannequin in the corner.
"Kung-Fu, Yasha?" but he should have guessed, after his 'iron jacket' display in that bunker. The man soon joined him, having taken care of their few handbags of luggage.
"A variety, actually. When you are built like a bear, people expect you to move like a bear too… always good to surprise them."
"So you learned martial arts to be, what, faster?"
"Among other things," Yakov shrugged. "The Army already taught me how to kill - what they did not teach me is how to relax back into the life where no killing is necessary."
"So you had to teach yourself…" mumbled Tony, drawing some parallels of his own, because he too had to teach himself to… focus. Yes, Tony Stark had trouble with focus, if you would believe it, because before he mostly went with the flow… now, when he closed the weapons division and put accountability into the company policy, the billionaire had to keep tabs on the international market, well, almost constantly!
Yakov gives him a grim nod.
"Yes. Otherwise there would have been a plus one ruthless hitman let loose in the world…"
And he would excel at it, Tony just knows. He could also imagine him ghosting around with his trusty Dragunov sniper rifle, taking lives, and maybe someday one Tony Stark would end up on hit list too.
“God, I’m glad you’re not a hitman…”
“Oh?”
“I couldn’t possibly charm my way out of an assassination if my would-be-killer is two kilometers away – every aura has its limitations, you know.”
Yakov isn’t so sure. War may have shocked a quarter of his soul into permanent numbness, but it didn’t do much to his sense of humor… and any situation Tony is prone to get himself into has all the chances turning hilarious, crazy and crazy hilarious to the point that it would be a bloody shame to just put a bullet through a mind like that…
He’s also not going to tell his sunshine that. He is pretty damn sure that this strategy just wouldn’t work on anyone else.
***
“You are Howard Stark’s son, yes? I knew him.”
“Only the best, I hope,” but they both knew it wasn’t true. Igor’ Andreevich Zimin, a retired soviet general (but can generals truly retire? The steely gleam in the man’s eyes said otherwise...), didn’t press for details, though. Tony was grateful, because that was a topic he didn’t want to touch with a ten foot pole…
“I won’t ask how you met him – I know my son. But I am very curious about your intentions, Mister Stark…”
“Igor’ Andreevich, we have been together for almost a year now. This is longer than all my past relationships combined. He had seen me at my worst, had seen me at my best, at my everything, really, and he still stayed to take care of me.”
The look Yakov’s father gives him is strange.
“Taking care of a person you love is not a hazard… nor is it a chore.”
Tony hides his wry grin behind a gulp of coffee.
“Not the most conventional childhood, you see.”
For a few minutes they drink in silence. Yakov is somewhere inside, catching up with his brother and mother. Tantalizing aromas of food, both familiar and not, are slowly but surely invading the air – another hour and a half and they’re in for a culinary surprise. The engineer and the head of the Zimin clan retreated to the back yard, where they now lounged on some rattan chairs, savoring their drinks of choice…
Autumn crept inside these lands, bathing local forest landscapes in red and gold… but the green fought back viciously. Tony, thinking now or never, decides to ask nevertheless:
“Igor’ Andreevich… can I ask you something personal?”
“Regarding Yasha?”
“… yeah. How did you… find out?”
The older man barks out a laugh, but it has little humor to it.
“There is this popular joke that there was no sex in the USSR. It is not true. Soviet people had sex, cheated, divorced, killed, abused… so it should not be so surprising that we had gay people too. It wasn’t popularized, but everyone knew, there were places where gay people met and it was quite possible to have a long term relationship of this sort… if you were careful and lucky. You see, Mister Stark, we tried living by the general principle of the soviet ideology: seeing the good inside a man, not what makes him different.”
“… oh.”
“When he told us that he really liked that boy from his class – and it was over dinner, when the entire family was gathered in one place – me and Olechka, his mother, found ourselves in front of this metaphorical tank with nothing, but a hand grenade. Many nights were wasted on pondering what to do, how to approach this, how to simply talk to him about this, until we settled on a conclusion that this doesn’t make our boy anything less… and it wasn’t that he had forsaken girls altogether. But soon the twins were born, followed by Seva… and our boy suddenly turned eighteen.”
“Obligatory military service…” Tony felt his heart sink. Igor’ Andreevich nodded.
“Yes. You can be a general’s son, but if you are all bark and no bite, if you don’t show that you indeed are a general’s son… your peers just won’t respect you. And because he was in the Special Forces, it was just a matter of time before the notion of continuing your service in Afghanistan was brought up. War changed him, but… not like that meeting in Warsaw did,” the expression in the old man’s eyes turns mischievous. “You know, he never did forget… that boy who likes his coffee as black and as thick as tar.”
That sinking heart of Tony’s did an impressive back-flip and was now beating like crazy against the arc reactor casing, because… hold on a second…
“You mean, all these years…”
“You obviously do not know how good of a tactician my son is, do you?”
“Well…” now Tony is fighting the sheepishness, furiously; Mister Zimin answers with a small, good-natural smile and offers him a word of advice:
“Play some chess with him sometimes. You’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
***
“So, Snowflake, I’ve heard some interesting things…”
“Oh?”
“You had a massive crush on me… for years.”
“… yes, I did.”
“So your carrier choices were not so random after all...”
“Are you disappointed?”
“No. Just shocked to the deepest of my core processors and the tiniest bit scared - no one really wanted me this much before…”
Yakov doesn’t say anything at first. He pulls his sunshine closer and buries his nose in the genius’s hair. For something that looks so spikey, it’s surprisingly soft. Tony sneaks a hand around the man’s waist, grabs a fistful of grey T-shirt and holds on.
What a pair they make! Good grief…
“After Chechnya and the conditioning, after Senya rescued me and brought me home, I was… fractured, the edges put together hastily and sewed together with white thread… you, my sunshine, were among the very few things the Soldier and the Assassin agreed upon. They trained me using Stark weapons, you know? When you switched to building rockets it was our little personal tragedy… stop laughing, Antosha, I am very much serious... the logic behind my business choices was simple: if I link my life with weapons, sooner or later, we’ll meet.”
“Are you sensing the irony, sugar? It was my rocket that brought us together in the end…”
“And what would have happened to you if you landed on those cliffs instead?”
“Nah, I calculated that… and my math is never wrong.”
“Of course, it is.”
“Shut up or I’ll bite you.”
They look at each other, icy-blue into honey-brown, and start laughing simultaneously. Yeah, that felt good…
“But twenty years, Yashus’ka! How does that even work?!”
“Must be that mysterious Russian soul everybody is talking about… unexplainable, yes?”
Tony makes his own conclusions, though. They’re stuck together for life and he doesn’t mind… not one bit. He will leave only if his Soldier really asks him to… and the engineer knows the man never will.
***
They celebrate New Year and Christmas with Yakov’s family. The whole family. Yakov’s sisters came to visit, bringing food, their husbands and a flock of grandchildren, who instantly jump their favorite Uncle with joyous squeals.
Tony keeps an eye on his company via a surprisingly stable Internet connection. Moreover, the Internet here is nearly omnipresent – the city is littered with Wi-Fi spots! Tony and Jarvis shamelessly take advantage…
When they return back to the States, there is a post card waiting for him on the coffee table. It’s from Steve. Tony throws it into the trash can without reading.