The transition from one stage of life to the next differs from one man to another, but there seems to be a pattern that we all fall into. There are levels of priorities, of which the lowest is fulfilment of basic necessities. Food, shelter, clothes. When needs are met, wants come next. People start indulging in games, hobbies, keeping dogs… essentially, things that don't quite benefit oneself or the community directly but delightful to dabble with. Even these, at a later point, will become unsatisfying. It's like it's ingrained in the human's psyche – to always innovate, improve. Guess this is what it mean, that annoying little phase called quarter life crisis, or middle life crisis if things were moving a bit too slowly in the beginning. People go crazy. People splurge, do the extraordinary, do the extreme.Like bungee jumping. Or spelunking.
The transition from one stage of civilisation to the next is remarkably similar. Meeting basic necessities was phase one. People scavenge, hunt before eventually went into farming, raising animals and bartering to meet their needs. Then comes the industrial revolution that sees a parallel expansion in the fields of finance, education, entertainment, more. At long last there is research to push at the boundaries.
Tony Stark lives and breathes research. Science, technology, the works.
Tony was born on May 29, 1970, scion to the illustrious visionaries Howard and Maria but not quite with a silver spoon in his mouth or any form of privilege one would expect of anyone bearing the name Stark. Flying cars, super soldier making chambers, things people couldn't even dream of, Howard already had prototypes somewhere in his lab. Hell he was touted to be half the brain behind nuclear bombs. So it wasn't fair to blame anyone from having ridiculously high expectations of the baby even if it hadn't been born yet. They talked, speculated that Howard actually wanted a genius son to carry forward his legacy. If the Starks were aware of the chatters behind their backs then they must've not cared much for them. After the birth, adulation for what the child (a boy!) could be soured into shadowed concerns. Maria loved the child unconditionally but rumours have it that Howard was a deadbeat dad, always absent from home. If he was present, he was a menace. Some of the hired helps swore they heard things smash and the boy bawled while Howard and Maria tore at each other's throat, some time for hours at end.
Perhaps Tony wasn't all that Howard had hoped for? But those who'd taken it unto themselves to track the affairs of the Stark household noted that Tony himself was a gifted child. The boy could talk before he walked and his flair for inventing shone through at the tender age of four when he built his first circuit board. When Tony was actually old enough to receive formal education, Howard sent him off to a boarding school. Tony didn't think he knew how to change his bedsheets yet. But Stark men had iron in their spines.
Tony started fending himself when kids his age were still drinking milk from a bottle.
It was difficult being alone the first few time, having to spread butter on his own bread and wash his own shoes. But then it got easier and actually quite enjoyable. He didn't have to worry about drunk Howard. Dad couldn't beat him up, scold him, threaten him now that he was out of reach. Contrary to what he'd grown up thinking – because Dad said it whenever he was around – he wasn't actually useless. His teachers couldn't stop being amazed at his progress in school and his friends were both envious and astonished of his unique thought process.
The downside about growing up alone was if he was being an asshole nobody was going to call him out of it.
The days of moping around as a victim of child abuse were behind him; Tony Stark was now every bit haughty, narcissistic and flamboyant like Howard was in his younger days. No equations too difficult to solve, his peers he deemed inferior, and rules were bent like water around him to accommodate his working preference. If he needed to code all night for the simulation to run next day, his teachers wouldn't mind him skipping first period Biology. If he needed some serious welding done they'd call in an expert to do it while he watched and learned.
For a while everything was perfect. Until he turned fourteen that is, when his parents were killed in a car crash. There were tears and condolences going around but Tony offered none of those himself. The mourners were an impressive crowd; most of them were pioneers of sub-fields in weapon technology and energy research. They shook Tony's hands, hugged him, some even promised him assistance if the orphaned teen need any. Tony didn't linger after the funeral. He had the family's oldest friend Jarvis handle everything else. Before long the mansion was emptied, furniture all draped in white cloths. Jarvis and Tony bade each other an almost-tearful goodbye. He hadn't spoken to Jarvis since. Tony relocated to Boston and enrolled himself in MIT's undergraduate electrical engineering programme the year after.
Four years later he got out with two master degrees and all the confidence in the world that he would put Howard'smemory in his shadows.
But he was young, inexperienced, and for all the credentials he had he was missing the catalyst for a jackpot – a friend at higher places. There were fellow positions open to him in renowned labs from all over the world but Tony knew he couldn't bring himself tiptoeing lines and working for others. He had to own his own lab. Now he might be jobless and near penniless, but not completely out of luck. One lonely Christmas he called Howard's ex-colleague from the military. By his understanding, a powerful man with many strings to pull, favours to ask. They spoke for a full hour; how are you, what are you doing right now, seeing someone, where are you?
"What do you need, Tony m'boy?"
That was all Tony needed to hear. And by the second week of January 1990, age 20, Tony Stark became Assistant Professor of College of Engineering, Boston University.
hr
"This is not working…"
Tony crumpled the pre-punched A4 paper he was writing on and tossed it over his shoulders where it joined a pool of its predecessors on the floor. Pen and paper had no place in this futuristic office of his, but when it came to grant writing that was a different ball game all together. Equations, modelling, simulations, Tony had them all pat down. Writing?
Put it this way, if only he had more time to spare, he would've made creating an AI that translates thoughts to writings his utmost priority.
"Oh would you look at that, it's two fucking a.m."
Tony had taken to muttering to himself when it got too quiet in the dead of night. The last of his lab's employee had gone home so the silence could be deafening. He would've blasted Black Sabbath on his speakers – like Monday afternoon last month – but the HOD gave him a nice warning letter to either dial down the volume or risk suspension for being a public nuisance. Now that wouldn't be nice would it, but hey, come to think of it that wasn't such a bad idea after all when he thought of his other duties. Teaching duties that is. Rugrats, the lot of them. He could excuse the truancy, screwing around in lectures, even minor plagiarisms for an essay or two. Too much beer over the weekend when an assignment was supposed to be due could do that to you. What he couldn't forgive however was the overemphasis on passing exams just because. Paper qualifications are cool and all, sure, but Tony could never wrap his head around people who'd do stuff just because it was needed of them. The commitment to seeking approvals. Bull-fucking-shit.
There was this kid who didn't bother showing up for a single class and flunked every written test by virtue of not bothering to attend those too but made a wonderful prototype of a hovering skateboard. Then there was another kid whom Tony wouldn't trust with a soldering iron but had fantastic scores for his finals. Tony gave them both an A+. Honestly if he could have it his way, the only assessment needed for an engineer-in-training would be project-based. Naturally before the start of the next semester, he had to justify his grading system and promised to be less eccentric about it.
Tony learned a lesson that day: even if he owned his own lab, he still had bosses to answer to.
"Probably could've earned more bussing tables at Starbucks…"
Which led him back to this issue called grant writing. He didn't get to keep his job owing to his charming personality, no indeed. His patent on the repulsor technology more or less guaranteed a tenure, but at the end of the day it was just a concept and a half-built big-ass prototype. To finish it he would need money, and money comes from stakeholders. If people didn't believe in what he was doing, he might as well cast the ideas in cement and dump it in Charles River.
There was a call for grant from the NIH. When Tony saw the e-mail he jumped in glee and pumped a fist in the air because hallelujah, his lifeline! His pre-existing grants were expiring and his other applications had all been rejected on the grounds of "too risky, we can't fund this". Second lesson learned: if he wanted to win this game he needed to play by its rules. That meant occasionally dumbing down an idea to meet the requirements of the grant committee.
Oh no no, that would not do. If he was going to start playing ball he might as well start now. How about: his research is going to be funded partly by the people of this good country, so the findings of the study should benefit the populace as a whole, and that also means he has the responsibility to study relevant problems suited to the mass' interest, not his per se.
There, that wasn't so bad. Push had come to shove. He needed the money now because otherwise these entail: no students, no staff, no papers, not meeting bottom lines, and the proverbial boot from his academic position. If he needed to divert his interest temporarily he should. He could always carry out his own projects in parallel. Yep, sounds like a plan.
Tony tore and balled the paper before him and tossed it again over his shoulders. Tomorrow would be different, he promised. Tomorrow, a new war.
hr
"Oh shit, shit, shit."
If the first word of the day was a cuss, what does that tell about the general quality of his life? Tony slowly pushed himself up from the couch he installed in the darker corner of his office, right behind a tall bookcase. He had the blinds down so the whole place didn't look like it was late morning as it actually were. But it was Saturday, so there was a slight chance he could get away skulking around the faculty in two-day-old clothes packing a morning breath.
Coffee! His philosopher's stone, his elixir of life. Tony swiped his wallet off his table and stalked out of his office.
From his Casio he learned it was eleven in the morning. So he had roughly six days to go towards the due date for that NIH grant submission. Deciding to save time by skipping lunch, Tony ducked into the cafeteria instead of perusing the vending machine just outside the block. He was walking behind two girls (must be undergraduates) teetering under the weight of what looks like two big boxes of something heavy so Tony graciously sped forward and held the door open for them. He gave them a huge grin but only received a muffled thanks, the boxes blocking their faces.
"Mr Stark?"
When the currently-giggling-totem-poles finally entered the cafeteria Tony now noticed a tall man behind them. He wore an easy smile on his lips and an upright, almost soldierly posture as he regarded Tony from afar. Tony thought he'd seen this person before but couldn't quite place where and when. He shook the hand that was proffered to him.
The man's smile widened. "IMECE, 1998."
Tony almost smacked his forehead. "Steve Rogers. Oh god, I'm so sorry for that."
International Mechanical Engineering Congress and Exposition, or IMECE is the largest interdisciplinary conference of its namesake's field. Organised by the American Society of Mechanical Engineers (ASME) it's the melting pot for stakeholders and partners alike from academia, labs, industry and funding bodies. Tony made it a point to attend it every year, hoping to forge a network with like-minded scientists. Steve was among those he'd traded hello's and name cards with. When he learned that Steve was actually with the Army, he couldn't help but drag the man to an adjacent stand-up bar table and asked quite blatantly why would the Army be interested in a bunch of nerds geeking over their machines?
Tony knew opportunity and leverage when they come a-knocking. This was opportunity. Most of the time he couldn't be bothered seizing it especially if it involved putting himself at the bottom of a new pecking order. This one though was money 'cause he knew how invested the government was in defence research. He'd let Steve know of the patented repulsor technology and for a glorious minute it looked like the talk was actually going somewhere, until Tony admitted it was still in the prototype stage. That conference was the last he'd heard of Steve, until now of course, under a blistering summer sun.
"Care to join me for brunch?" Steve invited. Tony held the door wider and urged the other to go on.
"Glad to."
In between mouthfuls of meatball spaghetti and vegetarian lasagne, Tony furtively studied the sharp features of the man now seated opposite him. He'd better remember it all; the way short stray strands of hair fall carelessly over the fair forehead, his straight, long nose that perched above slightly pale thin lips, and handsome cheekbones that completed the wholesome, all-American look.
"Do I have something on my face?" Steve suddenly asked, catching Tony watching him a second too long. He dabbed a paper napkin at his chin anyway when Tony shook his head slightly. Nope, he was just committing those features to a longer term memory so the next time he walked into Steve Rogers, he wouldn't forget to match that name with this face.
"How's your lab doing?"
"Honestly, not so good. We have some cool ideas to test but we're exhausting our funding for this year. We've submitted a couple of proposals but none made it through the first round of review."
"How come? Too high risk?"
"What they said."
"Mm. How long have you been working here?"
"Nine and a half years. Time flies."
"Tenured?"
"Not if I keep getting trouble securing funding."
Their cups of coffee were delivered and Tony took a moment to thank the waitress and asked how her day was so far. Tony wasn't sure when the rumour started saying that he was an arrogant schmuck but he'd beg to differ. See, he liked to think that he had only utmost respect for people working in the service industry because no one deserved so much deprecation on a job that paid minimal wage.
"What are you doing about it?" Steve finally got to asking as he sipped his steaming hot coffee.
"About what?"
"Securing funding."
"There's a call for grant application from the NIH. I know, it's vastly different from what I'm used to doing. But first I need to modify the repulsor technology, miniaturise it so I can mount it comfortably on another person's body. Then we'll think about translating it into cardiac-related therapies."
"Really? I thought the repulsor tech is pure destructive forces."
"The repulsor tech is pure energy. Think nuclear, but without the radiation issue. We can start with something safe, something rather meat-and-potato, like using it to energise pacemakers. Never gonna need recharge or change of batteries."
Tony blew the steam off his coffee and downed half of it in two gulps. "You seem comfortable talking about these nerdy things. I thought you serve in the Army? Or are you in the academic line already? Is that why I bump into you here on a Saturday morning, of all places?"
"I'm still with the Army. But I'm also involved in talent scouting on their behalf."
"So that's why you attend conferences."
Steve tilted his head in agreement before going back to take a deep sip from his cup.
"Doesn't explain why you're in a friggin' university campus on a Saturday though."
"I just happen to be in the area actually. I got hungry so I stopped by for a bit."
"Sniffing up another lab to collaborate with in the future?" Tony pushed, trying his luck.
"No, this visit is personal."
As Steve inclined forward to chomp onto his spoonful of lasagne something reflected sunlight and glimmered. Tony thought he saw the faint outline of a ring hanging by a thin chain that Steve wore around his neck. If Tony scooted a bit to his left – which he did by pretending he needed that salt shaker – he could also glimpse upon a pair of dog tags half-enveloped by black rubber silencers. The ring peeked into view again from the opening of Steve's collar.
When brunch was done Tony offered to settle the bill as an apology for not recognising Steve just now. Then Tony walked Steve out to a black sedan parked by the curb just outside of the main entrance.
"D'you need a ride somewhere? I've got time," Steve offered, unlocking the car with a beep.
"Nah. Got to get back to writing."
"Is it due soon?"
"In six days."
"Good luck then, Mr Stark."
"Just Tony is fine. We'll catch up later."
Tony stood where he was, watching the rear of the black car shrink as it merged with traffic on the main road. Brunch was fun while it lasted. Tony couldn't dismiss the plunging disappointment in his guts now that Steve gone. If he'd pitched his proposal better maybe he'd have piqued some interest? But after all was said and done, if the Army wasn't interested in the repulsor technology in the first place, they wouldn't bate another eyelash even if he could miniaturise it. And that was a very big if. Damn, even he felt the science was getting a little bit far-fetched for the season.
hr
"This is not working…"
It was eleven at night and Tony found himself hunched over chicken scratches on his pre-punched A4 notepad, like many other nights before this. He scrunched his eyes and stretched his arms as far as they could go. By dinner he still couldn't reconcile the weakest link of his plan of action; to qualify for the NIH grant he would need to prove that the mini-repulsor tech was already up and running, which was more of a work of fiction than truth. And if the repulsor tech was still the size of a shoe rack, how could he convince people that sticking it to their chest would be good for their pacemakers?
This would be the part where he groan in frustration, wonder why he voluntarily subject himself to shit like this when all he wanted to do was science, and where was that research assistant again because he really needed to scream at someone.
"Professor?"
"Ow dammit!"
Tony jumped, knocked his elbow gloriously against the side of his hair at that very spot that sent a shot of agony it practically numbed half of his body. That effectively reduced him to a mewing mess rocking in his seat, forehead as crumpled as the paper sheets on the floor behind him.
"I'm so sorry! I knocked twice but you didn't answer so –"
"It's fine, don't worry about it," Tony replied impatiently as he waved his hand (the one that didn't feel like it had just been administered LA) flippantly. "What is it?"
"Uh, I'm leaving now, so I'll see you again on Monday?"
"Yeah, sure. By the way, how was the simulation for that flapping wing you designed?"
James Simpson was a talented post-graduate student who dressed simply and spoke bluntly but showcased impressive intellectual finesse, a quality that was getting scarcer by the day. His passion for science came in equal portion as his obstinacy's which more often than not culminated into a screaming fest between superior and subordinate behind the privacy of this office's closed door.
Tonight's impromptu discussion was short and direct. Simpson left the block fifteen minutes later, leaving Tony to nurse his half-written notepad. When the first paragraph didn't look like legible words anymore Tony took the hint that he was done for the day.
pr
Kent Street at midnight was like a no man's land. Knowing perfectly well that no HODs were going to dish him a red card for playing his music too loudly he did exactly that, AC/DC blasting through the car's stereo. As he took the right hand turn, passing by a row of single-storeyed shops the boom boom boom of the bass somehow died in his ears when he picked up the familiar wholesome, all-American profile of Steve Rogers, whose silhouette had just disappeared behind a heavily tinted glass door that was flanked by bouncers twice his size.
What Steve was doing here was none of his business and it just wasn't his MO to snoop around people's privacy but Tony just threw caution to the wind and rolled his car to a stop at an empty spot on the opposite side of the road.
The bouncers didn't stop him from entering so he marched forward with faked gusto like he'd done this many times before. But once inside he was hopelessly lost; the disco music was too loud, the disco lights were too glaring, the disco everything was honestly, too damn distracting. There was however no Steve in sight. He craned his neck further, this time surveying the back of the dancing floor when a young man with multiple ear piercings and dirty blonde hair tapped on his shoulders.
"Hey sexy! Looking for someone?"
Right.
"I'm looking for a guy, he's a friend of mine…"
"You're gonna have to be more specific, buddy."
Tony clicked his tongue impatiently and started looking around him again. Now that the music had ended and the crowd on the dancing floor began to thin out, it was easier to notice things. Like the pair of muscular hunks who were clearly invading each other's personal place? And that other pair of dudes that were staring at each other so intensely with their hands intertwined between them? Or that other pair who were currently canoodling the heck out of each other beside that potted plant?
This was a gay bar? Tony felt steam coming out of his head.
"Uh, this tall," he raised a hand to about two inches above his head, "blonde, handsome. His name is Steve. I just saw him walk through the door seconds ago."
"Yeah, I know Steve," the guy drawled, scratching the sparse stubbles on his chin. "But what's that got to do with ya?"
"Look, Steve is actually dating my sister." Smooth, Tony. Keep talking like that and the game is in the bag. "I don't know what he's doing here – no offense, looks like a pretty awesome place – but big bro has to watch out for lil sis, you know what I mean?"
The guy seemed to consider Tony's words. He took one long, obvious sweep from the top of Tony's head to the tip of his running shoes, sizing him up.
"Well, too bad, I don't speak to no one but customers. Have a good day."
"No no, wait!"
Tony seized him by the elbow, halting him from taking another step towards the door.
"OK, customers, right?"
"No one but customers."
"OK. I understand. Uh, how about," Tony fished out his wallet and sifted through a couple of notes, "A hundred dollars, and you tell me all you know about Steve."
"For this price, baby? I can do more." The man started leaning in and Tony's throat constricted. He turned instinctively to the door but an arm shot past him, crossing his path.
"Whoa! OK, buddy! I'm not paying you to do anything, OK? I just want some information."
"I'm not passing up a sweet piece of white ass when it comes rolling into my turf first."
Tony could feel his brain melt and ooze out of his ears. He backed up further into the wall and swallowed thickly. "All right. What you gonna do?"
"I can blow you to next Sunday."
He steered Tony into a small room just around the corner and locked the door behind him. The din from the main area now a mere echo and Tony gulped, seriously regretting coming into this stupid establishment in the first place. The man's leering face inched closer that Tony promptly turned away in shock. He seized the opening, latched onto the side of Tony's neck, suckling at the jugular that was already pounding in mild panic. The lewd licks alternated with more suckling and Tony hoped that wasn't going to leave marks because he hated wearing turtlenecks to work. When cold, dank air hit his chest Tony was mildly aware that the man had deftly popped the first three buttons on his dress shirt. His large hand splayed against Tony's chest.
He laughed darkly. "Nice tat, buddy."
Tony took several shaky breaths. That was worse than having a hungry Labrador tasting his neck like prime sirloin steak. The man's cold hand slipped past the side of his shirt that was now hanging loosely, resting directly over his heart, over a tattoo in the shape of a perfect circle with a triangle within it. He got it back when he was still in MIT inebriated to the point of near alcohol poisoning. Those degenerates he used to hang out with dared him to get his chest inked and Tony, desperate to keep his companions around didn't feel like wussing out.
"Oh, calm down your palpitating heart."
"Stop touching –"
A callous thumb circled his left areola, a gentle motion, before it brushed over the tip of his nipple. That contact was immediately gone and Tony only realised he'd socked the guy square in the jaws. He rubbed at the sore spot gingerly, all the while glaring at the scientist like a starving hyena.
"You're lucky I like my meat feisty."
He came in again, his mouth hovering ridiculously close to Tony's.
"You're doing this for Steve, remember?"
Then he kissed Tony hard, teeth on teeth, and his hand resumed fondling the exposed chest. Tony didn't resist, and when a cruel hand squeezed the sides of his jaw, he relented; his lips parted and the man took full advantage of it, swirling his tongue around the warm cavern. When they broke off, a string of saliva between them, the man smirked and quipped almost breathlessly, "That wasn't so bad, was it?"
"Fuck you."
"Heh, pleasant as it sound," Tony felt a tugging around his waistband and realised his belt was being unbuckled. "I've something else in mind right now."
He groped the front of Tony's crotch. The scientist bucked against it, dull pleasure rising from the centre of his gut. Oh God he hadn't exactly the occasion to "ease himself" so if he couldn't be more crass he'd say his "package" is chock-full of little soldiers waiting for the D-day drop.
When the guy got to his knee and took Tony in whole…
There's got to be a good reason why he wasn't gutting the prick and busting himself out right now. One stupid reason – just one fucking reason why he had a man caressing his balls, loving his dick with a tongue so agile it alternated between kissing and sucking the tip to pumping the length of it. The sensation was mind-blowing and Tony found himself softly gasping for breaths as the all-familiar tension wound tighter inside him.
"Stop… stop, please."
"Hmm?"
The vibration of the man's cheeks against his sensitive flesh pushed him further to the edge. Tony's head thudded resoundingly against the wall as he leaned back.
"I'm close," he managed to choke out. So close indeed, he had to take measured gulps of air to pace himself. Shit shit shit…
"Then don't hold back, baby."
It could be the way he growled that foul bit of encouragement, or the way he grabbed Tony's ass, or the way he sucked, or even a combination of all, Tony didn't know as a torrent of sheer pleasure shot through him like electricity. He thrusted his hips deeper into the waiting mouth, loading it with all he got as he rode the waves of the aftermath. The man held him fast by the waist, kept him upright against the wall.
When Tony felt like he wasn't imploding anymore, he quickly pulled his pants up and fastened the belt around him, his face flushed with shame.
"You certainly didn't hold back," the man chuckled, flicking a stray dribble of cum from his chin. "That was quite a show."
"Shut up. Not a word, you hear me?"
He held both hands in the air, resting his case.
"Steve. Why is he here and who is he meeting."
"Why he's here is pretty obvious, don't you think? I mean, people don't come here just to play pools. As for who he's meeting, it's got to be Bucky. Well, when he was still Bucky, if you know what I mean." Tony shook his head lamely, and the man sighed. "Strippers don't go around with their real name. Bucky is a stage name."
"What's his real name?"
"James Barnes. But he quit this place several months ago. Just left without a note. Guess Steve didn't get it either because he's been dropping by, asking around, but mostly waiting."
Tony knew opportunity and leverage when they come a-knocking. This one was leverage, and he sure as hell ain't letting it go.