A/N: This takes place pre-Civil War, around the time of Age of Ultron.

Pavlov's Bell

Justin drummed his fingers against the wooden top of the bar and snuck a glance across the room at Tony. He was holding court, his admirers leaning closer just so that they could breathe in the very air that Tony Stark exhaled. It was despicable, pathetic, demeaning; it was everything that Justin wanted to be. If Tony would let him close, Justin would pant after him like a dog after a bone.

He grimaced, tore his gaze away, and focused on the bartender. She was pretty; spikey blonde hair, big blue eyes, and a no-nonsense attitude. She was the sort to shove a man onto her bed and ride him until he couldn't breathe, hard and desperate and wanting. Fuck, Justin wanted that, wanted someone to pin him down and look at him with warm brown eyes and tell him he was scum and slap him across the face and ignore his cock until Justin was begging for a touch. He wanted someone to trace his cheekbones with the pad of their thumb and kiss him gently and whisper 'you're perfect, I forgive you' when Justin cried.

Fuck.

"Scotch," he said when the bartender turned his way. "Neat."

"Sure thing."

Tony's laugh was unmistakable, loud and brash and sexy. Justin took the scotch, sipped more than was decent, and tried to resist the urge to look over. He'd told himself he wasn't going to do this, he wasn't going to be that fool, but fuck—he looked.

Justin almost wished he hadn't. Tony was smiling at something one of his friends had said. A true friend, not a fan, because Steve Rogers was unmistakable and not the type to fawn over anyone, let alone Tony Stark. Their heads were close together, like conspirators, or lovers. Jealously suited Justin ill, but it reared its ugly head nonetheless. Life was unfair.

Rogers was blonde—so was Justin. Roger was built—but Just didn't do too badly for his age. Rogers was smiling—but somehow Justin knew it wouldn't matter if he went over and smiled at Tony. Tony would still spit an insult in his face and he'd be grinning that awful false smile of his all the while.

Yeah, so maybe Justin had fucked up. More than fucked up, in truth. There'd been that whole expo debacle and he'd done his time, five years in prison. He'd avoided the gangs, managed to buy out enough guards to ensure he'd not been raped, and had come back to find his company in ruins, but salvageable, for a given meaning of the word.

Tony laughed again and Justin closed his eyes, leaning against the bar.

"He's a heartbreaker."

Justin flinched. The bartender was standing before him, arms crossed, glaring at Tony. Up close, she was even smaller than he'd realised, a pixie with the heart of a tiger.

"Don't waste time pining over that dickbag. He's just split with Pepper Potts, anyway. Everyone knows he's a playboy at heart. Lusting after Tony Stark is useless."

Perhaps she'd not recognised him. Perhaps she had. Either way, her advice didn't help.

"Thanks for the kind words of wisdom," Justin lied. "Fancy being the rebound?"

Tiger Pixie scoffed.

"Yeah, right. I'm gayer than a fairy topping a Christmas tree."

Justin checked her out again. Shame, really. He swung both ways. Pity sex was still sex.

"How do you know he split with Potts?"

"TMZ, duh."

Duh. Of course. He grinned at her.

"Duh," he repeated.

"Shut your mouth, old man."

"Actually, I think the only people still saying 'duh' are the old ones."

"Whatever, Trevor. Drink up and order another, those dregs are looking lonely."

Justin did as he was told.

"Pour yourself one, too," he said, sliding his card across the bartop.

"Did you not hear what I just said?" Tiger Pixie narrowed her eyes. "I dig cunts, not cocks."

"I heard," Justin said. "But you're better company than the vultures beyond. So, cheers to cunts and cocks alike."

Tiger Pixie considered him, chewing on her lip.

"Fine. But if you come up with some bullshit line about trying to fuck me straight, I'll fuck you up."

Justin didn't doubt it. He accepted his second drink and scooted onto a barstool, angled so that he could talk to Tiger Pixie and watch Tony at the same time. Black Widow approached Tony, flipping her hair over one shoulder. She clocked Justin, arched a brow, smirked, then dismissed him. Brutal, but fair.

"Now that's a woman I'd die for," Tiger Pixie confessed.

Black Widow was a woman that many men had died for and at the hand of. Despite his best efforts, Justin only knew her commercial name, 'Natasha Romanoff'. Bullshit. She was a cold-hearted bitch whose only priority was herself, not that Justin could blame her. If Romanoff had allowed that name to be released to the internet then she had another handful of aliases hidden away, none of them legitimate.

"She'd as soon kill as fuck you," Justin decided.

"Yeah, I'm okay with that."

Justin knew how that felt. He drank the scotch. It was good. Tony was waving a glass in the air, also scotch, because Tony drank little else. It was nice to think that if Justin kissed Tony right now, their mouths would taste the same.

Tiger Pixie whistled beside him. "You are fucked." Justin chose to ignore her.

Once, Tony looked their way. His gaze moved on in an instant and Justin wondered if he'd become forgettable. That thought was devastating. It burned the same fever inside him that had compelled him to break Ivan out of prison and attempt to fuck Tony's expo over all those years ago.

But no, he was done with that shit. Prison had put him on the straight and narrow, as much as he'd ever been straight. Dodgy dealings were the last thing he was interested in. He'd moved on, he'd matured, he'd fucking got himself a conscience and some self-respect.

No amount of self-respect saved him from gasping when he received a text to his private cell from an unknown number.

Room 413 — Stark

It was a prank. It had to be. Justin finished his scotch.

"Top it up, please," he said to Tiger Pixie. She raised a brow.

"Uh huh," she said. "Sure, okay."

When he looked back, another drink in his hand, Tony was gone. Justin swallowed, heart racing. What if Tony wanted to get even? What if Tony wanted to mock him and all of his failures? What if Tony wanted something more?

Justin put that thought from his mind, as much as he wanted to cling to it. He wasn't a fucking idiot, although sometimes he wished he was. Tony wasn't an idiot either. He didn't want Justin, not the way that Justin wanted him. Tony wanted someone that wanted him, that panted after him, that made him feel good, someone that Tony wasn't attached to. Potts had dumped him, but they'd be back together at some point in the future, no doubt.

Justin was just a rebound fuck. Someone who would stroke Tony's ego and moan around his cock.

It didn't matter. Justin finished his drink and got in the elevator, palms sweaty, nervous and scared and aware he'd regret it in the morning. Fuck.

Whatever scraps Tony gave him, Justin would eat them from the floor.