AN: So, this is my contribution for the Suits 100 challenge. My prompt was 'Suits/Marvel' and I really went overboard with the whole thing (/.\) This is the first of three chapters, of which the first two are already finished and the last is still lacking 5k words at least. The whole thing has around 30k words.
If you expect timelines that match up or scientific accuracy, then you´re gonna be disappointed, because this fic has none of it. I made everything up so that it would work with my plot \(^.^)/ also, English isn´t my native tongue; so there´s that...
Stark Manor, New York
Tony didn't like the people around him.
Everywhere he looked, the usually silent Stark Manor was occupied by people, holding food in one hand and drinks in the other, talking animatedly and laughing too loud and too forced. On the right side of the garden three white tents stood in which the cooks his father had hired especially for this occasion prepared the countless delicacies those people were probably unable to afford otherwise. Tony couldn't take one step without any of the adults trying to talk to him ('He looks like his father!', 'My son´s six, too!', 'What toys do you like?').
But the adults weren't even the worst! No, on the left side of the garden was a big bouncy castle and within it so many children that it made Tony anxious just looking at them. They were laughing loudly, tussling with each other and generally seemed to have fun. Tony supposed that the bouncy castle wasn't that bad ('Stark men behave with dignity. I won´t have you make a fool of yourself.').
He didn't even know why his father had insisted on inviting several dozens of Stark Industries employees to an afternoon of festivities at Stark Manor. His father hated strangers being on the manor´s grounds. And it was already the third time that he had done it!
"Ah, Master Tony." Tony turned around to see Jarvis standing behind him, looking down on him with a small smile on his face. "Are you having fun?"
"Yeah," Tony lied. Jarvis frowned, obviously having caught on Tony´s lie.
"Well," he started. "One of the grills has broken down and we need a screwdriver to fix it. But, alas, there seems to be none around. Could you run to my rooms and get one?" Tony knew for a fact that Jarvis always had some tools in his jacket (how all these things fit into there was still a puzzle to him; he tipped on a pocket universe, but he had to run a few tests first), but he was too relieved that the butler had given him an out of this party for which his father couldn't even fault him for, so he just nodded enthusiastically.
"I´ll get you one!" he exclaimed and then he was already running towards the manor. He slowed down his steps when he walked through its doors ('Running is undignified. Stark men behave with dignity.'). Thankfully, there was no one inside as his father had not gone so far as to allow any of the guests inside. The portrays of his ancestors bore down on him with their gazes (as far as Tony was aware it had been his father who had made SI the success it was today, so where these portrays had come from was another mystery that boggled his young mind), forcing some kind of invisible pressure on his shoulders. Tony always felt small and insignificant under the stares of all those men (and a few women), which is why he avoided the entrance hall as much as he could.
Jarvis private quarters were on the other side of the mansion, second floor, so Tony took the stairs and gleefully slid over the freshly waxed floor. He nearly fell over, though, when he heard voices talking.
"It´s such an honour to see this mansion from the inside," a voice Tony didn't recognise spoke.
"It´s nothing," another voice – his father! – replied. Carefully, Tony edged closer to the corner from which the voices came.
"You have a son, James, don't you?" he heard his father asking. Tony frowned; usually his father could barely remember the names of the people he was working with and now he was asking after one of his worker´s families?
"I have, Mr Stark," another male voice answered. Tony dared to take a short glance around the corner: The two men were standing in front of Howard´s study; his father closer to the door, his arms folded as he regarded his counterpart with cool calculation. Tony knew that his father didn't really care – could see it in the way he impatiently tapped with his fingers against his forearm, in the barely noticeable downturn of his lips – but unlike Tony the other man didn't know his father´s tell and probably thought he really cared. The man – James, his father had called him – seemed to be of the same age as his fathers, but that was where the similarities already ended: His hair was blonde, his body built lither than his father´s and his blue eyes shone with warmth and kindness that were completely lacking in Howard´s.
"I´ve heard he´s got an eidetic memory," Howard commented offhand.
"Well," James replied, scratching the back of his head in confusion. "The doctors think so, but they don´t really know how it works. They say that he probably won´t remember his early childhood, like every child, because his mind wouldn't be able to take it all. But subconsciously; who knows?" He shrugged. "Hasn't your son got one, too?" Only the thinning of Howard´s lips showed the displeasure he felt when the topic fell on Tony. His father was always displeased when it came to him.
"It seems so," was all Howard said. "But let´s go back to the others. Our wives are probably already missing us." He let out a roaring laughter, which James reciprocated more nervously. Then he put his hand on the back of the other man and slowly steered him back towards the garden where the other guests were mingling.
Even though there was no chance that they would discover him, Tony ducked back into the shadows until he was sure that the two men had vanished around the corner. His father had an uncanny sense of always knowing where Tony was.
Certain that they wouldn't come back, Tony slipped out of his hiding place and continued on his way. He had a screwdriver to find, after all.
Pensively, Howard watched the children play on the bouncy castle he had the staff put up on the grass. They were screaming without restraints, running around and scuffling with each other – completely undignified, but what was to expect from such inferior stock? They had neither the genes, the education nor the money that made for human beings that actually brought society forward, but there was nothing which could change that. Besides, until some far away point in the future when machinery could take over the jobs, there was still manual labour to be done in this country.
He thanked God that his own son was nothing like these children. Of course, it had taken some encouragement and reinforcement, but Howard could already see the man his son was shaping up to be and it was one worthy to lead Stark Industries. Of course, he would never tell Tony that because compliments and flattery only made one weak. Stark mem weren´t weak.
One boy caught Howard´s gaze and he was reminded why he put up with this farce. A few weeks ago, after years of hard work and disappointment, he had finally managed to solve the riddle of Erskine´s Supersoldier Serum and managed to recreate the complete formula. There were no words that could describe the utter ecstasy, the joy and the pleasure that had surged through his whole body when he had finally managed to decipher the last equation; this feeling of standing on the top of the world and being able to conquer anything he set his eyes on.
But as fast as his high had come it had vanished again. As Howard had stared at the several blackboards covered with numbers, letters, equations and formulas, it had dawned on him that no one could be allowed to know what he had discovered, even – no, especially – SHIELD. Howard trusted few people in the organisation he had found – Peggy for once and that up-coming Lieutenant Fury – and he was certain that the moment someone in SHIELD knew, so would several governments around the world. The Supersoldier Serum was the holy grail of the scientific community and there were dozens of individuals and organisations that would stop at nothing to get their hands on it. No, as much as it galled Howard, until he could be sure of the circumstances, the formula needed to be kept secret. Yet, he neither trusted paper nor those new computing machines for the formula; both could be stolen, copied or simply read by others. He needed a way to back-up the formula without any chance of anyone ever finding it.
It was then that he remembered a talk between two of his assistants he had overheard. Howard wouldn't say that he liked James Ross, but the man knew how to be unobtrusive, to keep his mouth shut and do what Howard wanted him to do without questioning him and that were qualities that were seldom found in the people working with and around him. So, when he had listened to James telling another staff member that it seemed that his son possessed an eidetic memory, the idea had come to Howard.
He would use the boy. He had read up quite a bit about photographic memories when it became clear that Tony, too, possessed one and while its owners wouldn't consciously remember much of their early childhood, they still retained all those memories and could access them, with the necessary triggers, of course. Howard couldn't use Tony – that would be too obvious – but no one would expect Howard Stark to entrust his most important secret to a four-year-old toddler. No paper trails, nothing. And he was only needed as back-up, anyway, Howard could draw up the formula in his sleep by now, but it never hurt to be cautious.
That's why he started to have these SI employees retreats to his manor. It would throw off all the various spies that watched his every movement. He needed them to think that those were truly nothing but festivities to 'further the spirit of friendship and co-operation at Stark Industries'. That´s why he had only invited the Ross' to the fourth party. By now, no one would suspect any plots afoot.
Ompf. Howard looked down at the child that had run straight into him and was now looking up at him with its blue eyes wide open; a mixture of awe and fear in its gaze.
"Sorry, sir," the child mumbled. "Didn´t see you." Howard wanted to tell the child off, because if there was one thing he couldn't stand then it would be children that didn't know how to behave, but he knew that he had to be on his most charming behaviour for his plan to work so he put on his most convincing smile instead.
"Next time watch where you´re going," he told the child gently. The boy just nodded and looked at Howard as if he had imposed valuable pieces of wisdom upon him. "What´s your name?"
"Mike," the child answered. "My dad works for your company!"
"James Ross?" Howard inquired.
"Yes, that´s my daddy!" Mike exclaimed.
"Say, Mike," Howard began, kneeling down so that he was on the same height, lowering his voice as if he wanted to share a secret with the boy that nobody else should hear. "Do you want to see something special?"
Manhattan, New York, 16 years later
Mike sighed as he looked at the pile of unopened bills that rested atop the table in Trevor's and his shabby little apartment. They didn't even bother with opening anymore, because they both knew that they couldn't pay even a single one. Usually they just paid each creditor enough so that they would continue having electricity, water and data for the month, but Mike couldn't remember the last time they had paid on time.
Looking around he noticed again how their lack of money showed: The wallpapers were yellow and tattered, stains of questionable origin and mould in the corners. The kitchen was battered and dirty, some stains in so deep that Mike hadn't been able to get rid of them even with concentrated bleach. Sometimes brown water creeped from the drain in the bathroom, the windows might as well stay open all the time considering how much cold they let seep through and the front door only closed at the second attempt – or third, depending on the temperature.
They were poor, Mike knew it, and yet there was another letter in his hand, another bill from the retirement home his grandmother lived in, back when they still had the money from selling her old house. But now the money was all used up and theoretically Mike would either need to move his grandmother in a cheaper facility or have her living with him in this dump. Neither was something Mike was willing to consider – his Grammy had friends at the home and excellent medical support which he couldn't take away and if she was to live here the mould would probably kill her. But in order for Mike to keep her at her current home, he needed money.
Delivering for Trevor would always be a possibility, Mike supposed. He didn't like it ever since he got into a close call with undercover police officers, but it paid better than most low-wage jobs. He let out another sigh. He put the bill down next to the others. His gaze was caught by the dying plant on the table: A single cannabis plant which Trevor had brought home with him a few days ago, as some kind of joke. Mike hadn't believed that the plant would last very long, having read the intensive care it required: Right amount of light, a certain temperature and exactly the right air moisture. And he had been proven right; the cannabis was already turning brown, its leaves hanging lifeless in the air.
"Hey, Mikey!" Mike looked up to see Trevor striding out of the bedroom. Their only one; they either slept in shifts or if they were really tired (or stoned) together. "What´s up?"
"The usual," Mike replied drily. "I need money for my grandmother´s care home or she gets evicted." Trevor winched in sympathy. He and Grammy may not see eye to eye on a lot of things (if Mike was honest, his grandmother downright hated Trevor), but his friend knew how much the older woman and her welfare meant to Mike, so he didn't mention it.
"I could help out, you know," he offered. "I have a few deals pending, you could help and make some money."
"Nah," Mike declined. "I´ll ask Frank if I can have some more shifts." Even as he told Trevor this, he knew that it wouldn't be enough. Even if Mike was to ride his bike twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, delivering packages and other stuff, he wouldn't make enough money to pay the bills. He had run the calculation through even as spoke and it had come up lacking. Trevor seemed to know that, for he sent Mike a sympathetic look but didn't pursue the matter any further. He knew Mike well enough to know that he needed to run out of any other possibilities before he would offer again and then Mike would be desperate enough to take him up on it.
"If you say so."
"I´m gonna get some sleep," Mike spoke, making his way towards the bedroom. Trevor didn't react and then Mike was already closing the door behind him. Not even bothering to get rid of his clothes, he just let himself fall on the bed and was out in seconds.
An empty hallway. Timber piling. Doors made of dark oak. Closed.
He was running. He didn't know what he was running away from, only that he needed to get away. He couldn't look back, because he instinctively knew that if he did whatever was following him would get him.
One door. Ajar.
There was a blackboard. It had no end, no beginning. Reaching from one end of his field of vision to the other.
Numbers. Letters. Formulas. Thousands of them. He could feel them burning into his retina. They were everywhere; unescapable. Swirling around in his mind. Building up to a furious crescendo. A thunderstorm with him right in the middle.
He looked back at the blackboard. It was blank.
Pain. His chest on fire. He looked down. A knife was sticking out of his chest.
Blood.
With an audible gasp, Mike bolted up, breathing heavily as the nightmare slowly receded and was replaced by reality. Small stripes of sunlight shone through the closed blinds, soaking the whole room in some kind of half-darkness. He could hear the TV from the other room, explosions and screams. Goosebumps were all over Mike´s skin and he shivered when the cold air of the room touched his sweat-soaked skin.
Sluggishly, Mike walked into the small adjacent bathroom and doused his face with cold water. The person in the mirror looking back at him looked haunted, his skin pale, his hair dishevelled and is wide and panicked eyes surrounded by dark rings. He looked like he had come straight out of some horror movie.
The nightmare was a reoccurring one. Mike didn't know when exactly it had started, but it appeared at least once a week and kept him from a restful sleep. He didn't know what it meant – had no drive to find out – but it never failed to make his heart beat like it wanted to break out of his ribcage; never failed to make him wake up screaming. His grandmother had wanted him to talk with a professional about it, but they never had the money and to be honest, Mike hadn't really wanted to unburden himself to some stranger, so he never complained.
Walking out of the bathroom, Mike snapped some paper and a pen from a nearby shelf and started writing. He had come to find out that putting the numbers on paper always helped him to calm down after the nightmare and ever since he had started this form of coping he could literally write the whole twenty pages thing in his sleep. He always destroyed it afterwards, even though he didn't know why. He just got this feeling, this nervousness, like thousands of ants were crawling under his skin until the pages went up in flames.
As he looked down on the finished papers, Mike wondered for the thousandth time what all those numbers and chemical formulas were even supposed to mean. He had researched, of course, but neither libraries nor the internet had been able to provide him with answers. So, as far as Mike was concerned all this was probably some weird coping mechanism his eidetic mind had come up with to deal with the shit show that was his life.
Sighing, Mike pulled a lighter out of the drawer and walked over to where the bin was standing. Holding the papers over the trash can, he set them aflame, thanking whoever deity was out there that their landlord was too stingy to actually install fire alarms in the apartments he owned. Burning his papers or smoking weed would have been much more difficult then.
"I´m off," Mike announced to Trevor as he closed the bedroom door behind him. Trevor, currently in the process of eating a whole carton of Captain Crunch without spoon or milk, just nodded and continued to watch TV.
"You think Frank´s gonna give you additional shifts?" he asked after swallowing down.
"I don´t know," Mike shrugged. "I hope so." Because, honestly? He would be totally fucked if Frank didn't.
"We´re totally gonna smoke up later," Trevor announced. "Either to celebrate you getting more money or to commiserate together."
"Wow, big words coming from you," Mike teased, taking his helmet from the counter. "At least three syllables."
"Fuck you!" Trevor shouted and threw a handful of cornflakes after him. Mike, though, had already closed the door behind him and so the projectiles just hit the door and landed on the ground. Spirits lifted by his friend, Mike practically bounced downstairs.
Frank just had to give him the additional shifts!
The constant downpour that set in a few hours later perfectly matched Mike´s mood as he trotted along the street. Frank had not given him the additional shift, citing that they had just enough workload for everyone and now Mike was back to square one. With more force than strictly necessary, he kicked an empty can out of his way. With loud bang, the tin crashed against the wall and rolled away, which earned Mike a scornful look from an elderly lady that passed him by.
"Uncouth youth," she mumbled. For a split second, Mike contemplated starting a fight, because he was just in the right mood to scream at someone, but his Grammy had raised him better than that, so he just drew a deep breath and continued his way.
He would need to take Trevor up on his offer, Mike thought miserably. There just was no other way for him to get the money necessary to keep his grandmother in her current retirement home. Not for the first time, Mike regretted the circumstances that had led him to being here, but he shoved those thoughts to the back of his mind, because he didn't want to examine his own faults.
Like always when Mike was in a bad mood, his thoughts turned to the formula in his mind. In all those years since it haunted his dream, he had more than once contemplated actually creating it, but he never had had the means to do so, for some of the stuff required wasn't legally available to the normal citizen. When Trevor had started with his side-business of drug distribution he had come into contact with people who could, even though there were some things that even they were unable to procure (like gamma rays). Nevertheless, Mike had never taken that particular step, because while he sometimes earned to finally see what this formula in his head was about, the risk had always stayed his hands.
Especially in dark moments, the call of the unknown was difficult to resist, though, and Mike couldn't remember the last time he had felt such hopelessness as he was feeling now (when he had been expelled from college, but he squashed that thought as fast as it had come). That was how he found himself walking up the stairs in a run-down apartment building in Washington Heights after his last delivery had taken him up to Inwood, an area where he didn't find himself very often.
The door to apartment 32 was as unremarkable as the others in the building, and yet Mike found himself hesitating as he stood in front of it, unsure if he should really continue or just turn around and forget that all this had happened. The choice was taken from him, though, when the door was opened without his prodding.
"You´re that guy that Trevor lives with," the man on the other side of the threshold spoke. He was so thin that it looked like a soft breeze would knock him over, wearing only a grease-stained undershirt and baggy jeans. His pale blue eyes darted between Mike and the other doors on the hallway, as if he was expecting someone to observe them.
He certainly didn't look like a 'Bruce', Mike thought, the image of a buff Bruce Willis at the forefront of his mind.
"You´re Bruce, aren't you?" Mike asked. The man nodded, stepped aside and beckoned for Mike to enter. The apartment was rather clean and tidy, a stark contrast to the building and Bruce itself. The furniture was old but kempt, the wallpaper painted in a faint blue and a computer stood in the corner of the living room, the pause screen of Call of Duty on display.
"What can I do for you?" Bruce wanted to know from Mike.
"Trevor said you´re his go-to-guy for chemicals and stuff," Mike spoke.
"As long as it´s not on some government watch list I´ve got you," Bruce replied with a wide grin.
"Okay, because I need some stuff," Mike said and rattled off a list of chemicals he was sure a small-time criminal like Bruce would have.
"Well, that´s a pretty random order," the man commented after Mike was finished. "But I think I´ve got all of it. It´s gonna cost you, though." He named his price and Mike just shrugged. Trevor´s delivery jobs usually were rather lucrative (compared to Mike´s wage as bike messenger) so as of right now he could actually afford the price Bruce was naming.
"Pleasure doing business with you," the man drawled as he escorted Mike out of his apartment. Mike just nodded and then the door was already shut behind him.
Thankfully, the apartment was empty when Mike came back. He really didn't know what he would have told Trevor as reason for why he was carrying several bags filled with stuff with which he could probably built a bomb. Mike himself didn't quite know why he had done it.
He had often thought about trying to recreate the formula that haunted his dreams, but he had never put such a plan into action. There was a difference between looking up what all the symbols meant and actually buying the chemicals. It meant transferring something out of his mind into reality; taking responsibility for it and actually confront the thing that was in his mind. Fear, too, stayed his hand: What if it was some kind of poison or explosive? What if he seriously harmed or even killed someone? How could he take the risk, how could he put someone in danger for something his mind had dreamed up?
But Mike had already decided to help Trevor out, going from consuming weed every now and then to actually distributing it, so he might as well go down burning and dabble a little bit in chemistry. It wasn't as if this could get worse, anyway, was it?
With a sigh, Mike put the bags down and began to unpack them, putting all the packages on the table. Was he really doing this? Was he willing to risk whatever end result this little experiment of his would bring? On the surface, he may still have doubts, but Mike knew himself well enough to admit to himself that now that he had done the first step, sooner or later he would take the next. And did it really matter if he did it now or later.
"I guess I´ll just start," Mike spoke to the dying cannabis plant. It didn't answer.
Later, Mike wouldn't be able to recall exactly what he had done. It was like some sort of trance, his hands moving without his conscious order, the numbers and letters hovering in front of his eyes like holographs straight out of some sci-fiction movie. There was a numbness to his mind, a sluggishness in his thoughts as he poured, mixed and weighed. It was as if he had been pushed on the backseat of his own body while someone else did the work, forcing him into the position of a powerless spectator. Mike didn't know how long he sat there and worked, but when he came back to his senses and looked at the clock he noticed that nearly two hours had passed.
To say that Mike was disappointed with the result of his experiment would be an understatement. The clear liquid appearing utterly unremarkable, behaving and looking like water. Mike didn't know what he had expected – he had tried to recreate an unknown substance after all – but maybe a little more – he didn't really know – colour, maybe? Or steam? Ominous hissing sounds? Just something that would show that he hadn't just recreated water.
Letting out a disappointed sigh, Mike let himself fall back into his chair and stared at the ceiling. 200 Dollars totally thrown out of the window. Why couldn't he just discovered a new wonder drug which he could sell and make millions, so that he could pay for his Grammy´s care and maybe by himself a nice apartment and no need for a shitty job ever in his life again.
But, alas, whatever he had created didn't look like much and Mike wasn't stupid enough to consume a chemical substance he knew nothing about. So, with one last look, he took the glass and poured its content over the cannabis. You couldn't kill something twice, after all.
Trevor wouldn't come back for a few hours at least, so Mike still had time to catch some sleep. Standing up, he walked over to the bedroom, closing the door behind him and letting himself fall on the soft mattress.
Meanwhile, in the room next door, the leaves of a dying plant turned green again.
It was Trevor´s shouting that tore Mike out of his sleep.
"Holy fucking shit!" The shout tore through the dream Mike was having (he didn't remember what he had been dreaming about, but for once it hadn't been about the formula) like a scissor through paper and had Mike bolt upright like a startled cat. Jumping out of the bed, Mike nearly fell over the covers which had wrapped themselves around his legs and only his fast reaction prevented Mike from landing face-first on the floor. Steadying himself, Mike took in a deep breath and then walked through the doorway into the living room where Trevor was having some kind of freak out.
"Why are you screaming like a little girl?" Mike teased his best friend.
"There´s nothing wrong with screaming like a girl, because there´s nothing wrong with being a girl," Trevor replied, sending an annoyed glare. "Don´t buy into the patriarchy´s urge to demean women in order to assert an unjust and unequal society, Mike, just don´t!" Mike rolled his eyes.
"You only went into that Gender Studies class because you thought you´d be the only man there and could have all the girls," Mike reminded him.
"And I was wrong," Trevor retorted in all seriousness. "It opened my eyes."
"Putting aside the issue as to whether your scream was manly or girly – none of which are inherently lesser than the other –" he added when he saw Trevor open his mouth "– you still haven't told my why you woke me up with your screaming."
"Because there´s a monster plant sitting on our table," Trevor replied and pointed towards aforementioned table. Stepping around Trevor, Mike was now able to see what had Trevor shout out so loud in excitement and he had to admit that Trevor had every reason to.
Their dead weed had been resurrected.
Or, to phrase it a little bit better: It had levelled up. The sickly cannabis plant that had barely reached twenty centimetres in height now stood proudly at sixty, its leaves in a green so deeply saturated that it looked like some Instagram hipster had put their filter on it. Pieces of the ceramic pot were strewn all over the floor, because from the look of it, it appeared as if the roots had blown it up from within. Speckles of dark soil were all over the table and Mike groaned inwardly because he just knew that he would be the person to clean this mess up.
"What the fuck did you do, man?" Trevor asked Mike, unable to tear his gaze from the plant in front of him.
"Why is it suddenly my fault?" Mike replied defensively. Trevor turned his gaze towards him and arched his eyebrows.
"The plant was brown and dying when I left here yesterday and now I come back to this –" he pointed at the cannabis plant " – so it´s pretty clear to me that you did something. Now tell me what?" Trevor looked like he was about to bounce in excitement, a pretty terrifying prospect to be sure.
"I may or may not have dabbled a little bit in chemistry?" Mike replied hesitantly, more a question than an actual statement. Trevor´s eyebrows nearly vanished under his hairline.
"You dabbled in chemistry?" he repeated incredulously. "What did you do, invent some Super Weed Formula?" He laughed out loud.
"Apparently I did." Mike scratched the back of his head in confusion.
"That´s awesome!" Trevor exclaimed, brimming with energy like a over-excited puppy. "We´re gonna make so much money out of this."
"Wait, what?" Mike interrupted perplexed.
"Come on, Mike," Trevor groaned. "That´s at least five-hundred bucks we´ve got standing there. I could totally get us some more plants."
"We can´t just start our own drug business," Mike hissed. "We´re gonna get killed by someone."
"Dude, chill," Trevor chided him. "It´s just a little bit of weed on the side, not the hard stuff. Besides, I now the crowd around here and they don´t kill someone over this. As long as we keep it small, we´re in the clear." Mike wasn't convinced. Of course, the sweet siren call of the money tugged at his heart, but he knew enough – had read enough newspapers, had seen enough newscasts – to know that dealing wasn't a profession with high rates of lifelong success. He wanted to get money for his grandmother, not get killed for playing on someone else´s turf. He just couldn't risk it.
"Mike, come on," Trevor continued. "Let´s think this through. Let´s say we don't take this opportunity. Then what? You´d still have to pay for your grandmother´s care and even if you manage to scrap together enough money to pay the bill for this month, you´d have to pay the same amount again and again and again, for hopefully many years." He shook his head. "We barely meet ends with what we have now, how do you want to get additional money legally? You´d need a degree for jobs that pay well enough for that." Mike wanted to snap at Trevor that he would have a degree by now if he hadn't sold the maths test to the Dean´s daughter back then in college, but he bit back the retort, because while it may have been Trevor´s fault, it had been Mike´s decision to take the fall for it. They shared the blame for their current situation.
"I´ll keep everyone safe," Trevor promised and when Mike looked into his best friend´s eyes he saw nothing but sincerity staring back. He didn't want to agree, didn't want to open his mouth and say yes, because as the saying goes the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, but he knew that Trevor was right: He didn't have a choice.
"Alright," Mike croaked out. "Let´s do this."
The actual procedure of fabricating saleable weed wasn't that difficult. Harvesting the leaves of the cannabis plant, drying them and then grinding them took them three days most of which they didn't have to actually do something. Every now and then Mike would ask himself if what he was doing was really what he should do or if he should just break the whole thing off, but then the growing pile of mostly unopened bills would catch his gaze and only darken his mood even more. Trevor, meanwhile, was living on cloud nine, smiling broadly and laughing all the time. Sometimes Mike could just imagine the Dollar signs in his friend´s eyes.
"We need a name," he mentioned offhandedly. "For the weed," he added when he saw Mike´s confused stare.
"Greed," Mike replied after a short moment of contemplation. "Because of its colour."
On the fourth day, Trevor went out with the finished product to sell it to a few clients and 'friends' of his, all the while Mike was delivering packages in Manhattan, a foreboding feeling having settled over him and his stomach feeling as if it was filled with stones. Every second he awaited a heavy hand landing on his shoulders and the words 'Mike Ross, you're under arrest for distribution of illegal substances' spoken in an authoritative voice or even worse some thugs dragging him into an abandoned side street to beat him up as warning, but neither of those two things happened. And when Mike came home that evening, he was greeted by an enthusiastic Trevor who told him that they made even more money than they had anticipated.
"Eight-hundred bucks!" Trevor told him and showed him the bag full of Dollar bills. "If we keep this up, we´ll have the money for your grandmother just in time." Mike really didn't know what to say, his bouts of qualms he had had over the last few days suddenly looking much less serious now that the money was spread over their kitchen table.
"Listen, Mike," Trevor began, putting his hand on Mike´s back. "You have to take over for me."
"Wait, what!?" Mike exclaimed, turning around to face Trevor. "You want me to sell the stuff?"
"I can´t do it," Trevor apologised. "I´m already affiliated. If I started selling my own stuff on the side I´m gonna get in trouble."
"You told me that there was no risk!" Mike hissed.
"And it was the truth!" Trevor defended himself. "There´s no risk for you. As long as you´re the one selling and we don´t overdo it, we´ll be left alone." Apparently, Mike didn't look completely convinced, so he added: "Come on, we need the money." And wasn't the crux of the matter? Mike could drag his feet has much as he wanted, but in the end financial necessity would force him to continue walk the path he had started.
"Alright," Mike finally relented. "But the moment this gets dangerous, I´m out."
"Don´t worry," Trevor assured him. "It won´t."
Selling drugs wasn't what Mike had expected it to be. He had delivered for Trevor a few times in the past, but that was after the whole buying process had already happened. Actually, selling it mainly meant standing around on the street, trying to look unsuspicious and waiting for skittish college students or stressed-out looking business men to hand you over some bills before giving them a small plastic bag with the weed in return. Every few hours Mike would walk a little bit so that no one would report him to the police for loitering.
All in all, it certainly wasn't as exciting or dangerous as Mike had thought it would be. Which, to be honest, was totally fine with him, because Mike certainly didn't need the stress. Between his shifts as bike messenger for Frank and standing around on the streets and selling weed he got maybe six hours of sleep if he was lucky.
At least, the money he brought home compensated for all the hours of missed sleep. Slowly but surely, they were beginning to pay back all the bills that had accumulated over the last few months, albeit it was at a snail´s pace. Nevertheless, it was progress.
Mike didn't know where Trevor got all the cannabis plants from, though. When he had asked, his friend had told him that apparently nearly a third of each load didn't make it to the finished product and his bosses were happy to load it off to Trevor instead of getting rid of it themselves as it lessened the chance of them getting caught by the police.
By now Mike was a real professional in creating his Super Weed Formula (as Trevor had coined it): He got the chemicals from Trevor´s friend Bruce who by now was giving him a good discount because Mike bought from him so often, which would last for a few days. Mike was experimenting with the exact amount he gave the plants, observing if the plants with more serum made the better product or if it didn't matter at all. Sometimes Mike wondered how much more potent the serum would be if he had access to all of the equipment and chemicals the formula required.
Trevor didn't care much about Mike´s chemical activities; as long as Mike produced enough of the liquid to keep their small business going he didn't care. Mike was somehow glad about it; he didn't know why, but the prospect of Trevor knowing his formula made him feel uneasy. Maybe because deep down Mike knew how unprincipled Trevor was when it came to money.
With each passing day, their customer base grew bigger. Apparently, word of mouth was that Greed gave you the longest and most intense trip out there, but as of yet their customers hadn't reached the critical mass where they would have to worry about other players taking an interest in them. Because Mike sure as hell didn't know what he would do then.
The moment that in hindsight would put Mike´s life on a completely different trajectory occurred one month into his stint as small-time drug dealer. At first glance, the man looked like Mike´s typical business man clientele, and yet Mike had this feeling at the back of his mind that he wasn't.
"You don´t look like a professional dealer," the man criticised, eyeing Mike up and down. "You don´t look like anything professional at all."
"I´m selling illegal drugs here," Mike pointed out. "Do you really think I´d come here in, what, a three-piece suit and skinny tie?"
"I guess you wouldn't," the man agreed. ""Skinny ties are awesome, though, you´d totally rock them, if you weren´t, y'know, selling drugs." A short pause, then: "I´ve heard you´ve got the best stuff. Everyone can claim that."
"Why are you here then?" Mike challenged him. "I´m sure someone from the staff in whatever fancy hotel you´re staying in would gladly get you everything you want."
"I´m bored," the man shrugged. "And my former PA is hounding me to find a replacement for her, so I ran." Mike didn't prod any further, because he was here to sell weed, not to ask for some stranger´s life story. "So, how much the gram?"
"50 bucks," Mike told him. The man just shrugged and handed Mike over two hundred-Dollar bills. "I take four." Mike handed him the plastic bag containing the marihuana and took the money, moving fast to stash it away in his jacket before anyone could see it.
"Have fun," Mike told the man drily.
"I sure as hell will!" the man waved and then he was already around the corner. Mike smiled; that man had definitely been weird, but in a positive kind of way. Soon, though, the encounter was already at the back of his mind as the next customer demanded his attention.
Mike wouldn't have spent any further thought on the energetic man if he hadn't come back a few weeks later.
"Dude!" he exclaimed, spreading his arms and grinning as if Mike was a long-lost relative and not the guy who had sold him weed once. "My dude, my bro, my dudebro." Mike raised his eyebrows at the man´s exuberance.
"The stuff you sold me last time," the man began to tell him, "totally blew my mind. Like, literally; I designed a whole new line-up of smart kitchen appliances. The toaster can speak and I think the stirring staff is also a sex toy. I don´t remember a single fucking thing." He grinned. "It was awesome!"
"Also awesome," the man added, "you didn't rat me out to the paparazzi."
"Why should I?" Mike frowned. He looked at the man: Expensive suit, a watch that was probably worth more than Mike´s life, goatee and red-tinted shades over which the man stared at Mike expectantly.
The revelation hit Mike like a lightning strike.
"Oh my fucking God!" he exclaimed, and because the man was shushing him, he continued muted: "You´re Tony Stark!"
"You didn't recognise me the last time," Stark pointed out.
"I was selling drugs to you," Mike defended himself. "It´s more stressful than it looks."
"Stress ages you," Stark imparted on him. "Same as last time." He handed over the money while Mike gave him the small plastic bag with the weed.
"And," Stark added, already about to leave. "If you sell me out to the paparazzi, I´m gonna destroy you." The collegial atmosphere that usually surrounded him had suddenly vanished and was replaced by a sharp coldness that cut Mike to the bones. He swallowed and nodded. He totally believed that Stark was willing and able to destroy a meagre existence just as his.
"Glad that we understand each other."
Two days later, Stark was back again.
"Why are you still in New York?" Mike asked as he handed Stark his usual order. "By the way, I´m having a serious crisis of conscience here with how often you buy stuff from me."
"Don´t be," Stark replied nonchalantly. "I was much worse before I became Iron Man. I can cope with some harmless weed. And I´m still here because the conference Pepper has forced me to attend lasts the whole week." He let out a long-suffering sigh. "And the board is hounding me again."
"Can´t you just…" Mike began, "you know, tell them to stuff it and do whatever the hell you want? I mean, after Obadiah Stane´s death you now own the majority share of Stark Industries." He noticed that Stark flinched at the mention of Stane´s name, but it only lasted a split-second before he had his face back under control.
"They have special clauses in their contracts," Stark admitted. "I can´t get rid of them."
"That sucks," Mike remarked. Stark just snorted. "Anyway, I wish you all the fun on your conference. I bet it´ll be a blast!" The withering glare Stark sent him was well worth it.
"You said 'Tony Stark'." Stark´s voice suddenly ringing out beside him made Mike jump and nearly had him fall over his own feet if he hadn't regained his balance just in time.
"Jesus Christ!" he cursed. "Wear a bell or something." He paused, processing what Stark had said. "Of course, I called you that; it´s your name, isn´t it?"
"Yeah," Stark replied. "But usually when people met me the first time it´s 'Oh my God, Iron Man!' this and 'Iron Man!' that. I can´t remember the last time someone used my name."
"You´ve been Tony Stark long before you became Iron Man," Mike pointed out. "And in my person opinion, your earlier achievements are nothing to scoff at. Your thesis about artificial intelligence was a work of beauty." It was sad to see that Stark had apparently become used to people only seeing him for the red and golden armour and not his impressive intellect which was only equalled by a few people on Earth.
"You´ve read my thesis?" Stark asked astonished. "I don´t even think that my own professor understood it."
"Well, I didn't understand it instantly," Mike admitted a little bit embarrassed. "I had to read up on several coding languages, some physics and machine learning, but after that it was manageable." He scratched the back of his head. "But yeah, I mean you being Iron Man is awesome, but that shouldn't negate everything else you succeeded in." An undecipherable expression flashed over Stark´s face before it settled again on his usual bright grin.
"Have you ever thought about doing motivation speeches?" he asked.
"Doesn´t pay as well as petty crime," Mike shot back. "How´s your conference?" Stark huffed in annoyance.
"Terrible," he complained. "Put a few dozen people who all think they´re the smartest in one room and you practically have the receipt for childish barbs and hurt vanity."
"How terrible," Mike replied sarcastically.
"I know, right?!" Stark exclaimed, either missing or (what was more likely) ignoring the obvious sarcasm in Mike´s voice.
"So, can I get you something?" Mike asked.
"Nah, not this time," Stark replied. "Actually, this time it´s me who comes bearing stuff." Mike arched his eyebrows at the eccentric billionaire.
"I looked you up, you know," Stark began, "Mike Ross, twenty-seven years old, parents deceased, IQ off the charts, expelled from college for selling a Maths test to the Dean´s daughter, behind on nearly all of your bills, even though you´ve started paying them over the last few weeks – that´s when you started selling weed, isn't it? – eidetic memory and now wasting your life as bike messenger. You also sat the LSATs at least ten times in the last three years."
"What´s it to you?" Mike demanded to know, suddenly on edge.
"Nothing," Stark admitted. He rummaged through his bag and handed Mike a thick envelope. "That´s the contract of one of the board members. He´s blocking all my attempts at positioning SI in the renewable energy sector and I want him gone. Sadly, my whole legal department seems to consist of fools, because they haven't yet found something." Blindsided by Stark´s flood of words, Mike automatically took the envelope when Stark handed them over to him.
"Wait, wait, wait," Mike interjected. "Aren´t you breaking, like, several of your firm´s by-laws by giving this to me? I know that you´re breaking exactly thirteen actual laws. And what makes you think I´ll manage to find something when your own lawyers didn't?"
"Mike, when you´re as rich as me something insignificant as some privacy laws don´t stop you from doing whatever you want," Stark told him as if he was discussing the weather. "And I know that you wanted to go to Harvard, I´ve read your motivation letter – very heartfelt by the way, tugging on all the right heartstrings – so even if you don't find anything I won´t lose much, while you have double the motivation to find something my own lawyers have because they get paid anyway while you have the chance to impress me. Besides, I like you."
"Usually people don´t jump from liking their drug dealer to handing them confidential contracts," Mike pointed out drily.
"I wouldn't be where I am today if I hadn't taken some leaps of faith," Stark told him. "The first time I met Pepper was when she threatened to use her pepper spray on my security detail because she wanted to bring an accounting mistake to my attention, so getting help from my drug dealer wouldn't be the most unusual thing I´ve ever done." And maybe that was why Mike didn't argue any further: Because someone believed that he could do more than just being a bike messenger or selling some weed; maybe because someone appreciated him for the intellect he hadn't had any chance to properly exercise in what felt like since forever.
Back at his apartment, he instantly discarded his jacket and shoes, sat himself down at the table and pulled out the batch of paper. Reverently he let his hand roam over the paper; this was what Mike had always wanted to do: Finding the hidden inconsistencies, the small mistakes, chasing words and wrangling with paragraphs, duelling with the mind instead of fists. He may never have the chance to do in a real court, but this was better than nothing.
Text marker cap in his mouth and the actual marker in his hand, Mike began reading over the contract.
It was going to be a long night.
"Section three, paragraph six, clause twenty, sub-clause C," Mike told Stark the next day. Stark crooked his head.
"I looked the guy up and there are at least two instances where he´s in breach of it," Mike explained and handed Stark the paper where he had marked his findings. Stark himself read over what Mike had discovered and when he looked up he looked like the cat that got the canary.
"I´m finally getting rid of him," he crooned.
"I also found some spelling mistakes," Mike added. "I´ve corrected them and…" He stopped mid-sentence when he noticed Stark´s intense gaze that was directed at him. There was a short moment of awkward silence between them, which was then broken by the billionaire.
"Tell me, Mike," Stark asked. "What do you think about getting a new job?"
The New York branch of Stark Industries was situated in Lower Manhattan in the upper floors of a high-rise skyscraper. The only thing indicating that it even existed where the nearly three meters high letters that stood on the plaza that lead up to the buildings entrance, forming the word 'STARK' in bright yellow colour. Mike had driven by a few times when he had to deliver packages to the banks in near Wall Street, but he had never actually been in there. Stark Industries didn't use bike messengers and even if they did, it wouldn't be Frank's Bike Messenger Service.
Mike didn't really feel like he belonged here: The people that passed him by were all dressed to the nines: the mean wearing bespoken suits (often three-pieces), expensive watches and brand sunglasses while the women donned colourful costumes, were adorned with expensive jewellery and wearing shoes that more often than not looked like a mix between lethal weapon and designer wear. Mike, in his washed-out jeans, blue Henley and messenger bag slung over his back was the odd one out and the longer he stood there and delayed actually going inside, the more obvious it became.
He didn't really know why he had taken Stark up on his offer.
"Are you serious?" Mike demanded to know after Stark had given his offer. "Why would you offer me a job? I´m the guy who sells you weed! I´m not qualified enough to do anything in your company." Stark just shrugged.
"You´re compassionate, you can keep a secret and you´re intelligent," Stark listed. "I don't care if you can back it up with a degree or not. Hell, a fourth of the people working in research don't have one but I employ them anyway because they have good ideas. Besides, I know people – I can read them – and everything points towards you not being duplicitous." Mike looked at Stark, completely dumbfounded.
"And I had you researched thoroughly," Stark added. "I hope you know that your browser´s private mode isn't really that private? You´ve looked up some kinky shit; not that I´m judging." He waggled his eyebrows while Mike could feel the heat rise to his cheeks.
"Look, you don't have to accept right away," Stark continued. "If you´re interested just come to the local SI branch. I´m there the whole week if Pepper doesn't manage to get me to that stupid conference."
And now Mike was standing here, unable to move, his feet feeling like clay. He didn't know why he just couldn't move forward: Maybe it was because it would be a complete break with his old life, with his usual behaviour patterns and he couldn't just bring himself to abandon that just yet. Or maybe because he was afraid that it was just a prank Stark pulled on him and that the people in there would just laugh him out of the foyer when he told them that Tony Stark personally had told him to come here. Stark didn't seem to be the type of person who was needlessly cruel, Mike had to admit, though.
"Excuse me?" At first, Mike didn't even register that the words were directed at him, but then someone tapped him on the shoulder. He turned around and saw a security guard standing next to him, the SI logo prominently displayed on his chest and arms. Fear gripped Mike.
"Mr. Stark wants to know if you plan to enter in the next five minutes," the man told Mike whose jaw just dropped. His head darted around, searching for cameras or maybe even the man himself. But there was nothing that would indicate that Stark was observing him.
"He´s like that," the guard smiled when he noticed Mike´s panic. "He loves to throw people off."
"So, what should I tell him?" he asked.
"Guess there´s no reason to dither any longer," Mike shrugged. "Lead the way."
As they made their way through the foyer Mike contemplated that before he would have never made it even through the doors before some security guards would have escorted him out again: The floor was covered in white and red marble on which the steps of dozens of people reverberated; the receptionists' desk was a massive bloc made of stainless steel, polished to such a degree that it could also be used as mirror. The receptionists sitting behind it were all wearing prim and proper uniforms with an air of importance hanging around them.
Luckily, Mike was accompanied by the guard, so he didn't have to bother with the receptionists that probably would have just sniffed at him disdainfully. He knew their type from quite a few trips as bike messenger. They made a b-line straight towards the elevators where the guard pushed the button for the fifty-second floor and then stepped off.
"Have fun with the boss!" he winked and then the door was already closing.
The whole ride upwards Mike fidgeted nervously with his fingers, his gaze glued to the electronic display which numbers rose and rose until a loud ping notified him that he had reached his floor. Stepping off, Mike expected a normal office with non-descript cubicles, the clacking of keyboards in the air and stressed workers shuffling around but the room he entered was a wide and open living room space with a kitchen in the corner and a big entertainment system on the wall of the left. The red couch in the middle of the room was bigger than Mike´s complete apartment and probably worth much more.
"Do you like it?" Stark was standing in one of the doorways, making a hand gesture that encompassed the whole room. "My philosophy is that my employees should have space where they can relax and aren't reminded of work the whole time."
"I doubt that Mario Kart is really conducive with a stress-free working environment," Mike quipped.
"There´s nothing more cathartic than destroying your opponent with a blue bomb right before they´re about to finish the race," Stark pointed out. "So, you have decided to take me up on my offer?"
"I´ve decided to listen to what you have to say," Mike corrected the billionaire.
"Better than nothing, I guess," Stark remarked. He opened his mouth to say something, but was interrupted by a loud scream that resounded throughout the whole premises.
"TONY!" Stark winced while Mike stared at him like a deer caught in the headlight. You could hear the clack of high-hells on the floor before a woman rounded the corner with an expression that was equally exasperation and fury on her face. Until now Mike hadn't known that you could walk this fast in heels and skin-tight pencil skirt while also looking imposing, but the woman somehow made it work.
"Pepper, dearest!" Stark exclaimed, trying to placate the woman but going by the still thunderous expression on her face obviously failing. So that was the formidable Ms Pepper Potts who was leading the company while Stark developed new, amazing stuff, Mike thought. "You look especially dashing today."
"Don´t 'Dear Pepper' me!" Potts snapped at the man. "You fired Peterson today."
"I did," Stark admitted unabashed.
"You can´t," Potts retorted. "His contract is airtight; our whole legal time couldn't find anything."
"Pepper, meet Mike Ross, the guy who found me the clause I used to get rid of the old fart," Stark proclaimed and waved towards Mike. For the first time, Potts seemed to actually take notice of Mike. With a smile that was too bright and too fast to be natural she turned towards him, making Mike feel like a defenceless bird in front of a cheetah.
"Thank you so much for your service," Potts told him. Turning back towards Tony she added: "So, you want him for legal?"
"No," Stark replied, making Mike´s heart drop. "I want him as my PA."
"What?!" Mike and Potts shouted simultaneously at Stark who looked completely undazzled by their outburst.
"Look, Pepper," Stark told his business partner. "He´s got a genius level IQ, an eidetic memory and he knows how to keep a secret." And then with mischief in his eyes he added: "Besides, he sold me the best weed I´ve ever had." Instead of another outburst, like Mike expected, Potts just closed her eyes, pinched her nose and took a deep breath. Then she squared her shoulders and filled with new resort she took Stark by the ear and pulled him towards the hallway.
"Excuse us for a moment, Mr Ross," she said to Mike in the politest tone he had ever heard.
"Ow, ow, ow, Pepper…" Stark whined, then they seemed to have entered another room for Mike heard the clicking of a door and then their voices fell silent. Mike, meanwhile, was left behind completely dumbfounded. When he had come here, having decided to listen to Stark´s offer, he had expected a job offer in the support staff, like in the mail room, reception or maybe as some assistant. There was also the small hope that maybe it would be an offer to work in the legal department of SI, even though Mike knew that he couldn't practise law. But maybe research or something. But with his offer to become his personal assistant, Stark had completely blindsided him. Mike was glad that Ms Potts had dragged Stark out of the room, because it allowed him to piece together his shattered composure. He really didn't know what if answer to Stark´s job offer should be.
Before Mike could think further, though, he heard the door opening again and a few seconds later Potts and Stark came back into the room. The woman´s gaze instantly bore down on Mike, making him gulp.
"Tony told me he met you when he bought drugs from you," Potts spoke as if she was just commenting on the weather.
"Yes," Mike replied, barely able to supress the 'Mam' he wanted to add. He had a healthy respect for powerful and intelligent women.
"Also, that you didn't sell him out to the newspapers, even though the Daily Bugle offered two thousand Dollars for a picture of Tony," she continued.
"Yes," Mike answered again.
"And that you found a mistake in our board contracts in one night that our whole team of specialised lawyers weren´t able to find in weeks," she finished.
"Yes."
"You told me I should get a PA because you had better things to do than bring me my coffee and I want him," Stark chipped in.
"Do I have any say in this?!" Mike exclaimed. Both, Potts and Stark looked at him, the former even looking a little bit contrite for discussing Mike as if he wasn't even there. Turning towards Stark, he continued: "I´m very grateful for your offer, but I fear I have to decline. My grandmother lives here in New York and I can´t just leave her to go to Malibu."
Stark opened his mouth to say something, but Potts was faster: "While Tony can be a little bit…unconventional when it comes to, well, everything really, I think you should think about his offer. Maybe talk to your grandmother about it." She smiled at him and this time it wasn't fake. "I, too, was apprehensive to leave my family behind for working for Tony, but my mother practically pushed me out of the house."
"I´ll think about it," Mike promised, even though he was absolutely sure that his answer wouldn't change.
"That´s all we can ask," Potts agreed.
"Half of the time I´m in New York, anyway," Stark added, but when under Pott´s glare he shrunk and added: "But of course, you should totally talk with your grandmother about it."
The retirement home his grandmother lived in was in southern Brooklyn, meaning that the ride on the subway took nearly an hour. Mike spent the time observing the people that hopped on and off the train, trying to guess their life stories. There was a business man who would never hold eye contact and who was constantly chewing on his lip. Probably on his way to his extramarital affair. A pregnant woman who looked like she was about to throw up, her face a sickly shade of green. She either was really ill or on her way to tell her parents that they were about to become grandparents. It was fun – at least for Mike – and it made the train ride pass by faster.
The building his grandmother´s care facility was in had been the mansion of a steel baron in the 19th century, but only the main building was still standing while the rest of the complex was rather new with a considerable amount of rooms added. Determined, Mike walked through the lobby, already knowing the way to his grandmother´s room on the first floor by heart. He nodded and smiled at the people that passed him by, receiving polite nods from the staff and unadulterated smiles of joy from the elder people. It was one of the reasons why his grandmother had chosen this facility: The obvious happiness and carefreeness that hung in the air. You didn't have the feeling that you were walking into a building where families had deported their annoying elderly relatives – the last stopover before death – but that you were part of an active community and it reminded Mike again that he needed to do everything in his power to allow his grandmother to stay here.
When Mike reached his grandmother´s room, he knocked and immediately opened the door, as he usually did when he visited her. Grammy was sitting in one of her padded chairs from which she could overlook the whole courtyard through her window. When Mike entered the room, she turned away from whatever going-ons she was observing and looked at Mike, a huge smile appearing on her face.
"Mike," she exclaimed overjoyed, slowly lifting herself up from her sitting position. "I didn't expect you to visit me. I´d have bought cake otherwise." She hugged Mike; a gesture he reciprocated with equal ferocity.
"It was a spur of the moment decision," Mike admitted as he sat down in the chair opposite of his grandmother.
"Anything new?" he asked.
"Well, nothing changed since you´ve been here three days ago," Grammy answered with a pointed look at Mike. "I´m still trying to find out if Andrew´s gay or not." Mike groaned and hid his face in his hands. Andrew was an – admittedly very, very attractive – nurse on his grandmother´s floor and ever since she had moved into her room, she would try to find out if he was attracted to men so that she could set him up with Mike. Mike was pretty sure that Andrew knew what was going on and thus kept all of his answers vague on purpose, which made it even worse, because Mike was a gown ass man and if he wanted to get laid he could manage it without his grandmother.
"When are you gonna give up that ridiculous quest of yours?" Mike asked exasperated.
"Never," Grammy replied with a wide smile on her face.
"So," she continued. "When will you tell me the real reason why you´re here?" Mike opened his mouth to reply something, but his grandmother just held up her hand to silence him and continued speaking. "I know you, Mike, and there´s definitely something you´re trying to put off by distracting me with idle gossip."
"Have you ever thought about becoming a lawyer?" Mike joked weakly. His grandmother just sent him a pointed look which made Mike straighten up in his seat.
"I´ve received a job offer," Mike finally admitted.
"Oh, Mike, that´s great!" his grandmother exclaimed.
"In Malibu," Mike added, not daring to look his Grammy in the eyes, instead choosing to look out of the window at the scenery outside. He turned his face back to his grandmother when he felt her hand laying atop of his.
"I think you should tell me the whole story," she said quietly. And Mike did: He told her of how Trevor and he started developing and selling weed (Grammy pursed her lips in barely concealed disappointment), how it led to Mike meeting Tony Stark (her eyes widened at that) and how the same man had offered him a job after only a short time knowing it.
"I´d spent the most time working on the West Coast," Mike told his grandmother. "He said, he´d be in New York quite often, but I don't how he defines 'often' and I really don't want you to be alone." He paused for a moment. "I don't want you to be that cliché of the grandmother left behind by her relatives who sought greener pastures."
"Please Mike, give it a rest." His grandmother rolled her eyes at him. "You´re an important part of my life, never doubt that, but I also have a life outside of you. I have friends here and hobbies, how do else do you think I spent my time between your visits?
But more important," she continued. "I want you to do something worthwhile with your life. I don't want you to stay here in this city if it means you have to rot away in some dingy apartment, keeping yourself afloat with minimum-wage jobs, barely scraping by. I want you to advance, to do something you´re passionate about and working for Tony Stark will open you so many doors that you would have never known even existed. I´m may be many things, Mike, but I´m not so selfish that I´d keep you here when you could move out into the world to become something more."
Mike wanted to say something, but it was as if all of his words had been taken from his mind. Because deep down Mike wanted to accept Stark´s offer because it offered him a way out of the dead end his life had turned into; because it offered him the chance to become a man his parents and grandmother could be proud of. He was no fool, he knew that his Grammy disapproved of Trevor and the way he chose to spend his life after he had been expelled from College, but he had been too apathetic to change, too content in wallowing in his self-pity and too afraid to lose Trevor after everything he had already lost (his parents, his future, his prospects). But now there was the chance to change all this. But Mike wouldn't have taken it, if his grandmother had been against it, if she had wanted him to stay with and take care of her.
Hearing her approve of this opportunity, having her actually encouraging his life choices after such a long time of silent disapproval and more or less subtle attempts at making him turn his life around, removed a weight from his shoulder that he had carried around all the time.
"I´m so proud of you," his grandmother told him. "And I think it´ll do you good, doing something you can be proud of, as well." Mike just nodded.
Later, when he left the retirement home and sat in the subway as it made its way through Brooklyn – house fronts passing by behind the windows, the lights of the city spreading on front of him like a glowing sea – Mike punched into his phone the number he remembered from Stark´s card.
"Hello Mikey," the billionaire singsonged into the phone.
"You don't get to call me that when I work for you," Mike replied before he could think about it.
"So, your grandmother gave you a stern talking to that you shouldn't waste your life selling drugs when you could instead do morally questionable things for me with better pay and benefits?" Stark spoke and Mike could already feel a headache settling in. He should get himself a weekly Aspirin subscription or something.
"I´m already regretting this," Mike muttered.
"Ah, ah, you can´t back out!" Stark proclaimed. "You´ve sold your soul to me and I don't intend to let it go."
"That´s slightly creepy," Mike commented.
"You´re still so naïve and innocent," Stark fake-sniffled. "Get your skinny ass to the office tomorrow so that Pepper can have you sign all those unnecessary HR forms."
"I´ll be there," Mike promised, but Stark had already ended the call.
When Mike came back to their apartment (and it shot some kind of pang through his heart, think about the fact that soon it wouldn't be anymore. He had had many good times here) Trevor was bouncing through the apartment with unadulterated joy.
"Mikey!" he exclaimed and hugged the blonde with so much strength that it forced all air out of his lungs. "Just the man I like to see!"
"Are you high?" Mike wanted to know.
"No, but I have some good news," Trevor replied. "I may have found a possibility for us to expand our little business."
"Yeah, about that," Mike started, a sense of foreboding creeping over him. "I have something to talk to you about, as well." He took a deep breath. "I´ve gotten a job."
"That´s great, man," Trevor congratulated him.
"In Malibu," Mike added and the smile fell off Trevor´s face.
"You told them to fuck off, didn't you?" he demanded to know. "You can´t really think about leaving, can you? We´re a team, Mike, we belong together. And we have a good thing going, don´t we?"
"Trevor, it was always only a temporary thing," Mike explained, "I just wanted to pay for Grammy´s care. I never planned to break into the drug distribution business. And this job…it may be the last chance for me to turn my life around and I wanna take that chance."
"So, I´m not good enough for you anymore?" Trevor asked, hurt and anger flashing in his eyes.
"No, never." Mike shook his head. "You´re my best friend and it would mean much to me if you supported my decision."
"Well, I won´t," Trevor snapped. "You´re ditching me for some fancy job on the West Coast. What´s that job even about?"
"Personal assistant of someone who´s got a lot of connections and money," Mike replied, not saying for whom exactly he would be working because he didn't think that Trevor would believe him, not when he was in a mood like this.
"A glorified secretary?" Trevor scoffed. "That´s what you´re leaving me behind for?" And before Mike could get in any word edgewise, Trevor had already stalked out of the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him with a loud bang.
Mike sighed. He really didn't want to start his new job with bad blood between him and Trevor, but he also didn't have time to wait for his friend to cool down in order to have a rational talk with him like two reasonable adults. Trevor had always been hot-headed, venting his emotions before common sense brought him down again, but somehow Mike had assumed that maybe this time it wouldn't be like this. He had hoped that Trevor would support him in his decision as Mike would have if their roles were reversed.
Maybe Trevor would come back. Maybe he would be the great friend Mike knew he could be.
Trevor wasn´t back when Mike left the apartment the next morning. Standing on the threshold, hand on the doorknob, Mike looked back on last time on the messy and derelict space that had been his home for the last few years; looked back on all the memories – good and bad – he had made here and a melancholic smile forced itself on his face. Somehow, Mike had this feeling that closing the door would also mean closing the door to this part of his life, ending it and making way for a new, hopefully better, part.
He didn't believe that he would ever come back here.
There were enough cannabis plants for Trevor to fulfil all of their outstanding orders, but then he would have to look for another way to make money. Mike hoped that his friend would find something that wasn't illegal, something that didn't pose a danger to him. Maybe Trevor would finally find the drive to create that ground-breaking software he was always talking about.
Mike closed the door. In the apartment silence sat in.
"There are some papers I need you to sign," Potts told him as she led him into her office. Sitting down, she put a pile of paper in front of Mike that nearly came up to the same height as the Bible in his grandmother´s room.
"Real paper?" Mike asked as he took the first piece of paper off the pile.
"The board´s afraid of Tony changing digital documents, so we have to file everything in paper form as well," Potts explained. Mike hummed and continued.
"'Stark Industries and associated partners are not liable for damage to toasters and other kitchen appliances during the employee´s tenure'," Mike read out aloud as he made his way through the papers.
"You don't want to know," Potts replied, rubbing her temples. "You really don't." Mike didn't prod further and after twenty minutes he had signed all of the necessary forms. He had expected that he would feel different after the deed – maybe some sort of new found purpose – but he felt exactly the same: the college drop-out, small-time drug dealer who had somehow conned his way into being Tony Stark´s personal assistant.
Spelt out like that, it did sound kind of unbelievable.
"You know, I´ve been hounding Tony to find a PA for months now," Potts mentioned offhandedly. "And he´s refused me on every turn. He must have seen something in you. I´d like to know what that was?"
"I don´t know," Mike admitted. "But Mr Stark must know how to read people; how to discern hidden agendas and false smiles. He wouldn't be where he´s now, otherwise. I can only hope that I can live up to whatever he´s seen in me. It´s nice to have that, you know? Someone seeing something special in you." There was a moment of silence and Mike wondered if he had passed whatever test Ms Potts had just put him through, but then just the smallest of smiles made it on the face of the formidable woman.
"You´ll do just fine."