Felina Fullstop: THIS IS FOR YOOOUUUUUU! You are epic and you make me cry and scream and stuff. Here is some fluffy fluff for inspiration. Can't wait to read the next chapter of Harm's Way!

I think this fic is gonna have one more chapter (this time it really will be smut, I promise!) BUT I have the next installment planned. It's... kind of cracky/angsty. I dunno. I'ma work on it.

Oh! Before I forget: I've done some illustrations for this fic (and I'm working on some for Harm's Way); they're over on Deviantart. My screen name's ToGainYourTrust; the pictures are in my gallery if anyone feels bored enough to check them out. That is, if anyone's reading this. .

I'll be quiet now.

~::~

Forty-five minutes into the drive, Ivan starts to twitch, quiet grunts and raspy noises coming from his throat. Tony looks over at him, expecting to see the Russian waking up and yawning. Instead he is greeted by the sight of Vanko, still asleep, scowl lines deepening the shadows on his face as his hands curl into fists. He twitches again, growls, one leg kicking against the door like it's an invisible enemy.

"Ivan." Tony is hesitant to touch the sleeping man; he's learned the hard way that waking Ivan can be hazardous to one's health.

Vanko shifts, frowns, bares his gold-capped teeth in a silent snarl but doesn't wake.

"Ivan!" Stark nudges the villain's undamaged left shoulder, then has to jerk away as the larger man lashes out instinctively. "Ivan, wake up!"

Ivan flinches, gasps, sits bolt upright, eyes flying open and ranting in Russian. "Nyet! Я убью Вас! Nyet-"

He stops mid-sentence, eyes still wide, breath coming in short bursts, looking around wildly.

"Hey," risking a black eye, Tony reaches over again, touches Vanko's arm lightly to get his attention. "Hey. It's okay." He rubs Whiplash's shoulder soothingly.

Ivan turns to look at him, that piercing, intent stare locking onto the American's face. He's silent for a few moments, scanning Stark, and then he nods, seemingly reassured. He releases a heavy breath, runs his left hand through his hair. "I'm fine," he says hoarsely, and it's unclear whether he's trying to convince his companion or himself.

"You're not fine," Stark says, not releasing Vanko's shoulder. "What was that?"

"Nothing." The Russian adjusts his bound arm, wincing. "Bad dream."

"Yeah, you get a lot of those, I've noticed." It's true; too many times Tony has woken up to the sensation of being kicked to the floor by the thrashing of his bedmate, who always denies it when woken. "What was it this time?"

"Nothing."

"Ivan."

"Drop it, Stark."

Tony sighs and lets the matter go for now. They're almost at the house, anyway.

They pull into the driveway, the house framed by the brilliantly sunlit ocean, and park in the garage. The hero steps around his car to open the door for the injured man.

Vanko gets out and waits a few beats, eyes following Stark as the billionaire shuts the door and locks the car. Tony turns, notices the Russian watching him with an expression that clearly has thought behind it.

"What?" He orders Jarvis to shut the garage door, tossing his keys onto a nearby workbench.

"Tony."

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

Tony turns in surprise, about to speak, and Vanko steps forward and catches his parted lips in a kiss. It's so rare for Ivan to be the one to initiate a kiss that for a few beats Stark is too stunned to respond. Ivan senses this hesitation; he starts to pull away, and the American snaps into action, lunging into the contact. His hands come up automatically, locking behind the taller man's neck and pulling him back in. The Russian tilts his head, runs his tongue over the hero's, then pulls away enough to nip at his lip, drawing a shiver from the playboy.

After a long, lingering moment, Tony leans back (noticing that Vanko's left hand has somehow found its way around his waist) and releases a breath. "I've missed you," he says solemnly, framing Ivan's bruised face with his hands.

The villain's forest-hazel eyes search Tony's, like he's looking for a lie or hitch. He sighs, tips forward so that their foreheads are pressed together, leaning against each other.

"Twoooiiit!"

"Son of a-!" Tony ducks as the bird hurtles through the air toward them. Ivan chuckles, extends a hand for the little demon to perch on. It lands, walks up his arm to his shoulder, and nibbles lovingly at his hair, shooting Tony a beady-eyed glare.

"Я тосковал без Вас, также," Vanko says quietly, stroking the cockatoo's crest.

Stark translates the foreigner's sentence quickly: I missed you, too. He wonders if the statement is meant for the bird or for him. He hopes it's for him.

Still toting his feathery companion, Ivan heads for the kitchen. Tony follows, trading dirty looks with the bird. The Russian begins to shuffle through cabinets, frowning.

"No vodka?"

"Oh. Uh," Stark glances around self-consciously, trying to come up with an answer other than I fell into an Ivan-withdrawal-induced stupor and drank everything alcoholic I could get my hands on. "Uh... I'll get more tomorrow," he offers.

Vanko furrows a brow. "Cannot celebrate victory without vodka."

"No?" Tony grins. "Are you sure?" He takes a few slow, predatory steps toward the physicist. "'Cause I'm pretty sure I can think of a couple ways," he stands behind Whiplash, keeping out of bird-range, and places both hands on the ex-con's hips, "That we could celebrate..." he noses the hair away from Ivan's right ear, kisses up his neck. "...Without the necessity of vodka."

The villain makes a noncommittal noise, but he leans back into the warmth of the wealthy American. The bird, sensing that it will not be welcome on its current perch for much longer, shuffles down its owner's arm and onto the counter, where it begins to viciously attack the potted bromeliad Tony bought on a whim two weeks ago.

"C'mon," maintaining his light hold on Vanko's hips, Stark gives a gentle tug and steers the larger man toward the bedroom.

Pressed together in the doorway, Tony helps the injured man peel off his shirt, leaving burning kisses down his torso. The hero undoes Vanko's buckle, slides his belt free slowly, lets it fall, his hands hovering over the zipper. He leans up, bites one of the small tattoos on Ivan's neck, then steps back and slowly sinks to his knees, pulling the zipper and sliding his pants down. He plants a kiss on each candle flame that adorns the Russian's hips, then stands and nods toward the bed. "Lie on your stomach," he gives Vanko a devious little smile. "I'll be right back."

Grumbling half-heartedly at being ordered around, Ivan climbs onto the bed and, after a few moments of awkward adjustment, ends up on his belly, his bound arm hanging over the side of the bed, face buried in the pillows. In the brief moment he's alone in the room, he allows himself to take a deep breath and slowly release it into the Egyptian cotton, the knowledge that everything worked out washing over him. Then the bathroom door opens and he is immediately a line of solid tension once more, wary, trusting Stark enough to lie face-down but not enough to keep from flinching a little when the mattress dips.

"It's okay," Tony says, silent laughter in his voice. "You're out of prison, remember? I'm not gonna shank you."

Ivan grunts but remains on edge. He know full well that he owes his dubious rescuer, and he can't help but worry a little about just how the hero intends to take his payment. He feels fingers curl under the hem of his boxers, tug them down. He hears a bottle cap pop open, and he's about to roll over, yank down Stark's underwear and take him in his mouth instead, because he's pretty damn sure that if they do what Tony's planning in this position, Ivan will tear quite a few stitches-

-but instead of a slick finger between his legs, there's a pair of oiled hands between his shoulder blades, rubbing circles into his spine.

"Wh-" he starts to sit up, but Tony's hands press him gently but firmly back down, still rolling over his muscular back with slow, practiced movements. Stark uses the heels of his palms to knead the knot of taut tendon he finds at the base of the prone man's neck.

"Jesus, you're tense." Tony leans down to press a light kiss to the ink on the back of one shoulder, his lotion-softened fingertips digging into the coils of muscle under Whiplash's weathered skin. "I'm guessing you've never had a massage before."

"Of course; I went to spa every day in Russia," the ex-con snipes.

Iron Man snorts. "Hilarious." He alternates pressure, working his way down the rope of stress that is Vanko's spine. His thumbs press into the indentations just above the villain's pelvis, and he has a moment of elation when the figure beneath him lets out a muffled groan and relaxes a fraction of an inch. He slides his palms back up, curling his fingers and dragging them along Ivan's skin, inducing goosebumps. He hums quietly to himself, mapping the network of scars and tattoos as they shift and roll like waves over the muscles under his hands. Bending his head again, he trails his lips over a huge, mottled, boot-shaped bruise on the Russian's ribs. That earns him another quiet not-quite-a-moan, and Vanko sinks a little deeper into the mattress. Tony smiles and traces lines with his fingertips back down, circling the base of Ivan's vertebrae, kneading the firm swell of his ass, rubbing the thigh just under each buttock. This time it's definitely a moan he gets.

Stark brings his hands back up to the injured man's shoulders again, sliding his fingers up Vanko's neck and into his hair. He trails one digit over the sensitive spot behind the ex-con's ear, readjusts himself on the bed so that he can kiss a line from Ivan's outstretched left wrist up to his neck. Whiplash makes another sound, somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and mutters something.

"Hmm?" Tony pulls his mouth away enough to ask, "You say something?"

Ivan shifts, clears his throat, and says into the pillow, "Didn't get there in time."

"Get where?" The hero sits up.

"To you. In- in the car earlier, in dream. Nightmare." The long-haired man turns his head slightly, peering up with one eye over his shoulder. "Didn't... get to city in time. Didn't get to you."

One of the things that's so very alluring to him about Vanko, Tony will realize eventually, is the Russian's ability to completely derail him with a few words. This is one of those times, and he sits for a few moments, processing. He swallows, takes a deep breath, and lays down next to Ivan. He leans in and kisses him, pulling away to tug the rumpled sheets up over both of them. "It's okay," he murmurs as the lights dim automatically. "You got there in time." He grins wryly. "You're my hero."

Ivan snorts derisively and gives him a shove that could almost be described as playful. "Smartass."

"That's me," Stark admits, yawning and settling into his pillow. "Oh," he adds, opening his eyes as if just remembering something, "Fair warning: in the morning, there will be massaging of a slightly different sort."

Vanko rolls his eyes and nods, fighting off a yawn of his own. "Of course."

The American drifts off quickly, limbs sprawled across the bed, snoring quietly. His companion is slower to fall asleep; he rolls onto his back, careful of his arm, and stares up at the ceiling a while, the darkness curling in around the bed.

Good to be home, he thinks sleepily, heaving a sigh and letting his eyes close. It only lasts a second; his eyes snap open in consternation. Home? He frowns. When the hell did this place become-

His thoughts are interrupted by Tony, who rolls over and throws an arm around him, cuddling closer and smiling in his sleep. Without even realizing it, Ivan returns the smile, the edge of his mouth twitching upward. Home.