2011
Each day is met with a deep-seated ache through his bones. It's a difficult feeling to explain to himself, because it's an odd sort of pain he'd never felt before. It doesn't just turn his limbs to lead, or sear like a stab or a bullet, but also travels through his veins, throbbing sluggishly, a muted fire, like lava, invasive like he's never experienced. Certain exercises and sudden movements aggravate it, and he's learned not to sit still for too long, because any movement for an hour after leaves him nauseous and light headed but he has to walk through it to look normal.
It can't be hidden under a shirt anymore. The nausea turns into a lack of appetite, so he doesn't eat. To wake up after a night's sleep is to be stiff and sore all day, so he's resorted to quick catnaps. He gets migraines. His joints ache. He can feel every touch to the raised black lines that crawl out from the reactor housing, over his shoulders, down to his navel, reaching through the veins in his arms to take his hand. Every cold and stomach bug in India has crossed paths with him these last few months, leaving him with a perpetual cough that burns like a hot poker in a thousand places every time he lurches. What food he does manage to eat, much of the time ends up coming back up.
Tony is miserable, and anyone with eyes can see it, can tell it's more than the frequent chills he keeps catching.
Sarvankar asks only once if he needs a doctor, and when Tony says no, never mentions it again. It's there, though, his worry and sadness, hidden behind his casual conversation, peering out in his eyes past the good humor. He's realized by now that it's terminal, Tony knows he has. But there's nothing either of them can do, and his friend is jus a little slow in accepting this simple fact. Tony forges forward, infamous across the continent as Iron Man, popular across the city as Acervi the mechanic.
Stane Industries hates him, a fact which Tony takes no small amount of pride in.
There's one large cell left, practically sitting on the border of Pakistan. Tony's gathered up enough Starktech to repair his suit as needed over the year and a half he's been flying. Yinsen's pulled him out of... sort of, flashbacks, more times than he can count. It's gotten to the point where it's just, find terrorists, blow terrorists up, make a show, and disappear back to India, where he licks his wounds and pretends to be normal again.
Tony waves to Sarvankar as he heads back to his corner, fully intending to jump into the armor the minute the other man leaves (what will he do, when he finds Tony's body?) but a tinny knocking sound at the entrance to the shop gives him pause.
The man hovering just outside is dressed in darker colors, a faded navy button-up and slacks. He's got a watch - or is it one of those special ones that have a monitor - and nicer shoes, scuffed as they may be. Wavy brown hair, combed into submission, greying at the temples, yet the cut suits his slightly round face. His glasses are slightly crooked, obviously well-used.
Tony knows exactly who it is.
"Excuse me," the stranger says in English, "can I - ?"
He sees Tony and, in that moment, he understands. Tony can see it all over his face.
"Would you mind answering a question?" The query is not directed at Tony, but rather at Sarvankar, who shrugs and agrees. "What is your favourite color?"
MR. GREEN - I'll come up with something off the wall, it'll be obvious.
MR. RED - When will I be seeing you?
MR. GREEN - Whenever I find you.
MR. RED - Fair enough.
"Hm... Blue," Sarvankar answers, perfect English as always. "Is this a survey?"
"Absolutely," Mr. Green says. "I'm from Kolkata, actually, I work in an orphanage. When I said I was traveling they asked me to come up with an unusual question to ask everyone I saw. Last time it was favourite animals," he says with a shy grin. He turns to Tony. "What's yours?"
"Ah - " Tony shifts nervously. Of course the man would expect him to speak English, he can write it just fine.
"Acervi doesn't speak English," Sarvankar puts in. "But I can translate?"
"Oh, uh, thank you." Now he looks desperately confused, because they both know who Tony is, but of course Tony has to make things difficult.
"Hey, Acervi, what's your favourite color?" Sarvankar speaks in Marathi for him.
Tony grins. "If his is green, mine is red."
The moment his boss translates, Green's entire body relaxes. "Thank you. The kids'll be thrilled."
"Kids, huh..." Tony thinks about this. "Ask him if he speaks any other languages."
Sarvankar only looks vaguely surprised, and complies. Green laughs, that hint of nervousness returning.
"A few, yes."
Tony nods and sweeps past Green, grabbing his arm and calling to his boss that they'll be back later. The other man just smiles bemusedly and lets himself be dragged off into the city, and what exactly does Tony think he's doing, really?
Tony releases Green and straightens his own shirt out. "Walk with me," he invites in French, but recieves a blank stare. He gestures at himself and the street and starts to walk.
It's Green's turn as he falls into step beside Tony and he tries - Portugese? Tony answers in denial. That's two languages of his he can cross off, and two of Green's.
It must have been an odd sight, two very different men walking down the sidewalk at a painfully slow pace, speaking to each other in varying languages before faltering and trying again in another. Eventually Tony gestures at Green to be silent and rubs his forehead, leading the way up to his apartment almost blindly as he forgoes the headache.
"Coffee?" Green asks in English, and Tony looks up to find they're passing the Starbucks. He catches himself nodding a split second too late, and now Green is giving him that calculating look that means something terrible when used by Sarvankar or Pe-
By his boss. Bad news for him and his schedule. But this time it's not his schedule, but his cover.
He clears his throat. "Yes," he says in Dari, knowing Green won't understand but trying again anyway. The other man nods once, decisively, and gestures for Tony to lead the way.
Green struggles with ordering so Tony gets a black coffee for him, apparently assuming correctly the other man's tastes, and asks for the "special". The lady hands them over a tall cup and a java chip frappuccino.
They blend in relatively well with the small crowds, meandering down the streets at a slow pace. Tony revels in the companionable silence, savoring his chilly drink as he slowly cools from the heat of summer in India while wearing two long sleeved shirts (one isn't enough to hide the swollen veins anymore).
His apartment is... humble, to word it nicely. A small, sixty by sixty one-room and a bathroom, and he's found it surprisingly easy to keep it clutter-free. On one wall is his black couch, which folds out to be his mattress, his little "side table", and the door to the bathroom. The adjacent wall, next to the door, is the kitchen area, consisting of two sinks, a fridge, a stove and oven, three cupboards, and twelve feet of counter. Nearly the entire west wall is a window with threadbare maroon curtains. The east wall is all table, with scattered electronics and their parts covering every inch of it and some of the floor. In the middle of the room, a worn brown rug may have been circular once, but is now an oblong oval-ish shape. The ceiling is low, cracked and stained with water spots. A scratched rectangular wooden table stands off center, with two mismatched chairs. There's a small, shredded cat bed tucked away underneath. Two lights, one above the kitchen table, and one above the east wall's mess, flicker faintly. It's been giving Tony a headache lately, he needs to go get new ones.
He looks around and thinks, home.
"Welcome," he declares in Spanish, "to my humble abode."
There's a small gasp from Green, and Tony turns while consciously not frowning. However, Green isn't looking at his apartment, but rather stares at him.
"You speak Spanish?" the man demands in the same language, and at Tony's nod sighs in relief. "Excellent. Allow me to introduce myself, then."
Tony's not-frown turns into a smile as he shakes Green's proffered hand. "I'm Bruce Banner," he continues, shaking firmly. Tony's hand aches a little when he gets it back, which only makes him smile wider.
"They call me Acervi," he offers, shoving his hands in his pockets. This gives "Bruce" pause, but he accepts it after a moment's thought.
"Can't speak English, then?" he queries. Tony shrugs and kicks his shoes off at the doorway, waiting for the other man to do the same before closing the door. Bruce is clearly waiting, so Tony gives himself another moment to think by giving himself brainfreeze via frappuccino.
"It's complicated," he says finally, suppressing a wince at the lame excuse.
Bruce's look sharpens. "Why is it complicated?"
"You first, Green Bean." That at least cracks a smile, no matter how quick it vanishes.
"Isn't the host meant to accommodate the guest?"
"My house, my rules," Tony sing songs, smirking. The frapp cup is dropped into the tiny bin by the counter. Bruce gives him a flat look and Tony is given the strong impression of the man's favourite line, 'can you not'. He mentally dubs it the 'Tony no face'.
"It's proper social conduct, I believe," he says dryly. Tony rolls his eyes, dropping onto the couch with a sigh that turns pained at the end as he jars his aches.
"Fine," he says dramatically. "What do you want to know?"
"Oh, "Bruce says airily, triumphantly, vaguely smug (rude!), "you know. Why you apparently can't speak English, even though you can type it just fine. Why you're using a metal suit to steal tech and blow up terrorist groups - don't give me that face, it's obvious," he adds. "And oh, tell me why there's a black game of Tetris climbing up your neck, that'd be nice to know, too."
Tony claps a hand to his neck, swearing in frustration and not a small amount of pain as his palm connects with the over-sensitive tissue. "Is it gone that far? Shit."
"Looks like I'm not the only one with a 'condition'," Bruce oh-so-helpfully observes as he tugs ineffectually at the collar of his shirt.
"Shut up," Tony complains, giving up, "it's just a thing. You know, like.. like a cold. But more permanent."
Bruce frowns suddenly and lurhes forward to get a closer look, ignoring Tony's scoot backwards. "Are those your veins?" He shoves Tony's hand away and prods at one, freezing at his sharp inhale. "They are," he realizes, stepping back with a look of concern. "Look, Acervi? That's heavy metal poisoning, you can't just let that go like you have been."
"I know," Tony snaps, incensed. "But there's nothing I can do. It's a thing, that has happened, and it's not important."
"So what's more important than your health, blowing up bad guys?" Bruce shoots back.
"Yes!" Tony explodes, leaping to his feet and gesturing wildly at the both of them. "It's not a thing I can just will away, or just drink a potion to make better. It's a real, serious deal that I cannot stop. It's - it's," he sighs, anger draining away. "Have you been able to cure your radiation problem?"
Bruce suddenly finds something fascinating about the floor. Tony winces again, sure he's gone too far. There's something about the way Bruce is standing, with his shoulders hunched and his head down, that hurts to look at with a sort of miserable familiarity.
I've gotten close," Bruce says quietly. "So close, but then it turns around on me and it's like I haven't done anything."
"It's like that," Tony says seriously, calmed by the sudden quiet. "In the end you can't get rid of it. If I'm going to die, and it'll be soon, I might as well take some of the bad guys out with me."
Bruce has this painful looking twist to his face. "Maybe," he says hesitantly. "Maybe I can find something. I'm more likely than you to find something, anyways, your area of expertise isn't with the human body. Mine is."
"That's nice," Tony says. There's one variable Bruce doesn't know about, probably won't know about, and that's the arc reactor, which really is the clincher on this deal, isn't it? No matter what this guy tries, it'll all be in vain.
"Just," Bruce says firmly, "let me try."
It's tempting, even if Tony knows it's useless. This guy, whom he met on the internet by trading hacks like handshakes, who has been asking for help from him for two years, is now asking to help and it's a little overwhelming. Just a little.
"I – fine. Good luck."
"Thank you." Bruce looks immensely relieved and Tony feels guilty.
There's a scratching at the window wall and Bruce jumps to look, while Tony reclines back into the couch with a heavy sigh. A little clicking of claws on the ground, and then a twelve pound lump drops onto his lap, situating its paws on his chest right where they hurt the most (on either side of the reactor, the little shit). Tony groans, allowing the creature to lick his stubble earnestly.
"What," Bruce says, "is that."
Tony sits up, earning an indignant hiss as he adjusts the cat in his arms. "This is Pepper," he says brightly. "My cat. She hangs around outside, but she comes in to cuddle every so often."
Pepper, whose eyes had been screwed up as she hissed her displeasure, whips around to glare blue ice at their guest. She's an average-sized cat, with sharp ears, a dark ginger tabby coat, and dainty paws. Her feather duster tail whips Tony in the face and he garbles a complaint as she assesses Bruce, swatting it out of his eyes.
"Well," Bruce says cautiously, "it's nice to meet you, Pepper." She snorts in a most uncat-like fashion, lumbering around and settling herself rather rudely in Tony's lap. He sighs and strokes the prickling fur on her spine. "You know," he continues to Tony, "cats come to comfort people who are lonely."
"That's nice." Tony raises an eyebrow. "You wanna see the suit?" Bad subject change, but Tony does not want to go down that road.
"You mean do I want to see mental five year old dick around in a metal suit?" Bruce shrugs, adjusting his glasses.
Tony puts a hand over the reactor in mock hurt. "You just keep aiming to hurt me, and it's offensive and also not very nice. I'm a genius, I'll have you know."
**8**
"That, I'll admit, is incredible."
"I know," Tony says smugly, pulling the helmet on and waving in the suit as he flies out the back door, leaving Bruce in the dust (sorry, buddy). It's a second skin, a healthy one, and he can lose his aches and pains for a few hours when he wears it. A relief, his temporary cure. As Eurasia's Iron Man, he can put a hold on his own reality and be an avenging angel, destroying America's technology – his technology, but no one can know that – from out of the wrong people's hands. If that happens to include the military at some point, well.
But this time, he finds no joy, no vicious satisfaction, at lighting it all up, and killing them all. How many people has he killed like this? He wonders suddenly. It's a sick thought, a dark feeling that he doesn't want to know, that answers.
He flies away with a bag full of palladium and a backdraft of an explosion to speed him along.
Bruce is still there when he comes back, in the early hours of the morning. The suit takes some time in removal, but he has the good grace to clap and call him an idiot when he's down to a shirt and jeans.
"I think I've reached my diagnosis," Bruce announces, clapping slower now. "You're insane."
He really knows how to land the blows, doesn't he? Tony glowers, affronted, and tucks the helmet back under his desk. Just keep em coming, why don't you, maybe I'll keel over from your insults first." He pauses at the constipated look on Bruce's face. "Bad joke?"
"Very bad," Bruce says seriously, raising an eyebrow. "So what's with the light bulb in your chest?"
Oh. Uh. Shit. Only one shirt, right. "Yeah, that. Well, to start, all my lovely new tattoos start there..." Tony gestures at his neck.
"Let me see," Bruce demands, lunging forward and grabbing at the hem of Tony's shirt. When he tugs upwards, Tony finally lurches backwards.
"Whoa, um, wait, I don't think – " Normally he might've cracked a comment about stripping, but this is the most sensitive area on his body. In a bad way. "C'mon, Brucie, let's – " His backside hits the corner of the table and he sucks in a breath. Right on a sore spot.
"Let me see," Bruce says softly. "Please."
Tony stares at him for a solid minute. This is his best kept secret, his darkest secret, his life. His death. He knows that it only makes sense to show the other man, get it over with, accept help, but feelings defy logic, don't they?
Finally he aquiesces, and Bruce lets go long enough for him to pull the shirt up and over his head. It's cold in his corner, but his shiver is more of nerves and maybe a little bit of fear.
It's not a pretty sight. The reactor continues to glow a reassuring blue, but the swollen black veins snaking outwards tells the real story. The whole area is, when not lined with black, the painful looking (and really, it is) red of something infected. It's a nasty network of greens and blues, turning the untainted skin a sickly metallic shade. His shoulders, his arms, his torso and down past his ribcage, all reflect how far gone he is. Maybe now, he thinks bitterly, Bruce will see and understand.
"Jesus," Bruce breathes, reaching forward; when Tony tenses instinctively, he drops his hand but continues to stare, eyes mapping out every inch of the damage. He looks down at himself, flinching slightly at the sight of the bloodless scars from surgery, stark white jagged lines and knots amongst the color. It's fighting against instinct to leave his hands loose and relaxed on the table, instead of covering it all up so no one can see again. "What happened?"
"Terrorists," Tony says shortly. "Their bombs put shrapnel near my heart, so my doctor dug out my sternum and put an electromagnet in its place. Just in case, you know, if I actually wanted to live after being awake through the initial surgery."
So you use this to protect your heart AND power your suit?" Bruce shakes his head. "You're not just insane, you're downright mental. What powers it?"
"Oh, you know." Tony waves his hand airily, scowling all the same. "A few grams of palladium."
"Palladium?" Bruce repeats, a full octave higher. "Are you stupid?"
"It's the only element that can power it," Tony says defensively. "It's not as if I wanted to stick a chunk of radioactive metal in my ribcage. I mean, good on the doctor for the idea of electromagnet, but really."
"I feel I should be offended," Yinsen says crossly, very suddenly standing to his immediate right. It's an exercise of very good control to not jump a mile in the air with an undignified squeak. Thankfully, all he does is flex his hands on the edge of the table and stare at the floor.
There's a very long, very awkward silence before Bruce sits down heavily on one of the cleaner benches, nearly braining himself on a heavy chain hanging from the ceiling.
"You're going to have to explain everything, from the beginning, in detail. We can start with your real name."
"I already said, Acervi." Of course he would know already. Of course.
"Yes, you said that's what people call you. What's your real name?"
Tony swallows. All or nothing, he supposes. "You can call me Tony."
"That's not all in, Stark," Yinsen says snidely, putting emphasis on the last word.
Bruce smiles. "Nice to meet you, Tony. Now, mind telling me about these terrorists?"
**8**
Bruce reclines on the couch, allowing Pepper to nudge at his shoulder. Tony's in the kitchen, frying vegetables and a little bit of chicken. He won't be eating much, but after hearing about the other guy (Tony refuses to call Bruce's alter ego an 'it') he figures Bruce must eat a lot.
"You know SHIELD's probably noticed you by now, right?" Bruce says conversationally. "God knows they've been after me for years."
Tony piles the food onto a large plate and fills the pan with soapy water to soak. "Dinner."
"Thanks," Bruce says pleasantly, sitting across from him at the table.
Tony passes him a smaller plate and a fork, the large dish in the center of the table. "What's SHIELD?"
"Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. They're the people that handle guys like you and me. Looks good," he adds approvingly, piling the veggies onto his plate. Tony steals a zucchini slice and Bruce pretends not to see.
"Us, as in the badass community?"
Bruce snickers. "Yeah, that's who they're supposed to handle. Usually, they try for recruitment first. But when a person starts turning into a threat, or a potential one, they usually turn the negotiations from peaceful to men knocking at your door with big guns."
Tony scoffs, playing with his tiny plate of cabbage and chicken. When Pepper mewls pitifully by his feet, he tosses the meat down to her. "As if they could find me... have they been following you?"
Bruce smirks around a forkful of carrot. "They try." Tony makes the appropriate questioning noise and Bruce continues. "I let them think they've got eyes on me sometimes. I show up on their radar a bit, let them see I'm in no trouble - or causing it - so they don't try too hard to find me. I'm pretty sure they still believe I'm holed up in a cabin in the Himalayas."
"Are they looking for me?" Pepper seems to give up on him and jumps up onto the table, tucking in and chewing at Tony's food. He lets her.
"Of course. They were searching the moment you attacked that first terrorist group," Bruce eyes the arc reactor critically through the single shirt he's wearing - at home means comfort, right? "Luckily, you're not very easy to track."
"Nobody's looking for a mechanic in the middle of India," Tony answers. "Quit staring, is there something I missed in explaining?"
"None that I can think of at the moment."
Tony stands up and collects his now empty dish, upsetting Pepper, who glares at him. The pot seems clean enough so he starts washing. Mindless work does him good sometimes, but with Bruce around it seems he's got to think about the way he acts - with Bruce, he's Tony. Outside, he's Acervi. He hadn't realized how well he kept his own mask up against himself. "After work, I'll show you the tranq I made you."
"Alright," Bruce says amiably, stroking Pepper. What a suck up, Tony thinks fondly. He's going about it the right way, anyways.
**8**
In truth, Chels and I finished this chapter on Saturday. She acted as Bruce-in-the-flesh, because apparently if he's not an anonymous chat user I can't write him. But that's not the point. The point is, I fear my drive for writing this fic is failing. If it dies completely, I may never write another chapter again. Proof of this can be found in Simply Blue, a Homestuck fic I haven't truly updated since September. Once I reached about the same amount of words as I have this time... Well. Here's hoping I see you all in chapter eleven, with Steve (sometime this century!).