Thank you so much for all the reviews on the last chapter, it was a really emotional one for me to write, and I was in a very draining headspace trying to understand and convey that level of grief, but you are all so wonderful and so supportive, and it made every letter worth it :3

Just as I promised, this chapter marks a return to happy family!avengers universe, no civil war or infinity war. Also, the cool thing about picking up two years later is that we have a whole new branch of characters to play with, so we might see some new friends in the future!

This one starts serious, ends Very lighthearted, and in the middle its a tad sexy, reader discretion advised if youre ~ 14 and under.

P is for Poison

The city planners had really outdone themselves this year.

The Met Gala was in the convivial swing of its adolescent stages. Limos, black or white (but always stretch) braked gracefully outside the museum plaza. Partygoers were laughing and calling out greetings; young was the night. The grand staircase enshrining the entranceway seemed to glow in the moonlight, the brilliance of its white marble dampened only by the blood red mile of walkway carpet. Beautiful women, shackled in their precious metals and stones, stood dutifully by their philandering husbands. The same philandering husbands stood dutifully by their wives, if just for the photographers. There were, after all, some situations where appearances must be maintained above all else.

Once past coat check, past the donation boxes, past the bickering celebrity couples, and past the open bar, the Met was adorned to the highest caliber of elegance. The atrium was outfitted in its deserved splendor; a twenty-foot diameter crystal chandelier hung far above the floor, the light catching in its dangling prisms, sending rainbows to floor.

Champagne bubbled in a frenzy as bottle after bottle of New York City's finest imports were popped. Those who partook in the drink held their champagne flutes delicately pinched at the neck while maintaining a fierce grip, ever so softly brushing their littlest fingers against the base to keep the glass perfectly vertical. It must be done in this way. To drop a glass would be social suicide, but to hold it incorrectly for the whole evening would be even more embarrassing. One must always maintain the well-practiced façade of absentminded grace. After all, what are the members of our aristocracy if not social figure skaters, trained to partake in complicated ordeals without ever appearing fatigued?

Amidst all the elegance, all the fashion, and all the brewing tabloid articles for the next morning's print, one man stood confidently recounting a particularly dirty tale to a considerable number of peers. He was just as well-dressed and pressed as the rest of them, fitting in seamlessly with the mannerisms and dialect of the upper echelon – but there was a special gleam to his eye, and way the air thickened around him, a buzz that drew people closer. It was no surprise that the crowd around him was growing with every passing word. As soon as he delivered the punch line, his mouth turned up into a wickedly mischievous grin that had every man in the circle choking on champagne and every woman fanning herself.

One tuxedo doubled over, wiping a tear from his eye. "Mr. Stark, that was in such poor taste!" The protest was false, and the chuckling was still rippling through the group.

"C'mon!" His arms spread wide in mock indignation. "It wasn't that bad!"

… But he knew it really was that bad. So instead of trying any further to admonish himself of sin, Tony Stark sent a scathingly suggestive wink to a nearby trophy wife. When she turned away to blush, her neck stretched beautifully against the platinum and rose gold inlay of her chandelier earrings. The voluptuous curves of her chest lay exposed for the world to see – but only for a mere second. Alas, too soon, the seventy-year-old stock broker on her arm ushered his mistress away to find seats. The Italian sighed to himself, ruefully, ever a proprietor of the beautiful, and lifted his champagne to his mouth, his own calloused, but manicured, fingers pinching the stem of the glass, flawlessly. In one moment, he was wondering how best to rescue such a lovely woman from a lifetime of denture cream, and in the next Tony realized he had emptied yet another glass of bubbly.

The lights were dimming, and the hours of witty celebrity speeches on tabloid humanitarianism were about to begin, so he slid quickly up to the bar and asked for a refill. There was no way in hell he planned on listening to these people sober.

Crossing the ballroom in a few composed strides, Stark made it to the bar and fluttered his fingers on the counter, lifting his champagne glass to catch the bartender's eye. A surprisingly youthful face turned to face him.

"Right away, Mr. Stark, Sir." The young man smiled honestly and fumbled a bit as he brought out another bottle of the gala-brand pinot, his cheeks flushing a bit red, hoping there was no way Tony could read his mind and know how many Avengers posters he had in his dorm room.

Tony studied the boy while he was making the drink. "Thomas" was his name, according to his nametag. Tommy boy seemed nice enough, not a day over 22, and probably picked up the gala hours hoping to pay his student loans off in tips from the upper, upper, upper-one-percent.

The boy came back with a chilled glass and poured the drink in front of his customer, careful to keep the white cloth around his hand pulled taut so his lower-class finger prints wouldn't sully the crystal's sheen, undoubtedly how he was instructed.

As the bartender was pouring the drink, our own debonair snuck a glance to the tip jar at the left end corner of the counter.

Practically empty.

"Classic…" he scoffed to himself.

"What was that, Sir?" The young man was sliding the champagne across the gap.

"Nothing, just, thanks, kid." Tony accepted the glass and gave a "Salud" before preparing to leave the bar. As he turned away, his free hand stuck casually in his suit pocket while his other gripped his drink. A smiled danced at his lips and he turned back to the bar.

"Oh, and kid?" Tony pulled his hand out of his pocket and held it out to the bartender. "Hang on to these for me, will you?" The young man looked hesitant but almost yelped when a few hundred dollar bills fell into his hand. The kid was unable to get a sentence out - Tony just laughed and wished him a good night.

Stark straightened his tie and regripped his glass, making his way to his seat. His black, Italian leather shoes shone under the party lights, and his tuxedo was cut immaculately. It had been far too long since he had attended one of these things, but Banner convinced him to go yesterday morning.

"Tony, you've been cooped up in this lab for too long, go to the gala, have some fun, take a disgustingly expensive car, and enjoy yourself." The doctor looked up at him through his microscopy headset, his eyes refract through the huge mounted lenses so that they were the size of saucers.

Tony had sighed, flicked the lenses up and away from the doctor's face, and leaned dejectedly on the countertop. "I dunno, Bruce, I haven't really done the whole…" he rocked back and forth searching for the words, "… 'socialite' thing since Pepper and I…well, it's been a while." He moved, ever unwilling to stay in one spot. "Besides, Doc, if you want to go, you can have my invitation. You've been just as cooped up as me, my friend, and don't try to deny it."

Bruce laughed. "You're right, Tony - but the difference being that I isolate myself for the safety of New York City. You're doing it because you're avoiding real life." And with that, he repositioned his magnifiers.

Tony was about to give a witty retort when the med lab door had opened with a whoosh, the airlock behind it tightly sealed. Steve Rogers walked in, his hair wet and combed back, undoubtedly just out of the shower after his disgustingly athletic morning jog.

"How far today, Cap? Thirty miles? Thirty-five just for fun?"

Steve shook his head good naturedly, "No, Tony, only went 22 today; I got a late start."

"You're slipping, old man." Tony waggled a pipette in the soldier's face before slipping around him and heading back up the stairs.

"And Bruce," he paused and called back. "You're right. I should go. I'll have my tux pressed."

Back in the present, Tony hadn't decided yet if he was happy in his decision to attend. The gala was always stunningly beautiful, but Tony had always found the Met to be a place of great wonderment even without the decorations. Museums held dusty things, old things, outdated things, yes – but they were a physical timeline of humanity's progressions. As an inventor and an innovator, such things always appealed to his mind. Tony often pondered whether he would be in a museum one day. The thought made him uneasy – he could only imagine how Steve felt.

Tony had been assigned to Table 4, close to the front of the stage but not so centered that the camera would never leave him. Thank God for that, because he planned to work on his phone the whole time…except through dinner. If his Italian roots blessed him with anything, it was a profound love for good food.

Tony raised his glass to sip the champagne, the delicate bubbles gliding across his tongue and flowing like down his throat like silk. Tony couldn't help but give a hum of approval – this was an excellent vintage.

Lights were being flickered, warning party-goers of the imminent threat of air-time. Women primped their hair and powdered their noses, skirts rustling as everyone filed to their seats. Tony unbuttoned his jacket with a practiced flick of the wrist and positioned himself in his seat with his right leg crossed over his left. The string quartet in the far corner of the room played a gentle waltz that had Tony tapping to the rhythm. He was retreating into the recesses of his mind, determined to socialize at little as possible and instead brainstorm new projects for the duration of the evening.

However, the inventor was pulled out of his trance by a very delicate tap on the shoulder. Tony turned, obviously startled.

"Excuse me, Mr. Stark," there was a laugh. "I did not mean to intrude." the voice was as lovely as the woman it belonged to. High cheekbones framed a porcelain face, her brunette hair was pulled tight to the back of her head and proceeded to waterfall downwards in an abundance of thick, natural curls. Her chuckle shook her voluminous locks, and sent a ripple of light through her unique, diamond chandelier earrings….

Tony stood, recognition easing his initial fright and shifting him straight into his suave demeanor. "Ah, we met earlier, didn't we? I was telling a rather inappropriate joke which-" she laughed again, cutting him off.

"-Which I laughed at, despite my better judgement." She looked up at him playfully. "but you should know it really was a terrible joke, Mr. Stark."

"Well," Tony's smile was crooked, which sent his groomed scruff into full 5 o'clock shadow mode. It was ruggedly charming – just how he liked it. "If you care to seat yourself and your husband at my table, I'm sure I can think of some even worse ones for you."

The woman eyebrows raised fractionally, and her lips twisted amusedly. "My husband? And who would that be?"

Tony fumbled, and knew immediately he had lost the upper hand – not something he was used to. "Um, the – well the gentleman you were with before. I assumed – "

"You assumed very incorrectly, Mr. Stark. That was my very rich and very old uncle whose fifth wife had recently divorced him. He found himself needing an escort for tonight and I happened to be in Manhattan for the weekend." She smiled, and in a swift move, she pulled her golden embossed place card out of her clutch and placed it next to Tony's, literally pushing the one previously in its place off the side of the table. Tony wondered whether or not she knew that she had just displaced one of the richest tech titans in the world. If she did know, he doubted she would care.

Tony liked her. A lot.

He gave a bewildered huff as she took her seat, lowering herself gracefully into the high-backed chair. She looked up at him expectantly, smiling as he acquiesced, stood, and pushed in her new throne.

"I like this table much more than my last, it has a certain…ambiance that the other was quite lacking in." She sipped her own drink, an amber tumbler of mystery liquid. "Don't you agree, Mr. Stark?"

Tony sat himself next to her, this time very much attentive and sporting a fully enraptured posture. "I suppose it does…," he glanced at her name card, "…Miss Frost. But everything is relative, after all."

"Please, call me Whitney." He held out her hand, for a handshake – but Tony was four or five drinks in and there was no way in hell he was settling for that. He took her slender hand in his, turned it over gracefully, and planted a slow, chaste, and languid kiss on her knuckles, light as a feather.

His eyes were dark, and his gaze was piercing. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Whitney Frost."

"Yes. I imagine it is." She let her hand linger in his for slightly too long, and then she took a quick breath, breaking his fixation. She broke their eye contact, looking to the bar. "Can I buy you a drink, Mr. Stark?"

He ignored her question. "Call me Tony."

She leaned in, the nape of her neck stretching seductively against her jewelry.

"Can I buy you a drink, Tony?"

He never broke his gaze, reaching down seamlessly to the table and tapping his glass.

"Unfortunately, mademoiselle, my glass is still full." He said with a feign of innocent despair.

"Oui, Monsieur." She leaned in further, now so close she was practically breathing against his ear. "But that's not what I asked."

15 minutes later, the speeches were in full swing and meals were being ushered out of the kitchens, but Mr. Stark and Ms. Frost were nowhere to be seen. That's because they were currently upstairs in the 'Victorian Homes' section of the museum stripping each other fervently of all that ridiculously expensive, unnecessary clothing.

One five-thousand-dollar-check-to-the-security-guard later and the door was unlocked. The velvet ropes had been knocked to the ground by a flying pair of dress shoes and the 300-year-old, four-poster bed (that had sat in the White House at one point in its life) was now being put to good use once more.

Tony was unhinged, the alcohol and the utter thrill of the situation had his head spinning in ecstasy. He was intoxicated by her scent, her feel, her everything. Too long – it had been months since anyone had made him feel this way. Months since he'd even spoken to a stranger – since he had let loose. Almost a year since Pepper left him.

Tony positioned himself behind her, his jacket long gone, his shirt unbuttoned, and his bowtie hanging forgotten around his neck. Eager hands couldn't decide what was more important – unbuttoning his belt or unbuttoning her gown. Grinding his teeth, he had to stop himself from ruining the moment. This needed to be done properly, romantically, and like a goddamn gentleman.

'Show some decorum, Stark!' He screamed in his head.

After all, this was a museum

In the end, his hands found her bared shoulders and he trailed kisses down her spine as each teardrop button was released. The gown came off and she let the black silk slip from her toned shoulders, making him watch, enchanted, as she stepped out of it completely, flinging it to the floor so it would cover the priceless oriental rug.

She lay back on the pillows, her eyes hooded and twinkling in the dark of the room. The only light they had to work with was the bright red exit signs on either side of the exhibit.

"Tony," she brought his gaze up to her face, for it had been, admittedly, lingering to the places covered only by ridiculously expensive scraps of lace. And then she said something that would have sounded ridiculous coming from any other mouth but hers: "Make love to me."

It wasn't a question, it wasn't a demand. It was simply a statement of desire– a proposal of sorts that both knew would be accepted.

Tony missed this. He missed feeling like a man. Too many times he was just a superhero, an icon – but he was a man. He was so lonely so often. And men have desires. God knows he was desiring things.

"I'm a man, goddammit." He muttered between ragged breaths. "A man."

Whitney laughed, a deeper, huskier chuckle than before in the gala. This was laced with sex. Tony closed his eyes and let the sound sweep over him. "I know you're a man, Tony Stark. That's one of the reasons we're here."

Tony blushed, his disheveled hair and untucked shirt suddenly making him feel like a schoolboy rather than a sex god. "Shit, I didn't mean to say it out loud." He chuckled again, descending over her, poised on his elbows on either side of her waist. "I got sort of wrapped up in-"

"Tony." She placed her hand over his mouth. "We haven't got long, so let's not waste time." She craned her neck forward, and she gazed into his eyes, running her fingers from his face to his hair, ruffling his dark curls back into place. Tony closed his eyes, grabbing her free hand and trailing kisses from her fingertips to her wrist, up her arm and peppering her shoulder, nipping and kissing a path up her neck until her dark maroon lips beckoned him to breaking, but he wanted to build up the tension for as long as possible. As if she had read his mind, and before Tony could even think of straying away from her face one more time, she reached up and pulled their mouths together. She groaned beneath him, wrapping her legs around his waist, pulling his mouth in tighter. Tongues danced, and their bodies molded together perfectly.

They were enraptured for what felt like hours but must have been only minutes. Finally, she pulled away for a breath, and Tony saw a flash of something across her face – an emotion that seemed entirely out of place for the current…situation.

"Whitney?"

"I'm fine, Tony," She swept his hair back again, smiling as he leaned in to the touch. "Everything is fine."

And then without another word she pushed Tony to the side and stood, brushing her stray hairs back into place. "This has been fun, Mr. Stark. I regret that we will not get to do this again." And she walked away from the bed.

Tony looked like he had been hit by a truck. He stammered, still trying to keep his voice hushed, but betraying his own anxiety. "Wh-What? What happened? Is something wrong? Why are you – Whitney?!"

Whitney picked her gown off the floor and slid back into it, her arms steadily buttoning the dress behind her back. The long slit in the dress showed an enticing display of the toned legs Tony had just been between.

"Whitney," Tony was red in the face. "Whitney, I thought you wanted – Did I hurt you? We were right in the middle of-"

"What we were in the middle of, Mr. Stark, was a business transaction. Nothing more."

"A…A business transaction?"

"Yes. One that, unfortunately, you are the subject of. You were the goods being haggled over by two interested parties. Myself, being the first party, and my employer, being the second party. Eventually we reached a deal that satisfied us both. And so here I am." Her demeanor was completely shifted. Her gaze and voice, previously smoldering traits, were edged with blatant indifference. She had gone from sex goddess to tax accountant.

Tony felt completely wrecked, but tried to hide the vulnerability with a growing pit of anger. "And what was the purpose of this transaction?" he scathed. "To frustrate me? To embarrass me? Is there a tabloid crew waiting outside to catch this on tape? Are you a reporter?" His voice was building in volume and rage. It was more than the sex – hell, at this point Tony was completely out of the mood. But the shame – the feeling of being used and tossed aside. It was a sensation he was all too familiar with, and not one he particularly cared for.

"No, Mr. Stark." Whitney was putting the strappy stilettos back on her feet. "I am not a reporter. And there is no one outside these doors. Not even the security guard."

That was the moment Tony stopped wallowing in self-pity and stopped. A little warning bell went off in his head. He chose his next words carefully.

"Yes. Yes he is. We've only been in here for 10 minutes, the guard was right there when we came in."

"Well," she was refastening one of those diamond chandelier earring that Tony had recently grown to despise. "He is still outside, of course, but he's very much not there. In fact, he's very much dead, Mr. Stark."

The air had been sucked out of the room. Tony sobered in an instant, and felt every hair on his body stand up. "What do you mean, he's dead?"

"Oh don't try to be so droll, Tony, dear. He's deceased. Dead. You know what the word means. Which leads me to believe that, at this point, your clever brain has put two and two together and voila! You have arrived at the most probable conclusion."

Tony shrunk slightly, feeling around in his pocket as quietly as he could for his cell phone, trying to keep her attention on his face. He was still lying on the bed and thankfully his phone had managed to stay hidden in his pants.

"So, you're a criminal. A murderer." Tony wanted to keep her talking. His fingertips had found the phone, and all he had to do was hit the panic button on the side of the case. Then JARVIS would relay his location to the Tower and all local authorities.

"No. Well, yes. An Assassin, to be more specific." She flipped her hair, laughing, "The 'Angel of Death', if you like." She crossed the room and picked up her clutch. "Overly dramatic, if you ask me, but I let people call me what they want. It pays the bills." She fished around in the bag, still speaking. "So if you're wondering, that man I was with this evening? He was my ticket into the Gala, you see. They'll find his body in the men's washroom - a heart attack, the poor creature."

She drew out a small packet of make-up wipes and began to carefully remove her lipstick. "The guard? He'll be slumped against the wall outside, a massive stroke! What an unfortunate night for the Met."

Tony swallowed a lump in his throat. His finger found the button on his phone, and he pressed it. Immediately a wash of relief passed over him. Help would be here. Hopefully in time.

He spoke at last, watching her reapply a lighter shade of lipstick than the deep burgundy she had been wearing before. "And me? How will I die? Stabbed? Shot? Murder made to look suicide?"

She smiled at him. "I'm glad you asked. The great Tony stark, taken to bed by a beautiful woman, who – in the middle of their torrent lovemaking – notices that he is having trouble breathing. She calls an ambulance, tries to perform CPR, does everything right – the poor girl is nearly inconsolable by the time police officers arrive on scene to collect his body."

Tony felt sick.

She kept talking, now leaning casually against the bedframe. "Tony Stark was poisoned. Murdered in cold blood by the poor, young bartender downstairs. You see, when the police find traces of the poison on your champagne glass, they'll storm his apartment and find Avengers paraphernalia all over the wall, a big red circle drawn around your face on every poster. Newspaper clippings about you and Stark Towers. Polaroids taken of your shopping trips or dinners out with friends – they'll be tacked all over his room. Young man was a stalker – mentally ill. If he couldn't be your best friend, then nobody could. Tragic, really. Completely unforeseeable."

Tony felt bile in the back of his throat, and he could feel a cold sweat breaking out over his body. "That kid is innocent and you know it. Leave him out of this."

She put her hand to her chest, as if offended. "Tony, I am just as upset about this as you. That boy was well-liked, friendly - almost graduated! His whole life ahead of him, only 22 years old. And he'll spend the rest of his life in a criminally insane psych ward for the premeditated murder of American Hero: Anthony Stark."

Tony went to sit up in anger. "How dare you-", but he suddenly realized the room was spinning. He immediately felt weak, and knew he couldn't stand.

Tony clung desperately to the bedpost and pulled himself upright. "But how…." He started to get dizzy, little black spot encroached his vision. "My champagne – it wasn't poisoned. I didn't eat or drink anything after I met you – I didn't…." he looked up at her, his vision going slightly skewed but still able to focus in on her face. Her pitying, polite, wickedly apathetic smile.

"C'mon, Tony, you can get there, I know you can!" She grinned further.

"Twisted bitch." Tony stuttered, his mouth going dry and his stomach threatening to heave.

She gave a chuckle, her flash of white teeth the brightest point in the dimly lit room. Her smile – the thing that had drawn his attention at the start…her smile…

…Her lips.

"Dammit!" Tony slumped his shoulders. "Your lipstick…." He brought a shaky hand to pull at his already loose collar. It was getting hot in here. His breaths were labored.

"Ding, ding!" she cheered, another laugh escaping her. "Ladies and gentleman of New York City, we have a winner. You are so clever, Mr. Stark. I've had so much fun, tonight; I considered this evening a real challenge and a real honor, I want you to know that."

Tony was feeling nauseous now, his head pounding and his heart skipping in a panic. "You'll…" he gasped in a painful breath, swaying and stumbling from the bed, trying to run to the door. "You'll never get away with this." The world was spinning, and in one ill-taken step, Tony stumbled over the fallen velvet rope and crashed hard to the ground. He couldn't stand, but he tried pathetically to crawl to the door. He could do something – pull the fire alarm, open the door and shout for help, he had minutes left of consciousness, but who knows how long it would take help to get here.

"Oh, but Tony." She crouched down to his level on the floor, cupping his clammy face in her hands. "I am going to get away with this. I always do. I always will. All I have to do now is wait for you to die, then make a good show of trying to keep you alive until the authorities - that you've already called - get here."

Tony's eyes went wide. "No…"

"Mr. Stark, I do my research. You sent out a distress signal on your phone. Of course, you did. You needed an ambulance and I couldn't find my phone in the dark and the guard was in his office and couldn't hear us!" she paused, shrugging. "Granted that's because the methyl iodide I injected into his neck as I 'thanked him with a peck on the cheek' killed him within minutes of him closing the door – but, still, it will all look really kosher, I swear."

All through this, Tony could feel his lungs shutting down. Breaths were forced, his diaphragm spasmed in protest. He was coughing violently, at high risk for one of his lungs to collapse.

"Please-!" he sputtered. "My f-friends, don't-!"

Whitney 'tsk-tsked' loudly, her face shifting to a patronizing level of sympathy. "Aww, honey, no," and she took his hand despite his feeble protest. "Shhhh, don't you worry. There was a price on your head. It's nothing personal. Your friends will be unharmed, so long as they stick to the script." She pushed against his shoulder and planted him flat on his back. "Now, this position will speed things along. Don't want you suffering – you really were good in bed, you know, even if we only had those few precious moments. This is quite a shame."

Tony could hear nothing except his own pounding heartbeat – like his head was encased in liquid. The feeling of drowning in his own lungs was doing nothing to help that sensation.

The mighty Iron Man lay flat on his back, surrounded by priceless antiques, unable to speak or move or cry for help. With every passing second, his skin grew a deeper shade of red. His veins were bulging, his lips were turning blue. His insides were blistering with heat while his skin was cold to the touch. This was hell.

".…Pl's…h'lp…." His mouth moved nothing but the air around his lips. He could hear nothing. The tunnel vision was fading completely to blackness as the last threads of consciousness were snipped away. He went still.

Whitney stood above him, staring at him, watching the life slip from his body, and she couldn't help but feel sad. "Oh, how the mighty fall," she whispered to herself. "And you, my love, have fallen." And she turned her back to him, rising to straighten the room and prepare for her meticulously directed scene.

The thundering of footsteps were heard coming up the stairs and through the hall. Shouts of officials, the squeaking of police-issue combat boots, and the barking orders of Agent Natasha Romanoff – all these sounds forming a cacophony of efficiency.

Whitney immediately began to cry, taking care to run up a snotty nose and streak her makeup, she positioned herself over a lifeless Tony Stark and poised her folded fists to begin administering CPR the moment there was a knock on the door.

She waited, a flicker of exhilaration and joy warming her insides. This is what she lived for – the excitement, the manipulation! She glanced down at Tony's body – also for the men. Those were fun, too.

'And…'

The footsteps outside got closer, and she waited excitedly for the pounding at the door. When it came, she took a deep breath.

'…Action.'

"HERE! WE'RE IN HERE!" She let out a huge choking sob, her body shaking with panic as the door was burst through by none other than Steve Rogers himself. "PLEASE!" she cried, "Please, he's – he's not breathing!" Her chest compressions were faulty and hectic, her hands were shaking too badly for the CPR to be effective. She was terribly and obviously distraught.

Steve all but pushed her off Tony, sinking immediately to his knees and picking up CPR with a relentless rhythm. "ROMANOFF!" He bellowed, a gravelly boom that took Whitney by surprise. "IN HERE - BRING THE MEDICS!"

The soldier stuck to his pace as EMTs and government agents flooded the exhibit room. Whitney watched enthralled as the paramedics wordlessly stuck a tube down Tony's throat and began breathing for him as Steve continued his work, never tiring.

"C'MON, STARK!" Steve was pleading, determined, terrified to lose his rhythm but more afraid of losing control and breaking Tony's ribs. Concentration was etched on his forehead and a tremor flutterred in his chest. "Please, Tony. Come on, breathe. BREATHE!" Tony was eerily silent and a horrible shade of maroon. "C'mon, Tony, we got here in time - we had to, we had to." Steve kept his munitions going, tirelessly, despite the tears that threatened behind his eyes.

If Steve Rogers hadn't been so worried, he would have been furious. Luckily, Natasha was right behind him to vent some anger for them both.

"Where is she?" Natasha strode into the room, flanked by police officers.

Steve didn't ever break his concentration on Tony as he flipped his head to the side, gesturing towards Whitney. "She's right there."

Whitney, who had remained in perfect character until that point, faltered slightly. The way Steve had gestured to her – the way he had spoken…there was venom in his voice.

This was not right. Not right at all.

Immediately, Natasha strode to her and grabbed her by the forearm. In a move, Whitney was pinned painfully up against a wall, chest to drywall, while officers unlocked handcuffs from their belts and moved in.

"WHAT?! WHY?" she cried. "I-I didn't do anything! I was trying to save him, I was-"

Natasha didn't even speak, she spun Whitney around so that her back was to the wall, shoved her hard against it, and let a right hook fly so hard and so fast that the crack of Miss Frost's nose echoed down the exhibit hallway.

Whitney would have fallen to her knees in pain if Natasha didn't have such a tight hold oh her throat. Instead, she spit the blood out of her mouth and started struggling to get out of the redhead's choke hold.

"BITCH!" Frost screamed, and in a second, Whitney had kicked out Natasha's knees, elbowed her in the face, and was headed for the door. The authorities made moves to grab her, but she was deadly. Four NYPD officers were strewn in various states of consciousness by the time Natasha made it off the floor and lunged for the brunette. Meanwhile, Tony was still entirely unresponsive as the medics were trying to hook him up to the defibrillator while all hell was breaking loose around them.

Natasha grabbed Whitney by the back of her long curls and dragged her out the door into the hallway, where the two engaged in what Steve would later describe as "the scariest hand-to-hand fight he had ever seen." There was hair pulling, clothes ripping, skin clawing - the two women were fighting tooth and nail, a combination of highly skilled martial arts and a good old fashioned cat fight. Finally, Whitney managed to crouch beneath a roundhouse kick and sweep Natasha's legs out, sending the redhead dangerously close to the top landing of the marble staircase. Now on the defensive, the Russian blocked blow after blow with a ferocity. It seemed to be a stalemate that neither was prepared to lose. Luckily for Natasha, the growing sounds of sirens were soon to arrive, and she only had to keep the assassin from escaping long enough so that reinforcements could arrive. Natasha ducked another kick and had time to retrieve her gun from its holster. She raised, aimed, and fired, but not before Whitney brought her arm up to knock the gun off center and send a bullet flying into a stained glass window exhibit down the hall.

With one more blow, the gun skirted across the marble and Natasha was chasing Frost down the corridor in the direction the bullet had fired. Natasha watched her expertly roll across the debris into a crouch, sustaining small cuts on her arms, but now brandishing a large shard of glass as a dagger.

The two women were both bruised and bloodied from their fight, and they were breathing hard.

"I'm not here for you." The brunette had a steely gaze, cautioning the Russian, the weapon in her hand . "But if you don't let me go, I will have no choice."

Natasha said nothing. She was analyzing the severity in the other woman's eyes. This was no bluff. The sirens were at the door, and more footsteps could be heard of officers running through the plaza. Whitney's eyes shot to the staircase, urgency apparent.

"Now!" She hissed.

Natasha didn't even hesitate.

"I will let you go if you tell me what you gave Tony. And if you get rid of the price on his head."

Whitney didn't look very pleased, but her eyes shot once more the staircase. This place would be surrounded in seconds.

"Pufferfish. Its Pufferfish toxin. And consider it done."

Four NYPD precincts responded to the emergency at the Met, that night. When the second round of officers reached the upper level, they found Iron Man being loaded onto a gurney and wheeled to an ambulance by none other than Captain America and Black Widow. The medics flanking them were radioing in for a cocktail bag of tropical antitoxins, and the ambulance was packed and departed within seconds.

While evacuating the gala dinner, the attendance sheets were double and triple checked for missing guests, and sure enough, one Mr. George C. Pulici was found dead in the men's washroom on the first floor. A heart attack, the poor man.

The second body found that evening was of Mr. Bradley Tullenby, a family man out of Harlem. He had been a security guard at the MET for 28 years and was 3 weeks from retirement. EMT on scene said it looked like a stroke.

Of course, as soon as things had quieted down, the NYPD received an email from S.H.I.E.L.D. with an audio track of the perpetrator confessing to both of these crimes, as well as the attempted murder of Mr. Anthony Stark.

Needless to say, the precincts spent days sweeping over all tapes of the Gala. But somehow, each time it seemed as though the mystery woman might have entered a video frame, the tape went fuzzy. All the tapes were corrupt. No identity could be gathered. All they had was a voice and a fake name.

Soon, sound bites and a rough series of sketches from people at the gala who claimed to have seen her were being circulated all over the news. The city was on high alert for this criminal.

And in a small café on the West Side, a beautiful, blonde, short-haired woman with circular golden spectacles and a dusting of freckles across her nose ordered her morning coffee. Standing at the counter, she motioned to the TV as the sketch artist's depictions flashed across the screen.

"Isn't that so horrible?" She said to the barista. "Some people are just plain evil. Why would that crazy woman want to hurt a hero like Tony Stark?"

The barista looked up at the TV screen and nodded in agreement. "Anybody who thinks they can take on the Avengers must be off the rails." He looked back at his customer, unphased, and passed her the change from her order. "My buddy, Thomas, was actually there that night – he's completely fine, but said it was insane!"

Her eyes went wide in shock and her hand jumped to her throat. "No way! I'm so glad he's ok!"

He smiled, handing her a cup of light roast coffee. "Yah, we were all pretty worried when we heard, but he was just the bartender, I don't think he was every in any real danger." The two laughed and the woman took her coffee in both hands. It was abnormally frosty for a New York City early spring morning, and the coffee was a welcome source of heat.

"Have a great day, Miss!"

"You too!" and she left the shop, a smile on her face as she took the first careful sip of her piping hot drink.

Her lipstick left a small red stain on the rim.

"Did you know that Tetrodotoxin is 10 times more lethal than cyanide?"

"Well I do now."

"And did you know that certain pufferfish in the Tetrodoformes family contain enough toxin in their teensy weensy bodies to kill 30 adult humans?"

"Bruce, I – "

"And did you know that when the neurotoxin is ingested it can call full diaphragmatic lung paralysis severe enough to kill a victim in less than 60 seconds? Well, ok, yah you do know that. You…You were there."

Bruce scratched his head kind of embarrassed, but Tony didn't mind, he gave a good chuckle instead.

"Yah, buddy, I'd say I was there, alright." And Tony swung an arm over to pat his friend on the shoulder. "Now hurry up, Doctor, it's your turn to ask me."

"Right, right," Bruce cleared his throat and looked down once more. He paused, adjusting his ever-slipping glasses. "Tony…. Do you have any sevens?"

"HA!" Tony fist pumped, tugging slightly at his IV. "No I do-fucking-not, Go Fish!"

Bruce huffed and reached for the deck.

Natasha, reading a magazine in the corner of the hospital room, rolled her eyes. "Tony, you're cheating."

"I am not!"

"Besides, do you really think 'Go Fish' is the most appropriate game to be playing, all things considered?"

Tony wagged his finger at Natasha while stuffing another spoonful of Jell-O into his mouth. "Ahh, yes my dear, but you see, 'twas not the fish but the beautiful woman who stilled my heart."

"Tony, she tried to murder you."

"I've had a lot of recovery time here to reflect on it. And I've decided her evilness doesn't make her any less good-looking."

"You disgust me."

"You love me."

Natasha just gave a fake laugh and settled back into an emotionless frown, but you could see a small lip twitch if you looked at just the right moment. She was glad he was ok; they all were.

Tony couldn't just let them have a moment, though, so of course he had to open his mouth again.

"Honestly, even when I knew I was about to bite the bullet – "

"-Tony, don't."

"No really, Natasha! Even when I said to myself, 'Tony, this is the end. This is how it happens.' I just looked up and realized that I had just spent my last hour on this earth in my favorite tuxedo drinking my favorite champagne and being almost-bedded by my favorite type of woman!"

It was Steve this time, who had just entered the doorway at the perfect moment, who gave an Academy Award winning eyeroll and scrubbed his face with his hand. "Tony, are you trying to say that your favorite type of woman is a hitman?"

Tony seemed to think it over for a second. "I suppose not. But she certainly has the other traits I care about." Tony winked. "She's incredibly mentally unstable and beautifully loose-moral-ed."

Natasha pretended to gag and left the room, claiming she needed to find a half decent coffee machine. Bruce turned a shade of pink and starting resorting his cards. Steve just sat down in the chair at the end of the bed and sighed.

"Tony, I think I'm going to start an open tab. Every time I save your life from now on you owe me a million dollars."

"Capsicle, I already pay for everything you have, including your apartment." Tony pointed out with a smile. "And believe me, rent in Stark Tower is much more than a million dollars."

Steve gave a lopsided, rueful grin. "Well, then, I suppose we are even."

Tony chuckled a bit, but then shook his head. "We are, but we aren't. Thank you all, again, for everything. Always." Tony shuffled uncomfortably, now mirroring Bruce as he sorted his cards without really paying attention to them. "I unwittingly put myself in a dangerous situation, and I'm just glad JARVIS thought to include Bluetooth surveillance in panic mode. If you hadn't been able to hear everything that was going on, you all might have been injured as well."

"And you might have died." Steve reminded him gently.

"Yah, that too." Tony paused. "But at least we're going home, soon! T-Minus 60 minutes to getting the hell out of here. Honestly, I don't think I've ever been so excited to sign something." He waggled the hospital release forms above the bedside table before slapping the papers down again. "Hey Steve, would you grab me some snacks from downstairs? Some non-gelatin-based foods would be lovely. And some bottled Fiji water. The tap water here tastes like dirt."

Steve deadpanned, crossing his arms. "Seriously? Fiji water?"

Tony tilted his head, pleading. "Please?" he gave a loud cough, then another. "I died."

Steve huffed, then sighed, muttering something about "back in my day, we didn't even have chlorinated water" or some bullshit like that, Tony wasn't paying attention. He was just focused on watching Steve clear the doorframe and start down the hall towards the stairs.

As soon as Steve was out of sight, Tony threw an empty Jell-O carton across the room to smack a napping Clint. Hawkeye snorted awake, looking rather indignant but ready for a fight.

"Clint, Clint!" Tony whispered. Barton and he locked eyes, knowing that any spoken words would be picked up by Steve's super hearing, and things needed to be kept silent. Tony brought his hands up to his chest, in plain view.

'Operation Momma Bear is a GO!' Tony signed across the room.

Clint smiled, nodded, and signed back 'You're a sick motherfucker, but I'm so excited.'

Bruce shook his head, signing reluctantly: 'You're both idiots'.

The two younger men replied to him simultaneously with a very universal hand signal and then began to enact their secret plan to cause nothing short of mayhem for no other reason than fun.

With so much constant noise in a hospital, Steve always found it hard to focus on any one sound. It was too hard to zero in on something – anything, really. But his increased training in the past few years with SHIELD had taught him how to better focus his abilities, giving him much more selectivity when it came to crowded or noisy zones.

So, it comes as no surprise that just Steve was about to enter the hospital cafeteria, a familiar set footsteps thundering above him, racing down the stairs, caught his immediate attention despite the ring of the cash register, the shuffle of 37 patients' socked feet walking in the wing next door, and the life support machine beeping and pumping 300 yards down the hall.

The footsteps sounded urgent and panicked, and the soldier's heart was already racing in worry when he heard the loud crash of the stairwell door behind him. He spun around.

"STEVE, STEVE!" Barton's face was flushed as he leaned heavily against the doorframe, panting and out of breath from what must have been a dead sprint. "TONY CAN'T BREATHE!"

In that moment, the world came to a standstill for everyone except the super solider. Steve was blowing by the archer within a second, his muscles strained to full capacity, and it was all Clint could do to not get blown over by the sheer gust of Steve's sprint past him. Rogers cleared three flights of stairs in less than 5 seconds, flinging open the door at the top of the stairwell so hard that it broke off its steel hinges and landed with a crash. The hospital staff, startled, turned just with enough time to press themselves to the sides of the hallway as Captain America came barreling down what seemed to be the longest corridor of his life. Finally, he came to a skid-screech outside Stark's room, almost too afraid to go inside, but knowing he had to do something – he had to save Tony.

Every worst-case scenario was running through his mind.

It had taken an agonizing 3 days for the toxin to completely leave Tony's system, and his lungs failed almost a dozen times in that period. By day 4, Steve was going on 0% sleep and 100% paranoia. He had mothered Tony to within an inch of the stubborn Italian's mental capacity. Every hour, he would wake Tony up and make him flip onto his other side so that one lung wouldn't collapse. He made him sit painfully upright during every waking moment, and Tony wasn't even allowed to watch TV in the off chance that he would laugh too hard at something and his diaphragm would seize.

When he would stop breathing, the room would be a circus of carts and respirators, tubes and trays. It was overwhelming and anxiety inducing, and after the 10th time Tony had almost died in that room, the whole team was a mess.

So, it was no wonder that Steve was hauling absolute ass to get to Tony in time – to do something, to help somehow -

"TONY?! TONY?! WHERE IS - " Steve blew into the room like a hurricane.

"HOLY HELL, MAN! 7.98 SECONDS!" Tony had one hand on the timer and the other thrust into the air. "THAT'S INCREDIBLE!" the Italian's eyes were wide and gleeful, his hand was running though his hair in awe. "Barton! BARTON, he got 7.98 seconds!" Tony was yelling down the hall, knowing that Clint would still be rather far behind the super soldier's incredible pace.

Steve just stared incredulously, seemingly muttering to himself in confusion. "Bu…Wha…He…?"

Barton ran into the room, breathing heavy, a full 10 seconds after Steve had arrived, breathing heavy between laughter and expletives.

"Rogers that was impressive. Really, truly." Tony was rambling. "Your muscle mechanics are insane. I would love to see your epinephrine counts during high-stress periods – wouldn't you, Bruce?"

Bruce had the common decency to completely ignore them. Natasha, who had come back with her coffee by then, looked around at the room, saw her boyfriend's shit-eating grin, saw her captain's lethal expression, and promptly turned to leave without a single word. She knew full-well that Clint and Tony deserved whatever they were about to get.

Steve finally spoke.

"Stark…"

"Stevie…." Tony smiled, holding up the timer so he could see. "I know, buddy. I know it was mean, but look at this, look at that time stamp. That's impressive."

"…I'm... going to kill you." His face was blank, not threatening. There was no question there – nothing. It was as if he had said "the sky is blue".

Tony laughed, but with an edge of uncertainty. "Nah, you big softie, you would have done it by now."

Steve didn't make eye contact with either of them. "It would be so easy. Your neck… is so snappable. My hands…Are so strong." Steve looked like he was in a trance, listing facts, making a pros and cons list. He looked down at his palms. "So strong."

"Yah they are, 7.98 seconds strong. All of you." Tony awkwardly gestured to the soldier's whole body. "Strong."

Steve took a step forward "I'm gonna do it."

"Steve think about this!" Tony brought his knees to his chest, "Steve!"

Steve was stopped at the foot of the bed by Barton putting a hand across his chest.

"Oh, c'mon, Steve," Clint began, "We've been cooped up in here for days, there was no harm done. It was just an experiment, we had an Operation Code Name and everything, it was – aaaaaaaaAAAAAHHHHHH!"

Steve flicked Barton's arm off his chest effortlessly, sending the archer reeling backwards into a stack of bedpans.

"You're both going to die."

"STEVE? STEVE NO. STEVE! - "

And so, the Avengers were politely asked to leave St. Mary's Hospital after the destruction of several walls. Barton went home as an outpatient after receiving treatment for a sprained wrist and the drywall dust in his eyes. Tony was readmitted temporarily after accidentally pulling his IV out in his failed attempt at running away from Steve. He slipped, fell to the floor, and bruised his tailbone. Stark was stuck on a rubber-doughnut for a full week.

Bruce and Natasha stayed behind to try to clean up the room; that's when the good doctor happened to see Tony's cards from 'Go Fish' lying upright on his disheveled bed.

Bruce stared blankly at the hand before cursing loudly. "That bastard did have sevens."

"I told you he was cheating."

FIN

Hope you enjoyed, I wanted to do a more lighthearted chapter and write some Sauve!Tony because who doesn't like Tony in a tuxedo, and then an injured Tony fucking with his friends, right? Good times.

Anyway, PLEASE REVIEW!