Chapter 3: Bebe Rexha: 'Ima Mess' is good background music

It had been almost four months.

Four FUCKING MONTHS!

Saying she was upset would be an understatement. For four months she had been a cat, living on the streets of Malibu. She stopped regularly at Stark's house, maybe once every few days to snoop, but he was never in. It sucked balls, and she was upset that her chance at picking the brain of her favorite character had slipped through her clawed toes.

There were many downsides to being stuck as a cat for that long, for one: rainy days. Blegh. The first day it rained caught her by surprise and drenched her as she tried to find suitable cover. She had hid under tables, under dumpsters and cars and still managed to get soaked every damn time. And it was a pain to get dry after, her floof held water like a sponge.

Secondly: food. Food was an off and on thing. Sometimes she'd be drowning in offerings of food from tourists, sometimes she'd be left high and dry for days at a time and have to scavenge in the trash or beg outside restaurants. Or she'd steal. Four months on the street gave her mad game in stealing. She was able to snatch food out from under people's noses now, but it had been a big trial and error learned skill. She lost count how many times she'd been swatted away by hands, purses and the occasional broom.

Thirdly: her fur. Her FUR, her poor poor fur. By the end of the first month, Corvin's fur was so matted and tangled she looked more like a gremlin than a cat. It was painful at times, even, her fur twisted so bad it pulled at the skin under it.

On one particularly windy day, she had stumbled upon a salon of sorts at the edge of the city. She had sat there for a bit, bemoaning that she couldn't go in and get her fur sorted out by some hairdresser. A blow drying sounded orgasm worthy at this point, and she almost moaned at the sight of a fine-tooth comb.

It was as if her prayers had been answered as a tall, skeletal woman with bright purple hair walked out of the salon, leaving the door wide open to Corvin's sneaky self. She had dashed inside and hopped onto a chair, hoping that a hairdresser would humor her.

'Please please please please', Corvin chanted in her head.

"Hey Darla! Come take a load of this!" a bright, feminine voice said to Corvin's left. She turned to see a short, squat woman with short, dark red hair. The woman had an oval shaped face and a pointy chin, with dainty features. She looked like a faerie, honestly.

"Oh mah Gawd, is tha a kitty?" another voice said, and Corvin held back a hurl at the sound of it. It sounded just like when an old man wrote a 'high school' set movie and hired 30 year olds to play teenagers who had no fucking idea how the youth spoke. Exaggerated vowels, high pitched 'y's and 'g's sounded like she was choking on a rubber ball. She turned to see another woman, probably Darla, who looked like she walked straight out of a 90's kid catalog.

Who the fuck wore denim with denim? And was that a floral scarf being used as a belt? God, she was wearing chunky jewelry, too. The gaudy stuff that looked like a kid had went to a landfill, grabbed a bunch of random shit and strung it together. Jesus Fuck, there was cheetah print ELBOW PATCHES!

Dear God, she was in Hell. She was certain, because her soul was screaming in agony into the Void.

Corvin tried not to focus on the absolute tragedy in platform boots and turned back to the Fae to her left. A desperate look came on Corvin's face that screamed 'please don't let this woman touch me.' Sadly, the fae lady seemed unable to read cat emotions, and just smiled down at her.

In the end, Corvin did get her fur done. And if, in the process, she was forced to wear a metallic stretchy pet coat with pink pom-poms on it (that was probably made for the chihuahua shivering in the corner of the salon), only she would know.

At the tail end of the fourth month mark since her close encounter with the Stark kind, found Corvin holed up in her niche. It was a small space, between two close buildings, an a radiator that was poking out of one building as roof. She had found the place by chance about two months in and made it her own. She had brought back all sorts of things she found to make it at least a bit homey. Discarded beanie caps, lost gloves, seashells and bits of seaglass, some jewelry she'd found laying around, a watch she had found (handy to tell the time), and more. It was fairly comfortable, the cloth things she found made for a makeshift bed.

She had visited the salon just last week, thankfully Darla wasn't there, but Georgina (the something to rub against to detangle herself a bit.

With a new goal in mind, Corvin slipped out of her hovel and into the dusk-covered Malibu. The city was still jam packed with people, some drunk enough already she could probably wrestle the shirts off their backs without too much trouble.

She prowled the streets for a few hours, eating a few scraps people threw her way and searching for her next victim. It was reaching midnight when Corvin found one, a couple of college girls walking around outside a club. She dug into one of their purses as the shortest girl of the group bent over the puke along the sidewalk, the other girls patting her back (un)helpfully.

Corvin found a small purple and black hairbrush in the first bag and bit into the soft handle before taking off into the night, cackling internally in sweet sweet victory. She should have done this ages ago.

Four months ago Corvin would have never thought she'd become a petty thief. Or be somewhat successful in it.

After stashing her new brush in her little home and spending a bit of time rolling it around between her paws to try and position it just right. It kind of worked? She was able to rub her face across it and detangle a cobweb that had got stuck between two of her whiskers, so she was counting it as a win.

After that, she decided not to waste the rest of the night and went out to see what street performers were out and about. Maybe she could do a weird little dance in front of one and draw a crowd. The more known she was as 'the cat of Zuma beach,' the more people came to see her and, more often than not, bring her food. It was a win.

But, before she could go gallivanting off into the night, she felt a light tug in her chest, a small wiggle of paranoia that urged her in one direction.

Ah! And that was another thing! The weird feelings she had been getting for the past four months, the tugs in her body pulling her this way and that. And for good reasons. She dodged a lot of assholes listening to her gut. She'd almost call them her 'spidy-sense,' but since she was a cat and didn't want to steal Spider-tot's gimmick, she called it her cat-sense as a common courtesy. Maybe she could call it her 'meow-monitor' or 'pussy-perception' (that one was her favorite). She was sure it was going to get her in trouble one of these days, but eh, she was already a cat. She filled out her 'this is bad' quota for the rest of her life.

Now, the senses were tugging her towards a specific thing. So, like any dumbass in a horror film, she followed it.

She was half-surprised-but-really-not when it set her on a familiar route to Stark's mansion.

'My anti-clique sense is tingling,' she thought as she trot up the path to the giant house. 'Gotta be ready to dodge any of that shit, i don't feel like walking into some sort of tragic rom-com' she shuddered at the thought. Thoughts of overly sappy pining stares from across the room, the 'i'm just going to avoid them because i sooo don't like them' when they CLEARLY liked the damn person, stupid-ass miscommunications that could be solved if the people in the stories just fucking talked to each other for once instead of gloriously eye-fucking each other whenever in range of sight, the love confessions after knowing them for a handful of days with barely two words spoken between them. God, it all made her nauseous just thinking about it.

'Just fuckin' end me if it gets that far,' Corvin thought, praying to whatever higher power would listen, 'jus' do it, mate.'

She padded up to the front door, unsurprised to find it locked, but very surprised to see lights on inside. A dim glow shown from the windows, curtains made of some rich stuff clogging most of the light.

He was home. This must be investigated.

Operation "Stalk the Stark": commence.

Toddling around the outside of the house proved fruitful results, as the garage was wide open. She, naturally, invited herself in.

Corvin ogled at the expensive cars lining the sides of the garage after wandering through the winding entrance. Impressive mechanical shit was littered about, a very fine layer of dust coating the edges and tables.

Damn, he really wasn't here all those months.

But Holy Shit, she was Tony Stark's garage! And she was deadass certain this was his workshop. The place he made the Iron man suit at. She wondered where it was. The display cases where his suits normally sat were not there. So maybe they were in that weird suit-cellar?

She didn't dwell on it long, not when the tug in her gut got stronger, urging her to move forward and further into the garage. Trotting into the workshop, Corvin noted some things, like how the lights were dim and the low murmur of a mechanical voice at the far end of the room.

"-it is 78 degrees out, the forecast calls for a chill night due to a cold front coming in from the ocean. Tomorrow is overcast-" JARVIS was practically whispering, a soothing tone laced with worry that surprised her. She knew JARVIS was advanced, but hearing the emotions? Another level.

Another sound filtered through her ears as she moved closer, harsh and heavy breathing, low, ugly sobs that sounded painful. God, was Tony hurt?

Corvin picked up the pace racing over to where she heard him (because who else would be allowed down here?). She found him folded into a ball next to a table, tools scattered along the floor as if he had fell and taken the table with him. She couldn't see his face, just a mop of greasy, messy hair poking from between his knees. His arms were wrapped around his knees, hiding his head as if he was preparing for a blow. Fuck, he was having a panic attack.

Without having to think about it, she moved over, pulling a loud purr from the depths of her chest. Cats had soothing qualities, right? She could help, even vertically challenged as she was now.

Corvin sniffed at him, smelling a bouquet of unpleasant things. Blood, vomit, greasy fast food and a sour smell she was certain was either fear or panic. Even with all that she came closer, licking at him lightly in hopes to alert him to her presence. It didn't seem to work, so she cranked up the purring and settled in for the long haul. She sure-as-shit wasn't going to leave him like this, not when she could help.

She rested her body against his legs, the ball he was clenched in was too tight for her to wiggle into.

Now Corvin had some experience in this department. Not that she was going to be spilling her sob story, but, honestly, who didn't have one? She was one of the lucky ones who was able to pull herself out of that dark place before it was too late, she got the help she needed and healed. And after all the dust was settled, she learned how to go about helping others. Having a first hand experience with this stuff did wonders when she was helping others.

She was rather limited as she was, but it didn't mean she couldn't help ground him. So she purred, she rubbed and batted at his hair, giving him something physical to latch onto and bring him back. It took awhile for the hyperventilating to ease up and sobbing to abate, but she was patient, coaxing him little by little to calm down. The sharp sour smell faded bit-by-bit.

It was another few minutes of just him shivering for a pair of whisky colored eyes to peek out at her.

Tony uncurled, his good arm (one was in a sling, she noted) reaching out towards her. Corvin sniffed his fingers, smelling strong disinfectant and a hint of something dusty under it. She pressed her face into his hand, one eye scrunching up.

He pet her with one hand for a bit, his fingers moving in soft, repetitive motions. Tony uncurled more and more as time went on, enough for her to slide into his lap and huddle against him. All the while he stared at her like he was seeing something else, or as if he couldn't really understand it.

His face, now that she could see it, was messed up. Bruises around both eyes, along his left cheek and forming a necklace around his neck. A bandage over his left cheek and one over the bridge of his nose. His whole face was red and sunburned, blisters forming along his forehead. There appeared to be makeup on him, skin-toned foundation over the burns that had been rubbed or ran off during his panic attack. Some cakey shit some poor intern probably bought for themselves from a drug store to save money (honestly, same tho) and slapped on Tony because they had no other option.

Careful not to touch any of the burns or bruises, Corvin leaned up and pressed her nose against the tip of his.

"I don't think you can kiss these boo-boos away, licorice." His voice was rough, like he'd been gargling nails and chewing sandpaper. It started her.

Both of his hands were petting her now, the injured one's movements smaller. She kept the purring on full-force, booping his nose with hers again, hoping he got her message.

Im here, she thought, I got you.

Corvin's whole body ached for him in empathy. Because holy fucking shit did it look like he got the stuffing knocked out of him. And she had an inkling where and how.

Tony made a sound, a long, huffing sound like he'd rather do anything else what what he was about to do. He shuffled around, keeping his bad arm around her while the other reached up for the edge of the table. Took him a hot second, but he managed to stand, holding Corvin against him.

Tony shuffled to one side of the workshop, his steps slow and dragging. Corvin could feel the jump in his gait as he limped over to the couch.

"Sir, might i recommend going to rest?" JARVIS said overhead.

"JARVIS, mute: level three security." Tony cut off. JARVIS did not reply.

Corvin meowed at the man as he continued to the couch and sat down a bit rougher that she thought he should. He was silent for a long time, just looking down at her, his eyes on her but his mind far far away. She did her best to comfort him: purr against him and nuzzle his good arm to keep him calm.

"Everything is a mess…" Tony's voice rasped, "and i don't know what to do." tears tracked against his cheeks, running through the cracks in his foundation.

Corvin thanked whatever deity was listening that she was a cat in that moment. No way he'd open himself up to her if she had been human. Knowing his character, he would have pushed it down, shoved it all in a little box, and put on a mask had she been standing on two legs instead of four. He needed to let this out. If what she think happened really did just happen, then he needed to talk about it. And she didn't remember him ever really opening up about the torture in Afghanistan in the movie to any of his friends so she was happy to help.

And if he thought she was just some non-sentient animal, who'd have no real understanding of what he was saying while he spilled his guts, well… that was her guilt to bare.

"I dont know what to do," he whispered, his voice groaning out like the creaks of the wind passing through an old tree's branches.

I got you, i got you, she thought hard, as if she could telepathically tell him, focusing on soothing rumbles and soft, whiskery nuzzles against his cheek. She was cradled in his lap, his good arm around her, his bad arm held at an awkward angle away from his chest.

He mumbled some things to her for awhile, incoherent murmurs mixed with a few spare words she could pick out. 'Suit' and 'hot' was frequent, as was 'Yinsen' and 'Raza.'

Holy shit, was this a lot of shit. She knew those names and she knew what they meant. It cemented her theory that Tony just got out of captivity and this was the setting of the first Iron Man movie.

Corvin had to forcibly shove down her fan-freak-out, because, while she was excited to be witnessing such a pivotal moment in history, she also had a PTSD riddled man holding her and she wasn't enough of a douche to leave him hanging while she had a freakout.

Tony, the amazing man he is, was never one to sit idly for long. And he cemented that fact by shaking himself out of his daze quickly after her revelation.

Clearing his throat, Tony looked her right in the eyes, consideration clear in the whisky-colored irises.

"I think it's time for a shower, don't you?" he said, his voice coming out stronger than before, but still rough around the edges. He stood slowly, one arm wrapped around her still. Corvin shifted her weight the best she could, digging her back paws (sans claws) into the space between his pants and his stomach, standing on the fold in the clothing. All he had to do was hold her body to his chest and let her back legs do the work.

She could see a small quirk in his lip as he noticed what she did. Pleased that she amused him, Corvin purred all the way through the elevator ride to the upper floor and into his room.

He set her down on the bed (albeit reluctantly) and looked around for clothing. She stayed where she was, watching him closely as he dug for a shirt in his drawers, her tail flicking every now and again. He disappeared into the bathroom, not bothering to close the door as he began stripping out of his soiled clothing.

Now, Corvin was no saint, be even she was courteous then and turned away from the door to give him privacy. But it was a near thing. Lord-have-mercy on her poor poor cat soul, she was only human (feline?) and did she ever want to peek at the show, but she'd feel dirty if she did it now. Like she was taking advantage over a hurt man and that was not how she rolled.

She'd wait until he was whole and healthy before she ogled, thank you very much.

She spent his shower time snooping his room, trying to find out what an eccentric billionaire hid in his sock drawers. She was saddened to find no goodies to be found, no sexy toys or even a pair of fuzzy cuffs, just some condoms and lube packets. Very vanilla.

Come on, Tony, you're ruining ur playboy vibe here, she thought to herself as she sniffed around his night stand. While she wasn't expecting the dude to have a sex dungeon or anything, she was at least expecting a little sumthin' sumthin'. Like a dildo or cock ring. But there wasn't.

A bit disappointing, but eh, whatever rocks the man's boat.

Maybe he hid some stuff in his workshop? Corvin promised to herself to go on a scavenger hunt later to sniff out any and all naughty things. But for now, she'd continue snooping through his stuff here.

If she was honest (and many times she was to a disrespectful degree), his room felt, well, un-roomy. There was nothing in it that really marked it as 'his' space. There was no nicknacks, no photos or books. Were it not for the cloths in the closet and drawers, she would have thought this was a guest room.

No wonder the man didn't sleep if his room felt this bare. Like a stranger in his own home.

She heard a thump in the bathroom. A loud, painful thump.

Corvin raced over to the open door dashed inside to see Tony slumped against the far wall of his enormous shower. (seriously, holy shit Tony, you could fit a car in there..)

She moved to the side of the glass door, pawing at the clear glass next to the downed man. Tony was in the middle of a full-blown panic attack, his breath was heavy and his body was shaking, arms over his head even as the water was cut off (probably by JARVIS).

She was kind of freaking out. Corvin was fairly sure that having two back-to-back panic attacks was really really bad, especially in his condition. And, from the looks of it, this panic attack was uglier than the one he had in the workshop.

Shit.

She moved as quick as she could, greatly hindered by her small body and weight. She was just nosing the sliding glass door open, when Tony fell unconscious due to over-hyperventilation.

Double shit.

While she was glad he couldn't hurt himself, because he was out fucking cold, she was rather distressed that he had fallen unconscious at all. She didn't exactly have a doctor to ask, but she took a wild guess and assumed it was due to multiple things all piling up on top of one another at a over-heaping degree and overwhelming him. The exhaustion from his time in captivity, the stress of the return, the sudden release of the 'im going to die any second' mentality, and the two major panic attacks.

Thinking about it like that, she wasn't too shocked that he hand passed out.

She just wish he had done it somewhere a little more forgiving on his neck.

It didn't take her too long to run off and snatch a pillow, because there was no way in hell she was going to be able to move his ass to the bed. Thankfully, he had slumped against the wall when he had passed out, upright. So it took some handy dandy maneuvering to get him laying on his side with his good arm, pillow under his head (she just kinda… shoved him over? Eyeballed where to put the pillow down, then pushed her entire weight into his side and got him to slump over. His head was partially on the pillow so she was counting it as a success.)

She also nipped a bunch of Tony's ridiculously fluffy towels to use as blankets for him. One: because he was still damp from the shower. And two: no fucking way was she able to pull that heavy ass comforter off of his bed. The damn thing weighted ten times her own weight and she wasn't fuckin jacked like that, man.

It was a good forty minutes later that she sat back, satisfied with her work.

Tony's head was kinda on the pillow, his chin brushing the shower floor. About six towels covered the man, looking kinda lumpy and haphazard.

She didn't have any fucking thumbs, ok? Can't expect five star turn down service when she cant even crack open a can of Coke.

But Tony was covered! And somewhat comfortable?

At least more so than he would have been, had she left him slumped against the wall. But she couldn't just leave him like that. He was such a damn mess. And God, if that wasn't such a life mood she could roll with.

Corvin also got a good look at his body, in a non-sexual way, of course. Kinda hard not to see what's going on when there is a man laying naked on the floor and your whole body is within the foot right above the floor. Everything was eye-level for her now. And oh boy, did he look like shit.

For one: Archreactor. Holy shit, she'd be amazed if it didn't look so damn painful. It was a bright blue star in the middle of a patch-worked chest of painful, half-healed injuries, and nasty looking purple and blue bruises. His whole chest looked misshapen by the device, and it was only heightened by his frail, starved body. She could see his ribs, could count the veins against the barely-there meat on his body.

Holy shit, he looked half dead. All of her thirsty-bitch thoughts were shoved into a tiny box in her mind, thoroughly and utterly smashed down by the surge of protectiveness and 'must help this man' feelings.

She could feel it. Creeping under her skin and into her chest, snaring around her heart with burning, claw-like fingers.

Compassion, oof.

She could feel herself slipping into that caregiver role she fell to damn easily into. But she couldn't leave this man like this, not when she could do something, anything, to make his life a little less hellish after such an awful event. And to all the events she knew were to follow.

And it was with a loud, put-upon sign (that was really just so she could later deny all willfulness) that Corvin thought:

'Well, i guess i'm in this for the long haul.'