Tony missed his suit. The little Tom Ford number wasn't quite cutting it today.

He'd been waiting for the special invitation since he'd started dropping hints like enticing breadcrumbs. New software that could identify system bugs and repair like a living system; or new tech in hydrodynamics, or intelligent face-reading systems. He'd had to pepper those in with other, less relevant tech, putting more on the market than he really felt like releasing, but it couldn't be obvious.

He obligingly put his only-a-watch watch in the plastic bin, alongside his sunglasses, and pushed it through the scanner as he stepped through the metal detector. The guard scanned him with a little crackling wand, eyed his badge, and greeted with a curt "Welcome back to Mount Weather, Mister Stark."

"Nothing like coming home again, Bluto," Tony said, slipping his watch back on. And tucking his sunglasses into his breast pocket. The guard didn't get the joke, or wasn't allowed to crack a smile, it could go either way.

Tony's nameless escort took him down an industrial hallway, left, right, left again, and down an elevator. Down, down, into the depths of the classified mountain. If you were going to have a secret conversation, classified beyond classified, this was the place to have it.

Tony tried to look bored.

The nameless escort held the elevator door open as nameless escort #2 with a higher security clearance waved him off the lift. "Tweedledum," Tony nodded to nameless escort #1, then "Tweedledee," he said to #2, following him down a new, yet identical, industrial hallway. "Would it kill them to paint?" Tony grumbled.

Tweedledee didn't answer, or even acknowledge that Tony had spoken. He opened a set of heavy double doors at the end of the hall, revealing Ross playing with some putting green at the back of a large conference room. "Tony! So good of you to come, thank you." He tossed the little club into a brass umbrella stand.

Tony saluted sloppily. "My country calls, I try not to just let the line blink."

"A patriot now, are you? I thought you lived in a nation of Avengers!" Ross jabbed lightly, a testing attack. A shark testing for resistance.

Tony groaned, rolling his eyes and sinking into one of the conference table's chairs. Natasha had prepped him, rehearsed it all down to the micro-expression. "I never thought I'd miss my Stark Industries days. It's like herding explosive cats." He dangled the bloody fish just over the water, letting Ross sniff it out. "Would you believe I've had to make a failsafe for any of them going rogue? And then a backup to that backup?"

Ross was hesitant to nibble, and leaned on the table instead of sitting. "We tried to warn you - that's why we had to pull you in line under the U.N.; too many cats out of the bag and something goes boom."

"Oh, I'm sorry, does the U.N. Want to hold the bag?" He extended a closed fist, jokingly. Of course you do, he thought, the U.N. wants the bag, the cats, and all the cats to come.

"No, no," Ross lied, surrendering, "that bag's all yours. You signed for it."

Tony wiggled some life into the fish. "Half of them aren't even mine," Tony waved, "they're Hydra's leftovers!" He exclaimed. "But; ends, means, something about justifying."

Ross stiffened, and Tony was treading dangerous water. He was starting to lean too far towards Ethics Steve and needed to be Golf Buddy Tony. "They let you have anything decent to drink in this cave, or just government-issued water rations?"

"Would you believe," Ross said slowly, reaching into a back cabinet and withdrawing a bottle of something amber, "that this facility was built by Hydra?"

Tony looked around, appearing impressed. "You know, it does give off a little Imperial Authority, a little Paint it Black."

The joke missed Ross by a mile. He poured generous drinks for himself and Tony, which he accepted only mildly concerned about being poisoned, and the Secretary continued. "You wouldn't believe what we've found over the years."

"You've already got all the good toys, no need to brag," Tony said, inviting him to brag.

"Let me just say it could put the Tesseract to shame," Ross said, grinning with pride, "more than enough for an army. We're nearly there with testing, only a few hiccups and minor collateral damage, but such is our duty."

This, Tony realized with sobering certainty, is no shark in the water. This is an addict. I'm talking to an addict. He knew what parts in this play were available. He couldn't be a cop, or a narc, he needed to either play the part of dealer or client.

Tony fought the urge to shudder, fought the nausea that bubbled inside him as he slipped into an old skin. He rubbed his chin slowly, casually, and nodded in agreement. "It's always the next fight, right? Stopping it. Mutually assured destruction only goes so far when we just keep adding sharper rocks to the ends of the sticks - at some point a firmer hand needs to bear down."

Ross seemed skeptical, hesitant to believe he'd won Tony over.

"They say that the best weapon is the one you never have to fire." Tony shook his head, chuckling darkly, "spoken like someone who's never been facing down the barrel of a planet-killing gun. Because - and I'm sure I'm preaching to the choir here - it's utterly ridiculous."

Ross tested the waters. "They build a pea shooter, so we make a six-shooter. They make a shotgun, and we make an AK- it never ends if we're just going the next step up - proportional response isn't a deterrent."

"Those Accords," Tony shook his head, "so close, so close. Specificity can be such a demon." Ross frowned, and Tony didn't wait for him to ask the question before baiting the hook. "They had all the Avengers sign, right - active members, powers, suits, the works, but think about everything going to waste." He snapped his fingers, left and right alternately, "It's all waking up, these vigilante kids and new mutants, and nobody made them sign shit, so all that firepower is just going to waste."

The whiskey went down too smooth. It had been ages since he'd had a real drink, sticking to nonalcoholic beers and water for so long. He focused on the burn, on the breath-robbing gasses, and not the seductive heat in his chest. "So," Tony drawled, pulling back on the hook, "How much?"

"The government isn't for sale, Tony," Ross chuckled like they were old golf buddies.

Tony let the seductive amber swirl in his glass, trying to ignore the siren call. "Oh, no, you misunderstood me, how much does the government have to spend? Because from what I can tell from when your analysts start trying to poke around my secure systems, you've got somewhere between four and six critical infrastructure or active sabotage issues onboard your little program."

Ross would have been expecting two infrastructure issues, and no sabotage. That's because Tony was making it up. He hid his surprise pretty well, but Tony had learned from the best.

Tony spread his arms, a benevolent god, "All you had to do was ask. But," he waggled a finger at Ross in a caricature of a chiding parent, "full offense, I don't trust you or your contractors not to steal my ideas anymore, so if you want it I'm installing it myself."

The addict was hesitant to take the bait. "I don't know, Tony; you've been out of the game for a while. How do I know you're offering better than what we've already paid for?"

Tony invited the addict to lean in, just a taste, the first taste is free, "For the good old days," Tony lifted his glass and set it down, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a thin rectangle of plastic. "Solid state drive, all plastic and synthetics, no metals."

Ross accepted it, flipping it over and around in his hands as if he had any idea what he was looking at. "You got this past the metal detectors just for show? What's on it?"

Tony shrugged, picking up his whiskey again. "Some cat videos, some specs for a new heads-up display that would improve inmate tracking, nothing interesting. For, say, a contract of ten Billion, I'll fix your water troubles."

Ross mulled it over. "Five Billion, and we'll add a security option that I think you might like. Another… failsafe. If you catch my drift."

Got you. He had to shake his hand and smile now, even if the thought made his skin crawl. Tony held out his hand with a dealer's winning grin. "You've got yourself a deal."

"I've got to say, Tony," Ross added as he shook Tony's hand, "you're not who I thought you were. I thought you weren't so fun anymore."

You're going to get to see just how fun I can be, asshole.

"I need a shower," Tony grumbled, yanking off his tie as he climbed into his helicopter. "Whatever contract they send over, I want it run through the finest of combs. No classified clauses."

"Yes, boss," Friday confirmed. "The news has picked up since this morning."

"Show me," he ordered, throwing his phone's display to the helicopter's main screen. Tony swapped out his just-a-watch watch for something a little more secure as the newsfeed rolled.

"Good morning, I'm Elliot Garza. We're updating you this morning on the story of the week, the 'Silent Laureate', where two New York poets admitted to fraud against the September Foundation. Our very own Sharon Tipton is on the scene, let's go to her now, live, for more details. Sharon?"

"Thank you, Elliot. Well. It's a real circus out here in Greenwich Village this morning. Behind me you can see the home of David and Mab Dumont, uncle and niece respectively, who allegedly admitted to fraud on live television earlier this week. There have been no further comments despite repeated attempts to reach them for comment, and police are keeping reporters from approaching the door after the Dumont family filed a complaint."

"Sharon, is it known whether the family plagiarized the entire program's works, or only partially? What kind of fraud are we looking at here?"

"Unfortunately, Elliot, without any additional comment from the family we can only go off of the original interview, and a comment of non-involvement by the Dumont's employers."

"Is it known when we can expect a statement from the family?"

"Not at this time, Elliot, but we've received an anonymous tip that there may be an arrest warrant in the works."

Tony flicked the display away, disgusted. "Where do they even get this garbage," he wondered. "Is there really an arrest warrant?"

Friday processed for a moment. "No, boss, but there have been repeated calls from the New York Attorney General's office inquiring as to whether you want to press charges."

Tony rubbed at his face. "Divert to the closest landing to the brownstone and get me a car." He leaned back against the seat and tried to close his eyes.

Sleep was a distant dream, kept at bay by the cold pit in his stomach and the still-present call of alcohol, a song he tried to ignore. The addictive part of his brain tried to convince him that he could have just one more drink, just one more, but the logical part beat it back. There was no such thing as just one more to an alcoholic.

The helicopter banked through course adjustments, threading the needle between flight paths and no-fly zones. Careful paths, dancing along the line of action and destruction, Tony felt the last of the single mouthful start to fade from the edge of desire. It hurt to feel it go, and it was a relief. Tony didn't like how easy it had been to slip back into that old skin. Part of his was afraid he wouldn't be able to wriggle out of it again.

Friday landed the helicopter with barely a jostle on top of some corporate building that was happy for the publicity, and smart enough to have some eager intern escort him from the landing pad down to the street where a black car was already waiting.

Tony disliked that he couldn't even pull down the street for the flood of media vans. He had to park a block over and walk. If he'd worn one of his suits and simply landed in the street he'd have had a lot more fun, but he needed to make a divide between the Avengers and Tony Stark, at least for this meeting.

He nodded to the police officers standing at the corner, appearing to mind their own business. He ignored the poorly-concealed Agents walking on the opposite side of the street. Fat lot of help they'd been so far, but they had their uses.

"Coming through," he barked to the gaggle standing just far enough back from the brownstone steps to avoid getting arrested for trespassing.

Up three steps and a sharp rap of his knuckles on the storm door. Then he had to wait.

Cameras flashed. A reporter yelled from the back of the crowd. "Mister Stark, why are you-?"

"The September Foundation is responsible for funding the Poet Laureate program." He gestured to the brownstone door. "I'm here to check on my poet."

Almost on cue, the door opened. Tony put on his best show grin, greeting: "David! So good to see you - we should chat. You've got coffee?" And stepped inside.

The old door completely shut out the yells of reporters and photographers, enveloping Tony in a warm, woody embrace of the true heart of New York. Books were piled next to a bowl of keys in the foyer. Books were piled on most surfaces. A gray cat looked haughtily down from the upstairs landing, keen eyes daring him to touch anything.

And for such a warm home, a home where books were piled like treasure, an atmosphere of despair laid heavy on his shoulders.

"I'm not sure if I should start by thanking you for coming, or apologizing for the misunderstanding," David said.

"I meant what I said outside - coffee?" Tony asked.

"Oh - of course. Just through the left into the kitchen. How do you take it?"

"Brewed, preferably, but I'll chew the grounds in a pinch."

Seated at the kitchen table, cradling a cup of coffee, Mab Dumont glanced up at Tony as he sauntered into the kitchen. He half expected her to stand up. She didn't.

She looked tired, but worlds better than when he'd seen her under the Cradle's care. "Mab Henrietta Dumont, the Silent Laureate."

Her expression grew flat, almost icy. "Anthony something Stark, the Iron Man." She looked at him like the gray cat on the landing; her very gaze a warning, or a threat.

He nodded to her cane, leaning against the wall. "Physical therapy not doing it for you?"

She shrugged. "Amiodarone toxicity takes its toll. It's better than I was."

He unbuttoned his jacket. "That's enough with the meaningless pleasantries."

"Good," she replied. "Coffee's in the pot. Help yourself."

David offered him a white mug with a collection of cats seemingly ignoring commands. "Cream, sugar?" David asked.

"No, black's fine," Tony said, accepting the home brew and sitting down opposite Mab at the table.

Tony leaned back into his chair and tilted his head down in an appraising stare, and Mab met and held his look. He could appreciate the steadfast resolve, but the fear and trepidation weren't invisible. Under ordinary circumstances she would be well within her rights to be afraid, and an army of lawyers had tried to convince him to sue or press charges.

Tony had much larger concerns than this so-called "scandal". His government, and a handful of other governments, had conspired to make human test subjects into powered soldiers, to create an army of the future with spirits broken. This was nothing.

"Should I expect thumbscrews?" She asked. "Or tar and feathers?"

But it wasn't nothing at this kitchen table. Here, it was everything. It was the ocean pulling away the sand under their feet, a sword at their throats, the enemy at the gate.

"What do you think should happen?"

She held his gaze, resolute. "I think the September Foundation should press charges for fraud. Criminal, or civil, I'm not a lawyer so I'm not sure what's appropriate."

"Did the foundation receive original work? All the speeches, the poems, the talks - it was all from a Dumont?"

Mab blinked, taken aback. "Yes, of course."

"Then it'll all come out in the wash." Tony pulled out his phone, and a blank Stark phone. "I'm going to need you to keep track of this one, 'kay? And pick up when I call. You're going to be very busy for a few weeks."

Mab slowly accepted the phone. "And why is that?"

"I've got to reintroduce you as the Laureate, make it all look Kosher. So; big shindig, a speech, some poetry, shake some hands, smile big for the cameras."

She looked down at the clear glass of the phone. Her fingernail tapped along the side, like she'd had it for a long time and had developed the habit. "What kind of figurehead are you expecting me to be?" Her gaze dragged up slowly to meet his. "How shiny a prize?"

A throne room of a kitchen table, a seat of power veiled in domesticity, a subtle knife in a blue-green gaze.

David scolded his niece for her tone, and apologized, but Tony waved it off. She had gauged it correctly, and he could respect being called on it. "Despite appearances, this isn't blackmail. This is an attempt to make a scandal into a redemption story. I need only a little cooperation and a pretty smile or two from you to make that happen, but I can do it without you if I have to." He leaned over his coffee. "I will not let you, or anyone else, ruin the reputation of this foundation."

Tony could see the question she wanted to ask. When she spoke, it wasn't what he had been expecting. "Do you read a lot of poetry?"

"No."

"So why a Laureate program?"

"My mother loved poetry."

She smiled. "Mine, too."

"Dead moms club," Tony said without thinking.

"Membership card or t-shirts?" She quipped back.

"Company car," Tony said.

"Nice."

"We done here?" He asked, standing and answering his own question. "Like I said - lots to do, answer that when it rings, and start writing a nice acceptance speech. You've got a dress? Black tie? Never mind, Pep's got someone who can get you something."

Mab stood. "Thank you. I was expecting… I thought we were going to have a very different conversation."

Tony tilted his head. "Like what?" He asked, feigning ignorance.

She shot him a sour look. And there was the question she wanted to ask again. But he could see she also wasn't ready to press her luck. Good, Tony thought, just let me lead. To reassure her, and David, that there was no enemy at the gate, no ocean under their feet, would take more. "You'd better be worth the trouble, Miss Dumont. You cost me a lot of money."

She winced. "We're really very sorry, it was an accident-"

Tony waved a hand. "Not the foundation - you'd have been paid the same for the laureate program either way so that's nothing. I mean you."

She recoiled.

"Do you have any idea what it costs to pay a dying company, reporters, and a whole host of medical professionals for their discretion? Never mind I personally produced proof that they fucked up your medical care for decades, but a delicious and expensive story like poet treated at Avengers Tower isn't easy to kill."

"It was you," she said. "You ordered the new scans. You found the errors."

"I did."

Why? Why? Why? The question hovered around her like a thundercloud, etched into the frown above her brow, carved into the shape of her clenched-white knuckles.

You're too fun, Dumont. She showed remarkable restraint and patience, even in the face of his intentionally dismissive persona. He was goading her, trying to pick apart her weakness, and aside from an anxious sense of justice that seemed terribly familiar, she wasn't giving him much to work with.

He shrugged. "I got curious."

Her face twitched, irritation or discomfort, or a recognition of the likely source of said curiosity. So, she wasn't totally clueless.

David cleared his throat, "what my niece means to say is thank you, Mister Stark," he said, shooting Mab a pointed look.

That's not what she means to say at all, Tony allowed himself a little grin, just for fun.

Mab smiled back, a predator baring their teeth. What was it about super-soldiers that they were able to pick out vipers? Unlike the other she-wolf, though, this one had restraint. She didn't play at fences, or bow and pretend. She had but one face, cameras rolling or not, and that was going to be very fun.

Too fun, too fun, we're going to have so much fun. Tony grinned wider. "We're going to have a lot of fun, you and me." He pointed at the phone. "Pick up when that rings."

"What if it's a reporter?"

"No one who shouldn't be calling you will call that phone. You read a lot of poetry, right?" he asked, more than a little teasing.

"Sometimes," she said, with a knowing smile.

"How's this one go: it matters not how strait the gate, how charged with punishments the scroll…"

"I am the master of my fate," she said, "I am the captain of my soul."

"Atta girl."

"You're supposed to be insufferable."

"Is that how he described me? I'm wounded." That seemed to hurt, and he regretted going off-script for it. "Well, you're exactly how he described." He buttoned up the suit jacket and turned for the door before she could process what he'd said.

Friday reported in his ear that Mab's phone had been activated, and the agenda for the next week was generated and being executed. "Keep her busy," he told Friday. "No breathing room."

"Yes, boss."

He could hear Mab's phone ringing as he hit the threshold.

"This is Mab Dumont," he heard her answer just before the door shut and the roar of reporters flooded out anything else.

A/N: I was expecting this chapter to take a lot longer to write. I talked through the goals and subtleties with my husband because I felt like I was missing something, and he added a few great details from the movies and comics that I'd forgotten.

The contrast here between a crisis treated as a casual golfing discussion, and a non-issue treated as a crisis, one treated with casual jokes and the other with solemnity, I hope shows all the sides of Tony that are quite difficult to write.

Also, lmfao Tony think's he's making up an intrusion… and Volkov is there.