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A Beautiful Mind Chapter 2 - Tony Stark fanfiction

A Beautiful Mind - Avengers fanfiction | Iron Man / Tony Stark-centric | #1 in the Wretched Adrenaline series

Summary: 'Prodigious clarity conceived', Tony Stark is the most enlightened mind of this existence. Like an elastic band, his mind expands to encompass all knowledge he comes across. Bands snap.

Genres: Drama/Sci-fi

Word Count: 2,200 Chapters: 02/05 Status: Finished prior to publishing

Trigger warnings: Allusion to schizophrenia / mentions and explorations of mental illness + suicide / familial abuse and trauma / mentions of sexual activity.

Sincerest apologies for this late update! I had this posted on ff.net some days ago but this has been a hectic time for me and I forgot to press ‘post’.. I should probably queue these things.. 

Chapter 2: Gods

It had been days now. Thousands of minutes in which he had hidden himself from the world and all interaction, with only the precious indulgence of the most artificial mind- his own creation, and thus the safest option, as Tony innately knew that only he and that which he could completely dictate could be trusted.

Days since Tony had found the courage to face them.

He had suspected when he ventured upstairs- to his own kitchen- that it wouldn't go well, but the need for food had won out. And inevitably he had been humiliated. Perhaps they didn't see it that way. In fact, for all Tony knew, neither Steve nor Vision had picked up on how 'out of it' he had been. But the days taken their toll and his sleep deprivation had culminated in one of those dreaded flashbacks.

At least this time it had not been of Afghanistan.

"JARV, can you copy this template and store it on my private server, please."

His lab was washed in a soft natural lighting, creating a calming atmosphere. Controlled chaos reigned in his most precious space; his modus operandi flowed in a maze of questionable ideas. Each time he was struck with another moment of euphoria, it had to be jotted down by hand and plastered up in a string-board flow chart that coated every surface and space available.

Tony worked like a madman, never entirely still. His hands shook and his eyes wavered. Almost wordlessly he spoke to himself, reciting formulas, theories, and mashing the very fringes of theoretical science together in a corroded version of logic.

"Of course, sir."

He snapped his fingers, twirling around to snatch up another hot cup of liquid energy. $60 a cup. Because he's Tony fucking Stark.

"Sir, the synthesized element is now complete."

Tony let out a shaky breath. "Bring her up, JARV."

His beloved AI did as requested and the newly synthesized component emerged like an infant Jesus, or Simba. The steaming mist rose up, slowly evaporating into the air ducts. The theatrics of it all did nothing but exacerbate his irregular heart beat and warm his hands with nervous perspiration.

"Perfect," he murmured, gingerly plucking it from its perch. His latest attempt at recreating one of the many Chitauri 'elements'. Once he'd come to terms with whatever materials the Hoard consisted of essentially being out-of-this-world, he'd set about making his own. PTSD prevented him- no, reminded him of why space travel is a bad thing- a terrible, most dreaded, and utterly anti-human endeavor- so the safest option he had was to simply create it all.

He'd done more difficult tasks before. Like in caves, with a car battery wired into his chest.

Tony repressed a shiver but was unable to stop the frown which settled upon his face like scar tissue. Even during his most poignant moments, the repressive and plagueish feeling gnawed at him, chewing him to pieces and scattering his sanity like dollar bills from a blimp.

His new element glinted in the soft lighting. Iridescent like a polished pearl, it held his hopes, his fears, and his obsessions.

Snatching up his scanner, he let the holographic wave flow across it before processing the data.

Tony stood quietly with shaking hands, lost in the swirling mist of his coffee.

"The element does not match, sir."

Tony cursed, nearly throwing his cup against the wall. Instead he discarded it behind him, unaware of the blistering liquid splashing his bare feet. In a rare moment of ill-restraint, Tony let out a frustrated scream, sweeping his arm across his desk and sending it's contents scattering across the polished floor. Glass shattered and sprayed him with thin, nearly invisible cuts. His chest heaved, pumping out gutturally anguished grunts.

"Sir?"

"Does any of it match?" Tony screamed into his hands, fisting his hair into painfully tight clumps.

His shaking increased with his shoulders hunching and tensing more as he waited for JARVIS to calculate the difference.

"There is a 52% match rate, sir."

"Fifty-two percent," he enunciated to himself quietly, "It's never enough."

Tony straightened up to stare blankly at the mess covering his lab.

Post-it notes dotted the walls, his tables, and even his cars. He didn't need them. In fact he had only ordered them last week thinking perhaps it would ground him, and remind him of the necessity and fruition of such an ambitious dream. But now it slammed into him with a splitting ache, his eyes scrunching up as a blinding pain coursed down his head. It reminded him of how fucking ruined he was.

"Never fucking enough," he muttered.

Fifty two percent means the elements, the material, whatever the fuck he labelled it- it all boiled down to having the same matter which existed for tangible forms, but beyond that, whatever accumulation of atoms formed the mysterious armours, 'flesh', and weapons of the Hoard simply did not exist as an Earthen configuration, and if Tony dared to press his mind into the darkest corners of his intelligence, he would be forced to consider that potentially, the elements he searched so desperately for were beyond his highest form of science.

Beyond science itself and perhaps into the realm of speculation and, he shuddered, magic. The horror.

Horrible potential. One would believe Tony Stark idolized magic. His own creations all embodied the most human form of magic. Technology so advanced he could craft his suit from the air (seemingly) and power his tower from a self-sufficient source. All ideas that scientists had salivated over, but truly, few had the brains capable of processing such advanced theories.

"JARV," he ground out through gritted teeth, "What does the two-percent signify?"

Another moment of silence while JARVIS considered his readings. "I believe, sir, that the two percent is evidence of a nuclear-bonding between the armours of the Chitauri Hoard, and their 'flesh'."

That means their armour is really an exoskeleton..

Which again meant he was no closer to understanding their technology or their ability to breathe in space.

Tony wanted to cry but he settled for sinking to his knees and gasping for air. Imagining space without his suit.. imagining floating in that awful, endless void..

He couldn't breathe.

Grasping at his throat, his vision swam.

"Sir, you are experiencing an anxiety attack. Code Beta. Sir, you are experiencing an anxiety attack. Code Beta. Sir, you are experiencing an anxiety attack. Code Beta..."

Code Beta.

Tony's self determined code word broke through the haze, allowing him enough time to stagger to his feet and slump towards his coach. Barely mustering the strength to pull his suddenly lead filled body onto the expensive leather, he never heard had a chance to fight he sleep which wormed its way into his deprived and demented brain.

Burning cinders drifted through the air lazily. Such beautiful hues of orange and magenta glowed behind the thick, black smoke. They danced like peacocks of death.

Plumes of the smoke filled the skies and suffocated him, working its way down his throat and filling him with trepidation.

Her voice chanted above the carnage, "Cinis praecepto cadunt acie retro.."

Screaming metal cut through his dazed thoughts and he raised his head, vision blurred by red, to see a ship leaning to left. It groaned ominously, straining against gravity, but inevitably, it lost. The dull silver wings tipped downwards and the ship fell headlong into a spiralling descent.

"In acie retro faciens iter sonitu.."

He tried to cry out in pain but the sound lodged in his throat. His entire body ached like he had been beaten for all eternity. He had to press on. Desperation clawed at him.

A spindly hand shot towards him and tightened around his throat. He thrashed violently before regaining his senses. Lifting his hand to fire a propulsion, the being was swept away in with a loud bang, landing sickeningly against a stone wall.

Everything blurred together as he fought them. There were so many. Everywhere. They swarmed like roaches, never ceasing, never lessening in number despite the culling blows they were dealt. Slate coloured skin, red eyes, and horrible, repulsive green mouths like moss and mold.

Somewhere far from his vision the Hulk let out an almighty roar, shaking the earth he lay on with a bellow deeper than he had ever heard.

"Rumpitur sanguine filiorum tuorum implebo tympana.."

They were losing. Vision hovered above one of their mother-ships surrounded by an unearthly red glow. Another mammoth beast fell from the sky with an almighty crack as lightening touched from the heavens and split it's skull from it's monstrous body.

Agony seared from his chest and as he looked down he nearly passed out. Luminous green shards jutted from his reactor like pins in a doll. They leaked a foul odorous discharge and his reactor sparked, sending blinding spots cascading across his vision.

He sent another energy charge at an approaching Chitauri goon, before commanding JARVIS to launch a rocket at the mother-ship closest to him.

"Sir, your arc reactor does not possess the energy needed to fire the rocket and continue to power your suit."

He forced JARVIS to do it.

The air in his lungs left him like a swift punch and he collapsed in the rubble, unable to breathe or scream or think. JARVIS said something but it didn't compute and he felt a blissful numbness encompass his left side. In the back of his head, he registered a stroke.

"Errorem suum pure et crucifigetis.."

Inhuman shrieks filled the air but it barely registered to him. JARVIS continued to bleat in his ear. All he knew was agony. Unfathomable and unnatural pain.

As his eyes slid shut slowly, the last thing he ever saw were the rising forms of those they had so valiantly tried to slaughter. They stood slowly, heads tipping back to join in the unearthly shrieks, bodies convulsing nauseatingly.

Darkness filled his vision.

Tony woke with a scream.

Silence. Then his ragged breath.

Another fucking night terror. It had been so real. So clear. But it was just a dream.

They were usually quite similar. It always featured the Chitauri. Plenty of death. The Avengers, naturally.

And that haunting voice.

It was so familiar that Tony was sure it belonged to a real person he had met before. But for the life of him he couldn't think of who. And that drove him fucking mad. Despite his near perfect memory, whoever possessed that lilting voice escaped his stranglehold grasp. He eventually concluded the voice manifested as a distorted version of a real persons voice. He then banished it from his mind before it sent him raving mad, and falling over his already precarious balance on the edge of sanity.

Tony had defied nature most nights but the fatigue had gone beyond his previously known limits, and once something as mere as a thought had triggered his fears, the need for rest wormed in like a disease and wouldn't let go.

Drenched in sweat Tony had summoned his latest suit models frantically, despite being barely conscious. Nine feet tall each, separately colour coded, they smashed through the concrete walls hiding them from any potential intruder. Ironically, when he had woken to tall and menacing figures looming above him, he had once again descended into a panic attack.

Sometimes Tony wanted to die. To kill himself. But he couldn't.

If space held such terrible things, then death.. death would be unimaginable.

He would suffer, and suffer happily as only the truly mad can.

The latin translation from Tony's dream;

"Commandment of ashes, fall in line behind your maker, march to the sound of their cries, fill your beating drums with the blood of your broken children and crucify the pure for their aberration."

Enjoy.

[dawnkiwi-blog]

Fortune of A Broken Man - Chapter 3 - Avengers Fanfiction | Bucky Barnes-centric |

Word Count: 2,340

Chapters: 03/50 Status: Finished prior to publishing

Trigger warnings: Vulgarity / allusion to schizophrenia / mentions and explorations of mental illness / war and PTSD

[ could not find a good enough gif and the gif loader hates me lol bye ]

Chapter 3: Snakes

"You see that? Eyes of a killer. Stone cold and cruel," Lizbeth sighed.

An intern named Pamela stood beside her, doing her best not to quiver in fear.

"You do see it, right? The way he stares at you, just waiting.."

Pamela nodded vigorously. She stared wide eyed at Barnes who sat stock still in the center of the room on the floor. "He's so scary," she whispered.

Lizbeth barked out a laugh and clamped her hand down on the shorter woman's shoulder. Pamela is very, very short.

"I'm just fuckin' with you, love," Lizbeth giggled. "When I look at him, I actually see a very sad man. Probably a romantic. Aren't those eyes just dreamy."

Pamela wasn't sure of what to say. She leaned closer to the window, as though it could shatter if she so much as sneezed. "I... I mean, yeah, actually.."

Lizbeth's lips quirked in a smile but she didn't say a word.

Pamela continued, placing both hands on the window as she peered at him. "He's kind of got that James Dean vibe, I guess. Aw, he needs a hug."

"What he needs," Lizbeth said as she draped herself across Pam's shoulders, "Is for you to realise his eyes aren't telling you anything. They're just blue, and quite tired."

They stared at each other, amusement meeting confusion. "What...?"

Lizbeth steered her back to face Barnes, "Look," she pointed out, "The man is just sitting on the floor, staring at the mirror. There is nothing else to be said. He isn't anything but really, really fatigued. He can't even see you, this is mirrored glass," she said, tapping it, "He's just staring in our direction because logically, he's aware there's probably a bunch of prudish lab coats analyzing him right now."

"But... you said.."

"I know what I said. At first you thought he was evil, or something, and now he's your own Romeo, or maybe a frog that needs a kiss. And a shave. Nothing changed except what I said. It's all too easy to read too much into something. Pretenses kill."

Pamela blushed a deep scarlet, "Sorry," she muttered.

"Hey, it's fine. You're interning to learn, and look! Active learning!"

It had been nearly four hours since she had left Pam to colour coordinate the dossiers and categorically compile her research notes. It was completely unnecessary, of course, but it certainly made it easier for Lizbeth to decipher her own chicken-scratch.

According to the nightly recordings from JARVIS, Barnes had not slept a wink, but at least attempted to rest by taking up the cot offered to him. He had exceeded her expectations by a mile, and that bothered her more than she cared to admit.

Watching him now, it remained obvious that the man was in a deep fugue state. He would twitch every two minutes with less than a second of difference in the repetition. Every ten to fifteen minutes he would get up and wander seemingly aimlessly around the room before returning to his hunched perch on the side of the bed.

It made her restless just to watch him. Like clockwork, each calculated action resembled a man strung up like a doll in a childs play room. But it was impulsive, and reeked of fear.

Barnes had thankfully eaten Steves meal, and the cornflakes Pam had slid through the delivery slot on the door that morning. Even if she had nearly dropped the bowl in terror.

Lizbeth crinkled her nose at the memory of Steve's 'homecooked delight'. SPAM, with bonebroth soup. Smell is a powerful memory, and Lizbeth did not want to remember the heavy tang of preservatives. At least he'd taken her words seriously and gone with something Barnes would be hard-pressed to forget. She certainly wouldn't forget it any time soon.

Even now, Barnes was coiled tight like a grenade. He watched her through the mirrored glass. A wild animal calculating her intentions and tracking her habits. She stared back unflinchingly, perversely taking delight in the unease it brought him.

She had lied to Pam. Despite the mirrored glass technically obscuring them, Barnes seemed to be unhindered by it. His eyes bore into her. How he did this, Lizbeth did not know, but she'd hazard a guess it had something to do with his super serum abilities. Even the documents SHIELD had swiped from HYDRA prior to their collapse did not fully detail the extent of the super serum. Steve had kindly (re: waspishly) informed her that Barnes had been administered a bastardized version of his WW2 serum. But that really didn't tell her much.

One had to wonder, naturally, what went through his head. As far as she knew, the Ol' Doctor Strange could peer into the heads of those under his care, whether by force or permitted. Wanda, alike, could view the on-goings of his brain. Lizbeth had her own methods of examination. But if she forced her way in.. it would likely be easier to get through to the Hulk than James Barnes.

She pressed the buzzer forcefully.

"How do you feel, Mr Barnes?"

He stiffened almost painfully, eyes widening a fraction. Internally debating with himself as to whether or not to respond, he stayed mute.

"That's no fun," Lizbeth muttered. She pressed the buzzer again. "Would you like Mr Rogers to visit?"

He eyeballed her as though she'd kicked his cat.

"So much rage," she mused, "No wonder he was the perfect weapon for HYDRA."

As though doing so would bring him grevious harm, James nodded reluctantly.

"I'll have him sent up, then," she informed him, "My name is Miss Burke, by the way. Tony Stark hired me to get through to you. You know who he is, don't you?"

More silent rage.

"Well, he remembers you, Mr Barnes. Yet his morality has him showing you kindness. Like it or not, you won't come to harm here."*

He, obviously, did not believe her.

After the good Captain had responded to her summons, she had taken a seat on the leather couch. Her clipboard held sheets of crinkled paper dotted with notes, scribbles, and lewd drawings of the two men in Barnes' illustrious accommodation.

Steve had practically hurtled through the door, having apparently misunderstood JARVIS' request. He must have come from the gym, as he was dripping in sweat, and looked ready to fight a god.

Lizbeth wondered who would win a fight, Steve or Thor.

She started another graphic drawing.

Beyond the mirrored glass, Steve sat with James, trying to coax him into talking. While he had been fairly vocal yesterday, it seemed his situation had sunk in, and the man refused to even sigh.

It infuriated Steve for reasons he couldn't fathom. Lizbeth herself didn't care- she had all the time in the world, a nice salary, and access to whatever resources she wanted. She could probably kill in cold blood and have it hushed up.

"I'm telling you," Steve said, "Miss Burke is harmless."

Lizbeth snorted without looking up. Barnes looked no more convinced than she did.

"She's just a shrink Stark hired to help you. We just want you back, and in control, Buck," Steve sighed, wringing his hands. "HYDRA can't touch you here. We're actively hunting them, and their numbers have been reduced drastically. While you were in cryo in Wakanda, T'Challa signed a defense sanction with the White House. There's a North American task force scouring earth for any sign of them."

'Nice choice of words there, Steve,' Lizbeth thought, 'Specifying earth to a man who isn't aware mythology is actually history won't raise alarm bells at all.'

As if to prove her right, Barnes' eyebrow nearly floated off his face. Rogers mistakenly took this as a sign Barnes remained doubtful of his words.

"Our team has expanded, too," Steve said, nearly pleading, "It isn't just the six of us anymore. We have Wanda, Peter, Sam, Vision, and a number of SHIELD agents on board."

"Who the fuck is Peter?" Lizbeth said to herself. She ran through the faces of the Avengers and realised it was probably the Spider dude who like shooting sticky white stuff at people. She snorted, and returned to her drawing.

"Wanda is from Sokovia," Steve continued, staring at his feet. He spoke almost as if Barnes was in a coma, not sitting nary a foot away and scrutinising him. "And is an enhanced. HYDRA took her and her brother, and really did a number on them. But Wanda helped us destroy the Sokovian and Ukranian HYDRA bases during Ultron."

"Who he doesn't know," she sighed. "You're gonna give him an anxiety attack at this rate, Cap."

The hammer she had artifully sketched for Thor looked more like a popsicle.

"Peter is just a kid, but he tries his best. You remember him, right? He managed to pin you down on the hellicarrier."

Barnes frowned.

"Ah, a-and Sam is ex-military. A pararescue. You threw him off the helicarrier," Steve stuttered.

Barnes frown grew heavier.

"But, well, ah," Steve grew flustered, aware he was only making things worse, "Vision is nice. He was Tony's AI, but he stole the body Dr Cho made, before Ultron could have it."

"Jesus christ, you idiot," Lizbeth sighed, dumping her x-rated drawings and stomping over to the mirror. She stabbed the buzzer. "Steve," she cut in irritably, "Why don't you try not to give the man a stroke. You've now convinced him half the people in this building want his head on a stick."

Steve's head snapped back to glare at her. Barnes looked ready to explode. She sighed again, forgetting her finger was on the buzzer. A creepy woosh filled the air.

"Wanda is a telekinetic and telepathic enhanced who swore allegiance to the Captain. If that's worth anything to you, Mr Barnes. Peter is an idiot who is afraid of his shadow, and more specifically you, Barnes. He can't handle gore and hates HYDRA like the rest of us. Sam has forgiven you. I spoke at length with him about it, and he admits that, if he were you, he would have done the same thing. Vision is an artificially created human who put his newborn existence on the line for earth. None of these people pose a threat to you unless you are trying to harm them or their loved ones."

Silence reigned as Steve alternated between glaring at her and peering with concern at Barnes.

James himself had resumed his boring stare through the mirror. Completely at ease, Lizbeth stared back with a blank face. She wanted to shriek boo but the consequences could be mortal, so she refrained. Instead, she settled for meeting his eyes and displaying a weak sympathy on her face.

After a moment, he relaxed. Her actions indicated her honesty, and while he couldn't trust her, he could believe her.

Lizbeth knew how to lie through teeth, even better than she could breathe. Which can be hard, when one is a chronic smoker.

When Steve stepped from Barnes' room, he looked like he wanted to smack her through the wall and out into the muggy Manhattan air. She smiled breezily at him, curling her fingers in a suggestive manner.

"What are you playing at?" he spat, nearly shaking with rage.

Her eyebrows raised. "I didn't do anything, Rogers."

"Yes," he roared, uncharacteristically pissed off, "You did. You nearly f-you- what do you think that was, huh?"

She swallowed, contemplating the right answer. Truth wouldn't work in her favor, but if she lied, he'd smell it a mile off.

"I corrected you. Barnes' began to exhibit signs of an anxiety attack, which in his current state, could land one or both of you in the ICU. Given his past, the best thing for him is blunt honesty and no tip-toeing around sensitive subjects."

Steve stared at her with barely restrained something simmering in his blue eyes. She sighed and stood up, taking a step towards him. He briefly showed surprise before he closed himself off to her again. Unlike most, she casually walked towards the man who could crush her skull with two fingers as though she weren't a frail human, and he wasn't the big bad wolf. To be fair, Barnes' would probably be the wolf in this situation.

Although, frankly, Lizbeth embodied the Black Adder snake that would snap at a dogs heels.

Very slowly, giving him time to step away from her- which he didn't- Lizbeth placed a calming hand upon his forearm. "Steve," she said quietly, "I'm sorry. I know I showed you up, and that wasn't my intention, but I also didn't want you to push Barnes' back into his shell and set us back a week. You didn't do anything wrong. You know your best friend better than I know my left hand, but Steve, I'm a shrink, and I'm here to help. That includes you. You can tell me how you feel- about everything, towards Barnes, Stark, even me. But don't let yourself act in a way that will give you shame latter."

Her words cut through him like he was a sponge, and it rocked his composure. She had spoken like she knew him and it frightened him.

"You're here for Bucky and it should stay that way."

She gave him a knowing look. "How about we cut today short. Could you still prepare a dinner for him?"

He nodded sharply and nearly pushed her off him as he strode away hurriedly. After the door clicked behind him, she shook her head. "Definitely feel shame in the morning."

"Oh, Mr Barnes, what have they done to you?"

A/N:

*Anybody know what I'm referring to? First person to get it can have an OC named after them.

I would like to apologise for this late update. I had to leave my previous home rather suddenly and the last few days have been me settling into a new place. I needed to edit over this and make sure a few small details line up with what happens in the coming chapters.

The next chapter will be up tomorrow. I know this is somewhat of a filler chapter but it didn't flow right to be 1 super long chappy. Sowwy.

BAI

[dawnkiwi-blog]

Fortune of A Broken Man - Chapter 2 - Avengers fanfiction | James Buchanan “Bucky” Barnes-centric // dawnkiwi

Word Count: 2,340

Chapters: 02/50 Status: Finished prior to publishing

Trigger warnings: Vulgarity / allusion to schizophrenia / mentions and explorations of mental illness / war and PTSD

2: Girl

The door slid open with a hiss, permitting a perfectly sculpted blond man entrance.

This must be Steve Rogers, Lizbeth thought.

“Hi, Miss Burke?” he said, smiling warmly. She saw through it, though. He was tense and distinctly uncomfortable.

“Hey, man,” she replied, offering her hand. “Yep, I’m Lizbeth Burke, and soon enough you’ll have Barnes back to being your friend.”

He took the proffered hand and shook with a strong grip. “Right,” he said, unsure of what else to say.

“I called you up here because I’m going to require your assistance in establishing Barnes surrounds to him.”

The Captain shifted wearily, “I’m sorry, Miss Burke, but I don’t know what I can do to help him. He’s so..”

“So lost,” she said, nodding. Turning towards the window before them, she beckoned him over. He moved to stand beside her cautiously.

“I know that this is going to be very painful for you,” she said quietly, eyes locking onto his, “But whatever pain you will feel during this process, is the equivalent to what Barnes will feel as a sense of relief.”

He shook his head with well-disguised grief, “I don’t understand.”

Lizbeth gave her toothpick another crunch, internally laughing at his discomfort in her presence. She would have to see him away from Barnes and fuck with him a little.

“Barnes is a very broken man, Mr Rogers. I’m sure you’ve seen that. But the extent to which it runs is immeasurable. He does not know who he is, where he is, and I doubt he knows the year or even his age. So what I want you to do is speak to him. The dossier,” she said, looking around for the manila file she had discarded shortly before Fury had told her to get the hell out of his lab. It lay strewn on its side beside a leather couch set up for ‘viewing’. Her lip curled at the thought. She snatched it up, and leafed through it, passing him a sheet of paper. “-states that Barnes recognised you once on the helicarrier, and then again when you tracked him with Mr Wilson to Bucharest. Is this correct?”

Rogers nodded tentatively, still scrutinising her with his pearl blue eyes.

“Would you mind telling me what you said to him that could have jogged his memory?”

Rogers shifted on his feet and turned back to face Barnes prone form. He stayed silent for some time, allowing Lizbeth to drink in his body language.

He shook his head mutely. “I..”

Lizbeth reached up to his considerable height and patted him on the shoulder, “It’s alright, Captain, take your time. We’re in no rush. How about you have a seat?” she said, falling onto the couch with a thump and patting the cushion beside her. “How about some coffee?”

He stared at her with an unreadable expression.

Settling into Tony’s overpriced but overly comfy couch, she stared back. Black met blue in a dead quiet staring contest.

He cracked, licking his lips before he spoke. “Why are you here?”

“That’s a stupid question, Rogers.”

He frowned, irritated. “I’m asking you why you’re the person Fury has hired.”

“You don’t trust his judgement, Cap?”

He stayed mute, unwilling to disagree with his superior, nor voice his true objections. She sighed. Part in parcel of job detailed dealing with some of the most difficult people on the planet.

“I understand,” she offered dryly, “I’ve been entrusted with the wellbeing of your oldest friend. That hits a nerve because of what he’s been through. You don’t know me, or anything about me, and I could singlehandedly fuck him up even more. Correct?”

He flinched at her use of language, but nodded with a strained face, unwilling to meet her eyes. “Your file tells me nothing more than you’re a shrink who Stark likes.”

“I think like is an overstatement, but sure. Has Tony told you much about his time prior to the Avengers?”

The Captain scoffed, “Stark and I don’t really talk, Mss Burke.”

She filed that away for later. “Right. Well, what do you know about him?”

“Let’s see- genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. Sound familiar?”

“Not much, then,” she replied with a hint of amusement. “You’re going to have to get to know him at some point. After all, you live in his tower. Anyway, Tony isn’t a horrible as you think he is. He has his own issues, and he’s been through his fair share of torture. Pepper hired me some years back, and Tony appreciated the work we accomplished together. He’d be a lot worse now if it weren’t for me.”

Rogers raised his eyesbrows, as though to question her self-assured manner.

“We both know you could end me before I could say a word, Cap. I’m not going to hurt your friend. It’s not professional.”

“That’s what you think of me?” he bit out harshly, “That’s I’d end you for not doing your job properly?”

She hummed, “Not necessarily. But I’m aware of the lengths you’ll go to in order to protect those you love.”

If it were possible, Steve Rogers seemed even more irritated than before.

“Look, what exatctly do you want me to do?”

She smiled. “When he wakes up, I want you to be in the room. He will recognise you, and if it goes badly, you won’t die. Unlike previously,” she muttered angrily. “He’ll be awake in, oh, five or so minutes? Whadda ya say?”

Rogers didn’t want to say anything, but he’d do almost anything for James Barnes. “Alright,” he said stifly.

Lizbeth stood abruptly, clapping her hands, “Great! I’ll open the door and you can take a seat across from him. Or stand, if you like. I’ll be able to hear you, and you’ll be able to hear me, but neither of you will be able to see me.” She rapped her knuckles on the window, “It’s a mirror. Supposedly.”

When his eyes opened, the first thing he saw was a blond man sat resolutely across from him. Blue eyes met in silence. He looked familiar… very familiar. James made to move but found himself tightly restrained.

“Bucky?” The other man said cautiously. James stared at him.

“..yeah,” he rasped, shaken. “…Steve?”

Steve Rogers let out a heavy sigh of relief. “Bucky,” he repeated, almost breathlessly. “You know who I am?”

He nodded back, swallowing. “Yeah, I… I rem-” Steve cut him off with a raised hand, quickly moving to his side.

“Here, drink.” Steve demanded gently, bringing a cool glass cup to the man’s parched lips. As much as he felt pathetic, and somewhat emasculated, he drank greedily, thankful for the relief.

Placing the cup down, Steve stared at him deeply, scrutinising the soldier restrained like a dog.

“You’re in a secure facility, Buck,” Steve said quietly, “Nobody can hurt you here.”

James stared back, his mind frayed and confused. “How long?”

Steve sighed, “A week and a half.”

His mind swirled. The last thing he could clearly recall was Bucharest, and then there were vague moments of a black man.. Challa, or something like that. As his memories tried to worm themselves back into his conscious, Steve cleared his throat.

“What do you remember?”

James shook his head slowly, as much as he could with the thick strap nearly strangling him. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I remember Bucharest.. those people.. and I remember the stairwell. Everything else is a blur. What happened?”

Steve placed a hand on his shoulder in what was supposed to be a comforting gesture, but it just felt foreign, and strange. “It’s a long story, Buck.. We’re going to help you recover your memories. But just rest, okay? You are safe. I’m not going anywhere.”

James tried to relax, but with each moment that passed, he grew more and more tense. “Where are we?”

“New York. After Bucharest, we were in Wakanda, but you’ve been brought back to America for rehabilitation.”

He tensed fully at Steve’s words.

“Not that kind of rehabilitation,” Steve said quickly, growing worried. “You’re not going to be used, Buck.”

He wanted to laugh at that. Also a foreign feeling. For them to not be used was an entirely stale idea. Of course, he wasn’t sure why, but knew HYDRA used him. Forced him. And Steve was certainly still on active duty.

There was a buzz, which had him stilling to a statue.

“Mr Rogers, can you try to prompt Mr Barnes memory on who he is?”

Steve’s eyes slid shut with a hearty sigh. He mumbled some unintelligible. Clearing his throat, he looked up at James.

“You heard the woman,” he said tersely. “Do you know who you are?”

“Who is that?” He replied quickly, eyes darting to the two-way mirror on the wall.

“Miss Burke,” Steve replied, shaking his head. “She’s here to help you regain your memories. Ignore her.”

James couldn’t do that. Both of them knew that. As a trained assassin, he couldn’t ignore anyone. He could pretend, but his senses would still analyze their intentions. James stared searchingly into Steve’s eyes, silently questioning if he could trust her. Almost imperceivably, Steve hesitated, but Lizbeth was the only one to pick up on it. Steve nodded.

James cleared his throat, thinking over how he could answer without giving this hidden woman information for blackmail.

“My name is James Barnes,” he replied, almost a question. “We were.. soldiers.. commandos..?”

Steve nodded encouragingly, eyes searching him with hope. “The Howling Commandos.”

“You were the leader… Captain.. we grew up together, didn’t we?”

Steve looked like he wanted to cry. Almost. “In Brooklyn. You used to call me punk.’

That jogged his memory. It came rushing back like a kick to the head. A small boy, almost hilariously short for his age. Scrawny. Sickly, even. But defiant.

"You were, Steve,” he choked, trying to come to terms with this sudden past he didn’t feel was truly his. It hurt. It stung. The information was so abrupt, it quickly began to overwhelm him. “Scrawny and always looking for a fight. A damn death wish.”

They both went silent. Steve quietly disgesting that, perhaps, his hopes were not truly unfounded, and maybe Bucky would be whole again. And James because he didn’t know what he didn’t know. He’d been awake for only moments it felt, but his mind was racing, trying to comprehend where reality met conditioning. It was too much.

The buzz rang out again. “That’s enough for today, Mr Rogers. You may release him from his restraints,” Lizbeth’s disembodied voice spoke. “Mr Barnes, Mr Rogers will return soon with a dinner for you, and a sleeping aid, if you are amiable. You are under no obligation to consume either.”

Steve stepped back into the hall, and moved around the corner to face Lizbeth, wno stood with a ring binder in hand. He looked worn, and aged, but infuriatingly enough, he still retained an almost perfect composure.

She smiled at him softly. “That went well,” she said, dropping the binder to the couch. “You did well, Mr Rogers.”

He nodded to her, but his eyes didn’t focus.

“If it isn’t too much to ask, would you prepare Mr Barnes a meal he favored when you were young? I could do it, but you have the knowledge of a proper 40’s meal.”

He shook his head quickly, “No, I’ll do it.”

Lizbeth smiled again. “Soon, preferably. When you serve it to him, don’t try to force the sleeping pill on him, but suggest it. Otherwise he won’t sleep at all.”

Once Steve had departed, Lizbeth turned back to Barnes to find him pacing in front of his cot. Somebody has placed a tacky Captain America blanket on it with matching pillows. She fought the urge to facepalm.

“That won’t seem suspicious at all,” she sighed.

Barnes knew she knew, that he knew she was watching him. The air was silent bar the soft static of the AC, and Barnes calculated and even footsteps. He stood tall, but hunched, with pinched features and a growing tension between his shoulder blades. Lizbeth wondered what he would do if she just… left his door unlocked. Not that she would.

He wouldn’t take the sleeping pill. He’d be stupid to. She wouldn’t take it, either. It could be cyanide for all he knew. But by introducing the concept, he would eventually allow himself a full nights sleep. She bet herself it would be no less than three weeks, and no more than six.

The food was necessary. He’d die in a few days if he didn’t. So far he had only been fed by IV, and that was only giving him nutrients. Without fat and carbs, he’d lost approximately ten pounds over the last week. And prior to that, Dr Cho had estimated he’d been nearly eight days without food.

The wonders of super serum.

With whatever depression-era food Steve cooked up, Barnes would likely experience another torrent of memories. Taste and smell are the two most powerful senses closely following hearing and touch, and with his enhanced everything, it would certainly remind him of his past.

So far he seemed to recall his name, and snippets of his past. Likely a recollection of childhood or teenage memories, and most probably only those featuring Steve. What was most important were the foundations of her person; his formative years and his service to America. Those pertaining to HYDRA would be addressed at a later date, when Barnes broached the subject himself. She was weary of doing it before he had a grounded sense of person, lest she trigger an appearance of the Winter Soldier. In fact, she still didn’t know he exact words used to activate his split personalities.

Lizbeth chewed on a new toothpick. This would be an interesting test of endurance on his part.

A/N: Well there you go, a second chapter for the second day of publishing. The next two chapters are of the same pace, until the end of chapter 4, which is when things begin to bubble and brew.

[dawnkiwi-blog]

A Beautiful Mind - Tony Stark fanfiction // dawnkiwi

A Beautiful Mind - Avengers fanfiction | Iron Man / Tony Stark-centric | #1 in the Wretched Adrenaline series

Summary: Summary: 'Prodigious clarity conceived', Tony Stark is the most enlightened mind of this existence. Like an elastic band, his mind expands to encompass all knowledge he comes across. Bands snap. Featuring: Tony Stark x Pepper Potts Steve Rogers Thor Odinson

Genres: Drama/Family

Word Count: 2,500 Chapters: 01/05 Status: Finished prior to publishing

Trigger warnings: Allusion to schizophrenia / mentions and explorations of mental illness / familial abuse and trauma / mentions of sexual activity

moodboard / gifset for this chapter can be found here

Prelude - Mad World

In the span of 40 years, Anthony Edward Stark had accomplished more than some civilisations could in the span of a hundred.

As the Merchant of Death, he carries the honours of being both a creator and a destroyer.

His true passion, however, remains entirely separate from his peace-shattering works of art.

Hidden from greedy eyes and safely sequestered more than a hundred feet below the streets of Manhattan, Tony sat hunched over a gleaming metal desk. In his hands, he twisted and tinkered with one of his numerous homemade 'toys'. A nifty little scanner he'd managed to construct from the properties of that damned sceptre.

It glowed an ominous blue when activated, and served to create a holographic interface of whatever he aimed it at.

Pepper's bitter denouncement stemmed from Tony's obsessive need to spend as much waking time as possible in his lab. Strewn across the concrete floor were bits of metal and wiring; numerous unrecognisable pieces of machinery. A reminder of the neglect Pepper faced..

His latest fixation happened to be the laws of physics, gravity, and time. Far from his usual technology, Tony had a burning need to understand the more abstract elements of science. It consumed him like a disease.

Pepper believed Tony had become jealous of Jane. Jane believed Tony was rightly curious, and perhaps justly terrified of what the universe held. Steve Rogers had given his two cents and informed Pepper than the prodigal Avenger was likely suffering from an acute case of PTSD.

He was feeling challenged. A strange sensation to a man who had rarely ever felt intellectually stumped.

Glinting like a slice of opal sky, the shard discarded upon the desk stared him in the face. It haunted him.

"What are you made of.." Tony muttered to himself. JARVIS had kindly informed him that the remains he had swiped from the shaken streets of NYC did not match any known material on earth. It seemed the strange material was entirely from another world. Even his new prized scanner could tell him nothing of value.

How fitting, he thought, for the remains of the chitauri to be completely isolated from man's known elements.

"Bring up the carcases again," he said, swivelling around to face the floating holograms behind him.

Scenes from the Chitauri attack flitted across each projected screen. They zoomed in and stilled to focused on the slain behemoths. Any and all CCTV of New York had been scrupulously downloaded and hoarded on servers hidden around the world. To Tony, while his mind functioned in near eidetic capacity, knowing what he had experienced had been seen by the rest of the world served to ground him, and keep him sane.

Forty tonnes of celestial monster lay prone and cooling aside Central Park. They were so beautiful, Tony often thought, but beautiful in the sense of untold horrors.

Tony loved his Lovecraft.

When the time had come for the monumental cleanup, Tony had done his part and donated a nine-figure sum to hush up the moaning politicians and appease the very front end of the public outrage which continued to pour, more than two years on. A part of that sum, however, included Stark Industries personally cleaning up the mess. Housed in a remote New Mexico bunker, the corpses were cryogenically frozen for Tony's personal research.

It was poetically humorous, in his opinion, for the remnants of the Chitauri to be stored in the home state of all things weird. He could have gone with Nevada, but the CIA were still impolitely hostile to him, so he hadn't bothered. It was also fairly apt, considering New Mexico seemed to be Heimdall's favourite drop-zone.

Not to mention my tower, he thought irritably.

Tony still wanted to see Asgard.

On his holographic screen, the body which splayed itself like a bludgeoned pineaaple gave him no more insight than he already had.

"Just what are your secrets, puppy-dog," he sang to himself in an ill attempt to stifle his growing irritation.

With a sigh, he stood up and stomped over to his kitchenette for more coffee.

The microwave blinked a neon 6:44 AM at him. Nearly time for breakfast. The coffee maker clicked on, it's whirring tearing apart the silence.

These past few months hadn't been kind to him. According to Pepper, rather. In Tony's mind, the last few months had been some of the most enlightening. Ignoring his reoccurring nightmares, in which beasts of incalculable size and strength dominated his mind; in which his fears of losing his precious Pepper, and in which the gaping void stared unshakably at him. He loathed it. But in many ways, Tony longed for the terrible dreams. They powered him forward like a ravenous wolf, always seeking the answers to questions previously unthought of.

He loathed it.

But in many ways, Tony longed for the terrible dreams. They powered him forward like a ravenous wolf, always seeking the answers to questions previously unthought of. It was like searching for air in the Mariana Trench.

When he had fallen from the sky, the only thing on his mind was Virginia Potts. He would never see her again. He would never be able to tell her he loved her. They would never have a family. All the unspoken words and missed moments. Gone.

Dead.

And then to wake up on the cold ground with the Hulk's giant gnashers roaring in his face... it had been the single most defining moment of his life. Afghanistan had changed him many ways. Most of them subtle. Tony couldn't be handed things; he couldn't take a bath or step into a pool. The ocean sparked a dread in him he hadn't previously known, and the desert was like a nightmare of desolation and heart-stopping agony.

But that void.

It haunted him, it taunted him; it fucking broke him in two, then moulded him back like a mended shirt, only to be torn again. It never ended.

In his dreams, the void did not move. There was no sound. There was no light. Nothing but that singular, gaping hole in the sky that served to remind humanity how insignificant they all were.

He would wake gasping for breath in a silent scream, trying his hardest to make any noise he could. But in space no one can hear you scream.

He had known this already, of course; that humanity existed akin to a pimple ready to rupture.

To be a man who makes death weapons is one thing, and carrying a legacy like the Manhattan Project is a weight that comes with the gift of money. But with a heart that only beats due to a battery he had personally engineered... even if it is a world-changing innovation.. life is very fragile, indeed. Pepper's own fragile form bothered him more than he cared to admit.

Pure horror can act as energy. Like lightening, he mused, much like Heimdall and Thor, and even Loki's abilities which defied known science. It strikes when you least expect it. It surges like a violent bolt of love; passion and frenzy. The outcome never matching love, but exceeding it, like the death of loved one.

"Your coffee is ready, sir." JARVIS broke through Tony's tormented thoughts. Absently, he had begun to grip his mug so tightly he had nearly shattered it.

Just like me.

Pouring the obsidian liquid into his mug, he stood quietly, questioning if he should emerge from his lab and eat.

Logic won him over, and he stepped into his elevator.

In the communal kitchen, Steve Rogers stood preparing a delicious breakfast. The scent made Tony's mouth water.

"Capsical," Tony proclaimed, throwing himself onto a leather stool, "What are you making me?"

Steve shot him a bemused look. "Pancakes, with bacon and eggs. How many do you want?"

Tony hummed. "Better make it three. I'm trying to preserve my figure, you know."

Steve rolled his eyes but dumped the requested number of pancakes onto a plate for him.

It had taken them a long time to get to speaking terms. In fact, they didn't do much 'speaking' outside of forced interactions, or the occasional glib remark. But every now and then, one of them would try to be nice, and it made all the difference to those around them. Even if they were patronising each other, it was a world better than the snide and often callous remarks aimed at each other. Few days went past when any of them did not find themselves lost in thought of their tense interactions near the sceptre.

Loki's legacy lived on.

Feasting upon the admittedly perfect pancakes, neither man spoke until Vision stepped into the kitchen.

Steve gave his usual polite greetings, whereas Tony had to be Tony.

"Hey, JARVIS one."

"Hello, Tony."

It bothered him. That his beloved AI technically lived on a man- was he really a man?- but had assumed total sentience. It freaked him out, if he was honest. At first, it had hurt; he had, all things considered, birthed the most advanced AI known, and once said AI had become self-aware, he had fixated on Wanda like Tony fixated on the Chitauri.

Of course, Tony didn't hold it against him. Whatever had occurred between the two, for he didn't really know, they had formed a bond. They doted on one another, Vision more so than Wanda, like Pepper longed for Tony to do. They cared for each other, and functioned as any healthy couple should.

So Tony had spent weeks holed up in his lab, refusing to leave once, and recreated JARVIS. JARVIS II technically. The new JARVIS could do everything the original had. But in his fearful mania, Tony had installed and formed new abilities. It meant that if Tony was ever mortally wounded, JARVIS could take care of him. JARVIS is his friend, his confident, his doctor, and his therapist.

Pepper hated it. She had originally broken up with him when she didn't see Tony for nearly a month.

He hadn't intended for that to happen. But when he had gone down there, the fear had taken hold of him and driven him to better what he already had. JARVIS, his bots, his suits, his cars. Everything he had at his disposal had been upgraded, reinvented, and re-engineered to answer only to him.

He would never be able to rely on another person. Despite his self-assurance that he didn't hate Vision, he still resented the abandonment which plagued him.

It was irrational and childish, but Tony couldn't rid himself of the feelings.

Tony hadn't slept for weeks. A personal record, as far as he was concerned, but a serious health issue. Soon after he began the mammoth task of rehauling his creations, the delirium had set in. The hallucinations. His code swam off the screens and danced like a puppet, refusing to do as he commanded. Every time he began to focus, the shadows of his lab had leered at him, taking the form of the Chitauri, or Loki, and even Ultron.

Naturally the only answer was to install lighting in every corner, and have the room lit up like the face of the sun.

After twenty four days, Pepper had stormed into his lab, smashed his Starkpad, and dragged him out onto the streets of Manhattan.

"Look at what you're doing to yourself," she had screamed, uncaring for the eyes which devoured this controversial argument.

He had tried to defend himself but resorted to begging and pleading.

"Pep, come on, I'm sorry. I just.. I lost track of the time. I didn't know where I was, or even who I was."

Pepper had not been placated. "Then you need help, Tony," she had spat, "I'll call Lizbeth right now. You are going to end up dead at this rate."

They had made the headlines in every major publication and gossip rag, going as far as featuring at the bottom of the NYTimes front page. It had been embarrassing, sure, and that itself had been enough to make Tony snap out of it.

"I swear to god, Tony, if you don't stop this insanity, we are over."

"Pepper!" He had been verging on shouting at this point. "That isn't fair."

She had seemed so tall and powerful in that moment. It made him want to shy away, and curl into himself. To run back to JARVIS and lock everyone out. Knowing he had been so erroneous as to leave his lab unlocked shook him to the core. Another potentially fatal mistake.

Pepper shook her head, hiding her tears behind her fringe. "We're over Tony. Go get help, and get yourself back to some level of sanity. But until then, don't contact me."

She had left him standing on the street. Tony didn't remember much after that, only that he had collapsed defeated on his couch. Another week of absence went by before he could muster the courage to step out of his lab. Only Virginia Potts could force a man like Tony Stark to do something he didn't want to.

"Are you alright, Tony?"

Steve's baritone wrenched Tony back to the present and away from the awful memories.

He placed a megawatt smile on his face and winked at Steve. "Right as rain, scouts honor."

The door slid shut behind Tony. Steve shook his head with a sigh.

"He really needs to talk to someone," he said.

Vision concurred. "Tony does appear to be in ill health. Perhaps we should contact Ms Potts?"

Steve shook his head again. "That will only drive Stark further into himself. He won't talk about whatever is bothering him. You know him and Ms Potts broke up?"

Vision did not know these. "I was under the impression they are still in a relationship."

"They are," Steve said, "But a few months ago Pepper left him. She wouldn't say much, just that Tony was too much to handle."

Vision mused over Steve's words for a few minutes, leaving the Captain to his thoughts. Steve had considered getting Sam to talk to Tony. His fellow Avenger is, after all, trained in dealing with PTSD. But regardless of whoever approached Tony, the result would only be more isolation, and likely a lingering sentiment of betrayal.

While Steve didn't care all that much for Ironman, he still believed in an ingrained sense of camaraderie.

Something had to be done for Tony, for better or for worse.

This is the first chapter of five. I'll upload the next one either tomorrow or the day after. The story is finished, so you don't have to worry about me abandoning this fic. If you enjoyed this, consider checking out my parallel story 'Fortune of A Broken Man' which is set a few months after the end of this story. Neither of these stories need to be read to understand the other.

FoABM is a James Buchanan 'Bucky' Barnes (the Winter Soldier) centric fic, featuring Steve Rogers, my OC Lizbeth Barnes, Darcy Lewis, Dr Selvig, and Loki.

Have a nice day y'aaaaall.

[dawnkiwi-blog]

Fortune of A Broken Man - Avengers fanfiction

James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes-centric | #2 in the Wretched Adrenaline series

Summary: Barnes is transferred from Wakanda to NYC at the behest of Tony Stark. Tony then hires a personal friend and mentor, Lizbeth Burke, to unscramble Barnes' fried brain. Barely visible on the horizon, enemies stir.

Featuring: Bucky Barnes x Lizbeth Burke Steve Rogers Wanda Maximoff Erik Selvig Darcy Lewis

Genres: Horror/Drama

Word Count: 2,442 Chapters: 50 Status: Finished prior to publishing

Trigger warnings: Vulagarity / allusion to schizophrenia / mentions and explorations of mental illness / war and PTSD

Opening: Up In Arms

Bleak. The first feeling he was met with happened to be a crummy, filthy bleakness. The type of grating numbness that accompanies extreme agony.

A hell few know; only those with trauma and scars deeper than a ravine can sympathise, let alone empathise, with the sort of acute dissonance the man in the straps felt.

Who was he?

He didn't know. Glimpses of winter, crimson, and the fleeting sounds of groaning metal and screaming engines ghosted through his dazed mind. It disappeared faster than he could register having experienced it.

Something in the back of his mind pulled him forth into consciousness, and the man's eyes shot up, drinking in the agonising, blinding whiteness before him.

A voice somewhere- behind you -spoke swiftly, spitting out foreign sounding memories. He knew what they were saying but it didn't make any sense.

Neutralise.

Acid pumped through his veins. It carried a wildfire of panic; white hot fear and symbiotic rage. Reaching behind him, the man felt his knuckles connect with flesh. A crunch filled the air. That language he recognised fluently.

The fear told him that these people were the wrong people. The rage spoke volumes- his target (his mission?) had disappeared. He had been compromised. No, It. It had been compromised.

Neutralise.

His vis- its vision focused. A woman and a man. Two people directly in front of It, another behind, countless unseen. White lab coats.

Its handlers wear white lab coats, but these ones are nondescript; that haunting red star absent from their lapels.

Wrenching forward towards them only to have thick straps halt Its attack, the Lab Coats stumbled back and fell with fear into the wall behind them.

More words were yelled and It felt meaty hands clamp down on both shoulders.

It roared, and with a grunt swung sharply to the right, landing another crunching blow. A shriek echoed around the room, and the grip on It weakened for a moment.

It was all It needed.

Another hearty lurch forward and the straps snapped, allowing It to careen towards the Lab Coats. Sinewy arms locked around the woman, tightening across her neck before throwing her to the side with a sickening crunch.

She lay lifeless in on the floor.

Its heartbeat steadied as Its conditioning directed the next fatal blow. One sharp punch from the left arm and the man went down, too.

The yelling increased in volume and number.

Through Its hair, It spied the large man who must have been restraining It. Taking a step forward, Its left arm reached the man, with a glinting silver hand closing around his neck.

"Barcala!"*

Cold darkness washed across It.

"You fucking idiot," a small woman snapped brashly. Taking a weighted step towards the sallow-faced man with the intent to smack some sense into him, she was stopped by Nicholas Fury who stepped between them.

"Sit down," he ordered. "We've already lost two lab technicians, we don't need you taking the life of another."

She barked a laugh out, shaking her head. "Oh, and who's fault is that? I told you not to put untrained techs in that lab, and yet there you went, throwing them into his fucking chambers. This one is on you, Fury."

Restrained anger stared back at her from his good eye.

"What?!"

He pointed behind her at the door. "You need to calm down, Miss Burke. Take some time and come back when you can start working again."

She didn't bother to deign him with a response. Twisting around to leave, she made sure to slam the door behind her.

"Useless baboons," she muttered angrily, storming down the sleek white corridors. "Never trust anyone with the jobs you can do yourself."

Making her way towards the elevator, Miss Burke- Lizbeth Burke -felt the chip on her shoulder grow.

She had been hired some months prior by the ever enigmatic Tony. In the years past she had worked with him, acting as a live-in shrink and generally helping him organise his mind. Initially hired by Pepper to help counsel the trauma inflicted on Tony by the Ten Rings, she eventually ceased the therapy in favour of advising the billionaire Avenger on the psychology behind those who he sought to destroy.

After the events in New York, in which Loki had probably given most of the city's population some form of PTSD, Lizbeth had found herself in between a rock and a hard place. The offer of employment by SHIELD was an enticing one; given her deliciously accumulating debt, the pay had her hesitating to turn them down. But the end result meant she would have to become a live-in shrink for the higher ranking employees and likely the Avengers themselves.

That headache had her saying no and cutting the phone line from her shitty apartment.

Then, of course, Tony had made another grave mistake- albeit with good intentions- and suddenly NYC was pushing the ozone layer and a demented celestial freak threatening to wipe out humanity. That had been a fun time. The price of incalculable intelligence happened to be various forms of apocalypse and all the usual comic book jazz. Tony really needed a good hug and probably a Tempurpedic mattress.

The aftermath had been beyond biblical. In less than a week, all international flights had been grounded, and the UN disbanded, only to be replaced by a juiced-up version demanding the heads of the Avengers. Naturally, they had not obliged, and now with SHIELD technically disbanded, America had become a superpower in the sense of a merry band of severely traumatised superheroes. Nobody on a federal level could actually control them, and given the public favour the whole 'defenders of earth' thing had given them, they had been cautiously left alone by SHEILDs counterparts.

International relations were at an all-time low, but Wakanda had formed an intelligence deal with the United States, so they at least had that.

Her bills had gone sky high as well as her bank interest, though.

Now, two and half years since Loki had bullied Earth, Tony was at her door waving a pretty green cheque in her face and offering her accommodation in his egotistical popsicle of a tower. He had also paid her debts off.

Money can do awful things to a person.

She sighed, stepping into the elevator and jabbing the button for the lobby.

Ugly elevator music attempted to soothe her on the way down.

"JARVIS, can you tell Tony to put some better music in these things? I feel like I'm Gatsby or something."

"Of course, Miss Burke," the charming English AI replied.

"Please and thank you," she muttered, stepping out into the bustling lobby of Stark tower.

Once she was out on the street, she let the blissfully ignorant hubbub of Manhattan wash over her and inhaled the fumes and grime of the Big Apple.

She fished a cigarette out of her pocket and raised it to her lips, intent on some carcinogenic relief.

"You know that will give you cancer, right?"

She slumped, groaning at the handsome sight of Sam Wilson. "Why won't you people leave me alone?"

He chuckled sheepishly, "Sorry?"

Lizbeth shook her head, "No, I'm sorry. How are you doing, Mr Wilson?"

He joined her, standing in a small industrial alcove beside the building's entrance. "I'm alright, but you don't seem to be," he probed. "Something the matter?"

"You mean you haven't heard?" she said, eyeing him. His silence prompted her to continue. "Two techs down in less than five seconds, courtesy of the Winter Soldier."

He sucked in a breath, tensing.

"Yeah," she said lowly, finally lighting her smoke. "Fury's had me studying him the last week. I submitted a report and he took it upon himself to have his people," she spat, "Give him some TLC. Now they're cooling off in the morgue."

Sam stayed silent and tense. The man needed a good massage. They all did. In the silence that ensued she inhaled deeply, feeling a bitter burn coat the back of her throat. Exhaling, she blew the smoke into his face. He winced, snapping out of it.

"It's been a while since we had a session," she said, staring at him intently.

"Yeah, I just.. I've been doing good recently. Steve's been trying to immerse himself in current culture and it's given me something to focus on."

She nodded, flicking the ashes on the pavement. "You know I'm only a text away, Butterfly."

His lips pursed fondly. "How's.. your research going?"

Now that was a good question. Good and bad didn't fit the bill; that was too subjective. She could say her research was progressing at a rate faster than expected, at least by SHIELD's expectations, but then again- their expectations were of a different calibre to her personal criteria.

"Things are developing as expected," she said, "In that, what HYDRA has done to the man exceeds what most could survive. Barnes is a wreck. Frankly, I'm surprised he's lived this long. And yet at the same time, it's a miracle he hasn't done more damage than he already has. I, personally, don't believe he is a lost cause."

Sam watched her intently. "You know how I feel about him, about all of it. Do you think it's justified?"

Another paradoxical question. "I think you are justified in your personal feelings towards him."

Sam just sighed, running his hands through his hair. She stared at him, lost in thought.

Lizbeth rarely felt emotions; rather, she experienced them but struggled to correctly process them. It leads to blunt speech and a complete obliteration of social cues. Not that Lizbeth couldn't read the cues or atmosphere, she just didn't give a damn to adapt to them. If people wanted to speak to her, they knew what they were getting into.

She had formed a comradery with Sam Wilson. The man had a standard form of PTSD. His experience in watching his best friend get knocked from the sky like a baseball had birthed a quiet pain in him. After being recruited by the great and holy Captain America, the former soldier had felt his wounds reopen. And of course, when Barnes had nearly killed the man atop the Helicarrier, the PTSD he had slowly been recovering from had been reborn like a demonic Jesus.

Sometimes it felt funny being a personal shrink to superheroes. When she'd been a child, one of the only programs she could glimpse on the old tube TV was an animated version of the Justice League. None of the Avengers had a JL feel, but she supposed Wilson would be Hawkman, and Clint would be Green Arrow.

"Well," Sam said, "Will you join Steve and I for a drink on Saturday?" Hope evident in his voice.

Lizbeth shook her head resolutely. "You know I don't mingle with you pringles."

He sighed, pushing off from the wall. "I think you need to socialise more than we need counselling."

She barked a laugh, flicking the butt to the pavement and stamping it out. "Now that, Wilson, is what makes you a funny man."

"I'll see you around?"

She nodded, fluttering her fingers in a farewell. "See you, soldat."

Harsh iridescent light scrutinised the immobile warrior as only inanimate objects can.

Chewing on a toothpick, Lizbeth stared at the prone form of James Barnes.

"Well?" Fury said.

Her eyes did not stray from Barnes. Unfocused but deep in thought, she gave the toothpick a particularly hard crunch.

"Do you want to know my thoughts on Barnes or your attempt at being an armchair psychologist?"

There was a vague grunt of resignation; Fury had been dealing with her for long enough to know when picking a fight was viable. Which would be never.

She spun around, pinning him with her pitch black eyes. Panda bags made them seem almost cartoonishly large, and the harsh lighting turned her almost paste white. A ghoulish figure if Fury had ever seen one.

"I think," she started, chewing musingly, "That I can have Barnes up and walking around the tower in less than a week. I mean I could have him at the dinner table with the Captain," she said with a grin, "tonight. But for safety's sake, you know that thing you didn't do earlier, I'd play Saturday as a good bet."

To Fury's credit, he didn't even twitch at the slight.

"Walk me through your method," he said, moving to stand beside her and watch Barnes.

Since a well-placed needle- rather, a thrown syringe from a higher ranking tech- Barnes had been out cold. Only three hours had passed since 'the incident' as it was now being referred to.

"Don't think that's a good idea," she mused.

Fury sighed. "Miss Burke, I cannot give you clearance to do anything unless I know what  you're doing."

"I don't need clearance," she said, shaking her head, "But I'll humour you. But, my dear man, if you try to undermine me, I'll be out of this tower and knee deep in southern mud before you realise I even knew."

It wasn't an idle threat, they both knew.

"So," she started, "What I'll be doing is fairly simple. I've read the dossier compiled on him and consulted Natasha on the 'Russian Methods'. What needs to happen first is Barnes understanding where he is. His dissonance is deep; when he doesn't know where he is, it means his mindset will not revert to Barnes, and he will remain the Winter Soldier."

Lizbeth tapped a small silver disk on the pane below the one-way window. "The microphone installed here will allow me to communicate with him for the time being. I'll require Rogers present as he is the only person Barnes knows he can trust, and also the only man who has knowledge on who Barnes really is. Once I've established 'first contact' and familiarised Barnes with the situation, I'll begin reconstructing his memories with associative prompts, imagery and lights."

"Seeing as he can't escape this awful room," she said with a disgusted glare at Fury's reflection, "The restraints can be removed. I want them gone, and his bed made properly. No white sheets or pillow. A quilt is important, as warmth is the opposite to his previous resting areas. He will be served old school American cuisine. Home cooked. Rogers can do that."

Fury stared at her with an unreadable expression. "Whatever happens," he said, "Is on you."

Lizbeth shimmied her eyebrows at him. "I know that."

"I'll leave you be then," he said, walking towards the door.

"Send Rogers up," she replied, "I still haven't met him, you know."

A/N: *Barcala is latin for an idiot, or a fool.

This is the second story in a 16 part series. This sounds like a lot, but keep in mind; this is already finished.

The first story is titled 'A Beautiful Mind' and is focused on Tony. ABM is finished and will be published soon.

It is NOT necessary to read ABM to understand this story.

The sequel to this fic is also finished, and so far I've typed and edited (sorta) 450k words. Can you believe that shit? I'm fucking amped over it.

[dawnkiwi-blog]

m o o d b o a r d  m o m e n t s // ‘A Beautiful Mind’ - Tony Stark x Pepper Potts - Avengers fanfiction

~ “When he had fallen from the sky, the only thing on his mind was Virginia Potts. He would never see her again. He would never be able to tell her he loved her. They would never have a family. All the unspoken words and missed moments. Gone.

Dead.” ~

• to be published tomorrow •

[dawnkiwi-blog]

‘A Beautiful Mind’ - Tony Stark fanfiction

Today I learned how much of a cow it is to make gifs. Thought I would be prepared for when I publish the first chapter, but damn, it this a true struggle..