#this is supposed to lead up to something but ive been falling asleep so. ponder the implications

[surreal-duck]

happy birthday to the most idiots of all time

[love-y-o-u-3000]

Undercover in Spain - Part I Part II Part III  Part IV Part V

John has already changed into the sleepwear and got into bed but trying to focus on anything but the notion of Sherlock currently showering in the bathroom seems to be absolutely futile. As it happens, Sherlock steps out of the bathroom just as this very vivid image pops into John’s mind and... fuck, John curses in his head. Sherlock has nonchalantly walked into the room wearing only a towel loosely wrapped around his waist and as if that wasn’t enough, he runs his fingers through his semi-wet curls, reducing John to a proper mess. John is very well aware that he is gawking at Sherlock, but hell, what if he is doing all this on purpose? After everything that has happened in the restaurant, John simply cannot rule out this possibility anymore. And, only to reinforce his suspicions, Sherlock throws a coy smirk in his direction just before walking into the other room.

No. Ignore it. Think of something else. Anything. “The case,” John finally remembers. “Er, Sherlock?” he calls after him, making sure he sounds composed enough even though he doesn’t feel as such at all.

“Yes?”

“That guy... Harrington... whatever. Did you learn anything useful at all?”

“He is cheating on his wife.”

“...I’ve figured out that much myself. And how is that useful anyway? Isn’t this whole thing about money?”

Sherlock shows up in the doorway again, putting a t-shirt over his head, then leans against the wall, gazing down at John like he’s just discovered the most precious gem in the galaxy. He’s got that fond, dreamy smile on his lips and John cannot be absolutely certain that he is paying attention to him but, in a way, it’s somewhat adorable.

“Sherlock, we can’t come back empty-handed, what are we going to tell his nephew, hm?” John tries again, and this time Sherlock does reply, but doesn’t seem to be fazed in the slightest.

“Well, if we do come back empty-handed, that means the nephew was wrong and his uncle is here to bask in the sun and betray his wife, not to sell his family’s company to a filthy magnate... I wouldn’t worry too much.”

“Right, okay.” John averts his eyes, knowing there’s nothing else to be said about the case. Silence has fallen and he can but fiddle with the hem of his blanket, as if to keep himself occupied before inevitably breaking it again. “Are you... coming to bed now?”

“I might. I might not. I can still sleep on the sofa.”

It’s like Sherlock expects to be rejected any second now. Once their eyes meet again, John can see that he’s got the faintest blush upon his cheeks.

“Sherlock, we’ve already discussed this. You don’t have to sleep on the sofa... Come to bed. It’s fine,” John smiles softly despite feeling perhaps just a tiny bit nervous.

At that, Sherlock’s face lightens up like thousands of Suns but it’s still Sherlock. He doesn’t walk around the bed to reach his side, he climbs right over John and then leans against the headboard to mirror his position. Once he’s finally nestled, he turns to look at John who still hasn’t completely recovered after momentarily ending up underneath him.

“Remind me, John,” Sherlock says, pretending to be serious for a split second. “Why exactly we've never slept in the same bed before?”

John needs a moment to perceive but as soon as he does, he bursts into giggles, gently bumping into Sherlock’s shoulder. “Because we’re not actually dating?” It’s meant to be a joke but John can only hardly lie to himself. He’d do anything for a chance to be with Sherlock for real. Especially now that he realises that sharing a bed with him feels as natural as if they’ve been doing it since the very beginning.

“Good point,” Sherlock laughs. 

“Not that I wouldn’t love to try your bed sometimes.”

“Now that sounds strangely suggestive.”

John shrugs, smiling innocently. Any other time he’d make the effort to take his words back after making an innuendo but not this time. And turns out, he’s made the right choice. Because one innuendo leads to another and soon he and Sherlock are teasing each other back and forth and sometimes break into a crazy fit of giggles, and just like that they accidentally spent over three hours chatting and bantering. 

Which is why John looks positively horrified when he takes a glance at the alarm clock and sees the big flashing 2:14 on the screen.

“Jesus, no wonder I feel so knackered.”

“What, you’ve never stayed up this late?”

“Yeah, I have. I often do. Usually when you’re doing a particularly loud experiment,” John chuckles before reaching to switch off the lamp on the nightstand. The room suddenly goes dark and it takes a few moments until their eyes get use to it.

“Does this mean... good night?” Sherlock sounds almost disappointed. Or maybe his voice is just so hoarse due to exhaustion. He wouldn’t admit that though.

“I don’t know about you, but I do need to sleep, Sherlock,” John utters, adjusting his pillow, then lies down on his left side, so he’s still facing Sherlock.

“Sleep is boring.”

“You say the same thing about eating,” John murmurs, closing his eyes, for he feels so tired he can barely keep them open. “And the Solar System. And singing... Come to think of it, is there anything in this world you don’t find boring?”

“Well... you.”

John’s eyes slowly flutter open again. He can feel his lips spreading into the widest grin, even though he’s half asleep and can’t see much of Sherlock’s face for it is illuminated only by the moonlight that’s peeking through the windows.

“I never thought you could be this sweet.”

“Am I being... sweet? I am just stating the truth.”

John laughs sleepily. “I wish I was more awake to return the compliment.”

Sherlock lets out a long, dramatic sigh, but in the end, just smiles. “You really are going to sleep.”

“Mhm, you should try it too.”

Realising this conversation leads absolutely nowhere, Sherlock finally surrenders, lying down to face John. He doesn’t try to fall asleep though. His mind is too full, too clogged with thoughts, ninety nine percent of which involve John. After a few minutes of intense pondering and as equally intense studying of John’s face, Sherlock shuffles closer to him, and ever so softly whispers: “John? Are you asleep yet?”

John stirs and groans, but doesn’t open his eyes.

“John?”

“Mhm...”

“I have a question. Remember what you said yesterday?”

“I said a lot of things yesterday,” John mumbles into the pillow.

“About kissing.”

At once, John’s eyes fly wide open. He’s never been awaken this fast.

“I... I’ve been thinking and something’s just occurred to me,” Sherlock continues, looks a bit like he’s having trouble with picking the correct words though. “Remember what you said, in the elevator? You seemed to be fine with the idea of... of kissing me. But then... you didn’t kiss me in the restaurant even though you’ve had the perfect opportunity. I did notice that out of the 18 couples that were in the restaurant, only two didn’t share at least one kiss. One of them because the woman was about to end it and the other... us.”

John swallows. Is he dreaming? He can’t be. And yet, he can’t think of the first thing to say.

“Is that because we didn’t try it before?”

Words suddenly escape John’s mouth all on their own. “Try it?”

“I assume you didn’t want to kiss me in front of everyone because we’d never kissed before and messing up a kiss could easily butcher our cover. But-”

“But?” John can barely hear Sherlock over the sound of his heart thudding inside his chest.

“There’s no one else here now.”

“Sherlock, what are you implying?” What the hell is he implying?

“I... I think we should kiss now. To break the ice.”

Silence. John blinks at Sherlock, speechless for a brief moment. “You want me to kiss you. Now.”

“Yes. I am not an expert but I am pretty sure that kissing takes a lot more practice than flirting. If we kiss for the first time here, in private, it shouldn’t be a problem later... in public. I think.”

Practice. He’s still talking about the case. John can’t blame him though. ’What’s a kiss or two for a case’ those were his words, he remembers. Backpedaling now would make it seem like he was fibbing and in fact doesn’t want to have anything to do with Sherlock’s lips. Not even for a case. Which is nowhere near true, obviously.

“All right, then,” he breathes out at last, trying to ignore all the ways his body is responding to the fact that he is about to kiss Sherlock... right now.

“Just... a small peck on the lips?”

“No more, no less.”

“...Okay.”

Instinctively, they both begin to move forward in the same time, pulling against each other like two magnets until their faces finally meet in the middle of the bed. As it turns out two seconds later, however, this is most certainly not going to be just a small peck. First, there’s but a tender, tentative brush of lips but as soon as they actually touch John instantly melts against Sherlock’s body and kisses him hard and lovingly, completely forgetting that this whole thing is supposed to be just a ruse for a case. Because to him, it’s not and never have been anyway. John kisses Sherlock for real, holding on for a couple of long, beautiful, extraordinary moments... only to realise he’s probably overdone it and should have retreated much sooner. But just as he is about to withdraw, Sherlock suddenly parts his lips and begins to kiss back with somewhat an unprecedented passion. John half opens his eyes in disbelief, as if to make sure he truly isn’t dreaming, but he immediately closes them again because Sherlock is really urging him to deepen the kiss and hell, John has no idea what’s going on but this might as well be the most amazing moment of his life and he’s not going to pass the opportunity to make the best out of it.

But once he reaches to cup Sherlock’s cheek and bring him even closer, Sherlock whimpers into his open mouth and then... abruptly pulls back, panting and staring at John, wide-eyed, feeling like he’s just done something he should be terribly ashamed of.

Confused, John blinks at him, trying to make out his expression in the dark, but before his eyes manage to adjust again, Sherlock quickly turns away from him and curls up under the blanket.

“Sherlock?” John gulps, his voice but a broken, quivering whisper. This is precisely not how he wanted the kiss to end like.

“Good night.... John,” Sherlock exhales, struggling to steady his breathing. Closing his eyes, he presses two fingers against his own lips, as if to relive the feeling of kissing John but it’s too much, too much emotions to cope with all at once. This need to turn around and kiss John again is crushing him, he might as well burst with it, but... he can’t. John’s oblivious to how much Sherlock desires him, how deeply and unconditionally he loves him and... it has to stay that way, for Sherlock believes that revealing the truth and confessing his feelings would irrevocably ruin whatever it is between them. Just keep pretending, he thinks, keep acting like every next kiss and every touch is only for a case. Even if it hurts.

The saddest part about these thoughts is that right now, in this very moment... John is having exactly the same ones.

@pastelcolorsandrain @echosilverwolf @johnlocked-in-portland @hpswl-cumbercookie @mypatronusisaunicorn @ljetno-sivilo @tildathings @johnlockedatbakerst @shiplocks-of-love @silver99johnlocked @besina @dearlydevoteddawdler @sherlockruiningmylife

[tonystarktogo]

Tiny Tony Overlord Part 8

Part I | Part II | Part III | Part IV | Part V | Part VI | Part VII | Read on AO3

Betaed by the amazing @folklejend. All remaining mistakes are my own.

Summary: In which Clint is frustrated, Natasha is frustrated, Steve is very frustrated, and the three of them handle it as well as you’d expect them to, Jarvis is sarcastic, and Tony wants to take things slow for the first time in his life.

Please enjoy :)

Chapter 8: Restlessness

.Avengers Tower, New York.

Cap’s training. Again. If you can call systematically destroying their private gym “training,” that is. Clint winces as he watches yet another reinforced punching bag sail through the air and hit the wall with a loud snap. At this rate, they’ll be running out of bags for Steve to demolish before the week is over.

Suffice to say, Steve hadn’t taken the disappearance of one of his team mates well. Clint has a suspicion that the whole situation hits a little too close to home. It hasn’t been long since Cap’s lost his entire team—to old age and a certain train none of them talk about—or at least, it hasn’t been long for him. Not that Clint is stupid enough to say something, but he knows Natasha suspects the same.

It’s why neither of them has breathed a word to Steve about it. That, and the fact that even Clint, who likes to think of himself as fairly level, is about ready to join the guy.

To say that their search has been fruitless would be an understatement. And there’s nothing more frustrating than hitting a wall in the middle of a mission. Especially when a man’s—Tony’s—life may well depend on it. Clint knows the statistics as well as any field agent. It’s true that the first twenty-four hours of a kidnapping are the most important; they set the tone for the investigation—and finding the victim after becomes increasingly unlikely.

Of course, they aren’t talking about just anyone. They’re talking about Tony Stark, who blew his way out of a freaking cave in the desert. It’s the main reason none of them are willing to give up. That, and in their line of business, you don’t assume someone’s death. No one is dead unless you’ve gotten hard proof—and sometimes not even then.

But none of that changes the fact that they don’t have a clue about Tony’s whereabouts. And when Clint says “not a clue,” he means not a clue. As in nada. As in not a single one.

[continues under the cut]

Staring at the walls and screens covering the common living room area, at all the data they’ve amassed that still isn’t telling them a freaking thing, Clint rubs a tired hand over his eyes. He���s been going over the same security footage for the fifth time and has no results to show for.

“JARVIS?” he questions without much hope. The AI has been quiet since its creator’s disappearance, but Clint is pretty confident that it would speak up the moment it caught anything regarding Tony that they’ve missed. If there’s one thing Clint has learned after months of jumping off buildings and having Iron Man catch him without fail, it’s to trust in Tony’s creations. They’ve yet to let him down.

“I apologise, sir, no new information has come to light since you last asked two minutes and forty-seven seconds ago,” the AI responds with a sarcastic drawl that sounds disturbingly real. Clint loves it.

“I know, J-man, I know, sorry,” he mumbles. Clint isn’t sure exactly where the “artificial” part of the intelligence ends—knowing Tony, probably not where it should—and he doesn’t need to be a tech-whisperer to know that JARVIS is doing everything in his power to find Tony. Pressuring the guy, system, whatever, isn’t going to help anyone.

At the tip-tap sound of Nat’s high-heeled boots against the floor, Clint jerks around hopefully. Unlike himself, Natasha tends to get her best results when she’s pissed. It makes her more vicious, causes her to use sources agents with more scruples wouldn’t, makes her dig deeper until she hits a bone.

Her hair and makeup is impeccable as always, but they don’t quite cover the dark circles below her eyes, nor the tension around the corners of her lips. No success then, at least not yet.

“Alright, this is disturbing.”

“What do you mean?” The question comes from across the room, where Cap walks in, still wearing his training shorts and covered in sweat. Clint would whistle and make a crack about those abs, were he in a better mood. Right now though, all he can muster up his a shrug.

“All of this.” Clint gestures at the maps. “I mean, there is nothing here. It’s not that we don’t know how to interpret the data, it’s that there is no data to begin with. How do you kidnap anyone, let alone Tony Stark, in the middle of New York City without leaving a trace?” he exclaims. “I get Afghanistan, okay, but this is New York. Even with the electrical shortcut, there should still be something, anything, outside that radius. People don’t just disappear. We’ve got SHIELD, we’ve got the three of us, and we’ve got the best AI we know, and still we got nothing ? Nobody is that good!”

“Correction,” Natasha interrupts with a displeased frown, “nobody was that good. Doesn’t mean it’s impossible. So I suppose the question becomes, who do we know who might be capable of such a feat?”

A heavy pause—no, hesitation. Clint grimaces. When Natasha hesitates, it never means anything good.

“Or what. ” she finishes grimly.

* * * * *

.Somewhere on a tiny blot of land in between lots of small islands.

It’s surreal, Tony decides. The last two days have been nothing but surreal.

When he had thought about how his trip to the past would go, he had never imagined it would be like this. Granted, he hadn’t thought about it much at all. At the time, thinking about it had inevitably lead to excitement, to doubt, to heartbreak. Because the thought that this insane idea might actually work—it had always been a little too good to be true. Tasted a little too much of hope.

Still. Sometimes, when his mind had begun to wander, Tony remembers imagining it. No retelling of the story as it should have gone, no rewritten scenes, nothing concrete. Just… flashes. Of a general idea that had been all the more powerful for it. The thought of seeing Pepper again, her face unblemished by the attack that had cost them Happy. The faint sensory memory of being pulled into a hug by Rhodey. The warmth, the security, in fighting side by side with the deadliest people he knew—

Tony frowns. This, how it all actually went down, it’s not how he’s ever pictured it. It’s not how he would have wanted things to go. But his wants haven’t mattered in forever, and as much as Tony would like to gripe and whine, the truth is, he’s fine with it. He’s fine with running around like a headless chicken, without resources or a plan, moving further and further away from the people for whom he’s sacrificed everything. Because they’re alive. He gets to fall asleep at night, knowing they’re here, in this world, drawing breath, and that’s more than he’s had in a long a time.

“That’s all nice and well, darling, but it’s not gonna get shit done,” a sarcastic voice drawls in the back of Tony’s head. It sounds disturbingly like Vic. Damn, but he misses that woman. “How much more time are you gonna waste lounging on a bloody beach watching waves crash before you finally get your arse moving?”

And, well, imaginary voice or not, she’s got a point.

Despite his unnerving encounter with that strange old lady, the past two and a half days have been peaceful, of all things. It’s a foreign sounding description, the kind that itches because there has to be something wrong with it, you just can’t put your finger on it. It’s strange enough to freak Tony out, if he allows himself to ponder these thoughts for too long. So he doesn’t.

Really, he can’t afford to. Being on the move is all well and good—and Tony is well aware that he’s on a clock—but a race is hard to win when you don’t even know where the finishing line is. That’s never stopped Tony before, of course, but he can still be smart about it. It’s kind of his thing, being a genius and all.

“Yeah, well, all those smarts didn’t make a damn difference in the end, did they? You know, Stark, if you really were as clever as you think you are, you’d have found a way to stop this. You’d have found a way to end this.”

“I did end it!”

“Did you really? Or was there just nobody left to die in your stead?”

Tony flinches. The pain these words bring is distant, a wound that’s already scabbed over. He rubs a small hand over his forehead, a useless attempt to soothe the echo of an old hurt.

Footsteps to his right have Tony angle his body reflexively towards Dead-Eyes—an instinct he doesn’t completely understand but is slowly getting used to. Dead-Eyes is just there. A silent presence by his side that only leaves when Tony tells him to.

Should be wrong, probably. Messed up, certainly. Yet, at the same time, it’s not. It feels normal, natural even, and the more Tony gets used to all these memories, the more he understands why. Dead-Eyes is safe because Dead-Eyes is one of—perhaps even the only thing—that hasn’t changed.

“Who’s your watchdog, anyways?”

Stark blinks, follows the woman’s gaze towards the corner of the ruined farmhouse-turned-bar, where Barnes lurks. He’d call the man out on his dramatic act, except Stark is pretty sure the man doesn’t know how to do anything but lurk. It’s his natural state.

“Old friend,” he answers with a shrug.

That piques the woman’s interest, like he knew it would. “There is no such thing as friends,” she states, her eyebrows raised in disbelief.

“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Stark smirks, dares her to speak against him. “First time I met him, I tried to kill him. What better way to start a relationship?”

“You must have lots of old friends then,” the woman mutters drily. Shakes her head. Then, “What changed?”

Stark lifts his eyes from where he’s been watching Barnes glare a couple of wannabe Cleaners into submission. “Hm?”

“What happened, I don’t know, the second time you met? How did you become friends?” There’s a curiosity in the woman’s voice that’s hard to find these days. Something that goes beyond the steely determination to survive. It makes Stark hope she’ll live through this, even as his gut tells him she won’t.

“Oh, the second time?” he answers despite himself, all charm and nonchalance. “The second time I met him, he was already dead.”

Tony blinks the fake smile and honeyed sweetness away, but the scene is… sticky, like gum stubbornly clinging to your hair, and it takes him a long moment before the sight of dirty tables and war-hardened people fades into the bright hues of endless blue that surround them.

Dead-Eyes is watching him, expressionless as always. He’s wearing long, sand-coloured pants and a washed-out shirt, and despite the soft clothes and metal arm hidden under a thick bandage that Tony had spent the better part of the morning covering it with, he still looks—well. Like you’d want him on your side in a knife fight.

There’s no hiding the jagged edges when that’s all that’s left of a person, Tony thinks. Remembers thinking. Whatever.

This is exactly why he’s still here. Why he’s spent the past two days clinging to Dead-Eyes’ flesh hand, pickpocketing tourists and generally doing his best to get lost in the crowd. Why he watches little kids splashing in the water with shrieks of delight instead of breaking into the best lab he can get his hands on.

Sure, the knowledge isn’t trying to tear his head open from the inside out, and, yeah, Tony has a fairly good idea of what happened in that messed up future of his. None of that changes the fact that he got a good decade worth of memories downloaded into his brain within a couple of hours. That kind of transfer—he’d speculated about the consequences, they all had. As it turns out, Strange was right. The human mind can’t handle that kind of data input. Honestly, Tony is sort of glad the sorcerer isn’t here right now. He’d be unbearable if he knew, the bastard.

Thankfully, he was also wrong; Tony has yet to go insane from the overload. At least, he assumes he hasn’t. He’d have noticed that, right? Right.

Anyways, the closest Tony has come to describe the weird sensation of knowing-but-not is to compare it to a software update on a computer. The data is all there, but it takes the system time to sort through it and store the relevant information in the right places. And the system—it’s not dumb, it learns from its mistakes, but it still makes them. It misfiles certain data bits, can’t properly transfer some, has to change pieces, even loses some of the information. It learns, but it’s an ongoing process.

As a programmer himself, the inaccuracies rankle him a little, but computers aren’t meant to be human; the comparison is bound to fall short. That doesn’t make it useless.

So, yes, Tony remembers. He knows who he is, he knows why he is where he is, and even though he currently can’t recall what his exact mission is, he gets the general idea. Save the cheerleader, save the world, the usual.

But until the flashbacks—and that’s not quite the right word for it, but Tony can’t think of a better term—stop overwhelming him every time a new memory is triggered, he needs to remain on standby. Despite the restlessness twisting and snarling under his skin, like a second layer that wants to break through. Tony can rush many things, but he can’t rush this. He can’t rush his own mind, not when he needs all the information he has before he can make a plan.

He only has one shot at this. He’ll have to get it right on the first try.

So he’ll wait. With gritted teeth and nervously drumming fingers, but he’ll wait.

It’s a decision that goes against everything Tony believes in, but so far it has payed off. They’ve spent the past two and a half days slowly traveling from one island to the next. Always on small tour boats, mingling with other tourists. With their borrowed clothes and the meticulously placed bandages on Dead-Eyes’ arm, they don’t do too bad of a job at blending in. Tony has settled on a house fire to explain the “injuries,” as well as his “mother’s tragic death.”

Movements like these, where everything is paid in cash and two American tourists get lost in the crowd, are as good as untraceable. It’s enough to appease the restlessness, for now. And well, it’s helping. The clear sky, the see-through water, the gentle breeze. The heat and the sand under his feet that has finally stopped sending cold chills down his spine.

With every passing hour, every deep breath Tony takes, the events of the past—future—years become clearer. He recalls, with a clarity only life-changing moments hold, the desperation that fuelled him, controlled him, ever since he made it back out of that damn wormhole. The deep-seated certainty that they were on the brink of another war, one humanity was woefully unprepared to handle. The frustration and clawing fear when no one listened.

Tony had been right, but that revelation hadn’t brought him any satisfaction. Had come much too late to save the family he had already lost. They had been unprepared for Thanos’ attack, broken and scattered and divided. Of course, that hadn’t stopped them. Enemies and friends and strangers alike, they had risen to Thanos’ challenge and they had answered it the only way they knew how to: they fought.

And maybe they hadn’t won—it had never felt like a victory; too many good people had been lost to them, too many innocents had died—but they had survived. That should have been the end of it. It should have been enough.

Six months later, whilst Tony was still practicing a genuine smile in the mirror, Namibia had been razed to the ground. An entire country was wiped off the map of Earth from one moment to the next, and nobody knew how.

The timeline after that gets a bit spotty, mostly because Tony himself doesn’t know exactly how things went. Too much happened too quickly, and there weren’t enough people around studying the phenomena and collecting data for them to tell how things proceeded. But, from what he remembers, there had been health hazard warnings going out from places like Monaco, Singapore, and Macao before people had time to panic—and then they did panic.

Sand grains rub against Tony’s palms as he curls his fingers into tight fists. From the way he thinks about it, it could have been a sickness of some kind, maybe even a plague. All these words swirling around in his mind, about a cure, about infections, health and aggressive viruses—it fits.

Doesn’t mean it makes sense though. An illness that kills, a new one, maybe even biological warfare, alright. Tony can easily imagine the devastation it caused. But more than people dying, he remembers fighting, remembers living with guns and knives strapped to his every body part, remembers being covered in blood more often than not.

There is more to it than a mere virus, and yet, for some reason, the answers refuse to come. Are silenced by an impenetrable bubble that keeps parts of his newfound knowledge huddled away, beyond his reach. Tony, being Tony, prods and pushes and shoves, but so far the bubble hasn’t given an inch.

Half the time Tony thinks he should be glad for that small mercy. Maybe he doesn’t want to know how bad things had really gotten. Maybe he doesn’t want to remember all those terrible acts that tore him apart, turned him into a man capable of—

His delicate sensibilities don’t matter though. He can’t allow them to matter, can’t spare himself from whatever minefield lies hidden in his own mind. Peace and innocence are luxuries Tony can’t afford right now. Not when knowledge is the only advantage he has.

Tony reaches out and isn’t surprised in the least when Dead-Eyes meets him halfway, having already gotten used to being led around on Tony’s hand. It’s part of the cover, but Tony isn’t entirely sure Dead-Eyes realises this. Realises that hand-holding would be frowned upon if they weren’t playing a family. Actually, Tony has no clue exactly how much of the world Dead-Eyes even processes.

Dead-Eyes isn’t stupid, of that Tony has no doubt. There’s a calculating intelligence in those blue eyes, an awareness that serves as much as a weapon as everything else Dead-Eyes wields. But social norms? Human interaction? Hell, even prejudices of some sort? Tony hasn’t seen any of it, and that’s just not normal. Of course, Dead-Eyes always was the exception, wasn’t he?

“You found him,” Natasha states, an air of disbelief around her. “After all this, you finally caught up with Bucky Barnes.”

Tony turns back towards their prisoner. Stares at the man’s blank face, an eerily familiar emptiness in his eyes. Tony has seen it many times before, too often not to recognise it on first sight. And really, there is only one answer he can give her.

“No. I didn’t.”

Natasha purses her lips. “No,” she agrees. “You didn’t.” Then. “We’ll have to test him.”

Tony doesn’t even flinch. “I know.” No exceptions. It’s a rule for a reason—this they learned the hard way.

“Are you prepared to do what is needed if he fails?”

It’s a question Tony wishes Natasha hadn’t asked, though he understands why she needs to know. Guilt is a powerful motivator, and they don’t have any room for errors.

He looks her straight in the eyes when he replies. “Yes.” It’s not the first time they’re lying to each other. Or themselves, for that matter.

Tony swallows the sudden urge to throw up. An ill sensation that makes no sense, doubly so because this is hardly the worst memory he’s received. Certainly not the bloodiest.

He clings to Dead-Eyes’ flesh hand uselessly, as Vic’s voice rings mercilessly in his head. “Go on, take your time figuring out that sick, co-dependant mess you call a relationship. I’m just gonna lie here and quietly bleed out in the mud while you get your bloody act together!”

Tony can’t remember the exact fight where it happened, there were too many to tell, but he remembers Vic’s acidic words clearly because even riding the high of a battle won and covered in entrails he didn’t care to identify, they had made him snort with laughter. Vic had never done anything quietly in her life. She had also had a knack of getting her point through Tony’s thick head.

The situation is a different one now, and the truth is, there is no telling what Vic would say if she were here now, because she isn’t. Vic, wherever she is, doesn’t even know Tony. Will never have to know him, if he has anything to say about it. Will never have to kill her own mother, will never carry that wounded, shattered look in her eyes.

If he can keep that from happening, then it will be worth it. That Tony is sure of. But he’s going to be smart about this, not gonna take any unnecessary risks. No half-assed preparations and improvisation.

“Two more days,” he says out loud, even though he’s really addressing the voice inside his head that sounds so much like Vic. It’s a plea and a promise in one. “Two more days, and then I’ll start.”

He should have known that Fate would take that as a challenge.

* * * * *

Tony drags Dead-Eyes onto a small tour boat—because a whole island inhabited by iguanas sounds intriguing, and because he feels too restless to stay in the same place any longer. The boatsman is a small man with a booming voice who keeps ruffling Tony’s hair, much to his annoyance.

He would have sworn Dead-Eyes was amused by the treatment, except when he catches Dead-Eyes staring, it isn’t with the familiar smirk he half expects to see. Instead, Dead-Eyes wears a puzzled expression, a furrow between his eyebrows that says he’s struggling to work something out.

Tony decides he really doesn’t want to know. Thankfully there’s an uncomfortable sensation distracting him, like a small weight pressing gently down on the back of his neck. It’s a feeling Tony recognises from dozens of missions, that prickling knowledge dancing on his nerve endings, telling him he is being watched .

It should be ridiculous. There are only twelve other passengers on their tiny boat, none of whom carry a concealed weapon larger than a switchblade. A group of college students, half of whom are currently posing for Instagram pictures. Two pairs who look sickeningly romantic—seriously, all these forehead kisses and soft smiles are going to give Tony hives. And three older men who haven’t stopped arguing about some foreign policy since they’ve stepped onto the deck. None of them look like an assassin waiting to strike. Of course, the whole point of being an assassin is that you never look like one, so that’s a cold comfort.

Tony leans over the railing of the boat for a moment, pretending to take in the beautiful sight of an endless horizon, only occasionally disrupted by a tiny blot of land. When he turns to look at Dead-Eyes over his shoulder, he uses the position to observe everyone else. The boatsman is explaining something to one of the college students, all wild gestures and deep-throated laugh. The younger pair is making out full-time, and—there.

One of the students is standing slightly separated from her friends, gaze fixated on them. Or, well, not them, Tony realises after a moment of carefully suppressing the urge to tell Dead-Eyes to shoot now, ask questions never. She’s watching Dead-Eyes, not him.

Some of the tension in his back uncoils at the realisation. Alright, maybe he’s a little paranoid. Not that anyone can blame him—it’s not paranoia when you’ve got an entire secret spy organisation on your ass—but killing some kid for eyeing up his unfairly attractive shadow might be a slight overreaction. Even by his standards.

Despite the stress and general uneasiness though, the trip is absolutely worth it. Tony hadn’t given iguanas much thought before, but they’re so freaking cool. And loud. Who knew reptiles could make so much noise? Two of the college girls make a show of shuddering in disgust, which Tony doesn’t get at all. Iguanas aren’t slimy or glittery—they look like miniature dragons.

“I want one,” Tony breathes in reverence.

He’s watching a couple of them rhythmically wiping their heads, and he can almost hear “Highway to Hell” playing in the back of his head.

“Understood,” Dead-Eyes replies with a small incline of his head.

It’s pure luck that Tony pays enough attention to him to reach out and grab Dead-Eyes’ arm before he can jump overboard, probably to catch Tony an iguana. Awesome as that would be, it would probably get them into trouble with the local authorities.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the thought, but really, don’t,” Tony mumbles just loud enough for Dead-Eyes to hear. “It would draw attention and we really don’t need that.”

And if Tony is still humming AC/DC under his breath? Well, nobody save Dead-Eyes is gonna know—and it’s not like the guy will talk.

Tony is still humming the song half a minute later, when he suddenly realises that the rhythmic dum-dum-dum he’s been hearing in his head actually sounds more like a rumpa-rumpa-tap. And it’s not as much a part of his imagination as he would have liked.

Taking a deep breath and forcing himself to realise it with a soft swish between his teeth, Tony closes his eyes and says to no one in particular, “Please tell me I’m not hearing a chopper.”

“I’m not hearing a chopper,” Dead-Eyes repeats obediently.

“Me neither,” the blonde who’d been eying Dead-Eyes up calls out from where she’s standing near the tail of the boat. “I count three.”

I hope you like this slightly longer chapter! If you have any thoughts, questions or ideas, please leave me a comment or a message, I’d love to hear them! And merry Christmas, everybody!