Archive of Our Own

Large yellow fangs clicked together scant inches from Steve’s eyes. He fought the urge to gag as rancid breath washed over his face, burning at his nose and throat. His head throbbed where it had been cracked against the cobblestones, contributing to the bile rising in his throat.

The feral’s claws scrabbled over the sheer surface of his shield with a sound like nails on chalkboard, and Steve’s arms shook with the effort of holding her off. She was uncommonly strong, even for a lycanthrope of her formidable size. That was how she’d managed to get him pinned to the ground in the first place, and now his elbows were starting to buckle, her teeth snapping and closer and closer with each passing moment.

With a loud crunch and a yelp, War Machine’s heavy metal fist smashed into the side of her skull, sending her flying off of Steve and out of the field of his vision.

Steve rolled over onto his side, gasping in wet breaths as he did his best not to be sick.

“Good Lord!” he heard Jan cry out from behind him. “Rhodes, we’re meant to be keeping her alive!”

“Keeping our good Captain alive and well seemed somewhat more important in the heat of the moment,” Rhodey said, the tinny echo of his armor’s helmet making his tone impossible to read. “Besides, monsters are difficult to kill. You know this.” He offered Steve a hand up, which he gratefully accepted.

The way the lycanthrope had smelled— God above, like rotting flesh and decay.

Shaking himself, Steve holstered his shield into the harness on his back and turned to survey the scene. The feral lycanthrope lay in a motionless heap against the brick wall of a nearby storefront. Jan was kneeling beside her, silvery wings fluttering anxiously. Civilians were starting to crowd either end of the street, pushing and shoving each other for the better view while still doing their best to give both the feral and the team a wide berth.

“How is she, Wasp?” Steve asked, voice mostly steady as he approached Jan. He rubbed the tender spot at the back of his head; he imagined he and the lycanthrope had twin hurts. “Not dead?”

“No,” Jan returned reluctantly after a moment. She lifted one of the lycanthrope’s eyelids, revealing an opaque silver film over the irises. “Only out cold. Not for lack of trying.” She scowled at Rhodey, who held up his hands in a placating gesture.

“We’ll have Hawkeye bring the chains, then.”

The man in question was skulking in the doorway of a bakery with a sour expression on his face, bolas in hand. The lycanthrope had moved into close quarters too quickly for him to use them, but he made up for doing “essentially nothing during the fight,” as Steve informed him, by securing the monster with heavy chains, grumbling all the while about how underappreciated he was.

Which was untrue, really. With smaller ferals, Clint was actually one of their most valuable assets; he could generally put a couple opiate-tipped arrows or syringes in them and they’d be down for the count, but ones with this sort of bulk were far too difficult to take down with tranquilizers alone.

After sending a courier off to Stark Enterprises to have them come and collect the downed feral, Steve turned to check on the status of his team. He called this concern for their wellbeing; Jan had taken to calling it ‘overbearing mothering,’ possibly because she delighted in how it got Steve to scowl and grunt at her without fail.

This time around, no one was much worse for wear aside from Steve’s aching head, though Jan had a gash in her arm where the lycanthrope’s claws had clipped her that was oozing sluggishly.

“This is so odd, you know,” she was saying as she dabbed at the cut with a scrap of linen that one of the braver civilians had offered her. As Steve watched, it was already starting to clot and seal up at the edges. “That’s the third feral this week. Half a year ago we’d get no more than that in a month and our time would be occupied with running after petty thieves and pickpockets. And yet last month we had fifteen. Fifteen! And that’s not even accounting for the other teams in York.” She sighed, scratching at her arm as the flesh began to knit together. “I do hope Thor returns soon. We’ll be overrun otherwise.”

Steve shrugged. “The city gets bigger with each passing day, Jan, especially with the new Academy of Sciences being founded. There’s just more monsters. More to go feral. It happens. It’s always happened.”

The look Jan shot him was positively scorching, her wings fluttering pointedly. Steve backpedaled a bit. “I’ve read in the paper that the rise in industry could be to blame,” he offered quickly. “Something about. Uh. Pollutants.”

“Hmm,” was all Jan said, her eyes narrowed. Then her voice went suddenly sweet. “Steve, dear, I still need to fit you a suit for the ball on Sunday. You simply can’t wear the same thing you did last year."

“The ball?” Steve repeated, alarmed by the sudden change in subject. This sounded like a thinly veiled excuse to stab him with needles for being an ass. “Oh, Jan, you needn’t— I was only planning to stay to give the opening speech.”

She put her hands on her hips, glaring at him. “Steve, no! We’re meant to be making a good impression on the public. We’re under fire as it is, what with our non-lethal approach to ferals, and that horrid Registration bill worming its way through Parliament. Our valiant leader committing social faux-pas by vanishing from a ball thrown mainly in his honor wouldn’t help things at all."

Steve blinked, getting momentarily stuck on the fact that Jan had called him valiant. “My— what?”

“It’s true,” Rhodey’s amused voice came from behind them. Both of them turned round. “Take it from a man who knows Antonio Stark personally. The ball last year was thrown to show off a newly unfrozen war hero and poorly disguised as introducing a new monster hunting team to the public eye. This ball is being thrown to show off a less-newly unfrozen war hero and poorly disguised as keeping up appearances to the public eye.” He grinned widely at the expression on Steve’s face.

Lord Stark was the team’s sponsor, and to say Steve didn’t care for him would be something of an understatement. It was only made worse by the fact that Steve didn’t have any real reason to dislike him. Everyone else seemed to adore him.

Steve had only ever met Stark a handful of times, during all of which Stark had been exceedingly polite and charming. When Steve had first pledged his shield to him, mere weeks after being fished from the ice, he’d knelt before him and Stark had regarded him only respect, all the while light glinted off of his gold-tipped cane.

He was a beloved member of York nobility even by the lower classes, if with a reputation for being something of a recluse, but then the entirety of the House of Stark was. And yet Steve’s gut feelings were rarely wrong; there was something about Stark that just made him itch.

Perhaps it was the fact that he was a noble. Steve had yet to meet member of the gentry who didn’t act partly out of arrogant self-interest (aside from Jan, of course. Jan was wonderful.) Stark only funded the team because of the gloating privileges that came with sponsoring one’s very own monster hunters, Steve imagined.

It might have also been because Steve’s flat was situated on the hillside hardly half a mile down from Stark Mansion, and in the late afternoon the massive building seemed to completely blot out the sun.

“I don’t—” Steve scowled. “I don’t want to be shown off, like some ancient artifact—”

“But you are one,” Jan said teasingly, only laughing when Steve turned his scowl on her. “Dear Tony admires you greatly, Steve. Go to the ball. Stay awhile. Besides, I think you owe me a dance.”

At that, Steve hesitated. He really couldn’t deny the appeal of that idea, even if Jan still seemed to be all hung up on that horrid husband of hers—

“Alright,” he allowed, fighting to keep a straight face when Jan squeaked and clapped her hands together.

“Stop by my shop later tonight,” she said, offering him a dimpled grin that made his heart skip a beat. “I think I know just the thing.”

: : :

Steve tugged uncomfortably at his collar. The air here was uncommonly stifling, though perhaps that was just his disinclination to wear suits. It was probably best that he was up here leaning against the railing of the balcony that overlooked the grand ballroom, rather than actually dancing, because looking at the suits and gowns spinning round and round and round, he was certain he would pass out if he did.

He’d never been comfortable in so-called ‘high society’; perhaps he never would. He’d grown up on the streets and died on the battlefield.

At least he needn’t have chosen his suit himself. Jan had fitted him with a deep blue vest and a crimson silk puff tie set against a freshly pressed white shirt, all framed with a dark tailcoat and trousers. He’d had to huff out a laugh at the sight of himself in the mirror, but Jan respected him enough not to make his usual red-white-and-blue look garish.

The speech had gone over well, Steve thought. At least insofar as he could gauge by the round of applause and absence of thrown food, though that could just be the politeness of the upper classes. There had been a scattering of murmurs and whispers when he’d confirmed in no uncertain terms that the Ultimates would be continuing their nonlethal capture of ferals, but he had expected as much. People were scared, and these people were used to being coddled more than most.

He breathed out slowly through his nose, leaning against the railing and letting his eyes shut for a moment. He just needed to settle his nerves a bit. Jan had told him, quite bluntly, that he would be staying until the evening was through. While Steve had wanted to snap at her, he also remembered her invitation to dance and had a feeling she was withholding it until the very end to encourage him to stay longer.

Damn the woman, but it was working.

“Strange that the man of the hour is away from the life of the party,” a gentle, rumbling voice said in his ear.

Steve twitched, swinging his head around to come face to face with none other than their sponsor, Lord Stark, who was considering him with curious pale eyes. And standing very close, mirroring Steve’s lean against the railing. No one should have been able to get that close without Steve noticing; he must be tired if his senses were this far off.

“The heat’s giving me a headache,” Steve lied, because it was an uncommonly warm evening for late autumn. He shifted away slightly, putting just a few inches of space between them.

If Stark noticed, he didn’t give any indication. He only gave Steve a wide, sympathetic smile and laid a hand on his shoulder that Steve shrugged off without thinking. Stark’s smile didn’t even dim, his hand merely going to rest besides Steve’s on the railing.

“I suppose you want to be left alone, then? I had a few matters I wanted to discuss with you, but I’d feel simply horrible if I were to cause you any undue pain, Captain.” Steve opened his mouth to say yes, he’d really rather Stark walk away and not return, before catching himself. Not only would it be impolite, but there was a sort of yearning hopefulness in Stark’s face that was difficult to ignore.

And perhaps Steve ought to try and get out the habit of perpetually sticking his foot in his mouth.

“What sort of matters?” Steve said, straightening up. Stark positively beamed at him.

“Greetings first, of course,” he said cheerily, taking one of Steve’s hands in both of his and grasping it firmly. “It’s always a pleasure to see you, Captain; I don’t see you nearly often enough. I believe I can count on one hand the times we’ve met since the team was started.”

“I’m sure you’re a busy man,” Steve said perfunctorily. Stark shrugged, then slid one hand up Steve’s forearm to guide him along, Steve only just resisting the urge to dig in his heels and drag, because that would be childish.

“I wanted to commend you on your speech, firstly,” Stark continued as he led Steve along in a meandering path, not appearing to be headed anywhere in particular. “It was very— straightforward, which is rare in these circles.”

“I’m no politician,” Steve said, which for some reason made Stark throw his head back and laugh.

“And I thank God for that,” he chuckled.

Stark lead him along the gallery, clutching Steve’s arm as if it were a lifeline and drinking very deeply from his wine goblet. Steve was tempted to wrestle his arm back, but now he thought that Stark might need it to stay upright. What sort of noble lord got drunk at his own ball?

“Any input, Captain?” Stark said, looking at him expectantly. Steve realized that he’d been talking the entire time.

“Er— sorry, can you repeat that?” he said, a bit sheepishly. Rather than the affront Steve expected, Stark merely laughed.

“As I said, I’ve been working on upgrades to the team’s equipment. I’ll discuss with each individual member, of course— yours is an upgrade to your uniform. Much better than the leather, I assure you, with sleeker lines and a much nicer design - can’t have all that bulk ruining your figure.” He winked.

“I generally value function over fashion,” Steve replied coldly. He liked his uniform just the way it was, as it always had been; he didn't want it to change. Frustratingly, Stark didn’t seem phased at all.

“The material is a massive step up from leather,” he said dismissively. “I’ve tested it myself; it can stop a bullet at close range.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Steve muttered under his breath.

“What’s that?” Stark said brightly. “Oh, never mind, I also wanted to—"

He stumbled quite violently then, his entire body seizing - Steve could feel his muscles going rigid against his arm. He recovered with a grace Steve didn’t expect, not even slopping wine out of the goblet.

“Goodness me,” he laughed, a strange note in his voice that Steve couldn’t quite place. “I must’ve had more to drink than I realized.” He promptly brought the goblet to his lips and drained it in one go.

“Right,” Steve gritted out, but he led Stark over to a bench and helped him sit down. And Stark was still talking.

“As I was saying, I—  I—” He stuttered off, eyes going wide for a moment. “I wanted to congratulate you on your speech— very, ah, to the point—”

“Lord Stark,” Steve interrupted. “You’ve already told me this.”

“Oh.” For the first time that night, Stark actually looked...sober. He looked down at his hands, and suddenly he seemed to wilt. “I’m sorry, Captain. Bit of a hectic week, that’s all. My brain is all scattered, what with that awful Registration bill on its way through Parliament. I understand if you want to find better company than I.”

Maybe it was just how miserable and sorry Stark suddenly looked, but Steve found himself settling down beside him, much to Stark’s obvious surprise. Steve himself was a bit surprised as well.

After perhaps a minute of silence, Steve asked, quite out of nothing, “Why do you care so much whether the ferals live or die?” There were plenty of monster teams that just killed ferals and let the police cart away the bodies; Stark’s nonlethal initiative was a rare one, as it was the general sentiment of the population that going feral was a death sentence anyway.

That question seemed to startle Stark, who looked down at his clasped hands for a while before answering.

“I’m of the seemingly radical opinion that monsters are people just like anyone else,” Stark began slowly. “And that feralism is a disease that can be cured just like any other. What do you think I do with the ferals that are brought back to the holding facility at Stark Enterprises?” Steve shrugged; he’d never really cared to find out. “Apart from being kept safe where they cannot harm anyone, I have a research team studying them, trying to find a cure.”

“A cure. For feralism,” Steve repeated. That was— it was common knowledge that feralism was just a natural part of a monster’s life, much like humans went senile. It happened to the old, mostly; their bodies and minds broke down and they went mad. It just so happened that a mad monster was far more dangerous than a mad human.

He told Stark as much, and Stark nodded, a bit of a smile returning to his face. “Ah, but what if I told you that senility might be caused by a disease as well? Perhaps one very similar to the one that causes monsters to go feral - sans the silver eyes and murderous intent.” He tugged at his loosely tied hair as he spoke, causing strands to slip free.

“I’d say it seems a bit— far-fetched,” Steve said slowly.

If anything, Stark seemed bizarrely pleased with that answer. “Stark Enterprises is at the forefront of scientific research in many fields. While our primary product is machinery, we deal with many things that seem far-fetched every day.” Then he made a face, nose wrinkling. “Not that I know much of biology; the living body is a complicated and unreasonable animal I’d rather not tangle with. I’ll stick to my alchemy and my machines.”

Steve was at a loss for words. Privately, he thought Stark might be a bit mad himself.

“What about you, Captain. Why did you join a team that operated only under live capture?” Stark went on. “Forgive me for presuming, but it doesn’t seem to be a great passion of yours, to keep ferals alive.”

“Presume away,” Steve said. “You’re right. I joined the team because your recruitment man, Fury, asked me to.” Stark pulled a face at the very mention of the name, and Steve had to crack a grin at that, because Fury had made a very similar face while talking about Stark. “I knew his great, great grandfather, back in the War.” He hesitated, then added, “And I knew a relative of yours, as well. Howard the Third.”

“Ah, yes. Him. I know of him,” Stark said softly.

And— if Steve were being honest with himself, he only partly joined because he’d fought with Colonel Fury back in the war. It was mostly because Fury the younger had simply been the first to ask him to take up the shield again. Steve might have joined anyone, right after he woke from the ice, when everyone he knew was dead and nothing mattered much at all.

“May I give you a brief tour of the mansion, Captain?” Stark said, changing the subject so suddenly that it took Steve a moment to find his place in the conversation.

“I don’t think that will be necessary, Lord Stark,” Steve replied, head tilting back against the wall. “I’ve been here before.”

: : :

“Captain Steven Rogers. What a glorious pleasure it is to meet you at last,” the Earl of Stark said, bowing deeply before Steven. Steven was momentarily stunned at the fact that an earl had just bowed to him - in his very own hall, none the less - enough so that he nearly forgot to return the gesture. He held his shield before him and dropped to one knee, as Colonel Fury had instructed him to.

Howard the Third has more sovereign coin than half the other Earls of this country put together. If he agrees to pour his funds and technologies into the campaign, beyond what’s required of him by the Crown, this war’s as good as won.

“Ah— yes. And you as well, my Lord,” he recited dutifully.

“Stand, if you please. I want none of the ceremony, not from a hero of war such as yourself.” Steven rose without protest. He couldn’t pretend he was ever one for groveling before nobility, though even he was a bit staggered when the Earl placed a hand on his shoulder with such familiarity. “Word of your great victories has spread all throughout my shire and the lands beyond. The King himself - God bless him - has heard tell of your deeds.” He smiled at Steven expectantly.

“Ah,” Steven said, quite succinctly. “That’s wonderful, my Lord.”

Thankfully, the Earl breezed right over Steven’s lack of— well, decorum in general. “Come! Walk with me in the gardens.”

Steven followed him down a side passage that branched out of the grand entrance hall of the mansion, their footsteps echoing off the stone walls. “Now, I’ve been informed that you are to embark on another campaign in a few weeks time. I’ve no illusions as to why you’re here, Captain, and I will tell you now that I intend to support your cause wholeheartedly.” Steven nearly tripped over his own feet; surely it couldn’t be that easy.

“Might I ask why, my Lord?” he said, a bit breathless.

The Earl shrugged. “Well, I have no love for our enemies in the South. But consider this: you’re going to be remembered for centuries to come, Captain. Not just as a war hero, understand, but for what’s running through your veins as well.” At Steven’s sharp look, he let out a barking laugh. “It’s no secret, sir, though misinformation is abound.”

The sun was beginning to set as they proceeded out into the gardens, which sprawled out from behind the mansion as far as Steven’s keen eyes could see. He spied wandering paths amongst the trees and grasses and flowers that became less and less manicured the farther they wound from the mansion, until they seemed to disappear into a veritable forest.

“But you are the first human trial,” the Earl continued, stooping slightly to smell one of the large yellow roses that grew beside the gravel path and stroke the velvety petals with his fingers. “The first human with monster blood running through his veins who not only lived to tell the tale, but indeed became stronger for it.”

“The first and the last human trial,” Steven said, rudely he knew, but the Earl of Stark only raised his brow and smirked.

“I think you misunderstand my motivations, Captain. I’m a man of science, you see—” He cut off as a high-pitched shriek carried through the cool evening air. Steven tensed, hand going to his shield, but the Earl didn’t seem at all perturbed, his eyes instead narrowing in irritation.

“Oh, cock,” he muttered, but before Steven had time to be taken aback by his vulgar language, a small boy with dark hair burst through a nearby ivy-covered trellis. He was sobbing freely, cheeks stained with tears as he scampered forth. Seconds later, a second boy - nigh identical in face to the first, but with hair almost as fair as his skin - came through the same trellis at a furious pace, only to stop dead the moment he spotted Steven and the Earl.

The first boy had no such compunctions, wailing disconsolately as he tottered forward until he could cling to the Earl’s leg. He was sopping wet and shivering, Steven realized; his heart ached a bit for the poor thing.

“Da, Da,” he choked out in between sobs, burying his face in the leg of the Earl’s breeches, “G-greg called me stupid,” he hiccupped, “and he pushed me into the pond, and I hit my head, and, and—”

“You’re a snitch!” the other boy yelled, stalking forward. “Father, he started it, he—”

“Gregory! Be silent!” the Earl bellowed, causing the fair boy to shut his mouth so quickly his teeth clicked. Even Steven found himself instinctively straightening up. “And Antonio, stop sniveling,” to which Antonio sniffled very loudly indeed. “Where did you hit your head?” Antonio indicated the back of his skull, and the Earl scowled down at it, checking the spot with his fingers.

“You’ll live,” he announced, before cuffing Antonio up the side of the head. “Idiot boy. You know you’re not supposed to bother me when I’ve guests. I’m going to speak with that fool nanny of yours as well, you’re both meant to be inside—”

It was clear to Steven that Antonio had stopped listening some time ago. Instead he was clutching at the Earl’s breeches and staring up at Steven with very wide eyes. Steven shifted uncomfortably, still unused to being the subject of such worshipful focus.

“Da,” Antonio whispers, tugging at his father’s coat. “Da, that’s the Captain.”

The Earl, rather than the anger that Steven expected, let out a long, exasperated sigh and shrugged at Steven. “Yes, boy. Our esteemed guest is the Captain. I was talking to him about very important matters before you and your brother burst in and interrupted us.”

Antonio suddenly came out from behind his father’s legs, approaching Steven with a cautious gait and big eyes. “I’ve heard so many stories about you,” he whispered, tears completely dry. Then— “May I hold your shield?”

“Antonio—"

“It’s alright, my Lord,” Steven said quickly, giving Antonio what he hoped was an encouraging smile. He knelt down so he could speak to the child at eye level; Antonio was holding his hands to his mouth in delight. With as much ceremony as he could muster, Steven unholstered his shield and slowly, solemnly pressed it into Antonio’s small outstretched hands.

Antonio accepted it as if it were the most precious of gems in the world, considering it was dented and scratched, the paint faded. It was too heavy for him to lift, and so Steven helped him to balance it on its point so he could admire it and run his hands over it.

“What’s it made of?” he asked, tapping the center star with his fingernails.

“Mm, steel, I think,” Steven replied. Maybe he really ought to have known what his own equipment was made out of.

“It’s good,” Antonio said with all the confidence of a child who knew exactly what he was talking about, “but my father could make you the best one in the world!” He turned to his father, excited. “With that new metal, right Da?”

The Earl paused, narrowing his eyes at Antonio. “If I find out that you and Gregory have snuck into my study again, I’m going to have Edwin tan the both of you.”

Antonio shook his head hard, lips pouting out. “No! We only overheard you talking with the courier, honest! Didn’t we, Greg?” Gregory, who had slowly fallen in step beside his father, hesitated, then nodded, though his face took on a suspiciously pinched look.

“Hmm,” the Earl said, sounding utterly unconvinced. “We’ll see. In any case, Captain, that was another topic I wished to speak with you about. I’ve recently acquired a shipment of a extremely rare metal from a mighty but reclusive civilization in the southernmost reaches of the world.” In front of Steven, Antonio was growing visibly excited, bouncing up and down on his toes. “It is purportedly the strongest on this earth, with curious vibrational properties. I believe a shield crafted from it it would be an invaluable asset on the battlefront, and I want you to accept it as a gift and a blessing from me.”

Steven straightened slowly, holding his shield close to his body. Maybe it was sentimental of him, but he’d grown fond of it. “I don’t know—” he began, before catching himself.

Refusing the Earl of Stark certainly wouldn’t be most reckless thing he’d ever done, but it would be up there. Besides, he could see Antonio preparing to look absolutely devastated, and he couldn’t have that, could he?

“I’d be honored to accept such a fine gift, my Lord,” he said after a moment’s hesitation. The Earl grinned toothily at him, a steely look in his eye that told Steven he’d made the right choice.

After that, the Earl insisted that Steven stay at the mansion while the shield was crafted. Steven, once again, half accepted only because Antonio made pleading eyes, and he would have to be heartless to crush such innocent excitement.

He spent a fortnight in that place. His initial shock at the fact that it was the Earl himself who would be forging the shield - Steven thought he’d sooner see Hell freeze over than a noble who’d deign to do a layman’s dirty work - was soon overshadowed by his anxiousness to return to the battlefront.

And so he spent many sleepless nights tossing and turning and pacing nervously about his rooms, and then in the halls once he learned that the many members of the House of Stark kept odd hours and wouldn’t be disturbed by him in the slightest. In fact, they welcomed him with open arms, and thus he was never without companionship to keep his mind off his anxiety. He might play a game of chess with one of the Earl’s many, many siblings, or perhaps have the Earl’s mother show him how to sew a design more intricate than the basic stitches Steven knew.

He would also often sit with the Lady of the House and chat over a bottle of wine, for she was seemingly well-traveled and exceedingly intelligent. Curiously, she never drank from the same bottle as him, instead choosing to open another for herself. Nobility were a strange lot indeed.

During the day, Antonio would often seek him out and insist that he tell him stories of his adventures. Steven had been at war for little under a year, and he had no desire to talk of the late Erskine’s project, so he exhausted his war stories all too soon. Antonio seemed to delight at hearing about Bucky, about Gail , about his life before he’d become the Captain, though, when he was little more than a poor boy living in the streets of York. He was quite a bright little mind, if incapable of grasping the concept of poverty.

“You have to keep away from Greg,” Antonio told him once, quite gravely considering he was hanging off of one of Steven’s biceps.

“Why’s that?” Steven said cautiously, carefully setting Antonio down on his feet.

“Because he always tries to take away things that I like,” Antonio shrugged, making insistent grabbing hands for Steven’s arm once more. “Also, he’s a big fathead.”

Steven considered to futility of trying to explain to a child that people weren’t things,  and that he and his brother should be kinder to each other, then gave it up as a bad job and bent at the knee so that Antonio could cling to his arm once more, squealing in delight as Steven lifted him up and began to spin gently.

At last it came time for him to depart.

A servant held his horse as he bid his farewells to the heads of the House out in the front courtyard. He bowed deeply to both the Earl and the Lady, his new shield shining brightly on his arm. It was lightweight and the metal sang sweetly against his arm, and there were no imperfections in its painted surface at all - the Earl was a fine craftsman, despite Steven’s earlier misgivings.

The Earl and Lady’s children were there to say goodbye as well. Gregory thrust out his hand to shake, his ears burning bright red as he stood straight-backed and wished Steven, “all the luck in the world, Captain.” As soon as Steven had let go of Gregory’s hand, Antonio flung himself at him, wrapping his arms around Steven’s neck. Steven placed his hand on Antonio’s back, all too aware of his enhanced strength against this frail little body.

“You’ll come back and visit, won’t you?” he asked, and to Steven’s alarm there were fat tears rolling down his cheeks. “You promise? You have to promise!”

“I—” Steven hesitated. As much as he wanted to dry Antonio’s tears with reassurances, he couldn’t bring himself to make a promise he might not be able to keep. He would be at the forefront of a gorey, wretched war in a few days time, after all. “I will do my very best, Antonio. It isn’t all my decision to make.”

Antonio didn’t look at all reassured by this, face screwing up terribly. Steven shoved a hand into one of the various pouches of his uniform, desperately casting around for anything to subdue the impending tantrum.

“Here! Look, boy, take this.” He’d forgotten all about the little wooden carving. During a dull night in camp some weeks ago, a soldier from the countryside had taught Steven and Bucky how to whittle, taking a nearby roosting owl as inspiration. Bucky’s had turned out a lot nicer than his, but as Steven pressed the crude and somewhat lumpy owl figure into Antonio’s hands, the child’s eyes lit up as if he’d plucked the very moon from the sky and presented it to him.

“I’m entrusting you to keep this safe for me until I return, Antonio,” he said gravely. “Even in the event that I do not return alive.”

Antonio sniffled, but nodded mutely, clutching the thing closely to his breast. “I will,” he whispered. “I promise.”

: : :

Steve sometimes wondered if Antonio actually kept his promise, or if the memory of his favorite Captain had merely faded into the obscurity of childhood. Perhaps at one point in his life, he rediscovered the lopsided owl and smiled sadly at it for a moment before hiding it away once more. Steve supposed it didn’t matter. At this point the boy would be long dead, Steve frozen in ice as he aged into an old man and eventually into dust.

The mansion itself hadn’t changed much at all from that time, the warm cream of the wooden exterior  and the dark tile of the roofs carefully cleaned and preserved throughout the centuries. The decor had been updated, all deep crimsons and soft golds now, but otherwise it was much the same. The gardens had been preserved almost to the individual leaf, it seemed; the only thing that had really changed was the city of York spreading to and up the foot of the hill the mansion rested upon.

“Captain,” came Stark’s gentle voice, and Steve jerked suddenly, realizing he’d gotten lost in his own head.

“Ah— sorry, yes—”

“Accompany me to the banquet table? I’m famished,” Stark interrupted, quite kindly. Perhaps he wasn’t so bad after all. “And I can take the time to introduce you to some of York’s finest. It’s important to have connections.”

Then again, maybe not.

Steve allowed Stark to clutch at his arm, afraid he might stumble a second time. And if he was being honest with himself, Stark was a comforting warmth plastered to his side that Steve was reluctant to push away. Human contact was not widely available to him these days, people in this modern era less fond of comradely touches and embraces than they had been in his day.

Stark led him down the stairs and pushed a path through the swathes of milling people straight for the banquet table. He certainly knew how to use his presence; of that much Steve could be sure.

“Ah! Beef pasties. Lovely,” Stark said, relinquishing Steve’s arm to crowd against the table. “Captain, darling, try some of these, oh, and the stuffed artichokes are divine—” Steve was sputtering out a protest at being called ‘darling’ when Stark pushed a loaded plate into his hand.

“Lord Stark,” he protested, “I’m really not that hungry,” despite the fact that, now that he thought about it, he really was, and the smell of all the food was making his mouth water.

“A man like you needs to keep his strength up,” Stark said, pushing away from the table without taking anything for himself. “We can’t have the leader of York’s greatest hunting team go hungry, can we?”

Steve clamped down on the urge to say something cutting and instead broke into one of the pasties, a bit furiously. It was very difficult to keep his scowl as flavor exploded over his tongue, his eyes going slightly wide.

He noticed Stark smiling expectantly at him and tried his best to school his expression into something more stern. “It’s— good,” he said, his stomach suddenly reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since breakfast by cramping viciously. The next bite he took was overly large, his cheeks bulging a bit.

“Ah! There you are!” Stark said as he looked over Steve’s shoulder, his eyes widening in delight. “Captain, allow me to introduce you to the esteemed Earl of Stark.”

Steve nearly inhaled his food down his windpipe, eyes watering as he swallowed. He was going to murder Stark, he really was—

“My Lord,” he coughed out as he turned around, setting his plate down on the banquet table and hastily shoving it away. “It’s an honor.” Belatedly, he stooped in a bow.

The Earl was eerily familiar, and as Stark went to stand by his side, grasping at his arm, Steve realized it was because the two of them shared the same face. The Earl looked like Stark if he’d been drained of color, with pale gold hair and fair skin and icy grey eyes. Where Stark had smile lines, the Earl seemed more accustomed to frowning. He also looked younger than Stark by some years, skin smooth where Stark’s was beginning to wrinkle. Even their suits were opposites, Stark’s mostly black and grey with red accents, the Earl’s all white set off by pale blues.

“Captain Rogers,” the Earl returned, sounding bored. Steve couldn’t help but bristle, though he kept his own expression carefully neutral. “The pleasure is all mine.” Really, it sounded anything but. Then he turned his gaze on Stark, who seemed to have no compunction against plastering against his side despite the withering glance the Earl was affording him. “I trust Lord Stark has been an agreeable host.” The look he aimed at Stark was nothing short of disdain, which Stark bizarrely met with a delighted smile.

“He’s been wonderful, thank you,” Steve snapped before he could stop himself. Both men turned their pale gazes on him at once, Stark’s wide and surprised, the Earl’s narrowed and angry.

“Is that so,” the Earl said, his voice flat and colorless. He shot Stark a strangely suspicious glance. “Well, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I’m to dance with the Governess of York.” He turned with a snap of his tailcoat and was soon swallowed by the crowd.

Stark smiled fondly after him. Then he turned the full force of that smile on Steve, who suddenly felt like one of Stark’s dearest friends. “Don’t worry about the dear Earl,” Stark confided in a low voice. “He’s always been a sourpuss. He’s actually a great admirer of yours, Captain.”

“I can tell,” Steve said drily, startling a laugh out of Stark. “You seem very familiar with him considering your station is below his.” It was incredibly forward and rude of him to say so, but Stark didn’t seem the type to be easily offended by social faux-pas, which was something Steve could certainly appreciate.

Sure enough, Stark merely shrugged and toyed with his hair where it was draped over his shoulder, absently teasing it out of the the red silken tie that held it back until it draped loosely against his shoulders.

“We’re family. And the Earl has a reputation to uphold, while I’m merely a lord of some land in the South. I’ve a lot less need for dignity than he.” He beckoned Steve to follow him to a bench against the wall, where they could watch the couples twirling on the dance floor. Amusingly, one man was dancing by himself, arms raised high around nothing at all.

“Why settle Stark Enterprises in York, then?” Steve prompted. “If you own land already.”

“It’s a city all enterprising minds flock to, doubly so now one of the very first Academy of Sciences has been built here,” Stark said, a bit dreamily. “The largest city in our sovereign nation, Captain, filled with the best and brightest in their fields - and I want the best.” He huffed out a short laugh. “Believe me, I wouldn’t have settled in this frozen wasteland of my own volition. My lands in the South are lovely and summery, even at this time of year, and the suns stays up until the late hours so I have plenty of time to lounge about on the beach and restore my color.”

Steve felt his face heating at the very image of Stark ‘restoring his color’ - Stark was a hedonist by nature, then, and Steve could just imagine him stretched out on the white sands of the Southern shores. (Steve remembered their color well, as he’d fought on them during the late campaigns of the war, and found that the crimson of blood stained them vividly.) Bare as the day he was born, back arching like a pleased cat as the sun washed over his olive skin—

Steve coughed, cheeks burning, and he could see Stark grinning at him out of the corner of his eye, obviously pleased. Steve opened his mouth to say something cutting about laziness, or, or hedonism, but Stark interjected instead.

“The Earl is much better suited to these Northern lands,” he said, leaning in closer to Steve. “His skin’s as pale as his hair, so it looks natural on him; if I allowed myself to become as pasty as him I’m afraid I’d look like death warmed over.” Then he blinked, smile fading somewhat.

“The Earl’s actually quite an admirer of yours, Captain. He’s always been a sourpuss,” he said, quite earnestly.

“As you’ve said,” Steve said after a brief pause.

Bizarrely, Stark’s eyes widened into something that looked like - fear? - before smoothing over once more.

“Dear Captain,” he said, with a charming smile. “Would you care to give me a dance?”

Steve went still for a moment, trying to decipher that sudden leap in conversation. Oddly enough, he found that he didn’t even want to refuse all that much. “I’m not much of a dancer,” he said, even as he stood.

“Worry not, Captain. I’ve had to take lessons enough for several lifetimes.”

It was almost maddening just how difficult it was to dislike Stark, which made Steve question why he was trying so hard to do so.

Guiding Steve out onto the floor, Stark was certainly graceful considering how much he’d had to drink. Steve had stubbornly refused to let Stark lead until the third time he’d trod all over Stark’s feet, and it was embarrassingly clear that Stark had a lot more practice at this than Steve did. It was strange, doing this all backwards, but it was intuitive enough.

Stark was nearly as tall as Steve, which was rare indeed, though he was not nearly as bulky. His hand rested a bit low on the small of Steve’s back, and while Steve was tempted to growl at him on principle, that hand was a warm and solid weight, almost steadying.

And it probably wouldn’t reflect well on the Ultimates if the team leader came to blows with their sponsor in the middle of the Stark ballroom, he thought to himself.

Steve spotted Jan several times, spinning past in the arms of an unfamiliar woman in a scarlet dress and a cascade of curling dark hair. He firmly swallowed his jealousy and instead scanned the room for the rest of the team. Clint was leaning against the upstairs railing, fiddling with his cravat and looking bored to tears, which was exactly what Steve expected. Thor was still... wherever he went when he left to visit his family, so not here, and Rhodey had last been seen clutching a flute of champagne to his breast and listening with wide-eyed interest as a woman Steve recognized to be the Minister of War told a particularly grisly story, complete with violent hand gestures and all.

“One more song, dear Captain?” Stark murmured. Steve glanced back at him, and he was suddenly enraptured by the dazzling blue of Stark’s eyes.

Steve knew that Stark was handsome - it was just a fact, pure and simple - but it was one thing to know fact and another to have it constantly confronting him at such close quarters. He couldn’t stop his gaze from following the curve of long dark eyelashes against Stark’s cheekbone, the elegant curve of his nose, the wine-stained red of his full lips, the sleek dark hair curling at his neck and shoulders.

Steve felt his eyes going heavy and unfocused, his head tilting to one side and back. Stark’s wonderful, wonderful eyes flickered down to trace the movement and then went wide.

Stark stopped abruptly in the middle of the floor, another couple nearly running headlong into them, and just like that Steve jolted back to himself, an electric shiver running up his spine.

Then he was being led off the floor and guided down onto a bench, a flute of bubbling water pressed into his hands. Steve blinked and shook himself to clear his head further, then took a large gulp of the water. The cold sharp flavor cleared the remaining fog from his head.

“I think,” he said as tonelessly as he could, “I think I should have an early night.” He was shivering slightly, he realized. What in God’s name had just happened?

“Naturally, Captain,” Stark said, looking about as sorry as a man could. “I’ll call a carriage for you. Stay there,” he added over his shoulder as he began to walk away. Steve was far too weary to argue, letting his eyes droop shut as he rested his head back against the wall.

In the end, he never did get his dance from Jan.

: : :

“Ah! Captain, there you are,” Stark said without looking up from what he was doing.

Steve had to stop in the doorway for a moment and stare. The last time he’d seen Stark had been at that somewhat disastrous ball nearly two weeks ago, dressed in a full suit. Now Stark was currently in naught but a filthy white shirt and some thoroughly abused trousers and had his arms plunged up to his elbows in what looked like a vat of molten silver. His hair was tied back in a severe bun, Steve guessed to keep from falling in his face at a crucial moment.

“You called?” Steve said after a beat, holding up the note the courier had given him.

Then he raised a hand to greet Rhodey, who was in the room as well, which appeared to be some sort of mad scientist’s workshop, cluttered with strange machines and bits of scrap and more vats of metallic liquid similar to the one Stark had his arms in.

“Well, see, I just figured,” Stark grunted as he tugged his arms out of the liquid, then shoved them back in again, kneading the stuff as if it were bread, “since you were already at Stark Enterprises to pick up your new uniform—”

“Thank you,” Steve interrupted,  “you didn’t need to, but thanks—”

“—you ought to see Rhodey’s upgrades as well. It’s important, I think for a leader to understand how his team’s equipment works.”

Steve couldn’t disagree with that, though for some reason he felt the need to disagree on principle. He moved to stand beside Rhodey, who for some reason didn’t look as bemused as Steve felt. “And his upgrade is a puddle of metal?”

Stark laughed at that, clear and sharp. “Alchemy, my dear Captain!”

“My armor right now is just a plain old suit of armor with alchemical properties imbued in the metal,” Rhodey cut in to explain. “This is what gives me my strength and durability in battle. You’ll have seen the lines glow briefly when I throw a punch or sustain damage.”

“Ah. I figured it was some sort of magic.”

“Alchemy is not magic,” Stark said testily, sounding comically offended. Steve spotted Rhodey suppressing a grin out of the corner of his eye. “It’s an advanced and highly regarded field of science. Anyway, Rhodey and I have poured many long weeks into creating a prototype of pure malleable metal. Observe.”

He lifted his arm out the vat and the liquid metal clung to his skin like a sleeved glove. As Steve watched, the metal shifted and molded itself, crevices and sharp edges forming until Stark was wearing a glittering, fully articulated gauntlet.

“How does it work?” Steve asked finally, eyeing it warily.

“Well, like I say, it’s an advanced field of science, but in layman’s terms—” He clucked his tongue, furrowing his brow at Rhodey in askance.

“Think of it as the metal having blueprints in it that tell it what form it ought to take around each part of the body,” Rhodey said, tilting his head to one side. “It does take some amount of skill and concentration to use, but it is a skill that can be learned like any other.”

“A layer of ductile metal beneath acts both as padding and shock absorption,” Stark continued, admiring the gauntlet as if it were a particularly dear child. “It’s three times as lightweight as his previous armor and has a lot of potential for modification. I simply need to supercondense the metal for easy transportation.” He indicated a few empty and featureless lockets on a stand beside him, all different colors. “With enough experimentation, I believe the armor may even be able to sustain flight.”

That, Steve had a hard time believing. “That’s great,” he said drily, “but how well can it stand up to being hit?”

Stark didn’t seem to be one to back down to from a challenge, if his wicked grin was any indication. Rhodey rolled his eyes and settled down on a workbench to watch, obviously amused.

“That’s easy, Captain,” Stark said. “See that smith’s hammer over there?” Steve did. “Take it and bring it over here.”

Steve did as he was asked, though he had a sneaking suspicion that he was about to be made a fool of. When he turned round and saw Stark laying his gauntleted hand on an anvil, though, he stopped in his tracks.

“Lord Stark,” he protested, because if Stark was underestimating his strength or overestimating the toughness of the armor, his hand would end up a pulverized, useless mess.

“Come on, darling, humor me,” Stark drawled. Steve’s cheeks flushed with anger as he got the feeling that he was being mocked.

“On your head be it,” he growled, before lifting the hammer high above his head and bringing it down.

He wasn’t quite sure what he expected. He hadn’t dared put all his strength behind the swing, but he hadn’t gone easy either. Perhaps for the hammer to ring off the surface of the gauntlet, leaving behind a sizeable dent and a sore hand.

He certainly didn’t expect for the the head of the hammer to snap off upon contact and go flying across the room. He blinked, staring down at the splintered handle in his hand, and then past it at the gauntlet.

Not a scratch.

“Not bad,” he said after a grudging moment, aiming a scowl at Stark. It was met with a wide smile.

“I thought so,” he said cheerfully, holding his hand over the vat and letting the metal melt off his hand and back in with the rest. “Alright, dearest, you can play with your new toy now,” he said to Rhodey, who gave him a tolerant look as he pushed off the workbench and towards the vat. “I need to speak with the Captain.”

“Lord Stark?” Steve asked warily.

“Please, Captain, call me Antonio. Tony! It’s what everyone else calls me.”

“Then call me Steve,” Steve shot back. “I’m not in the army any more.”

“Steve,” Tony repeated, sounding pleased. “Steve, I confess I’ve been hard at work at a new project concerning the Ultimates. Maybe you’ve noticed the scaffolding on the west wing of Stark Enterprises?”

“I have,” Steve said, though he hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Stark Enterprises had a room that the team met and debriefed in, nothing more.

“It’s a wing that has been defunct for some time, ever since I shut down weapons productions in favor of greater pursuits.” He led Steve over to a table laden with rolled tubes of paper, selecting one out of the bunch. “And so I decided some months ago to convert it into a training hall for the Ultimates!”

He spread the paper with a dramatic flourish and began laying a weight on each corner of what Steve now recognized as a blueprint.

“Why do we need an indoor pool?” Steve said after a moment of peering down at it.

“Everyone needs a pool,” Tony said loftily, fiddling with his hair. Steve had to suppress a grin as his eyes continued to sweep over the blueprint. There was a gymnasium, a bathing facility, a medical room, a kitchen, a conference room, a common room—

“Living quarters?” Steve asked, surprise coloring his voice.

“Only in the event of an emergency,” Tony said dismissively. “It’s more of a barracks. I wanted to have a set of apartments installed, but there wasn’t enough space.”

“That’s— this is very generous, Lo— Tony.” He glanced down at the blueprints. “Thank you,” he added after a moment.

Tony crinkled his eyes at him, leaning back against the workbench and cocked his hips to one side. His hair spilled loosely around his neck as his bun came undone; Steve suddenly felt as if there wasn’t enough air in the room, for some reason. “Think nothing of it. It should be done in three weeks time; I’ll summon you and your team then. Give you the grand tour.”

Then he pushed off the bench and took Steve’s arm to lead him over to another part of the workshop. “Now, on the topic of the team, I had this idea for a way for you all to communicate amongst yourselves, a sort of alarm or signal, if you will…”

: : :

“Hairy bitch!”

The girl cried out as she was shoved against the brick wall of the school building, her belted books falling to the ground with a thud. Three children, two boys and a girl, advanced on her. She let out a high-pitched snarl, flashing jagged fangs at them despite the fear in her eyes.

Steve moved as soon as he saw the metallic flash of a knife, lunging forward and seizing the boy’s wrist. “Drop it, son,” he snapped.

The boy’s eyes went wide, and he froze, breath coming quick and fast. Steve softened his grip fractionally when he realized he couldn’t have been more than fourteen, only to regret it immediately when the boy yanked his arm out of his hand. The blade sliced a deep gash across his palm, and Steve’s vision went spotty as searing hot pain surged up his arm.

“Run!” The children scattered, vanishing as if into thin air, leaving Steve clutching his arm in shock. The pain was seemingly starting to seep into his very bones; had the knife been poisoned? The serum was meant to make him resistant to things like that.

“Sir?” Steve blinked, remembering the girl behind him. He turned to see her clutching her books to her chest. Green eyes peered warily at him from a face covered with curly black hair. When she spoke, her words lisped slightly behind a mouthful of overlarge teeth.

Steve had never seen a monster quite like her before.

“Are you alright?” he asked hoarsely, sweat beading on his brow. What in God’s name was wrong with him?

“I’m fine, thank you, but I ought to be asking you that question,” she said, pointing a clawed finger at Steve’s bleeding hand. The cut wasn’t even starting to clot and knit together like it was supposed to. Steve had it pressed against his shirt to try and stem the bleeding and would most likely need to burn the shirt afterwards. “Silver stings terribly.”

“Silver?” Steve repeated. How in the world had a child gotten ahold of a silver weapon? It was supposedly the mostly highly regulated substance in the country, even above the frankincense that was used Parliament.

“Yes?” she said after a confused moment, squinting at him. “The knife Knox was using. It had a silver blade. You must know, you—” Her gaze fell on the canvas bag hanging at his side, the edge of the shield peeking out and glinting in the sunlight.

“Oh,” was all she said, her eyes going wide. Awestruck was an expression Steve encountered very often these days and still had no idea what to do with. “You’re the Captain.”

“Sure,” Steve said, shifting uncomfortably.

“All monsters are hurt by silver to some degree,” she said, switching topics very quickly, suddenly breathless. “It must affect you because of the monster blood in your serum.”

Steve stiffened. “How do you know about that?” he asked sharply. She only shrugged.

“We’re learning about you in our lessons,” she said, matter-of-factly. “Also, I can smell you.”

That was disconcerting, to say the least.

“I thought it was odd that I couldn’t place the species,” she went on. “There’s a whole lot, some lycan, some vampire, something…” She screwed up her face for a moment, considering. Then she broke into a grin that was positively wicked. “And everyone knows unicorns are famous for their healing properties—”

“Enough,” Steve bit out, crossing his arms over his chest and scowling sternly at her. In return she gave him a sweet grin that was almost reminiscent of Tony, if Tony had a furry face and knifelike teeth.

“You should probably get something for that,” she said, gesturing at his hand. “You know the herbalist on the corner of North and Gretham?”

“I do.” Herbal teas in particular had helped him get through a year’s worth of nightmares following the ice.

“Ask her for a poultice of liverwort and witch hazel,” the girl said. “It won’t help it heal any faster, but it will help the pain.” She spoke as if from first-hand experience, which was a chilling thought.

“Does this happen to you often?”

She shrugged and gave him sad smile. “People have always hated monsters. I’m a more obvious monster than most. It’s never been knives before, though; usually they like to pelt you with little silver beads.”

Steve swallowed tightly. The idea that this was normal for her—

“What your name?” he said suddenly.

She looked at him with wide eyes, surprise evident on her face. “Farrah,” she said, tone suddenly shy. “Why?”

“You know where Stark Enterprises is, right? Big building on the river with all the glass?” She nodded slowly. “If you ever need help, come find me. Go to the front desk and tell them that Steve Rogers told you to find him, alright?”

Farrah blinked big, green eyes at him, and for an alarmed moment Steve thought she was going to cry.

“I will,” she said, almost a whisper. “Thank you, Captain. Thank you.”

: : :

“And here it is!”

Tony’s voice echoed as he led the team down the grand main hall of the Ultimate’s newly built training quarters. Steve had to tilt his head back to see the vaulted stone ceiling, which were dizzyingly tall. He was fairly sure the floor and support columns were made of marble.

He didn’t even want to think about how much all this had cost; the very notion made him itch, making him pick absently at the bandage on his hand. “Tony, this is…”

“By fuck, Stark, you pulled out all the stops,” Clint said succinctly. Privately, Steve had to agree.

The rest of the team, predictably, didn’t seem nearly as impressed. Jan was nearly as rich as Tony, Rhodey was exposed to Tony’s wealth on a daily basis, and Steve was fairly sure that Thor - who had returned to York just the day before - existed beyond the concept of mortal riches.

“It’s nothing at all,” Tony said dismissively. “It’s the least I could do. I wanted to get a castle like one of the teams in Bulgarn has, but decent real estate is surprisingly difficult to come by nowadays—”

“This is more than enough,” Steve said quickly, not even wanting to imagine what he’d do if Tony handed him the keys to an entire castle. Faint, maybe.

“It will make an excellent training quarters,” Jan said as Tony led them into the gymnasium, which was nearly as tall as the main hall, and a great deal wider. “Heavy bags for you, Steve, and oh, Tony, is that an aerial course?” She clapped her hands together as she extended her wings and flitted up to the series of hoops and coils and blocks suspended from the ceiling, which Steve had originally taken for a very odd and out-of-place art piece.

“The pieces can be easily rearranged,” Tony said, tilting his head back to watch her, “and for Clint there’s— wait, come see the pool! It’s the most important part.” He pushed through a door at the far end of the gymnasium, practically brimming with excitement.

“God above, Tony.” If Steve thought the gymnasium had been massive, nothing could have prepared him for the pool. If it weren’t for his enhanced eyesight, he’d have to squint to see the other side of the room.

“This would make a good nesting place for a sea serpent,” Thor said from beside Steve. Steve was unsure whether this was meant to be a compliment or not, but Thor was grinning so at least it wasn’t meant unkindly. 

“I thought it was a nice touch.” Tony was gazing at the vast pool with such fondness that Steve half expected him to dive in, tailcoat and all. “I always begged my father for a proper swimming place when I was a boy, since all we had was a scummy pond that my brother liked to push me into.”

Better than swimming in the Hudson back in my day, Steve thought to himself. He and Bucky had watched people dump their shit and garbage into it and then promptly jumped right in with all of it. He had nothing bad to say about modern sewage and sanitation codes.

Then he frowned, because there was something familiar about what Tony had said, a distant memory stirring at the back of his mind.

“And the kitchens are across the hall, here,” Tony breezed right on, steering them back into the main hall. “I could hire a kitchen staff, if it suits you—”

“Lord Stark!” Steve spun around as a girl he recognized as a courier by the messenger bag on her hip burst into the hall, then promptly froze as six pairs of eyes fixated on her. “Um. My Lord.” She fidgeted and squirmed. She couldn’t have been older than sixteen. “A message from the House of Leon.”

“From Neven?” Tony frowned as he took the letter.

“His wife, my Lord.”

Tony scanned it quickly, his shoulders slumping with each line. When he was finished, he looked suddenly, uncharacteristically sad. Steve found himself wanting to step forward and comfort him, oddly enough, even though he didn’t know Tony that well and comfort was definitely not his forte.

“What is it, Tony?” he asked anyway, trying to make his voice gentle. From the look Jan shot him, he didn’t succeed.

“Thank you, Juli,” Tony murmured, ignoring the pair of them. “Come back tomorrow morning, I’ll have a response for you then.” He sent her off with a gold coin in her palm and a pat on the shoulder.

“Tony,” Jan said, voice soft.

“You know Neven of the House of Leon, don’t you?” Tony said abruptly, squeezing the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger.

“The Minister of Education?” Jan said cautiously after a pause. “We’ve met before.”

“A good friend of mine. He’s dead.” Tony looked— tired. “He went feral this morning, and a team on the East Bend took him down.”

“A Minister?” Steve said, surprise coloring his voice. At Tony’s sharp look, he backpedaled. “I’m sorry, I just— I didn’t think there were any Ministers who were monsters.” Monsters in Parliament at all were hard to come by. In fact, now that Steve thought about it, there were only twenty or so in a congress of two hundred, three of which had gone feral in the last few months. For a monster to run for office was no small undertaking that required a monumental amount of public sway, since monsters were a minority of the population of York and many humans still harbored prejudice. It would be a small miracle for a monster to get elected now, while tensions between humans and monsters ran so high.

“He wasn’t forthwith about it, of course,” Tony said blandly. “It’s easier for some to hide than others. It’s nigh impossible for monsters to get elected, after all.” He leaned against Rhodey, who put a comforting hand on his shoulder. (Steve was struck by a sudden wave of irritation that was gone almost as soon as it had come.)

“Shit,” Clint said, quite simply.

“I am sorry, Stark,” Thor rumbled, bowing his great head.

Steve struggled to find something to say that didn’t sound trite, but Jan was already speaking.

“We can continue with the tour another time, Tony,” she said, quite kindly. “We all understand if you would like to retire early.”

After a moment, Tony shook his head, lips stretching in a weak, watery smile that was clearly fake. “Nonsense! I haven’t even shown you the pool yet!” He pulled away from Rhodey, who gave him a startled look, and started to move towards the door they’d just come out of.

“We have seen it, Stark, and found it to be splendid,” Thor said, reaching out to rest one massive hand on Tony’s shoulder. Tony glanced at the hand, a strange expression spreading across his face.

“Of course. I’m sorry. I fear my mind is weighed upon heavily of late, especially in light of this most recent tragedy,” he said, almost too quickly. “To the, ah. Kitchens, then.”

Steve watch him shuffle off, something like worry curling in his gut. He glanced back at Jan, who was still hanging behind as the rest of the team followed Tony.

“I think,” she said, worrying at her bottom lip, “something might be wrong.”

: : :

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Tony said, fingers tapping slowly on the side of his wine goblet. He was reclining in an armchair besides the fireplace in his study, the flickering flames casting odd shadows over his face.

It had been a little over a week since Steve had seen Tony last. He looked— haggard, even moreso than usual, deep bruises around his eyes, stressed lines on his face, his hand trembling slightly around the goblet. (I could help him relax, a small voice said in the back of Steve’s mind, which he firmly quashed.)

“Go on, then,” Steve said after a moment of silence.

“Sit down, please,” Tony said, motioning towards the other armchair. Steve frowned but did so, wondering what on earth could be so important. “Now, what I’m about to tell you concerns vital information about the House of Stark. It’s imperative that you tell no one else, not a whisper.”

That was a staggering amount of trust that Tony was placing in someone he’d known for only a relatively short period of time, but Steve wasn’t about to refuse him. He solemnly made a fist over his heart. “You have my word.”

Tony grinned weakly at him, looking relieved. “It’s a rare man from whom I can trust those words, Steve.” He took a sip from his goblet, then set it aside with a sort of finality.

“You asked me some weeks ago why I was so concerned for the well-being of the ferals, why I was going to such great lengths to find a cure,” he began, steepling his fingers beneath his chin. He was not quite looking at Steve, a distant look in his eyes. “I told you that they are people like anyone else and we should be doing our best to help them for the common good of our fellow man. That is the truth, but not the entire one.”

Steve leaned forward in his chair.

“I will admit the interest in finding a cure is a more selfish one. The truth is…” Tony took a deep breath, exhaling harshly. “The truth is. The House of Stark is old, older than this country. Which shouldn’t surprise you; you met with Earl Howard the Third, over two hundred years ago, before the Federation was formed.” Steve was unsure where this was going, but he remained silent.

“But it’s much older than you may have realized. And not only in lineage.” He gave Steve wry smile, as if he were telling a joke. “The eldest living member of my family is over eight centuries old.”

Steve sat back, taking a moment to digest this. “You mean—” He sucked in a sharp breath as it clicked. “Your house. You’re monsters.”

Tony nodded, watching Steve warily. He sat tensely in his chair, as if he expected to be attacked. Steve realized he was digging his fingers into the arms of his own chair, and he forced his hands to relax before he tore into the upholstery.

“Why didn’t you— why do you keep it hidden?” Steve said, something oddly like anger tightening in his chest.

“Because, Captain,” Tony drawled, “the public at large is not overly fond of monsters, and much less so of vampires.”

Vampires.

Steve had fought his share of them in the War. Vicious, deranged beasts, with a single-minded thirst for blood. (And when they weren’t savaging his soldiers, they were seductive and snakelike, obviously psychotic.) He’d seen too many throats ripped out to the white of bone, too many corpses mangled and bled dry to conflate those creatures with the soft, weary man sitting before him.

Watching Steve struggle with his temper, Tony’s wan smile quickly twisted into an ugly, bitter thing. “And now you understand why it’s been kept a secret all this time. Humans don’t like monsters, Steve, especially those with a capacity for violence.”

“Because we’ve seen what you can do!” Steve bit out, clenching his fists in his lap. “I fought in the War, I have seen with my own eyes the atrocities committed at the hands of vampiric death squads—”

“Who were tortured and starved until they were driven insane!” Tony snarled, real fury coloring his voice, and for the first time Steve saw a flash of fangs. “I was alive then, I learned what happened. Our side did it too, Steve, kept vampires chained in dark cells and starved them for weeks before unleashing them onto the battlefield!” He laughed, low and ugly in his throat. “Sometimes, they even captured ferals, let them wreak havoc before they were slaughtered.”

Something inside Steve went cold. “That doesn’t excuse what they did—”

“What they were made to do, you mean,” Tony snapped. “You think you’d have more compassion for your kin - and no, don’t pretend that the blood of vampires doesn’t run through your veins in the serum—”

“That’s enough!” Steve barked, slamming his fist down on the end table beside his chair. To his horror, the polished wood splintered under his hand and fell to the floor in pieces with a resounding clatter.

Tony sat back in his chair, watching him with pale, guarded eyes. As he took a sip from his wine goblet that stained his lips red, Steve for the first time recognized the faint smell of copper.

“What makes you any less dangerous than me, Steve?” he asked, voice flat.

Steve didn’t have an answer for that.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, Steve trying to formulate apologies in his head that he couldn’t quite drudge into words.

“I’ll pay for the table,” he offered.

“I met you, when I was a boy,” Tony said, as if he hadn’t spoken, gazing off into the distance over the rim of his goblet. “You remember, don’t you? Little Antonio?”

“Very well,” Steve said. “I thought— I thought you and the Earl looked familiar. His name is Gregory, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Tony’s lips quirked. “My dearest twin brother.” Then, on a tangent, he continued. “He’s been the Earl for twenty years, now. Soon he will have to leave York. We can’t stay in one place for more than a couple decades or so; humans tend to notice when you don’t age, for some reason.”

“Your lands in the South,” Steve prompted.

“Yes, ah.” Tony rested the glass in his lap, tapping the rim absently. “My House, populous as it is, is on a— I suppose you might call it a rotating schedule. We go round the country, and by the time we cycle back to the beginning, the humans who might have remembered us are long dead. Monsters too, for that matter - very few are as long-lived as vampires.” He smiled sadly. “I will not be able to go back to my lands in the South for a good ninety years or so, and in five years time I will become the Earl of Stark, as I was well over a century ago.”

Steve fell silent for a moment, trying to wrap his head around living like that, in a constant state of impermanence. It sounded exhausting.

“Then,” he began tentatively, “Howard the Third, he’s still—”

“Dead,” Tony interrupted shortly. “Assassinated.”

Steve bowed his head.

“Any more questions you have, Steve, ask them now and I will answer them truthfully,” Tony said, kinder now. “Consider this retribution for my deceit, however necessary.”

Steve wracked his brain. For the moment, he was just tired and a bit shell-shocked.

“All the wine, it’s—”

“Blood. That’s why you always get a separate bottle.”

Which Steve supposed he was grateful for.

“That night, at the ball,” he began again. “When we were dancing.”

Tony stared at him unhappily. “That was an accident. Let me at least tell you how sorry I am that I lost control of myself, as I will agree on all counts that it was shameful, inexcusable.”

“Yes, but,” Steve said, trying not to get frustrated, “what was it?”

That had Tony raising his eyebrows at him, but he was apparently still sorry enough that he withheld whatever comment he clearly wanted to say. “Thrall,” he said.

Steve went still; that, he had heard of. Tony continued on. “I— we are taught from a very young age never to use it, as it’s a gross violation of consent. I was tired, and, and forgetful, but of course that is no excuse for my lapse of conscience.”

That might explain his inexplicable attraction to Tony, Steve thought with a small amount of relief. “How long do the effects last?”

At that, Tony frowned at him. “Last? It shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours at most.”

Then again, maybe not.

Tony looked as if he was going to follow down that line of questioning, so Steve spoke quickly. “Tony - why did you tell me?”

That seemed to give Tony pause, as for a moment he was met with silence and a shrewd gaze. “I fear there’s something sinister behind the recent increase in feral activity," he said at last. "Something big. Something I cannot face alone, as much as it pains me to admit.”

“Your modesty precedes you,” Steve said drily. “As well as your paranoia. Surely you aren’t blaming this— outbreak on some dark secret plot. You must have seen the papers blaming it on the recent increase in industry—”

Tony made a frustrated noise. “York is cleaner today than it has been in years. I myself made it a point to introduce clean air policies to my colleagues in the industrial field, as well as I spearheaded the modernization of the sewage and waste systems. You might have noticed how the river no longer smells of shit.”

That, Steve couldn’t deny. Still he crossed his arms, unconvinced. “I just don’t see—”

“Please, Steve,” Tony cut in, clasping his hands together in supplication. “I’ve revealed to you one of my greatest secrets as a gesture of faith in your word, and your honor. Will you in return do me the kindness of trusting me on this matter? All I ask is your support, and the team’s if they agree, in the event that I do uncover something in my investigation. If this turns out to merely be my own paranoia, you’ll need only to say you told me so and bask in that sense of righteousness that you do so enjoy.”

Steve was caught between indignance and fighting back a smile, but he managed to keep a straight face. “And what if I say no? You’ll pull funding for the Ultimates?”

Tony pulled back, looking outraged. “Absolutely not. I would never do such a thing,” he said, and this time Steve couldn’t suppress a smile; Tony really was funny when he was riled. “No, I’d just recruit much shadier figures than you and become an eccentric vigilante of the night.”

That, Steve should have expected. He put his face in his hands for a moment, pressing his fingertips against his closed eyes.

“Please,” Tony said again. Steve had to lift his gaze at the quiet hopefulness in Tony’s voice, and found himself enraptured by the gentle furrow of his brow and the soft pout of his lips.

“Stop that,” he ordered.

Tony made a face. “What are you on about?”

“I— you’re doing that thing—” He wasn’t, Steve realized after a moment, he wouldn't; this was just his own traitorous brain, and he wasn’t about to let Tony know that.

“Never mind,” he grunted. “Yes, alright, I’ll give you my support. I won’t speak for the team, though. You’ll have to tell them yourself.”

“Naturally, darling.” The wide smile that broke out across Tony’s face was nothing short of dazzling, fangs and all. Steve had to look away to keep himself from staring.

Lord, was he a mess.

“Don’t call me darling," he grunted.

: : :

Steve had to duck out of the way as a wooden sign nearly whacked him across the face, soundly startling him out of his thoughts. MONSTERS BURN IN HELL,  the sign proclaimed in large black letters.

“Oh! Sorry, sir,” said the man holding the sign. He was short and mousy, with a walrus mustache of epic proportions nearly engulfing the lower half of his face. “Hardly didn’t see you there.”

Steve waved a hand in response, stepping away as the man turned his back to him. He was on the edge a vast crowd gathered before the local church, nearly filling the entire square. There was a woman on the steps of the church, dressed in a heavy black robe, crying out the people with her hands raised to the heavens. Her words were indistinct over the noise of the crowd, but her violent gestures and shrill voice told Steve enough.

There were more signs dotting the crowd. CHILDREN OF THE DEVIL. SUPPORT REGISTRATION — PUT LEASHES ON MONSTERS. SILVER EYES AMONG US. PURGE PARLIAMENT.

WELCOME OUR NEW EDEN.

Unease twisted in Steve’s belly like a knife. He had to wrestle back the urge to seize one of the people on the edge of the crowd and demand just what the hell they thought they were doing. He—

They had a right to protest, this was a response out of fear, fear of people like brilliant Jan, like brave Farrah, like kind, gentle Tony—

(Fear of people like Steve?)

Steve forced himself to back away before he put his fist into someone’s face. He’d take the long way around.

He was in a black mood by the time he finally pushed open the door of the herbalist’s shop with the tinkle of a bell. Rosemary and thyme and bay assaulted his senses, cloying instead of comforting like they normally were. The door slammed shut behind him, rattling the hundreds of glass and clay jars that lined the walls.

“Steven Rogers! What do you think you’re doing, causing such a racket?” Steve winced, turning towards the counter. Behind it stood a small old woman with her wispy gray hair tied back in a loose bun, her hands on her hips as she scowled at him.

“Sorry, Mis’ess Reilly,” he said grudgingly. “I’ve come for my poultice, and maybe some tea.” Some sort of misery must have shown in his expression, because her stern expression softened slightly.

“I’ve just put the kettle on,” she said, lifting the hinged countertop. “Come on, then.” Steve didn’t argue, his shoulders slumping wearily as he wedged his way past the counter and into the back rooms that were Mrs Reilly’s rooms. He always felt like a clumsy giant when he came here, the tightness of the space making him hyper-aware of the delicate bottles and vials arranged neatly on every shelf.

He’d found himself a patron of the witch May Reilly’s herbarium shortly after he’d been thawed in search of relief for the nightmares he’d been having night after night, of burning, consuming ice closing around him and freezing him from the inside out. She’d fussed and clucked over him like the grandmother he never knew and then proceeded to sell him enough herbal tea for him to open up his own shop.

He didn’t know if the herbs actually helped on a physiological level - doubtful, considering the serum - but his nightmares were now few and far between, and he’d grown quite fond of tea in the process.

Mrs Reilly urged him into a tiny chair around the rickety kitchen table, bustling about the room as she laid out a careworn set of china and a tin of square biscuits.

“Peter’s still at school?” Steve asked, looking around for the mousy brown-haired boy who liked to stare at Steve with wide eyes when he thought Steve wouldn’t notice. “It’s late.”

“He’s out to play with his little friend, Miles,” Mrs Reilly said absently as she poured the tea. “Up to no good, I’m sure.”

Steve took a biscuit, then hesitated.

“You don’t worry about him?” he blurted.

Mrs Reilly gave him a sharp look. “Peter’s a smart boy, no matter how I might complain.” She regarded him for a moment. “What’s this about, Steven? Something is bothering you terribly.”

Steve lowered his gaze his steaming cup of tea, turning it slowly. In a low voice, he told her about the demonstration before the church, voice flat. “—and just a couple of weeks ago, I saved a girl from being stabbed, by her own schoolmates! That’s how I got this.” He plucked at the linen bandage on his palm. The cut would have normally faded completely by now, and yet it was barely starting to seal together. “And Peter is part arachnae, he would be a target.”

Mrs Reilly just looked at him for a moment. “I understand you're upset, but what you say is not news to me, Steven,” she said softly, sipping at her tea. “This recent outbreak of ferals has merely reignited an old fire.” Her gaze lowered to the table. “Humans have hated monsters since the beginning of time.”

Steve frowned. “Prejudice, yes, but I— I would have noticed, violence of this level—”

“Is relatively tame in comparison to what monsters faced before the formation of the Federation. We were burned at stake, then, for doing little more than existing.”

Steve had nothing to say to that. He remembered the running past the pyres in the squares of York when he was young, but he’d always been told not to look, so he hadn’t. The stench of burning flesh was difficult to forget, though.

“You and I are lucky, Steven,” Mrs Reilly sighed into her teacup. “We appear human enough that we aren’t immediate targets of violence. Many monsters are not so lucky. Some resent us for it.”

“Hold on,” Steve interrupted, “I’m no monster—”

“Ah, but you’ve the blood of many running through your veins. That slice of on your palm is proof enough of that.” She looked into his eyes, and he forced himself not to tear his gaze away. “You’re kin to monsters, Steven, as much as you might wish otherwise.”

Steve’s fists were clenched so tightly the knuckles were white. He forced himself to uncurl his fingers slowly, finally dropping Mrs Reilly’s gaze. As he did so, he grimaced, realizing he’d reopened the cut on his hand, blood dotting the fabric of the bandage.

Mrs Reilly clucked her tongue, her solemnity vanishing quite suddenly as she stood. “I knew you should’ve let me sew up that awful thing. Come on, let’s mix your poultice, don’t doddle now.”

: : :

“Tony?” Steve said as he reached the top of the metal stairs.

Tony turned his head toward them, the stressed lines of his face smoothing out temporarily as he smiled. He was leaning against the railing of the balcony that overlooked Stark Enterprises’ factory-floor-cum-holding-facility. Dozens and dozens of brightly-lit cells were arranged in tidy rows all up and down this wing.

“Steve,” Tony said, the softness of his voice soothing Steve’s frayed nerves. “How was it?”

The Ultimates had just brought in their fifth feral that week, a nymph constable who had burst out of her office in the middle of the day and started shrieking gibberish at passersby. She hadn’t attacked anyone; no, she had been too preoccupied with attempting to gnaw off her own arm.

Nymphs had sharp teeth; it hadn’t been pretty.

“About as well as can be expected,” Steve said grimly. “Sedated, but she’s likely to lose that arm.”

Tony sighed heavily, gaze turning back to the factory floor. “Even you have to admit that five ferals in as many days, for one team, is not natural, Steve,” he said, drumming his fingers on the railing.

“You may have a point,” Steve admitted as he approached Tony and turned to stand beside him. He could see Tony direct an incredulous gaze at him out of the corner of his eye.

“What?” he said, annoyed and a bit pleased at the silly smile that was spreading across Tony’s lips.

“Oh, nothing. Just filing away a personal achievement for a later date.”

Steve’s witty rejoinder was lost as he spotted a covered cart being wheeled out of the facility by two workers in uniform. The black drape left no doubt about its contents.

Tony followed his gaze and his expression immediately sobered.

“They’re dying quicker and quicker, now,” he murmured. “The new ones faster than the older. My research team believes the disease is— mutating, somehow.” He dragged one hand over his mouth and bearded chin. “Even so, the facility is starting to max out. We currently have sixteen cells left. And to think I thought I was being excessive when I commissioned eighty.” He let out a humorless little laugh.

On impulse, Steve reached out a hand and laid it on Tony’s shoulder, trying to offering some sort of comfort. Tony peered over at him, eyes glinting almost silver in the harsh light.

“Would you like to have lunch with me tomorrow, Steve?” he asked finally. “You’ve been running yourself ragged, you know.”

Steve could point out that the rest of the team had been doing just the same, and some of them were baseline human. But some small, greedy part of himself wanted what he thought Tony might be offering.

“Sure.” He nodded.

“Wonderful. My treat. Half past twelve.” Tony returned his gaze to the factory floor once more, this time with a small, private smile dancing on his lips.

: : :

Steve stared at the vast bounty of food in front of him, somewhat intimidated. He could put away food like no one else he knew, but this. This was platter upon platter piled high with various spiced meats, sliced cheeses and fruits, roasted vegetables, as well as numerous baskets of bread.

“I think you may have overestimated the size of my stomach,” he said as he cautiously nudged what he thought might be a lamb cutlet with his fork. “Do you plan on helping me with any of this?”

Tony craned his neck over a mountain of grapes to frown at him. “I haven’t eaten in over two hundred years, so forgive me if I don’t feel inclined to start now.” His end of the table was lined with not-wine bottles, which he spent an inordinate deal of time perusing before finally selecting one and opening it with the pop of a cork.

They were in the dining room in Tony’s private quarters in the mansion, rather than the massive one downstairs next to the ballroom, which Steve was privately grateful for. Tony’s quarters were just slightly more spartan than the rest of the mansion, which was saying something considering the walls were embellished with swirling designs done in gold leaf.

The rooms were smaller, in the very least.

“Just eat what you can, and I’ll have the rest distributed among the staff,” Tony continued as he poured himself a glass. Now that Steve knew what was actually in those bottles, it really did not look like wine, and he wasn’t quite sure how he’d fooled himself into ever thinking it was.

“Where do you get that stuff?” he asked as he started to cut into a piece of unidentifiable seasoned meat.

“The blood?” Tony said, smacking his red, red lips together. “Blood vendors, of course!” His teeth were stained pink as he smiled. “Everyone else has to pay for their food, it’s only fair that we do the same.”

“Vendors? How does that work?”

“Well.” Tony tapped his glass thoughtfully. “There are vendors who pay people by the pint for their blood, then bottle it and sell it to monsters who need it. It’s important to be certain that the business you buy from is legitimate, naturally, and not some shadowy crook bleeding people against their will.” Tony grimaced.

“Nothing is quite as satisfying as blood from the source, though, which is why you find me, ah, nursing so much.” He said this as he took a large gulp from his glass. “You can find people who sell their blood on that more personal level, but, well. They tend to get attached when that happens, if you know what I mean.”

Steve didn’t, but he nodded anyway. “There’s a risk they could die.”

Tony snorted, making a vague gesture with his free hand. “Hardly. Unless I were daft enough to target a major artery, but even then I find the stomach’s capacity far below what is necessary to bleed a human out.”

Steve’s expression hardened. “Forgive my caution, Tony, but as we’ve talked about before, I’ve seen firsthand what vampires are can do when they’re hungry, whether they mean to or not.”

“And there are humans who have murdered each other over scraps of bread,” Tony said, eyes narrowing.

“That isn’t the same,” Steve said, jaw setting stubbornly. “You have to understand that humans have good reason to be afraid of you—”

“I do!” Tony snapped. “We all do. Why on earth do you think we’ve kept ourselves a secret all these years?”

Steve crossed his arms. “For your reputation?”

Tony’s expression went blank, and almost immediately Steve cursed his penchant for shoving his foot between his jaws. This was supposed to be a friendly lunch.

“Look,” he said, before Tony could open his mouth. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m— sorry.”

He scowled as Tony’s eyebrows rose almost to his hairline. “Pardon me? Do you think you might repeat that?”

“Enough, Tony,” Steve said, knife scraping harshly across his plate as he cut another piece of meat.

Tony examined him for a few long moments, fingering the stem of his glass. “Tell me of a time before the war,” he said suddenly. “Like you did all those years ago. I used to adore those stories, with you and Bucky and Gail and all your little adventures. I’d repeat them in my head over and over again when I was a child, waiting for you to come back.”

Steve hesitated, caught off guard for a moment. He hadn’t spoken much of his life before the ice since— well, before the ice. “Well. I told you of the time me and Bucky pushed the fish vendor’s stall into the river when we were children.”

“You did.” A tight smile tugs at Tony’s lips. “Tell it to me again.”

Steve did, haltingly at first, but encouraged by the fact that the line of tension at Tony’s brow became softer and softer with each sentence. He leaned in until Steve could see the fine tracery around his eyes that would someday become wrinkles, if centuries down the road.

“—and in the end, the constable let us off with a warning, because it turned he knew the hawker was a crook all along,” he finished, and Tony laughed, clear and bright. For a moment Steve had to catch his breath.

“I think you may have omitted the fact that he was run out of town for screwing the pastor’s daughter when you last told me this story,” Tony said, voice warm and amused.

“Of course I did, you were only a boy,” Steve said indignantly around a mouthful of bread. Which brought him to another question he had meant to ask, actually. “Speaking of— how old were you when you, when you were, ah, turned?” 

“Thirty-six.” Tony laughed at the look of surprise on Steve’s face. “I’m flattered, Captain, but I— I was actually unsure if I wished to be turned for the longest time. That's why Gregory looks younger than me, despite our being twins. Not everyone wants to live forever, you know, and that's only one of the side effects.”

“They gave you a choice?”

“Of course they did.” Tony squinted at him. “We’re a House, not a cult. And despite all the the drawbacks, I can’t say I regret it.”

He raised a glass in Steve’s direction. “After all, it’s not every man who gets to meet his hero twice.”

: : :

Steve rounded the corner and nearly bowled headfirst into one of Tony’s youthful couriers (“One of the most coveted after-school jobs in the entirety of York,” Tony had informed him gleefully).

“I’m so—" He stopped when he saw who was accompanying the courier. “Farrah?” Her green eyes were glistening with tears, he noticed with no small amount of alarm.

“She said she knew you, sir,” the courier said breathlessly, his voice cracking a bit in the middle. “Wouldn’t say what for, just that it were urgent—”

Farrah chose that moment to burst into tears, and Steve took the opportunity to shoo the courier into another room while she shook apart in his arms. He patted her back in what he imagined was a comforting fashion.

“What happened?” he asked when her sobs had at last faded into wet hiccups.

“It’s my brother.” Her voice shook. “They killed him.”

A chill passed through Steve. “What?” he breathed.

“He went feral in the courtyard after school yesterday, they said, and they killed him!” Her voice rose in pitch, breath coming faster and faster. “But they’re lying, they’re lying, I know they’re lying!”

“Farrah.” Steve pulled away, kneeling so that their faces were level. He put his hands on her shoulders. “Explain.”

She took a deep, shuddering breath and nodded. “He— They.” She stopped, took another breath. “They said he went feral.”

“Who did?” Steve prompted, doing his best to be patient.

“The boys who killed him, and some of the staff. He’s in his last year, my big brother, and two boys in his class had silver knives on them, even though it’s illegal, and— and—” She clutched at his arms, her little claws digging into his flesh.

“They said he went feral,” she continued, voice just over a whisper. “But I know they’re lying, because you don’t go feral overnight. It takes years and years and years, and he was just fine the night before, alright, he was just fine—” She was starting to cry again, and she threw herself against Steve, burying her furry face against his neck. He hugged her awkwardly, bewildered and upset himself.

“Boy!” he called as he patted a hand between her shoulder blades. The courier peeked through the doorway, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Sir?”

“Go fetch T— Lord Stark. Tell him it’s important.” The boy looked relieved to be gone, scrambling out the door.

“Lord Stark?” Farrah rasped, pulling away to blink at him suspiciously.

“He knows more about ferals than I do. And besides, he can help you get the body back.” Probably. Steve didn’t actually know if Tony had the sway to do that type of thing; ferals’ bodies were usually considered unsafe and promptly burned by the city government. “Did the constables take him?”

Farrah nodded.

“Then they’ll be holding him in the morgue to be cremated,” Steve said. “Lord Stark has a, uh, he’s doing research on ferals, so he can probably petition to have the body released to him if the family agrees—”

“I don’t want my brother experimented on!” Farrah interrupted, her eyes flashing.

“He won’t be!” Steve said hastily. “Just as a pretense, understand.”

Farrah was still frowning, but she nodded slowly. Then her gaze flickered over Steve’s shoulder. Steve straightened and turned as Tony entered the corridor, the courier hot on his heels.

“That will be all, Glen, thank you,” Tony dismissed him with a wave of his hand. Then he turned his attention on Steve and Farrah, expression grim. “I heard something about a brother and ferals. He was too excited to slow down.”

“My brother, Lord Stark,” Farrah said, voice slightly hoarse. Then she sniffed the air and stared at Tony with wide eyes. “You— you’re a—”

“Later,” Tony interrupted said hastily, slashing a hand over his throat, before his expression  softened. “I’ll explain later. For now, tell me what happened.”

She did, haltingly, and by the time she finished Tony looked very weary indeed. He dragged a hand over his face.

“I thought you might know what to do better than I,” Steve said, feeling a bit guilty. “You know, with your investigation and all.”

Tony inclined his head. “I appreciate it, Steve,” he said. “And you say he was explaining no ill symptoms the night before?” he added quietly to Farrah. She nodded vigorously, then hesitated.

“I mean, he had a headache. But that’s nothing, right? It takes ages to go feral. So they’re lying.”

Tony paused, glancing away. “As of late, that remains to be seen,” he said softly. Farrah’s shoulders tensed, her eyes narrowing in what might be defiance. Tony cut her off at the pass. “You didn’t tell me your name.”

“Farrah Duval, my Lord,” she said tightly, hugging her arms to her body.

Tony gave her a weak smile. “Please, call me Tony.” Her head snapped up, eyes wide. “Farrah. I want to help you find out why this happened to your brother, but I will need your cooperation.”

“What kind of cooperation?” she asked cautiously.

“Well, first I’d like to speak with your parents,” he said after a pause. Obviously he’d been expecting more of a challenge. “I can have his body retrieved, but I’ll need their permission.” Then, almost sheepishly, he added, “I would also like to investigate his belongings.”

Her eyes narrowed; for someone as young as she was, Farrah was very shrewd. “You think this was done to him.” Tony inclined his head.

“But— how can that be possible—” She stopped. After several long moments, her voice was strangely toneless as she said, “Alright. I’ll lead you there. I don’t know if Papa will be home, but Mama should be.”

Tony nodded, offering her a small smile. Then, after a moment’s hesitation, his movements slow in case Farrah wouldn’t have it, he reached out and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. Steve saw her tremble and lean into the touch.

Tony paid for a cab once Farrah told him how away her house was. The ride over was grim and silent save for the rattling of the carriage and the clacking of the wheels against the paving stones. Steve gazed out the window and watched as the tree-lined cobbled streets gave way to the dirt and gravel of the industrial area.

When they stepped out and were confronted with a row of little wooden shacks squeezed between two massive dock warehouses, Steve was saddened but not surprised. He had lived near here himself when he was poor beyond poor, over two hundred years ago.

“Mama! Papa! We have visitors!” Farrah called as the front door swung open with a squeal. Steve and Tony followed her down the front hallway into a cramped kitchen. A kettle was whistling on the tiny blackened stove, which Farrah quickly hurried over to switch off.

“Farrah?” a low, rumbling voice called from further in the house.

It took all of Steve’s military training not to display his surprise as a large, fully-shifted lycanthrope padded into the room. Only— that wasn’t quite right. No lycanthrope he’d seen before had stood on hind legs, or had articulated front paws. She was also wearing a simple blue frock that was clearly a bit strained around the mass of her body, and Steve’s sharp eyes caught the glint of a delicate golden necklace around her throat, buried in her fur.

She stopped dead in the doorway, eying them warily with her ears swiveled forward.

“Mama,” Farrah said. “This is Lord Stark, and,” her breath caught excitedly. “Captain Rogers.”

“Oh, Farrah,” her mother said. She clutched at the door frame with one hand - paw? - clearly in a state of shock. “I— please forgive my manner,” she said hurriedly, bowing deeply. Her speech was a bit broken and heavy with an accent Steve couldn’t place.

“There’s no need, Mis’ess Duval,” Tony hastened to say.

“Let me make you tea,” Mrs Duval said, clearly discomfited. “Please sit.” They did as she asked, taking a seat around the battered wooden table as she puttered around the kitchen, hind claws clicking against the wood with every step. Steve’s chair creaked worryingly beneath his weight as he settled down.

Glancing over at Tony, he looked comically out of place, navy blue finery and all. He also had the expression of someone attending a funeral, which Steve supposed was appropriate. It was never easy to tell the families of ferals what had happened; even though the Ultimates operated on live capture only, going feral was basically a death sentence anyway.

Mrs Duval served them all and then finally took a seat beside Farrah. She dwarfed her daughter and had to hunch over the table as she lapped at her tea. This close, Steve could see that her eyes were bloodshot, her movements slow and stiff with grief.

Tony opened his mouth to speak, but Mrs Duval chose that moment to set down her cup, nostrils flaring as she stared directly at Tony.

“You are a vampire,” she murmured. Tony grimaced. “So that is the secret of the House of Stark.”

“A necessary secret,” Tony said.

Mrs Duval nodded. “Of course. I tell no one.” It was difficult to read her expression. “It must be nice. To be able to hide what you are.” There was no venom in her words, but Tony winced anyway.

“That’s not why we’re here,” Steve interrupted, ignoring the surprised look Tony shot him.

“No,” Mrs Duval said, her eyes closing briefly in grief. “We will talk of my son, yes? My Oliver.”

“I’m going to try and requisition his body from the city morgue,” Tony said, cutting to the chase. Mrs Duval jerked her head up, gaze sharp. “It’s up to you what should be done with him after that.”

Mrs Duval regarded him with narrow eyes. “Why do you do this, Stark?” she said, voice suddenly hard. “You do not care about monsters like us in the past. Why now?”

“Mama!” Farrah said. Steve forced his fists to unclench beneath the table.

Tony had his gaze firmly fixed on the table. “Because it’s the right thing to do, Mis’ess Duval,” he said finally, turning his teacup in his hands. “And I must confess, I’m terribly tired of sitting back and doing nothing while the city falls to pieces around our ears.”

Mrs Duval seemed— not satisfied with that, but she didn’t press further. She tilted her great head to one side. “What my son has to do with this?”

“Because,” Tony said tiredly, “if he did indeed go feral in such a short time, and his murder was not unprovoked, it means that this is something being done to— us. Something unnatural and disastrous indeed.”

“You think we’re being poisoned,” Farrah said slowly, her expression quickly growing thunderous. 

Tony raised his head at last, and this time his eyes were hard as steel. “As such, yes. Only, I’m still not exactly sure how. Evidence indicates that feralism is caused by physical deterioration of the brain, but we don’t know what causes that deterioration, and we haven’t got hard proof yet because the research division is fairly new and they’ve never been given sanction to do an autopsy.” His mouth twisted. “It used to be that the ferals didn’t drop dead every week. We’ve had some in our holding facility that have been there for years, ever since the team started five years ago.

“And it’s the new ones that have been dying out, weeks, days after the Ultimates have brought them in, when the natural progression of the disease can sometimes take decades. Which can likely only mean that this recent affliction is not natural, and its progression—”

He stopped suddenly, face going eerily blank. Steve reached out to him unbidden, gripping his arm. “Tony?” he said, trying not to let his anxiety color his voice. He could feel the Duval’s stares across the table.

Tony shook himself, blinking rapidly. “I’m— I apologize,” he said. “Headache. Lot on my mind, you know.” He let out a nervous little laugh that sounded anything but genuine. “Where was I?”

Steve rather wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him. Instead he gritted his teeth. “Something about the disease’s progression.”

“Right. Right! It’s, um.” Tony coughed, maybe feeling Steve’s gaze boring a hole in the side of his head. “It’s accelerating at an unprecedented rate. Biology isn’t my area, but according to the head of the research team, very little in the organic mutates so fast unless it’s being tampered with.”

He folded his hands on the table with a sort of finality. “Basically, someone has managed to harness whatever it is that catalyzes the destruction of the brain and increase its efficiency one thousand fold, with catastrophic consequences.” He tipped his head to Mrs Duval, voice soft. “Your son.”

Steve watched her claws leave scores in the table as she clenched her hands, ears flattening back, in sorrow or anger he couldn’t tell which. “But why would anyone do this? Go to so much effort just to kill monsters?” Steve said.

“Because they hate us,” Farrah answered dully. “They want us gone completely, not just some of us killed.” She sniffled loudly, her eyes narrowed in angry slits. “Mama can’t even go outside anymore without someone calling her names or throwing rocks. At least I can wear a hood.” Mrs Duval wrapped a comforting arm around Farrah’s shoulders, pulling her against her side.

“Public opinion of monsters was at an all-time high just a year ago,” Tony murmured. “When the Registration bill was first drafted, everyone thought it would die straight away. And now look where it is - voted to be passed into law in less than a year’s time.”

Steve recalled the protesters in front of the chair with uneasy clarity. “You think this is all part of some plot to get Registration passed?”

“If so, it’s coming along brilliantly.” Tony huffed out a shaky, humorless laugh. “It would explain why whoever’s behind this has worked so hard to hasten the disease. They’re on a time limit.”

They lapsed into a grim silence. Steve stared down at his now-cold tea, anxiety tightening at his chest. What could he do against this? This wasn’t something that could be solved by combat; they couldn’t even name an enemy.

“Stark,” Mrs Duval said suddenly, her voice making Steve jump. “Your team who does the research. They will make a cure?”

“That’s the goal,” Tony answered cautiously. “I mean, they’re trying to, having a hard time of it without any tissue samples—”

“I want you to have his body. Oliver.” Mrs Duval’s expression, as far as Steve could read it, was one of grim determination. Tony slumped back in his chair, jaw going slack with shock.

“Mama?” Farrah said, her head whipping around. Her eyes glimmered dangerously. “You can’t—”

“Farrah. Remind me what is your brother’s favorite subject in school?” Mrs Duval interrupted.

“Anatomy,” Farrah said slowly.

“He wanted to be a doctor. To help people.” Mrs Duval heaved a shuddering breath, wetness glistening on the fur around her eyes. “We will give him his chance still, love. He can find a cure. He can help give us peace.” Farrah squeezed her eyes shut, then buried her face against her mother’s side.

“Mis’ess Duval,” Tony said, voice hushed. Steve’s heart clenched at the expression on his face, shock and hope and utmost reverence. “This is most— are you sure?” When she nodded, Tony put his hands over his mouth, eyes shimmering.

“Thank you,” Tony said when he was a bit more composed. “I will pay for a funeral when the autopsy is through, with whatever arrangements you would like.” Mrs Duval inclined her head, then glanced down at Farrah, who was still shaking quietly against her side.

“Do you need something else?” she asked.

“No,” Tony said, at the same time Steve said, “Yes, actually.”

At Tony’s questioning glance, Steve went on to say, “If we have your permission, I’d like to investigate Oliver’s room. If this was something that was done to him, there might be something that, uh. Indicates who did it.” It sounded a little stupid when he said it like that - did he just expect the poisoner to leave a note with their name and address? - but Tony was considering him thoughtfully.

“I can show you our room,” Farrah said, wiping her eyes as she straightened up.

Mrs Duval watched them steadily as they followed Farrah back into the hallway and towards the back end of the house. Like the rest of the rooms Steve had seen, this one was small and cramped, with two small beds nestled against opposite walls. “They let me take his bag,” Farrah said quietly, grabbing a patched canvas bag from one of the beds and handing it to Steve. Steve did his best to ignore the blood stains as he opened it and carefully tipped its contents onto the bed.

“I’m going to go back to Mama,” Farrah said after a moment of watching Steve shuffled through the schoolbooks and sheafs of paper. Steve watched her go, chest aching.

“Smart boy, that’s for certain,” Tony said after several minutes of silence. He had started to search the rest of the room while Steve was occupied with the bag and was now studying an anatomical diagram pinned above Oliver’s bed.

“There’s nothing,” Steve said, trying not to let disappointment color his voice as he slipped the books back into the bag. “I’m sorry, this was a stupid idea—”

“No, no!” Tony interrupted, crossing over to him quickly and laying a hand on his arm. “It was good thinking on your part. Finding a cure will only be half the battle if we can’t find the source.” He gave Steve an encouraging smile that made Steve's heart flutter, which Steve tentatively returned even if he felt a bit like he was being coddled.

“We might be looking in the wrong place, though,” Tony continued, brow furrowed. He worried at his lower lip with his fingers. “It’s possible that the disease was catalyzed even more rapidly than I originally suspected.”

“He might have been poisoned on the way to school,” Steve finished for him.

Tony nodded absently, expression sobering. “If he was poisoned at all,” he said softly. “It could have just been a senseless act of violence, and this will have been for naught.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve ordered, and Tony shot him a weak smile.

“Since when are you the optimist, darling? And I-know-don’t-call-me-darling,” he sing-songed, and Steve cracked an answering smile despite himself.

“We could trace his steps,” he said, “since it happened so recently. Someone with a good sense of smell, Farrah, or her mother—”

Tony shook his head. “I don’t want them to have to suffer this grisly business more than they have to. No, I think I know someone who’s better suited, and his is a trained nose.”

“How soon can you get ahold of him?”

“Tonight, easily. I’ll meet you by the little pub down the street from here at say - six?” Steve nodded. Tony shot him a smirk. “This is someone you’re either going to love or absolutely loathe, hard to tell which," he said, amusement clear in his voice. "Either way, he’ll tell us what we need to know.”

: : :

Steve stopped abruptly as he spotted Tony leaning against the wall of the pub. He’d changed clothes in the hours between meeting the Duvals and now, forgoing his expensive suit for a simple black coat over a white shirt and grease-stained trousers. It was a lot less conspicuous in this poorer quarter of the city, and it wasn’t why Steve had stopped.

“James,” Steve said flatly. “You’re a lot less dead than I thought.”

“And you’re not in a block of ice at the bottom of the Sea,” James returned, taking a long pull at the tankard of ale he was holding. “So I guess we’re both defying expectations. Also, I go by Logan now.”

“Wait,” Tony said, looking perplexed. “Hold on. You two know each other?”

“We fought in the War together,” Steve said. “He was also human, or so I thought.”

“I was just as surprised as you, bub,” Logan grunted. “Probably. I don’t remember a whole lot. Amnesia’s a fickle bitch.”

“Well. Right.” Tony looked visibly off-balance. “Well. In any case, Logan here is our hunting hound.” He lowered his voice, eyes darting around. “He’s also one of the few privy to the, ah, nature of the House of Stark, so no need to be circumspect about that.” He pulled a face. “As it turns out, it’s very difficult to keep it hidden from someone with a good sense of smell.”

“Vamps stink,” Logan said. “Like old blood, all the goddamn time.”

“This is why none of my family ever goes outside,” Tony told Steve, in tones that said he was only half-joking. “Too many monsters like him and the Duvals, you see.”

Logan tipped his head back to drain his tankard, then set it down on the nearest outdoor table with a solid thunk. “Enough yapping,” he said gruffly. “Stark told me what happened. Sooner we find out who did this to that kid, sooner I can put my fist through their face.”

Neither Steve or Tony could disagree with that. Tony led them down the street towards the Duval’s house. “Now, I told Mrs Duval what we would be doing, and no one’s home at the moment, but there should be—” Tony knelt down to reach underneath the rickety wooden steps that led up to the front door, then held up a folded sweater for Logan to take.

“Oliver’s,” he said needlessly as Logan nosed at it. He handed it back almost immediately.

“Got it,” he said. Then he knelt down, inhaling deeply. “Went to school yesterday morning, yeah?”

“Yes. His mother says he always went down the main street,” Tony said as they began following along behind Logan, gravel crunching beneath their feet. “Too dangerous to go off by yourself around these parts, especially for monsters lately.”

“He might’ve been stretching the truth a bit,” Logan said after five minutes or so of silent walking. He stopped at the entrance to a side passage that wound its way between the grimy brick buildings. “School’s directly that way,” he pointed down the passage. “Convenient shortcut if you don’t want to walk all the way ‘round the way the main road goes.”

“Did someone follow him?” Steve asked as they turned down the passage. They had to walk in file, the passage so narrow that Steve’s shoulders nearly brushed either side.

After a moment, Logan nodded curtly. “Stinks, too,” he growled. “Like rich people, and that shit they burn in the Parliament building.”

“The frankincense?” Tony frowned. “Then whoever it was either works in Parliament or in a production facility. It’s illegal to burn it anywhere else.”

“That narrows it down considerably,” Steve said, squinting his eyes. “If it’s not just a coincidence.”

Logan led them further down the passage, around the corner, until they came to a corridor that was blind to either main street. “It’s not,” he said. “Kid’s scent goes on, the other one stops here.” He toed a line in the gravel. “And there’s something else.” He inhaled deeply, nose wrinkling.

Something glinted in the corner of Steve’s eye. He turned and stooped down, reaching out for what looked like a curved piece of glass.

“Don’t!” Logan barked, and Steve froze, fingers hovering just above the glass. “Don’t touch it. Smells bad. Sick bad. It smells like—” He stopped suddenly, shooting a speculative glance at Tony that Steve didn’t quite understand. Before he could open his mouth to ask, though, Tony moved forward.

“Here.” Tony’s face was ashen as he held out his handkerchief, which Steve accepted gratefully. He used it to pinch up the glass gingerly, then covered his palm and let it rest there.

“It looks like...part of a perfume bottle?” Steve murmured, holding it up for the others to see. Tony looked ill; Logan looked murderous.

“Vapor dispersal,” Tony said, voice tight.

Steve straightened up. “Is there— could it still be in the air? Here?” He tried not to let his nerves shake his voice, and only half-succeeded.

“I don’t think so,” Tony said, but he didn’t sound convinced. All three men looked around themselves uneasily.

“Let’s leave,” Tony blurted, which Steve was immensely grateful for.

Once they were safely out of the passage, Tony turned to Steve. “Give that here, Steve. I’ll give it to the research team.” Steve wrapped the glass shard up in the handkerchief several times over before placing it in Tony’s outstretched palm, who in turn slipped it gingerly into his coat pocket.

“I’m gonna snoop around Parliament later, see if I can’t find this asshole,” Logan said in a tone that promised excessive violence if he did.

“Right,” Steve said, once again feeling spectacularly useless. Tony perhaps sensed this, because he reached out to grip Steve’s arm.

“Meet me at Enterprises in two day’s time. The autopsy’s at three.” He then offered Steve a soft smile which bizarrely had Steve flushing, before he pulled away and began to walk down the road toward the cab depot. Steve watched him go for a moment or two before he turned around to find Logan giving him an odd look.

“What?” Steve growled, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Nothing, bub,” Logan grunted back. He took a cigar out of his pocket and tore off the end with his teeth. “Nothing at all.”

: : :

“Allow me to introduce Doctor Henry McCoy,” Tony was saying. Steve found himself shaking hands with a man wearing a labcoat who had navy blue fur covering his entire body. At this point, he wasn’t really surprised anymore. “He’s the head of Stark Enterprises’ feral research division. Doctor McCoy, this is—”

“Captain Rogers,” Dr McCoy said with a grin that revealed a sharp canines. “It’s a honor. I did one of my doctorate dissertations on that serum of yours.”

Steve didn’t even know how to begin to respond to that - the fact that the cocktail of monster blood in his veins was apparently common knowledge made him uncomfortable enough without meeting someone who knew far more about it than Steve himself did. “It’s an honor as well, Doctor,” he said instead. “You’re doing great things here.”

“Hopefully even better things now that we’ve finally sanction to do an autopsy.” He inclined his head, eyes twinkling. Then he glanced around and leaned in conspiratorially. “That little contaminated bottle shard Lord Stark gave to me the other day has proven interesting as well. I’m keeping it to myself to lessen the chance of it getting out that we’ve caught onto this horrid little plot, but having a pure sample will make synthesizing a cure all the easier.”

He leaned back, smiling once more. “Now if you’ll excuse me, Captain, I need to go oversee the preparation of the operating theater.”

Steve watched him walk off before the meaning of his words fully sunk in. He rounded on Tony. “Wait a moment. What did he mean by theater? The autopsy is going to be be done for an audience?”

Tony looked vaguely sheepish, which made anger flare in Steve’s chest. “Look, I understand what you might think, but this is a wildly important event. If all goes well, it will aid the acceptance of feralism as a disease among the scientific community, and help to combat the religious terror that’s been spreading about the city—”

“Mis’ess Duval didn’t agree to have her son put up on display for as some sort of special attraction!” Steve snapped, jabbing a finger at Tony’s chest. Hurt flashed across Tony’s face, clear as day. Good, Steve thought viciously, he ought to feel hurt.

“Steve, darling, please try to understand—”

“Don’t call me darling,” Steve snarled. Tony paled, taking a step back. “I understand just fine, Stark, and I’m having no part of it!”

He had to get out of here before he lost his temper further, he realized, quickly turning on his heel and storming out into the corridor. His fists clenched and unclenched at his sides as he stalked blindly throughout the hallways of the research wing, staff jumping out of his path left and right like frightened animals.

His anger began to ebb as he reached the wing of Stark Enterprises that had been built especially for the Ultimates, until it was something cold and pitiful in his stomach. Tony was wrong to have done this, certainly, but he’d look so hurt, and he’d only had the best of intentions—

“The road to hell,” Steve muttered under his breath, before making his way into the gymnasium. He didn’t even have anyone to spar with because the rest of the team was either elsewhere or attending the autopsy; he’d have to settle for killing a few heavy bags.

He was sitting on a sofa in the common room a few hours later, feeling vaguely guilty with his boots propped up on a footstool and his hands worrying at his shield, when Jan staggered in through the doorway, looking as if she was about to be sick. Then she rushed over to a bin and was sick, quite violently. Steve leaped to his feet and hurried over to her, rubbing her back between her wings.

“Jan,” he started, “what’s the—”

“They cut his head open,” she choked out, “and there was nothing. Half his brain had been eaten away as if by acid, and his skull was full of liquid rot— I could smell it from the top bench—” She heaved into the bin again, trembling hard, and Steve felt a bit like he was going to be sick.

One by one the rest of the team shuffled into the common room, all in various states of shock. Clint looked as if he’d gotten sick on the walk over, while Rhodey had one hand over his mouth and Thor was as grim as Steve had ever seen him.

“Where’s Tony?” Steve asked before he could stop himself.

Rhodey narrowed his eyes at him. “For some reason, he thought it best he not come,” he said, voice flat. Steve looked away, refusing to let himself be guilty.

“I thought Stark was crazy when he came to me going on about brain diseases and secret plots,” Clint said hoarsely, rubbing at his throat. “This is fucked.”

He glanced around at all of them, a fine sweat on his brow. “We’re gonna stop this from happening anymore, alright?" he rasped. "We have to stop this.”

: : :

Steve ended up walking Jan home, since his apartment was in vaguely the same direction, and she was still trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he said a bit uselessly, and for possibly the fiftieth time in the last half hour. She shook her head.

“I usually have a stronger stomach than this,” she said with a watery smile. “I can still hardly believe it. So much destruction to the brain tissue in so little time; if he hadn’t been killed first, he would have died of that instead.”

Steve wrapped a careful arm around her shoulders as they walked, and Jan pressed close against his side, letting out a shaky breath. A couple of months ago, he would have been nervous and breathless to have Jan so near to him. Now, though, she was just a warm comforting point of contact. He thought he knew what might have changed, but— he didn’t really feel like confronting it then.

He was still angry at Tony, but reflecting on it now, he might have overreacted a bit. It had been wrong to perform an autopsy on the boy for an audience without the Duval’s permission, Steve still firmly believed that, but Tony’s heart had been in the right place. (It always seemed to be.)

“How’s Hank?” he asked, the winced; as far as conversation topics went, that was a minefield.

Jan only shrugged, though, her voice tired as she answered. “Still behind bars.” Then, after a short pause— “I’m divorcing him.”

Steve nearly tripped over his own feet. “Divorce? that’s— good, right?”

“Oh, yes, I can only hope,” she said, contemplating the cobblestones. “He isn’t taking anything from me, and I don’t want anything of his. It’s going smoothly so far.”

“Jan, that’s great, I’m really happy for you.” He really was, too; as far as Steve was concerned, Hank ought to rot in jail for the rest of his miserable life while Jan remained happy and free.

He glanced at her and found her watching him expectantly, almost cautiously.

Steve thought of brilliant blue eyes and curved, teasing lips.

“Will you concentrate on your business?” he said instead of asking her to dinner.

Relief spread across her features, clear as day, and Steve tried not to feel insulted. Jan had been through a lot lately, and Steve knew he would likely only make matters worse.

“Yes, I was thinking of opening another storefront,” she said, propping her head against his shoulder. “Perhaps somewhere on the East side. I want to try experimenting with more affordable clothing, maybe catering towards monsters with less human bodies. I need a challenge.”

Steve thought of Farrah’s mother, with her patched and careworn dress straining at the seams, and he smiled. “That sounds like a good idea.”

He stood on Jan’s doorstep and watched her start to climb the stairs as the door swung shut behind her. If he lingered a little too long, no one had to know.

He stepped away and was nearly brained as a worker carrying a stack of copper pipes suddenly swung around, ducking out of the way just in time.

“Hey, watch it!” he snapped. The worker just swore at him and continued on his way to the construction site just down the street. Steve considered running after him and giving him a piece of his mind, but at the moment all he really wanted to do was go home, drink a kettleful of tea, and sleep.

The site was on his way, though, and he slowed down as he walked past it. It was some sort of warehouse, basically complete; he couldn’t imagine what more they could add to it. He considered the wealthy villas and storefronts that surrounded it, frowning; it was a really odd place for a warehouse.

He shrugged and continued on his way, the thought of a hot cup of tea speaking to him more loudly than anything else.

: : :

Steve awoke to the sound of screams.

He shot up in his bed, eyes wild and chest heaving. For a moment he thought maybe it was just the edge of a nightmare. Then the acrid stench of smoke burned at his nostrils, and he threw the sheets off of his body, jumping to his feet.

He was in uniform in less than two minutes with his shield holstered securely to his back. He chose to forgo the stairs for the much quicker of option of jumping out the window - it was only two stories up, after all, and he landed in a neat roll. The street was filled with people even at this time of night, their eyes transfixed on the hill.

Steve turned to see what they were looking at, and his heart nearly stopped in his chest.

Flames consumed the Stark mansion.

Steve was charging up the hill before his brain could register a conscious decision. There was a long line of people, humans and monsters alike, stretching up the main street that wound up the hill to the mansion. They were passing buckets full of water between them, presumably all the way from the river.

It was possibly the most harmonious he’d seen the city in months, and he could hardly bring himself to care, his worry and the stifling stench of smoke consuming all other thoughts.

In  the front courtyard, there was a brigade of firemen in the front garden who had tapped into the local cistern and were using force pumps to spray water out of heavy canvas hoses. Even with the combined efforts of hundreds of people, it didn’t look like they would be able to quell the inferno, only contain it. Steve could feel the heat from a hundred feet away, prickling at the exposed parts of his face.

“Where’s Tony?” Steve demanded of the nearest fireman, seizing him by the arm. “Where’s Lord Stark?”

“I— I don’t—” the fireman stammered. “He’s—”

“Here, Steve,” a tinny voice called from behind him. “Let the poor man go.” Steve spun around just as a gleaming suit of crimson and gold armor touched down on the gravel drive, gently setting an unconscious maid down on the grass. The undersides of the hands and feet glowed a bright blue, the same color as the slits of the eyes.

“Tony?” Steve said breathlessly. “Why— what is that?”

“You surely didn’t think I’d create an amazing alchemical marvel for my good friend and not one for myself, did you?” Tony said, and Steve could hear the smirk in his voice.

“And it can fly,” Steve observed.

“It can fly,” Tony agreed, before turning to watch the mansion burn. Steve stepped up beside him.

“That was the last of the staff,” Tony said absently. He sounded weary and off-balanced. “Those who weren’t charred to a crisp, of course.” Steve swallowed hard, grief sitting in his gut like a stone.

“We should help,” Steve said. Tony lifted his head, and suddenly Steve wished more than anything else that he could see his expression.

“Grab one of the unmanned hoses,” Tony said, voice toneless. “We need to stop it from spreading beyond the walls.”

The sun was beginning to peek over the distant horizon once the fire was finally contained, if not extinguished completely. Most of the once-proud mansion lay in a smouldering, crumbling ruin. One section on the south side where the kitchens and dining hall lay were the only rooms left remotely unscathed, thanks to Steve bringing some of the walls down with his shield and stifling the fire with ash.

They walked into these rooms now, their footfalls heavy and slow.

Tony stood stock still in the ruined dining hall for a full minute, maybe watching the small fires around them start to sputter and die. Then he jerked into motion suddenly, shuffling over to one of the soot-stained chairs and sitting down heavily.

As Steve watched, the armor began to deform and melt around Tony, oozing off of his skin and clothes. The helmet melted first, revealing Tony’s face, haggard and gaunt, his eyes half-lidded. It started dripping down the sides of the chair, where it began to collect in a muddy crimson pool of liquid metal on the floor. The new light of dawn glittered on its sheer surface.

“How did this happen?” Steve asked at last, voice hoarse with smoke. He moved to stand beside Tony’s chair, shield held aloft at his side. “Could the gas lamps have started so great a fire? Perhaps the kitchens—”

“Oh, no, it was no accident,” Tony said, tiredly. Steve’s insides went cold.

“How do you know?” he managed.

Tony reached into his singed coat pocket and brought out a crumpled note, which he tried to unfold with shaking fingers before giving up and handing it over to Steve.

“I found this on my pillow, just as the corridor outside my room quarters collapsed,” Tony said softly. Steve swallowed back the anger rising in his throat as he unfolded the note and smoothed it against his thigh.

Above a bottle-green stamp of a blossoming tree, it read:

“BURN, PARASITE.”

: : :

“Are you sure, Steve?” Tony murmured. “I could just catch a cab to Stark Enterprises—”

“You’re dead on your feet,” Steve said, insistently guiding Tony up the stairs to his flat with one arm wrapped beneath his arms. “It’s no trouble.”

Tony exhaled shakily, drooping his head until it rested on Steve’s shoulder. “I don’t suppose this means you’ve forgiven me, does it?”

Steve scowled at the front door as he fumbled for his keys. “We’ll talk about it later,” he grunted.

“I don’t regret it, you know,” Tony went on as Steve pushed the door open.

“Later,” Steve growled, digging his fingers warningly into Tony’s side. Tony let out a very put-upon sigh but allowed himself to be led into the bathroom and settled down onto the little wooden bench beside the copper bathtub.

One of Steve’s favorite things about the modern day was the advent of water heaters. He was told that they had become relatively common in the past couple of decades in the more affluent parts of York, and he never felt quite so fortunate as when he turned the left bath spigot and was almost immediately rewarded with steaming hot water.

“It’s ready,” Steve said quietly once the tub was nearly full. Tony jumped from where he’d been dozing with his head propped on his hands. He started to fumble with the buttons on his soot-stained coat, fingers slow and clumsy.

After maybe a minute of Tony try and fail to undress himself, Steve reached out and began to undo the buttons himself.

Tony went very still. Steve could feel him staring, and he did his best not to flush as his hands moved of their own accord. Finally he pushed the coat off of Tony’s shoulders and it landed on the floor in a sooty heap.

“You forgot your shirt,” he observed, mouth dry. Even in the state he was in, Tony’s skin was golden and smooth, peppered with black hair.

“I was in a bit of a hurry,” Tony said, voice little more than a rasp.

Ever so slowly, Steve moved his hands downward, until his fingers brushed over the buttons of Tony’s trousers. He heard Tony’s breath hitch, but he didn’t stop until those were undone as well. Tony lifted his hips to help Steve guide them down his thighs, revealing inch after inch of olive flesh.

“Drawers as well,” Steve croaked.

“That’s just because I’m a harlot,” Tony whispered. His breathing was unsteady as Steve slipped off his untied boots, then slid his trousers the rest of the way off his feet.

“The bath will grow cold before long,” Steve said, even as he dug a thumb into the sole of Tony’s foot. Tony panted softly and tipped his head back, toes curling.

“Maybe you ought to help me in, then,” Tony said, eyes heavy-lidded.

Steve did as much, hands wandering up and down Tony’s torso as he helped Tony sink into the hot water. Tony groaned, eyelids fluttering as he stained the water grey.

Taking a step back, Steve wavered. What the hell was he doing here?

“I’ll just—” He gestured helplessly at the door. “Call on me if you need anything.”

“Steve,” Tony said before Steve could turn away, voice unspeakably gentle. Steve almost hated it, the way it made his knees weak. “You needn’t leave. You’re filthy as well. It would be a shame to waste all this hot water.”

Steve swallowed, fists clenching at his sides.

Then he lurched into motion, hands scrabbling at his boots, shucking his uniform with much less care than he had afforded Tony’s ruined clothes. He could feel Tony’s gaze on him the entire time, and by the time he was bare before Tony, a blush had spread all the way from his cheeks down his chest.

“Look at you. You’re beautiful, darling,” Tony whispered, voice reverent. Steve’s ears felt like they were on fire.

“Move over,” he said, gruff. Tony lifted his back and Steve slid in behind him, his legs and hips framing Tony’s.

The hot water soothed his aching body like a salve, and Tony was a comfortable weight against his front, solid and reassuring. His body was cold, which Steve supposed it would be, but it was quickly heating up between the water and Steve’s own body heat.  After a hesitant moment, Steve tilted his head forward, nosing clumsily against the edge of Tony’s jaw. Tony sighed happily, all remaining tension draining out of his body.

Steve reached for the bar of soap on the shelf above their heads, something with lavender he’d bought from Mrs Reilly as an afterthought. He worked it into a lather between his hands and was rewarded with a very happy groan from Tony as he began to massage it into his chest and shoulders.

“I am sorry, you know,” Tony mumbled as Steve systematically began to rid his skin of soot and smoke-stains. Steve grunted. “You’re right. I should have asked permission.”

“Yes,” Steve said. “You should have.”

“I don’t regret it, though.” He held up a hand as Steve opened his mouth to reply, and Steve scowled but didn’t interrupt. “You heard what the disease did. The operating theater was in shock. Nothing gets attention quite like fear, and now the scientists who have sat back and done nothing for so long will be in a frenzy to try and find a cure.” He sighed as Steve’s hands drifted down his belly. “Despicable, I know. The truth is that I’m just as terrified as the rest of them.”

Steve nodded slowly, trusting that Tony would feel the movement even if he couldn’t see it. After a moment, Tony twisted his neck to squint at him out of the corner of his eye.

It took Steve a moment to get what he was looking for. “I was right, but I shouldn’t have lost my temper,” he offered. Tony raised an eyebrow at him, then, apparently deciding that was the best he was going to get, settled against him once more, eyes slipping closed.

Steve’s fingers were thoroughly pruney by the time he managed to coax Tony out of the water and into a nightshirt and drawers, especially with him clinging and complaining the entire time.

“Come rest with me for a while, Steve, darling,” Tony begged when Steve bullied him beneath the sheets on his bed. “It’s been a trying day for the both of us.” Steve hovered for a moment, still unsure what this was between them or what he was really even doing, but he couldn’t deny the thought of drifting off with Tony curled against him was infinitely appealing.

So he clambered into bed beside Tony, who made a pleased noise and latched onto him like an octopus. His body was cool, soothing away the lingering heat from the flames that still clung to Steve’s skin. Tentatively, hardly believing he could, Steve swept his hand up and down the curve of Tony’s spine, letting it come to rest at the dip of Tony’s lower back.

He missed the feeling of a heartbeat against his own, but otherwise, he thought as he closed his eyes, he could get used to this.

: : :

The flat was dim when Steve arrived home that night. “Tony,” he called, tugging off his coat and draping it over the back of a kitchen chair, “are you there?”

No answer. Steve frowned and made his way into the bedroom, pushing the door open quietly.

Tony was curled up in the center of the bed, the sheets pulled tightly up to his chin. His face was all soft and slack, lips parted. He wasn’t breathing, which was slightly disconcerting, but he stirred as Steve approached the bed, blinking open bleary blue eyes and making a sleepy noise.

“Steve?” he mumbled.

“That’s me. Have you been asleep all day?” he asked, looking down at Tony fondly.

“Have I?” Tony said, then yawned widely.

“It’s too late to do anything productive. Go back to sleep,” Steve murmured. Without thinking, he reached out and smoothed Tony’s wild hair back from his face.

Tony went stiff immediately. Steve jerked his hand back as if he’d been burned, an apology spilling off his lips.

“It’s not what you’re thinking,” Tony said, voice low and rough. “I— haven’t eaten in several days. I keep forgetting.” He sounded embarrassed, strangely enough, and he wouldn’t meet Steve’s eyes.

Steve tilted his head to the side, considering that for a minute. Then, without further pretense, he pulled his sleeve up to his elbow and offered Tony his bare wrist.

Tony pushed himself to his elbows, looking at him with the widest eyes. Steve was about to pull his hand away when Tony spoke. “Dearest, darling Steve, you must understand what you’re offering me. I could get addicted to your blood. It’s the most delectable thing I’ve ever smelled, at all times, and it’s been some time since my last meal.” He lowered his gaze, sounding a bit ashamed when he added, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Steve wrinkled his nose at the knowledge that Tony could smell him - he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, but still. Then he narrowed his eyes at Tony, contemplating him for a moment. He shrugged.

“I understand. I’m offering anyway.”

For a moment, Tony just froze, staring at him, and in the next moment he was pulling Steve down onto the bed by the wrist, Steve laughing breathlessly as he landed on his hands and knees on top of the sheets. “Get this off, get this off, don’t want to get blood all over your shirt,” Tony muttered, fingers fumbling with the buttons of Steve’s shirt. It was cast aside a moment later, and Steve was sure that Tony didn’t need to roam his clever hands all up and down Steve’s torso, but he certainly wasn’t about to stop him.

Steve gasped softly as Tony laved his cool tongue over the column of his throat. He tensed, anticipating a bite, but Tony simply started suckling at the skin there, no doubt forming a bruise.

“What are you doing?” Steve asked, fighting back a smile and not quite succeeding.

“Sampling,” Tony replied silkily. He peeped up at Steve, fluttering his eyelashes in some parody of seduction. His eyes looked strange in the moonlight, almost silver.

“I thought you were hungry,” Steve said pointedly. Tony rolled his eyes at him and muttered something that almost certainly had something to do with Steve and his lack of appreciation for savoring the moment.

Steve’s head fell forward at the bright jolt of pain as Tony sank his teeth into the join of Steve’s neck and shoulder. A soft moan escaped his lips as the pain was immediately washed away by hot, dizzying pleasure that spread through Steve’s body like wildfire, reaching all the way to the ends of his toes and fingers.

He’d known that vampire’s venom contained an aphrodisiac, but he’d never imagined it could feel like this.

“Oh no, oh darling,” he heard Tony whispering, which was when he became aware that Tony had released his mouthful of Steve’s neck and was licking a bit frantically at the blood oozing from the bite. “I should’ve warned you, how could I have forgotten that—”

You’ve been forgetting a lot of things lately, Steve wanted to say. “I don’t care, Tony, please,” he begged instead, cradling Tony’s head to his neck with one hand. He was desperately hard now, writhing against Tony’s belly. He soon felt an answering hardness against hip, and his fingers tightened in Tony’s hair.

“Drink your fill, come on,” he whispered, eyes fluttering against the pleasure coursing through his body.

Tony made a doubtful noise against his throat, head straining back against Steve’s hand as he tried to pull away. “Are you quite sure, darling— oh, you’re lovely,” he sighed as Steve reached down to tug at Tony’s cock. His fangs slotted neatly back into Steve’s neck. He suckled greedily, the suction of his mouth making Steve pant and thrust up against Tony’s belly.

When Tony finally pulled away, cleaning the wound with his tongue, Steve felt distinctly light-headed, but Tony was squinting at him like a satisfied cat so Steve cared precisely none at all. He was also seconds away from coming, his entire body coiled up tensely. Then Tony got his hand between them and it was over in moments, Steve groaning into Tony’s coppery mouth as he spilled all over his stomach.

Seconds later, he felt Tony spend himself on his hip, the heat like a brand on his oversensitive skin.

“Oh,” Steve said, utterly breathless. “Oh, Tony.” He ran his hands all over Tony’s marvelous skin, and to his delight he felt Tony’s body growing warm beneath him. “Oh— is that because of me?” he said.

“Yes, darling,” Tony smiled indulgently at him.

“Oh,” Steve said again. The thought that his own blood was coursing through Tony’s veins should have been nothing short of repulsive, but instead the very notion of having something so intimate of his underneath Tony’s skin made his breath catch and his cock give a valiant twitch.

Did that mean— Steve put an ear to Tony’s chest, a giddy grin spreading across his face as he heard a heartbeat. It was faint and slow, but it was undeniably real.

“Look at you,” Tony said, peering down at him fondly. “So sweet right now, aren’t you? I ought to take a bite out of you more often.”

“Please,” Steve said fervently, surging up to pepper silly little kisses all around Tony’s lips. Something told him that he’d be absolutely horrified when he remembered this later, but at the moment he really did not care, especially when Tony laughed like that.

: : :

Steve came to consciousness suddenly. Tony was sitting ramrod straight beside him, staring off into the darkness. The blankness in his expression was nothing short of unnerving.

“Tony?” Steve murmured, reaching out.

Tony jerked violently, shying away from his hand. “Steve,” he said, voice unsteady. “I—” He shuddered, hugging his arms to his body.

Unease coiled in Steve’s belly like a snake. “Tony,” he said again, low and cautious. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” Tony’s exhaled shakily, and then he gave Steve a weak smile that didn’t fool him in the slightest. “Bad dream, that’s all.” He pushed out of bed suddenly, stumbling to his feet with uncharacteristic gracelessness. “Look, I have to go to the mansion. I forgot something important, I just realized, I need to get it— it’s important,” he repeated.

“The mansion is a ruin right now, Tony,” Steve said, pushing himself into a sitting position as he reached out for Tony once more. “It could be dangerous, wait until morning—”

“No!” Tony snapped, fury flashing in his eyes as he bared his fangs at Steve. Steve froze for a moment, then returned the glare as anger began to rise in his throat. There was no reason for Tony to be acting like this.

Tony seemed to realize he’d overstepped, because he hesitated before he spoke again, and this time his voice was gentle. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to snap. But this can’t wait until morning, trust me. I’ll be back in less than an hour.”

“Let me come with you, then,” Steve said, throwing the covers off.

“No,” Tony said, and Steve froze again, not in shock this time, but because Tony’s voice seemed to penetrate his very skull and reverberate between his ears. Tony’s face was in front of his suddenly, his eyes pale and luminous and utterly hypnotic. Despite himself, Steve felt his body growing heavy and sluggish.

“Go back to sleep, Steve,” Tony whispered, his voice echoing and layering upon itself over and over. His eyes bored into Steve’s, unblinking.

“Okay, Tony,” Steve heard himself say distantly, going down easily as Tony pressed against his chest.

He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.

: : :

When Steve woke with the rays of the morning sun creeping across his bed, he lay in bed for a full five minutes, staring blankly at the ceiling.

Betrayal and anger rose in his gorge like bile. He wanted to hit something, preferably Tony’s face.

How could Tony have done this to him? He’d taken Steve’s blood and then simply made a toy of Steve’s mind without a second thought, despite it being, in Tony’s own words, a gross violation of consent. It hurt, which just made Steve even angrier. That’s what you get for trusting a vampire, a small, ugly voice whispered in the back of his head.

“Shut up,” Steve gritted out. He pushed himself up, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. There had to be a rational explanation for this. Tony had been acting so strangely, and he hadn’t returned like he said he would. Maybe he got what he wanted from you, the voice said. Maybe he thinks you’re laughable.

He’d go to Stark Enterprises in a few hours time. Tony would probably be there, and Steve could demand an explanation and be horridly furious, maybe put a hole in one of the walls, and rightfully so. Just as long as he knew Tony was alright.

: : :

“Lord Stark?” the woman at the front desk had said. “I’m sorry, Captain, I haven’t seen him in two days or so. I expect he has much to occupy him, what with that awful fire on top of everything else.”

That left only one logical place left to look. Steve couldn’t imagine why Tony would linger in the desolated mansion so long, but he wasn’t sure where else to turn.

“Tony?” Steve called, squinting in the dim light to pick through the charred debris that littered the floor. The ruins of the mansion were still smoking, days after the fire had consumed it. Steve pushed open a door that still clung lopsidedly to its frame, wincing as it proceeded to splinter off its hinges and fall to the floor with a sound like a thunderclap.

Rustling and quick footsteps from the floor above. Steve froze in place, one hand slowly reaching back to free the shield from its harness. “Tony? This isn’t funny.” He eyed the crumbling staircase - not a chance in hell in would support his weight, and he didn’t fancy trying to find his footing in the dark. Steve switched tactics.

“Whoever you are, I’ll give you to the count of three before I collapse the floor from under your feet. One—” He took aim at a nearby support beam that was nearly eaten through, at the same time preparing to spring backwards. There was a good chance the entire above level might collapse on top of him. “Two—”

A figure dropped from a hole in a ceiling as lightly as a cat. Steve spun around, shield at the ready— then stopped dead, because even in the dimness of dusk, he recognized the angles of Tony’s face. His white nightshirt and drawers were in tatters and stained grey with ash. “What’s wrong with you,” he began angrily, before he noticed something.

Tony’s eyes were clouded over with a mirror-like silver film.

Steve’s stomach went cold in utter dread. He took a step back, then two.

Tony’s eyes narrowed to slits, fangs glinting in the low light as he pulled his lips back and hissed, long and low. Then leapt.

Steve rolled out of the way just in time, grunting as splintered wood caught and and jabbed at his shoulders. Tony smashed into the opposite wall, bringing a shower of ash and charred wood down upon him, which he shook off easily and turned on Steve again, snarling. “Tony, enough,” he begged, uselessly he knew; he had fought countless ferals. There was nothing but savage instinct in that head now.

As if to punctuate this fact, Tony threw himself at Steve again. Steve raised his shield with the intent of batting him aside, thinking he might be able to knock Tony out if he hit him hard enough— and suddenly Tony wasn’t in front of him any more. Hot searing pain seized through Steve’s body as Tony clawed right through the uniform that Tony himself had made for him and tore deeply into Steve’s side with his bare hand.

Steve screamed through gritted teeth and lashed out wildly with his shield, managing to clip Tony in the head and send him flying back. Panting, Steve pressed his hand to his side, groaning as blood spurted hot and thick between his fingers.

Tony landed on his feet and raised his head slowly, his silver eyes trained on Steve with single-minded intent. His nostrils flared at the scent of Steve’s blood. A deep gash oozed dark blood where the edge of Steve’s shield had gouged into his temple, deep enough that Steve could see the white of bone from twenty feet away. Even as he watched, the edges of the wound began to seal and stitch together.

That was impossible, though. All monsters had a healing factor, sure, but the only ones who could heal so quickly that Steve knew of were pixies and unicorns—

The serum. Tony had fed from him; that was the serum running through his veins.

Short of taking his head off, Steve wouldn’t be able to take Tony down on his own.

Nearly two months ago now, Tony had upgraded the team’s equipment, and upon presenting it to them he had also given each of them a round stone that fit easily in the palm of the hand and was red and opaque in color. He’d explained to them that the set of five were linked with one another, and upon one of them being squeezed tightly by a bare hand, the rest would begin to glow and pulse and hum. The noise and pulsations would grow stronger with proximity to the other stones, acting as a sort of homing device.

Since the Ultimates always met before they went to work, Steve had never quite seen the point in the signal stones, even though Tony had been quite proud of his little alchemical innovation.

Now he ripped his glove off with his teeth and plunged his hand into one of the pouches on his uniform, gripping the stone so tightly he thought it might crack. It began to whine and throb like a heartbeat, the strange sound giving even Tony pause as he cocked his head to the side. Then his eyes narrowed to slits and he hissed again, crouching low to the ground in preparation to leap once more.

Steve turned on his heel and fled deeper into the destroyed mansion.

It was a bit like a game of cat and mouse, he thought exhaustedly, only instead of Tony sitting and waiting patiently for Steve to walk into his jaws, he was tearing through the crumbling walls, snarling and spitting in rage, slavering at the mouth like a rabid dog.

Thunder rumbled overhead. A light rain began to fall, and Steve smiled grimly. He’d grown tired of running.

He took a sharp turn and charged out of the mansion and into the gardens, tearing down the main gravel path as fast as his legs would carry him. Just beyond the fountain, he stopped and turned suddenly, digging his heels into the ground, shield at the ready.

Tony seemed to sense that something was wrong, because he stopped thirty feet short of Steve, growling continuously. Moments later, he startled and jumped back as Thor dropped down beside Steve with a heavy thud, hammer at the ready.

“His mind is gone?” Thor said, solemn as Steve had ever heard him. Steve swallowed tightly and nodded, not trusting his own voice at that moment.

Tony chose that moment to dart forward, teeth bared. As if by reflex, Thor swung his hammer and it smashed into Tony’s head, sending him across the clearing.

“Thor! We’re taking him alive!” Steve barked. Nausea rose in his throat as he watched Tony push himself slowly to his feet, his face broken and bloodied and the side of his skull caved in. He blinked and the bones and flesh had already started to fill out and knit together, leaving fresh pink skin that quickly faded to Tony’s natural color.

“I apologize, Captain,” Thor said. “But I do not think keeping him alive will be a problem.”

Steve thought of Oliver’s brain, rotted to its core. He wondered what the inside of Tony’s head looked like right now.

“Try to knock him out, but no permanent damage,” he gritted, lifting his shield.

Between the two of them, they managed to get Tony on the ground, struggling weakly as his bones started to snap back together with sickening pops. He was covered in dark blood, and Steve was more than a little afraid that at any point the serum would be bled from him completely and render the next blow fatal.

He heard the whirring of wings and glanced up as Jan deposited Clint on the ground beside Steve, then touched down herself with hardly a sound. “Oh, no,” she breathed, unsteady. “I had my suspicions, but I never thought…”

“Wait. One moment. Since when was Stark a monster?” Clint said, voice puzzled.

“He didn’t tell you when he told you about the investigation?” Steve said.

“He told me a long time ago,” Jan offered. “It’s harder to keep it from other monsters.”

Thor inclined his head. “I can sense all manner of mythical creatures.”

“Fantastic,” Clint grunted as he began to dig in his bag for a syringe of tranquilizer. “So much consideration for this mere mortal.”

He stooped over Tony’s twitching body and drew his arm back to stab the syringe into the side of Tony’s neck.

In the space of a second, Tony’s head snapped up at an inhuman angle, silver eyes wide and blank. He lunged at Clint, who cursed and sank the needle into the meat of Tony’s shoulder before bringing his hands up to cover his face and throat.

Tony didn’t seemed interested in him, though. The syringe dropped out of his shoulder, and suddenly he was on Steve, hissing viciously. Steve raised a hand to shield his throat, and then yelled through his teeth as Tony sank his fangs right through his suit and into his arm, grinding down to the bone. Searing pain was immediately followed by numbing euphoria as blood spurted into Tony’s mouth and down his chin, and Steve stumbled and fell, body going hot and heavy, Tony a suffocating weight on top of him.

“Steve!” Tony released his arm with a high-pitched yelp as Jans full-powered Wasp's sting struck his head and burnt away half the skin and muscle on his face, bone and teeth showing through his cheek. The blood vessels in his eye burst, staining the white bright red.

“Oh, Tony,” Steve mumbled, head thumping back on the gravel. “You’re hurt.”

Tony was yanked off of him a second later, and Steve lifted his head blearily to that see a gunmetal suit of armor with glowing red eyes had Tony by the leg. Tony twisted around and scrabbled uselessly at the sheer surface of the armor, his snarls growing increasingly panicked.

“War Machine,” Steve said thickly, and then the world spun as someone got a hand under Steve’s back and hauled him to his feet.

“I have you, Steven,” Thor said, his voice a deep rumble in Steve’s ear. He smelled good, like earth and sweat and electricity, and Steve pressed his face into his shoulder.

Maybe Steve ought to see a doctor. He was fairly sure there was a major artery in the forearm, and he was bleeding all over Thor’s nice armor.

“Tony,” Rhodey was choking out, the grief in his voice palpable. “Tony, don’t fight me, please—”

“War Machine!” Clint called out. “Hold him still.” There was the hiss of an arrow, and then Tony let out a blood-curdling scream and crumpled to the ground, writhing and twisting around the arrow shaft protruding from just below his collarbone. Steve watched in a detached sort of horror as the skin hissed and bubbled around the shaft.

“Silver alloy arrow,” Clint said, voice hoarse. “Pure might have killed him, but this will just keep him down for a while.” Tony’s movements had dwindled to twitches and spasms that wracked his body. His face had already almost healed, tears spilling out of his eyes as he whimpered and panted.

He reminded Steve of a wounded animal.

“Cover his face,” Jan said. Her voice was softly as she laid a comforting hand on Rhodey’s back, whose armor had started to melt off of him and into a heavy grey locket around his neck. His eyes were closed, face lined with sorrow. “I’ll fly and fetch a wagon to bring him back to Stark Enterprises.” Her eyes turned on Steve, then, going wide. “Shit.”

Privately, Steve had to agree, as he slumped heavily against Thor’s side and faded out of consciousness.

: : :

Steve awoke in a sterile white hospital bed, blinking fuzzily at the ceiling. “Tony?” he said, sitting bolt upright, then wincing at the twinge of pain in his side. There were bandages wrapped all around his middle, and his left arm was sore and stiff and similarly swaddled.

“Easy, Captain,” Thor said, pressing gentle hand against his chest. He was sitting beside the bed in a chair that looked comically small for him. “You have lost a lot of blood.”

Steve thumped back against the pillows. “Where are we? Did anything happen?” Thor shook his head.

“We are in the Ultimates’ medical bay. You have been here for a day. Tony is in a holding cell.” Tony— oh, God above. For a moment Steve felt like he was going to be a bit sick. The sounds his body had made when Steve hit him—  

“Everyone else is fine.” There were three other empty chairs around the bed, Steve noticed, and then Jan was poking her head through the doorway, her wings fluttering anxiously.

“Oh, Steve, thank heavens you’re awake,” she said, sounding relieved. “How are you feeling?”

Steve shrugged, trying not to wince. “As well as I’m going to be.” He threw off the thin sheet and pushed to his feet. “Where is everyone?”

Jan frowned at him. “You really ought to be resting.”

Steve returned her frown, jaw clenching stubbornly. “Where is everyone?” he repeated.

She narrowed her eyes, then threw up her hands and cursed under her breath. “We were just about to have a meeting. Come on, then.”

Thor did him the kindness of not offering to help as Steve shuffled stiffly out into the main hall. It occurred to him as he went into the conference room that his feet were bare and he was only dressed in thin white linens, but thankfully no one commented.

Steve was also absolutely not surprised to see Logan at the table, an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. He grunted in greeting as Steve took a seat at the round table.

“Good to see you’re awake, Captain,” Rhodey said. His voice was a bit rough, and his eyes were red-rimmed.

“How’s Tony,” Steve said, trying for gentle. Rhodey’s shoulders slumped.

“About as well as can be expected,” he said dully.

There was a brief lapse into silence as they contemplated the table.

“So we’re down a man, and no closer to finding out who’s behind this feral business,” Clint said at last. “There’s no doubt that they were responsible. He went feral seemingly overnight.”

“No,” Rhodey shook his head. “This has been coming on for a while. Bouts of forgetfulness, confusion.” He let out a humorless laugh. “He always waved it away as stress, but I should have known. Tony’s old - well, young for a vampire - he’s seen much worse than this.” He sighed measuredly and rested his head in his hands, thumbs pressing into his temples. “But I was too damned busy to call his bluff. York’s military is up in arms over the feral problem, and I’ve been doing all I can to prevent their interference. I didn’t need Tony to be sick as well.” His breath caught on a sob, and Thor, sitting beside him, placed a large hand on his arm.

“There is nothing you could have done, even if you had been certain,” he said, soft as Steve had ever heard him. “We still have no way of combatting this sickness.”

“McCoy’s team is working on that,” Jan said. “They’re making fair progress. At least we can be certain that this is an old strain of the disease.” She lifted her gaze to look all of them in the eye. “He would be dead right now otherwise. We saw what happened to Oliver Duval’s brain; not even monsters can sustain that kind of damage and live.”

Logan, who had been silent up to this point, spoke up. “He was sick when we found that perfume bottle,” he grunted. “I could smell it on him. Fainter than what was on the glass, so I wasn’t sure.”

“And you just kept this to yourself?” Steve said sharply.

“Not my dark secret to tell,” Logan said, unimpressed. “And like I said, I wasn’t sure.”

“Do you think you knew he was sick?” Clint said, after a beat.

Steve thought of Tony’s wide, panicked eyes each time he would forget, his hastiness to cover it up. “Yes,” he said. “And he kept it from us.”

Of all the foolish things to have done. Reckless; he’d put everyone around him in danger, as there was no telling when he his mind would go. Enthralling Steve had been proof enough of that without the ensuing battle.

He could have at least told me, he thought.

“Tony probably thought we would have a cure before he became a threat,” Jan soothed, as if reading his thoughts.

“What now, then?” Rhodey said finally. “We’re still in the dark with no leads to speak of. Unless your search at Parliament bore fruit,” he added to Logan.

Logan shook his head. “No. Trouble with frankincense is that it reeks. Whole place stinks of it and nothing else.”

“The mansion,” Steve said suddenly. “Tony seemed to think that there was something very important there just before he—” He stopped. “Maybe it was only his delusion, but it’s better than nothing.”

Jan nodded. “We should head back and investigate—”

“No,” Steve interrupted. “Logan and I will go. I want the rest of you here in case a call comes. It’s no good to have the team split up and unable to deal with a feral that’s difficult to take down.” He tipped his head towards her. “You’re the interim leader.”

Jan hesitated for a moment, frowning, then nodded again. “Let us know what you find.”

: : :

“Are you picking anything up?” Steve asked as he and Logan picked their way through the ruins of the mansion.

“Yes,” Logan said, kicking aside burnt rubble as he made his way further inside. “It’s all muddied up thanks to you and him running ‘round in circles, but I can make out where he went before.” He led Steve through a jagged gap in one of the walls, and they came across a spiral stairwell that lifted to the floor above and then lead down, down, down.

“We’re just below Tony’s quarters,” he realized. “What’s this doing here?”

“Dunno, but this is where he was headed,” Logan said, hopping into the stairwell. He sniffed the air. “Didn’t get very far. Must’ve slipped and hit his head,” he added, pointing to a smear of blackened blood on the railing several feet down.

“That must have been when he turned,” Steve said, doing his best to keep his voice steady as he noticed one of the stairs was scarred and splintered, as if it had buckled under the force of a strong grip.

They continued on down in grim silence, Logan leading the way. It was dark down here, Steve squinting as his eyes adjusted to the absence of light. They had to be well underground by now.

Logan stopped abruptly, and Steve glanced over his head to see a solid iron door at the bottom of the stairs, slightly ajar.

“Gas won’t be working,” Logan said, gesturing towards the unlit gas lamp on the wall. “Can you see in the dark?”

“Well enough,” Steve said, before stepping past Logan to shoulder the door open. It swung open with the whisper of well-oiled hinges.

“It’s a workshop,” he said, surprise coloring his voice. Then again, he probably shouldn’t be surprised; Tony was an engineer, and wealthy enough that he could have a workshop where ever he wanted.

It was also vast, twice the size of the one at Stark Enterprises, and completely untouched by the fire. Great hulking machines that Steve could only imagine the function of lined the walls, and there were rows and rows of workbenches littered with bits of machinery and various tools, as well as more of those vats of liquid metal. Steve could almost pinpoint where Tony had set down his work for the day, and something twinged painfully in his chest.

“Hard to tell what he’d be looking for in this mess,” Logan said.

“It’s what we’ve got to work with. Start searching.” Logan raised an unimpressed eyebrow at Steve’s snappish tone, but thankfully didn’t comment.

It was maybe ten minutes later when Logan called him over to the other side of the room. He had shifted a heavy shelf aside to reveal an innocuous metal safe set into the wall, and was currently prying it open with his bare fingers. At last the safe door made the shrill screeching noise of metal twisting against metal and Logan wrenched it away from the wall, tossing it carelessly to the ground with a clatter.

Steve peered inside. The safe was relatively shallow, and mostly contained sheathes of documents. He plucked an envelope from the foremost stack and shook its contents into his hand. It was a letter, folded and crumpled. He moved over to one of the workbenches to flatten it, leaving Logan to scan through the other documents.

'Dearest Antonio…'

Steve at once got the feeling that this something that he really shouldn’t be reading, his face going hot as he quickly scanned over 'my darling beloved something-something-very-explicit.' He would have been jealous if it weren’t for the fact that the letter was dated over six months ago.

He was about the set the letter aside as irrelevant if, ah, interesting when the signature caught his eye.

“Natasha Romanova,” he mumbled to himself, tapping his chin. “Romanova. Where have I heard that?”

“Minister, isn’t she?” Logan said as he let a heavy stack of paper drop onto one of the workbenches with a thud. “Safety, or justice.”

“Minister of Justice, Natasha Romanova,” Steve said, staring down at the letter with wide eyes. How had Tony managed that? She had a reputation for being remarkably hard and detached, which Steve supposed lent itself well to justice, but certainly not to the frankly lewd language in the rest of the letter.

He reread the last paragraph, wondering if he’d missed something.

'Beloved, I do hope that you will reconsider the offer I made in our previous meeting. Our cause is a noble one, and it is certainly one that will appeal to a man of such high blood as yourself. Please, darling, join us, and help us welcome our New Eden.'

Something about that phrase was vaguely familiar, but Steve couldn’t quite place where he’d heard it before.

Then he noticed the dark green stamp of a blossoming tree beneath her signature, and something rolled over in his stomach.

“Find anything?” he said over his shoulder, tucking the letter into his pocket.

“Whole lot of things,” Logan said absently, shuffling through what looked like folded blueprints. “We should bring it all back.”

Steve frowned. “These are Tony’s,” he said. “We should only take what we need. He probably wouldn’t like to know that we all read through his private documents.” The letter in his coat was proving him a hypocrite, but—

“You read them, then,” Logan snorted. “Stark won’t mind. You’re fucking him, after all.”

Steve felt his body go hot then cold in embarrassment, his fists clenching at his sides. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he gritted out, jaw clenching.

Logan rolled his eyes. “Whatever you say, bub,” he said. Steve kind of wanted to hit him.

“Grab everything and we’ll go,” he growled, moving over to the safe to make sure they hadn’t overlooked anything. Something small and round caught his eye at the back of the safe, and he reached an arm in to grab it.

It was a little wooden owl, carved by a clumsy and unskilled hand. It was well-preserved, almost the same as it had been two hundred years ago, save for a few dents and scratches. Humiliatingly, Steve felt his eyes well up, and he curled his fingers around the carving and clutched it to his chest.

After all these years, Tony had kept it. It was such a stupid little thing. And yet.

If he needed to take a couple extra minutes to compose himself, well, Logan was at least kind enough not to say anything.

: : :

The sound of boot heels against metal stairs announced Jan’s presence. Steve afforded a glance in her direction, then turned his gaze back to where he’d been staring out over the rows of holding cells. They were on the balcony that overlooked the holding facility, where Steve had stood and been invited to lunch by Tony what seemed like ages ago.

“How’s the newest arrival,” he said.

“Dead,” Jan said, leaning against the railing beside him. Steve picked at a stray thread on his gloves, willing himself to be surprised or upset, but he only felt weary. That was the eighth feral to die in three days, all within hours of being captured. At this point, their job felt rather pointless.

“An announcement from Parliament,” Jan added, offering him a folded piece of expensive-looking parchment.

“Jan, I really do not care about what Parliament has to say right now,” Steve grunted, though he unfolded it anyway.

“Oh, yes you do. Romanova will be making an important address at noon tomorrow, and since she’s the Minister of Justice, you can be sure it has something to do with Registration.” Steve’s jaw set, and Jan glared fiercely and grabbed his arm. “Which applies to you as well, Steve, no matter how much you might wish otherwise.”

“I never—” Steve swore and pushed away from the railing, crossing his arms over his chest as he slowly paced towards the wall.

He did his best to remain calm as he turned back to Jan, who was regarding him with a look that was half sympathetic, half unimpressed. “Sorry,” he managed. He ducked his head. “I’m meant to visit Tony in ten minutes.”

Jan’s gaze softened somewhat. “He’d appreciate the thought,” she said hesitantly.

Steve carded a hand through his hair, frowning. “I suppose. We hardly even know each other. Not like you and Rhodey know him.”

“He likes you, though,” she said, stepping forward to close some of the distance between them. “You ought to be kinder to him. He’s a good man, despite what you might—”

“I know,” Steve interrupted. “I— I was wrong about him.”

Jan raised an eyebrow at him. “It’s not often you admit you’re wrong,” she said, soft and teasing. For a moment, Steve wanted her so much that his chest ached. Then he thought of Tony.

“I went to bed with him,” he blurted, immediately followed by a hot wash of shame.

Jan was momentarily stunned - a monumental achievement in itself - her mouth opening and closing. “I— Are you— was it good?” Her cheeks pinked, and she hastily amended, “I mean— Are you happy?”

Steve hung his head. “Yes,” he said. “But he turned feral right after. It’s possible he wasn’t even in his right mind.” Something occurred to him that he hadn’t thought of before, and panic gripped him.  “I took advantage—”

“Steve,” Jan said, laying a hand on his arm. Steve went still, and then he took a deep breath and let it out, unaware that he’d been breathing so quickly in the first place. “I’m certain you didn’t take advantage. But in any case, you can settle the matter when we’ve cured him.”

What if we can’t cure him, Steve thought. What if we find a cure, and it’s too late, he’s dead—

He cut off that train of thought abruptly, not willing to entertain it for one second more.

“You’re right,” he said at last, voice low. He uncrossed his arms, letting his fists clench and unclench at his sides for a moment. “I’m going to visit him now.” It almost sounded like he was trying to convince himself, which was— well, kind of pathetic, really.

There was a one-visitor rule, otherwise he might have embarrassed himself further by asking Jan to come with him. The walk to Tony’s cell felt like miles, Steve deliberately avoiding eye contact with the families of other ferals visiting their loved ones all up and down the corridor.

Tony’s cell was cordoned off to his own separate area, restricted by a guard who nodded briefly at Steve before letting him pass. One of the privileged few who knew the secret of the House of Stark, then - or maybe he didn’t. It was hard to tell who knew, anymore.

Steve stopped abruptly upon entering the room. Someone was already here, standing in front of the wall of thick glass and metal bars that separated the visiting room from the cell proper.

“My Lord,” Steve said cautiously, dipping his head for the Earl of Stark.

The Earl, for his part, merely glanced at him over his shoulder and nodded. “Captain,” he said, voice toneless. “I suppose you know all about me and my baby brother, then.”

Steve approached him slowly, wincing as the insides of the bones began to ache. The bars must have had silver inlaid into them; how the Earl could stand to be so close, Steve had no idea. “I was under the impression you were twins,” he said levelly. And you look about a decade younger than him, he wisely didn’t add.

“I’m the elder by twenty minutes,” the Earl said, turning his head back to face the cell.

“Right.” Steve got as close to the cell as he dared, his breath catching as he looked in.

The concrete of the walls was dented and scored and spattered with blood, torn canvas blood bags strewn about the floor. There was a shredded cot at the far end of the cell, and upon it was Tony, curled up into a tense ball. His clothes were tattered and blood-stained, and as Steve approached the glass, he lifted his head, nostrils flaring.

He crept cautiously to his feet, baring his teeth as he took a few steps towards the glass, then shied back, eyes narrowed in pain. He instead settled for prowling back and forth from one end of the cell to the other, snarling, his opaque silver eyes fixed on Steve the entire time.

“Look at him. Like an animal,” the Earl said, sounding disdainful. Steve was about to snap at him until he glanced over and saw the worried crease between his eyebrows. This, Steve realized, must be how the Earl displayed concern. It was difficult to imagine someone more dysfunctional than Steve himself, but here he was. “They can’t even clean his cell because he can’t be sedated, so he rolls about in his own putrescence.”

He turned abruptly, heading for the door. “Enjoy, Captain,” he said coldly, before closing the door behind him and leaving Steve feeling remarkably off-balance.

He took a deep breath and returned his attention to Tony.

Tony, who was startling close, a thin sheen of sweat on his brow as he strained closer to the bars. He licked his lips, fangs slipping out slightly.

“Tony,” Steve said hoarsely, unable to look him in his eyes, reflective and silver and not like Tony at all. Tony hissed, quietly, and resumed pacing back and forth, obviously frustrated that he couldn’t get at Steve to rip his throat out.

Steve swallowed tightly. This was— this was what some of the vampires in the war had been like, brainless and savage. Steve had never paid attention to the color of their eyes, too focused on taking their heads off with his shield.

“I’m going to fix you,” he said, trying to put the confidence in his voice that he didn’t quite feel. Despite the ache, he put his hand to the glass, and Tony went still, eyes flickering towards him. “We’re going to fix you. You have my word, Tony.”

Tony hissed at him.

: : :

“Rhodey and I spent several hours last night going over the documents last night,” Steve said as he spread the papers out over the surface of the concrete table.  He made a small stack of letters and accepted a couple of paperweights from Dr McCoy to roll out the blueprints. The entire team plus Logan were situated around the table, all staring intently at the papers. Steve could tell that they were restless, eager to figure this out once and for all.

But he first he turned to Dr McCoy. “Doctor, how goes your team’s progress?”

“Steadily,” Dr McCoy responded, sounding pleased. “I think we are nearly on the verge of something; we have an experimental serum that seems to be working well on the disease, but not within the context of a living body. There is a possibility that in eradicating the disease from the brain, the surrounding brain tissue could be destroyed as well, which is absolutely counterproductive in the later stages.” He spread his clawed hands. “We plan  to do tests on donated organs later today.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Steve said with a short nod, before turning his attention back to the team. “So here’s what we know: Tony had, um, liaisons with Natasha Romanova for about three months,” Steve coughed, gesturing towards the letters. “She initially approached him regarding a machine she wanted to have him design,” he tapped the blueprint with his finger, “and as I understand it, they became, ah, romantically involved.”

“Tony? With the Minister of Justice?” Jan said, her voice pitching suspiciously high.

“Not the time, Wasp,” Steve said, and she made a face at him.

McCoy was frowning down at the blueprints. “It looks like some sort of— pesticide distributor?” he said tentatively.

Steve deferred to Rhodey, who was a lot more technically adept that he was. “You’re almost right, Doctor,” Rhodey said. “It’s a vapor dispersal system.”

“Whatever for?” Jan asked.

Rhodey’s mouth twisted. “The letters say she commissioned them for the Parliament building to distribute frankincense oil as a vapor, because the smoke from the resin is destroying the walls and ceilings. It seems harmless enough on its own. The design Tony drew up is bizarrely heavy duty and more than a little extravagant - it can be activated with a remote electrical signal, which is an innovation at the very forefront of modern technology - but from what I saw from the letters, he was absolutely smitten with her. He even offered to pay for the machines out of pocket.” He wrinkled his nose. “I am not sure how he kept this from me, as I generally notice when he’s over the moon for someone.”

For some reason, he glanced over at Steve, who coughed and shuffled a few papers.

“Right. Anyway,” Steve said. “In the last month of their correspondence, she invited Tony to join something called the Order of New Eden.” He held up the relevant letter. “I’m not sure what that is, but I think Tony might have thought it was some sort of engineer’s guild—”

“I know what that is,” Clint interrupted suddenly. Steve glanced at him sharply. “You know the team I was on before, the one on South Bend? Well, I left it right quick after I found out who they were actually sponsored by. In short, it’s a ‘secret’ human elitist society made up of a bunch of rich pricks who thinks all monsters should be dead and rotting in hell.” Steve heard a sharp intake of breath from Jan, and he glanced over to see her fists clench.

“And that’s the head of our justice system,” she said flatly.

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Logan said.

“If she’s part of this Order, how could she have...courted Tony for so many months and not realized what he is?” Steve said.

“If they keep well fed, vampires are hard to distinguish from humans,” Jan said. “And anyone who’s been hiding as long as Tony will have plenty of experience in keeping himself unsuspicious.”

“She must have found out, in the end,” Steve said, glancing down at the letters. “I think there was some verbal communication wherein Tony refused to join, possibly after finding out just what this Order was about. Her second to last letter asks him to reconsider her offer, and then—”

He held up a simple folded note, written on cheap newsprint and without an envelope. “You will pay for your deception,” he read aloud. “I will see to it personally that you join the rest of your ilk where you belong: the depths of Hell. N. R.”

“Good God,” Dr McCoy murmured. “Do you think…” He hesitated. “This Order could very well be responsible for this entire disastrous mess. So…”

“She may have poisoned him,” Rhodey finished for him. “It’s a serious accusation to be making against a Minister, but not at all unwarranted under the circumstances.”

“I’ve shook hands with her,” Jan mumbled, putting her face in her hands briefly. “I danced with her, once.” She sounded vaguely ill. “She’s the overseer for the Registration bill. I never thought…”

She trailed off. Thor, who had been silent up until that point, spoke suddenly. “There is something that troubles me,” he said, brow set. “I do not care for politics, but I understand how they work. Fear is an excellent motivator for the masses to vote how they are directed.”

“This wretched business has generated plenty of that,” Jan frowned.

Thor nodded. “Aye. But harken: humans have no reason to fear a dead monster.”

“The ferals are dying too quickly,” Steve realized, a sinking sensation in his stomach. “If this were only a fear tactic, their madness would be prolonged.” He paused, a horrible, half-formed idea beginning in his mind. “Rhodey,” he said slowly. “That vapor...thing. How large is it?”

Rhodey frowned. “Not very. Two feet by two, according to the blueprints. The vapor would be distributed up to a hundred feet from the source, because Tony always did enjoy outdoing himself.”

“But,” Steve continued almost desperately, “could it be scaled larger?”

The same realization began to dawn on Rhodey’s face, horror in equal amounts. “Easily,” he breathed. “And the size increases the distribution radius exponentially - it could spread for miles.”

The rest of the table were staring at them with befuddled expressions, at least until Dr McCoy inhaled sharply. “The manufactured disease is a vapor,” he said, voice thick with dread.

Frigid silence draped over them like a veil.

“But how—” Steve began, then stopped, swallowing tightly. “The warehouses.” He glanced around at all of them. “I thought it was strange that there were government warehouses popping up all about York, and in such strange places too, like the one just down the street from your flat—” He gestured toward Jan, who nodded slowly.

“My neighbors were up in arms over that,” she said, voice hush. “We were told something about needing extra storage, for what it was never made certain.”

They exchanged an uneasy glance.

“It couldn’t hurt to take a quick look around,” Steve said slowly. “Perhaps we were informed about a feral who fled into the building.”

Thor smiled grimly. “That courier of Tony’s is an excitable boy. Mayhap he supplied us with an inaccurate location, if we were to be questioned.” No one appeared to have any objection to that at all.

Steve rose to his feet, hands planted on the table.

“Ultimates: move out.”

: : :

The warehouse was dim and silent as they crept in from a side alley. Dust floated in the air, illuminated by weak beams of sunlight that filtered in through the high slatted windows. There were several tables and shelves lining the walls with nothing on them, but otherwise—

“It’s empty,” Jan said, disappointment evident in her voice. Steve’s heart sank, but Logan stepped forward, sniffing the air.

“Frankincense. Think again,” he said, moving to one of the heavy metal shelves. Rhodey went to help him, and together of them shifted the shelf to one side.

Beneath it was a flat steel hatch set into the floor. Steve stepped forward to lift it without hesitation. It was heavy, but it swung open without a sound on well-oiled hinges, and Steve rested it carefully on the stone floor. Then he peered into the passageway below it and found himself staring into an oppressive darkness that led down, down, down.

“Rich yaps and their damned secret underground dungeons,” Logan grunted before promptly lowering himself into the tunnel and clinging to the wooden ladder. The rest of them hesitated; Jan was the first to follow after him, her wings folded closely to her body as she slipped in. One by one, the rest of them went in, with Steve holding up the rear. He closed the hatch behind him, and for a moment they were cast into total darkness before his eyes adjusted.

“It goes about fifty feet down,” he murmured for those without enhanced vision, like Clint, who was below him and currently clutching at the ladder like a lifeline.

“Shit,” was Clint’s only response.

They continued on down in silence for a while before Logan stopped abruptly perhaps ten feet from the bottom. “This is the place,” he said, tensely. “I can smell the disease from here.”

Steve took a deep breath, steeling himself. “Let’s go, then.”

The ladder ended in a dark corridor that was perhaps two shoulder-widths across. At the end of the corridor was a solid metal door with a small window of glass letting in a small square of light from the adjoining room. Steve pushed to the front of the team, body tense.

This door groaned as he shouldered it open, and he immediately unholstered his shield, holding it before him as he cautiously stepped into the room, the others following in after him.

This room was very much not empty.

At its center, a massive machine jutted perhaps thirty feet into the air, its surface covered with winding metal tubes and glass tanks filled with a clear liquid. It looked a bit of a haphazard mess, to Steve.

Clearly Rhodey agreed. “They modified the design somewhat,” he said grimly, stepping forward. “Tony wouldn’t be pleased.”

The lights - electric lights, no less - were on, but there didn’t appear to be anyone in the room. Still, Steve tread cautiously as they went further into the room.

“Everyone spread out,” he ordered. “Look for any information you can find on this thing.” They all gave the machine a wide berth as they did so, shooting uneasy glances at the liquid held in the glass tanks.

Jan was the first to come up with something a few minutes later. “This might be everything we need,” she said breathlessly as she beckoned Steve over to a drafting table. “Blueprints,” she indicated several thick rolls of paper, “correspondence - this has their filthy little symbols all over it.”

The letter she handed him was extremely brief: 'Monday, half past noon.' Below that was a blossoming tree stamped in bottle green ink, as had been on Natasha’s letter to Tony.

“That’s in two hours,” Steve said, a small frisson of fear going through him. “We need more information, Jan, the location of the other machines, how to shut them down—”

“I’m afraid this is as far as you get, half-breed,” a high, cold voice said from behind them. Steve spun around to see a squat man striding through the doorway, followed by a line of men carrying rifles who fanned out behind him, effectively blocking their escape.

Anger bubbled in Steve’s stomach, and he only just bit back the enraged ‘What did you just call me?’ “Who are you,” he bit out instead.

“Easy,” Logan said, voice a low growl. “He’s a psychopath.” Steve heard his knuckles crack as he clenched his fists. “You’re the one who poisoned that kid.”

“Yes,” the man said easily, tilting his head back and blinking at them with watery blue eyes. “And many others as well. This accelerated strain disease has been a long time in the making.”

“You sick fuck—” Clint lunged forward, looking as though he were going to settle this with his fists. The barrels of twelve rifles suddenly trained on him, and he stopped short as Jan grabbed his arm, yanking him back. He growled, baring his teeth.

“Quite,” the man said calmly. “My name is Doctor Zola. Perhaps that fool McCoy mentioned me to you.” He lifted his shoulders briefly. “Not that it matters terribly. These rifles are loaded with silver bullets; you will be dead in a short time.” He gestured to his men, who raised their arms and trained them on each of them. “How fortunate that all of you rabble-rousing animals are trapped down here in one place like pigs to the slaughter; it’s almost as if I expected this.” He let out a short, high laugh.

Steve gritted his teeth and lifted his shield, preparing to fling him in front of Clint, who was nearest to him. With any luck the bullets would ricochet and hit the soldiers and not Steve’s exposed legs—

“Actually,” Zola said, holding up his hand. “I will extend an olive branch to those humans amongst you. It isn’t too late to change your— unsound ways, after all.”

“Fuck you,” Clint spat, wrestling his arm out of Jan’s grip.

Zola shrugged. “No great loss there.” He turned to Rhodey. “You, however. I have heard of your collaboration with that— beast Stark, and I understand you are an engineer of great skill. It would be a shame to let your talent spill to the floor.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Steve saw Rhodey hesitate. Disbelief flooded him like ice as Rhodey nodded, slowly. “Yes. Alright,” he murmured, gaze low. “I don’t wish to die.”

“What treachery is this?” Thor rumbled, the smell of ozone suddenly sharp in the air. Static crackled, and the soldiers shifted nervously, shifting their aim to him.

“It’s merely the most intelligent decision,” Zola said smugly as Rhodey approached him. “I knew a man of your caliber would never truly rest your allegiance with beasts like these.” He directed his watery gaze on Thor, calculating. “I shall enjoy overseeing your dissection. Our Order has never quite understood just what you are, but you’ll bleed just like—”

Rhodey’s armored fist smashed into the side of his head with a crunch, and Zola crumpled to the ground. The soldiers shouted and opened fire, but their bullets only pinged off of his armor as it slid over his skin like liquid from the amulet resting against his chest.

“I’m somewhat insulted you all thought I would really go through with that,” he said as he turned and punched the nearest soldier in the stomach, sending her flying back to crack against the wall.

Thor merely threw his head back and laughed, then let his hammer fly while the soldiers were still distracted. It smashed through the heads of three of them in quick succession, painting the walls and floor with brains and gore.

The sight jolted Steve into action, and he flung his shield. It embedded itself in a soldier’s chest, blood spraying him in the face as he lept forward to yank it out immediately after. He licked his lips, the taste oddly sweet on his tongue as he turned and sank it into the next man’s neck.

He heard the whizz of an arrow and a wet gurgle as one of Clint’s arrows buried itself into a man’s throat. The stench of burning flesh filled the air as Jan went to work with her Wasp’s sting.

It was pure bloody carnage, and perhaps it wasn’t right of them, but Steve couldn’t deny the fact that after months of feeling totally helpless, it felt fantastic.

This, he knew how to do.

In their disorganized panic, the soldiers made for an easy fight. When the last had fallen, Steve slowly lowered his shield, panting softly. He glanced around to check that everyone was alright, then picked his way through the bodies to Zola’s crumpled form.

Zola was groaning softly, blood trickling from a split at the back of his head. Steve grabbed the scruff of his shirt and yanked him to his knees.

“Tell me what I want to know. Now,” he growled. Zola blinked one eye open after the other, gazing blearily at the space over Steve’s head. He chuckled softly through his pained gasps.

“So this is the great Captain Rogers,” he slurred. “Once a human, and now a violent animal like all the rest.” His eyes fell shut. “Registration is a noble cause, but it is far too mild a solution. Trim weeds, and they will merely grow back. To eradicate them, they must be uprooted.” He let out another wheezing chuckle. “I will tell you nothing, Captain. Only that this is your reckoning day - yours and all your ilk.”

Steve could feel his teeth grinding together as his jaw clenched. “Are you sure that’s the answer you want to give me?” he said, voice trembling with barely contained anger. Almost gently, he took Zola’s hand in his own.

Zola’s eyes flew open. “No—”

Steve broke his ring finger between his thumb and index finger, bending it so far back that it dangled against the back of his hand.

Zola screamed, hoarse and guttural, and he jerked in Steve’s grip. “You can’t stop it,” he hissed, spittle flecking his lips. His eyes were wide and wild. “You monsters’ll rot in hell where you belong—”

Without hesitation, Steve snapped his forefinger, and then his pinky, taking a grim sort of satisfaction as Zola’s renewed screams broke in the middle.

“Steve,” he heard Jan say behind him, her voice small and uncertain. He ignored her.

“The human body has many bones to be broken,” he told Zola. He closed his hand around Zola’s palm, squeezing tightly enough that he felt the bones there grind together, Zola whimpering and struggling anew.

“Parliament,” Zola choked out, body trembling and skin slick with sweat. “Romanova will announce judgement day, and she will activate an electric signal. There is an amplifier beneath Parliament, and it will spread the signal throughout the city.” He coughed, spitting out blood where he had bit into his tongue in pain. “And so a mist of divine justice will descend upon York—"

A blow to the temple cut him off fast enough, and Steve let him slump to the ground carelessly. He looked up to see the rest of the team staring at him, all looking vaguely troubled. “What?” he snapped. “You heard yourself what he’s done. He’s the reason Tony’s—” He stopped. “He deserves no mercy.”

“It isn’t him I’m concerned for,” Jan said gently. “Steve, you—” She paused for a moment. “You hardly seem in your right mind.”

Steve looked away. “This isn’t the time,” he said flatly.

“Steve’s right,” Rhodey spoke up. “Natasha’s address commences in an hour. We must act with haste.” He looked around at all of them “This is part of the old sewers system, I’m assuming, the one that went out of use when it was updated. So there must be a tunnel that leads to the cistern below Parliament.”

There was a door on the other side of the room, Steve realized as he glanced around, behind the main bulk of the machine. “There,” he pointed, then held up his hand as they all lurched into motion. “Wait. Not all of us. I want Thor, Rhodes, and Clint to go above ground. Go to the Earl of Stark, go to the constables, go to Parliament. Create an uproar if you have to.”

Thor furrowed his brow, opening his mouth as though he were about to protest, but Steve cut him off. “If this goes south, it won’t do any good for us to all be stuck in some sewer a hundred feet underground. Romanova needs to be stopped, understand? People trust us; they’ll listen.”

“We’ll go,” Rhodey said, before either Thor or Clint could speak. He reached out to place a heavy gauntlet on Steve’s shoulder. “Be careful, Captain. All of you.”

Steve smiled grimly. “As always.”

: : :

The old sewers were completely dry, having not been employed in several years. “Still reeks,” Logan growled as they walked on in darkness.

It was thanks to Logan’s nose that they didn’t get lost in the veritable maze of tunnels. The ground rumbled overhead occasionally now and then, indicating a train running along the river; they were getting close to Parliament.

Finally they came to a heavy wooden door, light shining from beneath it, and Logan held up a hand abruptly, pressing his ear to it.

“They’re here,” he said quietly.

Steve glanced at the pair of them, tilting his head in askance. Logan and Jan nodded, expressions grim and bodies tense as they prepared for a fight.

Clearly, these soldiers hadn’t been expecting them.

Four of them milled about around an odd-looking machine in the center of the cistern, a bulky block of metal and wires with what looked to be a copper tuning fork jutting up into the air. A woman stood beside it, fiddling with dials and valves on a bulky panel set into its side. She spun around and let out a shout as Steve smashed the door in with his shield, the wood splintering to pieces.

“Surrender now and—” Steve didn’t even get to finish before wrenching up his shield as the woman raised a flintlock pistol and opened fire. So much for the diplomatic approach.

Still, Steve was more conscious of his anger and strength this time, and he was sure to use the blunt of his shield rather than the cutting edge as he charged at her, relying on Jan and Logan to keep the soldiers from peppering him full of silver. The woman crossed her arms in front of her face to protect herself from his shield, but in doing so left herself wide open for Steve to knock her upside the head with his fist. She collapsed against the control panel and then to the ground, head lolling to one side.

Without hesitation, Steve brought up his shield and smashed it into the machine’s copper prongs, cleaving them nearly in two, then brought it down onto the machine proper, metal screeching as it was rent to scraps.

Relief flooded his body as he stepped back from the sparking, smoking mess, panting slightly, though it was paired with an uneasy sense of dread. That couldn’t have been so easy, could it?

He turned to see that Jan and Logan had made quick work of the soldiers, their bodies almost in a straight line between the pair of them, and not a single drop of blood spilled.

“It’s strange,” Jan mused as she brushed herself off, straightening the lines of her uniform, “none of them had anything more substantial than silver knives - you’d think more effort would be put into guarding such an important machine—”

There was a flicker of movement out of the corner of Steve’s eye, and he spun around. He had a second to register a soldier’s raised head and weak smirk before an oblong canister spun into their midst and started hissing a cloud of white vapor.

The vile scent of sickness and decay burned at Steve’s nostrils and he reeled back, clutching at his throat, choking. His ears rang, head throbbing as a strange itching sensation crawled beneath his skin. He clawed his gloved hands over his face, groaning.

But he shouldn't be affected, he thought hazily. At his core, he was human.

“We have to get out of here,” he heard himself say distantly, starting to stumble for the door. He stopped short, mesmerized by Jan’s silvery wings as they started to shiver and vibrate.

“Oh, god,” she gasped out, tears streaming down her cheeks out of eyes that glinted silver— why was she crying, she needn’t cry, Steve would protect her. “It hurts—” She dug her nails so deeply into her temples that she started to bleed, red welling up beneath her contorted fingers.

A guttural cry sounded behind him, and Steve whirled around, chest heaving, shield poised to deal a cutting blow. James - his name was James, wasn’t it? - was down on all fours, screaming through gritted teeth as bony claws burst through the flesh of his knuckles, blood gushing forth.

Steve’s nostrils flared as the scent of copper flooded the air, and he stumbled back, mouth watering. “Get away from me,” he snarled, backing towards the door. Where was the door? He was certain that this room had had a door.

The ground slipped from beneath his feet and he was too slow, too clumsy to catch himself in time, head cracking against the worn brick floor. His shield— where was his shield? He scrabbled blindly at the ground, eyes wild as he looked all about him.

What was he looking for? There was a bright shiny disc lying a couple feet away from him, and he snarled at it, kicked it away, too harsh, too hard.

There were strange people in here with him, dangerous people, smelled bad, bad, bad. He bared his teeth at them, growling, he’d kill them all, rip out their throats with his fingers and gorge on their blood—

He let out a harsh scream as one of them flew at him, clawing at his face and eyes. Silvery wings beat at the air, and he hated them, he hated them, so he grasped one in his hand and tore, feeling flesh pop and rupture, and she was screaming in his ear, piercing his brain, screaming, screaming—

: : :

Total, all-consuming darkness swirled around him like a dark miasma. The darkness was interrupted by occasional flashes of light, bright shuddering images of twisting colors and shapes. A dull ringing echoed around his skull constantly. Sometimes he could make out whispers or unstrung sentences in the din, but it was all useless nonsense.

Until now.

“—and Gregory’s terribly jealous of me, you know. He’d never admit it, of course, but I can tell every time he deigns to stick his great big nose in here to slip me a drink.” A scoff. “As if he’d bother hovering at your sickbed as I have been in these past weeks.” A pause, and then the voice came lower, softer. “I know it sounds silly, darling, but I miss you terribly. I wish you would wake up and frown and say something offensive and foul-tempered; this idleness doesn’t suit you at all—”

There was a soft gasp. “Steve?”

Steve opened his eyes, squinting as bright lights assaulted him. He was laying on what felt like a mountain of pillows, his body covered by a thin white sheet - and God, it felt like all of his bones had been smashed to pieces and then put together again, he ached so. “How did you know,” he grunted, voice raspy, his gruffness somewhat ruined by the fact he couldn’t contain the smile that spread across his lips.

It was hard not to smile with Tony sitting right beside him, looking at him like that, like Steve had bottled the sun and presented it to him. It was nearly blinding in its brilliance, that smile, and Steve just had to bask in it for a moment.

“I could hear your heart pick up as you woke,” Tony said, and that was when Steve realized that his hand was clasped in Tony’s. It was warm, either because of Steve’s own heat or because Tony had actually been eating properly.

Tony followed his gaze to their laced fingers and made a soft sound, then made as if to pull his hand away. Steve scowled and tugged it back, gripping it firmly.

It was time for him to stop worrying so much, he decided.

“What happened?” he said, even though it would smooth away the wonderful half-fond, half-exasperated expression that Tony was giving him. Tony was sitting here beside him, alive, and he didn’t even look that ill, so it couldn’t be all bad.

Tony blew out a short breath, leaning forward. “You always ask the hard questions,” he said, crinkling his eyes at Steve. “Let’s see. You’re in the research wing of Stark Enterprises. You’ve been out for a month, which, considering the potency of that Order’s horrid disease and then the havoc you and your teammates wreaked on one another, is about the least you could expect to get away with.”

Steve closed his eyes for a brief moment, relief and anxiousness washing through him in equal parts. After being frozen for two hundred years, a month was nothing. That being said, so much could happen in the span of one day.

“Jan and Logan?” he asked.

“Logan’s awake and terrorizing the medical populace,” Tony said, lips quirking. “You managed to nearly slice through one of his legs with your shield, but he’s got an accelerated healing factor greater than that of most monsters so he’s fine. And he got you back by stabbing you neatly through the belly,” he added brightly, patting Steve’s bandage-swaddled middle and making Steve wince.

“Jan?” he prompted again. Tony hesitated for a moment, and Steve’s breath stuttered in his chest. He struggled to push himself into a sitting position. If he’d killed her—

“Oh, no, darling, no, lay back down,” Tony scolded, placing his hands firmly on Steve’s shoulders and shoving him back onto the bed. “My memory’s still a bit spotty, you see, my brain’s still healing. She’s—” He squinted. “You tore one of her wings off - it’s growing back!” he hastened to reassure Steve as what Steve could only imagine to be horror spread over his face. “You tore one of her wings off and broke her left arm, but she managed to put a big sizzling hole in your shoulder. Like I mentioned, you were all hellbent on causing as much damage to one another as physically possible.”

“But she’s fine?”

“She’s fine,” and Steve slumped back against the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as Tony reached out to push his hair away from his forehead.

“What about the disease?” Steve mumbled, eyes remaining closed as Tony started to stroke his fingers through his hair. He felt a bit like a dog, but it felt wonderful so at the moment Steve didn’t care. “I thought it was meant to kill us within hours.”

“And it nearly did,” Tony said gravely. “Rhodey and Thor and Clint went looking for you, after Natasha was all taken care of and you three didn’t show. Did you know Thor’s immune to the disease? Doctor McCoy is now among those fiercely curious as to just what he is, as am I— anyway. You were tranquilized and quickly shuffled off to Stark Enterprises.” He let out a long, slow breath, then said, “They were so certain you were all done for, so they injected you with the experimental cure.  If McCoy were a lesser scientist, it may have turned all of your brains to sludge entirely.” Tony smiled, revealing his teeth. “Fortunately, he and his team are brilliant. I ought to know - I hired them.”

Steve squeezed his hand gently, and Tony’s gaze softened. “And you?” Steve croaked.

“I was given the cure about three days after you,” Tony said. “My strain of the disease was far less potent than yours, so I was lucid within the week.” He frowned, then, a deep crease forming between his eyebrows. “You had me so worried, darling,” he murmured, bringing Steve’s hand up and pressing his lips to the knuckles. “It was two weeks before you stabilized.”

“It’s payback,” Steve told him. “For the fact that you were apparently sick for months. And you didn’t bother to tell anyone.”

Tony glanced away guiltily. “To be fair, I only suspected Natasha had poisoned me. I'll be the first to admit that I was so fond of her that I simply didn't want to believe it. And towards the end, well.” He shrugged. “What good could I have done locked up in a cell, awaiting madness to descend? It’s not as if any effort could have been made to cure me.”

“We could have at least known to keep an eye on you,” Steve growled, then stopped and sighed. He hadn’t the energy nor the will to start an argument at the moment, which was a new sensation for him. “So Natasha’s been arrested?” he asked.

Tony seemed immensely grateful for the change in subject. “Her and about twenty others in the Order she named to lessen her sentence,” he nodded. Then he closed his eyes for a brief moment. "I was such a fool for her," he said hoarsely. "She had me wrapped around her little finger and I didn't even notice. I didn't want to notice." He hesitated. "I was devastated when I found out where her allegiance lay, and for the longest time I half refused to believe it. A wretched excuse, I know, but the truth nonetheless." The smile he offered Steve was wan and weary. Steve, for once, remained silent, only squeezing Tony's hand briefly.

“I have no doubt in my mind that there are many, many others who were involved in the Order," Tony went on, "but for the time being they’ll remain in obscurity, what with their leaders carved out of the picture and their precious Registration bill effectively dead on the floor.” His hand paused on Steve’s hair, instead going down to cup Steve’s cheek. Steve shivered and blinked blearily at him. “It’ll still go to vote, of course, but in light of the fact that it was spearheaded by someone who had decided poisoning monsters was the best way to go about garnering support and is now behind bars, no politician in their right mind would dare support it.”

Steve nodded wearily, eyes falling shut once more. There were very few times he appreciated politics, but he supposed this was one of them.

Tony’s hand resumed stroking his hair, and despite himself Steve began to doze, weariness settling in him bone-deep.

“Steve, darling,” Tony said suddenly, making Steve jump and slit open his eyes to glare at him. Then Tony leaned over and kissed him, his lips plush and warm and slightly damp. Steve froze for a moment before kissing back clumsily, soft and sleepy.

“What,” he complained when Tony pulled back just slightly to blink at him with lovely blue eyes - no trace of silver at all.

“I’m drafting blueprints for the rebuilding of the mansion,” Tony said. “It’ll be somewhat similar to the original, with some modern improvements. An indoor pool, for one.” Steve rolled his eyes so far back he could feel them straining in his head, and Tony grinned widely. “But, ah.” His voice became uncharacteristically shy, and he stroked his thumb back and forth over the back of Steve’s hand in a nervous, uneven pattern. “I was drawing up the residential quarters and I was wondering. Perhaps.” If he stroked any faster he was going to wear a hole in Steve’s skin. “If you would like quarters of your own. Within the mansion. Built to your exact specifications, of course. No expense spared.” He wouldn’t meet Steve’s eyes, and if Steve didn’t know better he would say Tony was blushing.

Steve made a great show of considering this, doing his best to keep his expression deathly grave despite the delight that was welling up in his chest.

Rationally, this was probably a bad idea. They didn’t know each other as well as they should, and Tony would probably take every given opportunity to try and spoil Steve rotten and be generally maddening. He could easily grow bored of Steve. There was likely something morally unsound about courting his team sponsor and living under his wing.

“No,” he said after a long pause. Tony's entire body drooped like his strings had been cut. He looked absolutely shattered, shoulders slumping and his face going blank. Then Steve added, “If you want us to live together, I think having separate quarters is a criminal waste of space and money.” He nodded grimly. “Yes, it would be much better if we shared a set of rooms. I hear the cost of rent is rising these days, after all.”

For a moment, Tony just stared at him. Steve stared levelly back.

Then his face split into a wide, dazzling beam, showing all of his teeth and crinkling the lines of his face. It was hard to remember the last time Steve had seen something so beautiful.

“I utterly loathe you,” Tony said, eyes sparkling, before leaning into kiss Steve again. This time, Steve kissed him back fiercely, tangling his fingers in Tony’s long silky hair. Tony’s mouth was warm and wet and his tongue slid slickly over Steve’s, the sensation new and delightful.

When they parted, they were both panting slightly, even though Tony didn’t technically need to breathe. Tony licked his lips; Steve’s own were hot and tingling.

“I have another idea,” Tony said quietly, brushing their noses together. “It’s possibly a terrible one, and will certainly have lasting consequences for centuries to come, and Greg may murder me for it, but I think it is a good idea all the same.”

“Tell me,” Steve said, not sure anything would really shock him anymore.

Tony did.

: : :

“—and so after months of skilled work by the members of Ishby’s Construction and Carpentry, with decor by Killingsworth Furnishings Co. and electrics and utilities by Stark Enterprises, I am pleased to present to you the new Stark Mansion, a historic landmark restored once again to its former glory and beyond,” Gregory said into the carbon microphone, his voice echoing all about the courtyard and the encroaching gardens.

The audience gathered befire the mansion was vast and not closed to to lower classes as these sorts of events so often were, so the resulting applause was absolutely deafening, leaving Steve’s ears ringing after Gregory held up a hand for silence.

Steve was standing at Tony’s side on the second-to-topmost step of the mansion’s grand front entrance, close enough that their shoulders brushed occasionally. To Tony’s other side was Gregory, looking sour as always as he gazed out over the crowd. Behind them stood the Ultimates, and then gathered rather haphazardly were people whom Steve didn’t recognize (except for one short, squat woman that he remembered meeting about two hundred years back and whose name he couldn't remember for the life of him)  but had been informed were all members of the House of Stark.

“And now,” Gregory said, sounding thoroughly displeased, “an important address from Lord Stark.”

If Steve thought the previous applause had been deafening, it was nothing compared to the absolute wall of sound as Tony grinned and waved and moved to take Gregory’s place before the microphone. He’d known Tony was well-liked by York, but it had never struck him just how well-liked until now. Of course, those cheering the loudest was the team behind them, Jan in particular shrieking directly into Steve's ear.

“My dear friends,” Tony began once the din started to die down, then leaned back as it started up once again at the familiar term of address. He held up a hand, smiling brightly. “Thank you.” He waited for relative silence to fall before starting again.

“What I am about to announce seems remarkably appropriate given defeat of the Creature and Monster Registration bill in Parliament two days prior.” More applause, thunderous, but this time Tony continued right over it. “As many of you may know, I was firmly and vocally against the bill for the duration of its journey through Parliament, and it is a great weight off of my heart now that it is at last laid to rest. It was a gross violation of privacy, which is a right that monsters are entitled to just as anyone else.

“However,” he went on, expression growing suddenly grim. “The feral tragedy of months past serves as a grim reminder that prejudice and intolerance towards monsters is still very much alive and prevalent. For months my House has deliberated within itself, gathering from far and wide across the country, and as a collective we have decided on this: a gesture of solidarity.” His voice grew slow, careful. “And so it is with both pride and wariness that I now reveal to you the House of Stark’s greatest secret.”

Suddenly, the air was completely hush, broken only by the song of birds and the whispering of wind through the trees. Thousands of eyes were trained on Tony. Steve’s own heart was beating so quickly in his chest he thought it might burst.

“The truth is." Tony took a deep breath. "We are vampires.”

There was a moment of utter silence before the crowd erupted into almighty pandemonium. Tony stood with his head bowed and his hands clasped behind his back. As Steve looked over the masses, though, he saw more cheering than he did jeering or anger, which was a much better response than he initially thought it might be. Encouraged, he moved closer to Tony, pressing their shoulders together. Tony lifted his head to glance at him, a tiny smile spreading over his lips.

“People of York,” Tony continued on, voice rising above the uproar that began to die as he spoke, “we are vampires. And we have decided to dwell in secrets and shadows no longer; no one should need to hide what they are for fear of being outcast or hated. We will be complacent— no more.”

At last, he stepped away from the microphone, looking utterly spent. The roar of the crowd welled up once more, so great that it threatened to swallow them all whole.

But no one was throwing rocks, or food, or aiming a gun at them, so Steve was going to count this as a resounding victory.

And all victories should have a celebration, he thought as he reached out to take Tony’s hand. Tony looked over at him and smiled, weary but content, and Steve couldn’t help but smile back, a bit dopily.

Yes, they would have their celebration, but for the moment they just stood there, side by side, with team and family at their backs.