Chapter Text
The Prince and the Painter
or
Tri-color Composition: Green, Red, and Gold
A Christmas Entertainment
Chapter 1: Once Upon a Crime
The Genie Bottle Club, Brooklyn, New York, December 15th, Once upon a time
The boy making eyes at Tony was very pretty, but he wasn’t exactly Tony’s type.
He had the perfect bendy little body, but he was dark where Tony liked them fair, and the mesh tank/pierced nipple combo was a shade slutty for Tony’s tastes. Ideally, Tony liked a bit of mystery going in, something to unwrap behind bedroom doors, not that they’d make it to a bedroom. Considering the unholy thing the guy was currently doing to a cocktail straw, Tony wasn’t sure they’d make it to a bathroom stall.
Tony checked his watch: 11:46. It was early, at least by Tony’s standards, but he could do the dirty with this one and then find something to take home that looked less likely to carry syphilis. With that end in mind, Tony drained his drink, stuck his empty on the bar, and curved his mouth into a patented, no-fail, feral grin.
Two minutes later, he was in an alley with his pants around his ankles and the walking case of syphilis at his feet.
“Oooh, you’re so big, Daddy,” said Syphilis, licking his lips with all the subtlety you’d expect from a man wearing a mesh top in December.
“No,” Tony snorted, rolling his eyes. “Absolutely not. ‘Daddy’ makes me think of my own father, and I’d rather not, okay? You can call me ‘sir,’ ‘boss,’ or ‘Mr. Fantastic,’ but I don’t do ‘daddy.’”
He wished he’d taken a Viagra as his erection flagged a little out of despair. The walking case of syphilis had been a mistake. He wasn’t what Tony wanted, maybe wasn’t even something Tony could pretend to want. For exactly one millisecond, Tony entertained the fantasy of finding a real companion, somebody who actually liked him, somebody he could take to bed and still want to talk to the morning after. Somebody who definitely was not Mr. Nipple-rings. Yeah, Tony thought, sure. I’ll get right on that. Note to self: When you go back into the city’s seediest gay bar, be on the lookout for Boy wearing Ballgown and Glass Slippers.
“How about ‘faggot?’” said a cold voice, accompanied by the click of a gun being cocked. “Can I call you ‘faggot?’”
And just like that, Tony’s fantasies came crashing to the garbage-strewn ground.
The gunman stepped from the shadows, Glock aimed steadily at Tony’s center of mass. Tony gave him the once-over: black balaclava, two hands on the pistol, solid stance, and he wasn’t getting too close. This guy knew his way around a stick-up. A professional.
“‘Faggot’ is fine,” Tony said, putting up his hands. “I’m proudly reclaiming the term. Wallet’s in the back left pocket.”
Syphilis took the wallet along with Tony’s watch, his Starkphone, and his Tiffany tie bar, smirking the whole time. Tony smirked right back. You little shit, if you were half as smart you think you are, you’d get the sneakers, too.
“Now get on the ground,” said the man with the gun. “Face down. Hands behind your back. You’re gonna count to three hundred, and then you can leave.”
Preferring to keep his blood inside his body, Tony knelt on the pavement, bare knees against the cold ground.“Can I count by fives? It’s freezing out here. My testicles have basically crawled into my body cavity.”
“Sure, faggot.” The gunman kicked Tony in the small of his back, landing him face-first in a slushy pile of old, piss-smelling snow. A zip-tie bit into his wrists. “You can count however you want. Go ahead. Start counting.”
And that’s when Tony knew he was in real trouble.
He got as high as ‘five.’ After that, he was just grunting.
They kicked him in the guts, in the ribs, in the back of the head. In some small, dark corner of Tony’s mind, he wondered if it was midnight yet. If he was going to die anyway, he might as well make it to the 16th. He could picture it: a trio of matching Stark family tombstones, Mommy, Daddy, and Lil’ Tony, all with the same Deathiversay. It’d make a great stop on the cemetery tour. And, in a freak occurrence, son Anthony was murdered exactly seventeen years later. Seventeen years to the day, ladies and gentlemen! And what would his poor parents say about their boy getting kicked to death at the ripe old age of thirty-eight after a blow job gone wrong?
When the fourth kick caught him in the nuts, he stopped picturing much of anything but where the boot might hit his body next. He was just about to take it to the face when somebody shouted, “Hey! Hey! Leave him alone!”
The boot stopped an inch from Tony’s nose. They have a gun! Tony thought, but when he tried to make the thought into words, all he got out was a gasp. He curled up like an overcooked shrimp instead.
“Yeah? Or what?” The gunman sounded amused as he stepped over Tony’s prone body, advancing down the alley towards the street. “Whatcha think you’re gonna do, little man?”
And then a lot of things happened at once.
Tony heard a hiss, like a gas leak or maybe a can of hairspray, followed by anguished screams. There was a shot that sounded like a cannon in the echoey length of the alley, then the crazy whine of a ricochet. Syphilis took off at a run as soon as the pistol went off, and his still-screaming partner half-ran, half-stumbled after him. Tony watched their retreat all the way down the alley until they turned the corner onto the opposite street. When he couldn’t see them anymore, he closed his eyes, relieved that the violence was over at least. He wondered if his rescuer was dying somewhere in the snow. He knew he should find out, but he hurt everywhere, and he felt very tired all of a sudden. He’d find out in a minute; he just needed a little rest. Really, the ground was more comfortable than it looked.
“Hey, hey!” Just when Tony thought the worst was over, somebody started shaking him, then rolling him over. Tony groaned, cracking open his eyes. There was a new face above him, thin and serious, perfect pink pout, sandy bangs falling over the biggest, bluest Bambi eyes Tony had ever seen. Tony felt the urge to laugh; the timing was criminally bad. He’d have taken this pretty thing home in a heartbeat. If only he had run into this tender creature twenty minutes earlier, he might have been pants-less in his own bed instead of pants-less in a patch of yellow snow. For sure, he’d never have ventured into the alley with Mr. Nipple-rings.
“Hey!” The pretty thing peeled off his gloves and put a warm hand on Tony’s cheek to wipe away the snowy grime. “Hey, you with me? I called an ambulance. Try to stay awake, okay? What’s your name?”
“You can call me ‘sir,’ ‘boss,’ or ‘Mr. Fantastic,’” Tony wheezed.
“What?”
“For you, I’ll even be ‘daddy,’” Tony giggled. “You’re perfect. My god, I’m going to eat you with a spoon.” Vaguely, Tony recognized something was seriously wrong with the filtering system between his mouth and his brain.
The sweet, serious face above him got even more serious, the furrow between the brows deepening by several degrees. “I think you have a head injury.” The pretty thing sounded displeased. Tony didn’t like that.
“Tony,” Tony corrected apologetically. “It’s Tony.”
“Tony what?” There was a hand in Tony’s hair now, sifting through it carefully, checking for the injury Tony had no doubt was there. Tony shut his eyes. It felt so good to close them with those fingers combing through his hair.
“Tony Stark.” The hand in Tony’s hair stopped moving.
“Tony Stark? As in…Hey! Stay awake! You need to stay awake. Open your eyes.” Tony did, but it was very, very hard. His eyelids were heavier than usual.
“What’syourname?” Tony slurred.
“Steve—Hey! You’ve got to stay awake for me, Tony.”
“Steve. Can you…? Pants…?” It was getting harder to put his words together in logical sentences, but Steve knew what he needed anyway and hitched his boxers and pants back up around his cold-shriveled package. “Shrinkage,” Tony titter-slurred, closing his eyes again.
“Hey, hey,” Steve shook him, “you need to stay awake. An ambulance is going to be here any minute, alright?”
“Alright,” Tony agreed. Then he rolled over, threw up, and blacked out.
⁂
“So just what is it you do, Mr. Rogers?” Detective Hogan pointed at Steve with his pen.
“I already told the other guys.”
“Yeah, well, now you’re tellin’ me.”
Steve crossed his arms, a sign of both displeasure and cold. He’d been out on the street for more than an hour, and he was freezing, he was dirty, and he had already told everything he had to tell, first to the beat cops, then to the cops that rolled up in the cruiser, then to the paramedics, and now he was supposed to tell it again. “I’m a graduate student,” he said sourly, “and I work part-time at an antiques store. I’ve said this all three times—”
“And this, ah, graduate degree, is it in jiu jitsu or somethin’?”
“No,” Steve said flatly, not volunteering his course of study. He wondered what would happen if he just took off. He wasn’t under arrest, and Hogan—fat, middle-aged, and wearing oxfords—would never be able to keep up with him.
“What’s it in?” Hogan prompted when Steve wasn’t forthcoming.
“Fine arts,” Steve said reluctantly, forcing down the urge to run for it. “Drawing and painting.”
“Uh huh. And just where do you matriculate, Mr. Rogers?”
“Pratt.”
“Pratt,” Hogan echoed, jotting something in his notebook. “Fancy. Good school.”
Steve shrugged, not dignifying the non-question with a response. It was a good school, and it was fancy. And very, very expensive. Even with his scholarship, Steve was barely scraping by, if he was scraping by at all. It didn’t help that his master’s thesis was a collection of large scale oils, and his paints were twenty-five bucks a tube.
“So, Steven Grant Rogers,” Hogan said speculatively, “graduate student at Pratt Institute, residing at 569 Leaman Place, Brooklyn, New York, Apartment 4A.”
“Yep,” Steve said petulantly. “Just like I told the other guys.”
“And what’s a college boy like you doin’ here?” Hogan pointed at The Genie Bottle with his pen. The club had shut down following the fight, and the police were inside questioning witnesses. “Dancing? Drinking? Maybe cruising for—?”
Steve looked incredulously down at his filthy, paint-speckled khakis and beat-up loafers; it wasn’t exactly club gear. “I was walking home from the library.”
“Kinda late for the library, ain’t it?”
“The library at Pratt is open til eleven. I left when it closed.”
“What were you doing there so late on a Saturday?”
“Homework,” Steve said evenly. For the first time that evening, he’d just lied to the authorities. All his assignments for the semester were complete and submitted; his last day of class had been the previous week. Instead, he’d been doing what he did every night, which was hang out and read books until close. The library was ten times warmer than his apartment, and enjoying their heat and electricity was free.
“Can someone confirm your whereabouts?”
“Natalie Rushman. She works night shift at the circulation desk.”
The detective wrote down ‘Natalie Rushman’ in his little notebook. “So you were walking home from the library. Then what?”
“I heard a fight in the alley as I was going by. Saw a guy on the ground getting the mess kicked out of him.”
“The guy in question being Tony Stark. Did you recognize him, Mr. Rogers?”
“No.” Actually, Steve was still having trouble believing that part. The handsome man with the dark hair and Van Dyke beard had been tech billionaire Tony Stark. The Tony Stark, who had thrown up a puddle of scotch in Steve’s lap. The Tony Stark, who Steve now knew had the grooming habits of a porn star. The Tony Stark, who had told Steve he was going to eat him with a spoon—
“How tall would you say you are, Mr. Rogers? 5’4”?”
“That’s what it says on my license.”
“And you weigh…what? A buck ten, more or less?”
The answer was ‘less,’ but Steve wasn’t about to say so. “Yeah.”
“And you, Mr. Rogers, you single-handedly fought off two armed assailants, thereby preventing Mr. Stark from being beaten to death in an alley behind a gay club.”
“Yeah,” Steve glowered. “You got a problem with it?” A little more Brooklyn seeped into his accent than usual.
“Did you know the assailants? Maybe you saw them in the club?” Hogan asked in a ham-fisted attempt to get Steve to change his story.
Does that ever work on anybody? Steve wondered, rolling his eyes. “No. I told you already. I wasn’t in the club. I was at the library. I’ve never been in the club. I don’t go to places like that.”
“Okay, okay,” Hogan held up his hands in surrender. “There any witnesses to this heroic feat of bravery, Mr. Rogers?”
“Yes. But they took one of them away on a stretcher and the other two didn’t stick around to talk. You can ask Stark what happened when he wakes up.”
“I’ll do that. But right now I’m askin’ you.”
Steve rolled his eyes again. “I yelled down the alley, and when the guy with the gun came towards me, I shot him with the mace. Then he and the other guy took off. I called 911. That’s it.”
“When did the gun go off?”
“After I sprayed the mace.”
“And the shooter was aiming at you?”
Steve shrugged. “Maybe. Hard to aim if you can’t see. I got him in the eyes.”
“You still got the can?” Steve produced the empty mace canister from his messenger bag and handed it over. “You always carry this?” The detective asked, sealing it in a Ziploc marked EVIDENCE.
“I walk home alone late at night, and I weigh 100 lbs,” Steve said irritably. “As you pointed out.”
“You ever use it on anybody before?”
“Yeah. But nobody that didn’t have it coming.”
Something in the detective’s face softened then. Pity, Steve thought, stomach turning sour. The detective pitied him for being tiny and getting picked on. Steve had liked it better when Hogan had hinted he might be a liar or in cahoots with the thieves.
“Okay, Rogers,” Hogan said, “just one more and I’ll cut you loose: did you know they had a gun when you went down the alley?”
“Yes.” He’d seen the glint of the muzzle in the streetlight, but gun or no gun, he wasn’t going to stand around watching a man get kicked to death with his pants down. “That’s why I didn’t wait to pull the trigger.”
“Mmm,” hummed the detective with a wondering shake of the head, “you know, you are either very, very brave or very, very stupid. Either way, the city’s gonna love you. Get ready, ‘cause you’re gonna be hot shit come the Sunday papers.”
“No,” Steve said quickly. “I don’t want that. Those other cops said they could keep my name out of it.” The very idea of talking to reporters and having his picture taken made Steve start to sweat. He didn’t think he’d be too good at anything like that. He wasn’t anything anybody wanted to see on television.
“You wanna be anonymous?” Hogan’s brow wrinkled as he looked Steve up and down, from the needs-a-haircut north to the needs-new-shoes south. “I’ll be honest with you, kid, there’s money in this. The real papers won’t pay, but the tabloids cut some fat checks for hot interviews, and a sit-down with the hometown hero who rescued Tony Stark from a couple of punks is gonna be red hot.”
“Keep my name out of it.”
“You sure? You know Stark is gonna want to thank you, right? You saved his life. Even if those guys didn’t beat him to death, he'd of died from exposure. I've seen it plenty.”
Steve hesitated—he did want to speak to Tony Stark again, just for a minute, just to see that he was alright. But Stark would think what the detective had, that Steve was small and shabby, that he was pitiable. Worse, Stark would probably think he was just like a million other little people grasping at his money and time, and they’d both come away feeling bad.
“Keep me out of it,” Steve said again. He wouldn’t tarnish his good deed with some crass, embarrassing bid for fame or money, not even when he had a stack of unpaid bills on the kitchen table.
Virtue is its own reward, he told himself as he walked home. Too bad they didn’t take virtue as payment at major retailers.
Erskine’s Antiques & Watch Repair, Brooklyn, New York, December 16th, Sunday Afternoon
Steve was having a hard time deciding if the guy was a real customer or just a looky-loo. The man in the green coat had been in the store an hour with nothing picked out, but there was a weird intensity to his search of the crowded shelves.
“You sure I can’t help you?” Steve asked for the umpteenth time.
“No,” the customer said in his sharp British accent. “As I said before, I’m just browsing.” But the man’s systematic search of every shelf didn’t look like any kind of browsing Steve had ever seen. It was more like he was looking for something very particular, something he knew was there if only he could find it.
“Okay,” Steve shrugged, “well, let me know if you change your mind.” He went back to his sketchbook, watching the man from the corner of his eye. He’d made the man’s nose too short, so he sketched it in longer, sharper. Everything about him was either long or sharp or both. Long, dark hair. Long green coat. Sharp cheeks. Sharp chin.
“Alright.” The man in the green coat slapped his hand flat on the counter, making Steve jump; Steve would’ve sworn the guy had been all the way in the back of the shop not a second before. It was like he’d teleported.
“Alright?” Steve repeated.
“Yes, alright,” the man in the green coat snipped, “I need help.” It clearly bothered him, as if Steve’s help was somehow beneath him. “I’m looking for something. I know it’s here, but I can’t find it in all this useless human tat.”
Useless human tat. That was a phrase you didn’t hear too much. Steve flipped his sketchbook shut and slid off his stool. “What are you looking for?”
The man in the green coat cocked his head, considering. Finally, he said, “A paperweight.”
“Okay. We got paperweights.” They had some nice ones, French millefiori pieces filled with tiny glass flowers. Steve came around the counter, moving towards a display case in the middle of the cluttered store.
“No, no, no, not those,” the man in the green coat said irritably. “I’ve seen those. The one I’m looking for is larger. Like this.” He held up his hand, curling his long white fingers into an illustrative cup. “It’s cut like a gem.”
Steve crossed his arms, thinking. “Glass?”
“No. It’s…let’s call it heavy crystal. And it’s very old. A real antique. An artifact. The surface is clouded with age.”
A bell rang in Steve’s mind. “It’s green.”
“Yes.” The man’s expression turned hungry, his face longer and sharper now than ever before. “You’ve got it, then.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” The man narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean 'maybe?'“
“Just what I said. Maybe. I gotta check something in inventory first. Be right back.”
“But—”
Steve dashed off, ducking between the shelves and into Mr. Erskine’s private office at the back. As usual, Steve’s nominal boss was bent over a pocket watch with a jeweler’s loupe screwed into his eye. “Hey,” Steve said, pointing at the desk, “can I sell that?”
Mr. Erskine’s bald head remained bent over his watch gears. “Sell what? The paperweight?”
“Yeah. I got a guy out here that wants it. Must be some kind of collector.”
“Sure.” Mr. Erskine fiddled with a spring. “I don’t even remember where it came from.” Steve picked up the hunk of green crystal from a pile of invoices and started towards the door, but Mr. Erskine called after him. “Wait, Steven. One moment.” He took the loupe from his eye, gesturing towards the paperweight. “How do I have it priced?”
Steve turned the weight around in his hands, locating its little yellow sticker. “Thirteen dollars.”
Mr. Erskine stood up and moved to the door. He opened it a crack, studying the customer—his hair, his clothes—then he eased it shut again. “For him, it’s sixty.”
“Sixty?” Steve asked skeptically. “For this? It’s all scratched.”
“Sixty,” Mr. Erskine said firmly. He took the paperweight from Steve’s hand and peeled off the price sticker before handing it back.
Steve frowned. “Is that ethical?”
“No,” Mr. Erskine chuckled. “Of course it’s not ethical. It’s capitalism. And under capitalism, prices rise to what the market will bear. You say he’s a collector after this certain piece? Then he’ll pay for it. He can certainly afford it, and you need new shoes. Put thirteen on the books, and you keep the rest.”
Steve looked down at his battered loafers self-consciously. “Alright,” Steve agreed reluctantly. He really did need shoes. He needed a lot of things. “I’ll tell him fifty.”
“Sixty, Steven,” Mr. Erskine warned, ushering Steve out the door, “or I’ll come out there and sell it myself for a hundred.”
Slapping on a professionally pleasant expression, Steve made his way back to the counter. “I found your paperweight,” he said, holding it up for inspection. “Had it in the back.”
“Wonderful,” said the man in the green coat, breaking into the first smile Steve had seen from him. Steve found he didn’t like it; the guy’s teeth were too sharp. “How much?” Instead of a wallet, he pulled out a green velvet bag.
“Sixty bucks.” Steve eyed the bag dubiously. It looked like it was full of coins. Surely this guy wasn’t about to pay with loose change?
“Sixty?” The man laughed. “I don’t think so. The price is thirteen.” He emptied the bag on the counter, and exactly thirteen gold Sacagawea dollars fell out. Steve frowned at the money. Something peculiar was going on, something that made the hairs stand up on the back of Steve’s neck.
“Boss says sixty. Plus tax.”
“No,” the man countered. “The price is thirteen. No more, no less. I will give you thirteen pieces of gold, and you will give me the—the paperweight. It must be thirteen. It is written.”
“Well, I don’t know what’s written,” Steve said uneasily, “but the boss says it must be sixty plus tax, so—”
“We’ll make a deal,” the man in the green coat wheedled. “Thirteen pieces of gold and whatever else your foolish human heart desires. Just say the word, and it’s yours? How does that sound? Fair?”
Steve didn’t know quite what to do with that one. “So you want to pay thirteen in cash and put the rest on a card, or—?”
The man had started to move his hands in a peculiar, precise way. It looked a little like the tai chi Steve saw the old people doing in Prospect Park. ”What will it be, Steven Rogers? Genius? Beauty? Strength beyond that of other men? Absolute power? What is your heart’s desire?”
Steve glanced towards the back of the shop. Right now, his heart’s desire was for Mr. Erskine to come to the counter. This was getting strange. He definitely hadn’t told this guy his name, so why did he know it? How did he know that the paperweight had worn a thirteen dollar sticker? How—?
“Don’t trouble yourself with the details,” the man said breezily, as if Steve had spoken aloud. “What about riches, Steven? Mortals always like riches. Do you desire riches?”
What Steve desired was for this commercial transaction to end. He suspected this guy was crazy. “Well, sure, I guess, but I’d settle for sixty plus tax.”
The man’s eyes flashed an unnatural green and his hands began moving faster. “Riches, then. That’s simple enough. Picture it, Steven. Picture it. Riches enough that you’ll never know cold. Never know hunger. You will want for nothing.”
Something weird was happening with the overhead lights, their beams bending into rainbows, and the air was thickening like syrup. Time seemed to slow. Steve felt weird, too, light-headed and feverish, like he was suddenly coming down with something…
“That’s it,” the man in the green coat cooed. “Manifest.” Images began to appear in Steve’s mind, so sharp and clear they might’ve been real: A new pair of waterproof shoes. A toasty warm apartment. A stack of mail without a single unpaid bill. A cab ride late at night instead of a cold walk home.
“Ugh,” the man in the green coat rolled his eyes, “how pedestrian. You’re supposed to be an artist. Make it beautiful.”
A fresh tube of scarlet vermilion. A new sable brush. A thick-grained roll of cotton canvas.
“Oh for heaven’s sake!” Apparently, art supplies weren’t right either. “Don’t you know what riches are, Steven? Never mind. I’ll find something myself.”
Steve felt fingers slip into his mind. There was no other way to describe it—someone was rooting around in there, riffling through his memories like they were folders in a filing cabinet.
A case of Egyptian amulets at the Met, gold and silver and electrum. The window displays at Bergdorf’s. Scrooge McDuck swimming through an ocean of coins on the television in the living room.
“It’s all behind glass,” the man in the green coat said with frustration. “I need something tactile. How am I supposed to—wait a minute.”
A wool suit. Expensive aftershave. Silk boxers. The kind of body only money could buy, every inch of tan skin and sleek muscle professionally maintained. Even lying face down in an alley, this man was the most opulent thing Steve had ever seen up close, let alone touched…
“Oh,” The man in green purred low, “that’s perfect. Perfect.”
A matte black credit card with no limit. A palatial apartment with panoramic views of Manhattan. Fine artwork. His very own Jackson Pollock, a wild scrawl of black on white. A Rothko in red and gold—Wait, Steve thought urgently, wait a second. I don’t think those are mine—
“I told you, don’t worry about the details. Now put it here. Put the gem here in my hand.”
Steve picked up the paperweight. It was heavier than it had been five minutes before, and hotter, almost too hot to hold. He tried to put it back down, but he found he couldn’t. His body no longer seemed to be under his control. The whirling hands of the man in the green coat came to an abrupt stop, and Steve dropped the weight into his still palm. There was a flash of green light so bright Steve threw up an arm to cover his eyes. When he lowered it, he found himself alone in the shop. The gold coins were stacked neatly on the counter along with Steve’s sketch of the man in the green coat. Beneath the drawing, someone had scrawled a note in an ornate hand:
ꀤ.ꂦ.ꀎ.
Steve blinked and shivered, unsure what had just happened. Feeling dazed, he collected the coins and put them in the register. Then he folded up the sketch and put it deep in his pocket. “Mr. Erskine!” he called, heading for the door. “Mr. Erskine, I’m going on break!” He didn’t wait for an answer, didn’t put on his coat, just pushed out into the weak December sun.
Stark Tower, the Penthouse, Manhattan, Sunday night, Early-ish by Tony’s Standards
“How is this my fault? I’m the victim here!”
“You were wearing a hundred and fifty thousand dollar watch, Tony!” Pepper held up an accusatory copy of the New York Times. On the front page, right under the fold, there was a color picture of Tony unconscious and strapped to a gurney, emergency lights flashing in the background. “You went into an alley with a total stranger! A man whose name you don’t even know!”
“You’re saying I was asking for it?”
“Of course you were asking for it! What did you think was going to happen!?”
“The same thing that’s happened every other time I’ve gone into an alley wearing a watch! I thought I was going to get a blow job!”
Pepper’s hands clenched the paper, like she was resisting the urge to ball it up and throw it at him. “You aren’t going to that club again, Tony. You aren’t going anywhere.”
“I am, actually. Wrong on both counts.” Tony straightened his tie in the mirror and then shot his cuffs. He was feeling pretty good, all things considered. His family jewels were fine, and his concussion headache was minor. He even looked okay, at least with his clothes on. There were some massive bruises on his torso, but his face was largely spared, and his hair covered the staples across the base of his skull. All in all, he felt like he’d gotten away with something. He suspected Pep would disagree.
“It’ll be fine,” he said soothingly. “Just for you, I’ll keep the watch selection to budget models for the rest of the year.”
“I don’t know why you do this,” she said, hopeless.
“Yes, you do,” he countered, flipping open a watch case. “It’s how I cope with the holidays. I do it every year. Don’t act surprised.” He perused the timepieces and picked a very reasonable Hublot. At just $13,000 or so, it was less than a low-mileage used Honda.
“You just got out of the hospital.”
“I sure did. And now I’m celebrating.” He took a bottle of mixed pills from his pocket, shook out a selection, and then popped them in his mouth.
“What was that?” Pepper asked, on high alert.
"What are you? A drug-sniffing dog?"
“Tony—”
“All things I have a prescription for. Vicodin, Viagra, and a caffeine pill. I call it the Velvet Hammer. I promise I won’t mix it with alcohol.” He added a pair of tinted glasses, the perfect camouflage for his faintly black eye.
“What can I do?” Pep had moved on to the bargaining stage. “What can I do to keep you from going out?”
“Marry me,” Tony said breezily. “Keep my bed warm every night. Have my babies.”
“You’re gay.”
“Only mostly. I like pussy sometimes. I’d be good to you. You know I love you.”
“I love you, too, Tony. But I can’t date you. I’ve seen what you sleep with.”
“Everyone’s seen what I sleep with, Pep,” Tony said, shrugging on his coat. “That’s the problem. It’s why I can’t meet nice people. Which is why I let mesh-wearing strangers blow me in back alleys. Which is why I can’t meet nice people. It’s a vicious cycle.”
“You could try doing something else,” she said, grasping at straws. He felt bad; he could hear how desperate she was, but this time of year, so was he. Even if he gave in and stayed home tonight, he’d just be out breaking her heart tomorrow. “Couldn’t you at least use Grindr?” she begged. “Then they could come to you here. It’d be safer. I could—”
“You’re going to be my bouncer? That’s sweet of you. But you know I like to touch the merchandise before I bring it home, Pep.” He kissed her cheek on the way out of his dressing room. “I’ll be fine.”
“Call me when you get in,” she insisted, snagging him by the trailing ends of his scarf, turning him back around so she could button his coat. “Promise me. I don’t care what time it is. And no back alleys.”
“No,” he agreed. “I learned my lesson there. I’ll stick to blowies in the second floor bathroom.”
“Maybe you’ll meet somebody nice tonight.” She tied his scarf and sighed to herself. “It is theoretically possible.”
“Theoretically. I mean, last night, I met the man of my dreams, and he saved my life, though not in that order.”
”Wait,” Pepper’s brow furrowed, “is that what this is? Are you about to go looking for him?”
“Of course,” Tony snorted. “Why the hell else would I go back to the club where I was robbed and beaten? I mean, the DJ is good, but not that good.”
“The police said he wanted to remain anonymous. He doesn’t want to be found, Tony.”
“Yeah, well, neither did Cinderella. But Prince Charming hunted her back to her lair like some kind of prey animal. That’s true romance. Don’t wait up.”
Pratt Institute Library, Brooklyn, Sunday night, Closing time
“So did you go to the police?”
“No, of course not. Why would I do that?”
“The guy robbed you, Steve,” Nat said, like he was stupid. “And that note he left is creepy.” She handed it back, and Steve returned it to his wallet.
“Did he rob us, though? He paid the sticker price. Anyway, I talked to enough cops last night to last me the rest of my life.”
“Yeah. You’ve had a weird couple of days.” Nat picked up her bag of dance gear, backed up for a running start, then performed a grand jeté as she leaped over the circulation desk.
“One day, you’re gonna break something doing that,” Steve observed.
“But not today. Come on. Keep me company while I check for sleepers.” They made the required circuit of all the library’s floors, checking for anyone napping and flipping off lights. “You know, I can’t believe you asked the magical mystery man for money, Rogers.”
“Not money. Riches. There’s some kind of difference, I think.”
“If you say so. You know, Steve, next time somebody who might be a genie offers to grant your wish, ask for something you really want.”
“Right,” Steve snorted, “next time. Next time that guy comes in, I’m calling Bellevue for a pick-up. Also, what’s wrong with riches?”
“You’re the least mercenary person I know, Rogers. Let’s say your fairy godmother shows up right here, right now and offers you the choice between a hundred million dollars or true love, which one do you pick?”
“My fairy godmother?” Steve rubbed the back of his neck, considering. “Probably true love. I don’t know, though. Love spells seem like cheating. Why? What would you pick?”
“The money. The money every time.”
They made their way to the front door. Nat turned off the lobby lights, punched her closing code into the alarm pad to lock the doors, and then they went out into the cold night. The library was officially closed through the New Year. “You sure you won’t come home with me for Christmas tomorrow?” Nat asked him, pulling on her gloves. “It’s festive. We go and fight over which tree to cut at the tree farm and then overcook a turkey.”
“I can’t. I already promised Mrs. Erskine I was coming.” It was a lie, and unlike the one he’d told to Detective Hogan, he felt bad about it. He’d told the parallel story to Mr. Erskine, that he was going to spend Christmas in the city with Nat. The actual truth went like this: The Erskines were going to Florida this year to see extended family, and while Steve longed to go to Ohio, he couldn’t afford the bus fare or the missed hours at work; Mr. Erskine was paying Steve to run the store while he and his wife were in Sarasota. But Steve alone in New York would’ve made everybody feel bad. It was better for Nat if she pictured Mrs. Erskine stuffing him with weinerschnitzel, better for the Erskines if they pictured him trimming a tree with Natalie. Steve thought of the lies as a sort of psychic Christmas present, one of the few he could afford.
“Well, okay, then,” Nat said, hugging him on the front steps, “if you’re sure. I don’t know why you’d pick delicious food and people being pleasant to each over dry turkey and arguing, but whatever. Merry Christmas, I guess.” She released his neck and then dug in her bag, bringing out a small wrapped package. “Here. Open it now, since you won’t come to Ohio.”
“Nat, you shouldn’t have,” he said, meaning it. She was on scholarship, too, and though her family sent her what they could, Nat’s finances were tight. Inside the bright paper, there was a brand new tube of cadmium yellow.
“I went through your paint box and found the one that was emptiest,” she explained.
“Thank you, Nat. Thank you so much.” She’d just saved him from a week of nothing but ramen. He stowed the paint in his coat pocket and then brought his own present from his messenger bag. “Here. Sorry it isn’t wrapped.”
“Oh, Steve,” Nat breathed. It was a matted pastel drawing of Nat in a tutu, her red hair glowing in the stage lights.
“I snuck into some of your rehearsals. I was going for Degas.”
“It’s better than Degas,” she said fiercely, hugging him again. “It’s beautiful.”
“So is the model. Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas. Stay out of trouble while I’m gone. No more heroic rescues with gun play. No more daylight robberies.”
“I’ll do my best.”
They went their separate ways on the sidewalk, with Nat walking to the subway station and Steve making his way towards his cold, lonely apartment. No man is a failure who has friends, Steve thought, fingers closing around the tube of paint in his pocket. He was reaching for a lot of hopeful aphorisms these days, he noticed, which was never a good sign. You didn’t generally have to console yourself with proverbs when things were going right.
The Genie Bottle Club, Brooklyn, 11:45 pm
Cinderella wasn’t at the ball.
Tony had examined every twink, twank, and twunk in the place, and he had come up empty. In retrospect, his plan had been pretty stupid. What sane person would come back to the same club where they’d been involved in a violent crime? Still, he’d had this sense about it, that if he came back, he’d find Steve. Steve and those big, blue Bambi eyes.
Tony sighed and drained his glass of tonic water, then leaned over the bar to catch the barkeep’s attention. It was time to stop moping and cut his losses. If he didn’t want to go home alone, he needed to focus up. There were still a couple of hours to close, but it was a Sunday, and the place was emptying out. He’d close his tab and then pick out somebody to take home.
“Yes?” The bartender asked.
“I need to close out. I had a tonic and lime,” Tony handed over a twenty. “Keep the change.” Actually, the barkeeper was pretty interesting: pale skin, long dark hair, bright green eyes set in a lean, foxy face. “Hey,” Tony said, shooting his shot, “what gets you off? Excuse me, sorry, little Freudian slip of the tongue, there. What time do you get off?”
The bartender pocketed the money, and his mouth curved into a wicked smile, sharp and shiny. “Midnight.”
“Yeah? Got any plans?”
“No, but you do. Shame. We’d have had a lovely time.” Tony was about to insist they still could when the bartender slid over a slip of paper. “I heard you asking about the man who stopped the fight last night.”
Tony’s heart stopped. “Wait. This isn’t—?”
The bartender just smiled his knives out smile, and Tony snatched up the paper, reading the weird, serial killer script by dance light:
ꌗ꓄ꍟꃴꍟ ꋪꂦꁅꍟꋪꌗ, 𝟝𝟞𝟡 ꒒ꍟꍏꂵꍏꈤ ꉣ꒒ꍏꉓꍟ, ꍏꉣ꓄ 𝟜𝔸
“This is great. You don’t have his number, do…?” Tony asked, turning back to the bar, but the green-eyed bartender was nowhere to be seen. He used his fresh, new Starkphone to map the address: close, just a few, tantalizing streets away. Bartender completely forgotten, Tony practically ran to coat check, throwing down too much tip in exchange for his coat and the big bouquet of red roses he’d bought on impulse from a street vendor, just in case he ran into Steve and needed material assistance to persuade him to go out to dinner.
It was only a five minute cab ride to Leaman Place, a sleepy residential street lined with pre-war buildings and shade trees in tiny wrought-iron fences. Plus or minus some Model-T Fords, everything was more or less exactly the same as it had been a hundred years ago. 569 was a small apartment building, just four stories, with English ivy crawling up its face. Someone had white-washed it, though not recently, and the bricks showed through the worn paint. Tony bounded up the stairs, scanning the names beside the buzzers until he found the one he was looking for: S. Rogers. Tony craned his neck, looking up at the fourth floor windows. They were all dark; Steve Rogers was out for the evening or asleep. Either way, Tony wouldn’t ring the bell.
At least not that one.
While the whole fourth floor was dark, the second floor was lit up like a Christmas tree. A party. Tony started mashing buzzers, watching as some lights came on in previously darkened rooms—whoops, collateral damage—but he kept mashing until he finally got a cheerful, “Ho, ho, yo! Who’s this?”
“Tony.”
“What’s the password?”
“I’ve got coke?” Tony hazarded, hoping it was that kind of party.
“Fuck yeah! I’m dreaming of a white Christmas!” Tony heard the buzzer, more magical than the jingle of any sleigh bell, and he let himself into the darkened foyer. Gloomy motion-sensor lights turned themselves on, revealing mile-high ceilings, a couple cobwebs, and floors that had needed refinishing fifty years ago. There was no elevator, so Tony took the narrow stairs up to the second floor. It was easy to find the right apartment; the door was already open, the party having spilled out onto the landing. He waded through the crowd of twenty-somethings in sequins and novelty sweaters until he found the kitchen. He rummaged in the cabinets, coming up with a cheap plastic pitcher. He would’ve liked a vase, but beggars—or thieves, really—can’t be choosers, and he filled it halfway with water and added his roses. Smiling, he maneuvered back through the crowd and up the stairs to his real destination.
The fourth floor was quiet; he couldn’t hear any noise from the apartments, only the muted hum of the party drifting up the stairs. He put his roses and their stolen pitcher as an offering in front of Steve Rogers’ door, then he plopped down cross-legged on the floor. He fished around in his coat, recovering a slightly bent Tony Stark, CEO business card and one of the cheap Stark Industries pens that seemed to breed in his pockets. But what was he going to say? The red roses would have to do the heavy lifting; seven square inches wasn’t enough room for a proper love letter.
Dinner? he wrote, followed by his personal number, but it didn’t feel like enough. Would a couple xs and os be too much? Then again, three dozen red roses were already too much. There was something he should write down, some series of magic words that would ensure Steve called him. He chewed on the end of his pen, staring at paper, shuffling phrases in his head—
There was a polite cough on the landing, and Tony’s head popped up.
Steve Rogers was standing there, watching him.
⁂
The Tony Stark, alive and whole, was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Steve’s apartment. It was peculiar, seeing someone whose life Steve had saved. It took his breath away a little bit—the last time Steve had seen him, Tony Stark had been strapped to the back of a gurney, unconscious, bloody, clothes hanging off, and now here he was, looking every bit like the man Steve had seen on the cover of magazines…at least almost. The clothes were magazine ready—camel hair coat, pinstripe suit, and those ridiculous tinted glasses—but the face wasn’t right. The edge of a faint black eye was peeking out around Tony’s dark frames, and his expression was completely unguarded as he gnawed at his pen, glaring down at a blank card like it had insulted his mother. It made Steve feel oddly tender, this peek behind Tony Stark’s public mask. You shouldn’t even be out tonight, Steve thought. Who let you do that?
Steve took another step down the hall, clearing his throat, and Tony’s face snapped up. For a second Tony looked like a deer caught in headlights, wide-eyed, and then he broke into an undignified scramble. A moment later, he was back on his feet with a giant bouquet of red roses, dozens of them spilling over the sides of a dinky plastic pitcher.
“Hi,” Tony said, slightly breathless. “The party on the second floor let me in. I know this is weird and vaguely stalker-ish, but please don’t be mad.”
“I’m not mad. I’m glad to see you.”
“Yeah?” Tony sounded like he couldn’t quite believe his luck.
“Yeah. I’m happy to see you’re okay.”
“I brought you flowers.” Tony nodded down at the mass of velvety blooms. “I was going to leave them for you, but the card is giving me fits. Help me with it?” He smiled flirtatiously, inviting Steve to play. Steve just hoped he knew the rules.
“Alright. What did you want to say?”
“I don’t know exactly. What do you say to the guy that saves you from being beaten to death in an alley with your pants down?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay, I won’t. That was easy.” Tony held out the roses, pitcher and all, and Steve took them. Their fingers grazed during the transfer, and the contact sent an unexpected shiver down Steve’s spine. Tony sensed it somehow, or maybe he felt it, too, because his smile deepened, and he took a half-step closer. Steve was suddenly aware of how tall Tony was, how broad his shoulders were, the exact amount of space he took up in the hall. Tony wasn’t a big man, but he had six inches on Steve and at least eighty pounds of muscle. I’m going to eat you with a spoon, he heard in Tony’s concussed slur from the previous evening.
“Thank you for the flowers,” Steve said, hoping his voice sounded stronger than it felt. “You shouldn’t have.”
“You’re right. I shouldn’t,” Tony agreed. “Three dozen red roses. It’s entirely too many. You probably owe me a favor now.” Tony moved forward a little more, nibbling away at Steve's personal space.
“Is that right?” Steve’s pulse was picking up.
“That’s right. And I’m calling it in: tell me what my note should say if I want to take you to dinner.”
And now Steve’s pulse was racing away. Tony Stark, The Tony Stark had just handed him three dozen red roses and asked him out to dinner. The Tony Stark who had slept with half the men on both coasts. He shouldn’t let this go further. He was happy to have seen Tony alive and well, but that needed to be enough. “Little late for dinner.”
“How about tomorrow? Unless it's tomorrow already, in which case, can I take you out to dinner in, I don’t know, eighteen hours or so?”
“I’d like that,” Steve said, surprising himself. Maybe the roses were going to his head. The fragrance was filling the hallway, heavy in the air.
“Great," Tony said, grinning. "Fabulous. God, you’re good at writing notes. And I love that I don't even have to write them. Can we patent this? The IRL voice memo?”
“I think the in-person voice memo might just be a conversation,” Steve pointed out; he could feel himself smiling back. “Can't patent that.”
“I don’t know. Imagine an app with a helpful AI assistant to help you with all your voice memo needs. Here, we’ll try it: Hey, kittentits—that’s your wake word—”
Steve gave a laugh and shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Lamb chop?”
“No.”
“Sweet cheeks?”
“Try again.”
“Steve?” Steve. Tony Stark knew his name, and Steve liked how it sounded from his mouth. Somehow, Tony had made it as much of a tease as ‘kittentits.’
“Yes, Tony?”
“Help me draft a voice memo.” Tony took another tiny step, his fingertips grazing Steve’s waist, the barest of touches.
“Alright,” Steve said, his voice just a little tight.
“Tell me what I need to say to get in your apartment.”
Steve swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. He shouldn’t let Tony Stark in his apartment in the middle of the night. His apartment was freezing cold, the fridge was empty, his bed wasn’t made, and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d pulled out the vacuum. In fact, he shouldn’t let Tony Stark in his apartment ever, at all. Good night, thanks again for the flowers, he should say. I have to work in the morning, but I’ll see you at dinner—
“Just for a nightcap?” Tony bargained.
“I don’t keep alcohol,” Steve admitted, figuring that’d be the end of it, but Tony Stark’s face lit up like he’d just won some kind of game and been handed a silver cup. Steve wondered if all conversations were games to him. Steve suspected he was losing.
“How convenient,” Tony said happily. “I’m not supposed to mix cocktails with my prescriptions. Now I won’t even be tempted.” Tony’s finger drew a tiny circle right over the point of Steve’s hip, and the movement sent an electric jolt down Steve’s spine. He hadn't been touched in a long, long time, not with intention.
“I think all I’ve got is water,” Steve said unsteadily.
“Great. Water’s great. My PA is constantly trying to make me drink more water. Human body’s like, what? 60% water? We’re all just walking around…wet.” Tony’s big, brown eyes flicked to Steve’s mouth and back again, making his desire plain. Tony would kiss him, if he wanted it. Hell, if the papers could be believed, Tony would do a lot more than that…
“Steve?” Tony prompted.
“I just—I don’t do this,” Steve said, out of excuses and down to the truth.
“Do what? Turn on your tap for strangers?”
“I don’t do one night stands.”
“Well, I’m taking you out to dinner. There’s two nights taken care of. Who knows what’ll happen after that? We could be picking out china patterns by the end of the year.” Tony drew another tiny circle on Steve’s hip, and Steve couldn’t find the resolve to step away. “If you want, you can count yesterday as our first date. I mean, I’m pretty sure you already got to third.”
Blood rushed to Steve’s face and then spread in a hot flush down his neck. “You asked me to—your pants—you—”
“I know,” Tony said immediately. “I remember. I’m sorry. I’m kidding.” His smile went soft and apologetic, and his circling finger fell away. “You want me to go?”
“I do have to work in the morning.”
“Sure. Your wish is my command,” Tony said, stepping back with a determined smile that only made him look more disappointed than he might have otherwise. “I think I’ll head downstairs and crash that Christmas party. Find me if you change your mind.” He started to leave, and Steve felt the impulse to reach out and grab him back.
“Wait.” Tony paused at the edge of the steps. “Wait. I wish—” But he couldn’t finish it, didn’t know the words to say to get what he wanted.
Tony came back down the hall, one step at a time, until he was just a breath away, the roses pressing his chest. “What do you wish?” he asked.
Steve wished Tony would put his hand back on his hip and keep drawing those little circles. He wished Tony would come inside his shitty apartment and tactfully ignore how shitty it was. He wished…
He heard Nat’s voice in his head: Next time somebody offers to grant your wish, ask for something you really want. Who did Steve think he was kidding? Tony Stark was handsome, funny, and had wanted to track him down badly enough to either hire a private investigator or bribe the police. He’d brought him roses, asked him out to dinner. And now Tony was offering to let Steve put his hands all over his beautiful body, at least for one night. That was worth something, and Steve wanted it. Who wouldn’t want it?
“Can we go to your place?” Steve blurted before he could think better of it.
Tony grinned like he’d won another prize. Instead of answering, he leaned down for the kiss. Steve went tense. He was bad at kissing, so he’d been told. Too stiff. But Tony just waited him out, put a hand on the back of his neck, holding steady, pressing undemanding kisses to Steve’s mouth until something gave way in Steve’s chest and shoulders, the tension bleeding away under Tony’s palm. The tip of Tony’s tongue flickered against his lips, a gentle question. Steve decided to answer it. He opened his mouth, just a crack, and their tongues melted together, warm and soft. Desire flared in his body; he felt hot all over. More, he thought, and Tony moaned low in his throat, like he’d heard Steve’s thought and liked it. Tony crowded Steve up against the door, kissing him deeper. The roses were getting crushed, and the fragrance drifted up around them, fresh green and petal sweet.
Steve couldn’t remember kissing like this before; it was like Tony could read his mind, or maybe he could read Tony’s. It was effortless, easy in a way it had never been with anyone else, energy and movement flowing back and forth between them. Like dancing, Steve thought, and he could see Natalie on the stage, her lithe body moving with her partner’s as if they were one thing. Steve started to feel lightheaded, like he was about to slide down the door and onto the floor. The roses drooped in his arms, and a trickle of water started to pour from the pitcher, dribbling around their shoes; Tony pulled away with a laugh, and Steve jerked the pitcher back upright, sloshing water on Tony’s beautiful coat. Steve knew he was blushing; he could feel the flush in his face and chest, but then Tony was flushed, too.
“I’ll call us a cab,” Tony said before Steve could even think of apologizing. “Grab your toothbrush. I’ll meet you downstairs.”