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cap_ironman2009-03-28 01:04 am
seanchai.livejournal.com) wrote in cap_ironman2009-03-28 01:04 am
Entry tags:
When the Lights Go On Again 15/20
Title: When the Lights Go On Again 15/20
Authors:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
seanchai and elspethdixon
Rated: PG-13
Pairings: Steve/Tony, Hank/Jan, Carol/Wanda
Warnings: Swearing and violence.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.
Summary: Aliens have invaded earth, and the Avengers are scattered. While Steve leads the resistance, Tony once again finds himself playing captive scientist. In the midst of a violent alien regime, separated by seemingly insurmountable boundaries, Steve and Tony have nothing to keep themselves going but each other.
A/N #1:The point in volume three that we're branching off from was originally published around '98-'99, but since Marvel time runs at a slower speed than real world time, early volume three is probably four or so years ago in canon time. Hence 2004 and troops in Iraq.
A/N #2: I'm sorry to say, but for the duration of April, we're going to have to revert to posting every other week, so that we can work on our Big Bang fic. Since we hate to do that, if anyone wants to drabble-prompt me, I'll try to write you someting short.
Also, this fic owes a great deal totavella, who helped us to shape this into something that didn't have gaping plot holes.
X-posted to Marvel Slash.
When the Lights Go On Again
Tony's hands were making fast work of his belt when Steve belatedly realized that the kitchen might not be the best place for this. When he pointed this out to Tony, Tony had rebutted with a suggestion of his own. After Steve reminded him that other people had to use the kitchen table, he shrugged and let Steve lead him through the now-empty dining room and down the short hallway to the bedroom Steve usually shared with Hank, Simon, and Johnny -- which, thank God, was currently empty.
If it hadn't been, Steve had been prepared to drag Tony into the ridiculously large linen closet and rip the ugly grey Argonian clothing off him.
Steve closed the door firmly behind them, hampered slightly by Tony's attempts to remove bits of his costume. He toed off his boots, pulled off one glove with his teeth while Tony removed the other one, planting an open-mouthed kiss on the inside of his wrist that made Steve's entire arm tingle, and reached for the buttons on Tony's shirt.
The first button came loose as he pulled at it, tearing away from the fabric, and he tried to be more careful with the others, deliberately making himself slow down. Tonight might be all they had. He had to make it last, make it as good as possible for both of them.
If memories ended up being all he had of Tony to hold on to, they were going to be damn good memories.
Then the rest of their clothes were on the floor and Tony was kissing him again.
Steve lost himself in the kiss, hot, hard, and unhurried. Tony thrust his tongue into his mouth, dug his fingers into Steve's shoulders, and backed him toward the bed, breaking the kiss just long enough to plant his hands in the center of Steve's chest and shove him down onto it.
Then Steve was flat on his back on the bed with Tony on top of him, mimicking their earlier positions in the chair, but this time horizontal, with less clothing and much, much closer contact.
"I thought I'd never see you again," Tony whispered hoarsely, as he kissed Steve's throat, his collarbone, the center of his chest. "I thought I never get out of there."
"I wanted to come and get you," Steve told him. "I wanted to-" Then Tony wrapped his hands around him -- around both of them -- and he broke off with a strangled little moan that might have been embarrassing were it not for the look on Tony's face. Eyes half-lidded, lips parted, Tony looked every inch the infamously debauched playboy his reputation painted him as, his face rapt as he stared at Steve through his eyelashes.
"Tony," Steve panted, "slow down. I want this to last." And it wouldn't, if Tony kept doing that.
"Right," Tony said, sliding his fingers up and down again -- this time with excruciating slowness -- "Slow. Slow is good. I can do slow."
Steve closed his eyes, his back arching and his hips jerking upwards. Tony let go, and crawled his way -- slowly -- up Steve's body to kiss him again, sucking Steve's low lip into his mouth, the hard length of him pressing into Steve's stomach.
Steve took hold of Tony's upper arms and rolled them both sideways, flipping them over so that he was now looking down at Tony, lying on his back on top of the sheets.
Tony stared up at him, pupils dilated wide, and grinned. "I thought you wanted to go slow," he said.
"Not that slow," Steve told him, hearing his voice come out low and rough. He drew in a deep breath that did nothing whatsoever to calm his body down and added, "If I'd known this was going to happen, I would have been prepared. We don't have any, well, anything."
Tony smirked up at him, a satisfied, cocky expression that was almost a leer. "You're immune to almost every naturally occurring virus known to man. What are we going to catch from each other?"
"That wasn't what I meant," Steve started.
Tony was definitely leering now. "I once managed to have sex with a woman while wearing a giant piece of metal over my chest without her ever noticing the breastplate existed. I think I can come up with a few things to do that won't require any lube."
Much later, Steve lay on his back and let himself melt into the mattress, too worn out and blissful to move. He knew he should get up and put some pants back on before any of the rooms other occupants came back, and clean himself and Tony -- and the sheets -- up, but Tony was a heavy weight on top of him, almost uncomfortably warm, his face buried in Steve's neck and fine tremors running through his body, and Steve couldn't make himself move. He rubbed small circles on Tony's back with his fingertips instead, enjoying the feel of Tony's skin.
His back was smooth, untouched by the scars that criss-crossed the center of his chest, making the dark hair there grow at odd angles. Perfect and whole, except for the ragged circle of scar tissue high on his back, right next to his spine, where an extremely unpleasant ex-girlfriend had shot him. He had died last year, to stop Immortus from taking over the world, and Franklin Richards had brought him back, but the scars remained. Maybe they were part of how Tony saw himself.
He had wanted this for so long, without even know exactly why he wanted it, and now he couldn't stop staring at Tony, couldn't stop touching him. Anything could happen tomorrow, so tonight he wanted to make sure he remembered how Tony's hair felt between his fingers, how he tasted, the way his skin glowed golden in the lantern-light.
"You have no idea how much I missed you," Tony mumbled into his neck, burrowing further into Steve. "I meant to break out sooner, to find you better information. I should have done more." His voice was very quiet, and slightly shaky, his breath hitching once or twice.
Steve continued to rub slow circles on his back, wondering why, after seemed fine -- more than fine -- throughout the sex, and throughout the meeting before that, Tony was falling apart now. "You did more than enough. You're doing more than enough. Tomorrow-"
Tony lifted his head a few inches, just enough to let him look Steve in the eye. "No," interrupted, with a passable approximation of his old slightly snide humor, "Hank and I are going alone, and you can't come."
"I know," Steve sighed, as Tony buried his face in his shoulder again. He needed to stay outside, to lead the attack against Grand Central after Hank delivered the poison. It was too important to leave to someone else -- none of the others had the training or experience for it. Carol could do it, maybe, but it wouldn't be fair or right to put that on her. He had sent teammates into mortal danger before, had sent men and women to their deaths, at the hands of the Argonians, and the Germans, long before that. He could send Tony back into captivity tomorrow.
He didn't have to like it, though.
Then something else occurred to him. "Do you think Jan knows about Hank's role in this plan?"
"She probably does now," Tony said wryly. The faint tremors that wracked his muscles were easing, and he sounded more sleepy and content than shaky and haunted.
Steve reminded himself again that he ought to get up, and again couldn't make himself do so. He watched the shifting light from the kerosene lantern create moving shadows on Tony's back, in the hollow of his spine and beneath his shoulders blade, and lower, where the covers were tangled between his legs.
Tony's breathing was starting to deepen, edging toward sleep, when Steve realized that several of what he'd thought were shadows were actually bruises, most of them old but some of them -- on his hips, his biceps, his wrists -- brand new, slowly darkening from red to purple.
He drew in a sharp breath, stiffening, and Tony stirred slightly.
"Wha' is it?" he mumbled.
"You're covered in bruises," Steve said softly, tracing one of the marks on Tony's hip with his fingertips. He should have had more self-control, should have remembered that Tony was in worse condition right now than either of them really wanted to acknowledge.
"Hank says the orange juice will fix that." Tony's voice was still thick with sleep, and utterly unconcerned.
"Some of them are from me!" Steve protested with an uneasy prickle of guilt as he took in the extant of the damage -- Tony had already been battered enough; he didn't need Steve adding to his injuries.
"I know," Tony said, and the smug satisfaction in his voice was palpable. He sounded so much like his old self that for a moment, Steve could almost forget the past four months. That was the tone he had always used when trying to get an embarrassed blush out of Steve, a mock-flirtatious tone -- always accompanied by an appreciative glance or even an open leer -- that Steve was only now realized had actually been dead serious.
Then Tony sighed a little and went limp, finally asleep.
***
When had he lost so much weight? Tony frowned at his reflection in the suite's massive bathroom mirror and tried to remember if his collarbones had looked that prominent before. Probably not.
He did look a lot less battered than the last time he'd seen himself in a mirror, though the faint scar on his cheek was something he could have lived without. Ditto the hair, which had passed "needs a trim" some time ago and was well on its way to becoming nothing but a shaggy mess.
"I look awful," he observed, smiling at Steve in the mirror. Steve didn't smile back.
"Hank says it will take thirty-six hours for the poison to fully take effect on most of the Argonians. Do you think you can fool them for that long?"
What he was really asking, Tony knew, was whether he could hold out under torture for that long if it became necessary. He'd like to think he could -- he'd held up under the worst the Mandarin had been able to dish out on more than one occasion -- but everyone could be broken. The best he could do was try.
He knew that wasn't what Steve wanted to hear, though, so he didn't say it. Steve wanted some kind of reassurance, even if he wasn't going to admit it.
"I'll be fine," Tony lied. "I've fooled them for this long, haven't I?" He glanced at his reflection again. "I think a bruise or two would make my 'the scary rebels tried to take me hostage' story go over better, though."
"I'm not going to hit you," Steve said firmly.
Tony turned around, looking Steve in the eye. "If I go back in looking none the worse for wear, they're never going to believe that I didn't go with you guys willingly."
Steve looked away, face flushing slightly. He knew it was true; he was too good a strategist not to have thought of the obvious. "I can't-" he started, then broke off, and said, after a moment of hesitation, "I don't want to hurt you."
"Carol and Ben are too strong to pull their punches properly, it wouldn't be fair to ask Clint to do it after he's spent the past four months trying to protect me, and I will not ask Hank to hit a teammate. There's no one else, Steve. Please."
Steve closed his eyes for a second, looking pained. "Haven't I already put enough bruises on you?"
Tony had to smirk, then, feeling a rush of heat go through him all over again at the memory of Steve's hands on his body. "None that my clothes won’t cover. And I'm hoping they don't know what hickeys mean, because I think that would probably hurt my cover more than it helps it."
Steve's lips twitched. "That's not funny," he said. And then, "You're sure about this?" He wasn't just asking if Tony was sure he wanted to be punched in the face, Tony knew.
"Yes," Tony said. "I'm sure."
Steve took a deep breath, visibly squaring his shoulders. "All right," he said. "Let's do this before I come to my senses."
Tony set both hands against the marble countertop behind him, bracing himself, and closed his eyes.
Steve had hit him before, of course, in hand-to-hand practice, but never in the face, and never this hard, with the intent to cause visible damage. Tony stayed limp, letting the force of the blow turn his head sideways and rock him back against the sink, but it still stunned him for a second.
He opened his eyes, straightening and putting one hand to his hotly throbbing cheek. "Thank you," he said quietly.
Steve flinched.
So Tony kissed him. He couldn't think of anything to say to make this better, but kissing was always good.
Steve was big and solid and warm and Tony had to fight the desire to cling to him, to close his eyes and bury himself in the feel of Steve's arms around him, and the almost-forgotten luxury of human contact, of feeling safe.
He knew what the Argonians did to people they suspected of being traitors. If this went wrong, then when they were through with him, there wouldn't be anything recognizable left to bury.
Steve hugged him hard, holding him so tightly that it was almost painful. Then he let go abruptly, taking a step back. "Hank is probably waiting," he said.
Everyone was waiting, Hank included. Even Johnny Storm was there, leaning on a pair of crutches with Reed Richard's two little blond kids hiding behind him. Tony had this vague feeling that he should know their names, but he couldn't think of anything at the moment beyond the mission and Steve.
At least he'd gotten to see him again one more time, gotten to be with him in a way he had never thought would be possible. It might almost have seemed like a dream if he hadn't had the twinge of bruises on his hips and arms to remind him. Steve's marks, hidden under his clothes, to carry back into captivity with him.
He knew how vital this was, knew he was the only person who could do it, knew he owed it to all those people still stuck down in the converter room, and to everyone who had died at Argonian hands, to make up for losing his nerve before, but that didn't make going back any easier. Especially now, when he knew exactly what he was walking away from, what he could have if he stayed.
It had been easy, the first time. He hadn't any other options then. Now...
But if he stayed, if he let someone else go in his place, he wouldn't be worthy of Steve's friendship and respect, let alone his love.
"What happened to your face?" Clint asked, oblivious to Steve's wince.
"Verisimilitude," Tony said wryly. "You brutally attacked me when you forced me to leave the factory in your company."
"Well, I have Argonian warrior training." Clint smirked. "I do that." Then his smile faded, and he dropped his gaze, staring at the floor. "I- good luck. You, too, Hank." He held out his hand for Tony to shake, which he did, then turned and silently offered it to Hank, who was standing somewhat forlornly in the middle of the foyer, his Ant-Man helmet tucked under one arm.
Hank blinked at him for a second, then took the offered hand. "Thanks," he said.
"Where are you going?"
The voice was very small, and high-pitched. Tony looked down to see Valeria standing right by Hank's knee -- how had she gotten that close without anyone noticing? -- one hand clutching a bundle of what looked like Steve's beloved prismacolor markers. The yellow one was missing its cap.
"I, um," Hank stammered, clearly at a loss for how to explain. Tony could empathize -- how did you explain a suicide mission to a four year old?
Jan took a step forward, dropping to one knee to put herself at Valeria's level. "They're going to go do something very important," she said, "to make the bad people go away. But they'll be back soon." She cast a meaningful glance up at Hank. "And they'll be fine."
Hank reached down with one hand and touched her hair lightly. "Jan," he started.
"Don't." She rose to her feet and took a step back. "Just come back."
Hank's face crumpled for a second, then he gave her a bright and obviously false smile. "Sure, Janny. I'll be back."
Jan raised one hand, as if she were about to reach out to him, then pulled it back. "I'll hold you to that, Blue Eyes."
Hank's grin was real, this time. He was so desperate for approval most of the time that it was almost sad, that is, when he wasn't being frighteningly over-confident.
"You better-" Tony began.
"I know." Hank set the Ant-Man helmet over his head -- it look incongruously out of place paired with his blue and yellow Goliath costume -- and began shrinking. When he reached a barely-visible two inches high, Tony knelt down and held a hand out to him.
Like Jan in Wasp-form, Hank at this size weighed nearly nothing. Tony watched him climb onto his palm, and then, when he was sure Hank was properly balanced, stood up again.
Steve was watching him silently, his arms folded across his chest. Tony wanted to touch him so badly that it almost hurt, but a glance at Steve's rigid shoulders and tightly-locked jaw told him not to. Steve was trying his level best to stay focused and business-like, to not let his feelings show.
"I'll be waiting for your signal, all right?" Spiderman's words came out in a nervous rush. Tony had to tilt his head back in order to see him, crouched against the ceiling like a twitchy, red and blue gargoyle. "I'm even staying in the hotel so my spidey sense doesn't get triggered by accident, so if I sense anything, I'll know it's you."
"Trust me." Even at two inches tall, that particular manic grin was disturbingly familiar. "You'll know."
Spiderman made a strangled little sound of alarm, and nearly fell off the ceiling. "That was mean," he yelped. "I mean, totally uncalled for. Do you have that thing dialed up to eleven, or what?"
"I had to make sure you noticed it," Hank said. "You're a lot bigger than an ant." Then, in a slightly apologetic tone, "Sorry I can't refine it any further. You don't have antennae."
"That's okay," Spiderman said, waving one hand dismissively. How could he carry on a conversation while upside-down like that? Tony wondered, then dismissed the thought. It wasn't important.
"Steve-" he said.
"Good luck," Steve said, his voice slightly strained. His eyes met Tony's, and held them. "We'll be waiting for Hank's signal."
There was nothing more to say after that. Tony gently placed Hank inside the pocket of his grey lab coat -- now greatly the worse for wear -- and left the suite.
It felt odd to walk around outside again, after so long indoors and underground. The wind was bitingly cold, cutting straight through his thin lab coat as if it were nothing, and the heavily overcast sky seemed impossibly high up, almost dizzyingly so. Nothing moved in the streets but foot traffic, and little enough of that.
Tony, hatless and coatless and utterly freezing, shoved his hands in his lab coat's pockets and trudged down the sidewalk, trying not to shiver as snowflakes caught in his hair and dusted his shoulders.
"Why do you have pieces of wire in your pocket?" Hank's voice drifted up to him from his breast pocket, and something sharp poked him in the chest as one of said wires was shifted around. "You could have taken them out before dropping me-"
"Shh," Tony interrupted. "We're almost there."
Grand Central loomed in front of him, looking surprisingly ominous in the sourceless, snow-filled light. The sculpture that capped the front of the building's façade -- Mercury flanked by Minerva and a not-very-accurate statue of Hercules -- made him think of gargoyles, rather than the classical sculpture it was imitating. The clock in the middle had stopped at thirteen minutes past ten.
"I guess this is it, then," Hank said, voice barely audible.
"I’m going to put you down now," Tony told him, staring across the street at the heavily armed quartet of guards -- one human and one Argonian -- who stood at the front entrance. "Any closer, and they'd notice."
He lifted Hank out of his pocket as carefully as he could, painfully conscious of how small Hank was and how easy it would be to hurt him or drop him, and lifted his hand to eye-level so that he and Hank could look at one another. "Good luck, Highpockets," he said, the silly, old nickname feeling awkward in his mouth. "We're counting on you."
"We'll get you back out in no time, Tony," Hank said. "Just... hang in there until we can." Don't die, he meant.
"Remember," Tony said, "the filtration system's on one of the Metro North platforms. I don't know which one, but it shouldn't be hard to find."
Then he lowered his hand and let Hank climb into the lowest pocket on his lab coat, just below the hip, where he could climb down more easily.
The walk across the street toward the station felt as if it took forever.
Tony kept his pace slow, hands held out in plain sight, away from his body. The guards stiffened as he approached, and one of the Argonians pointed a plasma gun at him and snapped a harsh command in her native language.
Tony obediently stopped dead, holding completely still as the two human guards approaches, swords drawn. "How the hell did you get outside?" one of them demanded. "You guys are supposed to be in the basement."
He was a redhead, Tony noted absently. Fitting. He and the Argonians matched.
"Christ," the other guard said suddenly, the words bursting out of him. "You're Tony Stark, aren't you? I thought they moved you to the weapons factory."
"They did." Sounding tired and haunted took no effort at all. "They came there. The rebels. They killed most of the guards, and they tried to drag me off with them." He reached up to touch the fresh bruise on his face, then winced. "They called me a traitor, and then they-" he broke off, shivering -- it was from the cold, but hopefully the guard would think it was the trauma of whatever the rebels had done to him -- then stammered, "It, it took me until this morning to get away."
"Your superhero friends you used to give money to kidnapped you?" The redhead snorted. "Do you think I'm a fucking idiot? What really happened? Did you try to defect only to find out they didn't want traitors who'd already double-crossed their old bosses?"
He turned to the Argonians guards, who still had their plasma guns aimed at Tony, and said something in Argonian. The highest-ranking guard, twin knots of copper sparkling dully on each shoulder, said something back, and the redhead nodded grimly. "Gage," he snapped at the other guard, "get some handcuffs on him."
Gage slapped the restraints -- big, heavy things, meant for Argonians -- on Tony's wrists with more force than was strictly necessary.
This wasn't so bad, Tony told himself. They hadn't believed his story about being kidnapped, but the human guards thinking he'd been spurned by the Resistance and come crawling back was better than their suspecting the truth.
The Argonians yanked him inside the building roughly, claws digging into his arms, and Tony stumbled, trying to keep with them, but offered no resistance. It galled, but he'd been suppressing the urge to say anything for months and doing so now would just give them an excuse to hit him. Obedience would probably buy him at least a little more time before the pain started.
He felt a faint tug at his lab coat as Hank climbed out of the pocket and slid down the fabric to the ground. Tony resisted the temptation to look down -- he wasn't going to give Hank's presence away.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked, trying to keep their attention on him. Sounding frightened galled, when he normally did everything he could not to let his enemies know he was afraid, but he wasn't being Iron Man anymore, or the head of Stark Industries, who had to maintain his calm in meetings at all times. He was Tony Stark, obliging servant of the Argonian Empire, and he needed them to underestimate him.
The head Argonian snarled something again, and the redheaded guard grinned nastily at Tony. Most of the human guards who had volunteered to serve the Argonians were vicious thugs, or otherwise unpleasant individuals. Not surprising, considering that they were actively betraying their entire species. Like the Kingpin's better paid employees, though, they were highly competent vicious thugs. The Argonians wouldn't tolerate anything less.
"Someplace where people can find out what you know about that attack."
They dragged him through the main terminal and down one of the hallways that once been lined with shops, then down several flights of stairs and into the first level of the subway station.
The signs directing people to different lines hadn't been removed, but the turnstiles were long gone, as were the kiosks that had once sold Metro Cards and train tickets. What was new was the row of metal cells that has been built against one wall in a section of unused track.
Unlike everything else Argonian-built Tony had seen, they were utterly devoid of ornamentation. No windows, either, just a small grate in the door. It would be dark inside them, and probably damp, too, considering the location.
Subway platforms were always damp. And cold, this time of year.
The Argonians nearly threw him into the cell, one of them helping him along with a blow from his tail.
Tony landed on his knees on the concrete floor, just managing to catch himself with his hands before he fell flat on his face; at least they'd tied them in front of him.
The door closed behind him with a dull clang, and he was left in darkness.
There was nothing to do now but wait.
***
Isimud rubbed at his burning eyes with the back of his hand, blinking until the tiny pieces of circuitry he was looking at came into focus again. It seemed like forever since he'd slept; everyone had been on high alert since the disaster at the weapons facility, and he'd had to work through the entire day just trying to salvage something usable out of the warped and mangled remains of the engines and missile parts the human rebels had left behind.
At least they'd all been brought back down to the converter room for him to examine, so he hadn't had to go above ground. He hated doing that, especially in daylight. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable, and he was always painfully conscious that he was half-blinded by the bright light while any human rebels who might be lurking in the dizzyingly tall buildings could see perfectly.
One of Kammani's warriors had been transferred from Brooklyn. He said that the humans there liked to use the upper floors of tall buildings as hiding places and fire their projectile-guns out the windows at you.
He had been overworked even before the attack, trying to fulfill his usual duties -- without Tony Stark to reply on for advice -- while simultaneously maintaining the miniature shield that surrounded the cells of the superpowered rebel captives. Now, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to find the time to sleep again.
Nine mechanikos had been killed in the attack, including the senior mechanikos who had been stationed there, so not only were half the things Isimud was trying to repair or cannibalize for parts mangled to the point of being unrecognizable, there was often no one left who'd even known what they were in the first place.
Tony would have known, but Tony was gone, either killed when the weapons facility had burned or taken by the rebels. If even a fraction of the rumors about what the rebels did to people they got their hands on were true, he could be dying in agony at that very moment.
It was weak and unworthy of him to waste grief on someone who wasn't an Argonian, but Tony could have been one, had been only days away from being granted the honor of citizen ship and elevated to mechanikos. Had that happened, his name would now be inscribed on the polished floor in the Archon's throne room, where the names of those fallen in battle were carved, for the Archon, in an astonishing break with precedent, had ordered the names of the nine dead mechanikos carved there, too. For the first time in generations, the names of mechanikos would be remembered. Tony Stark's name, though, would be forgotten, despite all he had done to help the Archon restore Argon's glory.
And the Archon would do so, Isimud was certain. They would rise from the ashes of this defeat stronger than before, more united than before.
He just wished he still had someone to talk to.
"Mamitu!"
It wasn't a shout -- not exactly -- but Arch-Captain Kammani's voice still echoed off the stone ceiling, and Isimud was certain that he was not the only one in the cavern who flinched.
"Mamitu," she repeated, leaving the other Arch-Captain's title off once more, an act of deliberate disrespect. "Have you been to the weapons facility yet, Mamitu, or have you just hidden from your failure down here?"
All noise in the room ceased as everyone turned to stare at her, standing by the elevator to the upper levels with her back straight and her ears laid back. She looked more threatening than Isimud had ever seen her; the Arch-Captain was usually mild and self-effacing, at least for a warrior, but now her fur bristled and her tail was lashing angrily.
Mamitu turned toward her with a snarl, ears laid back against her head. "What did you just say?"
"Do you need me to repeat myself?" Kammani asked, with a flick of her tail. "You have given me insult repeatedly, in both large ways and small, and given the Archon insult, and I have born it because you were my superior, and because the Imperator respected your skill. I will not bear the shame of a defeat this massive, and nor should your command."
Isimud's own ears were laid back now, and he had to fight the urge to duck behind something, to make himself a small as possible -- he would not shame himself that way, not when the violence in the room wasn't even aimed at him.
What was Kammani doing? She was forcing Mamitu to fight her, for no one could let such a terrible insult go unchallenged. Why would she-- She couldn't beat Arch-Captain Mamitu. No one could beat Mamitu.
"How dare you speak to me that way," Mamitu hissed, her entire body stiff with fury. "I challenge you, you jumped-up little coward. Here and now, I challenge you; give me satisfaction for that insult."
Kammani shook her head. "No," she said coldly. "I challenge you. I call you unfit for command, Arch-Captain Mamitu, and unworthy of the rank the empire has bestowed upon you. I invoke the right of trial by combat - defend your authority, Arch-Captain, or I and all other here shall cease to recognize it."
Someone gasped, the noise standing out clearly in the otherwise silent room.
Warriors swore to defend their right to hold whatever rank they were given with their lives. If they were called upon to prove their fitness to command in single combat, and lost, then whatever authority they possessed was gone. Official demotion invariably followed. Once, a victorious challenger would have won the right to assume the defeated warrior's rank and position, provided it was higher than their own. That part of the law was no longer followed, but the rest of it remained in force; to lose an official challenge of one's authority was to lose that authority, completely and utterly.
"You've always had an inflated opinion of yourself, Kammani," Mamitu snapped. "Do you really think you can beat me?"
Kammani smiled, her teeth gleaming very white against her dark fur. "I know I can. You only got your rank in the first place by toadying up to the Imperator like a mechanikos who wants a favor."
Mamitu had both of her blades drawn now, one in each hand. Kammani drew her own sword, movements slow and deliberate, never taking her eyes of the other officer.
Mamitu snapped an order, and one of her subordinate scurried out to mark a circle on the concrete floor with chalk -- it was barely visible against the concrete, but it would suffice. Both Kammani and Mamitu had surely fought enough duels at this point in their lives to know the diameter of a duel circle intimately. The circle, Isimud knew, was more for forms sake than anything. The proprieties had to be observed, after all.
The two of them circled one another, moving slowly and warily, Kammani with perfect smoothness and stillness, her movements flowing like water, and Mamitu stalking with a predatory glide, her tail still lashing with rage.
Mamitu struck first, almost too quickly for Isimud to follow, and he only realized that he'd stopped breathing when the clang of her blade catching in the notch on Kammani's sword echoed off the walls and he let out a silent breath of relief. As a mechanikos, it would be improper for him to show favoritism in a dispute between warriors, but he couldn't help it. Kammani respected him. Mamitu treated him -- and all the other mechanikos -- as if they were barely Argonian at all.
Then the two of them were a blur of flashing blades and fluid movement and sweeping, vicious blows with their tails.
"You are going to pay for this disrespect," Mamitu snarled, her tail lashing out in an arc intended to catch Kammani across the ankles and knock her feet out from under her.
Kammani jumped, Mamitu's tail passing harmlessly under her feet, and kicked outwards, the heel of her boot catching Mamitu in the chest. It was a risky move under other circumstances -- had Mamitu not had a sword in each hand, she could have grabbed Kammani by the ankle and taken her down easily -- but as it was, Mamitu staggered back a step, giving Kammani room to launch another attack, which was quickly beaten back.
Kammani was more athletic -- jumping over and rolling under blows, weaving in and out between Mamitu's blades and tailbarb like a dancer -- but Mamitu was faster, her swords moving so quickly they blurred, and she used her tail more effectively than any warrior Isimud had ever seen. It, not the swords, was her primary weapon - her bladework was impressive, but it was the strikes with her tail that were truly a thing of beauty to behold.
It was said that she had stabbed the warrior who'd given her the scars on her face through the throat with her tailbarb. It was how she'd earned the rank of Arch-Captain.
"You will grovel," Mamitu snarled. "You will bare your throat to me and beg for mercy, you little mechanikos-lover." Her swords flashed, and a slash appeared across Kammani's left sleeve, the fabric gaping open to reveal a thin line of blood.
Kammani dodged the next blown, jumped another attempt to knock her off her feet with a tail-sweep, and caught a third pair of blows on her swords. The two of them struggled for a moment, blades locked, and Ismud's breath caught in his throat, his stomach sinking as he realized that there was no way Kammani could win a contest of brute strength against the taller, heavier Mamitu.
Kammani hooked one foot around Mamitu's ankle and pulled -- like a tail-sweep, but done with a foot instead of a tail -- and the other warrior went down, over balancing.
She rolled to her feet again immediately, swords ready, her ears completely flat to her skull and her eyes burning with rage.
Kammani laughed. "I learned that from a human," she said, a mocking lilt to her voice. "The one you wouldn't agree to transfer to my command. Maybe if you bothered to pay attention to them, you would have learned a thing or two as well, and the weapons facility would still be standing."
Mamitu growled, and lunged for Kammani again, nearly succeeding in driving her out of the circle. "But I am remiss," Kammani went on, her familiar mild tone sounding almost playful, despite the strain evident in it. She was panting now, her black uniform torn in three different places. "You can't learn, can you? I had forgot. You're nothing but Nergal's attack dog."
Mamitu gave a wordless snarl and threw herself at Kammani, fangs bared, flailing at her with her tail -- the blow was wild, uncontrolled, but it struck home anyway, and tip of her tailbarb catching in the fabric of Kammani's uniform.
Kammani slashed downward with her sword, and there was howl from Mamitu as the final octave of her tail was severed cleanly, falling to the floor with a slightly wet-sounding thump.
Mamitu howled again, lashing her truncated tail wildly, a spray of blood flying from it in a wide arc. She had bare minutes to finish the fight now, before the flow of blood from the wound finished her.
Kammani tensed, her weight shifting on the balls of her feet, and even Isimud could tell that she was telegraphing her next attack, and that right side was completely unguarded.
Mamitu seized the opening, the long blade in her left hand slicing down into Kamani's thigh, and Kamani dropped the shorter of her two swords, grabbed her by the wrist, and hauled her in closer, stabbing her remaining sword upwards into Mamitu's torso with so much force that tip of the blade emerged from the back of her uniform, right between her shoulder blades.
Mamitu fell to her knees, blood bubbling out of her mouth as she made thick, wet choking noises. Then she collapsed face down on the floor. Her tail continued twitching for a moment, blood still pumping from its severed end, and then she was still.
The silence was deafening.
Duels were commonplace amongst warriors. Duels to the death were less common, but far from a rarity. Mamitu herself had killed no less than thirteen opponents in ritual combat.
Duels to the death over questions of authority, however, were rare. Much better, it was generally thought, to leave a defeated opponent alive and shamed, to enjoy the humiliation of losing their rank and exist as a continual reminder of the victor's triumph.
Perhaps Kammani had simply been unable to defeat Mamitu without killing her, or perhaps she had realized that a shamed and resentful Mamitu would be an even worse enemy than she had been when in power.
With slow deliberate movements, Kammani wiped her swords clean on the back of Mamitu's uniform tunic and sheathed them once more.
The silence lasted another long, frozen moment, and then one of the humans let out a wild cheer, followed by a grunt of pain as one of the guards hit her.
Isimud found himself grinning widely, not caring how disrespectful it was for a human slave to rejoice at an Argonian's death. He wanted to cheer as well.
Instead, he very carefully laid the warped piece of metal he'd held forgotten in his hands for the duration of the fight down on his work bench and crossed the blood-spattered dueling circle to where Kammani stood, head down and hands in fists at her sides.
The right leg of her uniform trousers was wet with blood, and her entire body was stiff with the effort to not show pain or weakness.
Isimud thought that she had never looked more powerful, or more beautiful.
"Arch-Captain," he said softly, ears and tail submissively low, not meeting her eyes. "You are injured. Let me serve you."
Kammani lifted her head, unclenched her hands, and let him lead her over to his workbench. "That," she observed softly, "went better than I expected."
Isimud blinked. He had never heard a warrior admit to doubt or lack of confidence before. "I would offer congratulations on your victory," he said diffidently, as he cut the torn fabric of her trouser open further, exposing the deep slash in the muscles of her thigh.
"I am honored to accept them," she said, inclining her head. She fell silent then, while Isimud devoted his entire attention to the task of cleaning the blood off her leg and out of her fur with disinfectant from his first aid kit, his ears twitching with embarrassment at the shock of being addressed as an equal.
***
Locating the water filtration system took nearly two hours, and had left Hank desperately wishing that it weren't the middle of January. Had it not been winter, he could have summoned some ants to help him search. As it was, he had to canvass the various Metro North platforms on foot, and at this size, that took a very long time.
He finally located it on Track 36, just past the station master's office. The entrance to the platform was under guard, of course, but Hank was small enough to pass unnoticed, as long he as stayed close to the walls.
Once inside, he snuck around until the bulk of the filtration system hid from view and returned to normal size. This was the dangerous part. Getting the sodium ascorbate into the system's filters might take as little as fifteen minutes, or it might take an hour, depending on how complex the system was, and he would be highly visible the entire time.
Hank started to grin as he began inspecting the nest of metal piping and copper tubing, and the large, enclosed tanks that held the final product. The heady rush of energy that mission-adrenaline always brought with it hummed through him. That, combined with the knowledge that the Argonians' defeat was less than forty-eight hours away, made him want to laugh, to dance, to punch the air with glee. Except that would get him caught.
The knowledge that Tony was probably being tortured right that very moment was like a cold bucket of water over his glee. Hank shuddered, his smile vanishing, and got to work.
In the end, properly sabotaging the filtration system took him forty-five minutes. The first fifteen of those minutes were fun. The final half hour was nerve-wracking.
By the time Hank screwed the final filter and its new, lethal content -- well, incapacitating; lethal would have required twice the amount of poison -- back into place, his neck and shoulder were knotted so tight with tension that a dull ache had settled between his shoulder blades.
Shrinking down again was a relief.
The most vital part of the mission was over now, successfully accomplished. Whatever happened to him and Tony from this point on, they had done what they had been sent to do.
Now the hard part began.
Now, he needed to find somewhere to hide while he waited for the poison to take effect. Thirty-six hours of waiting and watching, with nothing to do but hope that his sabotage wouldn't be discovered until it was too late.
If he hadn't known what the Argonians were probably doing to Tony, he would have described it as torture.
When he'd judged that enough aliens were sufficiently incapacitated, Hank was supposed to send out a signal to Spiderman with his Ant-Man helmet. Then Steve and Jan and the others would attack, he would meet up with them, and they'd rescue whatever was left of Tony.
Thirty-six hours couldn't pass quickly enough.
***
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five (a) | Chapter Five (b) | Chapter Six (a) | Chapter Six (b) | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty (a) | Chapter Twenty (b) | Chapter Twenty One
Authors:
seanchai and elspethdixonRated: PG-13
Pairings: Steve/Tony, Hank/Jan, Carol/Wanda
Warnings: Swearing and violence.
Disclaimer: The characters and situations depicted herein belong to Stan Lee and Marvel comics. No profit is being made off of this derivative work. We're paid in love, people.
Summary: Aliens have invaded earth, and the Avengers are scattered. While Steve leads the resistance, Tony once again finds himself playing captive scientist. In the midst of a violent alien regime, separated by seemingly insurmountable boundaries, Steve and Tony have nothing to keep themselves going but each other.
A/N #1:The point in volume three that we're branching off from was originally published around '98-'99, but since Marvel time runs at a slower speed than real world time, early volume three is probably four or so years ago in canon time. Hence 2004 and troops in Iraq.
A/N #2: I'm sorry to say, but for the duration of April, we're going to have to revert to posting every other week, so that we can work on our Big Bang fic. Since we hate to do that, if anyone wants to drabble-prompt me, I'll try to write you someting short.
Also, this fic owes a great deal to
tavella, who helped us to shape this into something that didn't have gaping plot holes.X-posted to Marvel Slash.
Tony's hands were making fast work of his belt when Steve belatedly realized that the kitchen might not be the best place for this. When he pointed this out to Tony, Tony had rebutted with a suggestion of his own. After Steve reminded him that other people had to use the kitchen table, he shrugged and let Steve lead him through the now-empty dining room and down the short hallway to the bedroom Steve usually shared with Hank, Simon, and Johnny -- which, thank God, was currently empty.
If it hadn't been, Steve had been prepared to drag Tony into the ridiculously large linen closet and rip the ugly grey Argonian clothing off him.
Steve closed the door firmly behind them, hampered slightly by Tony's attempts to remove bits of his costume. He toed off his boots, pulled off one glove with his teeth while Tony removed the other one, planting an open-mouthed kiss on the inside of his wrist that made Steve's entire arm tingle, and reached for the buttons on Tony's shirt.
The first button came loose as he pulled at it, tearing away from the fabric, and he tried to be more careful with the others, deliberately making himself slow down. Tonight might be all they had. He had to make it last, make it as good as possible for both of them.
If memories ended up being all he had of Tony to hold on to, they were going to be damn good memories.
Then the rest of their clothes were on the floor and Tony was kissing him again.
Steve lost himself in the kiss, hot, hard, and unhurried. Tony thrust his tongue into his mouth, dug his fingers into Steve's shoulders, and backed him toward the bed, breaking the kiss just long enough to plant his hands in the center of Steve's chest and shove him down onto it.
Then Steve was flat on his back on the bed with Tony on top of him, mimicking their earlier positions in the chair, but this time horizontal, with less clothing and much, much closer contact.
"I thought I'd never see you again," Tony whispered hoarsely, as he kissed Steve's throat, his collarbone, the center of his chest. "I thought I never get out of there."
"I wanted to come and get you," Steve told him. "I wanted to-" Then Tony wrapped his hands around him -- around both of them -- and he broke off with a strangled little moan that might have been embarrassing were it not for the look on Tony's face. Eyes half-lidded, lips parted, Tony looked every inch the infamously debauched playboy his reputation painted him as, his face rapt as he stared at Steve through his eyelashes.
"Tony," Steve panted, "slow down. I want this to last." And it wouldn't, if Tony kept doing that.
"Right," Tony said, sliding his fingers up and down again -- this time with excruciating slowness -- "Slow. Slow is good. I can do slow."
Steve closed his eyes, his back arching and his hips jerking upwards. Tony let go, and crawled his way -- slowly -- up Steve's body to kiss him again, sucking Steve's low lip into his mouth, the hard length of him pressing into Steve's stomach.
Steve took hold of Tony's upper arms and rolled them both sideways, flipping them over so that he was now looking down at Tony, lying on his back on top of the sheets.
Tony stared up at him, pupils dilated wide, and grinned. "I thought you wanted to go slow," he said.
"Not that slow," Steve told him, hearing his voice come out low and rough. He drew in a deep breath that did nothing whatsoever to calm his body down and added, "If I'd known this was going to happen, I would have been prepared. We don't have any, well, anything."
Tony smirked up at him, a satisfied, cocky expression that was almost a leer. "You're immune to almost every naturally occurring virus known to man. What are we going to catch from each other?"
"That wasn't what I meant," Steve started.
Tony was definitely leering now. "I once managed to have sex with a woman while wearing a giant piece of metal over my chest without her ever noticing the breastplate existed. I think I can come up with a few things to do that won't require any lube."
Much later, Steve lay on his back and let himself melt into the mattress, too worn out and blissful to move. He knew he should get up and put some pants back on before any of the rooms other occupants came back, and clean himself and Tony -- and the sheets -- up, but Tony was a heavy weight on top of him, almost uncomfortably warm, his face buried in Steve's neck and fine tremors running through his body, and Steve couldn't make himself move. He rubbed small circles on Tony's back with his fingertips instead, enjoying the feel of Tony's skin.
His back was smooth, untouched by the scars that criss-crossed the center of his chest, making the dark hair there grow at odd angles. Perfect and whole, except for the ragged circle of scar tissue high on his back, right next to his spine, where an extremely unpleasant ex-girlfriend had shot him. He had died last year, to stop Immortus from taking over the world, and Franklin Richards had brought him back, but the scars remained. Maybe they were part of how Tony saw himself.
He had wanted this for so long, without even know exactly why he wanted it, and now he couldn't stop staring at Tony, couldn't stop touching him. Anything could happen tomorrow, so tonight he wanted to make sure he remembered how Tony's hair felt between his fingers, how he tasted, the way his skin glowed golden in the lantern-light.
"You have no idea how much I missed you," Tony mumbled into his neck, burrowing further into Steve. "I meant to break out sooner, to find you better information. I should have done more." His voice was very quiet, and slightly shaky, his breath hitching once or twice.
Steve continued to rub slow circles on his back, wondering why, after seemed fine -- more than fine -- throughout the sex, and throughout the meeting before that, Tony was falling apart now. "You did more than enough. You're doing more than enough. Tomorrow-"
Tony lifted his head a few inches, just enough to let him look Steve in the eye. "No," interrupted, with a passable approximation of his old slightly snide humor, "Hank and I are going alone, and you can't come."
"I know," Steve sighed, as Tony buried his face in his shoulder again. He needed to stay outside, to lead the attack against Grand Central after Hank delivered the poison. It was too important to leave to someone else -- none of the others had the training or experience for it. Carol could do it, maybe, but it wouldn't be fair or right to put that on her. He had sent teammates into mortal danger before, had sent men and women to their deaths, at the hands of the Argonians, and the Germans, long before that. He could send Tony back into captivity tomorrow.
He didn't have to like it, though.
Then something else occurred to him. "Do you think Jan knows about Hank's role in this plan?"
"She probably does now," Tony said wryly. The faint tremors that wracked his muscles were easing, and he sounded more sleepy and content than shaky and haunted.
Steve reminded himself again that he ought to get up, and again couldn't make himself do so. He watched the shifting light from the kerosene lantern create moving shadows on Tony's back, in the hollow of his spine and beneath his shoulders blade, and lower, where the covers were tangled between his legs.
Tony's breathing was starting to deepen, edging toward sleep, when Steve realized that several of what he'd thought were shadows were actually bruises, most of them old but some of them -- on his hips, his biceps, his wrists -- brand new, slowly darkening from red to purple.
He drew in a sharp breath, stiffening, and Tony stirred slightly.
"Wha' is it?" he mumbled.
"You're covered in bruises," Steve said softly, tracing one of the marks on Tony's hip with his fingertips. He should have had more self-control, should have remembered that Tony was in worse condition right now than either of them really wanted to acknowledge.
"Hank says the orange juice will fix that." Tony's voice was still thick with sleep, and utterly unconcerned.
"Some of them are from me!" Steve protested with an uneasy prickle of guilt as he took in the extant of the damage -- Tony had already been battered enough; he didn't need Steve adding to his injuries.
"I know," Tony said, and the smug satisfaction in his voice was palpable. He sounded so much like his old self that for a moment, Steve could almost forget the past four months. That was the tone he had always used when trying to get an embarrassed blush out of Steve, a mock-flirtatious tone -- always accompanied by an appreciative glance or even an open leer -- that Steve was only now realized had actually been dead serious.
Then Tony sighed a little and went limp, finally asleep.
When had he lost so much weight? Tony frowned at his reflection in the suite's massive bathroom mirror and tried to remember if his collarbones had looked that prominent before. Probably not.
He did look a lot less battered than the last time he'd seen himself in a mirror, though the faint scar on his cheek was something he could have lived without. Ditto the hair, which had passed "needs a trim" some time ago and was well on its way to becoming nothing but a shaggy mess.
"I look awful," he observed, smiling at Steve in the mirror. Steve didn't smile back.
"Hank says it will take thirty-six hours for the poison to fully take effect on most of the Argonians. Do you think you can fool them for that long?"
What he was really asking, Tony knew, was whether he could hold out under torture for that long if it became necessary. He'd like to think he could -- he'd held up under the worst the Mandarin had been able to dish out on more than one occasion -- but everyone could be broken. The best he could do was try.
He knew that wasn't what Steve wanted to hear, though, so he didn't say it. Steve wanted some kind of reassurance, even if he wasn't going to admit it.
"I'll be fine," Tony lied. "I've fooled them for this long, haven't I?" He glanced at his reflection again. "I think a bruise or two would make my 'the scary rebels tried to take me hostage' story go over better, though."
"I'm not going to hit you," Steve said firmly.
Tony turned around, looking Steve in the eye. "If I go back in looking none the worse for wear, they're never going to believe that I didn't go with you guys willingly."
Steve looked away, face flushing slightly. He knew it was true; he was too good a strategist not to have thought of the obvious. "I can't-" he started, then broke off, and said, after a moment of hesitation, "I don't want to hurt you."
"Carol and Ben are too strong to pull their punches properly, it wouldn't be fair to ask Clint to do it after he's spent the past four months trying to protect me, and I will not ask Hank to hit a teammate. There's no one else, Steve. Please."
Steve closed his eyes for a second, looking pained. "Haven't I already put enough bruises on you?"
Tony had to smirk, then, feeling a rush of heat go through him all over again at the memory of Steve's hands on his body. "None that my clothes won’t cover. And I'm hoping they don't know what hickeys mean, because I think that would probably hurt my cover more than it helps it."
Steve's lips twitched. "That's not funny," he said. And then, "You're sure about this?" He wasn't just asking if Tony was sure he wanted to be punched in the face, Tony knew.
"Yes," Tony said. "I'm sure."
Steve took a deep breath, visibly squaring his shoulders. "All right," he said. "Let's do this before I come to my senses."
Tony set both hands against the marble countertop behind him, bracing himself, and closed his eyes.
Steve had hit him before, of course, in hand-to-hand practice, but never in the face, and never this hard, with the intent to cause visible damage. Tony stayed limp, letting the force of the blow turn his head sideways and rock him back against the sink, but it still stunned him for a second.
He opened his eyes, straightening and putting one hand to his hotly throbbing cheek. "Thank you," he said quietly.
Steve flinched.
So Tony kissed him. He couldn't think of anything to say to make this better, but kissing was always good.
Steve was big and solid and warm and Tony had to fight the desire to cling to him, to close his eyes and bury himself in the feel of Steve's arms around him, and the almost-forgotten luxury of human contact, of feeling safe.
He knew what the Argonians did to people they suspected of being traitors. If this went wrong, then when they were through with him, there wouldn't be anything recognizable left to bury.
Steve hugged him hard, holding him so tightly that it was almost painful. Then he let go abruptly, taking a step back. "Hank is probably waiting," he said.
Everyone was waiting, Hank included. Even Johnny Storm was there, leaning on a pair of crutches with Reed Richard's two little blond kids hiding behind him. Tony had this vague feeling that he should know their names, but he couldn't think of anything at the moment beyond the mission and Steve.
At least he'd gotten to see him again one more time, gotten to be with him in a way he had never thought would be possible. It might almost have seemed like a dream if he hadn't had the twinge of bruises on his hips and arms to remind him. Steve's marks, hidden under his clothes, to carry back into captivity with him.
He knew how vital this was, knew he was the only person who could do it, knew he owed it to all those people still stuck down in the converter room, and to everyone who had died at Argonian hands, to make up for losing his nerve before, but that didn't make going back any easier. Especially now, when he knew exactly what he was walking away from, what he could have if he stayed.
It had been easy, the first time. He hadn't any other options then. Now...
But if he stayed, if he let someone else go in his place, he wouldn't be worthy of Steve's friendship and respect, let alone his love.
"What happened to your face?" Clint asked, oblivious to Steve's wince.
"Verisimilitude," Tony said wryly. "You brutally attacked me when you forced me to leave the factory in your company."
"Well, I have Argonian warrior training." Clint smirked. "I do that." Then his smile faded, and he dropped his gaze, staring at the floor. "I- good luck. You, too, Hank." He held out his hand for Tony to shake, which he did, then turned and silently offered it to Hank, who was standing somewhat forlornly in the middle of the foyer, his Ant-Man helmet tucked under one arm.
Hank blinked at him for a second, then took the offered hand. "Thanks," he said.
"Where are you going?"
The voice was very small, and high-pitched. Tony looked down to see Valeria standing right by Hank's knee -- how had she gotten that close without anyone noticing? -- one hand clutching a bundle of what looked like Steve's beloved prismacolor markers. The yellow one was missing its cap.
"I, um," Hank stammered, clearly at a loss for how to explain. Tony could empathize -- how did you explain a suicide mission to a four year old?
Jan took a step forward, dropping to one knee to put herself at Valeria's level. "They're going to go do something very important," she said, "to make the bad people go away. But they'll be back soon." She cast a meaningful glance up at Hank. "And they'll be fine."
Hank reached down with one hand and touched her hair lightly. "Jan," he started.
"Don't." She rose to her feet and took a step back. "Just come back."
Hank's face crumpled for a second, then he gave her a bright and obviously false smile. "Sure, Janny. I'll be back."
Jan raised one hand, as if she were about to reach out to him, then pulled it back. "I'll hold you to that, Blue Eyes."
Hank's grin was real, this time. He was so desperate for approval most of the time that it was almost sad, that is, when he wasn't being frighteningly over-confident.
"You better-" Tony began.
"I know." Hank set the Ant-Man helmet over his head -- it look incongruously out of place paired with his blue and yellow Goliath costume -- and began shrinking. When he reached a barely-visible two inches high, Tony knelt down and held a hand out to him.
Like Jan in Wasp-form, Hank at this size weighed nearly nothing. Tony watched him climb onto his palm, and then, when he was sure Hank was properly balanced, stood up again.
Steve was watching him silently, his arms folded across his chest. Tony wanted to touch him so badly that it almost hurt, but a glance at Steve's rigid shoulders and tightly-locked jaw told him not to. Steve was trying his level best to stay focused and business-like, to not let his feelings show.
"I'll be waiting for your signal, all right?" Spiderman's words came out in a nervous rush. Tony had to tilt his head back in order to see him, crouched against the ceiling like a twitchy, red and blue gargoyle. "I'm even staying in the hotel so my spidey sense doesn't get triggered by accident, so if I sense anything, I'll know it's you."
"Trust me." Even at two inches tall, that particular manic grin was disturbingly familiar. "You'll know."
Spiderman made a strangled little sound of alarm, and nearly fell off the ceiling. "That was mean," he yelped. "I mean, totally uncalled for. Do you have that thing dialed up to eleven, or what?"
"I had to make sure you noticed it," Hank said. "You're a lot bigger than an ant." Then, in a slightly apologetic tone, "Sorry I can't refine it any further. You don't have antennae."
"That's okay," Spiderman said, waving one hand dismissively. How could he carry on a conversation while upside-down like that? Tony wondered, then dismissed the thought. It wasn't important.
"Steve-" he said.
"Good luck," Steve said, his voice slightly strained. His eyes met Tony's, and held them. "We'll be waiting for Hank's signal."
There was nothing more to say after that. Tony gently placed Hank inside the pocket of his grey lab coat -- now greatly the worse for wear -- and left the suite.
It felt odd to walk around outside again, after so long indoors and underground. The wind was bitingly cold, cutting straight through his thin lab coat as if it were nothing, and the heavily overcast sky seemed impossibly high up, almost dizzyingly so. Nothing moved in the streets but foot traffic, and little enough of that.
Tony, hatless and coatless and utterly freezing, shoved his hands in his lab coat's pockets and trudged down the sidewalk, trying not to shiver as snowflakes caught in his hair and dusted his shoulders.
"Why do you have pieces of wire in your pocket?" Hank's voice drifted up to him from his breast pocket, and something sharp poked him in the chest as one of said wires was shifted around. "You could have taken them out before dropping me-"
"Shh," Tony interrupted. "We're almost there."
Grand Central loomed in front of him, looking surprisingly ominous in the sourceless, snow-filled light. The sculpture that capped the front of the building's façade -- Mercury flanked by Minerva and a not-very-accurate statue of Hercules -- made him think of gargoyles, rather than the classical sculpture it was imitating. The clock in the middle had stopped at thirteen minutes past ten.
"I guess this is it, then," Hank said, voice barely audible.
"I’m going to put you down now," Tony told him, staring across the street at the heavily armed quartet of guards -- one human and one Argonian -- who stood at the front entrance. "Any closer, and they'd notice."
He lifted Hank out of his pocket as carefully as he could, painfully conscious of how small Hank was and how easy it would be to hurt him or drop him, and lifted his hand to eye-level so that he and Hank could look at one another. "Good luck, Highpockets," he said, the silly, old nickname feeling awkward in his mouth. "We're counting on you."
"We'll get you back out in no time, Tony," Hank said. "Just... hang in there until we can." Don't die, he meant.
"Remember," Tony said, "the filtration system's on one of the Metro North platforms. I don't know which one, but it shouldn't be hard to find."
Then he lowered his hand and let Hank climb into the lowest pocket on his lab coat, just below the hip, where he could climb down more easily.
The walk across the street toward the station felt as if it took forever.
Tony kept his pace slow, hands held out in plain sight, away from his body. The guards stiffened as he approached, and one of the Argonians pointed a plasma gun at him and snapped a harsh command in her native language.
Tony obediently stopped dead, holding completely still as the two human guards approaches, swords drawn. "How the hell did you get outside?" one of them demanded. "You guys are supposed to be in the basement."
He was a redhead, Tony noted absently. Fitting. He and the Argonians matched.
"Christ," the other guard said suddenly, the words bursting out of him. "You're Tony Stark, aren't you? I thought they moved you to the weapons factory."
"They did." Sounding tired and haunted took no effort at all. "They came there. The rebels. They killed most of the guards, and they tried to drag me off with them." He reached up to touch the fresh bruise on his face, then winced. "They called me a traitor, and then they-" he broke off, shivering -- it was from the cold, but hopefully the guard would think it was the trauma of whatever the rebels had done to him -- then stammered, "It, it took me until this morning to get away."
"Your superhero friends you used to give money to kidnapped you?" The redhead snorted. "Do you think I'm a fucking idiot? What really happened? Did you try to defect only to find out they didn't want traitors who'd already double-crossed their old bosses?"
He turned to the Argonians guards, who still had their plasma guns aimed at Tony, and said something in Argonian. The highest-ranking guard, twin knots of copper sparkling dully on each shoulder, said something back, and the redhead nodded grimly. "Gage," he snapped at the other guard, "get some handcuffs on him."
Gage slapped the restraints -- big, heavy things, meant for Argonians -- on Tony's wrists with more force than was strictly necessary.
This wasn't so bad, Tony told himself. They hadn't believed his story about being kidnapped, but the human guards thinking he'd been spurned by the Resistance and come crawling back was better than their suspecting the truth.
The Argonians yanked him inside the building roughly, claws digging into his arms, and Tony stumbled, trying to keep with them, but offered no resistance. It galled, but he'd been suppressing the urge to say anything for months and doing so now would just give them an excuse to hit him. Obedience would probably buy him at least a little more time before the pain started.
He felt a faint tug at his lab coat as Hank climbed out of the pocket and slid down the fabric to the ground. Tony resisted the temptation to look down -- he wasn't going to give Hank's presence away.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked, trying to keep their attention on him. Sounding frightened galled, when he normally did everything he could not to let his enemies know he was afraid, but he wasn't being Iron Man anymore, or the head of Stark Industries, who had to maintain his calm in meetings at all times. He was Tony Stark, obliging servant of the Argonian Empire, and he needed them to underestimate him.
The head Argonian snarled something again, and the redheaded guard grinned nastily at Tony. Most of the human guards who had volunteered to serve the Argonians were vicious thugs, or otherwise unpleasant individuals. Not surprising, considering that they were actively betraying their entire species. Like the Kingpin's better paid employees, though, they were highly competent vicious thugs. The Argonians wouldn't tolerate anything less.
"Someplace where people can find out what you know about that attack."
They dragged him through the main terminal and down one of the hallways that once been lined with shops, then down several flights of stairs and into the first level of the subway station.
The signs directing people to different lines hadn't been removed, but the turnstiles were long gone, as were the kiosks that had once sold Metro Cards and train tickets. What was new was the row of metal cells that has been built against one wall in a section of unused track.
Unlike everything else Argonian-built Tony had seen, they were utterly devoid of ornamentation. No windows, either, just a small grate in the door. It would be dark inside them, and probably damp, too, considering the location.
Subway platforms were always damp. And cold, this time of year.
The Argonians nearly threw him into the cell, one of them helping him along with a blow from his tail.
Tony landed on his knees on the concrete floor, just managing to catch himself with his hands before he fell flat on his face; at least they'd tied them in front of him.
The door closed behind him with a dull clang, and he was left in darkness.
There was nothing to do now but wait.
Isimud rubbed at his burning eyes with the back of his hand, blinking until the tiny pieces of circuitry he was looking at came into focus again. It seemed like forever since he'd slept; everyone had been on high alert since the disaster at the weapons facility, and he'd had to work through the entire day just trying to salvage something usable out of the warped and mangled remains of the engines and missile parts the human rebels had left behind.
At least they'd all been brought back down to the converter room for him to examine, so he hadn't had to go above ground. He hated doing that, especially in daylight. It made him feel exposed, vulnerable, and he was always painfully conscious that he was half-blinded by the bright light while any human rebels who might be lurking in the dizzyingly tall buildings could see perfectly.
One of Kammani's warriors had been transferred from Brooklyn. He said that the humans there liked to use the upper floors of tall buildings as hiding places and fire their projectile-guns out the windows at you.
He had been overworked even before the attack, trying to fulfill his usual duties -- without Tony Stark to reply on for advice -- while simultaneously maintaining the miniature shield that surrounded the cells of the superpowered rebel captives. Now, he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to find the time to sleep again.
Nine mechanikos had been killed in the attack, including the senior mechanikos who had been stationed there, so not only were half the things Isimud was trying to repair or cannibalize for parts mangled to the point of being unrecognizable, there was often no one left who'd even known what they were in the first place.
Tony would have known, but Tony was gone, either killed when the weapons facility had burned or taken by the rebels. If even a fraction of the rumors about what the rebels did to people they got their hands on were true, he could be dying in agony at that very moment.
It was weak and unworthy of him to waste grief on someone who wasn't an Argonian, but Tony could have been one, had been only days away from being granted the honor of citizen ship and elevated to mechanikos. Had that happened, his name would now be inscribed on the polished floor in the Archon's throne room, where the names of those fallen in battle were carved, for the Archon, in an astonishing break with precedent, had ordered the names of the nine dead mechanikos carved there, too. For the first time in generations, the names of mechanikos would be remembered. Tony Stark's name, though, would be forgotten, despite all he had done to help the Archon restore Argon's glory.
And the Archon would do so, Isimud was certain. They would rise from the ashes of this defeat stronger than before, more united than before.
He just wished he still had someone to talk to.
"Mamitu!"
It wasn't a shout -- not exactly -- but Arch-Captain Kammani's voice still echoed off the stone ceiling, and Isimud was certain that he was not the only one in the cavern who flinched.
"Mamitu," she repeated, leaving the other Arch-Captain's title off once more, an act of deliberate disrespect. "Have you been to the weapons facility yet, Mamitu, or have you just hidden from your failure down here?"
All noise in the room ceased as everyone turned to stare at her, standing by the elevator to the upper levels with her back straight and her ears laid back. She looked more threatening than Isimud had ever seen her; the Arch-Captain was usually mild and self-effacing, at least for a warrior, but now her fur bristled and her tail was lashing angrily.
Mamitu turned toward her with a snarl, ears laid back against her head. "What did you just say?"
"Do you need me to repeat myself?" Kammani asked, with a flick of her tail. "You have given me insult repeatedly, in both large ways and small, and given the Archon insult, and I have born it because you were my superior, and because the Imperator respected your skill. I will not bear the shame of a defeat this massive, and nor should your command."
Isimud's own ears were laid back now, and he had to fight the urge to duck behind something, to make himself a small as possible -- he would not shame himself that way, not when the violence in the room wasn't even aimed at him.
What was Kammani doing? She was forcing Mamitu to fight her, for no one could let such a terrible insult go unchallenged. Why would she-- She couldn't beat Arch-Captain Mamitu. No one could beat Mamitu.
"How dare you speak to me that way," Mamitu hissed, her entire body stiff with fury. "I challenge you, you jumped-up little coward. Here and now, I challenge you; give me satisfaction for that insult."
Kammani shook her head. "No," she said coldly. "I challenge you. I call you unfit for command, Arch-Captain Mamitu, and unworthy of the rank the empire has bestowed upon you. I invoke the right of trial by combat - defend your authority, Arch-Captain, or I and all other here shall cease to recognize it."
Someone gasped, the noise standing out clearly in the otherwise silent room.
Warriors swore to defend their right to hold whatever rank they were given with their lives. If they were called upon to prove their fitness to command in single combat, and lost, then whatever authority they possessed was gone. Official demotion invariably followed. Once, a victorious challenger would have won the right to assume the defeated warrior's rank and position, provided it was higher than their own. That part of the law was no longer followed, but the rest of it remained in force; to lose an official challenge of one's authority was to lose that authority, completely and utterly.
"You've always had an inflated opinion of yourself, Kammani," Mamitu snapped. "Do you really think you can beat me?"
Kammani smiled, her teeth gleaming very white against her dark fur. "I know I can. You only got your rank in the first place by toadying up to the Imperator like a mechanikos who wants a favor."
Mamitu had both of her blades drawn now, one in each hand. Kammani drew her own sword, movements slow and deliberate, never taking her eyes of the other officer.
Mamitu snapped an order, and one of her subordinate scurried out to mark a circle on the concrete floor with chalk -- it was barely visible against the concrete, but it would suffice. Both Kammani and Mamitu had surely fought enough duels at this point in their lives to know the diameter of a duel circle intimately. The circle, Isimud knew, was more for forms sake than anything. The proprieties had to be observed, after all.
The two of them circled one another, moving slowly and warily, Kammani with perfect smoothness and stillness, her movements flowing like water, and Mamitu stalking with a predatory glide, her tail still lashing with rage.
Mamitu struck first, almost too quickly for Isimud to follow, and he only realized that he'd stopped breathing when the clang of her blade catching in the notch on Kammani's sword echoed off the walls and he let out a silent breath of relief. As a mechanikos, it would be improper for him to show favoritism in a dispute between warriors, but he couldn't help it. Kammani respected him. Mamitu treated him -- and all the other mechanikos -- as if they were barely Argonian at all.
Then the two of them were a blur of flashing blades and fluid movement and sweeping, vicious blows with their tails.
"You are going to pay for this disrespect," Mamitu snarled, her tail lashing out in an arc intended to catch Kammani across the ankles and knock her feet out from under her.
Kammani jumped, Mamitu's tail passing harmlessly under her feet, and kicked outwards, the heel of her boot catching Mamitu in the chest. It was a risky move under other circumstances -- had Mamitu not had a sword in each hand, she could have grabbed Kammani by the ankle and taken her down easily -- but as it was, Mamitu staggered back a step, giving Kammani room to launch another attack, which was quickly beaten back.
Kammani was more athletic -- jumping over and rolling under blows, weaving in and out between Mamitu's blades and tailbarb like a dancer -- but Mamitu was faster, her swords moving so quickly they blurred, and she used her tail more effectively than any warrior Isimud had ever seen. It, not the swords, was her primary weapon - her bladework was impressive, but it was the strikes with her tail that were truly a thing of beauty to behold.
It was said that she had stabbed the warrior who'd given her the scars on her face through the throat with her tailbarb. It was how she'd earned the rank of Arch-Captain.
"You will grovel," Mamitu snarled. "You will bare your throat to me and beg for mercy, you little mechanikos-lover." Her swords flashed, and a slash appeared across Kammani's left sleeve, the fabric gaping open to reveal a thin line of blood.
Kammani dodged the next blown, jumped another attempt to knock her off her feet with a tail-sweep, and caught a third pair of blows on her swords. The two of them struggled for a moment, blades locked, and Ismud's breath caught in his throat, his stomach sinking as he realized that there was no way Kammani could win a contest of brute strength against the taller, heavier Mamitu.
Kammani hooked one foot around Mamitu's ankle and pulled -- like a tail-sweep, but done with a foot instead of a tail -- and the other warrior went down, over balancing.
She rolled to her feet again immediately, swords ready, her ears completely flat to her skull and her eyes burning with rage.
Kammani laughed. "I learned that from a human," she said, a mocking lilt to her voice. "The one you wouldn't agree to transfer to my command. Maybe if you bothered to pay attention to them, you would have learned a thing or two as well, and the weapons facility would still be standing."
Mamitu growled, and lunged for Kammani again, nearly succeeding in driving her out of the circle. "But I am remiss," Kammani went on, her familiar mild tone sounding almost playful, despite the strain evident in it. She was panting now, her black uniform torn in three different places. "You can't learn, can you? I had forgot. You're nothing but Nergal's attack dog."
Mamitu gave a wordless snarl and threw herself at Kammani, fangs bared, flailing at her with her tail -- the blow was wild, uncontrolled, but it struck home anyway, and tip of her tailbarb catching in the fabric of Kammani's uniform.
Kammani slashed downward with her sword, and there was howl from Mamitu as the final octave of her tail was severed cleanly, falling to the floor with a slightly wet-sounding thump.
Mamitu howled again, lashing her truncated tail wildly, a spray of blood flying from it in a wide arc. She had bare minutes to finish the fight now, before the flow of blood from the wound finished her.
Kammani tensed, her weight shifting on the balls of her feet, and even Isimud could tell that she was telegraphing her next attack, and that right side was completely unguarded.
Mamitu seized the opening, the long blade in her left hand slicing down into Kamani's thigh, and Kamani dropped the shorter of her two swords, grabbed her by the wrist, and hauled her in closer, stabbing her remaining sword upwards into Mamitu's torso with so much force that tip of the blade emerged from the back of her uniform, right between her shoulder blades.
Mamitu fell to her knees, blood bubbling out of her mouth as she made thick, wet choking noises. Then she collapsed face down on the floor. Her tail continued twitching for a moment, blood still pumping from its severed end, and then she was still.
The silence was deafening.
Duels were commonplace amongst warriors. Duels to the death were less common, but far from a rarity. Mamitu herself had killed no less than thirteen opponents in ritual combat.
Duels to the death over questions of authority, however, were rare. Much better, it was generally thought, to leave a defeated opponent alive and shamed, to enjoy the humiliation of losing their rank and exist as a continual reminder of the victor's triumph.
Perhaps Kammani had simply been unable to defeat Mamitu without killing her, or perhaps she had realized that a shamed and resentful Mamitu would be an even worse enemy than she had been when in power.
With slow deliberate movements, Kammani wiped her swords clean on the back of Mamitu's uniform tunic and sheathed them once more.
The silence lasted another long, frozen moment, and then one of the humans let out a wild cheer, followed by a grunt of pain as one of the guards hit her.
Isimud found himself grinning widely, not caring how disrespectful it was for a human slave to rejoice at an Argonian's death. He wanted to cheer as well.
Instead, he very carefully laid the warped piece of metal he'd held forgotten in his hands for the duration of the fight down on his work bench and crossed the blood-spattered dueling circle to where Kammani stood, head down and hands in fists at her sides.
The right leg of her uniform trousers was wet with blood, and her entire body was stiff with the effort to not show pain or weakness.
Isimud thought that she had never looked more powerful, or more beautiful.
"Arch-Captain," he said softly, ears and tail submissively low, not meeting her eyes. "You are injured. Let me serve you."
Kammani lifted her head, unclenched her hands, and let him lead her over to his workbench. "That," she observed softly, "went better than I expected."
Isimud blinked. He had never heard a warrior admit to doubt or lack of confidence before. "I would offer congratulations on your victory," he said diffidently, as he cut the torn fabric of her trouser open further, exposing the deep slash in the muscles of her thigh.
"I am honored to accept them," she said, inclining her head. She fell silent then, while Isimud devoted his entire attention to the task of cleaning the blood off her leg and out of her fur with disinfectant from his first aid kit, his ears twitching with embarrassment at the shock of being addressed as an equal.
Locating the water filtration system took nearly two hours, and had left Hank desperately wishing that it weren't the middle of January. Had it not been winter, he could have summoned some ants to help him search. As it was, he had to canvass the various Metro North platforms on foot, and at this size, that took a very long time.
He finally located it on Track 36, just past the station master's office. The entrance to the platform was under guard, of course, but Hank was small enough to pass unnoticed, as long he as stayed close to the walls.
Once inside, he snuck around until the bulk of the filtration system hid from view and returned to normal size. This was the dangerous part. Getting the sodium ascorbate into the system's filters might take as little as fifteen minutes, or it might take an hour, depending on how complex the system was, and he would be highly visible the entire time.
Hank started to grin as he began inspecting the nest of metal piping and copper tubing, and the large, enclosed tanks that held the final product. The heady rush of energy that mission-adrenaline always brought with it hummed through him. That, combined with the knowledge that the Argonians' defeat was less than forty-eight hours away, made him want to laugh, to dance, to punch the air with glee. Except that would get him caught.
The knowledge that Tony was probably being tortured right that very moment was like a cold bucket of water over his glee. Hank shuddered, his smile vanishing, and got to work.
In the end, properly sabotaging the filtration system took him forty-five minutes. The first fifteen of those minutes were fun. The final half hour was nerve-wracking.
By the time Hank screwed the final filter and its new, lethal content -- well, incapacitating; lethal would have required twice the amount of poison -- back into place, his neck and shoulder were knotted so tight with tension that a dull ache had settled between his shoulder blades.
Shrinking down again was a relief.
The most vital part of the mission was over now, successfully accomplished. Whatever happened to him and Tony from this point on, they had done what they had been sent to do.
Now the hard part began.
Now, he needed to find somewhere to hide while he waited for the poison to take effect. Thirty-six hours of waiting and watching, with nothing to do but hope that his sabotage wouldn't be discovered until it was too late.
If he hadn't known what the Argonians were probably doing to Tony, he would have described it as torture.
When he'd judged that enough aliens were sufficiently incapacitated, Hank was supposed to send out a signal to Spiderman with his Ant-Man helmet. Then Steve and Jan and the others would attack, he would meet up with them, and they'd rescue whatever was left of Tony.
Thirty-six hours couldn't pass quickly enough.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five (a) | Chapter Five (b) | Chapter Six (a) | Chapter Six (b) | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen | Chapter Eighteen | Chapter Nineteen | Chapter Twenty (a) | Chapter Twenty (b) | Chapter Twenty One
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!
Also: Wow.
ETA: Now that I'm more coherent.
I really liked the somewhat-desperate, slightly-awkward, totally-adorable End of the World Sex.
You two wrote Tony going off to die horribly and everyone trying and failing to deal very effectively. Oh, my poor heart.
I am Very Concerned about how the next chapter is going to go. I am telling myself about how you are writing a Big Bang. It makes the pain of a two-week wait a lot better.
Could you write a drabble involving baby animals or something cute, please? I need therapy.
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"And I'm hoping they don't know what hickeys mean, because I think that would probably hurt my cover more than it helps it."
Tony needing Steve to hit him was like a twist of a knife. Of course he'd joke about it, though. It was so painful to hear him think that Steve was worried he'd spill under torture, when it's so clear that Steve just wants to know that Tony will survive.
"Good luck, Highpockets," he said, the silly, old nickname feeling awkward in his mouth. "We're counting on you."
You capture somberness so wonderfully. That scene felt so cold and gray, the nickname felt awkward before I read that it was awkward, if that makes sense.
I don't even know what to say about the duel! Typically, fight scenes don't interest me. This one was an exception, safe to say.
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Also, this chapter is <3. Poor guys. Oh Tony, why couldn't you get Jan to punch you?
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But hooray for Kammani's victory! I'm so excited about how things are going from the Argonian point of view - what are they going to make of the poison? Oh, I can't wait! As usual. :D
Fight! Fight!
No lie, it was the duel that got me waving loose bills as if I were watching a cage match. That says too much about me, I know. I really liked the scenes, there, and the grizzly end to the loser.
I don't get this sentence: to lose an official challenge of one's authority was ! ! to lose that authority, completely and utterly. Did you leave out something with the exclamation marks
Re: Fight! Fight!
I'm pretty sure this is the bloodiest fight scene we've ever written, and we were kind of stupidly proud of that, so I'm glad you enjoyed it. Especially since there are going to be a good few more fight scenes before this is over.
I don't get this sentence: to lose an official challenge of one's authority was ! ! to lose that authority, completely and utterly. Did you leave out something with the exclamation marks
That would be a bizarre side effect of
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Ugh, it's so happy yet so angsty at the same time, I love it. I didn't even mind the lack of overt porn, it would have been a distraction. Oh, the scars, and the bruises, and the dead-serious-flirting, and the punch! and Clint! and "twitchy, red and blue gargoyle" and Tony's annoyance at sounding frightened (though you use 'galled' twice in a few paragraphs and it's an unusual enough word to stand out) and Isimud, oh gosh, Isimud tired and grieving and proud, and Kammani kicking ass (mechanikos-lover! a move she learned from Clint! and wow, choreographing fights is hard enough when they don't have prehensile tails) and the suspense, oh.
This may not make sense, but I don't just like this as a fic, I like it as a story as well. So good.
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Also, Isimud = <3 He's totally pining for Tony too. ;) I hope they see each other again as well...
And yay, the plan is working! :D I am really intrigued to see how all of this is going to go down, especially with the political developments among the Argonians... That battle was badass, by the way. Very good job. :)
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The scenes with Tony and Steve were beautifully done, made me both happy and said (Tony, it was mean to make Steve hit you!)
Isimud needs hugs, Kammani was majorly awesome giving Mamitu her come-uppance (and I see I'm not the only one who's started shipping those two). Also, three cheers for Irkalla commanding that the fallen mechanikos be included in the memorial!
I do hope that spiking the water works in favor of the sympathetic Argonians somehow. (Oh Nergaaaaaal, it's your turn next!)
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nothing more coherent than that today. but amazing how you keep the tension up from chapter to chapter.
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ç___________ç
ok, now I'm waiting with Hank ;)
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Loved the Steve smacking Tony scene, it was intense.
I actually covered my mouth with my hand when Mamitu's tail was cut off. Yeesh that was an exciting fight, the action scenes in your guys's fic are always so fantastic. Her death and Isimund's response to it, it was really well done.
I am very terrified for Tony and Hank, what a time to go back to every other week posting!! Dx
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Didn't notice anything else wrong. Can't really add anything else that everyone else hasn't said much better. ;)
Carry on.
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It's good to see Hank get the chance to get out and be competent and proactive; he really needs it. But it's awful to see Tony and Steve parting so soon after finding each other. And I'm kind of dreading the thought of what the Argonians could do to Tony in thirty-six hours.
The duel scene was awesome. I totally ♥ Isimud and Kammani.
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Absolutely loving this fic!
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Will feedback properly when have finished reading. :)
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To provide a diversion, and at least temporarily misdirect the Argonians attention from the water supply. It's a relatively obvious source of infection or poison, and the Argonians might have thought to check it for contamination before a sufficient number were incapacitated.
Glad you're enjoying the fic!
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