The Untitled Vampire Rogers Story (1/?)
Title: The Untitled Vampire Rogers Story (1/?)
Author: Lucifer Hisaki (mercy_slays/luciferhisaki)
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Marvel
Pairing: (Future) Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Summary: In which Steve Rogers comes back from the dead ala the Slavic Vampire Way.
Disclaimer: I hardly know my way around Comic Canon. Do you really think I own Marvel? But I would love to own RDJ!Tony's ass!
Word Count: I'll count later.
Notes: This is not beta'd. There maybe some OoCness. Happy Halloween! =D
The Untitled Vampire Rogers Story"
Tony sometimes went to bars, particularly the sleazy sort, to find information that he couldn’t exactly use proper channels to. Oh, he could use Extremis to do that but after the Civil War he was hesitant to spy on meta humans and be a literal Big Brother in the sky. Testing himself by going to these slums and their bars, however, was part of the reason.
Most of the time, no one recognized him and if they did, they would think he was someone else or they were imagining things. Which was perfectly fine by him. He didn’t want to be known for the guy who went up against Captain America and possibly was indirectly related to his death. He preferred not to get into those conversations, if he can help it. It also helped he was in disguise whenever he came into these places. Amazing what tattered clothing and temporary hair dye along with contact lenses could do for someone. Then again, maybe no one really was that observant in these places. Or smart enough to keep close-mouthed.
But if they were secretive, he’d be somewhere else than in a bar, listening to a few men sitting at table behind him talk garbage about how much they hate Spiderman and Daredevil and that they’re probably “fucking” each other. Tony had an inclination that maybe these men weren’t very smart and had went up both of them.
Inwardly, he sighed, resisting the urge to defend Peter (not Matt, or Daredevil, Tony’s brain corrected, Daredevil could do that himself) when he himself was occasionally tossing in an empty insult to the group to gain some empathy among them. It would seem that there were some people who weren’t smart enough to not talk about their boss and what they should be doing instead of being in a damn bar, drinking beer and complaining how much of a prick Spiderman was. Tony wondered briefly, if they even remembered Spiderman’s secret identity. Probably not, since they randomly insulted Captain America as if he was alive and was a “fuckin’ fairy, y’know”.
The first time he heard it, he wanted to punch someone. Big, bulk-ugly and peanut-brain intelligence was the most likely to be on the other end of Tony’s fist. Skinny, foul-mouth smartass was next. The third guy, however, was probably not even worth it. He was too reserve and Tony could tell there was some smarts in him.
Nursing his coke, Tony glanced at the newcomers when he heard the chime of the bell hanging over the entrance. More scum. He glanced at his watch. It was late and he could probably take a detour to the old mansion before heading to the tower. Tonight’s outing was mostly useless, save for the bit that it seemed someone was intent on destroying New York. Again. Tony didn’t bother trying to figure out who.
Almost everyone wanted to destroy New York these days. It’s just the people with powers and villainous minds seemed to be the ones with actual plans and ways to try it.
Standing up, he tipped the tender before leaving; not noticing the three men whose conversation he was listening in on stood up and followed him out.
Hands in his pockets, head bowed, Tony walked leisurely through the cool streets of New York. It was a nice night to have a walk. No one knew, as far as he knew anyway, about these bi-weekly outings of his. Jarvis probably thought he was at the office and the Mighty Avengers thinking he was doing something for S.H.I.E.L.D. and the latter thinking he was at home. Tony smirked slightly in humour. Miscommunication on all ends seemed to do as much wonders as headaches, it would seem.
It would take sometime before he can get to the mansion, though he really didn’t know what he would do there. Maybe just ask for help from the ghosts that haunted the grounds. Pay his respects, he supposed. Go insane and talk out loud by himself was more likely. Tony was already insane by his own standards and everyone else’s; it wouldn’t be that hard to take that small step further into madness.
“Probably should be in a mental institute by now,” he muttered to himself, resisting the urge to check the news with Extremis.
Amusing himself with new ideas and designs for the motorcycle engine he was “recycling” for recreation, Tony didn’t even notice that he was in front of the gates for the mansion until he paused in front of them. In the distance he could see the ruins of his old childhood home and felt a spike of emotion flare. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he entered the premises, oblivious to his stalkers who were wielding knives now.
Closing his eyes, Tony found himself humming a relatively old song, his mind conjuring memories of the past. If he thought hard enough, he could almost hear Wanda and Jan discussing some thing or other. If he listened closely, the crackle of Thor’s hammer against Steve’s shield in some spar or whatever would resound in the silent night air. If he concentrated deeply, Hank would be arguing with Reed on the phone. His smile grew and he opened his eyes to find himself in the wrecked foyer of the mansion.
The voices and noises of the past were quiet in his head. He looked around, smile falling into a frown. Tony considered kneeling with his head bowed in prayer. There was no need for it. Or want for it. He would be mocking the memories. He might still have Jan and Hank but he lost so many of his friends-Steve most of all.
He sighed, elbow flying back to gut the guy who charged at him. A grunt reached his ears.
Tony turned on the balls of one foot, striking out with a flat palm to the solar plexus of the second. His fist met big, bulk-ugly, peanut-brain’s face. He smirked, a roundhouse kick already in motion before he jumped out of the way when bulk-ugly fell. Immediately, he dodged reserved-smart’s own kick before kneeing him in the groin, followed by a heel of his palm uppercut that met the other’s jaw. Skinny apparently recovered and managed to draw blood on his bicep, ruining his shirt even more. Tony retaliated with closed fist to the stomach.
Elbow meeting the leader’s Adam’s apple, Tony dropkicked bulk-ugly before the latter could get up. Ducking low, he swept the trio’s leader with a kick. He slammed his palm into the other’s back just as Skinny jumped him, his knife somehow forced into the wound it made earlier. Tony flinched in pain before forcing it away to toss Skinny to the ground.
“Enough,” he grounded out, calling the Armour, eyes going black, “You are trespassing on private property.”
Shellhead appeared beside him almost immediately. Tony didn’t bother putting it on. Instead, he ordered the Armour to take the three to the police station. He’ll just put down the report through the Armour. He didn’t want to leave the mansion just yet.
Turning his back, he let the suit do its work while he walked over to his old bedroom. He’ll oversee everything through Extremis when making the report before spending an hour or so in the wreckage that was once his home.
Sitting down on the ruined mattress, he pulled the knife out of his bicep, noticing for the first time it was still jabbed into his skin. Tony eyed the blade before tossing it into a random corner. If it was infected with something, Extremis would take care of it, he rationalized, not really wanting to think of the germs and what other bacteria (and possible diseases) it could be carrying. The wound looked deep and blood kept cascading down his arm, creating streaks of bright red. He probably needed it stitched in the very least.
He plopped down onto the bed, using his other arm to cover his eyes, relaying through the Armour to the police what the three men he fought did and why they should stay in police custody and that no, he was too busy with other things to testify if they really needed a witness. It would probably help but the legal process was more of Jen’s field, not his. He apparently was good for being the guy who fixed things (for the better and worse of it) and who somehow became a dictator in training if he was hearing the gossip from the anti-registered heroes correctly through the bars he haunted.
Tony frowned at the thought and hoped he wasn’t going to end up like Hilter in the near future, though Carol would probably kick his ass, to the very least, before that happened. If not here, then definitely Jan.
He thought of rebuilding this place in the past but it wouldn’t feel right. As much as he hated to admit it, Mighty Avengers probably wouldn’t last that long. Same went with the New Avengers. Steve made it work, not Tony. Tony just funded the teams, nothing else. Sighing heavily, Tony watched through the Armour’s visuals as he slowly guided it back to the Tower.
Finding nothing else to do, Tony decided to take a small nap before heading back. Maybe the nightmares that had been plaguing him would go away if he slept in his old bed, if only for a little while. Probably not, he mused, but it wouldn’t help to at least try.
He didn’t bother wrapping his injury.
Invisible eyes watched from the corner of the room, the knife the intruder-Tony Stark-threw lay at his feet. He did not know how he came here or why he remained here. He remembered Sharon. He remembered the shooting, the sky turning red above him as his sight went black. He remembered a steel box and the fear that came with it when he realized he was buried alive.
It took days for him to return here but he didn’t remember them. He remembered stepping foot on ice before he walked all the way back to the one place he considered home. In these halls, he heard fighting, one hand reaching for his weapon subconsciously but it would do no good in his current form. He smelled blood and lingered, unconsciously licking his lips. His shield remained in his old room as he followed Stark into another when the Armour left carrying all three intruders with it.
Stark stayed when he thought he would leave. His eyes never left the crimson trails on the brunet’s arm. He didn’t feel any insult that someone had stepped foot in his home. Stark took care of them and was injured. Stark fought them bare-handedly and did not kill them like he thought he would have done if he could do something physical to them.
He focused on the blood and took a few steps closer, tongue swiping over elongated fangs. The night was quiet and the voices of the mansion still. Somehow he knew if he tasted the carmine ambrosia on Stark’s arm, something would happen. A benefit to him in the very least. Instinct conflicted with a small part of his conscience that he could barely hear nowadays.
Leaning over Stark’s body, standing next to the mattress, his tongue touched one stream of crimson. Stark did not move or flinch. Neither did his heart rate go up. He was fast asleep. A sardonic smile touched his lips as he swiped one trail clean off Stark’s flesh. Delicious. He was starting to feel more solid already.
Moving on to the bed, he braced his knees on either side of Stark as he cleaned the other man’s arm of blood. He didn’t move close to the origin of the blood flow, not yet. Later, a final drink before he left Stark to his dreams and returned to… wherever.
As he drank, the mattress dipped and Stark remained in Morpheus’s arms. Finally, he let his mouth suckle at the wound, drawing more ambrosia from Stark’s body, nibbling lightly on the flesh. Withdrawing, he watched as the injury became no more and moved off the bed.
He wiped his mouth of excess, licking his hand.
Feeling more corporeal than he had since waking up in that box, Steve Rogers watched Stark sleep and contemplated killing him before he balked. “Kill him? What am I thinking? I don’t kill.” Not that he didn’t deserve death, a small voice in his head replied. He blinked rapidly, shaking his head, holding his head with both hands, turning on heel and exiting the room to his own, to where his shield was.
“What is going on with me?” Steve frowned, trying to remember what he had gone through, the memories of before he drank-oh god, I just drank Tony’s blood-disappearing from his mind like grains of sand in his hands.
He remembered Sharon. He remembered the steps. He remembered Tony talking to him in the Helicarrier’s brig. He remembered surrendering. He remembered dying. After that, nothing, except that a few minutes ago he was drinking Tony’s blood and thought of killing him of all things. There were openings where he could have done it, during the war but he never took them. He wasn’t even sure if they were deliberately left open on Tony’s part.
Steve closed his eyes and plopped down onto the mattress in his old room, one hand firmly grasping his shield. He needed sleep. Maybe this was all a nightmare, maybe it was just a bad dream. All of it. Him dying, the SHRA, fighting against Tony among others. He growled lowly, his free hand grabbing the mattress until he could hear tearing of the material. Taking one deep breath, Steve focused on sleep.
Author: Lucifer Hisaki (mercy_slays/luciferhisaki)
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Marvel
Pairing: (Future) Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Summary: In which Steve Rogers comes back from the dead ala the Slavic Vampire Way.
Disclaimer: I hardly know my way around Comic Canon. Do you really think I own Marvel? But I would love to own RDJ!Tony's ass!
Word Count: I'll count later.
Notes: This is not beta'd. There maybe some OoCness. Happy Halloween! =D
The Untitled Vampire Rogers Story"
Tony sometimes went to bars, particularly the sleazy sort, to find information that he couldn’t exactly use proper channels to. Oh, he could use Extremis to do that but after the Civil War he was hesitant to spy on meta humans and be a literal Big Brother in the sky. Testing himself by going to these slums and their bars, however, was part of the reason.
Most of the time, no one recognized him and if they did, they would think he was someone else or they were imagining things. Which was perfectly fine by him. He didn’t want to be known for the guy who went up against Captain America and possibly was indirectly related to his death. He preferred not to get into those conversations, if he can help it. It also helped he was in disguise whenever he came into these places. Amazing what tattered clothing and temporary hair dye along with contact lenses could do for someone. Then again, maybe no one really was that observant in these places. Or smart enough to keep close-mouthed.
But if they were secretive, he’d be somewhere else than in a bar, listening to a few men sitting at table behind him talk garbage about how much they hate Spiderman and Daredevil and that they’re probably “fucking” each other. Tony had an inclination that maybe these men weren’t very smart and had went up both of them.
Inwardly, he sighed, resisting the urge to defend Peter (not Matt, or Daredevil, Tony’s brain corrected, Daredevil could do that himself) when he himself was occasionally tossing in an empty insult to the group to gain some empathy among them. It would seem that there were some people who weren’t smart enough to not talk about their boss and what they should be doing instead of being in a damn bar, drinking beer and complaining how much of a prick Spiderman was. Tony wondered briefly, if they even remembered Spiderman’s secret identity. Probably not, since they randomly insulted Captain America as if he was alive and was a “fuckin’ fairy, y’know”.
The first time he heard it, he wanted to punch someone. Big, bulk-ugly and peanut-brain intelligence was the most likely to be on the other end of Tony’s fist. Skinny, foul-mouth smartass was next. The third guy, however, was probably not even worth it. He was too reserve and Tony could tell there was some smarts in him.
Nursing his coke, Tony glanced at the newcomers when he heard the chime of the bell hanging over the entrance. More scum. He glanced at his watch. It was late and he could probably take a detour to the old mansion before heading to the tower. Tonight’s outing was mostly useless, save for the bit that it seemed someone was intent on destroying New York. Again. Tony didn’t bother trying to figure out who.
Almost everyone wanted to destroy New York these days. It’s just the people with powers and villainous minds seemed to be the ones with actual plans and ways to try it.
Standing up, he tipped the tender before leaving; not noticing the three men whose conversation he was listening in on stood up and followed him out.
Hands in his pockets, head bowed, Tony walked leisurely through the cool streets of New York. It was a nice night to have a walk. No one knew, as far as he knew anyway, about these bi-weekly outings of his. Jarvis probably thought he was at the office and the Mighty Avengers thinking he was doing something for S.H.I.E.L.D. and the latter thinking he was at home. Tony smirked slightly in humour. Miscommunication on all ends seemed to do as much wonders as headaches, it would seem.
It would take sometime before he can get to the mansion, though he really didn’t know what he would do there. Maybe just ask for help from the ghosts that haunted the grounds. Pay his respects, he supposed. Go insane and talk out loud by himself was more likely. Tony was already insane by his own standards and everyone else’s; it wouldn’t be that hard to take that small step further into madness.
“Probably should be in a mental institute by now,” he muttered to himself, resisting the urge to check the news with Extremis.
Amusing himself with new ideas and designs for the motorcycle engine he was “recycling” for recreation, Tony didn’t even notice that he was in front of the gates for the mansion until he paused in front of them. In the distance he could see the ruins of his old childhood home and felt a spike of emotion flare. Swallowing the lump in his throat, he entered the premises, oblivious to his stalkers who were wielding knives now.
Closing his eyes, Tony found himself humming a relatively old song, his mind conjuring memories of the past. If he thought hard enough, he could almost hear Wanda and Jan discussing some thing or other. If he listened closely, the crackle of Thor’s hammer against Steve’s shield in some spar or whatever would resound in the silent night air. If he concentrated deeply, Hank would be arguing with Reed on the phone. His smile grew and he opened his eyes to find himself in the wrecked foyer of the mansion.
The voices and noises of the past were quiet in his head. He looked around, smile falling into a frown. Tony considered kneeling with his head bowed in prayer. There was no need for it. Or want for it. He would be mocking the memories. He might still have Jan and Hank but he lost so many of his friends-Steve most of all.
He sighed, elbow flying back to gut the guy who charged at him. A grunt reached his ears.
Tony turned on the balls of one foot, striking out with a flat palm to the solar plexus of the second. His fist met big, bulk-ugly, peanut-brain’s face. He smirked, a roundhouse kick already in motion before he jumped out of the way when bulk-ugly fell. Immediately, he dodged reserved-smart’s own kick before kneeing him in the groin, followed by a heel of his palm uppercut that met the other’s jaw. Skinny apparently recovered and managed to draw blood on his bicep, ruining his shirt even more. Tony retaliated with closed fist to the stomach.
Elbow meeting the leader’s Adam’s apple, Tony dropkicked bulk-ugly before the latter could get up. Ducking low, he swept the trio’s leader with a kick. He slammed his palm into the other’s back just as Skinny jumped him, his knife somehow forced into the wound it made earlier. Tony flinched in pain before forcing it away to toss Skinny to the ground.
“Enough,” he grounded out, calling the Armour, eyes going black, “You are trespassing on private property.”
Shellhead appeared beside him almost immediately. Tony didn’t bother putting it on. Instead, he ordered the Armour to take the three to the police station. He’ll just put down the report through the Armour. He didn’t want to leave the mansion just yet.
Turning his back, he let the suit do its work while he walked over to his old bedroom. He’ll oversee everything through Extremis when making the report before spending an hour or so in the wreckage that was once his home.
Sitting down on the ruined mattress, he pulled the knife out of his bicep, noticing for the first time it was still jabbed into his skin. Tony eyed the blade before tossing it into a random corner. If it was infected with something, Extremis would take care of it, he rationalized, not really wanting to think of the germs and what other bacteria (and possible diseases) it could be carrying. The wound looked deep and blood kept cascading down his arm, creating streaks of bright red. He probably needed it stitched in the very least.
He plopped down onto the bed, using his other arm to cover his eyes, relaying through the Armour to the police what the three men he fought did and why they should stay in police custody and that no, he was too busy with other things to testify if they really needed a witness. It would probably help but the legal process was more of Jen’s field, not his. He apparently was good for being the guy who fixed things (for the better and worse of it) and who somehow became a dictator in training if he was hearing the gossip from the anti-registered heroes correctly through the bars he haunted.
Tony frowned at the thought and hoped he wasn’t going to end up like Hilter in the near future, though Carol would probably kick his ass, to the very least, before that happened. If not here, then definitely Jan.
He thought of rebuilding this place in the past but it wouldn’t feel right. As much as he hated to admit it, Mighty Avengers probably wouldn’t last that long. Same went with the New Avengers. Steve made it work, not Tony. Tony just funded the teams, nothing else. Sighing heavily, Tony watched through the Armour’s visuals as he slowly guided it back to the Tower.
Finding nothing else to do, Tony decided to take a small nap before heading back. Maybe the nightmares that had been plaguing him would go away if he slept in his old bed, if only for a little while. Probably not, he mused, but it wouldn’t help to at least try.
He didn’t bother wrapping his injury.
Invisible eyes watched from the corner of the room, the knife the intruder-Tony Stark-threw lay at his feet. He did not know how he came here or why he remained here. He remembered Sharon. He remembered the shooting, the sky turning red above him as his sight went black. He remembered a steel box and the fear that came with it when he realized he was buried alive.
It took days for him to return here but he didn’t remember them. He remembered stepping foot on ice before he walked all the way back to the one place he considered home. In these halls, he heard fighting, one hand reaching for his weapon subconsciously but it would do no good in his current form. He smelled blood and lingered, unconsciously licking his lips. His shield remained in his old room as he followed Stark into another when the Armour left carrying all three intruders with it.
Stark stayed when he thought he would leave. His eyes never left the crimson trails on the brunet’s arm. He didn’t feel any insult that someone had stepped foot in his home. Stark took care of them and was injured. Stark fought them bare-handedly and did not kill them like he thought he would have done if he could do something physical to them.
He focused on the blood and took a few steps closer, tongue swiping over elongated fangs. The night was quiet and the voices of the mansion still. Somehow he knew if he tasted the carmine ambrosia on Stark’s arm, something would happen. A benefit to him in the very least. Instinct conflicted with a small part of his conscience that he could barely hear nowadays.
Leaning over Stark’s body, standing next to the mattress, his tongue touched one stream of crimson. Stark did not move or flinch. Neither did his heart rate go up. He was fast asleep. A sardonic smile touched his lips as he swiped one trail clean off Stark’s flesh. Delicious. He was starting to feel more solid already.
Moving on to the bed, he braced his knees on either side of Stark as he cleaned the other man’s arm of blood. He didn’t move close to the origin of the blood flow, not yet. Later, a final drink before he left Stark to his dreams and returned to… wherever.
As he drank, the mattress dipped and Stark remained in Morpheus’s arms. Finally, he let his mouth suckle at the wound, drawing more ambrosia from Stark’s body, nibbling lightly on the flesh. Withdrawing, he watched as the injury became no more and moved off the bed.
He wiped his mouth of excess, licking his hand.
Feeling more corporeal than he had since waking up in that box, Steve Rogers watched Stark sleep and contemplated killing him before he balked. “Kill him? What am I thinking? I don’t kill.” Not that he didn’t deserve death, a small voice in his head replied. He blinked rapidly, shaking his head, holding his head with both hands, turning on heel and exiting the room to his own, to where his shield was.
“What is going on with me?” Steve frowned, trying to remember what he had gone through, the memories of before he drank-oh god, I just drank Tony’s blood-disappearing from his mind like grains of sand in his hands.
He remembered Sharon. He remembered the steps. He remembered Tony talking to him in the Helicarrier’s brig. He remembered surrendering. He remembered dying. After that, nothing, except that a few minutes ago he was drinking Tony’s blood and thought of killing him of all things. There were openings where he could have done it, during the war but he never took them. He wasn’t even sure if they were deliberately left open on Tony’s part.
Steve closed his eyes and plopped down onto the mattress in his old room, one hand firmly grasping his shield. He needed sleep. Maybe this was all a nightmare, maybe it was just a bad dream. All of it. Him dying, the SHRA, fighting against Tony among others. He growled lowly, his free hand grabbing the mattress until he could hear tearing of the material. Taking one deep breath, Steve focused on sleep.