[fic] Tony Stark Really Does Have A Heart - 1/1
Title: Tony Stark Really Does Have A Heart
Author: garnetice
Pairing: Tony/Steve pre-slash
Rating: G
Word Count: 3,794
Warnings: Crack!fic. Total crack!fic. And naughty swear words, oh me, oh my.
Summary: "I’m not even supposed to be able to see unicorns, right, I haven’t exactly had a card for that club since I was fifteen and…hey. Since when did you convert that into a black light? Nifty."
Disclaimer: I own nada.
Author Notes: I was super late in posting goten0040's last birthday fic, so when she gave me this prompt (the arc reactor turns into a mood ring), I jumped all over that. I, uh, am not so great at fluffy gen!fic, but I tried? I hope this is not super disappointing or anything. Um. OOH and mucho thanks to breila_rose for a super quick beta. <3 I went back and added more after she was done, so any remaining mistakes are totally my own. Enjoy, Liz!
---
“But why?”
“It’s Loki.”
“But why?”
Steve throws up his hands. “Loki is the god of mischief, maybe?”
“But-“
“Finish that question with a why, Stark. I dare you.” Natasha’s face and voice are utterly devoid of emotion, but Tony doesn’t think he’s imagining the way her knuckles have turned white around the grip of her favorite knife.
Cool.
Also, utterly terrifying, but mostly cool. The ability to ruffle a master assassin’s feathers can’t be part of many people’s skill sets. Tony assigns himself a mental gold star. Then he promptly continues, “But why unicorns, really? Is crushing the dreams of small children and Walt Disney actually mischievous? Because it mostly seems mean.”
“Agreed.” Bruce staggers straight for the couch, totally out of it. They had to coax him back to Bruce-sized with the help of a Peruvian pan flute band near Times Square, and he still isn’t looking so hot. “They were all pretty-shiny and then- grrargh.”
The noise is presumably meant to imitate the grunts of the killer unicorns Loki unleashed on Manhattan, but it’s mostly smothered in one of the very tasteful throw pillows that Pepper picked out. Tony, in the midst of being manhandled by his helpful robots, pieces of his armor falling by the wayside, calls, “You okay, cupcake? You’re looking a little green around the gills.”
Bruce lifts his head, a presumably snappy comeback right on the tip of his tongue. Then he buries his face back into the throw pillow. “Hate Loki. Hate unicorns.”
Clint nods along. “You would think Thor would’ve mentioned that murderous fairytales were a thing before he ran back to Asgard. I’m not even supposed to be able to see unicorns, right, I haven’t exactly had a card for that club since I was fifteen and…hey. Since when did you convert that into a black light? Nifty.”
He sidles up to Tony and jabs a finger at the arc reactor, dodging the metal fingers stripping off Iron Man's chest plate.
“What? I didn’t-“ Tony’s breath catches in his lungs, the light emitting from his chest dulled to a weak, dark thing.
His immediate reaction isn’t exactly panic, but it looks a lot like it.
“I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to- wait, I feel fine.” Tony tilts his head to the side. “Interesting.”
“Interesting, how?” Steve’s voice has gone all sharp at the edges, his muscles tense. The last of Tony’s armor falls away, and he takes a step in the direction of his lab. Steve’s big, meaty hand blocks the way. He repeats, “Interesting, how?”
“Well, I don’t know. I haven’t gotten a good look at it yet. I need to go to my lab-“
“You should go to the doctor.” Steve isn’t moving his hand. He has very large hands, and fingers, and knuckles, and it’d all be quite admirable if he wasn’t being such an effective roadblock.
“I’m smarter than most doctors,” Tony says easily, because truth.
Steve is unmoved. In his Captain America cowl, he looks almost exactly like that huge ass statue of himself they erected in DC, back when Tony wasn’t even a twinkle in his parents’ eyes. “Really? Have you read Gray’s Anatomy?”
“How do you- what- was that even written when you were alive, JARVIS, when was that-“
“1858, sir, and if I may, your vital signs remain stable. There is no evidence of fluctuation in the arc reactor’s output; I believe the change is purely cosmetic.”
Relief melts against Tony’s ribcage and shoulder blades. His lungs, frozen with fear, are back to working normally, and he gulps down deep, clean breaths of air. Nothing’s malfunctioning, at least not seriously.
Steve’s arm settles heavy across Tony’s shoulders, eyes inquiring, but before he can come up with any more doctor-talk, Clint’s lips curve into a grin. “Sweet, we can have a black light party, I’ll get the highlighters.”
He’s halfway across the floor before Natasha tugs him by the back of his collar. “Wait. It’s blue.”
Clint’s eyes cross. “What’s blue?”
Natasha points at the arc reactor, and she’s right, it is blue now. Not the white-blue of pure energy, but a deep kind of azure, the color of Steve’s eyes. Tony schools his face, uncomfortable even thinking it, because he doesn’t think it, he doesn’t ever give all that much thought to Captain America’s twinkly blue irises, alright?
“I’m going to wager a guess and say it’s not supposed to do that,” Clint announces, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet. There might be something resembling worry in the set of his shoulders, but it isn’t at all evident in his voice when he says, “Unless you’ve rewired it for ambient mood lighting, in which case, thanks, man. All we need is some flowers and an Etta James record and we’ll be all set for romance.”
Bruce raises his face from the couch cushions and grumbles, “Hawkeye, you’re doing that thing where you’re being an asshole again.”
Apologetically, Clint replies, “I can’t help it, baby. I was born this way.”
Tony pokes at his own chest. The arc reactor feels exactly like it should, all hard metal and glass. The play of cerulean light over his fingers is strange, but JARVIS would warn him if he was about to drop dead, and Tony’s pretty familiar with the signs of impending cardiac arrest. He tells Clint, “Sorry, Romeo, if you need a little help wooing Brucie-Bear, I’ll set you up with a light dimmer, but this is definitely not me.”
“Loki,” Steve proclaims grimly. “It has to be.”
“I would bet my incredibly vast fortune that Stars and Stripes is right,” Tony agrees, sagging into Steve’s side. He could slip in a replacement reactor, but if this is Loki’s doing, it means magic is involved. Who knows what kind of hinky booby traps Loki might have installed? For all Tony can tell, the pretty dance of colors might be a precursor to something that goes boom. Better not to make any sudden moves.
Natasha’s fingers flex on the grip of her knife. “We should contact Thor.”
“Great, that’s absolutely workable, he’s only in a different dimension,” Bruce moans, but he deigns to sit up, hugging one of the throw pillows to his naked chest.
“Sugar Plum, you wound me. Stark Tech works everywhere,” Tony retorts, voice brighter than he feels.
“You gave Thor a cellphone?” Clint cocks his head to the side. “Was that wise?”
“I gave you three cellphones, and you’ve broken all of them,” Tony points out, tapping his fingers across his ribcage. The glow of the arc reactor is changing again, taking on the reddish-orange hue of a lava lamp. “You put the last one in the toaster oven.”
“I was reading the New York Times,” Clint protests, his face scrunching up comically. “The plight of America’s youth was distracting me!”
“You were reading Hustler,” Tony accuses, because hey, he does not have a JARVIS for nothing and Clint wouldn’t know what a legitimate newspaper looked like if it slapped him across the face.
Steve snorts, a hot puff of air near Tony’s ear. It tickles.
Tony crosses his arms, trying and failing to hide the fiery light. “If you can’t play nice with your toys, Barton, Santa won’t bring you any more for Christmas.”
Clint rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to sit on your lap, Stark. No matter how many candy canes you offer me.”
“I’ve got Thor on the phone,” Natasha announces, glaring at all of them in this way that implies she really hates heading a daycare center.
JARVIS accommodatingly brings up a luminescent blue interface bearing Thor’s confounded expression. He pokes the screen, delighted by the wonders of Midgardian communication. “You all look so tiny.”
“Right, yes, modern technology is a marvel,” Tony agrees, and it’s mostly genuine, because he never misses an opportunity to be impressed with himself. The moment can’t last, however, because, “Your brother put a spell on me.”
“Your faces are all so life-like!” Thor enthuses, completely missing the point. Tony can actually feel Steve beaming with pride next to him; he at least, knows how to use video chat.
Score one for Mr. Zoot Suit Riots.
“We are not focusing on the big picture here. Your brother. Put a spell. On me. I’ve been enchanted. Ensorcelled!”
Thor manages to get ahold of himself, his expression resembling a forlorn puppy. Mournfully, he informs them, “Loki has always been one for tricks and enchantments. But I do not know how I might come to your aide, Man of Iron. The mysteries of magic have always eluded me. Should we not contact the great and honorable Fury?”
“Why the fuck would we do that?” Tony demands, glaring. It is not half as intimidating as one of Natasha’s jagged glowers, but it’s enough that Thor winces away. “Look, I’ve seen pictures of your dad and I swear, just because they have matching eye patches does not mean Nick Fury should be your chosen father figure.”
Mildly, Steve chides, “Tony,” and it has utterly no effect on him. Out of principle, he worms his way out from beneath the heavy, comfortable heat of Steve’s arm, because Steve is sitting right in Fury’s pocket too, along with some nicotine gum and a hand grenade, or whatever the fuck it is Fury keeps hidden in that scary ass leather trench-coat of his. Captain America definitely does not get to cuddle when he’s about to be all predictable.
On cue, Steve gently suggests, “We do need to tell Fury.”
At the exact same time, Thor announces, “I will inquire with the All Father-“
“Great. Invite the whole damn Cyclops Club into my chest. See if I care.” Tony is not sulking, because he has dignity, but he might sound a little churlish all the same. Which, he’s been turned into a walking, talking multi-colored nightlight. Churlish is allowed right now.
He switches gears just as the arc reactor takes on a gold-yellow hue, day colors breaking over the sunset red-orange. He’s got all kinds of ideas about tests he needs to run, things to get done before Fury can get his sticky hands on Tony, and yuck, isn’t that a visual he never wanted?
Tony says, “Meanwhile, I’m going to go to my lab of badassery, and consult my supercomputers and my brain and, I don’t know, other badass scientists. Bruce, as a fellow genius, I hereby invite you.”
Normally, Bruce is a regular eager beaver when it comes to visiting Tony’s mancave, but now he simply clutches his throw pillow tighter and insists, “Naptime.”
Natasha mutters something soothing and offers to rub lavender balm on Bruce’s muscles.
No one is offering to rub anything on Tony. This seems blatantly unfair.
Of course, Tony isn’t exactly as close to Natasha as Bruce is. They get mani-pedis together every other Thursday, super villains permitting. Tony is totally willing to get a mani-pedi - no one likes an untamed cuticle, and all his metalwork is hell on his hands - but for some reason he isn’t invited.
Natasha must be scared his nail beds would put hers to shame.
“Dr. Banner, I’m in the middle of a crisis, here.” Tony does his best to look like a wounded animal. From the way Clint snickers, he doesn’t think he’s succeeding. “Fine, you know what, I don’t need any of you. I have an entire phonebook full of great scientific minds. Hank Pym! Hank McCoy! We sure do know a lot of Hanks. Uh…Peter Parker!”
That gets Clint’s attention. “Yeah, no, Stark, I wouldn’t bug the kid.”
“Why not?” Tony is genuinely confused. Peter likes him. Well, everyone likes him, but as a fellow technophile, Peter really likes him.
“Well,” Clint’s face is smug, his body practically vibrating with glee. He steeples his fingers together, exactly like a supervillain about to deliver a monologue detailing their master plan. “Remember how the last time you two spoke, he told you that he really appreciates the offer to join the Avengers, again, and that he hates to shoot you down, again, but could you please stop trying to recruit him?”
Tony might recall that. Maybe. He was working on the engine of his Bugatti at the time. “So?”
“So he also told me that he has no interest in marathonning Star Wars with you, and frankly your fascination with a teenage boy is bordering on Logan-levels of creepy.”
“He did not compare me to Wolverine,” Tony objects, because at the very least he is way more hygienic. The light in his chest races back to black as he watches Steve hide a grin.
“He did,” Clint replies, laughing harder than is warranted. “Good old Pete.”
“Sounds like we’re wearing him down,” Steve says archly, voice laced with humor. The traitor. Natasha and Bruce at least, don’t appear to care, and Tony takes comfort in the fact that not everyone finds it fun to mock the ill and bewitched.
“Some people just aren’t team players,” Tony shoots back sullenly, thinking that he’d very much like to be one of those people at this juncture in time.
Natasha, rubbing a soothing hand across Bruce’s shoulder, agrees, “Especially after they meet you.”
So much for comfort. Did Bruce just purr? Because he definitely just heard a very kitten-esque sound, and this room is full of backstabbing Judases.
Tony decides he can mourn the death of the brotherhood of science later. To Natasha, he protests, “Hey, my charm wore you down in the long run.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t call dogged persistence charming.”
“With a face like mine, baby? Everything’s charming.” Without missing a beat, Tony steps to the left, narrowly avoiding the knife that Natasha throws at his face. When the metal thunks into drywall, he assigns himself a second mental gold star. “Besides, it worked for Clint.”
His arc reactor takes on an orange-green tint, like a glowing, tie-dyed Easter egg. Interesting.
“Clint did not wear me down,” Natasha says levelly, without stopping her massage. Bruce makes another appreciative noise while she fixes her eyes on Tony’s chest and murmurs, “I decided to adopt him. Like a pet.”
“Woof,” Clint supplies cheerfully, without appearing all that put out that his mistress apparently plans on adopting Bruce next.
Whatever, they can all go live in their den of betrayal and Tony-mocking together, and if leashes are involved Tony doesn’t want to know. Probably.
…maybe he’ll install JARVIS in that den.
He tries to regain control of the conversation, informing Natasha, “Great, and I’m going to do the same to Spidey. All he wants is a homemade lunch and milk money and a safe place to rest his head, I’m sure. Cap can provide that, easy.”
“I resent that,” Steve says, even though he’s been force-feeding Tony nutritious lunches for close to half a year.
“Don’t be mad, snookums,” Tony edges up to Steve, forgiving him for being a government pawn and mostly unable to keep his hands off Captain America for any length of time. It’s not his fault; the man is a living, breathing action figure. Hands on appeal is part of the design.
Steve shoves him, but lightly. “Don’t call me snookums, Stark.”
“Honey bear? Gumdrop? Dandelion?” He slathers on extra sleaze, and all it does is prompt Steve to chuckle. Tony really likes this thing where they’ve known each other long enough to be friends, and allies, and where Steve barely ever gets mad at him for being a smart ass anymore.
It makes him feel all warm inside. The glow of the arc reactor shifts back to a solid, comforting robin’s egg blue.
Blue, green, orange, black, yellow, Tony muses, watching the light wash over Steve’s face, painting the jut of his chin, the angle of his cheekbones. There’s a familiarity about the color scheme, almost like the mood rings he had as a kid.
Almost.
Or exactly.
“Sonofa-“
“Greetings!” Thor booms.
Tony finishes the salutation off with mere mortals in his head. He hadn’t realized that Natasha never hung up, merely laid the phone on the arm rest while she made cooing noises at Bruce and plotted Tony’s imminent demise.
Clint snatches up the cell with so much grace that Tony is tricked into forgetting what an idiot he is for point two seconds. Then he says, “Dude, you’re not even on speaker phone right now,” chastising the god of thunder for his complete lack of noise control, “We could hire you out to narrate NASCAR,” and Tony remembers that Hawkeye is, in fact, kind of a moron.
“Give me that.” Tony wrestles for the phone, but he’s out of the suit, and his hand-to-hand combat skills suck. Plus Steve is keeping him trapped with his biceps of steel and everything. Tony can’t figure out if he’s in a super-soldier cage or if this is an embrace- thing that he should be enjoying.
Clint dances away and asks, “So what’s wrong with Stark? Is he going to explode?”
“Sensitivity training,” Tony decides, throwing an ice pick glare in Clint’s direction. “I’ll pay for you to go.”
Clint sticks out his tongue, and Tony feels very secure about the future of the human race in his hands. Maybe it’s time to freshen up the Avengers roster.
“According to the All Father,” Thor begins, all forbidding and serious and not Thor-like at all. Tony decides to save him the trouble of finishing.
“I’m a human mood ring.”
On screen, Thor blinks. “I am uncertain of this terminology.”
“It means the arc reactor changes color according to my, uh-“ Tony pauses, attempting to figure out the least humiliating way to phrase it.
“Emotions,” Natasha provides, her mouth twitching into something suspiciously like a smile. Which is impossible, soulless assassins don’t know how to smile, so Tony must be imagining it.
“I don’t have emotions,” Tony gripes, scowling at his chest as if it might contradict him. “I have moods.”
“Boy, does he have moods,” Bruce agrees into his throw pillow. When did he turn into such a little turncoat? Just for that, Tony is going to downsize his lab and stick shaving cream in his bed.
Steve taps the arc reactor with one finger and murmurs into Tony’s ear, “You have emotions, Tony.” That is not fair play.
“You know what this means?” Clint is fumbling with his fourth StarkPhone, presumably opening his app for the internet. “I need a color chart.”
“Oh no. No, you do not.”
Tony thinks about that pocket Electromagnetic Pulse device that never made it off his drafting table and how very useful it would be right now. He tries to grab Clint’s phone away, but Thor distracts him, booming, “Fear not, Man of Iron! My father assures me that this trickery is impermanent.”
“Oh, well, sure, if Odin says so.”
“Tony, don’t be rude.” Steve tightens his grip on Tony’s shoulder, trying to be all Captain America and imposing. It would maybe work if Tony didn’t know Steve so well. Once a man’s seen another man play with stray puppies and cry during Sweet Home Alabama, the ability to intimidate falls right off the table.
Mildly, Natasha says, “That’s his default setting,” but Tony notices her knuckles are returning to flesh-toned. She was totally worried about him.
Tony isn’t sure whether to be proud that he’s working his way under her skin or concerned that she might try to buy him a dog collar. Maybe one that matches Clint’s.
Steve, also, is breathing a sigh of relief, slumping against Tony, a reassuring, hot weight.
Clint announces, “Black means Stark’s pissy, no shock there, when are you ever not pissy? Green means normal. Is normal even a mood? Wait. Wait.”
A muscle group behind Tony’s shoulders bunches uncomfortably. Nothing comes from Clint sounding so damn self-satisfied. “What?”
“Blue means happiness!” Clint yells, ecstasy edging his voice.
Tony is offended that Hawkeye thinks he’s such a sulky bastard. Next time he comes asking for flashy new arrows, he will be receiving a resounding N-O. “So? Big deal. I get happy.”
“Yeah, when Cap’s got his arm around you. Like, oh, say now.” Clint does a happy dance while red springs immediately to the bridge of Steve’s nose. Tony’s mouth gapes open.
Isn’t it time someone made the executive decision to kill Clint?
Natasha saves him the trouble, smacking Barton across the back of his head and muttering, “Grow up.”
It does absolutely nothing to stop Clint’s spastic jig. However, with the mystery solved, he and Natasha eventually rush off to go about their respective lives, the former mumbling about a bubble bath, the latter probably in search of a sharper knife. Thor is hung up on and Bruce wanders languidly off for his nap.
Tony stands a bit awkwardly in the living room, wondering what he’s supposed to do until Loki’s prank goes away. He can’t risk the rest of New York City discovering he’s got a soul, after all. That would be horrible for his reputation.
Steve asks, “Are you okay?”
Tony didn’t even realize he was still there, arm wrapped tight around Tony’s shoulders, despite the specter of Clint’s ridicule still haunting the room. “Yeah, of course, you heard the Norse god of thunder, I’m dandy.”
“Not like- Clint was being a little cruel.”
Tony makes a dismissive, insulted sound. “I can handle Hawkeye.”
“You can handle anything,” Steve says with such earnest admiration that Tony’s not sure what do with it. He was raised expecting boardroom dictators and business tycoons, not boy scouts with hearts of pure gold.
“I’m just going to…er, get take-out,” Tony explains as he extricates himself from Steve’s grip, doing a grand impression of someone choking on his own tongue. “Maybe Indian.”
“And, uh- Star Wars?” Steve suggests brightly. His hands bunch at his sides, as if maybe he misses having Tony there to hold on to. Wishful thinking, probably, but nice all the same.
“You want to watch Star Wars with me?” Tony is genuinely surprised. Steve is always genuinely surprising him. “Unpopular choice. I don’t know if you heard, but even Spider-Man shot me down.”
“Spider-Man doesn’t know what he’s missing. I’d like to, if it’s alright. Someone should be here, to-“
“Make sure I don’t go boom?”.
“No, I- someone should be here,” Steve says firmly, standing his ground. He is not cowed by Tony’s rueful expression, or the echo of Clint’s laughter. “I want to be here.”
The light in the middle of Tony’s chest glows brighter still, blue like a robin’s egg, like the sky, like Steve’s twinkly eyes. And even though Tony knows he shouldn’t, he murmurs, “Blue means happiness, you know.”
Steve smiles.
Author: garnetice
Pairing: Tony/Steve pre-slash
Rating: G
Word Count: 3,794
Warnings: Crack!fic. Total crack!fic. And naughty swear words, oh me, oh my.
Summary: "I’m not even supposed to be able to see unicorns, right, I haven’t exactly had a card for that club since I was fifteen and…hey. Since when did you convert that into a black light? Nifty."
Disclaimer: I own nada.
Author Notes: I was super late in posting goten0040's last birthday fic, so when she gave me this prompt (the arc reactor turns into a mood ring), I jumped all over that. I, uh, am not so great at fluffy gen!fic, but I tried? I hope this is not super disappointing or anything. Um. OOH and mucho thanks to breila_rose for a super quick beta. <3 I went back and added more after she was done, so any remaining mistakes are totally my own. Enjoy, Liz!
---
“But why?”
“It’s Loki.”
“But why?”
Steve throws up his hands. “Loki is the god of mischief, maybe?”
“But-“
“Finish that question with a why, Stark. I dare you.” Natasha’s face and voice are utterly devoid of emotion, but Tony doesn’t think he’s imagining the way her knuckles have turned white around the grip of her favorite knife.
Cool.
Also, utterly terrifying, but mostly cool. The ability to ruffle a master assassin’s feathers can’t be part of many people’s skill sets. Tony assigns himself a mental gold star. Then he promptly continues, “But why unicorns, really? Is crushing the dreams of small children and Walt Disney actually mischievous? Because it mostly seems mean.”
“Agreed.” Bruce staggers straight for the couch, totally out of it. They had to coax him back to Bruce-sized with the help of a Peruvian pan flute band near Times Square, and he still isn’t looking so hot. “They were all pretty-shiny and then- grrargh.”
The noise is presumably meant to imitate the grunts of the killer unicorns Loki unleashed on Manhattan, but it’s mostly smothered in one of the very tasteful throw pillows that Pepper picked out. Tony, in the midst of being manhandled by his helpful robots, pieces of his armor falling by the wayside, calls, “You okay, cupcake? You’re looking a little green around the gills.”
Bruce lifts his head, a presumably snappy comeback right on the tip of his tongue. Then he buries his face back into the throw pillow. “Hate Loki. Hate unicorns.”
Clint nods along. “You would think Thor would’ve mentioned that murderous fairytales were a thing before he ran back to Asgard. I’m not even supposed to be able to see unicorns, right, I haven’t exactly had a card for that club since I was fifteen and…hey. Since when did you convert that into a black light? Nifty.”
He sidles up to Tony and jabs a finger at the arc reactor, dodging the metal fingers stripping off Iron Man's chest plate.
“What? I didn’t-“ Tony’s breath catches in his lungs, the light emitting from his chest dulled to a weak, dark thing.
His immediate reaction isn’t exactly panic, but it looks a lot like it.
“I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to- wait, I feel fine.” Tony tilts his head to the side. “Interesting.”
“Interesting, how?” Steve’s voice has gone all sharp at the edges, his muscles tense. The last of Tony’s armor falls away, and he takes a step in the direction of his lab. Steve’s big, meaty hand blocks the way. He repeats, “Interesting, how?”
“Well, I don’t know. I haven’t gotten a good look at it yet. I need to go to my lab-“
“You should go to the doctor.” Steve isn’t moving his hand. He has very large hands, and fingers, and knuckles, and it’d all be quite admirable if he wasn’t being such an effective roadblock.
“I’m smarter than most doctors,” Tony says easily, because truth.
Steve is unmoved. In his Captain America cowl, he looks almost exactly like that huge ass statue of himself they erected in DC, back when Tony wasn’t even a twinkle in his parents’ eyes. “Really? Have you read Gray’s Anatomy?”
“How do you- what- was that even written when you were alive, JARVIS, when was that-“
“1858, sir, and if I may, your vital signs remain stable. There is no evidence of fluctuation in the arc reactor’s output; I believe the change is purely cosmetic.”
Relief melts against Tony’s ribcage and shoulder blades. His lungs, frozen with fear, are back to working normally, and he gulps down deep, clean breaths of air. Nothing’s malfunctioning, at least not seriously.
Steve’s arm settles heavy across Tony’s shoulders, eyes inquiring, but before he can come up with any more doctor-talk, Clint’s lips curve into a grin. “Sweet, we can have a black light party, I’ll get the highlighters.”
He’s halfway across the floor before Natasha tugs him by the back of his collar. “Wait. It’s blue.”
Clint’s eyes cross. “What’s blue?”
Natasha points at the arc reactor, and she’s right, it is blue now. Not the white-blue of pure energy, but a deep kind of azure, the color of Steve’s eyes. Tony schools his face, uncomfortable even thinking it, because he doesn’t think it, he doesn’t ever give all that much thought to Captain America’s twinkly blue irises, alright?
“I’m going to wager a guess and say it’s not supposed to do that,” Clint announces, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet. There might be something resembling worry in the set of his shoulders, but it isn’t at all evident in his voice when he says, “Unless you’ve rewired it for ambient mood lighting, in which case, thanks, man. All we need is some flowers and an Etta James record and we’ll be all set for romance.”
Bruce raises his face from the couch cushions and grumbles, “Hawkeye, you’re doing that thing where you’re being an asshole again.”
Apologetically, Clint replies, “I can’t help it, baby. I was born this way.”
Tony pokes at his own chest. The arc reactor feels exactly like it should, all hard metal and glass. The play of cerulean light over his fingers is strange, but JARVIS would warn him if he was about to drop dead, and Tony’s pretty familiar with the signs of impending cardiac arrest. He tells Clint, “Sorry, Romeo, if you need a little help wooing Brucie-Bear, I’ll set you up with a light dimmer, but this is definitely not me.”
“Loki,” Steve proclaims grimly. “It has to be.”
“I would bet my incredibly vast fortune that Stars and Stripes is right,” Tony agrees, sagging into Steve’s side. He could slip in a replacement reactor, but if this is Loki’s doing, it means magic is involved. Who knows what kind of hinky booby traps Loki might have installed? For all Tony can tell, the pretty dance of colors might be a precursor to something that goes boom. Better not to make any sudden moves.
Natasha’s fingers flex on the grip of her knife. “We should contact Thor.”
“Great, that’s absolutely workable, he’s only in a different dimension,” Bruce moans, but he deigns to sit up, hugging one of the throw pillows to his naked chest.
“Sugar Plum, you wound me. Stark Tech works everywhere,” Tony retorts, voice brighter than he feels.
“You gave Thor a cellphone?” Clint cocks his head to the side. “Was that wise?”
“I gave you three cellphones, and you’ve broken all of them,” Tony points out, tapping his fingers across his ribcage. The glow of the arc reactor is changing again, taking on the reddish-orange hue of a lava lamp. “You put the last one in the toaster oven.”
“I was reading the New York Times,” Clint protests, his face scrunching up comically. “The plight of America’s youth was distracting me!”
“You were reading Hustler,” Tony accuses, because hey, he does not have a JARVIS for nothing and Clint wouldn’t know what a legitimate newspaper looked like if it slapped him across the face.
Steve snorts, a hot puff of air near Tony’s ear. It tickles.
Tony crosses his arms, trying and failing to hide the fiery light. “If you can’t play nice with your toys, Barton, Santa won’t bring you any more for Christmas.”
Clint rolls his eyes. “I’m not going to sit on your lap, Stark. No matter how many candy canes you offer me.”
“I’ve got Thor on the phone,” Natasha announces, glaring at all of them in this way that implies she really hates heading a daycare center.
JARVIS accommodatingly brings up a luminescent blue interface bearing Thor’s confounded expression. He pokes the screen, delighted by the wonders of Midgardian communication. “You all look so tiny.”
“Right, yes, modern technology is a marvel,” Tony agrees, and it’s mostly genuine, because he never misses an opportunity to be impressed with himself. The moment can’t last, however, because, “Your brother put a spell on me.”
“Your faces are all so life-like!” Thor enthuses, completely missing the point. Tony can actually feel Steve beaming with pride next to him; he at least, knows how to use video chat.
Score one for Mr. Zoot Suit Riots.
“We are not focusing on the big picture here. Your brother. Put a spell. On me. I’ve been enchanted. Ensorcelled!”
Thor manages to get ahold of himself, his expression resembling a forlorn puppy. Mournfully, he informs them, “Loki has always been one for tricks and enchantments. But I do not know how I might come to your aide, Man of Iron. The mysteries of magic have always eluded me. Should we not contact the great and honorable Fury?”
“Why the fuck would we do that?” Tony demands, glaring. It is not half as intimidating as one of Natasha’s jagged glowers, but it’s enough that Thor winces away. “Look, I’ve seen pictures of your dad and I swear, just because they have matching eye patches does not mean Nick Fury should be your chosen father figure.”
Mildly, Steve chides, “Tony,” and it has utterly no effect on him. Out of principle, he worms his way out from beneath the heavy, comfortable heat of Steve’s arm, because Steve is sitting right in Fury’s pocket too, along with some nicotine gum and a hand grenade, or whatever the fuck it is Fury keeps hidden in that scary ass leather trench-coat of his. Captain America definitely does not get to cuddle when he’s about to be all predictable.
On cue, Steve gently suggests, “We do need to tell Fury.”
At the exact same time, Thor announces, “I will inquire with the All Father-“
“Great. Invite the whole damn Cyclops Club into my chest. See if I care.” Tony is not sulking, because he has dignity, but he might sound a little churlish all the same. Which, he’s been turned into a walking, talking multi-colored nightlight. Churlish is allowed right now.
He switches gears just as the arc reactor takes on a gold-yellow hue, day colors breaking over the sunset red-orange. He’s got all kinds of ideas about tests he needs to run, things to get done before Fury can get his sticky hands on Tony, and yuck, isn’t that a visual he never wanted?
Tony says, “Meanwhile, I’m going to go to my lab of badassery, and consult my supercomputers and my brain and, I don’t know, other badass scientists. Bruce, as a fellow genius, I hereby invite you.”
Normally, Bruce is a regular eager beaver when it comes to visiting Tony’s mancave, but now he simply clutches his throw pillow tighter and insists, “Naptime.”
Natasha mutters something soothing and offers to rub lavender balm on Bruce’s muscles.
No one is offering to rub anything on Tony. This seems blatantly unfair.
Of course, Tony isn’t exactly as close to Natasha as Bruce is. They get mani-pedis together every other Thursday, super villains permitting. Tony is totally willing to get a mani-pedi - no one likes an untamed cuticle, and all his metalwork is hell on his hands - but for some reason he isn’t invited.
Natasha must be scared his nail beds would put hers to shame.
“Dr. Banner, I’m in the middle of a crisis, here.” Tony does his best to look like a wounded animal. From the way Clint snickers, he doesn’t think he’s succeeding. “Fine, you know what, I don’t need any of you. I have an entire phonebook full of great scientific minds. Hank Pym! Hank McCoy! We sure do know a lot of Hanks. Uh…Peter Parker!”
That gets Clint’s attention. “Yeah, no, Stark, I wouldn’t bug the kid.”
“Why not?” Tony is genuinely confused. Peter likes him. Well, everyone likes him, but as a fellow technophile, Peter really likes him.
“Well,” Clint’s face is smug, his body practically vibrating with glee. He steeples his fingers together, exactly like a supervillain about to deliver a monologue detailing their master plan. “Remember how the last time you two spoke, he told you that he really appreciates the offer to join the Avengers, again, and that he hates to shoot you down, again, but could you please stop trying to recruit him?”
Tony might recall that. Maybe. He was working on the engine of his Bugatti at the time. “So?”
“So he also told me that he has no interest in marathonning Star Wars with you, and frankly your fascination with a teenage boy is bordering on Logan-levels of creepy.”
“He did not compare me to Wolverine,” Tony objects, because at the very least he is way more hygienic. The light in his chest races back to black as he watches Steve hide a grin.
“He did,” Clint replies, laughing harder than is warranted. “Good old Pete.”
“Sounds like we’re wearing him down,” Steve says archly, voice laced with humor. The traitor. Natasha and Bruce at least, don’t appear to care, and Tony takes comfort in the fact that not everyone finds it fun to mock the ill and bewitched.
“Some people just aren’t team players,” Tony shoots back sullenly, thinking that he’d very much like to be one of those people at this juncture in time.
Natasha, rubbing a soothing hand across Bruce’s shoulder, agrees, “Especially after they meet you.”
So much for comfort. Did Bruce just purr? Because he definitely just heard a very kitten-esque sound, and this room is full of backstabbing Judases.
Tony decides he can mourn the death of the brotherhood of science later. To Natasha, he protests, “Hey, my charm wore you down in the long run.”
She quirks an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t call dogged persistence charming.”
“With a face like mine, baby? Everything’s charming.” Without missing a beat, Tony steps to the left, narrowly avoiding the knife that Natasha throws at his face. When the metal thunks into drywall, he assigns himself a second mental gold star. “Besides, it worked for Clint.”
His arc reactor takes on an orange-green tint, like a glowing, tie-dyed Easter egg. Interesting.
“Clint did not wear me down,” Natasha says levelly, without stopping her massage. Bruce makes another appreciative noise while she fixes her eyes on Tony’s chest and murmurs, “I decided to adopt him. Like a pet.”
“Woof,” Clint supplies cheerfully, without appearing all that put out that his mistress apparently plans on adopting Bruce next.
Whatever, they can all go live in their den of betrayal and Tony-mocking together, and if leashes are involved Tony doesn’t want to know. Probably.
…maybe he’ll install JARVIS in that den.
He tries to regain control of the conversation, informing Natasha, “Great, and I’m going to do the same to Spidey. All he wants is a homemade lunch and milk money and a safe place to rest his head, I’m sure. Cap can provide that, easy.”
“I resent that,” Steve says, even though he’s been force-feeding Tony nutritious lunches for close to half a year.
“Don’t be mad, snookums,” Tony edges up to Steve, forgiving him for being a government pawn and mostly unable to keep his hands off Captain America for any length of time. It’s not his fault; the man is a living, breathing action figure. Hands on appeal is part of the design.
Steve shoves him, but lightly. “Don’t call me snookums, Stark.”
“Honey bear? Gumdrop? Dandelion?” He slathers on extra sleaze, and all it does is prompt Steve to chuckle. Tony really likes this thing where they’ve known each other long enough to be friends, and allies, and where Steve barely ever gets mad at him for being a smart ass anymore.
It makes him feel all warm inside. The glow of the arc reactor shifts back to a solid, comforting robin’s egg blue.
Blue, green, orange, black, yellow, Tony muses, watching the light wash over Steve’s face, painting the jut of his chin, the angle of his cheekbones. There’s a familiarity about the color scheme, almost like the mood rings he had as a kid.
Almost.
Or exactly.
“Sonofa-“
“Greetings!” Thor booms.
Tony finishes the salutation off with mere mortals in his head. He hadn’t realized that Natasha never hung up, merely laid the phone on the arm rest while she made cooing noises at Bruce and plotted Tony’s imminent demise.
Clint snatches up the cell with so much grace that Tony is tricked into forgetting what an idiot he is for point two seconds. Then he says, “Dude, you’re not even on speaker phone right now,” chastising the god of thunder for his complete lack of noise control, “We could hire you out to narrate NASCAR,” and Tony remembers that Hawkeye is, in fact, kind of a moron.
“Give me that.” Tony wrestles for the phone, but he’s out of the suit, and his hand-to-hand combat skills suck. Plus Steve is keeping him trapped with his biceps of steel and everything. Tony can’t figure out if he’s in a super-soldier cage or if this is an embrace- thing that he should be enjoying.
Clint dances away and asks, “So what’s wrong with Stark? Is he going to explode?”
“Sensitivity training,” Tony decides, throwing an ice pick glare in Clint’s direction. “I’ll pay for you to go.”
Clint sticks out his tongue, and Tony feels very secure about the future of the human race in his hands. Maybe it’s time to freshen up the Avengers roster.
“According to the All Father,” Thor begins, all forbidding and serious and not Thor-like at all. Tony decides to save him the trouble of finishing.
“I’m a human mood ring.”
On screen, Thor blinks. “I am uncertain of this terminology.”
“It means the arc reactor changes color according to my, uh-“ Tony pauses, attempting to figure out the least humiliating way to phrase it.
“Emotions,” Natasha provides, her mouth twitching into something suspiciously like a smile. Which is impossible, soulless assassins don’t know how to smile, so Tony must be imagining it.
“I don’t have emotions,” Tony gripes, scowling at his chest as if it might contradict him. “I have moods.”
“Boy, does he have moods,” Bruce agrees into his throw pillow. When did he turn into such a little turncoat? Just for that, Tony is going to downsize his lab and stick shaving cream in his bed.
Steve taps the arc reactor with one finger and murmurs into Tony’s ear, “You have emotions, Tony.” That is not fair play.
“You know what this means?” Clint is fumbling with his fourth StarkPhone, presumably opening his app for the internet. “I need a color chart.”
“Oh no. No, you do not.”
Tony thinks about that pocket Electromagnetic Pulse device that never made it off his drafting table and how very useful it would be right now. He tries to grab Clint’s phone away, but Thor distracts him, booming, “Fear not, Man of Iron! My father assures me that this trickery is impermanent.”
“Oh, well, sure, if Odin says so.”
“Tony, don’t be rude.” Steve tightens his grip on Tony’s shoulder, trying to be all Captain America and imposing. It would maybe work if Tony didn’t know Steve so well. Once a man’s seen another man play with stray puppies and cry during Sweet Home Alabama, the ability to intimidate falls right off the table.
Mildly, Natasha says, “That’s his default setting,” but Tony notices her knuckles are returning to flesh-toned. She was totally worried about him.
Tony isn’t sure whether to be proud that he’s working his way under her skin or concerned that she might try to buy him a dog collar. Maybe one that matches Clint’s.
Steve, also, is breathing a sigh of relief, slumping against Tony, a reassuring, hot weight.
Clint announces, “Black means Stark’s pissy, no shock there, when are you ever not pissy? Green means normal. Is normal even a mood? Wait. Wait.”
A muscle group behind Tony’s shoulders bunches uncomfortably. Nothing comes from Clint sounding so damn self-satisfied. “What?”
“Blue means happiness!” Clint yells, ecstasy edging his voice.
Tony is offended that Hawkeye thinks he’s such a sulky bastard. Next time he comes asking for flashy new arrows, he will be receiving a resounding N-O. “So? Big deal. I get happy.”
“Yeah, when Cap’s got his arm around you. Like, oh, say now.” Clint does a happy dance while red springs immediately to the bridge of Steve’s nose. Tony’s mouth gapes open.
Isn’t it time someone made the executive decision to kill Clint?
Natasha saves him the trouble, smacking Barton across the back of his head and muttering, “Grow up.”
It does absolutely nothing to stop Clint’s spastic jig. However, with the mystery solved, he and Natasha eventually rush off to go about their respective lives, the former mumbling about a bubble bath, the latter probably in search of a sharper knife. Thor is hung up on and Bruce wanders languidly off for his nap.
Tony stands a bit awkwardly in the living room, wondering what he’s supposed to do until Loki’s prank goes away. He can’t risk the rest of New York City discovering he’s got a soul, after all. That would be horrible for his reputation.
Steve asks, “Are you okay?”
Tony didn’t even realize he was still there, arm wrapped tight around Tony’s shoulders, despite the specter of Clint’s ridicule still haunting the room. “Yeah, of course, you heard the Norse god of thunder, I’m dandy.”
“Not like- Clint was being a little cruel.”
Tony makes a dismissive, insulted sound. “I can handle Hawkeye.”
“You can handle anything,” Steve says with such earnest admiration that Tony’s not sure what do with it. He was raised expecting boardroom dictators and business tycoons, not boy scouts with hearts of pure gold.
“I’m just going to…er, get take-out,” Tony explains as he extricates himself from Steve’s grip, doing a grand impression of someone choking on his own tongue. “Maybe Indian.”
“And, uh- Star Wars?” Steve suggests brightly. His hands bunch at his sides, as if maybe he misses having Tony there to hold on to. Wishful thinking, probably, but nice all the same.
“You want to watch Star Wars with me?” Tony is genuinely surprised. Steve is always genuinely surprising him. “Unpopular choice. I don’t know if you heard, but even Spider-Man shot me down.”
“Spider-Man doesn’t know what he’s missing. I’d like to, if it’s alright. Someone should be here, to-“
“Make sure I don’t go boom?”.
“No, I- someone should be here,” Steve says firmly, standing his ground. He is not cowed by Tony’s rueful expression, or the echo of Clint’s laughter. “I want to be here.”
The light in the middle of Tony’s chest glows brighter still, blue like a robin’s egg, like the sky, like Steve’s twinkly eyes. And even though Tony knows he shouldn’t, he murmurs, “Blue means happiness, you know.”
Steve smiles.