Fic: "something somewhere has to break," Tony/Nathan, Tony/Other, R.
I did actual work today. I promise I did. But thanks to reading a hysterical wank on Clairvoyantwank this morning, I had Nathan Petrelli on the brain. I HAD to get him out somehow, right...? I mean, it's not healthy to have a grown-ass man knocking around in your head, yeah?
My partner in crime, angel_grace, cracked, "Yes, it must be so hard to choose who gets to sex up Nathan."
Turns out, it really wasn't!
Title: "something somewhere has to break" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: Iron Man/Heroes
Rating: R for language, mild sexual content
Word Count: 1275
Disclaimer: Nathan belongs to Tim Kring and the gang at NBC, Tony belongs to Marvel.
Summary: Tony/Nathan slash, Tony/Other, Fudging timelines a little, this takes place early to mid-season two of Heroes but after the Iron Man movie. Tony actually recognizes the shadows in Nathan’s gaze. They’re familiar. They follow him everywhere.
The ring has a dull gleam as it sits, discarded, on the nightstand. Tony has never quite understood why Nathan wears it, and why it makes him any less married when he takes it off. As if his sins don’t matter without the small band of metal wrapped around his skin, as if everything he does is above reproach and beyond question. As if he can cheat, lie, and steal because there is no connection between it and his heart.
That’s not a luxury Tony has anymore.
He turns from the wall-length window, watching Nathan cut a line of coke on the coffee table and wondering exactly when that began. A week after Peter went missing? A month? He knows the look of a boozehound, sees it in the mirror every morning, in his puffed cheeks and his watery eyes, but Nathan is whip-thin these days and his Hugo Boss suits hang on him like they’re in a closet, waiting for an actual person to put them on.
“You can’t keep going like this,” he says, quietly, knowing full well that he sounds like any number of asinine do-gooders that he’s spent the last fifteen years ignoring.
“You have no idea what I can and can’t do, Tony. No idea what I’m capable of.”
He actually recognizes the shadows in Nathan’s gaze. They’re familiar. They follow him everywhere. They sound like gunfire, weigh like car batteries, and look like the body of a good man who didn’t deserve to die.
Back in the day, they were an unstoppable pair. They left no party unattended, no rock unturned, no woman unsatisfied. The both of them dark-haired and dressed to the nines, practically twins in debauchery and dysfunction. Somewhere along the way, Nathan grew up, got married, had Simon (his godson) and Monty (the spare), and decided to run for goddamn Congress... which really shouldn’t have curtailed his social life, given how many of the assholes in Congress indulge in blow and extramarital affairs, but it did. Nathan Petrelli became the responsible one; Anthony Stark stayed the fuckup.
As he watches Nathan sniff the last bits of powder up his nostril and wipe the back of his hand beneath his reddened nose, it’s clear the Ferragamo is on the other foot now. You’re wrong, Nate, he thinks. I know exactly what you’re capable of. I’ve done it all with you, in perfect synchronicity.
The sheets are rumpled. They smell like dark rum and the ocean and the blonde who followed them back to the house in her own SUV and left without having to be told. “Just you,” she’d said to him in the bar, her cool, grey eyes missing nothing. “Just you, not him.” Nathan had laughed, harshly, and said he was fine with watching, because “isn’t the whole world watching Tony Stark these days?” and the woman -- barely more than a ‘girl,’ really -- had pulled him aside and said, “Not because he’s married -- though that’s completely reprehensible -- but because he’s trouble.” Tony could have argued the point that he’s trouble, too, but the lure of fucking someone who used words like ‘reprehensible’ at 2 am while unselfconsciously picking up two men who clearly made more than she ever would in her life... that prospect was just too great.
“That’s because the blondes you usually pick up only use words like ‘OMG,’” the Rhodey in his head points out. The Rhodey outside his head would never say ‘OMG,’ and would never have sanctioned tonight’s little outing with Nathan... no matter what he has gotten up to with Tony in the past. Col. Rhodes, who likes to lord his Air Force record over Nathan’s Naval one, has recently been suffering from a case of, “Don’t ask, don’t tell, and don’t remember a goddamn thing that happened in Bangkok in ‘92.”
Tony runs his hands over silk, straightening pillows and pulling the duvet tight. Nathan leans back in his seat, eyes closing as he shudders from the ice cream-headache-multiplied-by-a-thousand effects of the cocaine. The girl’s name was Veronica. When she was spread beneath him, she didn’t look at his unsightly arc reactor once. No smart aleck comments, no whipping out the cell phone camera so she could post pictures on the Internet. No, instead she couldn’t take her eyes off Nate, sprawled out next to them, nursing a vodka and soda like he was bored at the opera. When she came, she reached out and touched his cheek, and she looked way sadder than somebody who’d just had their world rocked by Tony Stark had a right to.
He’d be insulted, except that he understands. He crosses the room and kneels down and cradles Nathan’s face in his hands, forcing him to look at him. “What the Hell is wrong with you?” he demands. “I know Pete’s gone, but you’ve got a wife, you’ve got two kids.”
“Three,” Nathan reminds, softly, his shadows staring bright. “I have three. You know my daughter lives in southern California now? That could have been her you screwed tonight.”
“It could have, but I sincerely hope you would have told me first,” Tony chuckles, really only mildly disgusted by the idea. After you’ve done bisexual Swedish twins, you kind of lose the right to sneer at a little action with Daddy’s little girl. (Rhodey and Pepper would probably disagree with his logic, but he’s never going to ask for their opinion.)
Nathan’s stubble scrapes along his palm and the hollows in his cheeks feel like the Grand Canyon. He’s half-clinical, half-bent on seduction when he starts unbuttoning Nate’s shirt, and can’t hide the wince at what he uncovers. He can count his ribs. It takes quite an effort to have a more fucked up looking chest than Tony’s these days, but, of course, Nathan would have to try and compete, wouldn’t he? Gotta keep up with the Joneses, gotta make yourself a freakshow, too.
“Nate,” he sighs, knowing he probably sounds like Rhodey talking to *him*. “Oh, Christ, man.”
“Stop it, Tony. Just... stop it.” Hands cover his, squeeze, before moving down his haphazardly fastened pants. “Quit acting like you had some major epiphany out there in the desert and you’re doing so much better than me. Because you’re not. You’re just hiding it better.”
Gunfire, car batteries, the body of a good man who didn’t deserve to die. Several Stark Industries buildings being razed after an explosion and his face plastered all over the newspapers. Actually, he’s pretty sure he’s not hiding it at all.
Fucking Nathan has always been like narcissism. Like doing it with mirrors on the ceiling. This time, as he tugs him away from two last lines and an inch of a spectacular top shelf Estonian vodka, the mirror is decidedly cracked. They don’t laugh, they don’t tease, they don’t make the obligatory jokes about whose dick is an inch bigger than the other’s. Instead, they move in total silence, painfully careful so Nate’s ribs don’t crack and the arc reactor doesn’t either. Imperfect synchronicity. That’s what they have now. That’s what they’ll always have.
When he comes, Nathan reaches out and touches his cheek, and he looks way sadder than somebody who just had their world rocked by Tony Stark has a right to.
“*You* can’t keep going like this,” he says.
**
Later, as dawn breaks across the sky, Tony takes Nathan down to the shop and shows him the suit.
He’s surprised, incredibly surprised, when Nathan takes his hand -- the weight of his ring rubbing gently against Tony’s fingers -- and shows him how to fly.
--end--
June 6, 2008.
My partner in crime, angel_grace, cracked, "Yes, it must be so hard to choose who gets to sex up Nathan."
Turns out, it really wasn't!
Title: "something somewhere has to break" 1/1
Author: monimala
Fandom: Iron Man/Heroes
Rating: R for language, mild sexual content
Word Count: 1275
Disclaimer: Nathan belongs to Tim Kring and the gang at NBC, Tony belongs to Marvel.
Summary: Tony/Nathan slash, Tony/Other, Fudging timelines a little, this takes place early to mid-season two of Heroes but after the Iron Man movie. Tony actually recognizes the shadows in Nathan’s gaze. They’re familiar. They follow him everywhere.
The ring has a dull gleam as it sits, discarded, on the nightstand. Tony has never quite understood why Nathan wears it, and why it makes him any less married when he takes it off. As if his sins don’t matter without the small band of metal wrapped around his skin, as if everything he does is above reproach and beyond question. As if he can cheat, lie, and steal because there is no connection between it and his heart.
That’s not a luxury Tony has anymore.
He turns from the wall-length window, watching Nathan cut a line of coke on the coffee table and wondering exactly when that began. A week after Peter went missing? A month? He knows the look of a boozehound, sees it in the mirror every morning, in his puffed cheeks and his watery eyes, but Nathan is whip-thin these days and his Hugo Boss suits hang on him like they’re in a closet, waiting for an actual person to put them on.
“You can’t keep going like this,” he says, quietly, knowing full well that he sounds like any number of asinine do-gooders that he’s spent the last fifteen years ignoring.
“You have no idea what I can and can’t do, Tony. No idea what I’m capable of.”
He actually recognizes the shadows in Nathan’s gaze. They’re familiar. They follow him everywhere. They sound like gunfire, weigh like car batteries, and look like the body of a good man who didn’t deserve to die.
Back in the day, they were an unstoppable pair. They left no party unattended, no rock unturned, no woman unsatisfied. The both of them dark-haired and dressed to the nines, practically twins in debauchery and dysfunction. Somewhere along the way, Nathan grew up, got married, had Simon (his godson) and Monty (the spare), and decided to run for goddamn Congress... which really shouldn’t have curtailed his social life, given how many of the assholes in Congress indulge in blow and extramarital affairs, but it did. Nathan Petrelli became the responsible one; Anthony Stark stayed the fuckup.
As he watches Nathan sniff the last bits of powder up his nostril and wipe the back of his hand beneath his reddened nose, it’s clear the Ferragamo is on the other foot now. You’re wrong, Nate, he thinks. I know exactly what you’re capable of. I’ve done it all with you, in perfect synchronicity.
The sheets are rumpled. They smell like dark rum and the ocean and the blonde who followed them back to the house in her own SUV and left without having to be told. “Just you,” she’d said to him in the bar, her cool, grey eyes missing nothing. “Just you, not him.” Nathan had laughed, harshly, and said he was fine with watching, because “isn’t the whole world watching Tony Stark these days?” and the woman -- barely more than a ‘girl,’ really -- had pulled him aside and said, “Not because he’s married -- though that’s completely reprehensible -- but because he’s trouble.” Tony could have argued the point that he’s trouble, too, but the lure of fucking someone who used words like ‘reprehensible’ at 2 am while unselfconsciously picking up two men who clearly made more than she ever would in her life... that prospect was just too great.
“That’s because the blondes you usually pick up only use words like ‘OMG,’” the Rhodey in his head points out. The Rhodey outside his head would never say ‘OMG,’ and would never have sanctioned tonight’s little outing with Nathan... no matter what he has gotten up to with Tony in the past. Col. Rhodes, who likes to lord his Air Force record over Nathan’s Naval one, has recently been suffering from a case of, “Don’t ask, don’t tell, and don’t remember a goddamn thing that happened in Bangkok in ‘92.”
Tony runs his hands over silk, straightening pillows and pulling the duvet tight. Nathan leans back in his seat, eyes closing as he shudders from the ice cream-headache-multiplied-by-a-thousand effects of the cocaine. The girl’s name was Veronica. When she was spread beneath him, she didn’t look at his unsightly arc reactor once. No smart aleck comments, no whipping out the cell phone camera so she could post pictures on the Internet. No, instead she couldn’t take her eyes off Nate, sprawled out next to them, nursing a vodka and soda like he was bored at the opera. When she came, she reached out and touched his cheek, and she looked way sadder than somebody who’d just had their world rocked by Tony Stark had a right to.
He’d be insulted, except that he understands. He crosses the room and kneels down and cradles Nathan’s face in his hands, forcing him to look at him. “What the Hell is wrong with you?” he demands. “I know Pete’s gone, but you’ve got a wife, you’ve got two kids.”
“Three,” Nathan reminds, softly, his shadows staring bright. “I have three. You know my daughter lives in southern California now? That could have been her you screwed tonight.”
“It could have, but I sincerely hope you would have told me first,” Tony chuckles, really only mildly disgusted by the idea. After you’ve done bisexual Swedish twins, you kind of lose the right to sneer at a little action with Daddy’s little girl. (Rhodey and Pepper would probably disagree with his logic, but he’s never going to ask for their opinion.)
Nathan’s stubble scrapes along his palm and the hollows in his cheeks feel like the Grand Canyon. He’s half-clinical, half-bent on seduction when he starts unbuttoning Nate’s shirt, and can’t hide the wince at what he uncovers. He can count his ribs. It takes quite an effort to have a more fucked up looking chest than Tony’s these days, but, of course, Nathan would have to try and compete, wouldn’t he? Gotta keep up with the Joneses, gotta make yourself a freakshow, too.
“Nate,” he sighs, knowing he probably sounds like Rhodey talking to *him*. “Oh, Christ, man.”
“Stop it, Tony. Just... stop it.” Hands cover his, squeeze, before moving down his haphazardly fastened pants. “Quit acting like you had some major epiphany out there in the desert and you’re doing so much better than me. Because you’re not. You’re just hiding it better.”
Gunfire, car batteries, the body of a good man who didn’t deserve to die. Several Stark Industries buildings being razed after an explosion and his face plastered all over the newspapers. Actually, he’s pretty sure he’s not hiding it at all.
Fucking Nathan has always been like narcissism. Like doing it with mirrors on the ceiling. This time, as he tugs him away from two last lines and an inch of a spectacular top shelf Estonian vodka, the mirror is decidedly cracked. They don’t laugh, they don’t tease, they don’t make the obligatory jokes about whose dick is an inch bigger than the other’s. Instead, they move in total silence, painfully careful so Nate’s ribs don’t crack and the arc reactor doesn’t either. Imperfect synchronicity. That’s what they have now. That’s what they’ll always have.
When he comes, Nathan reaches out and touches his cheek, and he looks way sadder than somebody who just had their world rocked by Tony Stark has a right to.
“*You* can’t keep going like this,” he says.
**
Later, as dawn breaks across the sky, Tony takes Nathan down to the shop and shows him the suit.
He’s surprised, incredibly surprised, when Nathan takes his hand -- the weight of his ring rubbing gently against Tony’s fingers -- and shows him how to fly.
--end--
June 6, 2008.