Chapter Text
When I was reborn, everyone had reason to hope that I would support their cause -- right wing groups, hippies wallowing in Thor’s patronage – but never Tony Stark, the son of my late friend Howard. Howard I missed. Tony I hated from the day I first set eyes on him.
Short and svelte, Tony radiated indifference the way some people radiate confidence. I quickly learned that underestimating him was mistake – one that Howard’s son took wicked delight in cultivating in the unwary.
In due course the five of us moved into the Avengers tower, each taking a separate floor. How Stark knew I loved the works of J.C. Leyendecker, I didn't know, but there were several tasteful prints of athletic young men framed and hanging on the living room wall. There was an art studio with a full picture window curving around three-fourths of the room.
The first mystery was the small vial of ruby nail polish sitting on my bathroom counter. For a long moment, I forgot to breath. It was the crimson Peggy used to paint her toes when she was on leave. The bottle was cold and smooth. I sat on the toilet, hands clasped around the small glass vial, reading the label in disbelief. It was the same brand.
1941
Peggy had been called away unexpectedly. The bottle of nail polish was sitting on her desk, still unscrewed, forgotten in her haste. I reached to screw the cap closed and paused, hand hovering, suspended mid-motion. The color went on in a smooth crimson glide; cool against the large plane of my thumbnail. The door creaked open and I jumped, startled into dropping the brush. Howard was standing in the shadows of the door-frame, wearing his characteristic devil may care smirk.
“Need some help with that, pal? I’ve got steady hands. Or so I’ve been told.” He chuckled.
“No,” I blotted at the nail but the damn paint just smeared, making a bigger mess. Howard laughed. I just glared.
2012
I tossed the bottle in the trash and slammed the bathroom door hard enough to rattle the table lamps. Tony was standing, arms crossed, in the apartment door. He lounged languidly, cat-like, in his exquisitely tailored suit, his tie undone and hair mussed. I scowled at him.
He took a step inside, “is everything ok?”
“I didn't invite you in.” It was petty, I know. The man had invited us into his home, but I couldn't stand his attitude, so much like Howard's.
“I guess it’s a good thing I’m not a vampire then.” He smirked.
“If you were, the artist’s studio would have been inadvisable.”
“What if I were the glittery sunlight loving variety?” the smile stretched, blood-red and predatory.
I’d be damned if I knew what he was talking about, everything the man said had some secret double meaning, but I knew one thing, and I said it. “It wouldn't suit you.”
He looked pleased. I hadn't intended it as a complement.
“Thanks for the apartment.” It was begrudging. “It was very brave, what you did in New York.”
He flinched. “No it wasn't.
I wouldn't see him for several days, but then he’d appear, skulking in the shadows, arms smeared with black oil, eyes gazing at me from the shadows. I couldn't shake the feeling of deja vu. His gaze was like the warmth of terracotta baking in the sun, but there were hidden depths, sliding along my spine like cold water. I shivered and punched the bag harder until it snapped, spilling sand across the gym. When I looked up, he was gone. Two days later my bags were replaced with a model capable of handling twelve times the force of the original. He disappeared into his workshop for several days. I waited for the opportunity to thank him, but none presented. I placed a hot cup of coffee outside the door as a token peace offering, and wasn't surprised when the panel slid open. I found myself looking down into a pair of intelligent eyes. He quirked an eyebrow in question.
“I wanted to thank you for the punching bags.”
He asked me to dinner. My instincts were screaming that it was a bad idea, but I found I couldn't refuse him. He wore sunglasses inside the restaurant and ordered his steak extra rare, grinning when I gave him a disgusted look, and flashing extra teeth when he caught me watching the golden column of his neck as he swallowed. He licked the blood from his lips, staring me down over his designer shades. I felt the blood rushing to my cheeks and reached for the check. He beat me to it. Tony Stark was one arrogant bastard.