Slithered Here From Hell
“I can’t believe you still have technology like this lying around.” Steve gave his head a hard shake, arms folded so tightly over his chest that he could have been hugging himself. “After everything that happened with Dmitri —”
“Hey!” Tony barely looked over his shoulder, his glare tempered enough that Steve didn’t need to see it head-on to feel the heat. “Get your facts straight before you start wagging that patriotic finger in my face. This one is all SHIELD, give them the glory.”
Steve bit his tongue, looking away only for the briefest of moments. Leaning against the nearest desk, he watched with stifled frustration as both Tony and Natasha sat on their own respective stools, directly across from each other — barely separated by a few feet. The workshop around them buzzed with idle technology, the lack of ongoing conversation creating a bottomless disquiet from the humming computers nearby.
Meticulously, Tony’s fingers worked on Natasha’s face, gently but securely pulling the thin, mesh veil along her skin. She sat patiently through the ordeal; hands in her lap, eyes and mouth closed. The flickering static emitting off the textured mask lit up the stress lines deepening along Tony’s face. If he hadn’t looked exhausted before, the toll of all that was taking place had definitely started to peak.
“Besides, you should be counting your lucky stars that we were able to snag this before the goons in R&D even noticed.” Tony reached down underneath Natasha’s jaw as he adjusted the device along her neck. Every pull that snagged in his grip highlighted the callouses on his fingers, the translucent mask flaring with unseen static electricity.
Clint walked by the two with a low hum staying in his throat.
“You’re welcome, by the way.”
Tony rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, yeah, much appreciated, James Bond,” he muttered mirthlessly. “Your thievery is admired, I’m sure you’re a great role model for the younglings back on the ranch.”
Natasha resisted a smirk, a quick twitch pulling at her lips before she quickly let her face fall neutral. The slightest movement jarred the fragile sheet spread across her skin, bright flickers sparking up a storm that burned in her eyes.
“It’s not theft.” Steve placed one open-palm in the air, harsh and final. “We’re returning it. And I still don’t see the difference between this and the chameleon helmet you created, Tony.”
Pulling his hands back from Natasha’s face, Tony briefly looked over his work, eyeing it at all levels. Just as quickly, he leaned back in to make a few final adjustments, working the veil behind her ears and careful to avoid the red locks that got in the way.
“There’s a stupendous difference. Night and day, black and white. My design — still a technological wonder, unfortunately one put to rest only after getting into the wrong hands — projected holographic nanites that surrounded the individual’s entire infrastructure. Body, face, you name it. It was a whole package deal,” he dryly explained. “This is SHIELD’s Photostatic Veil, dated in comparison to the chameleon helmet — in major need of some tweaks and upgrades, if you ask me. It has holographic cells, creating a photostatic surface that can mimic the facial appearance —”
“Steve knows what it is.” Natasha brushed his fingers to the side so she could conform the final piece against her forehead. It stayed stuck there, a second skin that projected a difference across her features. A whole new appearance. “I’ve used it before, disguised as one of the former Council members. He just gets cranky when it comes to things he doesn’t understand.”
Steve leveled her a slighted look, weariness stealing any anger from his face.
She offered him a quick smile as she stood from her stool, the high-heels she normally never wore clicking on the ground when she turned to face the others.
“How do I look?”
Natasha held two hands underneath her chin, showcasing her new face. The static and flickers died down until ultimately, there was no telling what was fake and what was real. It blended immaculately onto her skin, the perfect facade hiding her true self.
Casually, and even more slowly, Clint approached her. His head tilted to the side, examining her closely.
“Like you. Only with a bigger nose.” Clint turned to Steve, brows knitted tightly together. “I get that we don’t want Osborn knowing that an Avenger is sneaking around his building. But are we sure she shouldn’t at least wear a wig?”
Tony held back a muffled grunt as he stood from his stool, knees protesting after sitting still for so long. Without a thought, the heel of his foot kicked at the chair, wheeling it behind him where it wouldn’t get in the way.
“Trust me,” he said, “Norman won’t be looking at her face.”
A beat passed. Clint’s nose turned up.
“Gross.”
Sliding glass doors to the workshop whirred open, the quiet hum of computers and wires embedded in the walls quickly muffled by the sound.
“Here it is,” Rhodey announced, walking in with quick, effortless confidence. “Straight from the boys over at the FBI. I have an old acquaintance who works in the Cyber Crime department, he owed me a few favors. Figured now was the best time as ever to cash in.”
Rhodey reached the middle of the room, his hand showcasing a small gadget held between his thumb and forefinger. Only the three standing nearby seemed interested; Steve still a good distance apart, watching and listening from where he stood across the room.
“Keep this on you, preferably under thin clothing to prevent any signal blocking. It’ll automatically hijack the SSL connection when you enter the building. Once you get close enough to their server room, it’ll transfer the data over to us. I’m not at liberty to say how, but encryption won’t be a problem. Anything and everything will be yours — you won’t even have to bat an eyelash.”
As suddenly as he appeared, Rhodey cocked an eyebrow high, looking Natasha up and down with bizarre confusion. The realization of her new appearance seemed to dawn on him a second too late, a ghost of a grin following suit.
“Especially not with a face like that…”
Natasha tucked the tiny device in the top pocket of her blouse.
“I’ll overlook the derogatory insult, seeing as you just gave us upper hand we needed.” She returned the smile, every bit not-Natasha as the disguise could offer her. “Thanks, Rhodey.”
There wasn’t any hesitation as Rhodey laid a firm hand on her shoulder, squeezing briefly before letting go. He drew in a deep breath as he turned to face the others, one arm gesturing uselessly in the air.
“You guys sure you don’t just wanna take the photos to him?” Rhodey looked towards Steve and Clint before ultimately locking eyes with Tony. “You have the ultimate upper hand already with those pictures Pete took. What fight can Osborn really put up when handed solid, indisputable proof?”
Tony shook his head firmly, grabbing the gray blazer laying along a computer chair and swinging it around his back.
“This is Norman Osborn we’re talking about,” he needlessly said, pulling his arms through the jacket. It clashed with the casual polo he was wearing, but Tony didn’t care. It was an importune meeting for a reason; fashion would have to sit on the back burner. “Proof or not, I would never anticipate getting an honest answer out of his dirty lips. Look at how many subpoenas we had to throw at OsCorp’s front door just to get the inkling of truth about their underground experiments.”
Rhodey shrugged. “We didn’t have photographic evidence then.”
Tony turned to face him, pulling down at his blazer to smooth out the wrinkles. “Photographic evidence would be as good as kindergartners recess drawing. The lawyers will say it’s doctored before we can even get through the lobby. Getting in with Osborn today is our one shot to answers — our only shot at answers. Might as well go all in while we’re there.”
Clint straightened his shoulders, still eyeing Natasha from head to toe, looking for any impractical flaws that may have been overlooked in her disguise. She stood patiently as he did, exhibiting the same amount of trust she had for him decades ago — unwavering even as the years passed by. If there was anything that made him think her guise wasn’t good enough, he’d be the first to speak up.
He turned to Tony, one eyebrow arched high. “Card up your sleeve while you deal him a bad hand?”
Tony shot a stern finger in his direction. “Exactly.”
The two were dressed to impressed, that much Rhodey noticed — outside of Natasha’s new face, that was. It was odd, seeing her red hair falling onto her shoulders with a face that didn’t match. Combined with the high-heels, pencil skirt, and black blouse, she really did look like a whole other person.
And while Tony had certainly seen better days with fancier suits, he still had the right of mind to change out of his grease-stained sweatpants from earlier in the morning into something that would easily get them into Osborn’s personal office.
Rhodey bit back a sigh, sparing Steve a silent glance as he did. The man stayed tucked away across the room, leaning quietly against one of the many computer desks. His lack of vocal participation hadn’t gone unnoticed, and judging by his stance, Rhodey wasn’t exactly sure how keen the soldier was towards the situation at play.
Now that he thought about it, not even he knew the details of what was about to take place.
“So what’s the grand plan, then?” Rhodey almost didn’t want to ask, but the question came out nonetheless. It was habit with Tony, one that wouldn’t die anytime soon.
Tony quickly checked his appearance in one of the nearest idle computer monitors, seemingly both satisfied and irked with the sight that greeted him. Having been unable to sleep after returning from Queen’s last night, and only having a few hours to throw together something that resembled ‘Professional Stark’, he knew this was about as good as it would get.
He was fine with that. It wouldn’t be the first time he showed up to a CEO’s office looking less-than-his-best. And it sure as hell wasn’t like he wanted to impress Osborn in the first place.
“Despite being tasked with running a company all by herself, my wonderful, astonishing fiancée has managed to squeeze us into a three-fifteen appointment with Norman-the-sleazeball-Osborn.” Tony pointed a lax finger over to where Natasha stood. “I’ll sit and throw some bullshit with Osborn while my personal assistant here, Miss Natalie Rushman, takes a few urgent phone calls outside.”
“I’ve already studied the layout of the building,” Natasha added, adjusting the gadget sitting in the pocket of her blouse. “I know exactly where the server room is kept, how to get there, and how many guards surround it at different shift intervals. So long as I can get within ten feet to the door leading inside, we’ll be good as golden.”
Clint noticeably tightened his jaw. “What about security? They’ll be escorting you everywhere you go. How do you plan to lead them astray?”
“I don’t,” Natasha simply answered, offering him a grin. “They’ll be too busy following around some pretty, dim-witted assistant to notice anything awry.”
Clint resisted the urge to laugh, a chuckle sounding in his chest and staying there. Natasha winked in his direction, bleeding out any tension and concern he may have been harboring.
Tony pushed past the two, gray blazer brushing up against them both.
“Red Sparrow over here will infiltrate the systems, get us every document they’ve decided to keep tucked and stashed away. When she’s done, she’ll come save me from what I guarantee will less than pleasant meeting with Norman.” Tony turned to her, his hand gesturing wildly in the air. “If everything is a-okay, you’ll say…”
Natasha raised her eyebrows. “You’ll be late for your four o’clock appointment.”
Tony snapped his fingers, satisfied.
“And if all has shot to hell —”
“I won’t be there to say anything.” Natasha lanced him a piercing look, narrowed eyes saying more than her words ever would.
Tony nodded curtly.
“Fair enough.”
It was a risky plan, that much he knew. OsCorp had about as much security and protocols in place as Stark Industries themselves, if not more. Tony couldn’t deny the possibility of something going wrong, of them getting caught red-handed illegally stealing very confidential information.
If it came down to that, if life really was out to torture him in every way he felt imaginable, than Natasha getting the hell out of dodge was something Tony could live with. The Avenger’s had been digging at OsCorp's case for months now, he wasn’t ready to blow their cover yet.
Not without some answers.
Sparing Not-Natasha a glance, Tony could feel the brick weights ease off his chest just a smidgen. If anyone could get in and out of there without getting caught, it was her. Of all things that were going to happen today, that was the one thing he had the most confidence in.
Now he just needed some confidence in the rest of his plan.
“You’ll keep an eye on Peter while we’re gone?” Tony turned his question to Clint, grabbing his cell off the nearest desk and quickly looking at the time. They needed to get going.
Clint folded his arms across his chest, biting back a sigh. “Yeah, because watching some high-schools live security feed is what I’ve always dreamed of doing on a Monday afternoon.”
Tony was a second away from lashing out, the bags under his eyes seemingly darkening as frustration coated every feature on his face.
Rhodey quickly stepped in, one hand on his shoulder to keep him grounded.
“Don’t stress it, man.” He squeezed his grip with reassurance. “It’s not even lunch time, how much trouble can the kid get into between now and when school’s let out?”
Tony managed a deep breath, pocketing his cell away in his blazer. He didn’t want to entertain the question with answers. Instead, he turned back to Clint, the archer noticeably softening despite his discontent with the role assigned.
“FRIDAY will automatically pull any suspicious footage off their records,” Tony explained. “But if you see anything that feels off, you’ll —”
“Tell you. Yeah, I got it, Tony.” Clint dropped his arms down to his side, pocketing his hands deep into his jean pockets. He stared down Tony with curiosity, a look of both concern and uncertainty reflecting in his eyes. “What I don’t get is what you plan to do with Norman while Nat hacks their servers for answers. The man doesn’t exactly seem like the type for tea and biscuits.”
It was quiet for a long moment before Tony carefully spoke up.
“I have some things I’ve been wanting to get off my chest.” Tony’s voice grew hoarse, tired. Months of secretly fighting against a conglomerate had started to wear on him, and they weren’t even close to winning yet. It took everything he had to keep going. “Now’s a good time as ever for good ‘ol Normie to listen.”
The piercing hum bouncing off the walls of the room seemed to intensify, combining with both the electricity that ran off consoles and devices, and his racing heartbeat that sent a ringing through his eardrums. Tony straightened his blazer one last time, a deep sniff pushing back any anxiety that began to rise in his nerves.
He had meant it. This was their one shot. And Tony wasn’t about to blow it, not now, not that so much was at stake.
Three weeks ago they had time, he could throw as many neglected subpoenas in OsCorp’s face as he wanted and know that tomorrow would still exist for another chance.
Now? Whatever dirty experiments they were running — even after SHIELD shut them down, even after the government warned them to stop — it had gotten to Peter.
They had gotten to his kid.
All Tony needed was those documents in hand, Oz Formula or not. After that, there’d be hell to pay.
“Steve?” Natasha’s voice broke through his thoughts, filling the otherwise quiet workshop. “You’ve been unusually quiet. Anything to add?”
Tony wasn’t the only one to look up at the soldier. Still leaning against the desk, still with his arms folded tightly over his chest, Steve eyed them down — seemingly all at once. He held a beat, unsure of what to say to the group, if he should speak at all.
His exhaustion seemed as deep as Tony’s, though he carried a different weight on him than the other man. An added sense of struggled responsibility — not just for Peter, but for the whole team. It was palpable, felt from a distances away.
Tony didn’t even have a witty remark to toss back. Hell, a part of him was appreciative that Captain Goody-two-shoes was willing to roll with the punches of a plan he didn’t feel was morally right.
It spoke volumes to how desperate they were.
How they all knew something was wrong.
Steve shifted on his feet, managing a lax finger in Natasha’s disguised face.
“We’re returning that mask when we’re done with it,” he finally spoke up. “It’s not theft. It’s borrowing.”
If there was one thing Tony knew the most about his reputation, it was that most people claimed he could own a room the moment he stepped foot inside. A power to his poise, a confidence that shook the ground he walked on.
Tony didn’t feel that way walking into OsCorp.
Something was unsettling about the building — about the cathedral ceilings, about the guards that escorted them to the elevators. Even on his way to the eighty-first floor — twelve floors short of the once Stark Tower, looming tall in the skyline of Manhattan — his gut twisted with an odd sense of strife.
He didn’t want to own any of these rooms. The walls that surrounded him left a sickening taste in his mouth, a nervous tick that twitched at his fingers. A constant reminder of the hell OsCorp and Osborn had put him through — and continued to do so.
The sooner he could get this over with, the better off he’d be.
And if afterward, an aircraft missile happened to drop on the building occupied only by Osborn himself...well, Tony would mourn the loss of technology destroyed in the process and little else.
The elevator doors chimed open on the highest floor of the building. Two guards followed Natasha out, the sound of her high-heels barely heard over the enthusiastic flirting directed at the guard on her left. A heavy, downright authentic-sounding french accent coated her tongue and even the feathery laugh that came from her lipstick-stained lips.
Tony adjusted the sleeves to his blazer; he had to give her credit for going all out on the ruse. If it weren’t for the red locks pulled back tightly into a bun, he’d forget it was even Natasha that had come along with him.
His distraction also played a part in that, of course, as the guards walked them closer to the door at the end of the hallway. One that was simply labeled,
CEO OSBORN
If he didn’t know better, Tony could have sworn his sight began to filter red, a deep crimson bleeding into eyes. It wasn’t until the very moment that the guard opened the door that he regained focus and saw the heat bleed away at the edges.
Even then, the image of the door tag was burned in his retinas, still there when he looked away, still there when he blinked. No different than the nightmares that plagued his sleep.
Tony didn’t fail to see the irony in that.
“Ah, Mr. Stark!”
The professional, feminine voice grounded him back to reality. He turned his attention to the far left of the room, where a dirty-blond haired lady greeted them, sitting at a desk surrounded by office supplies.
“Please, come on in.” She stood from her chair, waving them inside. Overgrown plants practically lined the walls behind her, and her blouse brushed up against a few leaves as she straightened her skirt. “It’s a pleasure to see you. Mr. Osborn has been eagerly awaiting your meeting all afternoon.”
Tony managed a deep breath in — his shoulders lifting high, his chest heaving upwards. With all the energy he could muster, he plastered a toothy grin across his face.
It felt as fake as knew Natasha’s accent had been.
“I’m sure he has been,” Tony mentioned succinctly, biting his tongue just enough to keep the sound of disdain from leaking into his tone. His sneakers, paired oddly with his suit, squeaked against the mosaic flooring of the receptionist area. “While I have no doubt Ms. Potts already expressed her gratitude, I’d like to thank you again for getting me on his books so quickly. I’m sure it wasn’t an easy feat to squeeze me into his busy schedule.”
The middle-aged woman waved him off with a cordial smile. “Oh, of course, she explained everything to me. Really, it’s no trouble at all. Especially with such a large-sized donation to the OsCorp internship program. Your generosity is truly appreciated, Mr. Stark.”
Tony froze. A finger made its way into his ear, unsure if he heard her correctly.
“That…” He managed another step further into the room, his movements as slow as his words. “Is...indeed...why I am here.”
It took every ounce of self control to keep the grin stretched across his lips, muscles he didn’t even know he had aching at the pressure to drop the front faster than he could spew out a million different curse words. And now more than ever did he want to spit a rainbow of colorful terms to anyone in earshot.
He shouldn’t be surprised. In a way, Tony wasn’t. Money talked, after all, and Pepper Potts knew that better than anyone in this world. And sure, his company and his own bank account had plenty to go around, large quadruple digits merely chump change at the end of the day.
But still.
A donation to OsCorp?
Tony could feel his nails digging into the soft tissue of his inner palms, the disgust settling deep into the marrow of his bones.
At the same time, Natasha discreetly brushed by him, the heel of her stilettos kicking inconspicuously yet painfully at his ankle.
Tony hissed, covering up the sound with a weak cough.
Hint received.
“I’m sorry,” he cleared his throat, pointing to the door on their right. “I’m on a tight schedule, is he —?”
“Of course!” She leaned forward, one finger pressing on the intercom system that sat neatly on her desk. It rang with a shrill buzz before clearing way for her to speak. “Mr. Osborn? Mr. Stark is here to see you now.”
There was a pause before another voice came through.
"Thank you, Cynthia. Send him in."
The dirty-blond haired assistant — Cynthia, smiled as she reached for a different button on the surface of her desk. It chimed with a shrill ring, no different than the intercom system, and opened access to the door on the other side of the room. One guard walked in front of Tony while two stayed behind Natasha, their attentiveness excessive, yet somehow expected.
Tony barely got three feet to the door before turning to Cynthia, fake smile beginning to twitch.
“Exactly how much did I donate again?”
Quickly, Natasha cut forward, blocking the secretary from answering.
“Let us go,” she insisted, french accent filling the otherwise quiet room. One hand settled firmly on Tony’s forearm, pushing him forward. “Busy man waiting. Come come.”
Her eyes didn’t match the pleasantness of her tone, the look she gave Tony failing to go unnoticed. Even with her natural features hidden behind the disguise of the photostatic veil, the traces of desperation could be seen through the lines of admonishment on her expression — don’t screw this up.
It wasn’t a suggestion, it was a demand. Every bit Natasha as he’d ever seen her before, different face or not.
Tony didn’t need the reminder. Not with all that was at stake.
But he’d take it, nonetheless.
“You bet my ass that check is bouncing,” he found himself muttering under his breath.
At the same time, the guard in front of him swung open the door to the office.
Tony wasn’t too sure what exactly he’d been expecting, if he had been expecting anything at all. To his knowledge, he had never met with Osborn one on one, privately. He had never wanted to . They had exchanged handshakes and false pleasantries at conventions, perhaps public attendances — his time in the corporate life had a tendency to blur together into an incoherent mess of ‘that was boring, what’s next?’
But all things considered, Tony was positive he had never stepped foot inside Osborn’s personal office before.
The blatant contrast was what startled his eyes, a difference so broad that it almost didn’t seem real. The harsh silver, whites, and blues of the OsCorp building weren’t present with the modest sized office ahead — no, rather the opposite.
There was mahogany wood covering the walls, the bookcases, the desk against the center wall. Deep, rich colored tones accompanied the smell of leather and cedar, and there was a hint of strong alcohol still lingering somewhere in the air. Scotch, if Tony’s nose detected it correctly. The open-lid decanter backed that assumption.
It reminded him too much of Howard’s personal space. Traditional, dated. Musty and old-fashioned. Tony stepped inside, nodding a thanks to the guard for keeping the door open. With decor like this, it was hard to believe Osborn was in the same age bracket as Tony.
Speaking of the devil — in more ways than one — Tony locked eyes on the man of the hour, at his desk against the far end of the room.
Norman didn’t bother to lift his head, focused intently on the tablet in his hands.
“Stark,” he dryly greeted, no louder than the sound Natasha’s heels made as she entered the office. The glow from the tablet’s screen highlighted the wrinkles and stress lines engraved deep into his skin, an unflattering light in an otherwise dark room. “Should I invite you to take a seat, or do you think this meeting will be brief?”
Tony turned his back to the desk, stuffing his hands deep into his blazer pockets, casually strolling in without further invitation. He occupied himself by taking in the smaller details of the office — the floor to ceiling bookcases, the collection of fountain pens put neatly on display; he held the tip of his finger against antique globe nearby and spun it for amusement.
Anything to keep his eyes off Osborn.
“Should let some sunshine in here,” Tony mentioned in lieu of answering, looking towards the large yet covered windows of the room. Heavy, vintage curtains were drawn on them on, barely a creak of light sneaking in through the corners. “Vitamin D is good for your mood.”
Natasha hummed low in her throat, taking a place quietly against the door frame of the office. Her hands were clasped in front of herself, no doubt already having thought of five different ways to discreetly rid a body and any fingerprints left behind.
It was a disturbing comfort for Tony, knowing she held the same disdain for the man as he did. That if given the chance, they’d both serve him the punishment that was long overdue for the hell he’d put them through.
At the same time, he knew — and so did she — that they had one opportunity for this. One chance to get it right.
Tony wasn’t about to blow that in favor of giving Osborn the black eye he deserved.
“I’m not sure if my assistant made you aware,” Norman failed to hold back a sigh, the sound mixed with the opening of a drawer to his desk where he put the tablet away, “but I do have other meetings planned in my agenda today. Ones that were booked properly, with advance notice.”
Tony barely paid him any mind, peaking through the weighted curtains to catch a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline from outside.
“Mhm. A beaut.” Tony offered him a brief glance, drawing the curtain closed but pointing a finger towards it at the same time. “You just don’t get that view upstate. One of a kind, this city is. Nothing like it.”
Norman kept his gaze straight-on, never looking Tony’s way, going so far as to intentionally clear his throat with growing impatience. “My time today is limited, so if there’s something you’d like to discuss with me —”
The shrill ring of a cell phone interrupted him, catching him off guard. Even Tony had to admit that the noise was humorously loud, especially contained in such a small space.
Norman placed two firm fingers to his temple, eyes squeezing shut as the sound blasted through his office. Tony knew that look from a hundred miles away — a migraine. A pretty bad one, from how it appeared.
“I...as you say, apologize.” Natasha clumsily reached into her purse, finding and clutching onto her cell phone with a blooming tint of pink covering her cheeks. “I must take this call.”
Noticeably aggravated, Norman waved a hand in her direction, keeping his head low as he rubbed gingerly at his forehead.
“That’s not a problem, thank you.” The words didn’t seem to match his gruff tone, his fist gripping tighter with each click her heels made leading out of the office.
Tony watched discreetly from his place at the window, his fingers playing idly with the tassels of the curtain. Natasha closed the door on her way out — Natalie, he should say. The guards followed her out, leaving just the two men in the room.
Clucking his tongue, Tony made his way to the bookcases lining the walls, unable to deny the fact that the open decanter of scotch was smelling better by the second. The edge he felt was getting sharper, and from the look of it, the feeling was mutual.
Now he was starting to remember just how unpleasant those brief meetings at conventions always were, the forced handshakes and fake smiles for the cameras. Osborn had always been scum to him, long before these inhumane experiments ever came to the surface.
Scanning the bookcases, Tony plucked out the first title that caught his eye, grabbing the book by its spine and pulling it out from its cramped spot in-between numerous other collections.
“The Art of War.” Tony flipped the book over to its back cover, his index finger trailing down the printed design. It was a limited copy edition, cloth-bound with a dust-jacket, kept in pristine condition. “Hm. Have a lot of memories with this one.”
Leaning over his desk, Norman poured himself a modest glass of amber-tinted scotch, barely managing a passing glance to Tony as he did. Norman's disinterest didn’t keep Tony at bay; rather, he found himself walking closer to the desk Norman sat at. His eyes never wandered from the book in hand.
“Not long after the folks passed, Obie made it mandatory to read this puppy front and back, five times over.” Tony cracked the book open, shuffling through it without much thought. The smell of old ink and dry, dated pages was more potent than the cedar and leather encompassing the office. “Had me studying it before I could even consider dipping my toes in the corporate world. Pretty sure I can still quote parts in my sleep.”
As quickly as he opened the book, he closed it shut.
“Let’s see…” Tony’s fingers tapped ceaselessly on the hardcover, his eyes looking far-off in thought. “The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent. Only once knowing both your strengths and weaknesses, as well as those of your adversary, can you begin to form a strategic plan.”
Norman moved to take a sip from the mountain glass in his hand, eyes meeting Tony’s squarely, green irises shrouded in the dim light.
“If your opponent is of choleric temper, seek to irritate him. Pretend to be weak, that he may grow arrogant. Momentum is the life force of any conflict. When momentum is on your side, you have the advantage.” Norman set the glass down on the surface of the desk, condensation leaking onto the mahogany wood. “Sun Tzu was a wise man, a military strategist ahead of his time.”
Tony shrugged, chucking the book onto Norman’s desk, taking a seat in the empty chair on his opposite end.
“I tossed my copy,” he flippantly said, brushing some non-existent lint from his suit jacket. “Got tired of looking at it.”
“Why am I not surprised,” Norman drawled out, managing the slightest shake to his head. He placed both hands in his lap, casually and loosely folding them together. “Are you aware that your significant other paid your way in to see me today, Stark?”
Tony was sure the verbal reminder had been said with a sting, some kind of subdued implication for him to feel embarrassed by — going so far as to reach for emasculation. He refused to let it crawl underneath his skin, opting instead to simply nod his head.
“So I have been informed, yes.”
Norman met his gaze with a straight face, unamused and impassive.
“What do you want?”
Tony could have laughed; had honesty been something he intended to rely on, there still wouldn’t be enough time in his day to go down that road. Not even the riches in both their bank accounts could buy what he wanted, their pockets deep in stocks and market exchanges not nearing close enough to provide the peace of mind and security he desperately fought for.
Leaning back casually in the chair, Tony lifted both his hands in an open gesture, plastering a press-winning smile over his face.
“A lot of things,” he started. “World peace would be a great. End to all poverty. No kid hungry, no kid left behind, that sorta thing.” Tony’s face fell flat, the facade beginning to weaken at the fringes. “A tête-à-tête works, too. Heart-to-heart, one-on-one. You, me — none of those pesky lawyers we keep overpaying to do our dirty work. Just a good old conversation between like minded individual’s.”
Norman arched an eyebrow high into his hairline, his hardened gaze unwavering on the man sitting across from him.
The beat that followed felt toxic, inundated with palpable tension. If Tony didn’t know better, he’d say the air in the room had gone stale, stiff and thick from the negative energy stemming between them.
“I’m not at liberty to discuss ongoing lawsuits with you,” Norman finally responded, every bit as calm as Tony expected. “If that’s the only reason you came here, I hate to disappoint.”
“No lawsuits, last I checked,” Tony countered innocently. “No convictions that I’m even aware of. I mean, hell, you know how the Senate Armed Services Committee can be — always keeping themselves busy, soaking up those taxpayer dollars. They go after my Iron Man suits, they go after you with those experiments —”
“This isn’t about my experiments,” Norman cut in, professionally laced tone sharper than a knife. “It’s about your ridiculous claims, ones that you keep taking my company to court for. And you’ll have to pardon my forbearance when it comes to accusations that I can’t entertain. I have much more important things to do in my day than defend myself against such absurd allegations.”
Tony gave an exaggerated shrug. “Are they absurd, though? Can anything be considered absurd now that aliens have attacked New York and Gods have roamed the streets of New Mexico?”
Norman cocked his head to the side, failing to emulate the same grin that twitched at Tony’s mouth.
“Your case on OsCorp continues to be dismissed by the courts based on the grounds that you don’t have proof. It will never be upheld by a judge based solely on your conspiracy theories.” His words were seamless, practiced. Downright methodical. “Quite frankly, the longer you extend this feud, the sooner the public will begin to speculate that OsCorp is a threat to Stark Industries. Is that really a look you want for your company?”
“I have proof,” Tony forced through his teeth. The sting that he’d been keeping at bay started to burn in his chest, germinating with each passing second. “I just can’t use it.”
“Then that isn’t proof,” Norman rebutted, managing to pull of the most contrite look Tony had possibly ever seen. It didn’t look well on him, stretching the crows-feet over his eyes and adding years to his face. “It’s heresay.”
Tony shouldn’t have been surprised by his blatant denial. In a way, he wasn’t. But it didn’t stop his jaw from tightening, or his hand from clenching tightly into a fist.
Despite everything, Tony hadn’t been prepared for just how difficult it’d be to bench the searing hate that congealed in his veins. How challenging it was to sit quietly, play dumb despite all he knew. All he experienced first-hand.
“You know,” he cleared his throat, feigning casual conversation. “There’s a lot about the inner workings of my career you could never familiarize yourself with. SHIELD, the company I'm contracted out to work for —”
“Work for?” Norman tsked, reclining against his plush chair and staring over the expanse of the mahogany desk at Tony. “Is that what you call your vigilantism?”
Tony chose to ignore that statement.
“They have strict security clearance,” he continued on as if uninterrupted. “Information I know doesn’t get shared with the public, not unless I want to wake up in bed with a horses head next to my pillow. Doesn’t mean I don’t know things. Who they’ve gone after, who they’ve shut down in the past…”
As Norman reclined back, Tony leaned forward, his elbows pressing firmly on his knees.
“What sort of...surreptitious buildings floated in the Atlantic ocean…”
An uninvited friction washed across the room, belligerent in spite of the silence that fell between the two.
Tony savored the whisper of surprise that crossed over Norman’s face. It was almost nonexistent — a twitch of his cheekbones, a look in his eyes — blink and it was gone.
But Tony saw it.
He relished in it.
“Six months ago one of your experiments got loose and nearly destroyed the Collar City Bridge,” Tony reminded him. He mimicked Norman’s position, leaning back in his chair, flexing and then folding his hands into his lap. “You paid the city hush money to pretend it never happened. I know it did. I was there, I cleaned up your mess. And I know you’ve been doing worse than that rock android.”
As much as it pained him to admit, Tony and Norman had one thing in common — they were born in the corporate world, taught how to bullshit the same day they were taught how to walk.
So it was no surprise to see Norman appear indifferent, turning a blind eye as if he knew nothing more.
“How so?” he casually asked, reaching for his glass of whiskey.
A mirthless laugh almost broke free of Tony’s throat, managing instead to stay tightly restricted between two pursed lips — clamped shut with brewing anger. He watched wordlessly as Norman took a sip of the amber drink, his eyes never leaving Tony’s, not even as the glass returned to the surface of his desk.
Tony popped his lips, the sound echoing throughout the office. “No one finds it coincidental that a teleporting magician appeared in the same week?”
Norman smirked. Just a little. Just enough.
“And gone the next,” he regarded Tony evenly. “There were no ties with that incident and OsCorp.”
It was the tone of deceptive innocence that got to Tony, so immaculately perfected that it could fool anyone’s ears — surely pass any lie detector, win over any judge. Tony imagined that had it not been for the hell they’d been through earlier in the year, Norman’s act of virtue might have even instilled some doubt in his accusations.
But there weren’t accusations to have. Not anymore. They knew the truth — Tony knew the truth. The truth was nightmares that woke him up at three a.m. Panic attacks he could barely stave off at the smell of salt water and ocean life. The endless reminders of sleepless nights in his compound’s medical bay, praying relentlessly to a God he didn’t believe in at the bedside of a kid too young to experience the trauma he’d been put through.
He didn’t need to hear the truth directly from the fool’s mouth to feel vindicated.
He just needed to buy the time until they had their proof.
“Hm. So you claim,” Tony said, his voice still calm, still leveled. They could both play the game of bullshitting some professional nonsense. “Just as you claimed that your numerous east-coast research facilities were all up to code and legally abiding. Yet the case of one Max Dillon, circa 2008, might see things differently.”
Norman hadn’t looked away from Tony, not even as his fingers began to dance across the plush leather armrest of his chair.
Tony stared right back into his eyes, refusing to be intimidated.
“Remember him?” Tony flippantly waved a hand, dismissing a response. “Of course you don't. He was just another college student, Montclair State University, too desperate for a couple bucks to know what participating in your underpaid studies would do to him.”
Tony leaned in, just an inch, the soft tapping of Norman’s fingers audible in the quiet space between them.
“Amazing how an incident that put a nineteen-year-old boy into a coma brought on by high-voltage electrical shock could just be...tossed out of court like some suburban soccer mom suing their neighbor for leaving Christmas decorations up past New Years.” Tony's voice grew harder, his need to remain reserved slipping between the cracks where his emotion began to surface. “But you claimed — sorry, let me rephrase that — you ‘claimed’ that your study participants were subjected to the highest level of care and consideration in your faculties. Just as you claim now that you’ve had nothing to do with the Collar City Bridge incident. Or the magician in Times Square. Or the revived, modified Chitarui remains that attacked Brooklyn.”
Tony said nothing for a moment; he wasn’t sure if it was to add suspense to his lingering words, or to control the growing pit that started to claw its way into his throat. He could feel his lip twitch, the memories all too vivid, too personal. Close enough to his chest that he was sure each hammering beat of his heart kept them alive and present in his mind.
Norman stared at him, face so expressionless it was as if he knew nothing of the pain he’d cause Tony.
Or worse, simply didn’t care.
“Among other events I can’t list, of course,” Tony finally added, managing a nonchalant shrug that took more effort than it appeared. “But like I said...security clearance. Not sure if I’d be able to get horses blood out of Egyptian Cotton bedsheets. And I would rather not have to try.”
The false image of calm and collected pervading every fiber of Norman’s persona hadn’t taken a hit. His fingers finally stopped moving across the armrest, his hands settling on the smooth surface of his desk not far from where the mountain glass sat, condensation still leaking onto the wood below it.
“And it would be ill-advised to discuss anything further without a lawyer present,” Norman pressed. “That is, so long as you continue to throw subpoenas on my desk every other week.”
A full blown grin pulled tightly at Tony’s cheeks, the phony act coming back just as quickly as it left.
“Hey, it’d stop if I got my answers.”
The laugh that came from Norman was downright unsettling, surprising at the very least. Tony arched an eyebrow high, watching with disturbed interest as Norman picked up the glass from his desk and shook his head, little laughs rattling his chest.
Tony narrowed his eyes, noticing how his muscles tensed at every low chuckle that escaped Norman’s mouth. He’d heard a lot of sinister sounds in his life. Somehow, this one felt the worse.
Norman took a sip of scotch, and for a moment, neither of them said anything.
“You know who does have a tie to those incidents you speak of, Stark?” He returned his gaze to Tony, openly gesturing the glass in his direction. “Queens local Spider-Man.”
Norman eyed Tony intently. There was no missing the glint in his eye, not even in the dim lighting of the darkened office.
“He was there for them all,” Norman spoke casually, as if their conversation hadn’t took a coarse, abrupt turn. Like they were still throwing banter back and forth on political arguments and legal proceeding disagreements, like the mention of the red and blue clad vigilante was nothing more than an insouciant comment in an otherwise petty discussion.
Tony fought to appear as if that was the case, forcing himself to hide any shred of emotion that would say otherwise.
“I’m not here to discuss Avengers business with you,” Tony curtly said, his pulse quickly beginning to thump erratically under his skin.
Norman arched a brow. “I wasn’t aware that Spider-Man was an Avenger now.”
Just like that, a burning feeling settled deep in Tony’s chest — a sharp needle that dug deep into his core. It wasn’t until the sensation became overpowering that he realized he’d stopped breathing all together, his test of patience pushed to the absolute limits.
He flexed his hands, his mouth setting in grim line.
“He’s not.”
Norman moved to raise both his eyebrows, and the glass of whiskey to the tips of his lips.
“But I do see Iron Man with him...often.” A sip. A swallow. Norman swirled the liquid in the glass, watching it swish around the edges. “An enigma, if I do say so myself.”
Tony should have expected such a low blow. The public wasn’t oblivious to the connection he had with Spider-Man, after all. Not since spring, not since the rock-android incident on the Collar City Bridge. In that moment, he had unintentionally outed Spider-Man as an ally of his, more than an acquaintance — the frequent visits Iron Man made to Queens were too coincidental to brush aside. Tony knew that. He wasn’t naive, he knew full well how the media ate up his superhero business like there was no tomorrow.
But still. To bring him up now, to drag Spider-Man into their conversation unwarranted, with no cause, no reason —
The implications were clear as day.
Tony’s eyes hardened. The rest of him managed to look flawlessly oblivious.
“What can I say?” He spread his arms out wide, slapping on a smile that went ear-to-ear. “Hard to turn down a friendly face who just wants to help his neighborhood.”
Norman leaned back in his chair, hand still holding his glass, resting it somewhere beneath his chest where the dark emerald tie laid against the harsh contrast of his white button down.
“Neighborhoods have always been beneath you, Stark,” he said, searching Tony’s eyes for something that neither of them could distinguish. “What changed?”
Tony was sure the words were meant as a challenge. A goading, leading question designed to trick him — trip him up, admit something that would only serve Norman’s interest and no one else’s.
“I started giving a damn,” Tony ground the words from his lips. “You should try doing the same.”
If Norman was disappointed by the answer, he surely didn’t let it show. Head dipped low, chin on his chest, he again swirled the liquid in the mountain glass. Only the thin slivers of sunlight peeking through the heavy drawn curtains gave way to the expression on his face, and Tony had to squint to notice if there had even been a change that took place.
He remained impassive, imperturbable through it all.
“You’ve always relied on contingencies in your business. A destined trait from someone who took over a corporation at such a young age, I suppose,” Norman went on to say, infuriatingly stoic. “But chance won’t help you with whatever you’re trying to put OsCorp through. Whatever information you think you have in that intellect of yours...it won’t do you any good at the end of the day. You’ve become nothing more than the boy who cried wolf, the thorn in the side of our judicial system, wasting time of those who could be serving our public better.”
Leaning forward, Norman set the glass back on the desk, far off to the corner where he couldn’t easily grab ahold of it again. Tony’s eyes briefly glanced in the direction; the amber liquid was all but gone, a mere trace of residue left in the bottom.
“So, I ask again…” Norman furrowed his brows, hesitating before reclining back in the chair. “Why are you here?”
Tony raised his eyes to meet Norman’s burrowing stare, a smirk curling at the edges of his mouth.
“For the kids,” he boasted simply. “Who are we without them, am I right?”
Norman huffed a slight, dry chuckle, giving the smallest nods along the way.
“Ah, yes, the OsCorp Internship Program,” he preened, a crease between his eyes telling Tony he hadn’t fully fallen for the set-up. Still, he continued on. “You know, my son Harrison is second lead to running that program.”
Tony adjusted himself in his seat, hoping the movement hid the eye-roll he was unable to stop himself from giving.
“I’m sure you’re very proud,” he acknowledged flatly.
Norman nodded, eyes settling, skin pulling tight in a few places.
“I recently became acquainted with an old friend of his,” he began to say, the pause that followed heavier than the stare he proceeded to give. “I think you know him — Peter Parker?”
The sound of the name assaulted Tony like a thousand pounds of shrapnel blasting through his chest cavity, hitting him harder than a bomb blowing through the fragile windows of an undersea bunker. He could feel the blood rush out from his face, his skin growing cold, his heart losing rhythm.
It was too much not to let Norman on, to not shoot glaring daggers his way — let him know that even speaking that name was a cardinal sin that could never be forgiven.
If his facade faltered in the second that passed, it wasn’t for lack of trying.
“The name is familiar, yes.” Tony's jaw tightened threateningly, a sound akin to a growl nearly escaping his throat.
Norman’s lips twisted into a small smile. Tony fought the urge to punch it right off his face.
“Very intelligent young man. Guided by the right hands, he could do wonders. Take this company right underneath me some day, assuming my son doesn’t do it first.” Norman’s tone was enough to have Tony grinding his teeth — lighthearted, interested, fascinated. Thrilled. He looked at Tony, really looked at him, hiding nothing beneath his features. “I tried getting him enrolled in the OsCorp Internship, but he unfortunately declined.”
“Sorry to break your heart,” Tony’s voice dipped dangerously low, raw and strained despite his best efforts. “He’s already in one.”
Tony made a face, something he was sure looked less impressionable than what he wanted. It was hard to stay neutral in the conversation. Less than six hours ago he discovered Peter’s impromptu, unapproved trip to OsCorp had resulted in something happening that could very well be poisoning him — or worse.
Now, in the same day, he managed to find out that Norman himself had made contact with the kid.
His kid.
Who, when all this was said and done with, would be getting a long lecture about hiding things from others. Like having a powwow with the man responsible for nearly killing them both, on multiple occasions.
Tony’s eyes briefly flitted away, a curse sitting on the tip of his tongue. He should’ve done more when he got that alert of Peter’s location in OsCorp. He knew then that trouble was afoot — he should’ve listened to his instincts.
“Mhm-hm.” Norman’s hum cut through the stifling silence. “I’m aware of his extra curricular activities. I looked into it — the Stark Internship.” He raised a single eyebrow. “Doesn’t exist.”
The words rang through the office like reverberating steel; harsh, frigid, striking a cord where it wasn’t wanted.
Things that had previously not added up in his calculations were suddenly growing crystal clear to Tony. Shinier than the near-empty glass of alcohol that sat discarded across from him.
“But other people…”
Peter hadn’t meant the Thompson kid at school.
He didn’t want that proof for himself.
Tony felt a sinking pit grow deep in his gut. Realization combined with hopeless understanding tore into his skin like a ravenous, feral beast, and his spine stiffened; a steel knife cutting straight into his windpipe.
Whatever Peter was keeping from him, whatever he was keeping secret — it was beyond them all at this point.
Tony could only hope that there wasn’t more he was hiding.
Norman fiddled with the cuffs to his white button down, pushing them up his forearms. “Now, I don’t take Mr. Parker for a liar, seems like an honest young boy, has the straps on his boots up well. But you, on the other hand —”
“It exists,” Tony bit back vehemently, the words coming without his bidding.
Norman leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk between them, moving himself as close into Tony’s space as he possibly could.
“Then the question remains to be…” His head cocked to the side, and his eyes narrowed sharply. “In what capacity?”
Tony met his eyes head-on, not by choice, rather by sheer force of will. He refused to look away, refused to plant any validation to the implication laid out in front of him.
Yet it was blunt. Unequivocal, unmistakable.
Suddenly, Tony felt like he was drowning — caught under water, trapped in a wave he couldn’t escape. His ears rushed and popped, his head screamed under the tightening pressure. It was hard to even breathe, a simple inhale catching in his chest and staying there.
Right where Norman sat, leaning over his desk, the first expression he’d seen on the man all afternoon finally catching the little bit of sunlight creeping in through the curtains.
He was smug.
And Tony had a gut-wrenching feeling on why.
Three gentle knocks from behind weren’t nearly enough to break their stare, so intense neither dared to blink. As if looking away might say what neither of them dared to speak out loud.
“Mr. Stark?” Natasha took no more than a step forward inside the office, lingering in the doorway with Tony’s back facing hers. “We must be going. You will be late for your four o’clock appointment.”
Tony didn’t acknowledge her — couldn’t acknowledge her, unable to tear his eyes away from Norman. Terrified that one blink would collapse his entire world, send everything into shambles.
From the way Norman looked at him, it wasn’t far from the truth.
“Mr. Stark?” Natasha repeated, forced cordiality lacing her voice.
Tony stood from his seat, his movements harsh and mechanical. His eyes never left Norman’s.
“Right,” he managed, his tone cold, empty. “We’re leaving.”
With a smile that was all lip and no teeth, Norman gave a curt nod of his head, looking satisfied as he relaxed back into his chair.
“I apologize if today did not provide the mea culpa you were anticipating,” Norman pointed out, stopping Tony short of departing through the door. “Perhaps, though, I can still offer some words of advice before you leave.”
Tony came to a halt, leaning back on his heels in a moment of hesitation. He refused to turn around — his back facing the man, the fact he was still standing in the office the only sign he was willing to hear what had to come next.
Norman shifted his attention elsewhere, slowly rolling down the cuffs to his sleeves, taking his time as his fingers buttoned the cusps around his wrists.
“Protect your investments, Stark,” he simply said, looking up just as Tony craned his head over his shoulder. “Never know...I might decide you’re undeserving of them.”
A moment of silence dragged out.
Tony steered his anger as quickly as it surfaced, and the rest of the emotions threatening to boil over were quickly stuffed deep down where he couldn’t access them.
Instead, he gave Norman a once-over, quirking an eyebrow high on his forehead.
“You know...you don’t look so hot, Normie. A little gaunt. A bit green.” Tony reached for the door, his hand gripping the knob harder than intended. “Maybe you should consider opening those shades. Get some sun on your face.”
Tony didn’t bother to wait for any goodbyes, not that either of the two intended to provide formalities to end their meeting. He shut the door behind him, the last sight he managed to catch being that of Norman at his desk, adjusting the emerald tie that hung around his neck.
Tony thought he’d be able to breathe better once leaving the office.
Walking through the lobby, he still struggled to catch his breath.
Natasha eyed him sharply from her position at his side, keeping pace as they all but rushed out of the building, quick to ditch the security that escorted them to their car.
“Wanna tell me what that was all about?” she asked, only once clear of the employees that had insisted on walking them out.
Tony pressed a button on his keychain, unlocking both doors to his Audi and climbing into the driver’s seat with more huff than he arrived with.
“Talk about it later,” he muttered harshly, locking his seat-belt into place. With Natasha in the passenger seat, he threw her a look. “You get what we needed?”
Reaching into the pocket of her blouse, she nodded, pulling out the tiny device and holding it between two fingers.
“Plus some.”
Tony forced himself to exhale, hoping it would ease even the smallest, minuscule amount of pressure that had been dragging him down.
It didn’t, but he wasn’t expecting much to at this point.
“Good,” Tony mentioned, starting up the engine to the car. “Because we need it now more than ever. Things are about to get —”
A buzzing from his phone interrupted him.
So did the console attached to his dashboard, his GPS quickly flipping away to something else entirely — automatically, and without his say.
Not long after and Natasha’s phone went off as well. She shot Tony a look, one he failed to return. Too busy staring at the screen of his cell.
The text message on display began to shake, his hand trembling in his grip.
FRIDAY’s voice came through the car, nearly startling Tony right out of his skin. Her Irish accent was somehow thick with concern, only adding to his stress.
Tony’s eyes quickly flickered up from the screen of his cell phone. The in-dashboard monitor already showed an image of the hallways to Peter’s high-school, and next to him, Natasha leaned forward to better eye the screen.
The footage began to play, just as his chest struggled for air — spasming with a hollowing, deepening crevice that only grew larger with time.
Two minutes and four seconds later, Tony slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, speeding the car dangerously fast through the streets of Manhattan.