Calculated Insanities. Chapter 1: Tony Stark doesn't take crap from anyone, even gods.
Chapter Text It was supposed to be a “cultural exchange”. Meeting the Asgardians, extending the hand of friendship in the name of humanity. In retrospect, it was probably a bad idea to send Tony along. But Tony had been so ready to be nice. But it was just so damn hard, because the Asgardians were making no such effort. Everyone he talked to looked down on him like he was a child. What was more infuriating was that Thor didn’t even notice. The alternative did not occur to him until much later. Flying on High. Tony was only ten when it happened.
When he awoke one morning to the call of Jarvis, the Stark family butler, he had a uncomfortable feeling on his back, close to his shoulders. Thinking nothing of it he groggily climbed out of bed and walked into his bathroom that joined on to his bedroom. Looking in the mirror he fixed his hair and stood there watching himself for a few minutes. For a ten year old Tony looked fairly grown up.
Age Gap. Here's a challenge.
Okay, the next update will be either Abnormality or Underrate Risks. Uncle Tony. Hey!
First of all, it was not my fault i haven't updated in a while! If you Pm'ed me, you'd know. Let Me See Your Claws. The first time the team notices an animal in the tower, it’s at breakfast a month after the battle for Manhattan.
Steve, ever the early-riser, walks into the large kitchen that everyone shares on the main level and stops. Pepper is sitting at the island, sipping coffee from an ironman mug and reading what Steve assumes is something for Stark Industries on a holographic display Jarvis is projecting for her. But what catches Steve’s attention is what her free hand is occupied with. Stretched languidly on the counter is a cat, deep reddish-orange in color with stunning black stripes and lighter orange belly, batting playfully at Pepper’s fingers as she scratches around its chin and chest.
The cat stops trying to catch the fingers after a moment and turns deep amber eyes on Steve, mewing a greeting before going back to laying there, purring under Pepper’s fingers. “Morning Steve.” “This is Rowan.” “Jarvis, since when does Tony own pets?” “Animals?” Papabear. Bloody Feathers. Hey everyone!
At Least I Author My Own Disaster. When he tells the story later he changes events because 'it was a stupid accident' or 'totally shitty luck, let's call it karma', are far better beginnings to a story than 'I was tortured *again* and when they realized the cavalry was on it's way and they'd lost, their crazy leader pinned me down and made a big fucking production of pouring acid over my eyeballs'.
When he gets back to SHIELD there are a lot of doctors, a lot of tests, a lot of other people mouthing things at each other over his head and trying to be brave little toasters. Eventually, Fury comes in to tell him in gruff tones that there's nothing more they can do, and he's officially off anything related to The Avengers. He goes home the next day. The whole team's there, and he's pretty sure they're expecting a wheelchair and a fuzzy blanket and for Tony to emerge in mismatched sweatpants and t-shirt drinking apple juice from a sippy cup and asking to feel everybody's faces. Days pass. Jesus fuck. When in Doubt, Add Lasers (Sequel) It takes five years after he goes blind for Tony to crack the Extremis problem, and nearly another six months before he and Bruce have it refined to the point where it’s an acceptable risk.
They take another two months to thoroughly vet the possible surgeons and neurosurgeons until they find reputable ones with enough skill to be trusted, ones who are also willing to do the work discretely and sign the non-disclosure documents for a truly heart-stopping amount of money. Bruce, at Tony’s insistence, is present for the surgery as an observer. Even with the increased public use of arc reactors, he doesn’t trust many people with the smallest, most advanced version currently running his heart. After this, it will run not only his heart but also his eyes and Extremis. The Iron Man suits are all built with their own arc reactors now; hurray for redundancy. The Lonely God. When you close your eyes, the last thing you see is Watson’s horrified face.
Then you’re falling, falling, the roar of the wind in your ears drowning out Moriarty’s screams. The calculations for your survival are about the same as for your death, and you have the item needed for your survival if you don’t land on the rocks. Even if death chooses to embrace you, it matters not. You hit the water alone, the sudden shock of cold and the harsh impact driving the breath out of your lungs.