#likehephaestionwhodied

Tony didn’t really use the bedroom anyway. Not to sleep. He usually wished Steve goodnight and went down the workshop or else never came up in the first place. They just usually weren’t fighting before he left. This time, the distance felt like distance. And maybe that had been the problem all along--they’d been too busy, spent too much time apart, gotten so caught up in all the world hung on their shoulders, that they’d fallen out of sync. Tony couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a date not interrupted by a near world-ending calamity.

FRIDAY had alerted him of Steve coming long before she’d actually arrived--he could have locked the workshop door, changed Steve’s code; he hadn’t. Maybe he’d been hoping she’d come. Working was usually a good enough distraction--clear out his mind by tinkering, because failure in the lab was just a part of the process, exciting even. He tried, and failed, and tried again, and science never told him he was out of chances--he wasn’t sure how long he could say the same about Steve.

As she entered, as she started talking, Tony turned, wrench still in hand, and wiped his brow with the back of his wrist. It hadn’t been working tonight--the distraction hadn’t been distracting, the work wasn’t fulfilling, and there was nothing in his head except Steve’s voice, except playing back the last few hours on repeat like an equation he’d missed a step in. Hadn’t carried over...something, and now the answer was wrong. He set down the wrench. 

Pretending Iron Man was his body guard had seemed like a good idea at the time: a perfect excuse for why he, Tony Stark, and the suit should always end up in the same place at the same time. The fact that he already had a bodyguard--and a very good one at that--complicated things, sure, but he’d thought he had everything under control. 

The truth of the matter was, Tony didn’t need a bodyguard anymore. He’d also never particularly wanted one--but that was a different issue, one he should probably be talking to a therapist about but, hey, that was what work was for: therapy with a wrench and a circuit board. There was nothing like a 50 milliamp shock to the system to put your priorities in order. The point was, Tony didn’t need a bodyguard or a driver or a whole lot of other things that a super-powered flying suit took care of. But short of learning that his employees were murderers or completely indifferent to the cost of human life, Tony wasn’t particularly good at firing people. Which meant moments like this were stacking up with frightening regularity: Kal scowling in the doorway of his workshop while Tony froze like a deer in headlights, holding an icepack to his black eye. 

Home. When Steve said it, it sounded real. Sounded possible. Felt like all the things it was supposed to feel--warm and right. Somewhere along the line, the tower and its separate floors had turned from home base to just...home. To falling asleep on the couch, head on Steve’s shoulder, after walking her through the long and wonderful history of Star Trek. Of catching up on 70 years of musical history while he tinkered in his lab, and she sketched. Of arguing over the remote and the best breakfast foods. Of things in the tower feeling easy, even when the rest of the world seemed impossible. 

Tony looked at Steve now and almost laughed. Her determined expression was so familiar, Tony could trace the outline of that frown in his sleep, but it belonged on a battle field, not a seedy bar. Certainly not directed at him--and not when he had everything perfectly under control. There were four shot glasses in front of him, but they were all still full. "I’ve got a lot of problems, Steve,” he said honestly. “And they’re not going to get fixed tonight. But I’m fine. I’m just testing a theory.” He gestured at the neon sign in the window: shots for chips. Tony had been sober four years, had four AA chips, hence the four shots. He was pretty sure he wouldn’t have drank them. But the flooding sense of relief to have Steve standing there suggested otherwise. 

“How do you know I am really a god?” Apollo raised a perfect eyebrow and looked pointedly between the mud splatters upon Hector’s clothes and the sweat on his brow versus the pristine gold of Apollo’s own clothes or the way his dark dreadlocks neither moved in the breeze nor ever fell in his face as he raised his bow to shoot. He would have thought the answer to that question was perfectly obvious: between his devastating good looks and the fact that the day had been rather dismal before he’d arrived, he’d thought he’d more than proven his godhood. “How do you know I am really here?” That question was even easier: without taking his eyes off Hector, he shot an incoming soldier straight in the chest with a wooden arrow and watched the man crumble to the dirt at Hector’s feet, groaning in pain. Hector’s men cheered for their brave and powerful prince, a man whose enemies, it appeared, fell before him without need to ever lift a hand.

For Hector was the only one who could see the archer god by his side, a god who had appeared suddenly that morning and was here still, following the prince around, illuminating Hector by his golden glow, which was as much for appearances--making him look more impressive, stronger, larger-than life--as it was for protection: no approaching arrow, no lazy swing of a sword could penetrate the aura that the god of healing had crafted around his hero. Which rather defeated the point of a sparring session.

“Well, you haven’t exactly brought the heat!” Tony yelled back, ducking to avoid a blast of gunfire, then almost immediately throwing himself in front of Bruce to take the next round of bullets anyway. They hit the Iron Man armor one after the other, leaving tiny dents but nothing more. “You having trouble getting riled up there, Mr. I’m Always Angry?” 

The attack had been sudden, Tony suiting up and darting to the basement the moment FRIDAY had alerted him of an intruder. He hadn’t called for backup, hadn’t even woken up the other Avengers, figuring he could wrap this one up on his own, that it would be easy. 

He’d been wrong. Whoever the attacker was, they were in a suit twice as big as his with ten times as much gun power. By the time Tony had realized he was in over his head, his comms were busted, and it was too late to call. So when Bruce had shown up--unasked, unannounced--Tony had nearly cheered in relief, expecting the Hulk to, as he’d said, bring the heat. But Bruce was still Bruce. 

“Maybe it’s time we switch it up!” Tony said. “Maybe this time, I smash. You just look awesome.” Bruce ‘bringing the heat,’ so to speak, had always worked for them for a reason--he got mad and that scared everyone around them near shitless when his eyes turned emerald, and Tony smirked beside him because there had never been anything he feared less than he did the Hulk.The last time Tony had tried to be intimidating, he’d ended up singing ABBA until the men with guns put them down in sheer confusion. He had a feeling that wasn’t going to work this time.

The rest of their group would be returning soon, and he knew that having dinner waiting was better than them coming back with nothing to eat. Usually, he and Nicky would handle the meals together. They both had a lot of knowledge when it came to food and he knew that some sort of comfort food would be good for all of them. Except looking at the pot he had no idea just what it was Nicky was making. It smelled good, but whatever it was wasn't something they'd ever made before. Unless it was something that had and he hadn't been around when it had been prepared. Either way, Yusuf knew his curiosity had been piqued and he wanted to know so maybe he could surprise Nicky or one of the others with it at a later day. If the other was willing to share with him. "And what can I do to help."

“I mean, no, nothing comes from nothing--that’s the opposite of how it works--but sure.” Tony pulled the rest of his helmet off, gasping as he caught his breath; his suit wasn’t built to run without power--and certainly not with a constant oxygen supply. Even his back up battery seemed to be on the fritz. Great. He slapped the arm panel until it finally read his fingerprint and opened up, revealing a small tool kit, complete with a single wrench, screwdriver, knife, and a few computer chips he had a feeling would be of absolutely no help here. Not exactly his workshop, but better than asking Mr. Serious here for a Radioshack in the middle of the Forbidden Forest. 

I think he’s not not monogamous. I could see him going either way. I have my Jehan heavily based off certain romantics (think: shy and less problematic Byron) and they’re all about collecting experiences and living life to the fullest. It’s a somewhat hedonistic lifestyle and while I wouldn’t call Prouvaire a hedonist just because of the connotation, to an extent he is. The extent is what’s important though, he’s very passionate and about lots of the right things, his hedonism falls short in the face of a moral quandary. 

Having said that, he’s also today’s idea of a romantic, at times. He’d collect experiences and have his fun but if he felt himself falling for someone, he’d pull out the roses and want them all to himself and to be all theirs. It just depends which direction his romanticism leads him. On one hand, there’s so much to experience in life; on the other, isn’t a committed and monogamous relationship also a beautiful experience? It’d be a “right person at the right time” kind of thing. Whoever that person winds up being will have their hands full with a wild Jehan that wants to “carpe diem” but they’ll also have a very sweet poet showering them with affection and incredibly romantic gestures. He’d want to bring that person along to share those experiences with too. 

Also, since I did offhandedly compare Jehan to Lord Byron let me Clear That Up. He’s not as wild as Byron was, not as problematic, and is far more grounded in reality. He has his romanticism but he also has his intelligence, he’s described by Hugo as “erudite” so I think Prouvaire is capable of filtering his wild impulses through grounded thought too. Sometimes he might fail to, he’s definitely made some poor choices in the past in an effort to be more like the poets he idolizes (particularly modern Jehan but they both idolize poets of the past. Canon Jehan is all about the renaissance/medieval period, for example. Modern Jehan, for obvious reasons, is about the romantics. Which checks out bc the romantics were also in love with the renaissance/medieval period and with themselves) but he’s able to take a step back when he needs to. He’s very much so a dreamer, and that can get away from him but he’s not completely divorced from reality either. 

Where I do stand by my comparing him to Lord Byron though is little anecdotes, like how Byron brought a bear to Cambridge because he couldn’t have a pet dog and the rules didn’t say anything about a pet bear. Jehan wouldn’t do THAT but like, wild things of that nature, why not? Also, Byron asking Mary for Percy’s skull and his funeral and then crying his eyes out when she said no, Jehan also wouldn’t do that but that line of “what the fuck, byron?” Jehan would at times probably get asked that as well. 

Like I do headcanon that Jehan once “cosplayed” in medieval garb for a whole day during canon period and exclusively spoke in Old French the entire time. His friends would be like “???” and Jehan would just be blushing and embarrassed but having a hell of a time with it. He’d get himself into those sort of experiences and find himself completely in over his head because he’s also very shy but like, he’s collecting his experiences so it’s worth it.