#madearmor

                --           THE BITCHFACE TRIUMVIRATE          --

                           Tony Stark                   Carol Danvers               Steve Rogers                        loved by Scout                 loved by Luci                loved by Pher

I forgot which meme this was / @madearmor / not accepting

HE’D BE LYING IF HE SAID THERE WAS NO TREPIDATION IN HIM ; no slowing of steps or hesitancy at the tower of iron, name emblazoned like a brand, a neon lit exclamation of superiority, of might, of POWER. He knows it well. Traced the name in the gun in his hands, back when the world was hot and sand lingered, caustic reminders in his vision.

(He also knows it from magazines, from reading in the dark on equally warm summer nights. Waiting for footsteps to fade in the hall before the quiet voice asked: what does that word mean?

Affluence.

How do you explain that to an eight year old with dreams bigger than opportunities?)

Barney had never expected to be here, standing (alive) by this point in time. Much less inside those opulent offices, carpet plush under pinching shoes. Agent Whitehall waits, thumbnail worrying the corner of a file, impatient in all things as the man is when dealing with the populace.

(Even if Tony Stark can be argued to be absolutely not that at all. He wonders, sometimes, what sitting in a tower does to someone. If it makes you less human quicker than he thinks.)

His eyes wander as they wait - ten minutes past, nearly eleven now - and the floor he sees is to clean. Carpet to new, paint to fresh. The wreckage may still linger outside, but the feel lingers here; battle scars slapped over with the best veneer money can buy.

It changes people; war. And what had occurred? Was war, beyond all doubt. Something that had set things into motion you couldn’t undo. He knew; he’d seen it before, would see it again most likely. 

(Once you saw it, war rarely let you go.)

He hadn’t realized he was staring until a flick to his head, perfectly aimed at his temple, has him startling from thought and memory.

The man himself stars back, over the top of sunglasses Barney can see himself perfectly reflected in. Startled face in start contrast, to, well, Stark.

“I know I’m impressive but…” Stark trails, tease honey heavy and just as sickly.

He doesn’t want us here. 

Agent Whitehall, bless the man, doesn’t rise to the bait. “As I was saying, this is Agent Bernard. We’re here about a contract…”

Stark moves then, just around the file offered, with the grace of one born and made to move over words of others. Barney’s seen this before, in the sons of those with more money than sense. Has witnessed, first hand, the paths it can create. And he’s curious, then, for he’d guessed long ago what path it was Stark walked.

Now, as he watches the man sit with a heavy sight, a hand rising to a temple then smoothing back, hiding the motion with a sweep of his hair. Well. He’s not so sure.

“I’m not really a contracts guy Agent…”

“Whitehall.”

“Right. CIA? S.H.I.E.L.D.? NRA?”

“Federal Bureau-”

Stark’s hand comes up and it’s a powerful thing in the way it commands the room. The streets outside seem to go silent in that surety. Whitehall’s jaw clicks shut, audible in the silent room.

“Right. Anyway, I’m STILL not a contracts guy. And, no offense, but I don’t even trust S.H.I.E.L.D. to make a sandwich right, and they have three letters on their name to you all…”

It’s breath taking, in a way, to watch Stark work. To see the way he leans back - uncaring - the way his hand drums - distracted - the way his shoulders drop - something hurts - and yet how it’s hidden in the roll of eyes, the punctuation of a finger tap, the careful arch of an eyebrow. How many others, he idly wonders, have ever looked at Stark himself and realized that there was no deadlier weapon in the Stark arsenal than Tony Stark, the man, himself?

This time he catches movement before the words come, even if his mind only half recognizes what they say, engrossed in asking: was this weapon made or nurtured?

“Agent Bernard?”

And whatever is, has been done. The file is still in Whitehall’s hand and even Barney doesn’t need his superior sight to see that they’re back where they started. Whitehall makes a hasty retreat, but he pauses at the door. Glances back and gives a nod out of politeness, out of curiosity for what now stands behind the desk.

Stark narrows his eyes at him. For a moment, it looks as if he may say something, wants to say something, is unsure of the words he’s trying to say.

        LOIS   LANE   MEME.

Rosie doesn’t know how this all happened, if she’s honest. She was living the good life -- the actual Good life. Not the Heroic life, or the High life. The Good life. Her nice niche in the Qualla, helping her mom with vaccinations on the weekend, passing (acing) her required florist tests. Beating up a few bad guys on the weekend. 

Hell, she wore a mask, but she didn’t need to -- it was the worst kept secret that Rosie was a hero. Sure got her a lot of free waffles. 

And then? Well, then New York happened. And she couldn’t stay when the imminent threat to her friends and family was, well aliens and who knew what else? 

And now? Now she’s talking to Tony Stark about God’s fantasy life.

that 70′s show sentence starters || accepting. 

                   ‘ yeah you do ____________ ’ sam says through his sigh : this shit’s barely started and he’s already ready to bounce, but ‘ keeping up airs ’ is important. so here he is.   ‘ only for like. the duration of this party though. unless you can get us out of here, in which case : i'll follow you anywhere. no questions asked. otherwise,’ this scotch is gold smooth and expensive, and goes down easy as breathing. ‘ is that really too much to ask ? a night of no shenanigans ? ’