Soar the skies, scorch the lands, build a halo of stars and lightning

Day -5

The crowning is in five days and Tony already hates everything.

He hates the crown, he hates the robes, he hates the opulent cape he’s supposed to wear. He hates the invited guests and hired musicians and the food the head cook is sweating over. And most of all, he hates the whole concept of Binding.

And Father.

Especially Father.

”I don’t want to do this,” he says through gritted teeth, glowering at Obadiah.

”Yes, Tony, I know,” his advisor and friend says calmly. ”You’ve told me countless times how much you despise the whole concept of royalty and hereditary titles.”

”Because it makes no sense!” he explodes, waving his hands wide and sloshing some of the wine from his goblet. ”Simply because I’m born from him doesn’t mean I should inherit the kingdom!”

Obadiah sighs. ”However, that’s how the line of succession goes. You have made your point several times in the past but your father, bless his soul, didn’t see it necessary to change the law. However, after your ascension, you can do whatever you want.” He pauses and amends, ”Within reason, of course.”

”Yeah, but that means I have to accept my ’legacy,’ ” Tony says mockingly. ”I can’t do shit while I’m the crown prince.”

”Well,” Obadiah says. He sounds as placid as ever with no irritation visible on his face.

Sometimes Tony wonders what it would take to shake him. Obadiah was Father’s most trusted advisor and, despite his title, he never enforced his status. He’d been by Father’s side for decades and during these past months after Father’s passing, he’s been Tony’s biggest supporter, unflinching and unflappable, like the father his biological one never was.

”You could always accept and step down later,” Obadiah suggests. 

”I guess,” Tony says glumly. ”But the Binding is irreversible.”

Obadiah shrugs. ”While that’s true, nothing prevents you from disposing of it after the ceremony as your father did.”

Tony drags a hand over his face and tosses back the last dregs of his wine. It tastes bitter and stale and he makes a face—not his usual favorite but one could do with lower quality when the only objective is to get drunk and fast.

”You should cut back on the drinking,” Obadiah says.

”Don’t,” Tony warns without turning around. He knows Obadiah worries about him but lately, it has been getting on his nerves even more than usual.

Another sigh, then a creak of the chair when Obadiah stands up. ”What do you want to do, Tony?”

”I would like to not be here,” Tony says while staring unseeing out of the window and into the afternoon glow. ”I would like to not be the next king, or royalty at all! I would like to just be left alone and do whatever I want!” His voice rises into a yell and he knows he shouldn’t shout but he’s just. So. Frustrated.

”I’ll come to see you later when you’re more reasonable,” Obadiah says and leaves, closing the door softly behind him.

Tony wants to break something. He wants to pound at something with his fists and feel it splinter under his knuckles. He doesn’t know what that would be but something, anything to get this churning mess of rage out from his chest. 

A king.

That’s what he’s supposed to be in five days. A king, crowned and anointed and fucking Bound for the rest of his life because apparently, that’s the tradition. The king would be one half of the Binding, some magical ritual that ties his soul to a gods-damned bear and through that bond strengthens the land, makes the harvest plentiful, secures hordes of babies, and whatever. It sounds way too fantastical to be true.

A bear. 

A king and a bear and some magic and then he’s just meant to live like that? Live with that?

What the fuck is he supposed to do with a fucking bear? 

A soft knock jerks him out of his thoughts and the door opens right away, which tells him instantly who it is. Only three people are allowed into his rooms without needing to wait for permission: Obadiah, Rhodey, and Pepper, and as Obadiah just left and Rhodey is busy with his duties, it’s bound to be Pepper.

”Fighting again?” she asks with a raised brow. Tony, feeling mature, shows his tongue. 

”Charming,” she murmurs. 

”Yeah,” he says, dropping the goblet on the table and sitting heavily on the bench in front of the fireplace.

Pepper huffs and sits next to him, letting him rest his head on her shoulder. It helps him to think, calms his mind, and the old folk tune she hums eases his mood.

At some point, he hoped he could’ve married her. Pepper—Miss Virginia Potts—was an apprentice maid back when he first quite literally ran into her, and somehow she was able to talk him down from his sleep deprivation-induced experiment spree. She’s lowborn—something Father never let either of them forget—but Tony’s insistence allowed her to become one of his servants. A quite unusual arrangement that made lots of people wag their tongues but neither of them cared. She’s like a sister to him; a sister and a friend who has never given a damn about his status, and he loves her for it so much.

”You do know you’re not alone?” she reminds him.

”I don’t want to think about it,” he mutters. ”Tell me about your wedding plans,” he continues, and when she gives him an unimpressed look, he sighs. ”Please.”

”Fine. But you’re taking a bath first. You stink like a wine house and I don’t like it.”

He kisses her cheek just to see her scrunch her nose and shove him away, and he loves her so so much.

At least she’ll be happy with Happy.

The wordplay makes him snicker.

Day -4

If someone bothered to ask Tony what he wants to do with his life, his reply would be something along the lines of drinking all the wine, bedding all the pretty girls and boys, and inventing all the things imaginable and unimaginable. Ruling a kingdom seems like a lot of work and also, why would he even want to sit in the dreary reception hall on a throne that is terrible for his backside and listen to complaining royalty who just want to get to his good graces and leech off his money? He has zero interest in spending his days with people he doesn’t like. In truth, he’d much rather spend his time in one of his laboratories, practicing alchemy and metalwork and making things explode.

For some reason, people have difficulties understanding the allure.

”Why can’t you have any normal interests?” Rhodey asks, exasperated, and pours a bucketful of water on him. 

”But that wouldn’t be interesting!” Tony shoots back, grinning maniacally from under his dripping wet hair. He’s soaked but at least his clothes have stopped smoking. ”Now, how about we try that again but with slightly less mercury?”

”Yeah, or how about we not?”

Tony sighs, shaking his head. ”Rhodey. You are no fun.”

”I fail to see the fun in setting yourself on fire on a regular basis,” Rhodey says dryly. ”Or exploding everything around you.”

”Or under you,” Tony quips.

”Don’t remind me,” Rhodey says, sounding pained. ”Seriously, Tony.”

He closes his eyes and lets out a long breath, feeling suddenly cold in his drenched clothes. ”I don’t want to,” he mutters. ”I feel like my life will be over in four days.”

Rhodey snorts. ”Don’t be so dramatic. Your life will be different, sure, but it won’t be over. You’re still young, you have your whole life ahead of you!”

Tony shoots a glance at him from the corner of his eye. Sometimes he envies his friend. Viscount James Rhodes is engaged to be married to an Earl’s daughter next summer, and he seems contented with the arrangement. It’s not a love match—few gentry marriages are—but Rhodey and Lady Hill like each other and respect each other and that’s a very good foundation for a relationship. Point is, Rhodey has a very clear path cut out for him: marriage, children, taking care of his estate, and working as the Commander of the palace guards. Straightforward. Clean. Simple.

Tony, though? 

He needs to be crowned as the king. And he needs to be Bound to a Guardian (and deal with everything else unpleasant that goes with it). Then he needs to rule and find a wife and sire at least one child and that alone is enough to make cold sweat run down his spine. (And even if he manages all that, why the fuck would he ever want to subject any innocent child to his parenting? With his background?)

”You do know adoption is a thing?” Rhodey says in a stage whisper almost as if he’s able to read his mind.

Tony makes a face and reaches for the wine goblet, drinking long enough to feel Rhodey’s judging stare on the nape of his neck. ”Yeah, sure,” he says, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and sets the goblet down with a thud. ”Meanwhile, I’m going to try this again.”

He ignores Rhodey’s protests, whirls around to pick up his testing tubes, and feels very accomplished when his hands don’t tremble even a bit.

Day -3

”Please stay still, Your Highness,” the seamstress says. She sounds stressed and tired, and no wonder. The coronation is in three days and everyone’s nerves are wound tight with anticipation.

Tony bites back a sigh, closes his eyes, and starts to run the alchemical equation of his latest experiment in his head. It keeps him distracted for a while even though it’s far from enough to fully remove himself from the situation of the final fitting of his ceremonial robes. He isn’t sure what there is to fit anymore because he’s had these meetings once a week for the past two months and his outfit is finished. What are they going to do—add more gemstones to make everything weigh even more? Make it impossible for him to actually sit or eat?

”Turn this way, Your Highness,” the seamstress says, her harrowed voice muted by the row of pins in her mouth. 

Tony turns and watches how the pins disappear into the ridiculous cape with absolutely zero effect on anything he can see. 

”What if I have to pee?” he asks, cocking his head and glancing down. ”There’s no convenient flap and this monstrosity would require at least three people to lift it off. Should I wear diapers or just refuse to eat or drink anything for the whole day?”

The seamstress raises an unimpressed brow and attacks the side of the cape with a new mouthful of pins, leaving Tony to suddenly contemplate this scenario that has turned very real. What should he do in case of an imminent need to relieve himself? He tugs at the front of his pants slightly, dismayed when they don’t budge at all. He has no fucking clue why Obadiah insisted on this much blatant display of wealth.

He has no idea how much time he’s spent at the seamstress’ mercy but when she’s finally done, she calls out to her assistants to help the patchwork of gaudy and terrible off him. He thanks them with a stiff nod and practically flees the shop and hurries into his favorite wine house three streets over. It’s dim and familiar and easy, and he sinks into the corner booth with a relieved sigh and lets his head drop against the table.

”The usual?” a cool voice asks. Tony glances up to meet Miss Wanda’s unimpressed eyes. ”You look like you need to drink yourself under the table but that’s pretty much how you’ve looked like for the past year or so.”

”Why do you ask if you already know the answer?”

She shrugs. ”Because of my excellent customer service, naturally.”

”Just keep the wine coming,” Tony says and leans his chin on his hand, trailing the patterns on the wood with the forefinger of his other hand. 

Some while later, Wanda sets a round-bellied wine bottle in front of him and shoves him a plate with a couple of slices of dark bread and a small chunk of hard cheese. 

”Feeding me?” Tony says. ”Aww, you do love me, Miss Wanda!”

”The food prevents you from passing out too soon which means you can drink more,” she says dryly. ”It’s just good for business.”

He grins as he pours himself a cup and drinks it down in one go. The wine is strong and almost too sweet but he knows from experience that it’ll be just perfect for what he wants from this night. ”And I’m always glad to support your business,” he says. ”Or, well, at least for as long as I can which in my case means about two—no, three days.”

Miss Wanda rolls her eyes as she walks away from him and he lets the grin drop from his face. 

Three days. 

For fuck’s sake.

He grabs the bottle to pour himself another cup and then thinks better of it. Why bother with cups when he can drink straight from the bottle? So, he takes a long pull and pushes back the impending sense of doom.

He catches a pair of sharp eyes from across the room and lifts his bottle as a greeting but doesn’t bother to wait to see if the other man returns his greeting.

Day -2

Thing is, if this was literally any other situation, Tony would be thrilled. Building giant scaffoldings and mechanical contraptions? Yes, please! Anytime! Except not when they’re a part of the grand festivities that are about to seal his doom in two days. Besides, Obadiah said they’d be torn down the next day anyway. What’s the point of building something just to disassemble it right away? There is no point—unless the contraption was faulty, and then it should be assessed and rebuilt but better. 

That’s how Tony does things: he experiments through calculations, trials, and errors, and tries to improve his inventions with each iteration. For example, if he was in charge of this construction, he would’ve made some critical changes in the structural integrity to ensure its stability, but since he isn’t in charge, all he can do is scowl.

”And how has the rafter construction offended you, My Lord?” a mild voice asks next to him.

”Simply by existing,” he says, still scowling at the stupid thing. ”I didn’t design it, hence, it’s offensive.”

”Ah, naturally.”

”You are laughing at me, Duke Coulson,” Tony says. ”That’s also offensive.” He turns to narrow his eyes at the man.

Duke Phillip Coulson is a middle-aged man, unassuming and plain. He has a quiet sense of humor he tends to keep close to his heart and of which Tony is aware only because Duke Coulson and Rhodey are friends. He also has a way to deal with the snotty gentry that Tony would envy if he actually cared about diplomacy. 

”Phillip!” Obadiah’s jovial call interrupts whatever comment Duke Coulson has in mind, and he turns to greet Obadiah with his familiar mild smile. 

Tony sets his jaw and is about to walk away when he feels something that makes goosebumps run down his spine and he freezes where he stands, confused and curious.

Obadiah shakes Duke Coulson’s hand and slaps him on the shoulder hard enough to make the other man stumble. ”What brings you here? Any problems I should be aware of?”

”Duke Stane,” Duke Coulson says, withdrawing his hand. ”I merely tagged along with the fruit delivery.”

Ah, fruit. Duke Coulson’s estate produces perhaps the highest quality of fruit in the area and with the coronation being the biggest event in years, he’s naturally the one providing the feast with the best of what he has to offer. 

”Do you have anything special in store?” Obadiah asks. ”You always manage to surprise with your exotic selection.”

”You just have to wait and see, just like everyone else,” Duke Coulson says. His eyes catch something over Tony’s shoulder and he tilts his head with a small, pleased expression on his face. ”Rogers. Everything’s settled?”

Tony frowns, turns around, and barely holds back a gasp. Right behind him stands a man a head taller than him, bright blue eyes staring into his for a moment before they move on to Duke Coulson.

”Everything’s ready, Sir,” Rogers says. His voice is a low rumble and Tony swears he can feel the sound vibrate through him when he speaks. There’s an air of danger around him that he can’t quite put a finger on—unless the sheer size of him counts—and yet, Tony feels safe next to him. He has no idea how a man of Rogers’ size could’ve sneaked up on him but he did and—

Look. He’s fascinating and it’s disturbing because Tony doesn’t want to find anything about this coronation or its preparations fascinating. 

Obadiah narrows his eyes at Rogers. ”I’m sorry, have we been introduced?” he asks. His voice sounds pleasant enough but something about it makes Tony want to take a step back. 

”My apologies, Duke Stane,” Duke Coulson says. ”This is Mr. Rogers, a family friend. Mr. Rogers spent some time overseas learning about new farming technologies, including but not limited to a fascinating new irrigation system, and he’s been helping me with the transition of my estate—”

”Oh, that sounds fascinating indeed,” Obadiah says, sounding bored. ”I’m sure it has a significant effect on your estate. Now, I must excuse myself, there’s still things to do.” He inclines his head and turns, pauses, and says over his shoulder, ”Tony, I’ll see you later. Please be in your rooms after dinner.”

Tony sees a flash of something in Mr. Rogers’ eyes, there and gone so fast that he would’ve missed it if he wasn’t still staring at him. And then Mr. Rogers’ eyes are back in him, clear and bright sky-blue. ”Sure!” he quips belatedly at Obadiah and winks at Mr. Rogers.

Mr. Rogers’ nostrils flare and his eyes turn even more intense. It makes Tony feel like he’s pinned in place and under scrutiny, as if Mr. Rogers sees right through him. It’s weirdly exciting but also uncomfortable, and this whole thing is giving Tony a headache so he decides to leave before things get even weirder than they already are. 

The weight of that gaze follows him after he bids the men good day and saunters out of the hall. It stays with him through his sullen discussion with Pepper and yet another lecture from Obadiah. 

He can’t shake the feeling that somehow, he saw himself in those blue eyes and he doesn’t like the reflection very much.

Day -1

”Tony.”

He ignores the presence behind him and keeps staring at the portrait of his late father. It’s in the traditional style of full ceremonial robes, hand resting on the back of his throne, eyes fixed on something far away. He’s wearing a proud look on his face with no hint of the sneer Tony remembers so well. 

Father must’ve liked the artist. 

”From the way you’ve been drinking, one might think you’ve been sentenced to death.” 

Tony hums and nods slowly. ”Mm-hmm. One might think many things,” he says with mock gravitas. ”One might yell, too. Or one might set things on fire—wait, that would be nice, right? With the amount of chemicals in these portraits, they’d probably let out a pretty decent flame.”

A sigh. ”Tony.”

He grits his jaw but doesn’t turn around.

”Despite what you might think, your father cared about you quite a lot. He built all of this with the full knowledge that it would someday be yours. He did this for you. You could show some gratitude.”

”Gratitude?” he hisses as he turns to face Obadiah. ”For what? For tormenting my mother so much that she’d rather let herself waste away instead of wanting to stay with us. For being absent for my whole life excluding the times when he summoned me in front of him to lecture me about what a disappointment I was.”

”He did all that for love,” Obadiah says patiently. ”You must know that.”

”Love? Love?!” His voice rises with his incredulity. ”That’s not love, that’s just manipulation and you know it.”

Obadiah sighs. ”Be as it may, this is your legacy. Your destiny. This is what you’re meant to become.”

”I don’t want it,” Tony snarls. Obadiah frowns and glances around as if Tony actually cares how many people hear him.  ”I. Don’t. Want. This,” he repeats. ”I’ve never wanted this. I hate being a prince. I hate this castle and these musty halls and—”

”I think you’ve had enough for the day,” Obadiah says tightly, reaching out for his bottle, and Tony sways as he moves it out of his reach, making a face as some of the liquid spills on his boots. 

”Tony!” Obadiah snaps as he grabs both the bottle and Tony’s arm, yanking him back to his feet and close to his chest. ”You’re embarrassing yourself,” he whispers, inclining his head at the handful of court officials hurrying by.

”I don’t care!” Tony says. He reaches for the bottle and even when Obadiah moves it behind his back, he manages to wrestle it back, leaving Obadiah frowning and wiping his hand with a handkerchief. If getting some wine on his hands is so disgusting, perhaps he shouldn’t have grabbed the bottle in the first place.

”Get some sleep, Tony,” Obadiah says, sounding tired. ”You do have duties tomorrow, remember.”

”Fuck you,” Tony mutters, taking a long pull from the bottle. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth as he starts toward his rooms, stumbling as he goes. What the fuck does Obadiah know about anything anyway? 

He stops to lean against the wall a couple of times, ignoring the looks some of the older servants send his way. Yeah, yeah, he’s a disgrace and a disappointment, what else is new? 

When he finally makes it into his room, he staggers to the fireplace, drops on the floor, and leans his back against the low bench. He knows he should go to bed but…he closes his eyes and, unbidden, sees a memory of his mother during Father’s 25^th coronation anniversary. Tony had been seven and thought Mother was the most beautiful thing in the whole world. 

Now that he thinks back, she was just a shell. A beautiful, empty shell with vacant eyes and a fixed smile. Tony thinks he now has an inkling of how she must’ve felt.

He clears his throat and rubs his eyes, and tilts his head back to drink because pretty much anything is better than remembering his mother like that.

He passes out not long after, the bottle slipping into an angle that leaves it dripping wine on the stained furs.

Day Zero

Headache.

Massive, terrible, pounding headache that throbs behind his eyes, making him nauseous and dizzy.

Fuck.

He draws breath carefully through his teeth, counts for four beats in, holds for two, and counts four out. He repeats this several times before daring to open his eyes to the low light. At least it’s not too late yet because the room is dim—unless, of course, his servants left the curtains closed out of sheer pity.

Wait.

This—this doesn’t feel right?

He’s sprawled on a hard surface that feels neither like his cot in the lab nor his floor. 

He forces his eyes open and squints at the ceiling which…isn’t his ceiling. 

And it smells odd. 

Sitting up is a mistake because the nausea crashes over him like a tidal wave and he scrambles to the side, throwing up until he dry-heaves bitter bile while tears stream down his face. His everything aches and throbs and he has no fucking clue of what is happening. Biting back a whimper, he lets himself keel over a short distance away from his sick, curls on his side, and hugs his arms around his middle. 

After a good while listening to his heart gallop like a herd of wild horses, he braves to open his eyes once more to take in the space he’s in. It looks like a cave of sorts: what he can make out of the low ceiling that curves above him is that it’s of red, rough stone that looks like it was molded by sand and water and time. Opposite him is a sphere of light, probably—hopefully—showing where the entrance is. 

At least there is an entrance. Thank fuck for small mercies.

Day 1 to…3? 4? 5?

There isn’t an entrance. Or at least not an entrance Tony could either reach or use to escape. Instead, it’s a small opening high in the ceiling, partially blocked by a large boulder. Through it, he can see a sliver of blue sky.

All this, of course, happens the next day…or the day after that? He isn’t sure. The hangover lasts for a lifetime, followed by an eternity of retching that leaves him weak like a kitten, barely capable of crawling the perimeter of his small surroundings to get the sense that yep, it’s basically a glorified hole: there’s a small, sluggishly trickling stream of water behind the slab he woke up on, and that’s it. He has no provisions, no tools, no food, no wine. He’s wearing a simple linen tunic and pants but no shoes. The cave is empty, its walls smooth and devoid of any cracks or holes, and pointedly empty of any rocks or loose items of any kind.

Almost like it had been meticulously cleaned with Tony in mind.

It doesn’t take him long to realize he’s been put here to die. And in all honesty, he has a sinking feeling he knows who’s behind it but his mind shies away from it because why would Obadiah—

No.

Obadiah has been like a father to him. Tony refuses to even begin to think he’s behind this entrapment. 

So, he grits his teeth and tries to figure out a way out. If he just keeps his mind occupied, he’s bound to come up with something sooner or later, right? Like…wait, bats? Are those bats in the ceiling? Bat dung can be used as an explosive, right? If he could scoop up enough shit, then he could use his…uh, perhaps his tunic to—to—to extract, what was it—

Time blends together in the small space, the monotony only broken by the slow change in light. The partially blocked entrance allows air to flow and Tony to see the barest hint of the sky, and that’s it. He doesn’t hear any animal sounds and, after trying a couple of times (hours, more like), he gives up trying to scream for help. 

The water he manages to gather from the stream tastes metallic and leaves a foul film in his mouth but it’s better than nothing—or at least that’s what he tells himself. Little water is better than no water, right? Sometimes he tries to cajole himself to believe it’s one of those weird concoctions the ambassador from…whatsisname-country brought as a gift, the one that left his mind reeling and stole all feeling from his mouth for three days. 

It doesn’t really work.

So, it probably shouldn’t come as a surprise when he sees his mother sitting on the slab, looking at him with a raised brow. There’s more life in her eyes than there was when she was alive but perhaps the afterlife suits her. She looks more beautiful than Tony remembers. He ends up talking to her and whispers things he never dared to tell anyone.

He’s dying so what’s the point of keeping secrets anymore?

There is a moment when his neck prickles in a way that reminds him of the blue-eyed Mr. Rogers, a fleeting shiver that leaves a trail of goosebumps on his skin. 

Tony leans his temple against the slab he calls his bed and tells his mother he would’ve liked to get to know that Mr. Rogers better.

Seeing Duke Coulson is a surprise, though. After seeing Mother and the nanny he had when he was little, he would’ve expected someone… well. Anyone else, really. Also, he sincerely thought the man was simply too bland to die.

”I’m going to take that as a compliment,” Duke Coulson says mildly. 

Someone snorts behind him but Tony doesn’t have the strength to turn to look. He doesn’t really have strength for anything anymore.

Dying in Duke Coulson’s arms wasn’t really what he’d had in mind, so that’s a slight disappointment.

Day…something

Tony isn’t dead.

He’s sick and feverish and sees things that aren’t there but he isn’t dead or dying. Instead, he’s lying in a soft, sturdy bed under a heavy blanket, blinking at the rough wooden ceiling. The room is dim in the early morning light, dust motes dancing in the slanted sun rays peeking from between the partially opened curtains.

”You’re awake,” a woman says. 

”Uh,” he replies in a dry croak.

”Don’t try to get up,” she continues, stepping next to him. She props him up with surprising ease and holds a cup to his lips. ”Drink.”

”What—”

”Herbal tea,” she says, an amused glint in her sharp green eyes. ”If we wanted to kill you, we would’ve left you in the cave.”

He drinks. 

The cup is small and it takes him barely four sips to down the tea but the act still leaves him exhausted and gasping for breath. He leans back in her hold and takes her in as she lowers him back on the mattress.

She’s a small, delicate woman with fiery red hair in a simple bun, dressed in a modest dark blue gown, and, apart from a pendant of crimson stone, she’s wearing no jewelry. If it wasn’t for her presence, Tony might’ve confused her for a commoner.

Instead—

”Wait. Don’t I know you?”

Her lips quirk. ”We have met, yes,” she says but offers no further information. ”Get some rest. You’re still in withdrawal.”

”Withdrawal?”

She tucks his blanket tighter around him. ”Alcohol, poison, and whatever was in the water you drank in the cave. Sleep.”

He wants to protest but his eyes are already slipping closed. 

He’ll ask her when he wakes up the next time. 

Yeah.

The next time he opens his eyes, Duke Coulson is sitting at the small table next to the window, bent over a journal. He writes in meticulous, precise movements that don’t pause when he says, ”Good morning, Lord Stark.”

”Is it?” he wonders.

Duke Coulson keeps on writing. ”Depends on what you mean by ’it.’ It’s still morning by a broad definition and, considering that you’re awake, it can be described as ’good.’ Whether you still are Lord Stark or not…well, that’s up to you.”

”Don’t call me that,” Tony mutters. ”Lord Stark was my father and I’m not him.”

Duke Coulson stops and tilts his head. ”No. I supposed you’re not,” he amends. ”Then, what would you like us to call you?”

”You can just call me by my name.”

”Very well,” Duke Coulson says. He’s about to continue when the door slams open and a man in nondescript green and grey clothes and a head full of dirty blonde, windswept hair barges in, marches to Duke Coulson, and gives him a thorough kiss. With tongue.

”Clint,” Duke Coulson says in that same mild tone he says everything else, despite the fact that his eyes are bright and there are two bright red spots on his cheeks. ”Our guest is awake.”

The man—Clint—whirls around and Tony finds himself pinned by a disturbingly familiar, sharp stare. 

Wait.

”You,” he says. ”You were at Wanda’s wine house that day.”

Clint raises a brow. ”You remember me? Most people don’t even notice me, which is exactly how I like it.”

”It’s your eyes,” Tony says. ”They’re pretty unforgettable.”

”Aww,” Clint coos and turns to Duke Coulson. ”Phil, he said my eyes are pretty!”

”No, he didn’t,” Duke Coulson says. ”Also, please, don’t encourage him, Tony.”

Clint’s brows shoot up. ”’Tony?’” he parrots. ”Already?”

”What do you mean, ’already’?” Tony asks. ”That’s my name.”

”Well, yeah, but—”

”Clint,” Duke Coulson interrupts. ”Get the others. We need to talk.”

Clint leers and waggles his brows. ”I love it when you get all bossy.”

”Now, please.”

Tony watches the exchange with a frown. It’s not that relations between the same gender aren’t unheard of, it’s just that he’s never seen them so blatantly displayed. Obadiah used to remind him that only certain relationships were appropriate but…

Now that Tony thinks about it, he can’t remember who defined that propriety. Who was Obadiah quoting when he guided Tony through his etiquette lessons? Where did he draw all the rules and guidelines he drilled into him? Tony never bothered to find out, he merely trusted Obadiah knew what he was doing.

He has a sinking feeling that Obadiah knew exactly what he was doing.

”Do you feel like sitting up?” Duke Coulson asks, interrupting his train of thought. ”This might take a while and we could just as well have lunch while talking.”

With a little help, Tony scoots up on the bed and leans against the stuffed headboard, feeling silly about Duke Coulson making sure he’s comfortable. He doesn’t seem like a man who fusses but then again, he doesn’t seem like a man in a passionate relationship with another man, either. 

It seems like he’s about to learn a lot of new things.

The ”others” Duke Coulson sent Clint to get are just as strange a combination as Duke Coulson and Clint: the red-haired woman Tony had met earlier, a grumpy-looking man with shoulder-length brown hair wearing a black glove in his left hand, and Mr. Rogers. 

”Okay,” Tony says slowly.

”Would I be more recognizable in a black ballgown and a feather hairpiece?” the woman asks, raising a brow. When Tony keeps staring at her in confusion, she takes a couple of delicate dance steps and then sinks into a perfect curtsy. 

Tony squints, tilts his head, and—”Wait. Baroness Romanova?” he says, incredulous. ”What—how—”

”You sure he’s as smart as they say he is?” the grumpy man snorts.

”James,” Baroness Romanova chides.

”Natalia,” he replies in the same tone and grins when the Baroness rolls her eyes.

”Okay, so, I’m sure this is all very funny to you but would anyone mind telling me who you are, where I am, and what the fuck is going on?” Tony says.

”Oh, the princeling has a temper!” Clint says, grinning with way too many teeth.

”Clint,” Mr. Rogers says. His voice is neither loud nor menacing but there’s power in it and Tony can feel it rolling over the room. It makes the hair on his neck stand up and—

Seriously. 

What?

A sharp knock on the door announces a handful of servants carrying in trays laden with way more food than Tony thinks is reasonable for six people. One of them also brings a small, portable table for Tony and sets it carefully over his lap, and another servant places a bowl and a cup in front of him. 

”Soup and tea? Are you kidding me?” he asks.

”Still in withdrawal,” Baroness Romanova says pointedly.

Grumbling, Tony takes a sip of the tea and makes a face. Withdrawal or not, this…whatever they serve him as tea is disgusting.

”As to your question,” Duke Coulson says after a couple of bites of cold roast and potatoes Tony eyes with not a little envy. ”You’ve been ousted.”

”Huh,” Tony says slowly and takes another sip of his not-tea.

”For a displaced king, you’re pretty calm about it,” James drawls, raising a brow.

”Not a king,” Tony says. ”I haven’t been crowned.”

”Which leads to the next question: do you want to be?”

There’s a strange glint in Duke Coulson’s eyes as he watches Tony. They’re calm but he gets the feeling they’re the calm in the eye of a storm, hiding strength in stillness. It’s a disconcerting thought, mostly because Tony used to think of himself as a pretty good reader of people and it seems he’s been so very, very wrong about Duke Coulson.

And even more wrong about Obadiah.

”Where are we anyway?” Tony asks, deflecting the question. 

”At my vineyard,” Baroness Romanova says. ”One of them.”

Tony gives her a flat look. ”Yes, but why?”

”Because this is the safest place for you for the time being,” Mr. Rogers says.

Tony raises a brow. ”What are you, my bodyguard?”

With a shit-eating grin, Clint opens his mouth and then closes it abruptly, narrowing his eyes mutinously at Duke Coulson who looks like he finds his food especially riveting.

Mr. Rogers ignores his quip and instead says, ”Currently all the Capitol knows is that Prince Stark was getting increasingly erratic and spent his days in a semi-drunken stupor until either getting cold feet right or throwing a temper tantrum—or both—before vanishing in the eve of his crowning ceremony. The Council of Elders has transferred the power to Duke Stane, claiming it’s temporary but we all know better than that. You’ve been painted a coward, a spoiled brat, a young man crushing under the responsibilities piled on him, or a useless drunkard.” He takes a sip from his mug. ”What they don’t know is that your advisor poisoned you, smuggled you out of the city, and dropped you in a cave scrubbed clean of anything and everything you could use as a tool to get out. You were left out to die, My Lord.”

Somehow, the honorific sounds mocking coming from Mr. Rogers’ mouth. Tony doesn’t like it and he doesn’t know what to do with the information. 

”Wait—what about Rhodey? Or Pepper?”

”Viscount Rhodes is the one who alerted us,” Duke Coulson says. ”He knows how to take care of himself. As for Pepper…” he glances at Baroness Romanova. ”She and Mr. Hogan are safe. Wanda is looking after them.”

Tony stares. ”Wait—Wanda? As in Miss Wanda, the wine house owner?” His voice rises with incredulity as he looks from one person to the next. They’re lunatics, clearly. He’s surrounded by lunatics and he has no idea what is going on in the world.

”Who are you people?” he finally whispers. ”Why am I here?”

Duke Coulson sets his utensils on his plate and leans forward slightly. ”The short answer is because we wanted to save you. No one deserves to die the way you were going to. The longer answer…Hm.” He falls silent, deep in thought for a moment. ”What do you want to do, Tony? You can fight back and reclaim your legacy but that won’t be easy. Or you could turn around and live your life, farming and tinkering, and having all the time in the world to spend exactly as you wish.”

”You mean, I’d give up.”

Duke Coulson doesn’t reply, just smiles with the faintest hint of a smile on his lips. It’s annoying but it’s also a challenge and Tony has never been one to back out, even when the odds are against him. He gives a considering once-over at Duke Coulson, then looks at Clint sprawled next to Duke Coulson, sharp eyes assessing him right back. Tony raises a brow and moves on to James who’s lazily tearing into a chunk of bread, and to Baroness Romanova sipping her tea seemingly without worry. 

And lastly, he looks at Mr. Rogers who’s yet to eat anything, choosing to lean against the wall next to the door. He looks relaxed and at ease but there’s something coiled and ready to spring into action. It makes Tony shiver and he ducks his head.

After a while, he lets out a hum. ”I have a feeling that while ’Who are you people?’ is a valid question,” he says slowly, ”I probably should’ve asked ’What are you?’ instead.” 

”Ha!” Clint crows and sticks out his tongue at James. ”Pay up!”

James grumbles and swears under his breath and throws a coin straight at Clint’s head. The other man snags it from the air and gives him a bow worthy of a royal ball.

”Clint, Bucky, please stop,” Mr. Rogers says, sounding exasperated. 

”Some of us are human, and some are not,” Duke Coulson says in that same, infuriatingly calm voice. ”Our communities have coexisted in peace for centuries which is how we’d prefer things to go on. Unfortunately, that might no longer be an option.”

”And next you’re going to tell me magic is real?” Tony quips.

Baroness Romanova inclines her head and shrugs in a ’well, what can you do’ sort of way.

Tony groans and flops back against his pillows. ”I’m too sober for this conversation,” he mutters, closing his eyes. ”What the hell does Obadiah have to do with this? He’s just a man!”

”Actually,” Duke Coulson says.

Tony makes a face. ”You can’t be serious—”

”Okay, I’ve been patient long enough,” Clint says. He stretches slightly, cracks his neck, and then the air around him shimmers and the next thing Tony knows, a massive falcon perches on Duke Coulson’s shoulder, looking smug.

”What the fuck,” Tony says flatly because first, what the hell happened to Clint, and second, no normal falcon is that big.

The falcon cocks its head and lets out a sound that sounds very much like a cackle.

”Behave,” Duke Coulson says mildly.

Next to Baroness Romanova, James (or, wait, didn’t Mr. Rogers call him Bucky?) shrugs, shimmers, and then a huge black wolf sits next to the Baroness. It looks Tony straight in the eye and yawns, showing a set of pretty damn impressive teeth.

”Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Tony mutters and gives Mr. Rogers a withering look. ”Considering your,” he wiggles his fingers, ”vibe, I assume you’re also a shifter?”

Mr. Rogers shrugs, looking a bit sheepish, and not quite meeting Tony’s eyes.

”You might as well show him, Steve,” Duke Coulson says. ”He was…bound to know anyway.”

It’s the way he pauses slightly before saying ’bound’ that makes Tony narrow his eyes. What— wait—

Bound.

Binding.

The way Tony sometimes felt like he shared the room with a predator, even when it was just his old Advisor.

The way Obadiah was way too nonchalant about anything concerning Father’s crowning ceremony. 

The way Obadiah reacted to Mr. Rogers—Steve— when they were introduced.

Shit.

…Obadiah isn’t human.

”What is his other form?” he asks slowly.

To his credit, Mr. Rog—Steve—doesn’t pretend not to know who Tony is talking about. ”A grizzly bear,” he says quietly.

Tony nods a couple of times, gently bobbing his head as his mind connects the dots. ”My Father’s bound Guardian was a grizzly bear. I always assumed it was dead but it seems I assumed wrong.” He pauses for a moment. ”He told me that after the coronation and the Binding ritual, the new king can either set his bound Guardian free or take it to the woods and kill it as a sacrifice to the land.”

”I wouldn’t recommend it,” Baroness Romanova says dryly. ”The emotional backslash would significantly cripple the human, especially so soon after the ritual. They would stay alive, yes, but as a shadow of their former self.”

The air around the falcon shimmers again and in the next moment, Clint emerges, halfway on Duke Coulson’s lap. ”I bet my feathery ass he never meant you to actually Bond with a shifter,” he says, grinning at Duke Coulson who seems completely unruffled by a grown man on his lap. ”Although crippling you would probably fit his plans just nicely.”

”What plans?”

”To establish a kingdom of his own, of course,” Clint says as he grabs Duke Coulson’s hand holding the fork with a chunk of steak, and guides it to his own mouth. 

Duke Coulson barely raises a brow at the interruption.

Day…well, it is a day alright. Usually.

So. Apparently magic—real magic, not the kind Tony does in his laboratory—is a lot more real than Tony had ever even dared to imagine.

And Obadiah has been lying to everyone from the start.

Tony sighs and leans against the wall, trying to pretend his legs aren’t shaking. His recovery has been slow but steady, with a predictable schedule and boring, terrible food. Each morning, after forcing down his plain breakfast, he walks the short distance from his room to the garden, sits there until lunch, and then walks back to his room. He’s almost never alone, usually accompanied by Clint or Duke Coulson—Phil by now—but sometimes Baroness Romanova (Natalia in his head, never at her face) graces him with her presence. They talk, throw ideas back and forth, or—in Clint’s case—come up with increasingly ridiculous ways to insult each other.

It’s nice.

Kind of.

Tony is slowly finding out that his education has been passable at best. Obadiah had taken advantage of his easily distracted mind that latched on inventing and tinkering, subtly shifting more and more power to himself on the pretense of being his advisor. In hindsight, Tony had made it laughably easy: after years of fighting with his father, not needing to fight was a relief. So what if he didn’t understand all the intricacies of political decision-making? He had other people for that! 

He had no clue of how to run the court let alone how to run his city or his kingdom, what taxes were supposed to be collected for, or how common people lived their lives. While he had the basic knowledge of the different nobles, he neither understood the power structures that defined a lot of his daily interactions nor how to manipulate them. 

(”But I don’t want to deal with all that!” he groaned one day, to which Natalia said, ”Yes, and everyone knows that. Congratulations, you offered yourself to Duke Stane on a silver plate.”)

And yet, somehow, Phil and Natalia manage to make it interesting. Phil treats politics as an intricate machine with an infinite number of cogs and gears, challenging Tony to find a way for it to run smoothly. Natalia’s approach is just plain ruthless manipulation which is equally formidable and terrifying. Somewhere in the back of his head, he has a feeling Natalia and Pepper should probably never meet.

”Are you alright?

Steve’s voice startles him and he stumbles where he stands, flushing bright red when Steve grabs his arm to steady him. The contact sends a shiver through him and he clears his throat to cover it.

”Yeah, sorry. Just tired,” he says, shooting Steve a quick smile. 

Steve nods and lets go of Tony’s arm, but his hand hovers for a moment almost like he’s reluctant to let go. ”It can be a lot to take in,” he says. ”All of this.”

Tony lets out an agreeing sound and pushes himself to move, grateful when Steve accompanies him. He’s still confused about Steve, of how he both feels like wanting to keep his distance and yearning to stay near him. The dichotomy makes his head hurt and it’s both bewildering and terrifying. There’s been something about Steve since the moment their eyes first met but—

Is this what the romance books Tony will deny ever reading meant when they talked about the protagonists (usually fair maidens) feeling giddy and bubbly near their love interests (usually brooding, big men)? But Tony isn’t a maiden and he doesn’t want to feel like this and yet—

”There’s this old legend among our kind,” Steve starts out of nowhere when they step outside. He glances up and shades his eyes from the sun, and Tony’s eyes are drawn to the crisp line of his jaw. ”That there is a perfect match for everyone, someone who sees them eye to eye, who challenges them and compliments them. A half of their heart, so to speak.”

”Is it true?” Tony asks as he sits down on his usual bench. His voice comes out slightly breathless and he tells himself it’s because of the exercise, that’s all.

Steve shrugs. ”I don’t know. Many people have potential that can grow into true devotion and companionship,” he says, inclining his head a bit. ”Phil and Clint are what we call a fairytale example but if you ask Clint, he might tell you how long it took for them to reach the trust needed to bond.”

”And James and Baroness Romanova?”

Steve snorts. ”That’s something not even I want to touch with a ten-foot pole, but I can only assume it involved several knives and a lot of bleeding.”

Tony mulls that over for a moment. ”I think Obadiah tricked my Father,” he finally says slowly. ”What little I remember from our talks before Father became completely unbearable is that he seemed to think that he was special somehow, being Bound to a Guardian. And that it was something I also needed to do to ensure my reign. But why…” his voice trails away.

”We think Duke Stane met your Father when he was younger than you are now,” Steve says. ”The timeline would match up with what we know about an upheaval in a closed-off shifter settlement way down South. We never got a confirmation but if the rumors are true, someone slaughtered a whole community, leaving only a handful of younglings to spread the word of not getting in his way. Anyway, as soon as Stane surfaced next to a young king, we knew he was aiming for the crown. But we also knew he was playing for the long game so we set up watchers. And when you were born, we knew.”

Tony raises his face to the sun, wondering how his life has turned the way it has. ”Watchers?” he asks. 

”Yes,” Steve says. ”People who kept an eye on things—not only you but on what was going on. Stane wants power, plain and simple. We just didn’t know how many people he was—is—willing to kill to get what he wants.”

”Oh.”

”For what it’s worth, he was never Bound to your father,” Steve adds, sounding slightly apologetic.

”Would that even make a difference?” Tony asks and then continues, ”And how can you tell anyway?”

Steve frowns. ”There’s a certain kind of resonance from the bond. I can’t really explain it other than I know it’s there. Most of us can sense bonds but apparently, I’m more sensitive than others.” He shrugs. ”And I guess it doesn’t matter, whether they were Bound or not. Mostly it prevents the Bound partners from hurting each other but it’s not given.” 

Tony glances at him and sees something unbearably sad in Steve’s eyes. He quickly averts his eyes and clears his throat. ”Yeah. People can be shitty to each other, Bound or not.”

”True.”

They fall quiet, sitting side by side and enjoying the morning sun in surprisingly comfortable silence. Tony would rather keep it that way but he knows he can’t. Not yet.

”What am I supposed to do next?”

”That depends on what you want to happen.”

”Yeah, no, that’s not helpful at all,” he grumbles.

Steve grins. ”Well. As Phil said, you have two options: you can turn away from the plotting and live your life as you see fit. Or you can fight back.”

”But I don’t even want to be the king!”

”You don’t want to be the king or you don’t want to force yourself into a mold of someone else’s making?” Steve asks. ”There is more than one way to be a leader, Tony.”

The way Steve says his name makes a shiver run down Tony’s spine and he can’t hold back a small gasp.

”Are you cold?” Steve asks, leaning closer. ”We should get back inside—”

”No!” he yelps. ”No, no need. It’s just. A thing. Something.” He straightens his spine a bit, trying to appear completely in control of his body and voice, stealing a glance at Steve from the corner of his eye. Is he smiling? Why is he smiling? ”So. Watchers!” he says, hoping to redirect the conversation.

”Yes. You’ve met a few.”

Tony blinks. ”I have?”

Steve nods. ”Miss Wanda is a firebird. She’s been running the wine house for the past…hm…at least sixty years, I think.”

”At least sixty—that’s not possible,” Tony says flatly. ”She’s, like, thirty? At most?”

Steve has the gall to look amused. ”Shapeshifting is okay but slowed aging isn’t?”

”It makes no sense!” Tony exclaims. ”Shapeshifting is just changing the shape of matter—the components are still there but they merely appear different, and the shifting back and forth is like…like how water has three different forms depending on the temperature! Slowed aging is ludicrous!”

”Or perhaps your perception is limited.”

Tony presses a hand on his chest, affronted. ”You take that back, mister! I am a scientist and—”

”I’m one hundred and seventy-four years old,” Steve says calmly.

Tony blinks, closes his mouth, opens it, and closes it again. ”I beg your pardon?” he manages weakly.

”As I said, perhaps your perception is limited.”

”But—” 

”Good work, punk. You broke him,” James snorts from the shadows, making Tony yelp.

”Bucky,” Steve scowls.

”Steve,” James whines back with an exaggerated pout. ”Have you shown him yet?”

Steve narrows his eyes. ”Drop it,” he says, a hint of warning in his voice.

”I mean, better late than never but dragging it on does no good to either of you,” James says blithely. 

Tony’s eyes jump from James to Steve and back. ”Show me what?” 

”Bucky,” Steve says again and, yep. That’s a growl.

James cocks his head and raises a brow. ”Did you know that seeing your match in their true form can sometimes—”

That’s as far as he gets because Steve is up from the bench in a flash and the next moment something white and massive hits James straight-on and he topples, shifts into his fur even before he hits the ground, and then all Tony can see is a furiously growling and snapping ball of teeth and white and black fur.

”About time,” Natalia says, amused. ”Steve has been on the edge since we found you.”

”He’s—he said—Am I supposed to believe he’s 174 years old?” Tony asks, his voice rising to slightly hysterical in the end.

”James is 175 years old,” Natalia says. ”They’re littermates and grew up as brothers.” She gives him a sideways glance. ”How old do you think I am?” she asks, raising a delicate brow.

”Nu-uh,” Tony says, shaking his head. ”I’m not going there.”

Natalia smiles, and while it makes her face softer it does nothing to lessen the aura of danger that perpetually seems to surround her. ”What a gentleman,” she says, fluttering her lashes. ”Let’s just say that I’m well past the age of a human grandmother and leave it at that.”

There’s a crash when James tackles Steve hard enough to topple a crate of gardening tools, and the way James sits on his haunches to pant looks like a shit-eating grin. Steve, on the other hand, doesn’t look amused at all. He rolls over, shakes the dirt and leaves from his fur and then he stands up. On his back feet.

Tony stares, wide-eyed, as Steve slowly straightens himself in a way a normal wolf would never be able to, and then he takes a step forward, then another.

”Oh, dear,” Natalia murmurs. ”This is going to hurt.”

James doesn’t back away from Steve’s looming form but he’s stopped grinning, looking like he’s ready to pounce, but Steve moves way faster than he can react: he feints to the side and when James dodges, his other front paw hits hard enough to send the other wolf flying. James lands against an apple tree with a sickening crack and stays down.

”That was a perfectly good tree, Steve,” Natalia sighs, pressing a hand to her side.

”He was being a dick,” Steve says—or, wait. Does he speak? Somehow Tony hears him well enough even though he could swear his mouth didn’t move. He tries to catch Steve’s eyes but he keeps his eyes averted which, weird.

”Well, yes, but he’s my dick,” Natalia says. ”Ah, never mind. James?” she calls out. ”Stop being so dramatic.”

James lets out a low growl and slowly drags himself up, first into sitting on his haunches and then to all four before making his way across the yard to Natalia. He snaps his teeth at Steve who barely raises his lip to show off his canines and huffs.

”Good luck,” Natalia whispers to Tony before walking inside next to James, her fingers resting on the ruff of his neck.

”For what?” Tony hisses back but she pretends she doesn’t hear him.

And then it’s just him and Steve.

He, a puny human who gets winded after a brisk walk.

Steve, a stark white, massive wolf with piercing blue eyes that refuse to meet Tony’s gaze.

It’s them and…something else.

A hum.

Day…oh, fuck it. Day -14

”Sooo…you and Steve?” Clint asks as he slides next to Tony, waggling his brows in an exaggerated way.

”Me and Steve…what?” Tony asks, distracted. He’s trying to sketch an armor but so far he only has a general idea of the breastplate. He’s never been to war and, apart from the mandatory sword lessons, he hasn’t really been into playing a soldier. Not for the first time, he wishes Rhodey was here. Not only would he be able to help him with the armor planning, but he’d also be a, well. A friend.

And despite how lovely this mismatched party of people is, they’re not his friends. Not like Rhodey.

”Oh, come on,” Clint scoffs. He jumps on the table and sits back on his haunches, crosses his arms over his knees, and leans forward to give Tony a narrow-eyed look. ”You can’t claim that you saw him in all his furry glory and you’re NOT getting it on?”

”What the hell are you talking about?” he snaps, irritated.

Clint looks taken aback. ”Wait. Really?” he asks, cocking his head in an eerily bird-like gesture. 

Tony scowls and tries to concentrate on his schematics again. ”I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he mutters which…is not exactly true because he does have an idea. 

Three days ago, after Natalia and James left him and Steve in the garden, Tony approached Steve who had radiated anxiety (and…fear?) while standing still as a statue. Tony had stopped in front of him, reached up with his hand, and pressed it lightly on Steve’s chest, feeling the beating heart under the soft fur. He’d looked up and met Steve’s wide eyes, his wide and blue, blue eyes and then all he’d been able to do was to stare into those eyes until he felt like he was drowning and falling up at the same time and it had been exhilarating and terrible and wonderful and—

Then Steve let out a soft whine and jerked away from him and then he was gone, and Tony was left standing in the garden like a fool.

He hasn’t seen Steve since and he’s not sure whether to be relieved or pissed off.

”Ohhh,” Clint says. ”Huh. Well. I mean. I can’t say I’m surprised but. I am? In a way? I think?”

Tony grits his teeth. ”Did you know you’re an infuriatingly irritating man? Ah, bird? A thing?”

Clint purses his lips, mock-thoughtful for a moment. ”Yep! Phil says it’s one of my most persistent qualities,” he then says with a shit-eating grin.

Tony rolls his eyes and continues doodling a vaguely jacket-resembling shape on the paper. ”What does the bonding mean anyway?” he asks.

Clint lets out a thoughtful hum and flops on his back on the table, letting his legs dangle over the edge. ”I guess it depends on what you want it to mean,” he says, other hand behind his neck and the other spinning a small dagger over his knuckles. ”For some people, it’s like getting married? They recognize each other and that’s it.”

”Huh.”

”Yeah, not that magical, right?” He continues to spin the dagger while Tony absent-mindedly switches his pen to a brush. ”But it’s not always about that—sex, I mean. Mostly it is in the way that—Look. It’s hard to explain. It’s like you have this intense need to be with someone and they make you feel warm and safe and you know they’ll always have your back. I guess that for most pairs, sex is a natural part of it.”

”You?” Tony asks. When Clint stays silent, he looks up and winces. ”Sorry, it’s none of my business.”

Clint hums. ”It’s not that. I was just thinking that you might want to talk to Phil.” He’s quiet for a moment and when he continues, he sounds subdued. ”My life was pretty much shit until I met Nat. For a while, I thought it would be just me and her but then she met James and that was that. I thought I’d be alone and I was kind of getting used to the thought but then Nat introduced me to Phil and nothing made sense anymore.”

”And now you’re happy,” Tony says softly.

”So incredibly fucking happy,” Clint sighs. ”But I get it. It can also be really scary.”

Tony sets his brush down, closes his eyes, and stretches his arms up and back until his back pops. He isn’t sure what to say so he says nothing. That feeling he had? Was that what Clint was talking about? But if it was, why did Steve run? Was it because he didn’t want that? Or because he didn’t want Tony? Or—

”Oh wow. That’s cool!” Clint says. 

Tony opens his eyes and sees that Clint has turned on his stomach and is now staring at Tony’s doodle with wide eyes. 

”This is great! What are you wearing?”

”Uh…the armor I’ve been trying to design?”

In truth, the picture doesn’t look like an armor design, it looks like a portrait: Tony with a crown on his head, his father’s sword on his hip, and a fiery red leather armor jacket with a bright blue stone embedded on the chest. Behind him stands Steve on two legs, staring straight forward as if he’s challenging the one who dares to look at them.

”That’s a good look on you,” Clint says and, with a wink, adds, ”And the armor looks pretty damn fine, too.”

Tony shoves him hard enough to topple him down from the table. ”Asshole,” he mutters.

But the fact is, that’s not an armor sketch.

That’s a declaration.

Day -13  

The next morning—or more like that same night, it’s not like Tony is able to sleep anyway—he marches to Steve’s room, bangs the door open, and says. ”You’re avoiding me and I don’t like it.”

Steve jumps to sit up in his bed, hair tousled and a slightly wild look in his eyes. ”What?”

”We had a moment and then you ran,” Tony continues, slamming the door shut behind him as he stalks forward. ”And I don’t know if it’s me or you or whatever but I don’t like it!”

”Tony—”

”Don’t ’Tony’ at me!” he snaps and jabs his forefinger at Steve’s chest. ”I know I’m probably young and stupid compared to your wizened age but I still deserve an explanation!” He jabs the chest once more for good measure. And then, because this is his life, his body betrays him with a huge yawn.

”When was the last time you slept?” Steve asks. 

”Before I woke up.”

Steve’s lips twitch. ”And when did you last wake up?”

Tony lets out an exasperated groan. ”At some point yesterday, so what, the point is: it’s been four days, Steve, what the fuck?”

”I’m not having this conversation when you’re so tired you can barely stand,” Steve says and then he reaches out and picks Tony up in his arms, just like that. And then he sets Tony on his bed—on Steve’s bed—just like that.

”What?” Tony yelps.

”Sleep, Tony,” Steve says, tucks him under a heavy, warm blanket, and settles on his back next to Tony.

”We’re not done,” Tony mutters as his traitorous body relaxes in comfort and safety and warmth.

”Of course,” Steve hums, sounding amused.

The next time he opens his eyes, Steve is leaning against the headboard, reading a book with a small frown between his brows. He’s bare-chested—a fact Tony belatedly remembers from when he barged in—and absolutely nothing about him reminds Tony of the massive white wolf he can turn into.

”What are you reading?” he asks, squinting at the worn book.

”A journal by a less-known botanist Dr. Erskine,” Steve replies, leaning slightly to the side to peer at him from behind the book. ”He’s the one who developed the irrigation system I’ve been trying to modify—”

”Wait,” Tony interrupts, pushing himself to sit up. ”You—What. You are into that?”

Steve frowns. ”Yes? It’s actually really interesting.”

”I thought it was just a ruse to get Obadiah off Phil’s back!” He throws his hands in the air in exasperation. ”You actually, honestly, really are into this kind of stuff?”

Steve raises a brow. ”Says a man who likes to set things on fire for fun.”

”Hey, at least that’s exciting!”

”A well-engineered irrigation system can be just as exciting, especially if you’ve had to fiddle with it to make it work in an environment it wasn’t originally designed for,” Steve says primly.

”I— Wait. That’s true,” Tony amends, cocks his head, and then shakes it. ”You’re trying to distract me, and it’s not going to work.”

Steve sighs, places a bookmark, and closes the book. ”For what it’s worth, it wasn’t a distraction. Do you want something to eat?”

”Yes, but not yet.” He gives Steve a level look. ”I want an explanation, Steve. Why did you run?”

Tony would’ve never thought that a man so big and physical could look so small but somehow, Steve does. He grips his book in his hands, rubs the worn leather with his thumb, and bites his lip, clearly trying to figure out what to say. 

”Is it me?” Tony asks quietly. ”I get it if—”

”No!” Steve yelps and then repeats, softer, ”No. It’s…” He opens and closes his mouth a couple of times before saying, ”Remember when I said that being Bound should prevent people from hurting each other but it doesn’t always work?” Tony nods. ”My parents…my father basically forced the Binding on my mother. He was a cruel man who enjoyed his wine and liked to break things, especially my mother. They were both shifters, not that it really matters.” He pauses for a moment, a faraway look in his eyes. ”I was six when—He was drunk and attacked my mother, and I shifted and—” 

Tony stifles a gasp and reaches out his hand, placing it gently on Steve’s wrist. Under his fingertips, he feels how Steve’s pulse rushes and he squeezes lightly, offering a small smile when Steve glances up.

”It was my first full shift,” Steve says, his voice barely above a whisper. ”I didn’t shift again until almost two decades later.”

”I have no idea why my parents married,” Tony says. ”But the woman I remember was an empty shell, a doll  dressed in finery and pointed in the right direction to smile and wave. So, yeah. I get it.”

”The reason I ran,” Steve says carefully, ”was because I could feel a fledgling Bond between us and I absolutely refuse to let it go forward without your full knowledge of what it entails.”

For a moment, Tony just looks at him, takes in Steve’s earnest eyes and the way he grips his ridiculous irrigation journal in his hands. 

Then he says, ”Tell me.”

Days -9 to -5

There’s a certain exhilaration, Tony decides, in preparing for something bigger than he’s ever imagined. Experimentation, explosions, and alchemy are fun for sure but the underlying tension that slowly ratchets up as the day of retaliation (or Kick their asses-day, as Clint calls it) grows near. Add in the new Bond and…well. Interesting doesn’t really even begin to cover it.

Because after a couple of days of careful pondering, Tony decided that yes, he wants this. This being Steve, this being dethroning Obadiah, this being taking responsibility for his actions and his status. Long talks with Phil and Steve finally make him realize that he can figure out his own way to rule. Nothing says he has to be like Father. After all, he does love his city; the narrow streets and loud markets, the food and wine, the buildings and the people. He doesn’t love the gentry or dozens of officials but he doesn’t have to love them: they work for him and he works for the city and the kingdom, and if they don’t like it, they can either leave or try to deal with Phil who, for some reason, has agreed to be his new advisor. (Tony has a feeling that, weirdly enough, this has something to do with Clint. He isn’t going to ask.)

The Bond is nothing like Tony originally thought it would be but considering where his previous knowledge came from, it’s no wonder. It involves, surprisingly, a lot of meditation with Baroness Romanova while James and Steve spar either in skin or in fur. It’s distracting because Tony can feel what Steve is going through. It’s almost overwhelming in the first days because there is so much, and Tony has a hard time differentiating what sensations are from his own body and what comes through their connection. And even harder (pun intended) is the thrum that ebbs and flows between them when James and Steve are done, and Tony is left staring at Steve who stretches and watches him with half-lidded eyes.

”You should just fuck it out of your system,” Clint says on the second day. He’s  sprawling on the bench with his head on Baroness Romanova’s lap because he’s a bolder man than Tony and he has no self-preservation instinct. ”First of all, it’s amazing, and second, it would help with the tension.”

Baroness Romanova flicks his nose without opening her eyes. ”Not everyone is as horny as you two,” she says serenely. ”And it took you years before you let Phil close enough to touch, remember?”

”And I’ve bemoaned my stupidity ever since!” Clint declares. ”I wasted so much time!”

”Don’t listen to him,” Phil says from behind Tony, somehow managing to sneak up on him without Tony noticing. Again. ”Things take the time they take. There’s no point rushing when you’re not ready.” He  hands Tony a silver pendant embedded with a blue stone. It reminds him of Baroness Romanova’s necklace and he’s pretty sure hers is also a grounding tool.

”Ohh, it’s finally ready!” Tony says, holding the pendant up against the light and marveling at the way light bounces from the facets. The bright blue is the exact same hue as Steve’s eyes which probably was on purpose—or perhaps it has something to do with the process of how the pendant is done. He makes a mental note to pick Phil’s brain later.

Thing is—and this is the real magic Obadiah never told Tony—Bound individuals have an effect on each other: they can borrow each other’s skills like strength or eyesight and they can send images and thoughts to each other’s minds no matter the distance. Their aging syncs up so that the one who ages faster slows down to the pace of the one who ages slower—which explains Baroness Romanova’s youthful look. Using a specially forged gemstone adds up to the connection, making it stronger and more flexible.

To Tony, this means that everything is being amplified. 

Everything.

He takes a breath and slips the chain over his head and the pendant under his shirt, shivering slightly as the cool stone slides against his skin. Almost immediately, he shivers for a very different reason as Steve’s eyes on him feel like a physical caress and—

Yep!

This is definitely going to take some getting used to.

”You have a letter,” Phil says, handing Tony an envelope with the word ’Spark’ written on it in familiar handwriting.

”Did you see him?” 

Phil gives him a disappointed look. ”And what reason would the Captain of the Palace Guard have to meet up with a balding hermit Duke who really likes his orchards? Really, Tony.”

”Well, I thought—”

”I saw Lady Hill, though. She shared some very interesting new techniques on grafting pear trees,” Phil says.

”You are such an asshole,” Tony says. ”I don’t know what Clint sees in you.”

”Great ass, apparently,” Phil deadpans. ”And some other attributes I’m not privy to share.”

Despite himself, Tony snorts as he carefully opens the envelope. The message is short and written in the simple code they developed back when they were younger. 

”They’re ready for us,” he says, scanning the letter. ”They’ll let us in through the old Eastern gate before sunrise on Cinnamon Festival Day, and hide us in the—um, chicken coop?” He blinks. ”Okay. I guess he knows what he’s doing.” His pendant pulses and he sways slightly, hand going to his chest. 

Phil pauses reading through his notes and frowns up at him. ”How are you holding up?” he asks.

Tony shrugs. ”It’s a lot and at the same time, it’s not? It’s mostly weird. And intense.”

”I wish we had more time,” Phil says apologetically. ”Ideally, you and Steve would have a month or two together to acclimate to each other and to what your Bond means to you but…”

”Yeah, I know,” Tony says. ”Don’t worry about it. We’ll manage.”

Phil lets out a thoughtful hum and turns to shuffle through his papers. If someone told Tony that Duke Coulson would worry like a surprisingly fussy uncle, he wouldn’t have believed them. Now, though, he cocks his head and looks at him sitting at his desk, pouring over his notes and plans, a concentrated frown between his brows. He looks like a dusty librarian but Tony finds himself delighted to know he’s so much more than that. He’s what Pepper would call ”a salt to the earth,” and Tony is inclined to agree. If more of the gentry were like Phil, everyone would be so much better off.

He bits back a gasp when the pendant pulses again, closing his eyes against the onslaught of feelings. So, yeah, what Phil said about getting a month or two to acclimate? Apparently, a new Bond makes the Bound individuals extremely horny like all the damn time and the pendant keeps making it worse. Sadly, they don’t have that extra month or two so, reluctantly, they decided to push back the physical Binding until the mess with Obadiah has been resolved.

The mental Binding had been intense as fuck. Tony really, really doesn’t want to be in the presence of other people when he lets himself think about how intense the physical side of their relationship would be.

He’s yanked from his spiraling thoughts by Phil’s cough and when he opens his eyes, Phil’s looking at him with a raised brow.

”It’s not my fault!” he yelps.

Phil sighs. ”Unfortunately, I know exactly how true that is,” he mutters. ”Now, take a look at this map—”

Day -2…

They head out before dawn; Steve and Phil leading on their horses, Baroness Romanova and Tony in her carriage, and James in fur, loping next to the carriage. Clint scouts ahead in his hawk form, hovering so far up that Tony can barely see him. At some point, he spots another tiny form hovering next to Clint and frowns.

”Ah, Sam’s joined the hunt,” Baroness Romanova murmurs with an amused curl of her mouth without opening her eyes.

”Sam?”

”Another bird of prey,” she replies. ”Clint is strong but Sam is faster, they’re a good pair.” 

”Wait, how do you know?” Tony asks, genuinely curious. ”You aren’t Bound to him, too, are you? I mean, is that even possible?”

She shrugs. ”For humans? No. For shifters, though? I honestly don’t know. They have their own ways to communicate when in fur or feather, and then relay the information to their Bonded humans.” She opens her eyes and gives him a grin full of teeth. ”James told me, which means Clint is probably cackling his tail feathers off to Phil.”

”I might end up regretting this but…why?”

”Sam and James have a…” her voice trails away and her lips twitch, amused, ”…thing, so to speak. Neither of them knows what the thing is but it offers endless entertainment and headaches to everyone in their vicinity.” She pauses and shoots a look at him from the corner of her eye. ”Go on, you can ask.”

Tony frowns on his lap for a moment. ”And you’re okay with that?” he finally asks quietly. ”Them having a thing?”

She shrugs again, a delicate, careless movement that’s most likely a result of long practice. ”Why wouldn’t I be? Not all relationships are intimate and not everyone feels the need to be exclusive. I have absolutely no interest in turning our Bond physical but I might do that if I ever decided I wanted a child. James has known that from the start and he’s fine with anything I decide. Phil and Clint are planning on a child but they’ve yet to decide which will be the father.”

”Oh,” Tony says and bites his lip, feeling suddenly small.

She gives him a flat look and says, ”No.”

”What?”

”Steve isn’t inclined to share, if that’s what made you bite your lip raw in worry. And if it’s the fathering that makes you nervous, there are plenty of children to adopt.”

He narrows his eyes and jabs a finger in her general direction. ”I don’t like you.”

”Of course you don’t,” she says like she’s amusing a toddler, and closes her eyes again.

”Remind me to never introduce you to Pepper,” he mutters.

”Don’t worry, we already know each other,” she says airily and smiles like a cat when he lets out a frustrated sound.

Most of the journey is just tedious. Both Phil and Steve are meticulous planners, and if their contingency plans for some reason fail, Tony has a feeling Steve is more than capable of adjusting pre-made plans on the flight and just bulldozing his way through the obstacles in his way. He’s not sure what Baroness Romanova is capable of but he also isn’t sure he wants to ask. 

They travel at a moderate pace, making it seem like Duke Coulson is escorting his friend Baroness Romanova to the city. They stop early at an inn where Phil rents out two rooms for him and Baroness Romanova respectively, leaving his liege man and Baroness Romanova’s half-feral guard dog with the horses. Tony spends his time in the carriage which, while necessary to avoid tipping off Obadiah’s spies, is also mind-numbingly boring. He’s fervently glad the journey only takes two days because otherwise he just might blow up the carriage, the inn, himself, or all three out of sheer frustration.

Thankfully, Steve and James are entertaining and James is suspiciously good at cards which saves them from structural damage and a lot of clean-up. Instead, Tony is contemplating violence.

”You are a very strange man,” James drawls when Tony throws a mild fit after losing the fifth time in a row. 

”You are cheating and I can’t figure out how,” Tony hisses, snagging the deck of cards back and shuffling them furiously. 

”Do you need a time-out?” Steve asks. ”I’m asking because that would mean I’d need to toss James out of the carriage.”

”As if you could, punk,” James snorts before leaning forward with a shit-eating grin. ”Deal,” he purrs at Tony.

He grits his teeth and complies. 

The city is quiet under the pre-dawn grey light when they arrive at the Eastern gate, dressed in dark, nondescript clothes, with hats covering their hair and keeping their faces in shadow. Their carriage, easily recognizable with Baroness Romanova’s crest painted on the side, will arrive through the main gate around noon but the Baroness herself will be tired from her journey and head straight into her manor to rest. Tony has no idea who’s going to be wearing her gown in her stead but he’s glad she’s with them. Something about the deadly aura that surrounds her. He tries not to try to think about it too closely.

He taps a familiar code softly on the door and a moment later, the small door in the gate swings silently open to reveal the pinched face of one Viscount Rhodes, Captain of the Palace Guard. 

”Finally!” he whispers urgently. ”Get inside, we don’t have much time!”

Phil nods as he enters swiftly, checking his surroundings with an ease born from experience. ”Trouble?” he asks in a barely audible voice.

”Not as such,” Rhodey says tersely, jerking his head to get them moving. ”Two of my men apparently have food poisoning. It’s probably nothing but…”

”Better safe than sorry,” Steve says, hovering an arm around Tony’s middle, not quite touching but close enough to feel the heat through his clothes. 

It’s distracting.

Rhodey raises a brow and gives Tony a look that he returns with a slightly sheepish grin. ”So, chicken coop?”

”What?” Rhodey asks, baffled. ”Why would you—never mind. This way.” He shakes his head and leads them through narrow alleyways and shortcuts to a door that looks (and smells) like it leads to an outhouse. He opens the door and impatiently motions them to get inside, then he grabs the side of the seat and drags it aside, revealing an opening on the ground.

”The drop is pretty small,” he says, and when they just stare at him, he rolls his eyes. ”It’s not actually a sewer. Get in.”

Baroness Romanova shrugs, marches to the opening, and jumps in. A moment later she calls out, ”Get in, boys. It’s perfectly safe and un-scary.”

James mutters a string of swearwords and jumps after her, followed by Tony, Steve, Phil, and lastly, Rhodey who uses a lever to move the outhouse seat back to its proper place. The tunnel is low and narrow and smells like wet earth which, while not as bad as the outhouse, still isn’t that pleasant.

Rhodey uses a flint to light a small lantern, and says, ”This way.” 

Day 0

The thing about being the Crown Prince is that even though he was more interested in sneaking out of the palace than staying in, there are so many secret passages that Tony is learning only now. Like the corridor that leads them straight to the Great Hall and opens into a nook partially hidden by plush curtains and an ornamental pillar or a dozen. Terrible for security, of course, but pretty handy for their purposes—especially when they wear dark green cloaks and Tony hides his face under the hood. 

The Great Hall is even more opulent than Tony remembers, adorned with golden ornaments and lavish fabrics, sprinkled with twinkling gems and fresh flowers until the room looks like an overflowing bouquet. The guests aren’t that far off, either, Tony notices dryly, holding back his eye roll. Perhaps it’s the time he spent at Baroness Romanova’s estate but he finds it all a bit…gauche.

Obadiah stands on a small dais at the back of the room, beaming like the sun, dressed in a disturbingly familiar jacket and holding up a golden goblet. 

”Friends!” he bellows, holding up his other hand to make placating gestures. ”Friends, colleagues, ladies, gentlemen,” he says as the noise dies down. ”Thank you all for coming. It’s been a harrowing several months, hasn’t it? First the death of our beloved King and then the unfortunate disgrace of our Crown Prince. Unstable times, sad times indeed. But the mourning is now over, my friends! Today, we celebrate a new era—”

Tony glances at Phil who gives him a subtle nod.

He takes a breath.

”I’m sorry, but your words imply that I’m dead. Which, as you can see, I clearly am not.”

At first, Obadiah narrows his eyes and then his face turns white as he watches Tony walk forward. The crowd parts before him, drawing back with furious whispering and glances between him and Obadiah.

”I can understand the confusion,” Tony continues conversationally. ”You drugged me and then ditched me into a hole to die. Would’ve been pretty impossible to get out without help.”

He stops in front of his former advisor, the man he thought of as his father figure, draws back his hood, and cocks his head. ”Hello, Obadiah. Did you miss me?”

”Guards!” Obadiah barks. 

Tony sucks air through his teeth. ”Ah, unfortunately, that won’t work,” he says apologetically. ”Funny thing, they seem to think I’m the legitimate ruler. Wonder why…might be because I’m wearing this fancy crown on my head.” He drops his jovial air. ”Or, you know, because I am the legitimate ruler.”

Obadiah’s face twists with rage. ”Then I’ll take care of you myself!” he spits and steps forward—

And in a flash, Steve is in front of Tony in all his furious glory, shielding Tony behind his massive, white bulk, and then he roars. The sound rolls out of him like a physical wave, pushing the gaping guests back and forcing Obadiah to his knees. 

Obadiah snarls, shakes his head, and staggers to his feet, shifting into his fur. When he stands up, he’s as tall as Steve, and the hate in his eyes makes him look wild.

And it makes him dangerous.

If it was only Steve, the fight would’ve been ugly with no certainty of the winner.

But it isn’t only Steve.

James stalks from behind Steve with his teeth bared and a wet, low growl rumbling in his chest. On the other side, Miss Wanda shakes her hair loose and bursts into flames. In the crowd, Lady Hill stretches her neck, and a moment later a cougar stalks from the middle of bewildered guests. A crow here, a hissing serpent there, a fox, another wolf, a giant bat, a horned owl… As Tony watches, perhaps a third of the people present turn shift into fur or feather or scale, stalking forward to surround Obadiah who draws back with an ugly snarl on his face.

Tony watches it unfurl with a sort of half-bewildered feeling. It’s happening exactly as they planned but to actually see it happen…he’s having a hard time believing it’s true. He feels a light touch on his shoulder as Baroness Romanova steps next to him, offering her silent support.

And from behind him, Phil makes his way to Tony. ”The proof of where and in what condition Lord Stark was found is thoroughly documented and will be publicly available for inspection starting tomorrow morning right here in this hall,” he says calmly. ”But for now, House Coulson supports King Anthony.”

”House Romanova supports King Anthony.”

”House Hill supports King Anthony.”

”House Fury supports King Anthony.”

One by one, more voices declare their support—some with more, and some with less enthusiasm, but it doesn’t take long until the whole Great Hall rings with declarations of loyalty. 

With a huff, Steve drops down to all fours, then shakes himself and sits down, nudging Tony with his snout. 

With a slightly disbelieving air, Tony yanks open the knot on his cape and lets it fall to the floor. Underneath, he’s wearing the armor he sketched out what feels like ages ago: red, padded leather with golden stitching, covering him in protective layers from shoulder to knee.

And in the middle of his chest, the pendant with the blue jewel the color of Steve’s eyes shines like a star.