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madimpossibledreamerMain Points:
Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Iron Man Crossover (Self-Made Hero)
Summary: Despite how it might look, the transition isn't easy. There's only so long the destabilized situation can continue before something's gotta give...
Iron Man Mob AU
Word Count: 2745
Rating: Teen
Different is one word for it.
He doesn’t visibly react. But there, in his head, all of them can feel the sudden sharpening of focus, within a net of self-control clutching tighter than their suit. And, oddly enough, they’re wearing body armor.
“Submit to Hydra!” one goon yells, and there’s a moment of disappointment. Is all they’re good for spouting clichés? I believe the word I’d use here would be ‘droll’. Incidentally, I don’t have time to examine the situation, but if you’re here to try to control me or spy, you’ll find it more difficult than you expect. It’s thought straight at them, and gives Xander a slight shiver up his spine. He’s not entirely sure why.
“I think I will bill Nicky-boy for services rendered. I distinctly do not remember having been hired to be SHIELD’s janitor.” The attitude is very Tony, but the language—what, are they in the past or something?
“You’re smart enough to join the winning side,” another smarter goon suggests, and Tony’s grin, now, is wolfish. And the Shieldra before him are prey. Shieldra. That’s a neat turn of phrase. The thing is, he’s still…amused. Cold.
“Oh, I am. Which is why I forged my own. Though I am getting really tired of cleaning up Dear Old Daddy’s messes. Haven’t you heard? Nazis aren’t good for business.” He doesn’t lose the eye contact as he nods cooly, and apparently that’s some kind of signal because suddenly the fight has started.
It’s the work of an instant to pull up his armor. It’s not like the Iron Man suit (that name shows surprising lack of imagination, but then, the simple names are best when it comes to advertising—HEY—) in that, well—it’s Extremis. They get the mental equivalent of a raised eyebrow. Hammer advertising, before his little trip to the Vault?
The Mechanic immediately begins the equivalent of brain-gushing as the interface pops up. The information the left eye is giving them is even more advanced than their usual stuff, which—is because it’s not flesh and blood. It’s a piece of equipment Stark himself built that feeds into the suit and his brain, though sometimes when he has a headache he skips that step—well, at least you’re fans, even if you are spies I’ll have to fry from my own brain.
He doesn’t use repulsors, though. He pulls out one of his—their—own guns and begins mowing them down. And he’s not the only one. His outfit has set up a hail of fire that has most of the Hydra goons either wounded on the floor or hiding behind crates trying desperately not to be filled with lead. Certainly too distracted to continue their own barrage.
And that’s when they hear the roar behind them. And we have a Hulk. This Tony’s smug satisfaction is dark and deadly.
At a single gesture, the wall of gunfire cuts out, just in time for a green giant to fling himself into a large collection of crates hiding a number of Shieldra. And with another predatory smile, Stark begins running, the kinetic impact from the bullets being stolen upon meeting the simple gold nanotech suit and dropping in the wake of his movement. From a sheath on his right arm, the nanotech retrieves a few throwing knives, while his left brings out a pistol. Many of his shots are taken without a single glance, yet they hear the cries of those hit far more often than not.
He’s good, Xander states uneasily. He doesn’t have the screen that the others have, and he certainly doesn’t have the time to analyze the on-screen data, because this suit isn’t as protective, and he can’t fly out of harm’s way. In this case, though, he doesn’t need it, because he’s fast and almost as in shape as the Widow—hey wait is that her—we’ll have to have a talk later, once this little problem has been taken care of—and what the other suits lack in maneuverability this one more than makes up for it. His brain—in real time—is doing most of the work that his radar-less JARVIS-less screen would otherwise be telling him, picking up from little sounds and movement in the middle of a firefight—the locations of the enemy and accurately gauging their locations well enough to get some hits in. It’s once they reach the front line of bodies that the Iron Maiden gets a clue, because the extra-insurance-buddy-you’re-not-getting-up execution style headshots? Those are straight out of—
Mob movies. This Stark says it with them, but with an intrigued, puzzled air even as he guts one of the Shieldra rushing them and, as the man gurgles, slits his throat with no hesitation. I am…entirely surprised, actually. For once my reputation does not precede me, except if you don’t know who I am, I don’t understand why you’d be here.
You’re a mob boss? Xander feels a little faint. He hadn’t expected that one and isn’t entirely comfortable to be sharing the brainspace with this guy.
Hmm. Fascinating. I look forward to that talk, but in the meantime—
The roar, this time, is almost deafening, and they’re being picked up like a little toy soldier, straight out of the way of enemy fire. It certainly wouldn’t have killed them, but it would have hurt, based on the distance, and they’re already going to be one massive walking bruise as it is. “Stark not hurt!” the angry green giant proclaims, and Stark smiles another of his deadly smiles.
“No, thanks to you. More pins to knock down over there, however.”
He points, and the Hulk grins and throws him, bellowing, “Strike!”
Stark moves like a gymnast, coming down in a touchdown that would make Buffy proud. He flows more than he moves, knives appearing and just as easily disappearing from his outstretched hands—into a throat here, under the armpit there, straight into one guy’s eye—without missing a single beat. The Shieldra goons haven’t stopped their gunfire, but it’s flagging, now, just ticking the Hulk off by the sound of it and falling, kinetic energy redistributed, to the floor upon touching Stark’s suit. It’s not long before they’re standing in a pool of blood, unmoving bodies all over the place.
“Widow. Casualties,” he calls, voice sounding steady and almost casual and not at all out of breath and Xander can’t help but boggle in disbelief. They’re surrounded by dead bodies that Stark and Co. personally put there. Of course there are casualties.
Stark doesn’t bother to hide his amusement, in the space of his own head, anyway. I meant, casualties that matter.
“Hensey got unlucky, though Polak’s doing his best to stabilize him. Gorelova got hit in the shoulder.” Stark nods casually, though they can feel the anger he feels at the news and the way he breathes and concentrates on the work to retain control. He—and the rest of his people that remain standing—are going through and systematically gathering up all the weapons. Stark’s even using the nanotech to pick out all the bullets, which is…kind of creepy and morbid. No evidence, Stark explains in his head with a twisted smile, still trying not to think too hard about the personnel cost. They might’ve known what they signed up for, but he’s still rabidly protective of his employees. Too bad there’s no one left alive to take out his rage on.
“Banner help,” the Hulk offers, walking over and decreasing in size as he does so.
“You do that, big guy.” There’s definitely an actual fond note in his tone this time. It’s painstaking work, but it’s worth being precise and methodical. There’s definitely something of the Count about you, Prime muses, and that’s definitely a quicksilver mind-smile.
‘That’s why I’m still alive,’ the mob boss replies, still amused but verging on thoughtful. So they’re not behaving in a way he expects, either. That’s good. Probably. “Shi, go get that freezer open. Let’s see if any of our lost little ducklings still quack.”
Xander draws in a deep breath as he sees the people stumble out of the freezer: Maria Hill and Coulson and—hang on, is that Pepper?
Not former SHIELD, not Shieldra. Hmm. Government? The competition?
Pepper freezes a little—funny choice of words—as she glances over, but walks over all the same. Brave. If a little stuck in her ways.
“So, I suppose we have you to thank for this rescue?” She doesn’t want to thank him. Doesn’t even want to talk to him, but her funny little morals say jump, so she jumps. Better she not strain herself.
“Oh, Pepper, do stop. You don’t owe me anything, because as it happens, I didn’t come here for you, no matter how promising or delightful I find you, Miss Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and I definitely didn’t come here for any of the others. I’m just taking out the trash. I would wager you’re the only reason most of your friends are breathing.” So you’re reliving one of my memories. I can’t think what you’re trying to find here, in this particular memory, unless someone’s been watching Inception. I can guarantee you will find little of value here—alive, at any rate. He doesn’t show the hint that he’s slightly upset on his face—not all of these SHIELD agents made it out. He cares, in an abstract way, because every breath taken by a Rebel weakens the Empire, but can’t afford to advertise his own feelings as a sign of weakness. Two are quite clearly popsickles, despite attempts to share heat huddling like penguins around Miss Potts’ scalding warmth, and a few more have hit hypothermia stage and are struggling just as Hensey is. Regrettable, but necessary. They couldn’t move too soon, or risk losing more of their own. As insulted as Stark is by the quality of the goons facing him, they were still armed with Stark weaponry confiscated by SHIELD (well, it’s more of a transaction, in that I’d ‘confiscate’ some of their funds every time they did so, but Pirate Twinsie didn’t call to complain, so I’d assume it was their way of getting the best without feeling guilty about openly shaking a criminal’s hand) and hadn’t entirely skipped training. They could have, perhaps, prevented the frost damage currently visible on their faces—Stark quickly thinks about dismissing his armor and handing her his jacket, but equally quickly abandons the thought, as Miss Potts would never accept the gesture, especially as she seems the only one to not need it for practical purposes—but only at the cost of more of his people, which is not a trade he is willing to make. “LaCroix, Marglin. Blankets,” he orders, and just as smoothly the two retrieve backpacks from behind the firing line to start to hand out to the survivors. It all feels vaguely military. Not that he’d ever really paid too much attention, but the Mechanic was quieter, paid more attention (like Brucie) to what Rhodey was doing. Coincidentally, some of my best people are poached from the military. Or, in Bruce’s case, from the military.
“You thought this out, didn’t you?” It’s taking everything she has to stay standing, but then, using her powers for twenty-six hours straight has to be exhausting, in an understatement. He is impressed that she can talk as if everything is perfectly normal.
“Miss Potts, that’s true of everything I do.” He carefully wipes the blood off of one of the knives with a handkerchief as he returns it to its sheath—I can scour it with the nanites later.
“And what do you expect from us?” she challenges, fire still in her eye, almost making him purr in their mind. Oh, I like her. Pity she’ll never look at me with anything other than scorn, but at least the conversations are delightful.
“Very much like last time, I’m curious as to what you’ll do, but I expect nothing from you.” He shrugs. “Report to the government, disband, go and lick your wounds, vanish off the face of the earth. Though I would suggest the safest option would be to lie low. I can do my best to keep any distractions alive, but saving hostages is not a skill I would list on my resume were I ever inclined to job search.”
She blinks. “You’re…planning to take down the whole of Hydra.” It’s not a question, and it’s almost not even surprised, though she doesn’t manage to perfectly conceal the horror in her expression.
Stark smiles, tight and vicious. “It seems my dear old dad forgot to use fire.” And Tony? He’ll burn them to the bloody ground, until there is absolutely nothing left. Until there are no heads to regrow. They’d struck at him, when he’d been perfectly willing to stand on the sidelines and watch the whole thing play out. Happy was in the hospital; going to recover, true, but he’s had to pay one family too many for his inability to protect every last employee with everything he had.
The world dissolves around them and reappears, this time with the Don sitting opposite in the car, which also looks directly like it’s been plucked from a mobster movie, eyepatch firmly in place.
Prime is sitting to his left, the Iron Maiden to his right. The Mechanic is apparently driving.
Mobster Stark only allows the slightest flicker of surprise in his eye before he ruthlessly shuts that down, taking in the situation calmly. “Well, this is certainly novel.”
“It could be from one, too,” Xander babbles, nervous, and ducks slightly as Prime tries to ruffle his hair. “Um, medium-length story is medium, there was a chaos sorcerer and a spell. I went as Tony Stark for Halloween, only when the spell broke, it didn’t quite…work right. So now I’ve got a bunch of Tonys in my head and if I don’t assimilate you all like a Borg we’re dead. Well…not quite. The real you in the other universe will be fine. But this version of you—”
“I’ll risk sounding like Spock to say—fascinating.” Mobster Stark’s not even kidding. He’s not bothering to hide the intrigued look on his face as he leans forward.
“I’d also appreciate it if you don’t attempt to take me apart or anything like that. Because I know that look. That is a bad look. That is a look that is of the bad,” he continues babbling.
“I protect my own,” Mafioso Stark responds simply, eyebrow raised. He’s projecting the air of being hurt, only like an onion he has layers because he’s doing that to distract from the fact he’s actually hurt by that accusation. Huh. And the instinct vaguely reminds him of the whole embarrassing hyena protect pack thing. “I have a—what do they call it in HeroSystem—a Code of Honor. You could discuss parallels to John Marcone or Giorno Giovanna. If you dislike my advice, disregard it. I certainly don’t need time in the driver’s seat. And perhaps it’ll be simpler to act in a way you’ll approve of, simply because I have no criminal empire to defend, no criminal reputation to uphold.”
Xander briefly gets distracted by the glimpse of cool future stuff, but shakes his head to dislodge the thoughts. For now. Unfortunately, it seems to have given the Don a glimpse of something else Xander wasn’t planning on sharing yet.
The single brown eye narrows slightly. “If I were acting on my own, I would…deal with your father. As it is, logistics is, shall we say, one of my strong suits. I can look into the possibilities around emancipation, and should you start your own business I am excellent at that as well.”
“Long as you’re cool with that, kid, he’s welcome to it,” the Iron Maiden agrees with a shudder, and after a moment, Xander sticks out a hand to shake. The pleased smile is still restrained, but then, it’s probably a good thing the Don’s self-control is so good. He treats the moment with the utmost respect, as if Xander actually is a good business partner instead of just a kid with little more than a blabbering mouth, a sense of humor, and a lot of references, and the handshake feels strong and grown-up.
Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Iron Man Crossover (Self-Made Hero)
Summary: Despite how it might look, the transition isn't easy. There's only so long the destabilized situation can continue before something's gotta give...
Iron Man Mob AU
Word Count: 2745
Rating: Teen
They’re dumped into the next location without much fanfare, but their newest host is a little…well.
Different is one word for it.
He doesn’t visibly react. But there, in his head, all of them can feel the sudden sharpening of focus, within a net of self-control clutching tighter than their suit. And, oddly enough, they’re wearing body armor.
“Submit to Hydra!” one goon yells, and there’s a moment of disappointment. Is all they’re good for spouting clichés? I believe the word I’d use here would be ‘droll’. Incidentally, I don’t have time to examine the situation, but if you’re here to try to control me or spy, you’ll find it more difficult than you expect. It’s thought straight at them, and gives Xander a slight shiver up his spine. He’s not entirely sure why.
“I think I will bill Nicky-boy for services rendered. I distinctly do not remember having been hired to be SHIELD’s janitor.” The attitude is very Tony, but the language—what, are they in the past or something?
“You’re smart enough to join the winning side,” another smarter goon suggests, and Tony’s grin, now, is wolfish. And the Shieldra before him are prey. Shieldra. That’s a neat turn of phrase. The thing is, he’s still…amused. Cold.
“Oh, I am. Which is why I forged my own. Though I am getting really tired of cleaning up Dear Old Daddy’s messes. Haven’t you heard? Nazis aren’t good for business.” He doesn’t lose the eye contact as he nods cooly, and apparently that’s some kind of signal because suddenly the fight has started.
It’s the work of an instant to pull up his armor. It’s not like the Iron Man suit (that name shows surprising lack of imagination, but then, the simple names are best when it comes to advertising—HEY—) in that, well—it’s Extremis. They get the mental equivalent of a raised eyebrow. Hammer advertising, before his little trip to the Vault?
The Mechanic immediately begins the equivalent of brain-gushing as the interface pops up. The information the left eye is giving them is even more advanced than their usual stuff, which—is because it’s not flesh and blood. It’s a piece of equipment Stark himself built that feeds into the suit and his brain, though sometimes when he has a headache he skips that step—well, at least you’re fans, even if you are spies I’ll have to fry from my own brain.
He doesn’t use repulsors, though. He pulls out one of his—their—own guns and begins mowing them down. And he’s not the only one. His outfit has set up a hail of fire that has most of the Hydra goons either wounded on the floor or hiding behind crates trying desperately not to be filled with lead. Certainly too distracted to continue their own barrage.
And that’s when they hear the roar behind them. And we have a Hulk. This Tony’s smug satisfaction is dark and deadly.
At a single gesture, the wall of gunfire cuts out, just in time for a green giant to fling himself into a large collection of crates hiding a number of Shieldra. And with another predatory smile, Stark begins running, the kinetic impact from the bullets being stolen upon meeting the simple gold nanotech suit and dropping in the wake of his movement. From a sheath on his right arm, the nanotech retrieves a few throwing knives, while his left brings out a pistol. Many of his shots are taken without a single glance, yet they hear the cries of those hit far more often than not.
He’s good, Xander states uneasily. He doesn’t have the screen that the others have, and he certainly doesn’t have the time to analyze the on-screen data, because this suit isn’t as protective, and he can’t fly out of harm’s way. In this case, though, he doesn’t need it, because he’s fast and almost as in shape as the Widow—hey wait is that her—we’ll have to have a talk later, once this little problem has been taken care of—and what the other suits lack in maneuverability this one more than makes up for it. His brain—in real time—is doing most of the work that his radar-less JARVIS-less screen would otherwise be telling him, picking up from little sounds and movement in the middle of a firefight—the locations of the enemy and accurately gauging their locations well enough to get some hits in. It’s once they reach the front line of bodies that the Iron Maiden gets a clue, because the extra-insurance-buddy-you’re-not-getting-up execution style headshots? Those are straight out of—
Mob movies. This Stark says it with them, but with an intrigued, puzzled air even as he guts one of the Shieldra rushing them and, as the man gurgles, slits his throat with no hesitation. I am…entirely surprised, actually. For once my reputation does not precede me, except if you don’t know who I am, I don’t understand why you’d be here.
You’re a mob boss? Xander feels a little faint. He hadn’t expected that one and isn’t entirely comfortable to be sharing the brainspace with this guy.
Hmm. Fascinating. I look forward to that talk, but in the meantime—
The roar, this time, is almost deafening, and they’re being picked up like a little toy soldier, straight out of the way of enemy fire. It certainly wouldn’t have killed them, but it would have hurt, based on the distance, and they’re already going to be one massive walking bruise as it is. “Stark not hurt!” the angry green giant proclaims, and Stark smiles another of his deadly smiles.
“No, thanks to you. More pins to knock down over there, however.”
He points, and the Hulk grins and throws him, bellowing, “Strike!”
Stark moves like a gymnast, coming down in a touchdown that would make Buffy proud. He flows more than he moves, knives appearing and just as easily disappearing from his outstretched hands—into a throat here, under the armpit there, straight into one guy’s eye—without missing a single beat. The Shieldra goons haven’t stopped their gunfire, but it’s flagging, now, just ticking the Hulk off by the sound of it and falling, kinetic energy redistributed, to the floor upon touching Stark’s suit. It’s not long before they’re standing in a pool of blood, unmoving bodies all over the place.
“Widow. Casualties,” he calls, voice sounding steady and almost casual and not at all out of breath and Xander can’t help but boggle in disbelief. They’re surrounded by dead bodies that Stark and Co. personally put there. Of course there are casualties.
Stark doesn’t bother to hide his amusement, in the space of his own head, anyway. I meant, casualties that matter.
“Hensey got unlucky, though Polak’s doing his best to stabilize him. Gorelova got hit in the shoulder.” Stark nods casually, though they can feel the anger he feels at the news and the way he breathes and concentrates on the work to retain control. He—and the rest of his people that remain standing—are going through and systematically gathering up all the weapons. Stark’s even using the nanotech to pick out all the bullets, which is…kind of creepy and morbid. No evidence, Stark explains in his head with a twisted smile, still trying not to think too hard about the personnel cost. They might’ve known what they signed up for, but he’s still rabidly protective of his employees. Too bad there’s no one left alive to take out his rage on.
“Banner help,” the Hulk offers, walking over and decreasing in size as he does so.
“You do that, big guy.” There’s definitely an actual fond note in his tone this time. It’s painstaking work, but it’s worth being precise and methodical. There’s definitely something of the Count about you, Prime muses, and that’s definitely a quicksilver mind-smile.
‘That’s why I’m still alive,’ the mob boss replies, still amused but verging on thoughtful. So they’re not behaving in a way he expects, either. That’s good. Probably. “Shi, go get that freezer open. Let’s see if any of our lost little ducklings still quack.”
Xander draws in a deep breath as he sees the people stumble out of the freezer: Maria Hill and Coulson and—hang on, is that Pepper?
Not former SHIELD, not Shieldra. Hmm. Government? The competition?
Pepper freezes a little—funny choice of words—as she glances over, but walks over all the same. Brave. If a little stuck in her ways.
“So, I suppose we have you to thank for this rescue?” She doesn’t want to thank him. Doesn’t even want to talk to him, but her funny little morals say jump, so she jumps. Better she not strain herself.
“Oh, Pepper, do stop. You don’t owe me anything, because as it happens, I didn’t come here for you, no matter how promising or delightful I find you, Miss Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy, and I definitely didn’t come here for any of the others. I’m just taking out the trash. I would wager you’re the only reason most of your friends are breathing.” So you’re reliving one of my memories. I can’t think what you’re trying to find here, in this particular memory, unless someone’s been watching Inception. I can guarantee you will find little of value here—alive, at any rate. He doesn’t show the hint that he’s slightly upset on his face—not all of these SHIELD agents made it out. He cares, in an abstract way, because every breath taken by a Rebel weakens the Empire, but can’t afford to advertise his own feelings as a sign of weakness. Two are quite clearly popsickles, despite attempts to share heat huddling like penguins around Miss Potts’ scalding warmth, and a few more have hit hypothermia stage and are struggling just as Hensey is. Regrettable, but necessary. They couldn’t move too soon, or risk losing more of their own. As insulted as Stark is by the quality of the goons facing him, they were still armed with Stark weaponry confiscated by SHIELD (well, it’s more of a transaction, in that I’d ‘confiscate’ some of their funds every time they did so, but Pirate Twinsie didn’t call to complain, so I’d assume it was their way of getting the best without feeling guilty about openly shaking a criminal’s hand) and hadn’t entirely skipped training. They could have, perhaps, prevented the frost damage currently visible on their faces—Stark quickly thinks about dismissing his armor and handing her his jacket, but equally quickly abandons the thought, as Miss Potts would never accept the gesture, especially as she seems the only one to not need it for practical purposes—but only at the cost of more of his people, which is not a trade he is willing to make. “LaCroix, Marglin. Blankets,” he orders, and just as smoothly the two retrieve backpacks from behind the firing line to start to hand out to the survivors. It all feels vaguely military. Not that he’d ever really paid too much attention, but the Mechanic was quieter, paid more attention (like Brucie) to what Rhodey was doing. Coincidentally, some of my best people are poached from the military. Or, in Bruce’s case, from the military.
“You thought this out, didn’t you?” It’s taking everything she has to stay standing, but then, using her powers for twenty-six hours straight has to be exhausting, in an understatement. He is impressed that she can talk as if everything is perfectly normal.
“Miss Potts, that’s true of everything I do.” He carefully wipes the blood off of one of the knives with a handkerchief as he returns it to its sheath—I can scour it with the nanites later.
“And what do you expect from us?” she challenges, fire still in her eye, almost making him purr in their mind. Oh, I like her. Pity she’ll never look at me with anything other than scorn, but at least the conversations are delightful.
“Very much like last time, I’m curious as to what you’ll do, but I expect nothing from you.” He shrugs. “Report to the government, disband, go and lick your wounds, vanish off the face of the earth. Though I would suggest the safest option would be to lie low. I can do my best to keep any distractions alive, but saving hostages is not a skill I would list on my resume were I ever inclined to job search.”
She blinks. “You’re…planning to take down the whole of Hydra.” It’s not a question, and it’s almost not even surprised, though she doesn’t manage to perfectly conceal the horror in her expression.
Stark smiles, tight and vicious. “It seems my dear old dad forgot to use fire.” And Tony? He’ll burn them to the bloody ground, until there is absolutely nothing left. Until there are no heads to regrow. They’d struck at him, when he’d been perfectly willing to stand on the sidelines and watch the whole thing play out. Happy was in the hospital; going to recover, true, but he’s had to pay one family too many for his inability to protect every last employee with everything he had.
The world dissolves around them and reappears, this time with the Don sitting opposite in the car, which also looks directly like it’s been plucked from a mobster movie, eyepatch firmly in place.
Prime is sitting to his left, the Iron Maiden to his right. The Mechanic is apparently driving.
Mobster Stark only allows the slightest flicker of surprise in his eye before he ruthlessly shuts that down, taking in the situation calmly. “Well, this is certainly novel.”
“It could be from one, too,” Xander babbles, nervous, and ducks slightly as Prime tries to ruffle his hair. “Um, medium-length story is medium, there was a chaos sorcerer and a spell. I went as Tony Stark for Halloween, only when the spell broke, it didn’t quite…work right. So now I’ve got a bunch of Tonys in my head and if I don’t assimilate you all like a Borg we’re dead. Well…not quite. The real you in the other universe will be fine. But this version of you—”
“I’ll risk sounding like Spock to say—fascinating.” Mobster Stark’s not even kidding. He’s not bothering to hide the intrigued look on his face as he leans forward.
“I’d also appreciate it if you don’t attempt to take me apart or anything like that. Because I know that look. That is a bad look. That is a look that is of the bad,” he continues babbling.
“I protect my own,” Mafioso Stark responds simply, eyebrow raised. He’s projecting the air of being hurt, only like an onion he has layers because he’s doing that to distract from the fact he’s actually hurt by that accusation. Huh. And the instinct vaguely reminds him of the whole embarrassing hyena protect pack thing. “I have a—what do they call it in HeroSystem—a Code of Honor. You could discuss parallels to John Marcone or Giorno Giovanna. If you dislike my advice, disregard it. I certainly don’t need time in the driver’s seat. And perhaps it’ll be simpler to act in a way you’ll approve of, simply because I have no criminal empire to defend, no criminal reputation to uphold.”
Xander briefly gets distracted by the glimpse of cool future stuff, but shakes his head to dislodge the thoughts. For now. Unfortunately, it seems to have given the Don a glimpse of something else Xander wasn’t planning on sharing yet.
The single brown eye narrows slightly. “If I were acting on my own, I would…deal with your father. As it is, logistics is, shall we say, one of my strong suits. I can look into the possibilities around emancipation, and should you start your own business I am excellent at that as well.”
“Long as you’re cool with that, kid, he’s welcome to it,” the Iron Maiden agrees with a shudder, and after a moment, Xander sticks out a hand to shake. The pleased smile is still restrained, but then, it’s probably a good thing the Don’s self-control is so good. He treats the moment with the utmost respect, as if Xander actually is a good business partner instead of just a kid with little more than a blabbering mouth, a sense of humor, and a lot of references, and the handshake feels strong and grown-up.
