Blah blah blah, I don't own Iron man, blah blah blah.

~::~

"Sir?"

"No. I refuse to acknowledge your robotic existence right now, Jarvis."

"Sir, I believe you should see this..."

The flatscreen in the wall of Tony Stark's bedroom flickers to life. A pretty blonde reporter, framed by burning buildings and rubble and screaming, crying people, informs her viewers that there appears to be an unknown creature rampaging through the downtown area, blah blahdy blah, no signs of stopping, blah blah, can't someone help, blah blah blah.

"Urrrghhhh..." The 'someone' the reporter is referring to kicks the sheets away and sits up reluctantly. "Okayyy."

Next to him, the man who was, until about a month ago, his arch-nemesis, makes a disgruntled, not-quite-awake noise, and Tony turns and plants a loud smooch on the ex-con's shoulder, just to annoy him. "Gotta go save the world. Keep yourself warm for me. Be back soon."

He starts to stand, but Vanko rolls over and locks an arm around his waist, dragging him back. "Wha-"

The Russian growls and presses their mouths together, hard, teeth and tongue insistent, and Tony finds himself caring less and less about whatever's happening downtown and more and more about Ivan's hand creeping downward.

"Well," he says, kissing a trail across his lover's jaw, "I guess," kiss "I could," kiss "postpo-oh-one for a bit." He groans as rough fingers stroke the skin just below his waistband. "Let the- the cops or... or the Aaahhvengers or some ah body oh take mm care of it..."

Suddenly the warmth of Vanko's hand and the pressure of his lips are gone, leaving Tony hanging in midair, grinding against nothing.

"What- hey!" He sits up indignantly as the villain lays back down, looking for all the world like he's going back to sleep. "Hey!"

One eye opens. "What?"

Ohhh, he didn't! "What d'you mean, 'what'? Make with the rubbing and the shenanigans, you damn Russian tease!" Stark is absolutely livid with frustrated lust.

"Nyet."

"'Nyet'? Fuck that, no 'nyet'! Don't even try to tell me you're 'not in the mood'; you're the one that started it!"

"Da. Now go save the world." Smirking, Vanko waves a dismissive hand.

"Well- so- wha... why... agh! What'd you get me all hot and bothered for?"

Ivan's grin grows. "Make you angry. Вы боретесь лучше, когда Вы сердиты." (You fight better when you're angry.) He almost-but-doesn't-quite add And to make sure you come back. Instead he rolls over again, buries his head in his pillow.

"You're evil," Tony says with absolute conviction as he pulls on an undershirt. "You are a terrible, terrible human being."

Vanko just snorts and tugs the blankets up. "Don't worry; I will be here still when you return."

"You better be," The American grouses, opening the door and and stepping into the hall. As he nears the kitchen on his way to the garage, he softens his footsteps, trying to pass without alerting-

"Twoooiit!"

Fuck. Tony ducks just in time to avoid the feathery white missile that launches itself at his head. He rolls, dives behind a table.

The bird- as of yet it has no name beyond the insults that the billionaire hurls at it- lands on the table and fixes him with a beady-eyed glare.

"God, I hate you so much," Stark says, slowly reaching for the cabinet next to him. "Thaaat's right, that's a gooood little hellbird. Staaayyy." The demonic little creature watches him, taking a menacing step forward and clicking its beak. "Yeah, yeah, yeah." He opens the cabinet and pulls the bag of birdfood from it. "I'm getting your fucking breakfast, you monster." He pries the bag open and pours a little heap of seed onto the table. The bird cocks its head, considering its choices: bird food, or Tony's fingers. After a moment or two, it bends its head and begins to peck at the seed. Tony immediately makes for the door, moving as quickly as possible.

Something squelches under his foot. "Aww, no." He looks down. Yep. "Ohhh, you motherfucker!" As he grabs a paper towel and wipes the crap from between his toes, he considers, for the thousandth time, the possibility of arranging a "tragic accident" for the little bundle of avian evil. It's only the memory of the look on Ivan's face (and the hours and hours of grateful sex that followed) when he got the damn thing that keeps the wealthy inventor from throwing it into the broiler.

Still flicking bits of poo from his instep, he heads down to the garage and suits up. Within minutes, he is en route.

By the time he arrives at the site, all the screaming people, reporters, and lookie-loos have realized that close proximity is hazardous to their health and have moved back a few blocks to watch. Half a dozen buildings reduced to smoldering rubble alerts the superhero to this new threat's location: standing atop an apartment complex, surveilling the damage it's done.

Well, Ivan was right about one thing for sure: whatever this thing is, Tony is in the mood to fucking MURDER it.

As he approaches, his optics zoom in on the target, trying to discern as much as possible. Unfortunately there's not much to discern; the thing (gender doesn't seem to apply) is about eight feet tall and appears to be made of obsidian.

Whatever it is, it's waiting for him. It raises an arm and fires what looks like a black stalactite at him. He swerves, banks upward, and replies with a low-setting blast from his left palm; testing the waters. The thing dodges with inhuman speed and leaps toward him.

Iron Man has just enough time to swing a punch at the creature's head, hoping to knock it to the ground and finish this from the air. Instead of resisting, though, the thing's skull absorbs his fist, the skin rippling as his arm sinks in to the wrist.

"What the-" He jerks in midair, dropping a few feet as the full weight of the black being bears down on him, nearly wrenching his shoulder from its socket. He has Jarvis quickly adjust his thrusters, yanking back as the creature hangs suspended from his arm, deadweight. Screw obsidian, this thing is made of tar, and it doesn't seem too keen to get his fist out of its head. In fact, that appears to have been its plan. It brings a hand up once more, and the superhero sees another spike begin to form, aimed at his head.

Tony weaves back and forth, trying to shake his limb free, but the tar-creature hangs on like a limpet. He ducks just in time to feel the projectile scrape across the top of his helmet.

"Jeez!" He darts to the side, dragging his new parasite along. "Ease up, man or lady or whatever you are! What the hell did I do to you?"

The thing doesn't answer, but he sees a third harpoon forming. "Okay, you brought this on yourself!" Adjusting his thrusters once more, he focuses ten percent more power to the captured hand and fires a beam directly into the sticky mass of the being's head.

It's definitely not the result he was hoping for; the creature's head explodes in a burst of oily black ropes, and for half a second he's free of its grip- but then the ropes snap together, twining back into the shape of a head, its arms shooting out to wrap around his throat. He zigzags, firing a blast from his chest into the thing's torso as he claws at the oozing, solid mass crawling up his neck. The blast punches a hole in the creature, but it's instantly sealed, black and seamless. The arms are starting to melt, turning into a kind of living goo that seeps itself into every crack and crevice in his armor. Strands of darkness crawl across his visor, weaving together to blind him.

"Jarvis," he chokes, "Switch viewer to-" he doesn't get to finish the command before the black strands are forcing their way under his helmet, wrenching it from his head just as they hit the ground.

For a moment, everything is obscured by a cloud of dust and smoke, kicked up by the impact. The people watching from the sidelines take a few fearful, morbidly curious steps closer.

The dust settles, ghosting away to reveal Iron Man staggering backward, ripping threads of blackness from his arms, chest, and face. The threads fall, only to be replaced by more as the creature advances. Tony fires blast after blast, and twice the new villain stumbles, but each time it stands back up and continues, swinging arms that become blades, slicing scores across his armor.

"Divert all power to chest plate," he says urgently, and he manages to blast off one of the thing's legs. He feels a brief flash of victory, but the limb is swiftly re-grown. "Well, it was worth a try." He forces himself, as always, to sound chipper, but his brain is frantically scanning for options, any options, and finding none. He doesn't have enough power left to fly, and the blasts are having little-to-no effect. He is, in a word, fucked. He should feel sadness, he guesses, and anger- and he does feel anger, of course, but really, the strongest emotion he feels is disappointment. Disappointment in himself as a hero, for being defeated. Disappointment in himself as a scientist for not getting the chance to study this thing, figure out what makes it tick. And another illogical, bone-deep disappointment in himself for lying to Ivan this morning.

Gotta go save the world... Be back soon.

He fires another three blasts, sending shockwaves through the creature's liquid flesh, and it throws a loop of python-strong arm around his throat once more, crushing his windpipe and forcing him to his knees. His vision starts to blur; he fires again, misses. His lungs burn.

Through the pounding, ringing pulse in his ears- the sound of the arc reactor working hard to keep up with his frantically beating heart- he imagines that he hears the roar of an engine approaching, the scream of a crowd. He wonders vaguely if he's hallucinating the memory of the racetrack.

And then, the most beautiful sound-

-the hum of electricity-

Ssshh CRACK!

The sound of a whip.

Tony gasps as the vice around his neck loosens. His vision broadens and sharpens, tinged in red.

The creature stumbles back, a coil of crackling, popping light around its own throat.

Vanko snarls and yanks hard, hauling the monster backward. The energy whip saws into the thing's neck, searing and burning through the skin, deeper and deeper. The strange being lets out a high-pitched, radio-static scream, grabbing at the whip only to pull its hands away, scorched and smoking.

Iron Man sways upright, massaging his throat and wheezing, and stares in amazement at the six feet of pissed-off Russian that's currently garroting the thing that tried to kill him. Ivan peers over the creature's shoulder, baring his gold-plated teeth in a feral, murderous grin, a toothpick clamped between them.

"Привет, Tony. Как делa?" (Hi, Tony. How are things?) He grunts and tugs with all his might, and the scream dies to a gurgle as the thing's head parts from its shoulders and thuds to the ground. He snaps the other whip around its waist and pulls again, and the creature's torso falls, arms still twitching. The whips crack again, parting arms from chest, legs from hips, again and again until there's nothing but squirming bits of black goo on the ground. He stomps on one near his foot, then spits on it. He straightens, switches off the whips, and grabs Stark's arm, hauling him to his feet.

"What- the hell- are you- doing- here?" Tony asks, his throat raw.

"Not very grateful," Vanko smirks. "I saw on the television, how you were getting- каково слово? (What's the word?) -getting your ass handed to you. I took your car and came here."

"Where- where did you- get- another set- of whips- so fast?"

"Made them. In my spare time, in your lab." Tony's legs give out, and Ivan throws an arm around him, supporting him, then looks annoyed with himself for doing so.

"You- have no- idea- how much- I wanna- do you- right now," the winded hero grins weakly.

"Probably not great idea," the ex-con jerks his head toward the crowd, which is slowly but surely making its way toward them.

"Fine," the American croaks, "but you're getting a handjob in the car and you can't stop me."

Vanko rolls his eyes and opens the passenger side door of the "borrowed" car, sliding his rival inside. "Stay," he orders with a leer.

"Wha- where are- you going?" Tony sits up, confused.

His answer comes in the screams of the crowd as they scatter once more. Ivan turns and looks over his shoulder at the hulking mass of black that's reforming some twenty metres away. "Your new friend is getting back up."

"Joy," Stark groans.

The Russian turns back to him, arching an eyebrow. "Maybe is time to call your Ahhvengers, da?"

"Solid plan, smartass." Tony reaches for his cell. "See- if you can grab- my helmet- while you're out there- getting your ass kicked."

Whiplash shuts the door and cracks his weapons at the creature, slicing a burning line down its midsection. It screeches, heaves itself up into some semblance of a body, and hurls a long tentacle of fluid lethality at him, mimicking his attacks. He jumps sideways, lands in the rubble on his side, and is up and running in less than a second. The monster leaps after him, cutting off his path, and he weaves to the right like a footballer, diving under its arm and coming up behind it with Tony's helmet under one arm. He scores a jagged crack down its back, snaps off a limb, and ducks as it swings at him once more. He grabs a burning board from the remains of a bus stop and throws it like a javelin, stabbing into the small of the beast's back.

It was probably meant to be a distraction, something to buy a little time, but it proves to be more effective than anyone anticipates: the thing howls, unearthly and ear-shattering, and bursts into flame. Its skin boils and pops and spits like hot oil, and from the car Tony wonders if he wasn't that far off with his "made-of-tar" theory. The flames climb higher, consuming its head as it writhes and screams, and Ivan pelts it with lashes for good measure, following it as it spasms its way across the street.

"Oh, shit," Stark rasps as he realizes where it's heading. He opens the door, stumbles out, and shouts, "Ivan! It's going for the hydrant-!"

It's too late; the burning shape latches onto a fire hydrant and pries it apart, sending jets of water in every direction. The air fills with hissing and thick, grey-black steam, and Tony hurries toward the two blurry shapes. The one illuminated by twin lines of electricity turns toward him and yells, "Nyet! I said stay!"

"Sorry," Iron Man shouts hoarsely as he fires up what's left of the suit's power. "I can't hear you over the sound of you fucking up and setting shit on fire!"

The Russian snarls and throws the helmet; Tony catches it and snaps it on once again, running diagnostics as the creature gurgles and smokes. He's at about forty percent power, and he immediately fires a test shot at the monster, knocking it to the ground. It rages at him, no longer bothering to maintain a humanoid shape, and lurches toward him at an impossible speed, sliding over the concrete like an oil spill. It rears up about three metres in front of him, and he fires into what looks roughly like its belly. Ivan snaps a whip around its middle, holding it as the American hero fires again. The thing makes a noise like a train whistle, squirming, then turns and swings a bladed limb at Vanko, impaling his side.

"Ivan!" Tony runs forward, but the creature blocks him with a dozen arms.

Whiplash coughs, sprays blood from between his gritted teeth, and stumbles, but refuses to release his hold on the black being. It roars, twists the spike. He roars right back at it, calling it god-knows-what in Russian, and yanks at the whip, digging into its flesh.

Stark is blasting limb after limb, trying to reach the injured man, and he doesn't notice a second car approaching until someone appears next to him, arms raised at the creature. A bluish glow fills the air, forms a kind of bubble around the monster, and it twists, all limbs suddenly withdrawn or severed, seemingly trapped by the orb.

"What in the what?" Tony turns to look at the figure beside him.

She's blonde, about five foot seven, and she's wearing a blue suit with the number 4 on it and an irritated expression. Behind her, looking casually grim, Nick Fury nods at Iron Man.

"Morning, Stark. Got your call."

Tony's not listening; he's running, ducking under the hovering ball of energy that holds the creature captive, to where Vanko is leaning against a smoldering bench, grimacing and holding his side. "Ivan." He raises his visor, bends to get a better look at the wound. It's not pretty. It doesn't seem to have hit any internal organs, which is a relief, but the pearly gleam of bone is visible between Whiplash's fingers.

"Все хорошо. Уйти." (I'm fine. Get away.) The bleeding man shoves ineffectively at Stark's shoulder with his free hand.

"Bullshit. C'mon, get your ass in the car." Iron Man slings an arm around the taller man's waist and helps him stand upright. After a moment or two of wincing and trying to resist, Vanko gives in and leans his weight on the hero.

"I think..." He spits a stream of blood to one side. "I think handjob... will have to... wait."

"You pick the worst times to get a sense of humor," Tony mutters. The two of them limp their way toward the car as the blonde woman glides the orb away, the prisoner safely inside. Nick Fury approaches them, glancing back at the still-hesitant crowd about a block and a half away.

"Nice timing, Fury," the billionaire comments as they draw near each other. "Good to know that number you gave me works."

There's the sudden chopchopchop of a helicopter above them, and Tony looks up to see a black SWAT copter lowering toward the ground. A dozen black-clad men, armed to the teeth, drop out of it and land with weapons raised.

"You guys, on the other hand, have crappy timing," Stark shakes his head and takes a few more steps toward the car, not liking at all the way Ivan's gone kind of quiet and is leaning more and more heavily on him, red drops spattering the dirt. "You're a little late, guys," Tony continues, "Us and the nice lady in blue have already taken care of it."

The SWAT guys pay no attention to his snarky words; they form a circle around the two men, guns leveled at them. Before either of them can voice confusion or surprise, a voice booms from a loudspeaker over the roar of the chopper:

"Ivan Vanko, step away and place your hands in the air! Resist, and you will be shot!"