Title inspired by the fact that canonically, Tony Stark once harnessed and weaponized the power of the sun.

and no, I haven't watched endgame yet, pls don't spoil

warning/s: excessive swearing

To The Man Who Holds The Sun

This is how it starts.

.

Tony spends a few seconds staring at the starless sky, before his brain catches up and signals to him that he's in the middle of nowhere.

Waking up in an unfamiliar environment was not an entirely new concept for him. Except this time, he wasn't held hostage by a group of terrorists who wanted him to create a weapon of mass destruction in the middle of the Afghan desert, nor was he left to die in the Siberian cold, buried beneath a thin pile of snow and hopelessly reeling from the fresh betrayal of someone he once thought of as a friend.

No, he could clearly remember where he was just moments ago – lying down on his bed, head atop a pillow. Getting his well-deserved shuteye. Alone.

Instead, he can feel his head scraping against cold rubble. The acrid smell of a sewer and other unpleasant factors that he was dead sure wasn't there before just served to remind him once again of the fact that he was, in basic terms, lost.

He's also sure that it had been several years ago since the last time he got drunk off his ass, enough to make him sleep next to a dumpster.

Here comes Step One of Making Sense of the Shitstorm that Had Been His Life for the Past Few Decades: Keep Calm and Rationalize Your Surroundings.

"Okay, not the weirdest thing that's happened to me in the past week," he says slowly, confused and lost but trying to reassure himself. "At least it's not Afghanistan, thank God. Don't freak out now, Stark." Stark men are made of iron, Howard's voice comes out of nowhere, and any reminder of his dead father is the last thing he needs right now, so he shoves it away in the corner of his mind.

He's in the middle of a dark alley, red bricks and uneven pavement, the faint light from a broken streetlamp illuminating his surroundings. Tony slowly, warily shuffles his way out until he reaches the street. It's dark. Not a single soul around. Weird.

How the hell did I end up here? Tony thinks, mind whirring, coming up with multiple theories. What even is his life anymore? The possibility of magic and godly interference seemed so commonplace in his clusterfuck life that it didn't seem to bother nor faze him anymore.

"Okay, Kyle Reese, let's do this."

There's no use just sitting still and doing nothing, so he trudges onward.

The skyline above seems like he's still in New York, his home turf but not-quite his home turf, but the sense of familiarity's enough, so he's glad anyway. The city noise echoes in the far distance. Still, there's something different – strange – in the air, and it's not the sewer smell. There's a wrongness, faint, but there – pulsing, insistent, and he wants to throw up. He hasn't felt this way since he drifted off into space and stared at the vast eye of the universe.

Unconsciously, his hands scratch at the arc reactor on his chest. Familiarity. Reassuring, telling him that he's here, he's still here, existing, breathing. Alive. He needs to get inside the suit, somewhere familiar and not damp, somewhere safe, needs to get away for a little while –

Footsteps echo behind him, and he turns around to see two strangers several blocks away. Disheveled clothing and lots of shuffling around. Faces that look like they kill. For some reason he's stuck frozen on his spot, unwilling to move.

"Hey! You! I can see you there!" One of the thugs shout.

Because he's a shit, Tony says, "No autographs, sorry."

They trudge closer, enough so that he can clearly stare at their faces and not just their outline. Thugs, from the looks of it, and they're staring at him like he's naked. When he looks down at himself, he might as well be, pajamas and all.

The second he looks up again, there's a gun pointed between his eyes.

Still, he feels no real fear, only a tiny bit of anxiety. Threats from street thugs seemed a million leagues below alien invasions and armed terrorists, no matter if they were currently pointing a gun to his face.

"What the fuck's he wearing?"

"Don't be rude, it's pure silk," the words come out of his mouth, and he stupidly smiles instead. Damage control, damage control. "See, totally harmless." He pats the arm of the guy holding the gun as if to placate him and receives a hard shove for his trouble. "Hey, easy there big guy."

"The fuck? It's just a hobo." Thug No.1 says.

"What, you thought he was a spy?" Thug No.2 interjects incredulously, and Tony's almost offended by the tone of his voice. And they're worried about a spy of all things, so they're gang members. Not exactly the most helpful information.

"No, you ass. Still, he reeks of money."

"How would you know?"

"Fuck off, I just know, okay?"

"He's wearing pajamas."

"It's silk. Cost me a thousand dollars, give or take," Tony comments offhandedly, and the two turn to glare at him. "Hey, just saying." And he really should shut up now, but when did Tony Stark ever care what others thought of him?

"Let's mug this rich fucker," Thug No.2 mutters, and Thug No.1 beside him mumbles something which sounds like agreement.

Tony rolls his eyes. "Let's not, please, gentlemen."

"Okay, smartass. Who the hell do you think you are?"

Tony heaves a sigh. "Don't you two recognize this face? I just saved you and your family's asses from becoming alien à la dessert a few years ago, and this is the thanks I get? Unbelievable. Hey, and you, yeah, the jackass with the ridiculous 80's mohawk. Seriously, put that gun down."

"The fuck are you on about?"

Freaking unbelievable. "Tony Stark? Y'know, Ironman? New York invasion? Giant wormhole in the sky? Ringing any bells here?"

There's silence for a few seconds, and then the two laugh. Thug No.1 almost loses the grip on his gun. Tony patiently waits for them to calm down.

"You on drugs, asshole? No way are you a superhero," he says, looking Tony up and down, and for the second time that night, Tony feels insulted.

"Okay, now I know you've been sleeping under a rock."

"Whatever. Shut the fuck up, or better yet, give us your money," one of the nameless thugs grunt, scowl in place. He then pulls his gun out of nowhere and disables the safety.

Great. Now there's two guns pointed at him. Tony knows there's a joke about this somewhere.

"Sorry, didn't bring any. I don't have any pockets."

Any minute now. Tony's half tempted to tap his chest and let the nanotech work its magic, but the other half of him is impressed with the sheer audacity of the gangsters in front of him. It's not everyday a civilian's brave enough to threaten one of the Avengers. Or maybe they really have been living under a rock all this time.

The first thug takes a menacing step forward. "You wanna die? Listen, you fuckin' smartass-"

Like the first crack of thunder, a gunshot rings.

And then another.

The two thugs immediately duck for cover, threatening composure forgotten. Tony, still frozen in place, immediately looks behind him, where the sound came from.

Like some kind of bad cliché, a figure steps out of the shadows. It's a man, bulky and strong, from the looks of it. He's wearing a red helmet that completely covers the expanse of his face except for two small white slips for eyes. There's gun holsters all over his body and a brown leather jacket that completes his whole punk military ensemble look.

Holy shit. It's modern-day Rambo in the flesh. Tony almost whistles in appreciation.

The thugs, however, have a different kind of reaction.

"Shit! Shit, it's the Red Hood!"

"We - we ain't dealing nothin' to nobody!" Thug No.1 positively squeals. He's beyond terrified, him and his buddy surprisingly quivering in fear, and Tony's pretty sure there's liquid leaking out from him that's most definitely not sweat, but he's not that much of an asshole to point it out.

"Please, please, fuck, please, we ain't dealing shit!"

His supposed savior – aka Rambo – snorts. He jerks his head, and the message is clear before he even voices it out. "Scram." Behind the helmet, his voice sounds a little young, maybe a young adult, Tony faintly observes. "Or else you scumbags will do more than piss yourselves in fear."

They don't need a third gunshot. They take off running with their tail between their legs. Tony's tempted to wave them goodbye.

Behind him, he can hear the rough shuffling of boots. The Red Hood.

It's just the two of them now. Still no signs of any breathing soul, and it's starting to unnerve him. New York was never this quiet, this still, especially in the dead of the night. It's discomfiting. A little suffocating. Where the hell is he, really?

And who the hell is this guy? Tony turns to stare at the stranger called "Red Hood". What kind of name is that, anyway?

The stranger's gun glints under the streetlight, stark, gleaming bright metal standing out against its owner's dark getup. Tony's not sure what to say, but he thinks he's supposed to say something like an icebreaker, because the Red Helmet – uh, Red Hood – guy's currently standing in front of him in silence, waiting for him to speak.

At the same time, there's an itch that warns Tony to take him down. He's dangerous. A threat.

But he has to say thanks first. Good manners.

Time to turn on the charm.

"Uh, Red Hood, was it? That was a nice thing to do. Ignore the fact that I'm currently wearing my PJs to bed and pretend I'm in my Ironman suit. Anyway, I'm totally inviting you to the annual Avengers party. Oh, and cool outfit. Really liking the whole gun-slinging motif. Ladies dig that."

Red Hood doesn't say anything, and Tony can't see his expression but he's sure he's being scrutinized behind the helmet.

When he's not being Ironman, he's not threatening to look at.

Red Hood's still silent, still observing him, and then he abruptly turns and starts walking away. Tony blinks, and before his better instincts, shouts, "You know, I'm not supposed to be here!"

Red Hood doesn't turn around but Tony can hear him scoff.

"Wait! I'm serious, I don't know where the hell I am."

It makes him sound like an idiot, but Tony's desperate for information.

This time, his mystery savior turns around to look at him. "What are you talking about?"

"Look, I know it's weird but the last thing I remember is sleeping on my bed, and the next thing I know, I'm awake in an alleyway. Somebody must have kidnapped me and put me here without alerting my security system." The stranger in front of him doesn't say anything, so he continues. "I'm not familiar at all with this place."

"You're at the East End," Red Hood says slowly, like he's an idiot, and Tony has the sudden urge to smack him. "You look like a rich guy –"

Tony almost laughs.

"I am, I'm Tony Stark."

" – ah, so that explains why you look like one of the idiots from the Diamond District. It's on the other side of Gotham, old man, so you better run along instead of talking to me, before someone else tries to mug your sorry ass and I'm not around to save it."

Asshole.

Wait, what? Gotham?

Tony massages his temple, feeling a thorough headache coming up. "Didn't know they changed the map. Last time I checked, there's no place called Gotham in America, least of all New York."

"Better go to a hospital then. Get yourself checked for amnesia, if you don't even know the name of this city."

Tony stares in muted horror. "You serious, Junior?"

"Call me Junior again and I'll break your arm."

No. No.

Did he - did he time travel? Was there some sort of quantum reality that he accidentally trespassed on in his sleep?

The stress of the situation's getting to him. He squeezes his eyes shut, doesn't care if Red Hood's staring at him, confused. He needs to talk to someone. He needs to talk to FRIDAY, needs to activate his suit.

"Hey, old man."

Rationalize.

Make a plan. He has to stay calm. Keep his heartbeat steady, his mind focused.

"I'm not old, I'm middle-aged, shut your trap." Tony says, and slowly opens his eyes. Raises his eyes and gives a grin.

He can feel the thrum of adrenaline before he realizes he's probably digging his own grave.

"Can I ask you a favor, my knight-in-shining-armory? Mind if I crashed at your place for a little while?"

Jason's not sure he's heard right.

"What?"

"I said," the rich idiot slowly says, like Jason's the one talking crazy and not him, "can I stick around, bond with you, become best buds? Actually, ignore that last part. You got enough room to spare at your place? Unfortunately, I don't have cash with me right now and my ATM card, but I can try to hack it if you want, easy-peasy. Or maybe you're one of those good Samaritans who don't expect payment."

The fuck?

Can he not see the red helmet and the guns? Does he not have any sense of self-preservation? Jason stares at him silently in horror.

The man rambles on.

"You staying in an apartment? A secret evil lair? Tough guy like you, the latter seems more likely. Hey, what date is it, by the way?"

"You…you don't know who I am, do you?" Jason manages to say.

The man stares at him blankly. "You're the Red Hood, right? Red Helmet seems more fitting, y'know, with the," and then he gestures to his face. Jason's head implodes from sheer disbelief.

"Can't believe I wasted my bullets on you. You're crazy. I'm leaving," Jason grits out, already reaching for the grapple gun hidden underneath his arsenal.

The guy has the audacity to look offended.

Whatever, he's zipping away from this madman.

"Try not to get yourself killed, old man."

"It's Tony Stark, dipshit. Better known as Ironman. Hey, are the Avengers gone in this timeline? 'Cuz you don't seem to recognize me."

Jason's not sure what to reply to that, but he's sure of one thing now.

"You're crazy."

"You've said that twice already. And I'm not," the man grumbles and legitimately pouts. "Maybe a little. I'm brilliant."

"Brilliantly moronic," Jason agrees.

Some guy who prances around one of the more desperate parts of the city near Crime Alley in nothing but his jammies and bed hair and currently conversing one of the most known crime lords of underworld Gotham was nothing short of an idiot, no doubt about it.

"Says the insane guy waving around guns and wearing a stupid red helmet. Can you even breath in that thing?"

Jason's not sure why he's not walking away yet from the crazy man. Curiosity, maybe. Just hours ago he'd been making his rounds, patrolling the city for any lowlife seeking to commit crime, saving two young girls from being molested by a drunk scumbag. Moments before that, he'd been involved in a big gun deal in a small abandoned warehouse near the docks, showing Black Mask and his mindless goons who was boss.

He'd left soon after, but not before hearing that the Batman arrived soon afterwards. Poor Roman, the bastard. Jason was not in any mood to deal with Bruce, especially after what he did, the betrayal that still stung fresh in his mind, his neck, his scarred right hand, his heart.

The green pit rose up inside the back of his skull. Rage and anxiety was slowly building up, thrumming inside his system like a coiled snake, squeezing, suffocating. Shit. Shit.

His head throbbed. The rage pulsated, faint, malicious. The haze of anger was slowly settling onto his vision.

He wanted to shove the pajama-wearing dumbass but he resisted.

He wanted to shoot someone.

Now was not the time. Dammit.

Fuck Bruce. Fucking old bastard, liar, god, Jason hated him –

"Have you died of asphyxiation yet?"

Jason snaps out of his angry stupor. If looks could kill, the old man was already dead. "Never should have saved your chatterbox ass."

"Oh, good, you're still alive there. Don't glare, it's not nice," The crazy stranger – Tony Stark, he had said his name was – says. "I can see through your helmet."

Jason glances at him. The idiot would probably get mugged again. Worse, murdered. His death would be in Jason's conscience.

He makes up his mind, reaches for a gun tucked away in the back pocket of his pants, and tosses it for Tony to catch.

"You know how to shoot using a gun?"

Tony stares at the gun, then at him. "Of course. I'm not an idiot."

"Could have fooled me. Use that to protect yourself. It has enough bullets, don't waste a shot. Use it for emergencies," he says, like he's admonishing a child. Tony's silent, staring at him with an unreadable expression.

"Are you some kind of assassin?"

Jason grins.

"No, I'm worse."

"A vigilante?"

"Close enough."

"Knew it," Tony snorts.

Jason turns to leave. He's wasted enough time as it is.

"Hey, wait," Tony starts to say. "I'm serious about crashing at your place."

"I just told you that I might be worse than a coldblooded killer, and you still want to stick around?" Jason deadpans. "You don't even know my real name. Do you have a death wish or something? Is that why you're wandering around in this area?"

"Dunno. I feel safe with you. You're a pretty decent guy," Tony says without missing a beat. "I trust you. Feel flattered."

Jason's head short-circuits, and for the umpteenth time that night, he's speechless.

No one's ever said that to him. Ever.

"Holy shit. You have the self-preservation skills of a goddamn cockroach."

"I'll take that as a compliment, thanks."

"I'm leaving. Adios, Mr. Stark," he says, craning his neck and glancing up at the rooftops, fingers preparing, directing the hook. He prepares, takes a breath, puts enough weight on his feet, and soars away, landing with a semi-smooth thud on asphalt.

The Gotham skyline looks, as usual, familiar and deceptively bright. The lights shine like a beacon calling home, and Jason ignores the unusual twinge of guilt in his chest. Ah, shit. He doesn't dare to look down at Tony Stark.

I trust you.

The guy's insane.

"Hi," a voice cheerfully greets to his right, smug and familiar, and Jason instantly snaps his neck.

There's a suit of armor flying next to him, bathed in rust red and gold, unearthly light being reflected off the gold-aluminum alloy, metal shining bright and blue. It's so out of place, so sudden and bright that Jason's too shocked to notice the gun he's holding to the thing's chest.

"What the fuck," is what Jason says.

"That's not very nice," the robot admonishes, talking like a normal person. The voice sounds familiar. Wait –

"And I don't mean the swearing, I meant earlier. We were having a moment there."

"Tony?"

"In the flesh – er, you know what I mean." The suit of armor says, and gently lands next to Jason, dust flying in wind. The mood whiplash is too much. Jason instinctively backs away. "Actually, as of the moment, I'm Ironman."

"Fuck," Jason swears again, "you're a metahuman?"

"Don't know what that means, don't really care. I'm not an alien, if that's what you're implying."

"You –"

Before Jason gets to finish his sentence, the armor slowly disintegrates into a fixture on Tony's chest, and after a few seconds, like some kind of magic, it reveals Tony, with his stupid bed hair and smug smile. Underneath his dark blue pajama shirt, the center of his chest glows a bright blue.

Jason's silent for a moment, at a loss for words. "What the hell is that thing?"

"It's nanotech, Rambo. What you just saw were nanoparticles. This thing on my chest is my own personal arc reactor. It's sort of like a holding unit, a container, a pouch of sorts. You get the idea."

"Is it –"

"Is it detachable? Yes, yes it is."

"Let me talk for a sec! Asshole."

"Oh, sorry, my bad." Sarcasm drips from his tone, and Jason resists the urge to put a bullet in his lap.

"Is it hazardous? How did you embed that thing inside your chest? Does it hurt?"

"First question, hm, yes, it's mildly dangerous, second question, it's a long story Junior, might open up about that another time. And no, it doesn't hurt."

"You're some kind of cyborg?"

"No, I'm 100% human, down to my flesh and bones. This thing on my chest? Built it myself, like all my other tech."

"You? You're an inventor?"

"A better term is genius."

Jason blinks at that. Apparently, Tony's not interested in the conversation anymore because he looks around the skyline view like he hasn't forever changed Jason's perception on unassuming middle-aged men wearing pajamas in the middle of dark alleys.

Unreal.

Tony's expression shifts, and Jason can see it, a tired resignation, barely repressed but there. Beneath the self-assured expression, showered by an eerie light, clean lines on his face and dark eyes, and Jason's sharply reminded of Bruce Wayne.

Suddenly, Jason believes his crazy talk about Avengers and Ironman.

Tony sighs.

"Crap. I'm nowhere home. Screw my life," Tony says. He turns towards Jason, eyes dark and glinting in the pale light.

"I'll tag along with you. Either that, or I'll find some way to crash inside a motel or some rundown part of this city where I can rest for a while. What do you say?"

Jason knows better. He should say no, because he certainly doesn't need any more extraneous shit in his life. There are nights when he feels how goddamn lonely he is, how alone he truly is, but he's not stupid enough not to realize that he doesn't need connections. The more people, the more liabilities he has.

He's realized that since he woke up, fresh from the Pit, trying to make sense of the world around him. When he learned of Bruce's betrayal and how he didn't really matter in the end.

After waking up from death, he's never really living, just surviving. Like he'd been for his entire life.

He's trying his best to steer clear of trouble that doesn't involve his personal vendetta of justice, and Tony Stark reeks of trouble.

Still, against his better instincts, he opens his mouth and says -

"Okay. You can come."

Fuck.

A/N: These two can move mountains.

Tony is the Bruce Wayne of Marvel. Seriously, he is. Harley, Peter, and now Nebula? Seriously hope he gets a happy ending or at least a bittersweet one in Endgame (no, I haven't watched it yet, please have mercy on me I'm hopefully gonna watch it on Tuesday, I've heard things about what would happen and I'm ready to bawl my eyes out )

And Jason is…how do I even start? He's Jason. 'Nuff said.