25

Wednesday, September 12, 1990

The phone line picked up on the other end after two rings.

"Sam Lieberman here you got ten minutes tops I do not have the time for more than that."

Sam's unusually brusque response had me frowning.

"Good afternoon to you too," I demurred, trying to keep my annoyance out of my tone.

"Noa I ain't got time for the small talk, just give it to me straight and quick like I am too fucking busy today."

"If you insist," I said with a sigh. "I just got off the phone with the appellate clerk. Oral arguments for St. John's case are first thing on the docket, but we won't be seeing court until November at the earliest. Judges Kramer and Costanza died last week, so now there won't be enough judges until—"

"Until after the special elections so remember to vote in two weeks and then lean hard on the bureaucracy if we wanna see this shit done before the goys go Santa Claus raving mad, got it, this could've been left with my secretary instead of calling me directly now is there anything else?"

I drummed my fingers on the desk and took a deep breath. I hadn't seen Sam like this in a particularly long amount of time. And the last time I had, was… ah, shit.

I sighed into the handset, loud and heavy.

"Are you fucking kidding me, Sam?"

"Oh don't you start with me Noa you do not know how bad shit has been since Loeb kicked it and how much goddamn stuff I've had to get done, do you!? I'm not as young as I used to be I can't keep up with some of these brats they've got in the courts nowadays I need this to keep my edge!"

"I will call Rivka and tell her you're using again!" I yelled into the phone. "Don't think I won't, Sam! And if you know what's good for you, you'll flush all of that crap down the toilet!"

I slammed the phone down and stood up from my chair, intent to pace a bit to help calm myself. Then I felt one of the spines at the tip of my tail catch on something on my chair before it ripped free, and cursed.

And things were going so much better, too.

Ugh. Okay, fine. Relatively speaking, things were going better. After all, all it took for things to go back to normal was a couple of phone calls, one trip to the therapist, and a good night's sleep.

… is what I very much wanted to be able to say. But that would be a lie. A bald-faced, utterly ridiculous lie. Because things were still an absolute mess around here.

Making those phone calls and getting things corrected with the Office of the Clerk did prevent my workload from ballooning any further than it already had, yes. But that only prevented me from getting any brand new cases added to my docket. It did nothing to rid me of the one-hundred and eighty-three new cases I'd had to take in the aftermath of the Arrival.

And to top things off, my visit to the good Professor only had me sleeping through the night for a week, and I didn't have the free time to go see him again. Not with my caseload as heavy as it was.

Now, I was a good attorney, but I was a solo practitioner. I could easily handle a caseload of somewhere between forty to sixty cases at any one time — and in fact, I did routinely handle that many. At LL&L, I even pushed into seventy or eighty, but that's what happens when you have a fleet of paralegals and summer associates able to shoulder some of the burden and all of the busywork. I didn't have those anymore. I didn't have what I needed to properly handle seventy-five cases the way I used to.

And I had more than double that.

I sat back down at my desk and felt the rip from my tail. It wasn't bad — but I'd still have to get that handled. And make sure nobody looked at my chair from that angle. With that thought set aside for later, I picked up a paper from my green post-it stack, pulled out a red pen, and started to review.

Right now, all I had was two secretaries, two 3L interns (that I was paying under the table, because 'compensation in course credit' should be illegal, damn it), and one very overworked paralegal.

Now, I say 'only', but the fact remained that the five of them were all shockingly efficient. Yes, Sophie being at the hospital every fourth day put a massive damper on productivity, but I was not going to be the one who stood between a parent and having family be there when her comatose child woke up. And Karen, as good as she'd gotten, was still new.

No, despite everything, we remained… relatively on-pace. Not because of the secretaries. Not because of Joshua, who was definitely due for a raise after all this, and was currently down at the probate court. And not because of Matthew, despite his familiarity with my methods, and was also currently down at the probate court (because he and Joshua were absurdly effective at pushing through the crowd there).

I heard a light tapping on the door to my office. It was very hesitant — not the usual 'shave and a haircut' tune I tended to tap out myself, and which everyone else in the office, bar one, had adopted.

"Come in," I said, not looking up from the motion I was proofreading. Right as I said that, I caught a typo, crossed it out in red ink, and wrote a correction atop it.

The door to my office opened, and I looked up to see Franklin "call me Foggy" Nelson push the door open just enough to squeeze in, then close it behind him.

"You uh, wanted to see me? Uh, boss?" He sounded nervous. I noticed that his hair was a bit frizzed up from the humidity — a risk you take when your hair is still not quite long enough to weigh itself down (and not treated with the correct products, but that was a project for another time…), and his top button was undone beneath his tie. Yes, a tie, even though I told both him and Matt that business-casual was the order of the day, which meant a tie was 100% optional. This one had bears throwing paper airplanes.

Foggy had quite the collection of ties, I'd discovered. And tie clips. And socks. And pocket squares. And fabric watch bands. And leather watch bands. And hair ties, too, though he didn't use them much himself.

Truth be told, I could never seem to hold on to any of mine. I had already mooched… I think six of his?

"Go on and take a seat," I said, eyes flicking back to the paper in my hands. "I'll be done reviewing this in a minute or two."

I heard him pull one of the chairs out from my desk and sit in it. Then worry at his watchband. Then tap his fingers. Then tap one foot.

He was as bad at sitting still as I used to be, I swear to God.

I wrote in a couple comments at the bottom of the motion I was reviewing, then set it aside into the pile to give back to Matt once he was back from probate court with Joshua in tow. My pen went down, and I gave Foggy my full attention.

"I realized that I've had plenty of one-on-one time with Joshua, and Matthew and I already had several similar discussions to this while he was working for me last summer," I began. "And I realize I've been remiss in my duties to not offer you the same attention, Franklin, so I apologize for that."

"Oh no, it's okay, really," he said. "I mean, you just took me on when Matt asked, so I kinda owe you one for that and all."

"I trust his judgment," I said. "Matthew may not have an eye for quality, but he has an ear for character."

Both of us shared a bit of a snicker at that. Foggy would regularly make vision- and blindness-based jokes at Matt's expense and in his presence, and the two's shared smiles and giggles at the litany of puns was enough to tell me they knew exactly what they were doing. And it had taken all of two puns for Joshua to join in, and a week later… I made one accidentally.

Needless to say, I wasn't allowed to pass by any of the men in the office without getting reminded of my slip-up. And I'd been so good about avoiding them, too! Now they had ammunition!

"Now I hope you'll forgive me for prying, but I can't help but be curious. You're in your 3L year now, so you're just about done. There's the bar exam, obviously, and then what?" I asked. "What are your post-bar plans, Franklin?"

"Um, well." Foggy pulled at his tie, straightening it a little, and then went back to fidgeting with the wristband of his watch. Blue on black today, I noticed. "So, uh, Matt and I were actually looking at starting our own firm together. Just a small thing in Hell's Kitchen, trying to help out the neighborhood, grow bigger there and make a name for ourselves."

"Mhmm," I hummed, noncommittally. "And what practice areas are you looking at? If it's meant to be a more local one… let me guess: landlord-tenant, personal injury, civil litigation, maybe dipping your toes into family law and probate?"

"Yeah, something like that," Foggy said, relaxing into his chair. "It's just — I mean, we're both just neighborhood kids, really. And we can really do a lot of good for people there, you know?"

"I see," I said. I rested my elbows on my desk and laced my fingers together, palms down, though I refrained from actually resting my chin on my hands this time. That gave an altogether too sinister air — and it was horrible on my back in the long run. Fun, yes. Comfortable for a little bit, yes.

But it wasn't conducive to a good conversation for you to constantly be pushing your head up when you opened your jaw.

"So you would be litigators, then?" I asked. "General civil litigation?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Foggy replied.

I frowned. It was a slight thing, just the corners of my mouth dipping the tiniest bit down. But Foggy noticed it immediately, and I could see the way his posture shifted from relaxation to worry in an instant.

"Please forgive me for saying this, Franklin," I began, "but your plan is doomed to failure."

"W-what!? But—"

I held up a hand to forestall any responses, and Foggy, mercifully, cut himself off.

"Your plan is doomed to failure," I repeated. "Matthew is a litigator through and through, born and bred. He is an absolute bloodhound, with the kind of killer instinct I've only ever seen in the few people I'm afraid of facing in the courtroom. You on the other hand, Franklin?"

I sniffed.

"You are wasted on litigation."

"… what?" Foggy asked. The worry and fright in his expression had been replaced by confusion; he still had that frown, but the emotion behind it was different.

"Have you noticed that in the past week, you haven't gone down to the probate court even once?" I asked. "That I've switched up what work I have you, Matt, and Joshua all doing? And how you keep having to come to me for more work, because you've gotten it done and now need something else to do?"

"W-well, yes," Foggy offered. "But I really hadn't thought anything of it."

"Franklin, I have been giving you client-facing work, the more… social tasks, I suppose I would call them," I revealed. "You do not have Matthew's sheer presence in the courtroom, or his willingness to go for the jugular. Nor will you ever, I don't think," I said. "That's not something you can learn particularly easily. What you do have is your own brand of charisma," I said. "People with whom I would have found pulling teeth an easier endeavor than getting them to open up? You had them talking to you like you'd been best of friends all your lives, and you didn't even have to try. That is a skill that many attorneys out there would kill to learn. And you just… have it."

Franklin didn't respond immediately. He just sat there, letting what I said filter through.

I reached into my desk and pulled out a few sheets of paper. One of them was a letter of recommendation I wrote for Foggy. Another was a list of names, other attorneys I'd met during my tenure who I had a feeling would be more than willing to take on the young man in front of me.

"Now, obviously you can ignore everything I've just said," I told him. "You and Matthew can go ahead and start your own firm, bleed yourselves dry trying to bring in clients without any existing skill or reputation base to build off of, and either succeed or fail purely on your own merits. Or you can take my advice: spend five years cutting your teeth in a larger firm, really learn both the law and the people. And then, once you know what you're doing, revisit the idea.

"So." I pushed the papers towards him. "You start running down the names on that list, and find yourself some work. You'll have to split between this and studying for the Bar, but I believe you have what it takes."

"I… ah." Foggy seemed to reconsider what he was going to say, and picked up the papers I'd put down in front of him. At the same time, I heard the office's front door open up, followed by a very familiar duo's footsteps and tired sighs of relief as they stepped through the door. "Wait, are they back already? Shit, what time is it!?"

"2:03pm," I told Foggy with a glance at my desk clock. "You and Matthew have class at half past three, don't you?"

"Yeah," Foggy said, standing up from his chair. "We have our advanced con law seminar."

"Best be on time then." I nodded at the papers. "Take those. Give it a thought. Talk it over with Matthew."

"Thanks." Foggy gathered the papers and headed over to the door, where he looked back. "I… yeah, thanks."

And then Franklin was out the door. Maybe three minutes later, both his and Matt's shapes blurred past the frosted glass, and I heard the main door open and shut behind them.

I stood with a smile, hoping Franklin would take my advice in the spirit it was meant. I didn't want to come off so strong, initially, but I realized that one didn't become friends with Matthew Murdock and have some measure of influence on the young man's actions without serious force of will. A hard sell was necessary in this situation.

Regardless — Matt and Joshua had gotten back from the probate court. I needed to get the updated docket from Joshua, so I started heading towards his office. Once I had that docket, I'd figure out what I needed to plan my schedule around this week.

All thoughts of that planning, however, fled my mind when I rounded the corner to Joshua's office and opened his door.

There he sat at his desk. A tightly rolled dollar bill in one hand. A business card in the other.

And a fine line of white powder, sitting in front of a little pouch.

Whatever statement of surprise Joshua was going to utter died on his lips when he saw me. My lips were pressed into a hard, thin line, and never was I more desirous of the ability to burn something to ash just by looking at it.

"Joshua." I knew when he flinched that there was much more emotion in my voice than I'd initially intended. But I couldn't help the anger, the shame, the sheer disappointment at what I was seeing.

"N-Noa, I," he stammered. "I-it's not—"

I snapped my fingers. Joshua flinched, but he fell silent, as I wanted.

A moment later my focus flew into the room, hovering over my shoulder. With a gesture, the clip had a hold of the drawstring on Joshua's little cocaine baggy, and it floated behind me. I reached over to the tissue box on this desk, picked up my business card that he'd clearly used to cut and shape his line, and pushed it all off the desk and into the tissue.

"This," I said, wadding it up, "all of this? It goes down the toilet."

"Noa, l-look, I—"

"I do not know if you have been using already, because I haven't seen it. But let me be very fucking clear!" I yelled. "If I see even one solitary speck of white powder near you that I am not absolutely certain isn't salt, sugar, or sweetener, that is it," I told him. "You will be out that door so fast your head will spin."

"Noa, please, I—"

"Go home, Joshua," I stopped him. "You're done for the day. Just… just leave."

I turned away from his office and went to the bathroom. The door was closed and locked behind me before I opened the tissue and let its contents fall into the bowl, then pulled the little satchel off of my focus and emptied that into the water also.

I flushed the drugs away.

That was… not how I wanted this day to go. God, I hoped it wouldn't get any worse.

Multiple professions have their drug of choice, but just to name a few…

Professional athletes had steroids. Doctors had opioids. And lawyers?

We had cocaine.

The stuff was absolutely fucking everywhere in Big Law. Did you have a major trial to prepare for? Cocaine. Ten hour deposition coming up and you were trying (and failing) to prepare a witness who you just knew was going to implode by the end of hour two? Cocaine. Just got promoted from junior associate to senior associate, with a promise of partnership down the line? Oh you just fucking know the cocaine was coming out!

So many lawyers used it. The constant sniffles, the tissues being ready at hand, the furtive not-coughs when nobody was looking… ugh.

And now, after all my hard work avoiding it, decrying it, doing everything I could do not have to worry about it… the damn stuff had come home to roost. God, I had wanted to strangle Joshua! What was he thinking!? Yes, we'd all been stressed. Yes, we'd all been overworked.

But he didn't see Sophie bumping cocaine from the front desk, did she?

Fuck, I just… I didn't want to have to drug test my employees, but the longer this crunch went, the more that seemed like a very real possibility.

No. No matter. Tonight, I was going to treat myself. A good steak was dry brining in the fridge, a whole head of purple cauliflower to cut up, and a knish from Kaplan's. Beyond that, I'd opened up a bottle of Pinot noir and poured myself a heavier glass than usual, which I was nursing a bit at a time. The Mets game was on TV, and—

My door started vibrating. It started vibrating in the way that indicated it could only possibly be one person.

And as much as I adored that kid, today was really not the day for this!

Regardless, I still did my usual ritual for him. I set out the cleaning supplies, got the paper and felt-tip pen ready, and then opened the door wide.

Imagine my surprise when Pietro just walked in normally, a bundle of newspapers under one arm, and closed the door behind himself. He turned around to look at me, and just sort of shrugged.

"What?"

I opened my out to say something, and… nothing came out. I blinked, and tried again.

"You're… slow?" I asked, at a loss for words.

"No, am still fast," he said, blurring into motion. A moment later, and the newspapers were gone from his grip. "Just excited. Come, see!"

Pietro zipped through to my dining room and beckoned with one arm. I followed, and took in the diorama of back issues he'd set out across my dining table.

"You remember that day, yes?" Pietro asked. "The bad day."

"The Arrival," I supplied, shuddering at the memory.

"Yes," Pietro said, a bit stiffly. "That."

The two of us fell silent for a moment, a heaviness filling the air between us. I didn't like having to remember that day — and I knew Pietro was remembering the state I was in when he found me.

"Ah! Look, look!" Pietro snapped out of his funk first, and gestured to the newspaper articles spread out across the table. I scanned over the headlines, noting the ones that he'd circled in black sharpie — headlines discussing the "silver blur" visible during The Arrival.

I'd been too busy in the days following the event to notice, but Pietro's actions had garnered quite a bit of media coverage, really. The final estimates regarding how many people he'd saved also kept growing as the days went on — people he'd brought to the hospital for treatment ended up surviving to help others, or point emergency services towards more victims and survivors of the event.

All told? I was just one of over fifteen thousand people who owed Pietro their lives.

The young man in front of me had cut the death toll by over ten percent.

Single-handedly.

"I did not know it was this many," he said, excitement filtering into his voice. "I just tried to help. So many people. And they all live because… because of me."

"Yeah." I brought a hand to Pietro's shoulder and rested it there. He turned to look at me, and I offered him a smile. "You did some real good out there. Saved more lives in one day than most people ever meet."

"That is not all!" Pietro guided me around the table to the article he'd put at the head. I read, eyes growing wide as I read, and I couldn't help but bring a hand in front of my mouth in surprise. "Mayor wants to give me Key to the City!"

"'The Office of the Mayor is requesting any information regarding the whereabouts or identity of the superhuman being referred to as the Silver Blur'," I read out, "'for the purposes of presenting this new hero with the Key to the City'?"

"Is incredible, no?" Pietro buzzed around the table again, clearly unable to control his excitement. "Noa, I, I want this. How do I do this?" he asked. "Come forward."

Oh dear. Oh dear. Okay… I had to think about this… I didn't — how was I supposed to phrase this delicately? I was able to use the hard sell on Franklin, he was able to take it, see past the gruffness to what I was underneath. But Pietro was different. My relationship with the young man was different. I wasn't Pietro's boss, or his mentor.

I was… what? His surrogate aunt? His god-aunt, if my suspicions were correct?

I had to tread carefully here.

"Pietro," I started carefully. "Do you remember that major case I had last summer?"

"Johnny?" Pietro asked. I raised an eyebrow. "He said to not use his full name. One syllable too short."

"If you insist," I sighed, but nodded. "Okay. Keep that in mind while answering this next question. Could you describe what you did during the Arrival?"

Pietro frowned.

"I…" He paused. "Ran in grid pattern. Scanned city for wounded, people in danger. Pulled people to safety. Took others to hospital. Went into homes, pulled people from fires, ruins."

This was the part I was dreading.

"Now let's assume the worst here," I said, trying to soften the blow. "Let us say you present yourself. And then armed cops show up, arresting you for kidnapping, human trafficking, breaking and entering, armed robbery, destruction of property, and obstructing emergency services," I said.

As I ticked things off, the expression on Pietro's face grew stormier, and I could see his hands clench into fists. Fists that began to vibrate.

"I already saw one railroading happen because we weren't ready," I said. "I am not taking that risk again."

"So… so what?" Pietro asked.

"We get some protection first," I said. "Use what you did during the… during the Arrival as some kind of, I don't know." I waved a hand, trying to think of something. "Show of character, or something. Reach out to the established sanctioned heroes."

"But how, Noa?" Pietro asked, pacing around my kitchen just slightly faster than I could easily track, clenching and unclenching his hands repeatedly. " How? I cannot go to the Fantastic Four or the Avengers and just, just, ask to join!"

… actually? That… wasn't a terrible idea.

"Now that you mention it?" I started, prompting Pietro to slow down. "That's might not be so impossible a task as you think it is."

"What?"

"Maybe you don't have an in to the Avengers at all," I started. "But I'm a voting shareholder in Stark Industries. And before the Avengers, Stark is in charge of the Iron Man."

The young man stopped moving entirely, just staring at me from the opposite side of my kitchen table.

"… what?" I asked.

And then the next thing I knew, I was swept up in a hug and lifted off my feet.

"Thank you." His voice was thready, heavy with emotion.

"Pietro, you saved my life," I reminded him. "This is nothing in comparison." He only hugged me tighter in response. "Um, could you put me down now?"

The young man holding me aloft blinked, then finally seemed to realize what he was doing. I blinked, and next thing I knew I was sitting on my couch, a bowl of mint chip ice cream in my hands.

"Pietro, I hadn't even made dinner yet," I admonished, picking up the spoon and tapping it against the side of the bowl as I stared at a suddenly-bashful Pietro. "But you know what? Nothing wrong with a cheat day."

Pietro laughed, and returned moments later with his own bowl.

"There is some left, right?" I asked with one eyebrow raised.

He stopped with the spoon partway to his mouth, looked at it, then turned to look at the kitchen. Then Pietro downed the spoon and set his bowl on my coffee table.

"Will be right back."

A rush of air later, and Pietro was gone. Then he was back again, with a new tub of ice cream.

And a pair of milkshakes.

I put down my bowl and spoon, leaned back against the sofa, crossed my arms, and just gave him a look.

"It was worth a shot," I told him. "A for effort. C for failure to plan."

Pietro slumped in his seat. But he kept chugging away at his own milkshake.

Monday, September 17, 1990

I hated shareholder meetings.

… wait, I've already been over this, haven't I? Something about this gave me a horrible sense of deja vu… okay, let's just skip past the rigmarole and get straight to the heart of the matter.

Stark Industries shareholder meetings were already rather impenetrable and hard to decipher from their outset. However, since the Arrival, those yearly meetings had been upgraded to weekly, as the status of many, many, many voting shares were in limbo as the probate courts handled their backlog.

After three meetings of literally zero change, though, Tony Stark, as chairman of the board, made the executive decision that no, he was not going to waste a day every single week to just get a list of who hadn't figured out what to do with their shares. Or of whose shares had yet to be reallocated. Or whether more shares got to go back on the market because a dumbass had died intestate, only for their heirs to immediately try and dump the portfolios for a quick buck.

Point was — as one of the attorneys present, I was one of the few sources of updates from the probate courts, so I had to actually talk at the past few meetings. And oh did I hate it.

Thankfully, I got to speak first, because I did have an update regarding the shares of a major stakeholder who held 5% of the voting shares — the will was being contested, and a quick glance was enough to tell me that the whole thing was going to be held up in arguments, motions, and failed dealmaking for at least a year.

"So don't expect those votes to actually do anything until…" I flipped open my planner, checked my calendar before the probate court, and then compared. "Let's see, it's been assigned to Judge Doheny… he's infamously slow, so sometime in '92," I finished.

Several less controlled people audibly groaned at that. I simply leaned back in my seat, tried to get comfortable even though the base of my tail was pushing against the back of the chair, and zoned out almost everything else again. Normally I tried to listen to the first hour or so, just to know if I needed to consider changing my position on other stocks – but I told my broker that I wasn't really planning on selling anything for at least a year and a half, when most assets tied up in probate should hopefully be free.

The post-Arrival chaos tanked the markets a bit, yes… but the rebound was already starting.

Regardless, there was nothing of interest for me to listen to. Normally, I would have been out of here in another fifteen or twenty minutes. But this time, I was eyeing somebody else.

I was not going to leave until Tony Stark made his exit.

There the man sat, in the back corner by the door. I couldn't see him from where I sat, but I could hear him quite clearly – the hum of the reactor in his chest was unmistakable. Nothing else sounded even remotely similar to it, at least to my superhuman hearing. All I had to do was wait until the position that sound came from changed, and I'd know when to make my exit.

That moment came mercifully soon — maybe ten minutes longer than I would have stayed myself. Whatever beverage Tony Stark had in front of him, he slugged it down, plunked the glass back down on the table loud enough to make me wince at the sound of glass on glass, and was out the door within five seconds of standing up.

I wasn't quite that fast myself.

"Mr. Stark!" I called as the elevator dinged, drawing his attention to where I stood, halfway down the hall.

He closed the folder in his hand, tucked the artist's pencil he'd been holding behind his ear, raised his sunglasses (indoors, yes, really), and gave me a once-over.

"You know, I'm usually the one propositioning the beautiful women," he said with what he probably thought was a suave smirk, but just came off as a leer. "This is a bit of a change of pace for me. What can I do for ya, sweet cheeks?"

I held in the shudder at the nickname, and kept my expression professional.

"I am acting counsel for a heroically-inclined superhuman who has shown interest in joining the Avengers."

Tony didn't respond immediately. He crossed one arm over his chest, rested the other arm's elbow on it, and stroked his mustache in thought. Ugh, god the porn 'stache was a horrible look on him.

"Huh," he said. "So. Is it Spider-Man or the Silver Blur?"

I blinked, brought up short by that. Where did he get Peter from—actually no, how did he get Spider-Man from me?

"A-ah, the latter," I said.

"Hmm." Tony stared into space for a moment, and then brought his hand away from his mustache. "Silver Blur. Terrible name, but the media's always bad about that. Ooh, should probably think of a better name. Chroma crash!" Tony snapped. "Wait, no, that's terrible. Hermes! No, no, that's pretentious as shit. Mercury?"

"Quicksilver," I cut in, trying (and largely failing) to keep the annoyance out of my tone. "He goes by Quicksilver."

"Him, eh?" Tony Stark smirked, and I immediately realized he'd gotten something from me. Damn it — playboy he might have been, but I'd managed to forget that for all his immaturity, Tony Stark was, in fact, a genius. "Alright. This 'Quicksilver' wants to go hero. Not sure what you want me to do about it."

"Iron Man cannot have joined the Avengers without some administrative process," I said. "And since you and he are interchangeable as far as liability is concerned, that means you needed to be involved in the process."

"And you want me to grease the wheels for your boy, hm?" Tony mused. "You wanna do something for me?"

"You get to control my voting shares for a year," I offered, my tone deadpan.

Tony raised his hand and opened his mouth as if to say something, then paused, bringing a hand to his chin in thought. Then he extended that hand in my direction.

I crossed my arms and raised an eyebrow.

"Business card, woman!" Tony snapped, verbally and with his fingers. "I don't have all day!"

I grumbled, but reached into my purse, pulled out my wallet, and retrieved a business card from that. Tony reached out and snapped the card out of my hand before I could even give it to him.

"'Noa H. Schaefer'," he read off, one eyebrow raising as if to mirror my own favored expression. "Bet that's caused a few embarrassing fuckups. What's the 'H' for?"

"Hava," I said, the 'h' pronounced with the same roughness as the one in 'Hanukkah'.

"Huh." Tony moved his fingers, and the business card disappeared into his sleeve. "Alright, sweetums. Expect a fax."

Tony hopped into the elevator while I was left completely taken aback at his audacity. I resolved then and there to never put myself in a position where I would need to personally deal with Stark himself ever, ever, again.

And I doubled down on that vow when the fax came in. Because it didn't show up at my office, which was the number on my business card. No, that would be too simple.

Instead, two dozen pages of paperwork on SHIELD letterhead showed up at my home fax machine. The fax machine with a number I had never given to anybody other than Sophie, Joshua, and Sam Lieberman.

God, I hated tech heroes sometimes.