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･ﾟ𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𖦹𓇼𖦹𓆝 𓆟 𓆞･ﾟ

Though the weather was hardly ideal for a stroll along the seaside, the boy had been so intent on this little outing that his aunt was easily talked into accompanying him. It would have been preferable to take him down to the coastline when the sun was shining, since she'd have liked for her nephew to see just how lively the esplanade could be on a good day. Peter seemed to pay it no notice, though, entirely unconcerned by the storms churning off in the distance when May mentioned that they would have to turn back sooner than planned.

"I think I like it here, Auntie May," Peter good-naturedly confided as they slowly made their way along the seawall, tasting salt spray as it tousled their hair with every fresh gust of the northeasterlies. With his big, sad eyes and his sun-kissed complexion, the boy resembled Mary so much that it often made his aunt's heart hurt to recognize the dead woman in him, but she hid it as best she could.

"I'm so glad, Peter," May smiled back at him, hoping that in due time, her sweet nephew would indeed come to accept this seaside town as his new home. It might not have been quite as exciting as the city he'd hailed from, but it was a decent place for a child to grow. The boy was still so young and impressionable, with a bubbling curiosity that was infectious to be around. "I like having you here," May warmly added, pleasantly surprised by how much she meant it.

She watched as Peter scampered further along the seawall, so light on his feet that he seemed almost to be made of feathers instead of flesh and bone. "Mind the edge, dear," May called out in warning, "I wouldn't want you to slip and fall..."

"I won't!" Peter promised, moving a short pace away from the edge to appease her, though soon enough he was veering right up to it again as he eagerly scanned over the rocks and detritus below, keeping an eye out for the notorious harbor seals that May had promised he'd spy before long.

Peter had run a fair distance ahead of his aunt before he suddenly paused, staring dawn at a section of the rocks far below with a curious set to his shoulders. He sees something, May sensed, continuing along the wall until she was nearly beside him.

"What is it? Have you spotted a seal yet?" she asked, peering over her nephew's shoulder.

"...I see a man down there," Peter replied in a hushed tone, still staring at the same point down below.

Frowning, May followed Peter's line of sight until she noticed the same dark figure that her nephew had, letting out a soft breath of realization.

"Ah. That's only Mr. Stark," she quietly explained.

Peter glanced up at her with curiosity before looking toward the strange man once more.

"But what is he doing down there, so close to the water? Is he not afraid he might be swept away?"

"There's little that man is afraid of," May replied, in a tone that had Peter looking to her once again with a question in his eyes.

"Mr. Stark is an odd sort," May told her nephew, "but he's of no danger to you; never mind what any gossips around here might tell you. You're bound to hear of him sooner or later, so better that you heard it from me, first."

As Peter processed his aunt's peculiar confidence, a light of recognition suddenly lit up his eyes. "Wait -- that isn't Anthony Stark, is it? The famous explorer who invented all those wonderful gadgets?!"

"Then you've heard of him already," his aunt blinked, somewhat impressed that the stories had traveled so far.

"Of course I have!" Peter beamed, turning wide eyes back onto the man that continued to stare out over the choppy water, as if in wait for something. "Oh, Auntie May! I've read all about him in the Nick Fury Weekly! It's my favorite magazine!"

"Indeed," May chuckled. "Well, perhaps you shouldn't believe everything you read, Peter. I'm sure some of those stories have been exaggerated."

"Oh, don't say that!" Peter protested. "They couldn't have made up all the things they say about him... like how he invented a flying machine that can carry a man over the tops of buildings! I know that one was real, because they included diagrams and everything, and the engineering behind it is actually rather ingenious..."

"And what do you know of engineering, young man?" May inquired, more curious than skeptical of her clever little nephew's unexpected interest in such a mature field.

"Enough to know that Mr. Stark is no crackpot," Peter earnestly asserted. "He's brilliant, Auntie May. I'd so love to meet him..."

"Then so you will," May promised. "But you mustn't get your hopes up too high. Mr. Stark is given to... distraction, these days. He isn't exactly the best of company, to put it kindly."

"What do you mean?" Peter frowned. "Is he ill-tempered?"

"...It's not that he's unkind," May replied, struggling to articulate her meaning. "Only that... he has much on his mind, to the exclusion of social niceties."

"Oh, then that's no matter," Peter shrugged, cheering at the explanation. "I think that's considered common with the genius-type personalities, anyway. Though I suppose I am a little surprised, since the adventure stories tend to paint him as something of a charmer..."

"Well, he certainly can be when he wants to," May said with a curious twist to her mouth and a certain sparkle in her eye that made her nephew favor her with an odd look. "Never mind all that," she dismissed with a slight coloring of her cheeks, realizing that the boy was unusually perceptive for his age. "Let's suffice it to say that the man has an inconstant character, shall we?"

"...If you say so," Peter murmured, side-eyeing his aunt. "...But I don't understand why you speak of him as if you've spent a good deal of time around him; does he reside here, now? Why is he not off on one of his expeditions? I thought that he was determined to travel the whole of the globe..."

May looked down at the man on the rocks with a kind of sympathy in her expression before enigmatically replying, "I think that Tony might've had one adventure too many."

Peter waited for further explanation before venturing to ask, "...You will tell me what you mean by that, won't you?"

With a sigh, May looked down at her nephew and placed a light hand at the nape of his neck, mentioning, "It mightn't be a proper story for a boy so young, my love."

"I don't mind," Peter shrugged, with a hopeful lift of his eyebrows. At his aunt's laugh, he added in an undertone, "I'm sure it can't be more scandalous than anything I've already read in Nick Fury Weekly."

"Hmm, I wouldn't be so sure of that..." May skeptically countered.

"You said yourself that I'd better hear it from you than from the gossips," Peter reminded her. "Whatever the story is, I will want to hear it one way or another..."

Giving her nephew a long, considering look, May finally relented. "Oh, all right then. Come along. Now, I don't know all the facts, mind you, but I'll tell it as I best know how; this is the way it was told to me—cobbled together by those who'd been closer to the truth than I—though I cannot say whether it hasn't been embellished overmuch along the way... But do keep in mind that no person alive can ever know the truth as well as those who've actually lived it, so you must take everything I tell you with a grain of salt."

"I understand," Peter promised, taking one last look at the man down on the rocky shore before letting his aunt lead him away from the seawall's edge by her gentle hand.

"It's a rather strange tale, this," May warned. "But there are many hereabouts who would swear by the veracity of it..."

"I like 'strange'," Peter smiled.

May squeezed his small hand as she returned the smile, telling him, "Then listen well young man, for I have quite the tale for you..."

Though certain details of the discovery itself have been subject to heated dispute, there is no question that a ghastly storm had swept over the region on the fateful evening that they found him.

The Triskelion had been out trawling in the foul weather when Coulson, the first mate, instructed the crewmen to pull up the net and set a course back to the local port. The net had hardly been in the water long enough to haul anything of substance, so the crew were taken aback when they noticed an unexpected heaviness to the load, fearing that they might've ensnared some large beast... Upon lifting the net clear of the choppy sea, one of the men had shouted that he saw a man entangled therein, though he wasn't believed until the net had been fully hoisted up and onto the wooden deck, whereupon everyone was all agog at the form of an actual man sprawled out before them! And a young one, at that— couldn't have been a day over twenty five— wet as a fish and naked as the day he was born.

A couple of the crewmen would later claim that what they'd first pulled out of the water was a great fish that had transformed into a man as soon as it was clear of the ocean's surface. Another swears it was half man and half fish, and that his tail became legs as they heaved him over the side of the Triskelion. Most, however, seem to agree that he'd been a man all along, and that anyone who says otherwise had been in their cups already, or else were given to telling tall tales.

Whatever the case, the indisputable fact was that the unconscious young man newly aboard the Triskelion had been pulled from the sea, and not a single soul could know his true provenance.

There had been speculation, of course. Rather lurid speculation, indeed.

Many supposed that he must have been a thief, thrown overboard by one of the passing galleons. It was not an uncommon punishment—legal enough by maritime standards—though Coulson would not hear of tossing the man back from whence he came. Captain Pierce had thought the matter mighty unusual, and bid that Coulson properly interrogate the man as soon as he had woken.

Upon returning from a lengthy diplomatic expedition that hadn't earned him the capstone in his career that he'd envisioned for himself, semi-retired Captain Alexander Pierce had become more of a glorified fisherman than a commanding officer when at home, though one would be unwise to suggest as much to his face. Coulson knew better than to disobey his captain, though at heart, the first mate was too kindly of a man to consider any undue treatment. Once the hatches had been batted down, Coulson set up the stranger in his own bunk, watching over him the whole night long as the ship was tossed about by the ongoing storm.

They say that when he at last awoke, the man seemed to have suffered some manner of amnesia, forgetting even how to speak for a time. For all his patience, Coulson couldn't manage to get so much as a name out of the poor fellow; such was his apparent muteness. He'd seemed bewildered by everything and everyone, taking in his surroundings with a kind of awe and wonder, and no small amount of apprehensiveness. Though he did not appear to have sustained any obvious injuries, the man had, at first, been too unsteady on his feet to walk on his own, needing two men to hold him upright on either side, since he was of such a broad and muscular stature that one man alone struggled to support his weight!

Coulson found the fact of this physique to be perplexing, since it would seem to suggest that this man had been a laborer of some kind... His skin, however, was perfectly unmarred, with hands as smooth as any gentleman's. Such excellent physical health did seem to support this latter theory, leading Coulson to speculate that the man had been of higher birth than some petty criminal. Perhaps it had been that he'd fallen afoul of pirates, or some other scheme that had landed him in the water -- whether thrown over deliberately, or possibly in an attempt to flee...

Whatever the case, Coulson felt that the man ought to be treated as if he were a gentleman, and had instructed the crew to follow suit. And so they did—however begrudgingly—offering the stranger wine in a proper glass and the best provisions they had onboard, though the man had no interest whatsoever in wine or any food that hadn't come from the sea. His odd behavior and uncivilized mannerisms made the men uneasy, unconvinced that he could have possibly been a gentleman, as Coulson seemed to believe.

By the time that the Triskelion had set anchor in the harbor, the stranger—whom Coulson had taken to calling "Cap" (a fond endearment honoring his dearly departed former captain, whom the man bore a sort of resemblance to)—could walk upright of his own accord, and had shyly begun parroting the speech of the crewmen. He seemed to understand what was said to him well enough, even if he'd been slow to respond in kind. Coulson was convinced, then, that he must have had a previous familiarity with the English language, even if it hadn't been his native tongue.

News of the man's arrival and the mysterious circumstances of his rescue had spread quickly amongst the townsfolk, who were all eager to lay eyes on the uncommonly handsome stranger. Though Coulson had offered to set him up in his own apartment, Captain Pierce—upon learning that the man was in all likelihood a gentleman; perhaps even one of high standing who had survived what may well have been a botched murder scheme—insisted that his own family welcome him into their stately home.

In the following weeks, whatever the Pierces might've learnt of their strange guest was kept amongst themselves. Inquiries were certainly made; that much is well known. Pierce seemed to think that he'd happened upon a person of significance, given how much he lavished on the stranger. Fine clothes were fitted for him. A doctor specializing in head injuries was called in to assess his amnesia. An instructor was taken on to improve the man's elocution. It was not so very long before he could be seen walking on the arm of Mrs. Pierce, who would stroll through the town with head held high, as if she were entertaining royalty. The gossip mill was rampant with speculation, though no one could say for certain whether any of it could be substantiated.

After some time—when there still hadn't been any creditable leads on the stranger's identity—the Pierces decided to name him Steven, as a provisional moniker. Some still playfully addressed him as "Cap," after Coulson's nickname had stuck. The local children preferred this name, often seen clinging to the stranger like limpets as they pestered him for new details, since his subdued, agreeable temperament invited such liberties. They were regularly disappointed by his repeated refrain of "I can't remember," though the man seemed genuinely unable to sate their curiosity.

If the man did recall anything at all about his life before, he kept it to himself. Many a time he could be found out on the seawall, staring off into the distance with a faraway sort of cast to his eyes, looking as if he’d left something behind in the water. He could stare at that water for hours, appearing as if he were hypnotized by the foamy patterns hissing their cryptic susurrations over the surface as the sea churned down below. Sometimes passing folk would see fit to rouse him from his thoughts, concerned that he might fall in and drown if he kept at it.

By and by Steven was able to walk more or less like anyone else, losing the stilted gait that had always made him appear as if he might fall flat on his face when there wasn't anything nearby to steady himself against. His facility with language also improved steadily, though for some reason it took him longer to acclimate to the most common of customs; pleasantries such as handshakes seemed completely exotic to him, which no one could simply excuse as a sign of a foreign upbringing. His aversion to shoes had proven difficult to overcome, since he'd repeatedly 'misplaced' them while out on his many strolls, often arriving barefoot and having no recollection of where he might have left his footwear along the way. It hardly seemed accidental; Mrs. Pierce was always chasing after him and imploring him to put more clothing on, since if Steven had had his way, he'd sooner walk around half-dressed than suffer a fitted waistcoat.

It must also be said that Steven possessed the most dreadful table manners, reluctant to use a fork and a knife the way he'd been taught. Some foods repulsed him so thoroughly that he would spit them out quite indiscreetly, just as an infant might. The doctor had mentioned that in some ways he was like a young child again, needing to relearn basic skills that most adults took for granted. Even given this explanation for the man's unusual mannerisms, many were still unsettled by him, different as he was to anyone—man or child—that they'd ever encountered.

Still, it could not be said that Steven didn't make a fair go of it, in spite of his difficulties. To the satisfaction of all but the Pierces, Steven was not content to be idle so long as he resided in the town. The Pierces had tried to engage him in more 'civilized' pursuits, such as bookkeeping and fine arts; the latter of which he performed quite well at, producing lovely sketches of the seaside— whereas the former pursuit tended to stifle him, though he'd learnt the laws governing property and so forth well enough. What Steven seemed to enjoy most, though, was helping wherever help was needed, putting his considerable strength to use whenever he came across workmen laboring over their task.

The Pierces would try to dissuade him from engaging in such menial labor, insisting that it was beneath his so-called 'station,' though their arguments seemed to fall on deaf ears. Mrs. Pierce even attempted to distract Steven with a new assignment: putting him to work in her prized garden -- but the man had no aptitude at all for working the plants and soil; in fact, he overwatered everything so drastically that Mrs. Pierce ended up with a veritable swamp in her yard! He meant well, poor Steven, but the strange fellow was simply not suited for gardening, as Mrs. Pierce learnt the hard way.

In time, it seemed that Steven had adjusted to his new life in town as well as could be hoped for, given his unusual circumstances. Even so, there was always a certain lost look about him that no one could remedy, however kindly they tried. No one wanted to see him unhappy; the townsfolk had come to accept "Steven" as one of them, content that he was an upstanding young man of good character, whoever else he might be. For awhile at least, that was enough.

That is, until Anthony Stark sailed into town.

･ﾟ𓆝 𓆟 𓆞･ﾟ

The sun had just been dawning when the frigate sailed round the cape, its bearings on the growing seaside town. The ship was a marvel to behold, newly built and designed in large part by Captain Stark, himself, with three fine masts and a formidable gun deck housing the best of Stark's own advanced weaponry. He'd christened her the Avenger, after assembling the finest crew he could find in an joint effort to counteract the ongoing threat of piracy out on the open seas.

Stark, of course, had been a celebrated inventor and famed adventurer prior to spearheading his crusade against piracy. In certain circles he was considered quite the libertine—notorious for his gambling, drinking and womanizing—exploring the globe in the fashion of an extravagant aristocrat with an excess of time and money to spend. He'd inherited a very large fortune from his late father, the esteemed founder of a great shipbuilding empire, and had left provisional control of the family business in the hands of one Obadiah Stane, whom he'd mistakenly believed he could trust. 

As the story goes, it wasn't until after Stark had been set upon by pirates with a mind to murdering him that Stark learnt the true lengths Stane would go to in order to seize the company for himself. Stane's ruthless plot had nearly succeeded, with Stark believed to be lost at sea for nearly three whole months before he turned up alive and well -- save for a shaken understanding of himself and his purpose in life, along with the adoption of some rather queer notions.

No one really knows how Stark had managed to survive after going overboard so far from the Key West port from whence his ship had launched -- though if Stark were to be believed, he'd in fact been rescued by none other than a creature long thought to be the stuff of myths and fairytales...

"It was a merman," he'd sworn, "real as you or I: half man, half fish -- with the build of a longshoreman and the face of an angel."

Touched in the head, he must have been; took a hard blow, poor fellow, when he'd gone overboard. Or so everyone had thought.

Aside from his ravings about beautiful "mermen" and the implausible story he'd dreamt up to explain his rescue and recovery, Stark was still sharp as a tack when it came to his unusual inventions. He soon reclaimed his father's company, putting greater focus on defense after his harrowing experience at sea. In this spirit he took to designing great warships capable of unprecedented speed and maneuverability, outfitting even his leisure vessels with better means of evasion and defense capabilities. Before long he'd become an outspoken public speaker, rousing support for causes that were now very close to his own heart.

Most importantly, he vowed to hunt down and bring to justice the most infamous and deadly pirates known to the seven seas. To aid him in this mission, he recruited a motley crew of fellow justice-seeking travelers, each of whom brought unique skills in combat, sailing and other specialized knowledge to the team. They proved to be remarkably effective, at that; the Avenger had only been seaworthy for less than a month before it had tracked down the first enemy on the crew's list, managing to overtake the Jotunheim—a pirate ship captained by a wily Norseman of terrible repute who had been considered quite the expert at evading capture—with stunning efficiency.

Hailed as a hero, Stark had become so celebrated for his successes that everyone had stopped whispering about what had happened to him during his time stranded along the Keys, more interested in praising him for his heroism than disparaging him for his lunacy.

His reputation might never have taken a turn for the worse, poor man, if he hadn't set eyes on the fair young Steven...

･ﾟ𓆝 𓆟 𓆞･ﾟ

There were many who had gathered for the revelry in the local tavern that day, once word had spread that the Avenger had been anchored in the harbor, bringing with it a celebrity captain and his crew of pirate-fighting champions. Consequently, many a drink was poured as Stark and his crew told of their recent encounter with the dread pirate Vanko, whose fiendish plot to use the Avenger's own weaponry against her to sink the frigate—and her entire crew—had become the talk of the town in short order. Vanko had been discovered in time to thwart his scheme by the watchful first mate, thank goodness, and would terrorize the open waters no more.

Perhaps if Stark had not been drinking quite so intemperately in celebration of his victory, his first encounter with Steven might have gone another way.

Though Steven had never developed a taste for spirits, he often had quite the appetite for mussels after a good day's work. It was with a plate of these in mind that he entered the tavern that evening, his shirt undone in typical fashion, caught unawares by the large turnout.

With no free table to sit down at, Steven had made his way to a bar stool, hoping the catch the eye of the barkeep given how the serving girl was too caught up in the boisterous goings-on at the large corner table to pay poor Steven any mind. As he waited for the barkeep to take notice of him, he hadn't yet realized that he'd inadvertently caught the eye of someone else.

"Tony? Is something the matter?" Bruce had asked, peering at his captain with concern. "You look as though you've seen a ghost..."

"...It can't be..." Tony had whispered; his wide, disbelieving eyes still locked on the figure of the man patiently leaning on the bar.

"Who is it?" Bruce had pressed, likely worrying that his captain had spotted some foe not yet known to him, given his pale pallor. 

"Do you see that... man... there, standing at the bar? The pale-haired one?"

Bruce had already identified the man whose entrance had shaken his captain so, replying, "I see him... what of it?"

"...Then I am not imagining it? ...Truly? I've not drunk myself into some kind of fever dream, have I, Bruce?"

"Tony, I see him just fine. Tell me: who is that man?"

"Not a man... not... but behold! His legs!! By Jove, I know not how he has done it, but he walks!"

"...Perhaps we ought to revisit what you said about a drunken fever," Bruce had frowned, unable to parse his captain's odd ramblings. But before Bruce could suggest switching to a rousing cup of coffee, his captain was already rising from the table with a noisy scrape of his chair against the floorboards and tottering over to the bar with much less grace than he could typically accomplish.

"Thundering typhoons!! IT IS YOU!!"

The lively din of the tavern's many patrons diminished at the captain's loud outburst, as all in attendance took notice of the unusual confrontation. Stark had come to a halt a few paces from the bar where Steven stood, looking completely befuddled.

"What? Do you not recognize me?" Stark had demanded when Steven continued to stare at him with blank confusion. "Come now... surely I've not changed so much in these last months... You, on the other hand..."

Stark had gestured vaguely to Steven's clothing and the legs on which he stood, still staring at the cornered-looking young man with wild-eyed astonishment.

"Oh, but look at you, my pearl... good god... what have you done?" Stark had lamented, further confounding poor Steven. Taking a step closer, Stark had lowered his voice to continue in a most evocative tenor, "I've not forgotten those eyes of yours, I tell you; blue as the most splendid lagoon, set amid some dreamlike isle... that lush, balmy place where the sand is so white you'd think it were made of diamonds... ring any bells?"

Steven had swallowed thickly as Stark stepped closer still, telling him in an overly familiar tone, "But just fancy you now, all trussed up... And walking, moreover! On two legs! Looking quite spry for a fish, aren't you? C'mon— what's your secret, then -- don't tell me you could walk on land all along?"

Frowning with incomprehension, Steven had replied, "I don't take your meaning, sir."

Stark had blinked at him in clear surprise for a moment before sputtering, "He speaks!"

"Captain Stark, do you know this man?" Coulson had asked, stepping forward to try to discern the meaning behind this unexpected exchange.

"This is no man," Stark had vehemently insisted, to the confusion of all within range of hearing. Steven himself had seemed much unnerved by this proclamation, looking at Stark as if he could not understand him at all.

"I think our good captain has been too long at the drink," Thor had offered by way of tentative explanation. "Since it is plainly a man standing before him, despite his strange words."

"How did you manage it?" Stark had drunkenly demanded, stepping closer toward Steven, no matter how uncomfortable he was made by it. "Is it the open air that does it? Dry out the scales, and two legs emerge?"

"Easy, Tony, I think you've pestered him enough," Natasha had interrupted, coming behind him in an effort to draw him away from the cornered young man. "The sun has gone low, and you still haven't slept; let's turn in for the night, shall we?"

"So you all think me a lunatic, then, do you?!" Stark had railed, looking at the gathered crowd with a defiant expression. "Then watch me prove it! -- Water! Give me some water!"

Not a soul had known what to make of these ravings, the whole assemblage looking on with befuddled concern as Captain Stark purposefully staggered about the room for a moment before shouting "Aha!" when he caught sight of a pail of dirty water beside the tavern's floor mop.

What he did next was so unexpected that no one had been able to react in time to stop him. Before anyone knew what he meant to do, Stark had hefted up the pail of water and rushed over to Steven again, emptying the entire contents all over his trousers with one messy heave-ho. There was a chorus of shocked gasps from the crowd as everyone had stared at poor Steven, who stood there dripping wet and looking almost as flummoxed as he was irritated by it.

Eyes wide with a mad sort of anticipation, Stark held up a beseeching hand when Natasha had tightened her fist around his collar, prepared to drag him off before he could do any worse. After several awkward moments, though, Stark had seemed to deflate with disappointment before abashedly murmuring, "...I thought that would work."

"We're leaving," Natasha had firmly spoken into Stark's ear.

"I apologize for the trouble, sir," she had told poor Steven as she pushed and pulled at Stark, trying to wrest him away despite his continued objections. "...Our captain is not himself this evening..."

"HE is not HIMSELF!" Stark had loudly insisted, pointing at Steven and shouting, "MERMAN!!"

"Oh, Tony, no... not this again," Bruce had bemoaned.

"He has not denied it!" Tony had argued, thrashing against Natasha as Thor reluctantly set down his tankard and pushed himself up from the table to go offer his assistance. The exhausted helmsman Barton, meanwhile, had found all of these proceedings far too entertaining to intervene, preferring to sit back in his chair as he took another long sip from his own tankard.

Managing to pull himself free of Natasha enough to grab hold of Steven's shirt, Stark had looked him fiercely in the eye while demanding, "Dammit, you know what you are! Tell them! Don't you dare deny it!! I swear to god I'll hurl you back into the sea if you try to deny yourself!!"

At the last, Coulson had seen fit to pry Stark off of Steven and shove his own body between the two men, looking at Stark with a dangerous expression as he cursed him for saying such a thing.

Stark had been escorted out of the tavern by his crew mates that night, still muttering about magic and mermen as Steven warily eyed him all through his dramatic exit.

The incident at the tavern had been a curious one, to be sure, but no one had given any credence to Stark's wild claims, dismissing them as the ravings of a drunken man haunted by old demons. Though the sailors who had been aboard the Triskelion would later offer their own outlandish interpretations of what had actually happened the day that Steven had been pulled from the sea, they'd keep those fanciful ideas to themselves for the time being.

The only person who had seemed truly affected by all of it was Steven. He avoided the tavern thereafter, steering clear of it and the neighboring inn for three whole nights as he spent most of his time sequestered in private pursuits. Stark, meanwhile, would not let the matter lie. Even after sleeping off his night of carousing, Stark seemed afflicted by a most consuming sort of distraction in the following days; he was determined to know all about how Steven came to be at the town, pressing the Triskelion's crew for any pertinent details. He wished also to know of how Steven had come to walk and talk, seeming quite affected by what he'd learnt of Steven's unfortunate amnesia. Despite being always on the lookout for the young man he'd seen in the tavern that night, Stark would not call upon the Pierce household even knowing that Steven was dwelling therein; this was most likely on account of him being expressly forbidden from doing so by his own crew mates.

It wasn't until the fourth evening that Steven was seen in the streets again, making his way toward the very tavern where he must've known he'd find Captain Stark.

The second meeting between the two men was not at all like the first. For his own part, Stark's temperament had morphed into an uneasy sort, free of the accusatory mania that had defined it during their previous encounter. There was, however, still a sort of leery surety about him as he watched Steven walk into the tavern, keeping sharp eyes on him all the while as he waited where he sat, as if he had no doubt that Steven would come to him.

Appearing determined despite having that look of a cornered animal about him all over again, Steven had sat down at Stark's table in the seat opposite the captain, after Stark had motioned for Bruce to vacate it. They had simply stared at one another for a protracted moment; Stark wearing an odd expression that couldn't seem to settle on smugness or something much less confident, Steven with nothing more complicated than a shy kind of curiosity.

"They tell me that they've taken to calling you 'Steven'," Stark had mentioned, narrowed eyes glinting with skepticism. "I won't pretend the name suits you."

"Do you know of a better one?" Steven had cautiously inquired.

Stark stared across the table with careful assessment before answering, "...I've a vast library, back on my ship. Somewhere in my collection is a rather ancient book I picked up across the Atlantic, detailing the ways of mysterious creatures... That book might contain your answer; to that and much more besides..."

"You don't know my name, then?" Steven had frowned, no doubt wondering whatever the man could mean by speaking of some old book in lieu of a proper answer. He'd watched as Stark had leaned forward, resting his forearms against the tabletop.

"I would not speak of such things in this place; not if it means having your so-called protectors tear you clean from me, once more," Stark had mentioned in a surly undertone.

Steven had leaned in closer to Stark, regarding the man with cautious seriousness as he asked, "...Have you come then to rescue me?"

Barking out a laugh at that, Stark had replied, "Rescue you! From what, exactly? A life of pampered ease as Madam Pierce's prettiest pet?" At Steven's hurt frown, Stark had settled back against his chair as he continued, "Come now... you dried and dressed most willingly in all their finery, so I hear... 'Tis no wonder you caught that dread disease of the higher faculties, believing whatever they tell you so long as it brings you some measure of peace, eh?"

Taking in Steven's dour expression, Stark had swallowed another swig of his drink before warning, "You can't keep up this charade forever, precious. Captain Pierce's interest in you already wanes... He thought that by reeling you in, he'd soon have someone of importance in his debt; but in all this time since, none have laid claim to you, have they? -- None but I, that is. I would claim you. Though you steadfastly deny any knowledge of our acquaintance..."

When Steven had only regarded him uncomfortably, Stark taunted, "Where are your 'people,' then, Steven? Surely you came from somewhere, hmm? You weren't born out of thin air, or fetched straight from the stork's fabled pond some moonlit twilight... it's doubtful there was even any air around at all when you were born... Is that not so? Try to tell me again how I've got the wrong end of it, 'Steven'."

"I don't know any goddamned Steven," the younger man had snarled, the lapse in pretense eliciting a shark-like grin from the man across from him. Stark lifted his glass and downed the remainder of his drink before slamming the glass upside-down upon the tabletop.

"Then will you come with me? To my ship?" Stark then entreated, eyes all alight with some new devilry.

"You've given me no reason to trust you," Steven had demurred.

Favoring the younger man with a doubtful look, Stark had persuaded, "Haven't I, though? Everyone else has tried to make you into something you clearly are not; I only mean to remind you of what you are."

"Then how have you come by such knowledge?" Steven had asked, still looking unsure of the impudent man, though the anxious way that Steven had splayed his hands upon the surface of the table betrayed his eagerness to hear more.

Stark's expression had taken a turn for the salacious as he obliquely answered, "...Let me assure you that I have indeed come by it, true enough... Pity you can't recall how I came by it. It was by your own hand that I came by it, after all..."

Steven had just stared at the older man blankly, which seemed to deflate some of the cocksure presumptuousness that made him so impossible to speak plainly with.

"Surely you remember something of the last time you saw me," Stark had pressed, eyes dark with some inscrutable emotion. "...Why else have you come to this place, I wonder?"

Peering across the table at Stark with no small amount of suspicion, Steven had replied, "...You claim that we've met before, then?"

"Oh, come, Steven," Stark had chastised, losing patience. Stark had reached across the table to stroke a finger over the top of the younger man's hand, then, sending a proper shiver through him before he heard Stark meaningfully murmur in a private tone of voice, "There now, see? ...You ain't forgotten everything."

Something in that touch must have spooked the poor fellow, for in the next moment he'd risen from the table so fast that his chair went clattering backwards, drawing much attention from the other patrons. Clutching his hand as if it had been burnt, Steven had looked between Stark and his hand as if thunderstruck by some fervid emotion before bolting out of the tavern, leaving Stark to mulishly drain one drink after another for the remainder of the night.

"Wait a moment, I'm confused."

May paused in her storytelling, looking expectantly at her nephew where he sat up against his headboard, his blanket drawn to his chest.

"About which part, pray?"

"...Well, several, honestly... but what did Mr. Stark mean by what he'd said, after he touched Steven's hand?"

Chewing on her bottom lip for a moment, May considered how best to answer her nephew's query.

"Well, he was trying to tell Steven that they'd already known one another, you see, before they'd been reunited at the tavern."

"Right. I understood as much; Mr. Stark believed that Steven was the merman, who he'd claimed to have been rescued by after the pirate attack..."

"Indeed."

"But why would Steven have been frightened so, after Mr. Stark said those words and touched his hand? What was Steven meant to have forgotten— or not forgotten?"

"Well..."

Taking a steadying breath, May decided to venture a more precise explanation, uncertain whether her meaning would even dawn on the young lad. "I suppose that he meant to imply that they'd known one another in a more... specific way."

"...'Specific,' how?"

Flattening her expression, May awkwardly tried, "...Biblically."

The furrow between Peter's brows only deepened at that, pondering his aunt's reply before continuing, "...I see... so... they'd seen one another naked, then? Like Adam and Eve, in the Bible?"

"Well... yes. That's right."

Peter nodded his head thoughtfully, though he hardly appeared any less confused. "...I suppose that would make sense for Mr. Stark, who would have had to undress out of his wet things, lest he catch a cold... but aren't merpeople always naked, Auntie May? Or are you suggesting that they wear some kind of bathing suit, in fact?"

Huffing out a little breath of amusement, May shook her head as she hid a private smile. It was gratifying to her that—despite how uncommonly bookish her nephew was for someone his age—growing up amongst city folk hadn't made him street smart prematurely.

"I couldn't say for certain, my love," May gently smiled. "Shall I go on, or do you wish to speculate further on the dressing habits of merfolk?"

"Please continue," Peter agreed, settling back against the headboard as he made himself cozy again.

Smoothing out her skirts as she shifted on the foot of the bed, May mentioned, "...I hesitate to tell you this next part, on account of the dramatic nature of it... I wouldn't wish to give you a fitful night's sleep over such ideas..."

"Auntie May," Peter whined, insisting, "Please! I promise that I'll sleep more soundly if I know how it all ends, rather than having to wait until the morrow!"

"Hmm," May hummed, thinking over her nephew's reasonable logic before conceding, "...very well, then. But I'll remind you that this part in particular may be embellished rather heavily, given the convoluted origins of its details. In truth, I heard it from a chamber maid known for spinning yarns, who herself had overheard a private conversation between the innkeeper, Miss Potts, and Captain Stark's first mate, Natasha. Miss Potts is an old friend of the captain, you see, and Natasha had witnessed something most peculiar..."

"Oh do go on," Peter encouraged, completely entranced by May's storytelling.

"Well. I should tell you that Natasha has a particular knack for subterfuge, and was in the habit of taking it upon herself to ensure her captain's safety. So when she learnt that Steven had allayed his shyness the following evening and sought out Captain Stark once more, agreeing to accompany him onto the Avenger, Natasha saw fit to discreetly follow the two men aboard the ship..."

Steven had not stepped foot onto any seafaring vessel since he'd first been brought ashore by the crew of the Triskelion. He'd seemed markedly discomposed as Stark led him aboard his prized frigate that night, whether on account of being back on a ship or due to some other perturbation, none but he could say. Though it was the book Stark had spoken of that Steven was ostensibly after, something about this private assignation felt far more significant than some literary errand, even to an outsider.

With the manners of a gentleman Stark had led him into his impressive captain's quarters, which had been outfitted with all the opulence that Stark was long accustomed to. As Stark went about lighting candles, Steven took in the tall shelves of books behind shining brass guard rails; ornate hanging tapestries; large chests and smaller coffers full of untold sundries; and the blackness of the sea beyond the beveled glass windows. On one side of the room, some kind of bulky armor had been propped up beside a workbench, catching Steven's attention.

"Just a prototype," Stark had murmured when he caught Steven looking at it.

Steven's curious eyes continued to scan the large chamber, lingering for a moment on the sight of the massive, four-poster bed decked out gratuitously in the finest of furnishings, before he noticed that a candle had been lit on the writing desk that Stark was now leaning against.

Upon that desk, a large, leather-bound book was already laid out. Steven had glanced up to find Stark regarding him with another inscrutable expression, eyes dark with something that seemed to smoulder in wait.

"I knew you as soon as I saw you," Stark had told him, placing a hand over the book's cover as he kept his eyes fixed on Steven. "Even if you'd worn a disguise, I'd have seen through it. 'Tis your movements that betray you... even on land, you still move the same way; like a shadow on the sea."

Taking a steadying breath, Steven had continued to regard Stark with that same lost look in his eyes that he couldn't seem to shake, despite his resolution to know more of whatever Stark had to tell.

"Have they taught you your letters?" Stark had asked, receiving a shy nod from Steven in response.

"Some."

"Then come." Stark had opened the book beside him, flipping to a page he'd already marked with a red ribbon.

Slowly, Steven had approached the writing desk. As soon as he'd seen the artist's engraving beside the tightly-packed letters, his sea-blue eyes rose to meet Stark's too-knowing gaze.

"You recognize it, do you not?" Stark had prodded in a hushed tone, tapping his finger over the engraving of a mermaid. Steven had swallowed as he looked down at the book once more, scanning over the letters as he tried to piece them together in the way that he'd been taught.

"Shall I tell you what it says?" Stark had offered, staring at Steven with probing eyes. When Steven returned his gaze to Stark's, the older man pointed to a lower section and explained, voice softening as he went on, "The crucial bit is just there. According to legend, these 'mermaids' are thought to sometimes walk the earth on rare occasions... 'when their hearts have been captured by a human,' says here..."

There had been a long, loaded silence while Steven took in Stark's meaning, still fixated on the page of the book as he'd finally replied, in a voice slightly rasped, "...Then you think... that you... that I..."

Carefully reaching over, Stark had bid Steven lift his head to look at him with a gentle finger curled beneath the younger man's chin. His voice was soft as chalk as he'd entreated, "...Do you still deny yourself?"

That small touch had seemed to awaken something in Steven as he stared back at Stark with a kind of dawning wonder.

Stark had breathed, "...The light is in your eyes, my treasure..."

"Tony..."

At the sound of his common name, Tony had stepped closer toward the younger man with such a passion in his hungry eyes, though still moving slowly so as not to spook him all over again.

"You pulled me from the wreckage," he'd begun, speaking slow and deliberately. "Brought me to that enchanted grotto beside the blue lagoon; a place I could not return to after I'd gone, though you must believe that I did try..."

"Touch me again," Steven had told him in a breathy half-whisper, catching Stark off guard. "...I think... when you touch me, I remember."

Tentatively reaching up to take Steven's hand in his, Stark had watched closely as Steven sucked in a harsh breath, but made no move to pull his hand away.

"What does it feel like?" Stark had softly murmured.

"...As if... it seems as if some kind of lightning is coursing through me, shocking me from the inside," Steve had managed, gripping Stark's hand in his for another moment before his scrunched brow softened and he lifted his head, face awash with a slow recognition.

"I remember you."

"...Do you, my pearl?" Stark had thickly replied, twining his fingers between Steven's.

"You called me that, once, before..."

"I'd call you that for all time, if you've come all this way to hear it again."

"I... still cannot say for certain how I came to be here," Steven had apologized, "...but perhaps your book might hold more answers."

"These are merely another man's letters," Stark had replied, gesturing to the book somewhat dismissively. Winding Steven's arm with his, he drew their joined hands to tap against his chest as he'd softly entreated, "Whatever is inside your heart is what I would know."

"...But there is a page missing," Steven had suddenly noticed, still distracted by the book beside them, much to Stark's vexation. He'd watched as Steven ran his finger along the crease, tracing the place where the next page had been torn clean off.

"Is there?" Stark quietly muttered.

"Yes, see? It does not tell how to break the spell... Perhaps the missing page offered more information..."

"...Is that what you want?" Stark had flatly asked, abruptly releasing Steven's hand. "To return to the sea?"

Lifting his gaze from the book, Steven's eyes had scanned Stark's as he considered the question. After a protracted moment, he quietly replied, "This place is so strange to me, Tony. There is so much that it is doubtful I will ever understand. I have tried to find my place here, but... I suppose such a place never existed to begin with..."

As Stark stood by in brooding silence, Steven had continued, "...I dream some nights of a funny sea. A sea that holds me, softlike, as a mother holds a newly born babe. I would be content to remain there -- but each time I wake again to that empty air, choking on it for want of something else, and find my cheeks have become wet with saltwater."

Stark had stared at the younger man with a conflicted look about him, gently reaching up to stroke his thumb against Steven's fair cheek, as if to erase some phantom tear streak.

"...Shall I tell you what it is that I dream of?" Stark had asked him, voice gone down to a soothing purr. "It is of that first day—whereupon I woke lying flat on that warm bed of sand—and opened my eyes to find you above me, gazing down at me and stroking my head with more sweetness than any I've known."

The words had seemed to affect Steven most deeply as he'd searched Stark's honeyed eyes, standing quite still as he'd allowed the older man's hand to linger about his cheek. 

"I will admit it does feel cruel to want to keep you here, ever in spitting distance of your true home," Stark had softly conceded, unable to resist stroking the younger man's face now that he held it tenderly in his own hand. "And yet... here you are, now -- by some strange design... what am I to make of that, hmm?"

Swallowing down some feeling wanting to find expression in his rigid body, Steven's eyes had flitted back to the open book on the desktop beside them. Stark reached for it, then, closing the cover before looking back at the younger man with a challenging sort of set to his features.

"I think we can manage on our own from here on out," Stark had intoned, resorting to seductive prowess to distract Steven from further investigating the missing contents of the book.

"How much do you remember of our time together, back at that blue lagoon?" Stark had inquired, wrapping his free hand slowly around the narrow curve of Steven's waist.

"...Enough," Steven had whispered, his cheeks turning a shade of pink that made Stark look quite pleased with himself.

"Is that so?" Stark had crooned, sliding his hands up Steven's chest until he was tracing his fingers over Steven's neckcloth.

"Just look at these fancy clothes they've dressed you in... I'd wager they feel almost like a leash, do they not?" Stark had smoothly asked, tugging on the neckcloth in emphasis. "However can you bear such confinement? Do you not wish... to shed them?"

To Stark's utter delight, there was nothing that Steven had wanted more than to be rid of his clothing. Except perhaps to feel Stark's hands upon his skin again—and the quite unforgettable kiss of his lips—igniting memories that had been buried down in him for too long.

That night, Stark took Steven to his bed and ensured that all his memories of their time together were intact — and made some new ones for good measure. With every touch, Stark had reminded Steven not only of who they'd once been to one another, but of who he'd been all along. It had been a reckless thing to do for numerous reasons, not the least of which was the much overlooked fact that the only thing keeping Steven from returning to the sea was his own forgetfulness of how to go about it.

So it was that in the early hours before dawn, some ancient, bone-deep wisdom came back to Steven, rousing him like a sleepwalker as he'd slept beside his dark-haired human lover. He'd slipped from the bed just as quietly as he'd moved about the chamber, seeking out something he already knew where to find, though he hadn't taken any real notice of it when he'd first entered the captain's quarters. He'd only taken a few paces from Stark's bed before he came to a stop.

There, amongst the various treasures littering Stark's dressing table, was a jeweled dagger that had somehow found its way into Steven's hands, the silver blade shining in the moonlight as Steven pulled it free of its glittering sheathe.

-- Natasha had impressed upon Miss Potts that she really thought he would do it, cocking her pistol from the shadows and taking aim at the younger man as he stood beside the bed, holding the dagger aloft in his strong hands, right over the bare chest of the sleeping captain. One wrong move, and she'd have shot him clean through before he could complete the dreadful deed... --

But as Steven stood there staring down at Stark's sleeping form, that fogginess that had clouded his eyes seemed to clear as an aching softness overtook him, draining away whatever cold-blooded resolve had come over him in the dead of night. He had just been about to lower his arms when Stark suddenly stirred, eyes flickering open and going wide as soon as they took in the sight before them.

Steven had froze in place, knowing not what to do with himself now that he'd been caught out.

Stark's voice had croaked out into the eerie stillness: "So y'ain't forgotten everything, after all."

Finally lowering the dagger, Steven had looked as if he were about to crumble to pieces.

"Foolish of you to do it here," Stark had flatly scorned, laying still as death in the tangled bedsheets. "Once you sprinkle my blood on your feet, what then? How do you intend to return to the sea without legs? ...Just flop around the floorboards like a fish out of water? Not the most dignified exit, that. Though I suppose it would be foolish of me to expect more from an animal."

"Tony..."

"What I fail to comprehend is this," Stark began, pushing himself up in an ungainly manner, "—why even walk on land in the first place, if all you want is to go back as soon as you remember what you really are? What is the damned point of such an enchantment in the first place?? And don't you dare tell me it's for 'love'— because true love would never necessitate becoming so trapped in an intolerable position that you must spill your loved one's blood in order to escape. ...Or perhaps it does! What would I even know of it?! Nothing at all, it would seem. You truly chose the worst possible human to fall for, you know."

"But... I do love you, I think," Steven had quietly admitted, looking helplessly at the older man through watery eyes.

"Do not..." Stark had started, shaking his head as he sat up straighter.

"Please—"

"Stop. I won't hear this."

Stark had held up a hand in stern warning before he wrested himself free of the bedsheets and moved to snatch the dagger from Steven, muttering about how the whole affair had been cursed from the start. Dressed in nothing but his long johns, Stark had dragged Steven naked out of his quarters and up onto to the ship's deck, where the moon could be seen rising over the dark water. Steven had let himself be dragged, unwilling to contradict whatever Stark wanted from him, now.

Reaching the stern, Stark had released Steven's arm with undue roughness, snarling, "It was foolish to think I could make you happy enough to want to stay."

Steven had looked more lost than ever as he took in the harsh words, not knowing how to respond without making matters worse. Stark had spoken again before he could think of what to say.

"It matters not. Now I know what must be done."

Dragging a hand down his face, Stark had tugged at his goatee'd chin as he glanced downward for a moment, as if summoning the necessary resolve.

"Look," He'd said, pointing over the side of the ship. "The tide is turning. Come and see. Your time here is done."

With leaden movement, Steven did as Stark had bid, stepping up beside him at the stern's edge and leaning forward slightly to regard the receding tide. When he lifted his gaze, it was to witness the shocking sight of Stark slicing across his own forearm with the silver dagger.

"TONY!! STOP!!"

But his cry had come too late. As soon as the blood had splattered down onto the tops of his bare feet, he found his legs merging together as they transformed back into a big, scaly blue tail right before their eyes. Losing his balance, Steven had stumbled back against the ship's edge before toppling overboard and landing in the water below with a loud splash.

Whatever Stark had seen when he'd leaned over the edge, no one can know but him alone. Natasha saw only the devastated look upon his face when he at last turned away, trudging back to his quarters in search of a bottle of whiskey, the blood from his wound still soaking his skin and falling over everything in its path.

"So now, after transferring the captaincy to Natasha and bidding the crew of the Avenger to sail on without him, Mr. Stark has become something of a local legend around these parts. No one knows for certain why he wanted to stay on here, rather than leaving on the next voyage with his crew mates, but we have our ideas..."

"...Wait. That's the end?" Peter balked, staring at his aunt with unbelieving dismay. "That cannot be the end..."

Shrugging sympathetically, May replied, "I'm sorry, Peter, but not all stories have happy endings."

Letting out a huff of annoyance, Peter insisted, "Well this one must end better than that! I mean... whatever became of the merman? Was he never seen from again?"

Shaking her head sadly, May told her nephew, "Not by any of us; and we did keep our eyes peeled for a time, just in case..."

"That simply isn't... isn't..."

"Oh, my dear -- I knew this story would be too much for you before bedtime... I shouldn't have continued it so late," May apologized, reaching out to soothe her hand through Peter's hair.

"But they loved each other," Peter sighed, looking increasingly pathetic. "They did! Why didn't Mr. Stark believe that?"

"Sometimes it can be more difficult to accept love than it is to give it," May gently explained. "I think more than wanting to believe it, he likely wanted most to not be hurt by it."

"Well that's just stupid," Peter sulked.

"Adults are not immune to stupidity, I'm afraid," May agreed. "Now come. Let's get you tucked in nice and warm. I do hope I didn't spoil your sleep for you, dearest."

"Thank you for telling me the story," Peter sighed, sounding like he was still quite put out by the unhappy ending.

"Go to sleep. Tomorrow I'll try to think of a more cheerful one to tell," May promised.

･ﾟ𓆝 𓆟 𓆞･ﾟ

The next morning, May was woken up bright and early by a very excitable nephew jumping up onto her bed, eyes wide as saucers and clutching a magazine between his small hands.

"I FOUND IT! LOOK, AUNTIE MAY! I FOUND IT!!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake! Found what, child?!" May complained, unprepared to be attacked by a frenetic boy-shaped ball of energy first thing in the morning.

"The issue of Nick Fury Weekly that I was looking for! I knew I brought it with me! Oh, I'm so glad!!"

"All this over some magazine??" May groused. "Can it not wait until after I've had my tea and toast?"

"You must introduce me to Mr. Stark straight away!" Peter insisted. "It's important! Please, please say that you will!"

"If it gets you out of my hair before the sun is fully up, then we have a deal," May groaned as she rubbed tiredly at her forehead.

Peter was still whooping with good cheer as he skipped away, looking like a completely different child from the disappointed wretch that May had tucked into bed the prior evening. May supposed that she should at least be grateful that she hadn't traumatized the child, after all...

･ﾟ𓆝 𓆟 𓆞･ﾟ

"Look. You seem like a fine young man, Peter, but I've no interest in your adventure stories. I've lived them all, and found they brought me no lasting happiness in the end."

"Yes, well, I think you'll want to take a look at this one, nevertheless," Peter confidently asserted, undaunted by the man's reticence. He flipped quickly to the proper page, offering the magazine to Tony once more.

Tony gave Peter a flat look before he came to the rightful conclusion that the boy simply would not desist in this little impertinence of his. Swiping the magazine from him, Tony pursed his lips before giving the article a cursory once-over. It took him perhaps a moment longer than it should have to realize just what it was that he was reading.

When he finally understood the meaning behind Peter's intrusion, he blinked at the boy with utter disbelief.

"The blue lagoon you couldn't find again, after you left?" Peter nodded, tentatively allowing a hopeful smile to spread over his open face. "...It would seem that Nick Fury found it."

Tony stared at Peter for another long moment before returning his attention to the magazine in his hands, holding the pages more reverently now that he recognized their value.

"That 'Namor' character sounds like he might be difficult to bargain with, but I've no doubt that a man like you could work something out. Supposing you offer him something no one else can? All those marvelous inventions you come up with -- there must be something you have that he wants. Anyhow, I just know that he can tell you where Steven is. Or whatever his real name is... Do you think that he still goes by Steven? Not very likely, huh... Or perhaps they don't even use names; not like we do, at least..."

Tony was so caught up in possibilities he'd long since abandoned as unattainable that he didn't even mind the boy's overexcited prattle. If the words contained in these pages were true—and his own memories matched their descriptions so perfectly that it made it highly likely that they were—then he actually had a solid lead as to where he might track down his missing merman. His heart leapt at the thought, suddenly come alive in a way he'd have sworn was no longer possible; not since he'd cut Steven loose with that impetuous lance of his dagger.

"You will go, won't you?" Peter entreated, looking up at Tony with such bright, pure hopefulness that it was downright infectious.

Tony thought of that lost cave grotto that had opened around the most breathtaking blue lagoon, and of the two smooth, concave rocks that resembled the halves of an enormous clamshell from below; he recalled how his comely merman would wait for him there, in the shallow tide pool beneath those rocks, his fair hair and skin as luminous as the most precious pearl there ever was. In all his journeying, not a single treasure could ever compare.

"You know, Mr. Parker..." Tony grinned, wondering at his ability to actually smile again after all this time as he leaned back in his seat and made a little show of recrossing his legs, just to prolong the dramatic pause, "...I do believe that a new adventure awaits..."

･ﾟ𓆝 𓆟 𓆞𖦹𓇼𖦹𓆝 𓆟 𓆞･ﾟ