Holy mother of a son, this chapter is a LONG time coming. Sorry bout that!

~X~X~

Tony isn't aware of holding his breath until a stab of pain runs through his chest; he sucks in a gasp of air and forces a hand up, ready to knock- but the door swings open and he stumbles forward, almost crashing into the sudden wall of Russian that looms in front of him. He recovers quickly, standing and offering a hesitant, sheepish grin. Ivan is silent, his face shadowed, but he takes a step back to allow entrance.

Vanko closes the door, stands facing away from the American for a moment like he's gathering his thoughts. Tony takes the opportunity to scan the garage, wondering what the villain's been doing in here, but everything seems intact.

He leans against a car, trying to make his expression neutral- trying to keep the anxiety from his voice when he says, "I'm kind of surprised to see the Audi still in one piece," he tries to smile again, fails. "I expected you to have... I dunno, ripped the engine out, put a tire iron through the window or something."

No response- just the cold, bottomless well of silence that Whiplash so often uses to stonewall people. It's like a vacuum, draining every sound from the air.

"Ivan," Tony says quietly, "please talk to me."

The Russian starts to say something, stops, shaking his head, and turns at last. "I am not good at... saying things. About myself."

Tony bites back the immediate "No really, I couldn't tell" that rises in his throat.

Ivan shakes his head again. "I do not trust. I do not talk. These things keep me alive. Only..." He growls, looks away like he's thinking of just dropping the matter and leaving, and Tony steps in, catches his shoulder, smiles as reassuringly as possible, and after a moment Vanko continues, intense stare burning into Stark. "Only you. I talk only to you. I trust..." He pauses, kneads his forehead, and the brief quiet feels like a knife in Tony's gut, twisting with each second that passes as he waits. Ivan looks at him, and for the first time in god knows how many years, his defenses are gone. The wary, battle-hardened criminal is gone, just for an instant, and only pain and exhaustion and shocking openness remain. Slowly, the Russian lifts one hand, brushes Tony's face in the gesture that's become known to the American as the official Ivan-is-about-to-open-up gesture as he finishes, "I trust only you." The hand drops, Vanko's eyes turning away as he mutters, "And I think that maybe I am crazy for it. I am meant to hate you. I have hated you."

He turns those deep, scarred eyes back to Stark one last time and says, so quietly it's almost imperceptible, "I do not hate you anymore. I..." He can't quite say it, can't make the words form, but Tony doesn't need to hear them; he can speak for both of them.

"I love you," the words flow from him so easily now, like he's practiced them a thousand times before, and he's leaning in and pressing a kiss to the taller man's parted lips and saying it once feels like such a relief that he says it again. "I love you, Ivan, god, I love you-" his murmurs are cut off by the villain's mouth connecting with his, firm and real and he leans into it, curls his arms around Ivan's hips and draws their bodies together, close enough for Vanko to feel the heat from the reactor through their shirts.

They pull apart, Ivan's eyes still closed, and Tony smiles with hesitant fondness. The Russian's eyes flick open, his expression soft and almost tender. He catches himself, tries to frown once more, but it comes through as only a wry half-grimace. He aims a casual slug at the billionaire's arm.

"Owww! What was that for?" Stark rubs his arm in annoyance.

"I ever catch you with anyone, I kill them and cut off your arms and legs so you cannot leave bed."

"That sounds reasonable." Tony relents, slipping his hands up the inside of Whiplash's shirt. "You know what else sounds reasonable?"

"Hmm?"

He leans in, nuzzles the hollow of Ivan's throat. "Bed."

The villain glares. "You think you can just sweet-talk me into sex?"

The American blinks innocently. "Can't I?"

The glare deepens. "...Da."