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Simon Crieff finished his pint, stopped into the loo, and then headed for his car at a carefully calculated ten minutes before midnight. The other New Year’s revellers were bound to wait out the clock, but he would be on the road and nearly home before the desperately sodden were even hunting out their car keys.
His own keys were in his hand and he was just coming to a halt by his door when a gust of wind blew his scarf up into his face and something heavy thumped to the ground behind him. “Hug?” growled a strangely electronic voice, and then two metallic arms were wrapped around him, and he was being lifted into the air.
“Let me go! Let me go!” he cried, flailing uselessly. The scarf fell and he turned his head to find himself face to face with the unmistakable visor of Iron Man. It had, he realized suddenly, a particularly implacable look to it. “Let me go!” he tried again. “What is this?”
“Whee!” Iron Man said, taking them both into a barrel roll that left Simon feeling windblown and queasy. For the next five minutes he had all he could do just to keep his stomach in its place as Iron Man spun and twisted through the air. By the time they settled onto the top of a church tower five miles from his car he had no room for any thought in his head but a vague gratitude to the fates for having urged him to empty his bladder before he left the pub. He felt the metal arms pull away from his sides and tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t work and he wound up sitting on the slates.
Iron Man stalked over to the wall and settled against it. The visor flipped up, revealing Tony’s unsmiling face. “You know,” he said in a conversational tone that somehow sent the cold even closer to Simon’s bones. “The second time I ever met your brother I gave him a ride on Iron Man and part way through it I started to give it some spin, just for fun. He asked me to stop, so I did. And I remembered that he didn’t like spinning so I didn’t spin him again. It was six months before he explained that he’s got a physical problem that makes him feel sick and black out when he’s dizzy, and when he did he was so ashamed of it that it took me all night to convince him that it didn’t make any difference to how I felt about him.”
“So?” Simon gasped. Everyone knew about Martin’s wonky ear thing. The only surprise was how long it had taken for him to whine about it to his rich new boyfriend.
“So, imagine my surprise last week at Christmas dinner when I saw you pick up your brother and start swinging him in circles. He told you to stop. You didn’t. He practically begged you to stop, and he wasn’t turning red from embarrassment, he was turning white with the effort not to puke on your shoes. Personally I think he should have gone for it, because it was pretty damn clear that to everyone in your family you bullying your brother is standard operating procedure.” Now Tony’s expression twisted. “Oh, the boys are just playing.” He quoted Simon’s mum’s words with a singsong disgust that Simon couldn’t dare protest.
“I just...”
“You just greet your brother every single time by treating him like a child and then top it off by taking advantage of your size and his susceptibility to guarantee that he’ll spend the next five minutes feeling sick and disoriented while you dominate the conversation and patronize him for not being perfect.”
Well, when you put it like that it did sound kind of like bullying. Considering that Simon felt sick and disoriented and Tony was definitely dominating the conversation it also sounded like Tony had decided to give him a taste of his own medicine.
Tony reached down to grab Simon by the coat collar and pull him upright. “I’m going to put you on the ground,” he said. “And you’re going to make a resolution to greet your brother with a simple handshake from now on. In fact, I think you’re going to top it off with an apology for not taking his ear into account before now. Capisce?”
Simon nodded frantically. “Yes. Yes, I understand. I’ll... I’ll do what you say. I promise.”
The bells below them began to ring, bringing in the New Year and making the tower sway beneath them. Tony flipped the visor down and got a better hold on Simon before lifting into the air once more. In a moment they were down amongst the stones of the graveyard, the peal still jangling high above their heads. Inside the church voices were raised in counterpoint to a vigorously played organ. Iron Man propped Simon against one of the stones, and drifted up a few feet watching and waiting until Simon was able to get his feet under him again.
“Where are we?” Simon asked, when he could manage to talk without gasping.
Iron Man shrugged. It looked very odd in the armor. “Figure it out,” he advised. “And remember your promise. Because if I ever, ever hear about you picking Martin up and spinning him around again I will come back. And the next time I put you down it will be so far from shore that you will never be found. Happy New Year, Simon,” Tony said, and was gone.