"Tony Stark?"
Antony pressed the call button, his tone laced with amusement.
"Calling me on a night when families are supposed to be together, huh? What is it—did your armor get stuck in a chimney?"
On the other end came Tony Stark's trademark rapid-fire voice, jazz music humming faintly in the background.
"Ha. Very funny, Stars-and-Stripes boy. If I were stuck, I'd ask Thor to knock me loose with a hammer—not call the guy who might accidentally laser my ass."
Tony paused, his voice sobering just a touch.
"Listen. There's a party tonight. At my tower—well, what's left of it. Not fully fixed, but functional."
"A party?" Antony chuckled. "Tony, I thought you were busy taking care of your Pepper."
"I already fixed that," Tony shot back. "I'm Tony Stark. Genius scientist. No problem beats me."
Then he lowered his voice.
"Anyway, it's a small thing. Me, the old Capsicle… and, you know. Just a few of us."
"It's…" Tony hesitated, "…an orphans' gathering."
Something in his tone softened.
"You know how it is. People like us don't exactly have anywhere else to go."
Antony froze.
Orphans.
Tony Stark—his parents murdered by the Winter Soldier, a lifetime spent wrestling with his father's shadow and the loneliness that followed.
Steve Rogers—father lost to the First World War, mother to tuberculosis; everyone he loved erased by time. A man stranded in the wrong era. A temporal orphan.
Jessica Jones—her family dead in a car crash, the sole survivor, raised with guilt and the scars of being unwanted.
And Antony himself…
In his previous life, a film star clawing his way through the entertainment industry, parents gone early.
In this world, the man whose identity he'd taken—Antony Starr—his entire family lost in a plane crash.
Even the original Homelander.
None of them had a home.
"That sounds…" Antony swirled the brandy in his glass, "…depressing. I'm in. What time?"
"Eight. Oh—and bring your 'Queen,'" Tony added with a grin in his voice. "Don't tell me nothing's going on. I was at that premiere—those looks were practically welding themselves together."
"And don't wear the spandex," Tony warned. "This is a private party, not Comic-Con."
-----
7:00 p.m.
A black stretch limousine stopped in Hell's Kitchen.
Antony rang the doorbell.
It took a while before the door opened.
Jessica Jones stood there in her signature battered leather jacket and ripped jeans, half a bottle of whiskey in hand, radiating pure leave-me-alone energy.
"What?" she leaned against the frame, alcohol heavy on her breath. "Here to check if I skipped training? It's Christmas Eve, boss."
"I know." Antony gave her a once-over and frowned. "You planning to spend Christmas dressed like that?"
"What else? That white latex condom you people keep trying to shove me into?" Jessica took a swig. "I plan to get drunk and sleep till next year."
"Go change," Antony said, flat and final. "We're going to a party."
"Not going." Jessica tried to shut the door. "I hate parties. I hate people. I hate Christmas."
A hand stopped the door.
"Tony Stark's party," Antony said, meeting her eyes. "Captain America too."
Jessica froze.
"…Captain America?"
"Yeah. The WWII popsicle." Antony smiled faintly. "He called it an orphans' gathering. I figured… you qualify."
Her gaze flickered.
Orphan.
The word pierced straight into the softest place she had.
"…Give me five minutes."
…
Half an hour later, when Jessica stepped back out, Antony let out a low whistle.
No dress—never her style.
She wore a black turtleneck cashmere sweater, a sharply tailored dark-gray coat, fitted black pants, and short-heeled boots. Her hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, makeup light.
Still cold. Still dangerous.
But now—polished. Urban. Striking.
"Not bad," Antony said, opening the car door for her. "You look almost human."
"Say one more word and I'll introduce your head to the window," Jessica shot back, climbing in.
The car pulled away, sliding into Manhattan's glittering night.
"Why me?" Jessica asked suddenly, watching the lights streak past. "You could've brought any supermodel in New York."
Antony lifted his champagne and turned to her.
"Because they'd just smile and ask if I could buy them a bag."
"And you," he said, smiling, "roll your eyes when I get full of myself. That makes things feel real."
"…You're sick," Jessica muttered, turning away—though the corner of her mouth twitched upward.
Antony looked out the window, but his focus wasn't on the city.
In his previous life, Christmas meant mall sales, couples booking hotel rooms, or being forced to buy that woman—Allison—another overpriced bag.
Antony Starr's childhood had been full of expensive gifts and empty mansions. Parents always busy—making money, networking. Most holidays spent at boarding schools.
But now—
He was Homelander.
The whole country was waiting for him to tweet Merry Christmas.
"What are you thinking about?" Jessica asked, pulling him back.
"I'm thinking," Antony said, his eyes openly sweeping across her chest, "…that I should've bought you a low-cut evening gown."
"Get lost. That thing would've had a slit up to my waist. If a fight broke out, I'd flash half the city."
"Then don't fight." Antony reached out, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Tonight's a ceasefire. We're drinking, not leveling buildings."
"Hope so," Jessica muttered. "I hate these things. Everyone wears masks and says shit they don't mean."
"Masks are the foundation of civilization," Antony said lightly. "Without them, humanity would've torn itself apart ages ago."
"And you?" Jessica looked straight into his eyes. "Are you wearing a mask, Antony?"
He paused.
In her brown pupils, he saw the reflection of a man—perfectly handsome, flawlessly composed.
"Me?"
Antony leaned in slowly, their noses almost touching.
"I am the mask."
--------------
T/N:
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