Two months old. It felt longer than the twenty-five years I remembered. Time moved differently when you were trapped in a body that couldn't hold its own head up, when every day blurred into the same cycle of sleep, feed, and the maddening absence of anything resembling *thought*.
At first, I tried to act like a normal baby. Cried when I was supposed to, stared blankly at mobiles, let my limbs flop around like they weren't mine. It lasted maybe three days before the boredom became physically painful. An adult mind with nothing to do, no way to communicate, no stimulation except the ceiling of a nursery that cost more than most houses.
So the act slipped. Then broke.
I climbed out of my crib at six weeks old. Hooked my fingers over the rail, pulled, swung a leg up and over. Dropped to the carpet and landed on feet that shouldn't have been able to support me.
My knees buckled immediately. I pitched forward, caught myself on my palms, and lay there staring at the floor while my body remembered how to breathe.
'Right. Two months old. Can't just *land* like a gymnast.'
I tried again. Pushed up to standing. Took one step. Two. My left leg twitched—an involuntary spasm, some infant reflex I couldn't suppress—and I stumbled into the doorframe.
The third step was cleaner. The fourth, worse. By the time I reached the door handle, I'd fallen twice more. My shins ached. My skull throbbed where I'd smacked it against the baseboard.
But I opened the door. Reached up, turned the handle, smooth and deliberate.
No one saw. That time.
After that, I stopped pretending. What was the point? My mother already knew I wasn't normal. She'd been there for the birth, seen the test results, watched me watch her with eyes that understood too much.
What I hadn't expected was how little she cared.
---
She found me in the kitchen at seven weeks old, standing on the counter to reach a glass from the cabinet. Except 'standing' was generous. I was leaning against the backsplash, one hand gripping the edge, the other stretched toward the crystal. My legs were shaking.
I turned when she entered. Looked at her with those impossible gold eyes, and said: 'Thirsty.'
The word came out slurred. My tongue felt too big for my mouth, my lips numb. Speaking took everything—focus, breath, control. Three words was my limit before my voice cracked or my jaw locked up.
She set her purse down slowly. Crossed the kitchen. Took the glass from my hands, filled it with water from the fridge dispenser, and held it while I drank.
'You'll break your neck on that counter,' she said. 'Ask next time.'
I tried to nod. My head wobbled. The motion made my vision blur, and for a second I saw double—two of her, two kitchens, two glasses.
I blinked it away.
That night, she sat in her bedroom for an hour, staring at nothing. Processing.
Her son was a miracle. A medical impossibility. The doctors had used words like 'anomaly' and 'potential threat' and 'further testing recommended.' She'd fired them all and hired new ones who knew how to keep their mouths shut.
But this—talking, walking, thinking—this was beyond even what she'd prepared for.
And still. When she thought about me, about the way I'd looked at her in that kitchen, she felt only one thing.
*Mine.*
Whatever I was, however I'd happened, I was hers. That was enough.
---
I learned about the money by accident. Overheard a phone call she took in her office, something about liquidating assets, numbers that didn't make sense until I really thought about them. Then I started paying attention.
The house in Manhattan—full floor of a building where square footage cost more than most people made in a decade. The cars. The clothes. The way she never checked price tags, never worried about bills, never said no to anything I asked for because I was too young to ask for anything expensive yet.
Cybele Goldman. Supermodel by profession, apparently famous enough that people stopped her on the street. Investor by obsession, with a mind for the market that bordered on precognitive. She'd turned a modest inheritance into something that made 'wealthy' sound quaint.
And my father?
Nowhere. Not dead, not gone in any dramatic sense. Just… absent. A blank space my mother refused to discuss, her expression going sharp and closed whenever I tried to ask. I'd stopped trying. Whatever wound that was, it wasn't mine to open.
---
'You're awake.'
I looked up from the floor where I'd been attempting push-ups. 'Attempting' was the word. I could lower myself down fine—my muscles had no problem with that. But pushing back up required coordination my two-month-old nervous system didn't have. I kept collapsing halfway, face-planting into the carpet, pushing again.
My mother stood in the nursery doorway, smiling.
She scooped me up, kissed my forehead. I let her. The contact still felt strange, too intimate, but I was learning to want it.
'Mommy… hungry.' I pitched my voice high, added the slight lisp that made me sound childish. The words cost me. My throat tightened after the second syllable, and I had to pause to swallow before finishing.
'Alright, my little golden boy.' She carried me downstairs, settled me into the high chair. 'Mommy will fix you something.'
The kitchen was ridiculous. Dark stone walls that looked like obsidian, white carpets that somehow stayed spotless despite my existence, framed photos of me and her everywhere. No other family. No father. Just us.
'Love having a rich mom,' I thought. I didn't say it. Too many words.
She set a bowl in front of me. Porridge. Again.
I didn't mind. My body burned through calories like a furnace. The porridge was good—honey and cream. I inhaled the first bowl before she could sit down.
'More.'
She blinked. Laughed. Poured another. Then another. Then another.
By the time I finished, the pot was empty. She stared at me, amused and something else.
'Oh my, Midas… you're eating more every time.'
I smiled. Wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Stood up in the chair.
Jumped down.
My left ankle twisted on landing—I'd misjudged the angle. I crashed onto my side, hip taking the impact. The floor was carpeted. It didn't hurt. But the clumsiness burned.
'Still not in control.'
I pushed up, took off running. My gait was uneven, more of a fast waddle than a sprint. Every third step, my knee buckled or my foot dragged. I made it to the hallway before my mother even left the kitchen.
'Ohh, Midas~'
Her voice followed me, playful. I ducked into a closet near the stairs, pressed myself against coats that smelled of her perfume, and tried to hold in my laughter. Failed. It came out in giggles that sounded wrong—too high, too breathless.
A second later, the door flew open.
'I got you!'
She scooped me up, hugged me tight. I laughed into her shoulder, feeling the vibration of her own laughter. This—this was what I hadn't expected. The simple pleasure of being caught by someone who wanted to catch me.
In my last life, I'd had no one who looked at me like this.
I slipped out of her arms, dropped to the floor. Without thinking—reached up and wrapped my arms around her legs.
Picked her up.
My mother. A grown woman, taller than average. And I held her above my head like she weighed nothing.
For two seconds.
Then my vision went red. Pressure exploded behind my eyes. A hot trickle slid from my nose.
'Blood.'
I set her down—too fast, too rough. She stumbled back, caught herself, and looked at me with concern, not fear.
'Midas? Your nose—'
I touched my upper lip. My fingers came back red.
'Fine,' I said. The word was barely a whisper. Then my legs gave out.
She caught me before I hit the floor. Held me against her chest, one hand wiping the blood from my face.
'You pushed too hard,' she said softly. Not angry. Worried.
I wanted to argue. Couldn't. My body was shutting down—the exhaustion that followed every major exertion, the forced sleep that came whether I wanted it or not.
'…ice cream?' I mumbled.
She laughed. It was wet, almost a sob.
'Yeah, baby. We'll get ice cream. After you rest.'
---
I woke up in the car. The BMW's engine hummed beneath me, and my mother's hand rested on my knee. My nose had stopped bleeding. My head still ached.
She glanced at me. Smiled.
'Feeling better?'
I nodded. The motion didn't make the world spin this time.
'Good. Because we're here.'
Dairy Queen. The red logo glowed against the evening sky. The smell of fried sugar hit me the moment she opened my door.
She ordered a chocolate caramel milkshake. I got Oreo.
The first sip hit my tongue, and something cracked open in my chest. Not the taste itself—but the memory attached to it. Summer evenings in a town too small to matter. My other mother—the one from that life—laughing at something I'd said. The feeling of being young enough that happiness was simple.
For a moment, I forgot about quirks and reincarnation and bodies that shouldn't exist.
Then the moment ended.
---
'Ms. Goldman.'
The voice cut through like a blade. I looked up.
The man was tall, built with the kind of casual athleticism that came from money and time. Dressed in slacks and a button-down that probably cost more than most people's rent. He smiled as he approached, and the smile didn't reach his eyes.
'What is a beauty like you doing here at DQ?'
My mother's expression didn't change. She turned slowly.
'Howard.' Flat. Final. 'How many times do I have to tell you? I'm not interested.'
'Ouch.' He placed a hand over his chest, mock-wounded. Then his eyes shifted, found me, and sharpened. 'I'm guessing this is your child?'
'Yes.' She moved slightly, putting herself between me and his gaze. 'And no—you will not be his stepfather. Pervert.'
He winced, but the smirk returned. 'Damn… harsh.'
Then he paused. Calculation.
'Well. One of my spouses recently gave birth to my son. His name is Anthony. Anthony Stark.'
---
The name hit me like a physical blow.
'Anthony. Stark.'
My milkshake forgotten, I stared at the man. The arrogance. The genius that leaked out of every pore. The way he stood like he owned the room.
Howard Stark.
Which meant—
'MCU and MHA coexist?' The thought made my stomach clench. 'The Tesseract. All For One. Thanos.'
I felt actual fear for the first time since waking up in this body. I'd take All For One any day. But an alien warlord with infinity stones? A snap that could erase half of existence?
'No. Absolutely not. I did not sign up for cosmic threats.'
I snapped back to reality. Howard was still talking, still smirking.
*SMACK.*
My mother's hand connected with Howard's face hard enough to turn his head.
'Don't.' Her voice was ice.
She grabbed my arm—not hard, but urgent—and pulled me toward the door.
'Come on, Midas. We're leaving.'
I glanced back. Howard was touching his cheek, staring after us with an expression that wasn't quite anger. Something almost like regret.
On my mother's hand, gold flakes at her knuckles. Her quirk, responding to emotion.
She'd held back.
---
The car engine roared. Manhattan blurred past the windows. My mother drove too fast, hands tight on the wheel.
I didn't ask about the slap. Didn't ask about the pain in her voice. Some questions could wait.
But as we drove, I thought about infinity stones and quirks, about Tony Stark growing up somewhere in this same city, about a universe that was bigger and more dangerous than I'd allowed myself to believe.
Two months old.
Already running out of time.
My head throbbed. My nose itched where the blood had dried.
I leaned against the car door and let the exhaustion take me.
---
*That night, Cybele sat in her home office with the lights off. Her hands were still shaking.*
*She pulled up a file on her computer—one she'd never shown anyone. A photograph of a younger Howard Stark, arm around a woman who looked like Cybele's reflection from a different angle. Her sister.*
*The woman had disappeared fourteen years ago.*
*No body. No explanation. Just a note that said: 'I'm sorry. Don't look for me.'*
*Cybele closed the file. Wiped gold flakes from her cheek.*
*She had a son to protect now. The past could wait.*