Humans are social animals.
They conform. They absorb the rhythms of their world—until one day they realize they've started speaking in someone else's accent.
Tony Stark was starting to feel it.
Peter was floating through life like he'd been dipped in glitter. Ever since Gwen officially became "his," they'd been dating two or three times a week—cheap diners, comic shops, rooftop picnics under broken streetlights.
Spider-Man hadn't been this happy since he discovered web fluid didn't stain clothes.
Every morning, Stark had to endure Peter gushing about some tiny gift from Gwen, or how the dumplings at that hole-in-the-wall spot "tasted like love."
Stark had to admit—sure, the details were childish. The places? Not even on his GPS. But the joy in Peter's voice? Real. Unfiltered. Infectious.
And it wasn't just Peter.
Thanks to Strange—the Multiverse's most irresponsible gossipmonger—Schiller's supposed marriage had morphed into a full-blown myth.
It started small: Coulson overheard a few offhand words during a routine check-in. By lunchtime, Natasha and Fury had heard a detailed, emotionally devastating version.
Coulson, ever the storyteller, had taken Strange's vague remarks and spun them into tragedy.
Natasha, being Natasha, added her own flourishes—moonlit promises, whispered vows, a woman frozen in time.
Fury? He didn't believe stories. He investigated them.
So he looked.
He found Schiller's payments—from S.H.I.E.L.D., from Stark—originally deposited in a U.S. account.
Then, recently, transferred. All of it. To a private Swiss fund.
After that? Nothing. Vanished.
Fury suspected the truth: Schiller was using that money to keep his wife alive.
Then there was the disappearance.
When Schiller said he'd be "away for a while," Fury sent agents everywhere. No trace.
No flight records. No visa stamps.
Only conclusion: magic, alien tech, or dark tech.
He'd slipped out of reality itself.
Fury believed good intelligence wasn't just logic—it was intuition as well.
A hunch could crack a case wide open.
So he pieced it together:
Wife not American—no record of her.
Met abroad. Fell in love. Married.
Then illness. Degenerative. Incurable.
Cryogenics? That explained Schiller's interest in Freezing.
Conclusion: she was frozen. Preserved. Waiting.
But Fury saw more than romance.
He saw leverage.
If S.H.I.E.L.D. could cure her, Schiller would owe them everything.
A mind like his—fully aligned? Priceless.
So he started compiling neurologist profiles.
Just in case.
If Schiller had heard this, he'd have clapped.
Because honestly, wasn't this just Mr. Freeze's origin story?
Now retrofitted onto him.
When the rumor reached Stark, he assumed Fury had proof.
So he believed it too: Schiller, fighting for years to save a dying wife.
That hit harder than a repulsor blast.
All his life, Stark had known playboys—men like his father.
Hedonists. Surface dwellers.
Love as performance art.
But now?
Peter, glowing over Gwen.
Schiller, silently carrying grief.
Steve?
Even Steve had knocked him flat.
A few days ago, Steve stopped running.
Stark smelled an opportunity for revenge. Went straight to Schiller.
"Cap's down? I'm officially upgraded to national hero."
But when Steve came back, he looked hollow.
Schiller was grim. Peter barely breathed.
Even Stark—after weeks of sleeping on couches, finally learning to read a room—swallowed his joke.
Later, curiosity won.
He asked Steve.
And heard about Peggy.
The scrawny recruit. The sharp-eyed officer. One saved the other long before any serum.
Soulmates. Through war, time, ice.
And now?
Peggy, frail in a hospital bed.
Doctors said time was short.
Steve saw the photo she kept—not Captain America.
The before picture.
The kid who got punched in the locker room.
And he broke.
Wept like a man who'd carried a century alone.
He stormed Fury's office, demanding a cure.
Anything.
There was nothing.
Stark sat in silence.
His father had known Peggy.
Had cared for her.
And suddenly, Tony wondered:
Was he the only one who'd never loved anyone like that?
Women? Sure.
Models. Actresses. One-night legends.
Sometimes multiple in a single night.
But love?
Real love?
He searched his memory.
Nothing.
No shared jokes at 3 a.m.
No one cared about his work.
No one who'd look at blueprints with him and say, "Tell me more."
Peter and Gwen.
Schiller and his frozen snow princess.
Steve and Peggy crossed a century.
And Stark?
Surrounded by love stories… and holding an empty script.
At the S.H.I.E.L.D. cafeteria, Stark poked at his food.
"Pepper's been looking at me weird lately."
Schiller didn't look up. "Weird how?"
"I'm serious. Her eyes… It's like she's worried, but also proud? And—God help me—kind of sorry for me."
"You should've been a shrink," Schiller said. "Reading the whole face at a glance."
"Come on. I've seen more women than most men dream of. You learn to read eyes. So what's her deal?"
"That depends," Schiller said. "What's your deal lately?"
"Nothing! I'm fine."
Schiller snapped his fingers.
"J.A.R.V.I.S.—analyze behavioral deviations in your primary user."
A pause. Then:
"Over the past seven days, Master Stark has declined eighteen invitations from female associates. This represents a 97.3% drop from baseline."
Silence.
Stark looked up.
And saw it—the same look Pepper gave him.
Pity. Hope. Sadness.
"Damn it, I wasn't—"
"No need to explain," Schiller cut in.
"If you've finally figured it out—good for you.
If you're just losing your edge?"
He shrugged.
"Then you get what you deserve."
Schiller knew the comics' version of Tony:
A walking red flag.
Meredith, betrayed.
Gamora, used.
Janet, Carol, Jessica—names on a list of near-misses and walkouts.
"I'm not…" Stark dropped his fork. Leaned forward.
"I just don't think they're that great."
"Oh?" Schiller raised an eyebrow.
"Who was bragging about 'a yacht full of models' last month?"
Stark deflated.
"Fine. I've never had a real relationship.
You're all around me—talking about love, connection, all these stories.
I thought I had it: sexy, exciting, fleeting. What's wrong with that?"
"But then Peter says his girlfriend listens to him talk about building gadgets. They spent a whole afternoon on it!"
Peter, under Stark's death glare, shoved an entire sandwich into his mouth.
"And the next day?" Stark went on. "They went to the Stark Expo. Spent all day. Didn't get bored once."
Schiller tilted his head.
"So what you're really saying is… you'd rather talk about arc reactors than celebrity gossip?"
Stark stayed silent. Lips tight. Jaw clenched.
He looked, frankly, like a man watching everyone else get the memo.
"But this isn't something we can fix," Schiller said.
"You have to talk to Pepper."
"She doesn't get the tech. And she's already buried in work."
"Still," Schiller said, standing.
"If you tell her, she'll listen.
And that's the part that matters."
Footnote:
Love will get you killed. Personal experience. Don't ask.