nostalgicatsea (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nostalgicatsea) wrote2023-10-01 05:29 pm
nostalgicatsea) wrote2023-10-01 05:29 pm
Entry tags:
An Open Palm
Title: An Open Palm
Universe: MCU
Relationship: Tony Stark & Xu Wenwu
Rating: T
Word Count: 4,583
Summary: The simplest and smartest thing to do would be to kill Tony Stark. He was a danger to the Rings and to himself, the world's foremost expert in creating destruction out of nothing.
Wenwu was no fool; if you played with fire, you were bound to get burned. But that was only if you didn't know how to master it and he did. He knew how to provide the spark and how to temper the resulting flame, how to keep it from sputtering out or engulfing everything in its path.
He knew how to make it his because he knew what Tony Stark wanted and more importantly, needed.
On AO3
Notes:
Formagicasen.
I'm obsessed with Wenwu so when magic asked if I would be up for writing about a meeting between Tony and Wenwu (I believe it was after we both saw this art), of course I said yes despite not being sure I'd be able to do it. This is set in a canon-divergent IM2 where Tony is hellbent on going after the Ten Rings and Wenwu takes a keen interest in Tony. Exact dates in the MCU can be shaky, but this is also coincidentally around the time that Shang-Chi ran away.
Over his long life, Wenwu had seen his share of strong men, all of whom had disappointed. No matter the era, no matter the nation, the empire, this held true: the flashier the man, the likelier his reputation was gilded, gold plating rather than solid gold. Beautiful but decorative. False. Cheap.
Tony Stark was no different.
Intelligent, yes, but vain, loud, and pompous. Weak for a good drink or a warm body in bed. Weak in his arrogance especially as of late. His peacocking at the congressional hearing, his uncouth conduct in Monaco, the danger he courted everyday by presenting a bullseye target to his greatest weakness, dead center so no one could miss it… His behavior was that of an immature child.
Nowhere near a god then, and Wenwu would know. He had come across more than a handful of self-professed gods over the millennium, some with a more legitimate claim to that title than others, their mental or physical prowess surpassing the outer limits of mankind—and he had crushed every last one of them.
What a disappointment. God or not, Stark had promise and all that raw potential had gone to waste because no one knew how to mold it. Not even Howard Stark or Obadiah Stane. One father hadn’t seen his true value and had been too miserly with his nurturing, the other had been excessive, spoiling him rotten, too hasty and unrestrained with his expectations and lazy with his discipline.
Stark needed a firm, patient hand from someone who understood what it was that he needed.
“We should kill him,” Matthias suggested in lieu of a greeting once Wenwu stepped out of his office. He rubbed the metal end of his arm, and the man to his right glanced down at the movement, smirking.
Unobservant, Wenwu admonished before retracting that thought. He was being uncharitable. The man didn’t know any better nor could he expect him to. Matthias kept things close to his chest, but he was an open book to Wenwu because Wenwu had raised him as his own since he was a young boy. It wasn’t eagerness to skewer Stark at the end of his blade that had him rubbing his arm; it was nervousness.
Had it been anyone else, Wenwu would have questioned their doubt in his ability to control the situation, but Matthias was smarter than that.
Matthias knew better than to underestimate opponents and acknowledged the danger Stark posed, even cornered and vulnerable, if they weren’t careful. Something Raza, Stane, the American government, and now this Vanko had a tenuous understanding of and look where they all ended up.
Stark was a big enough thorn in their side to warrant plucking, and even better, killing him now would leave no space for any errors to manifest.
But centuries and these past two decades in particular gifted Wenwu restraint and wisdom. He would be careful, but he wouldn’t snuff out potential. Scratch the cheap gold foil and on occasion, a glimmer of the real ore could be found underneath.
Where others saw a lost cause, he saw opportunity and his gamble reliably bore fruitful dividends.
He placed a reassuring hand on Matthias’s bulky shoulder, remembering how scrawny it used to be under his palm when Matthias was a child.
With that one skinny arm of his, he had expertly juggled three balls, managing to catch the attention of passerby who had places to be and more interesting attractions to gawk at than a performing urchin. Impressive enough to place some coins in the box at his feet, but an experience that would have just remained a pleasant memory of Romania once he walked away had Matthias’s talent not been abundantly obvious. It wasn’t the speed or dexterity that had snagged Wenwu’s attention then but the ease. Matthias had made it look natural and instinctive, as though every human being was born with the ability to do what he was doing, and had someone decided to juggle with him, they would be just as good. Except, of course, they wouldn’t.
His boy was no circus act.
Matthias waited for his answer expectantly.
“Not yet,” Wenwu replied before addressing the small gaggle of men who had gathered, no doubt hearing about their captive. “Wait here. This won’t take long.”
He walked down the winding paths to Stark’s room alone and opened the door, tsking as he took in the poor sight before him.
Stark sat slumped at the table that someone had brought in for their meeting, worse for wear close up than he had appeared on the CCTV footage, though thankfully not too roughened up for the Rings’ standard. Blood coated his temple, but it was dry, the source wound clotted over, and his left eye was ringed black though the swelling had gone down a little—most likely souvenirs from the scuffle that had led to his capture.
He straightened up at the sound of the door opening, and though he was visibly exhausted, Wenwu could tell his mind was sharp and clear, ever observant; while he remained wary, he relaxed almost imperceptibly. No food, no weapons. Wenwu’s hands were folded behind his back.
Yes, he wasn’t a guard.
“I’m sorry for all of this. This was…unnecessary,” Wenwu said once he reached the table.
“So this is all a misunderstanding, and you’re going to let me go just like that?” Stark asked sarcastically as Wenwu lifted his manacled wrists in response.
“No.” He slipped the key into the locks and smoothly opened the cuffs, holding them to prevent them from crashing to the concrete floor and placing them next to Stark’s bare feet which he proceeded to free as well. “My men have a tendency to be rough with intruders. Not many get this far. But I had an inkling you were arriving, and this is not the way I would have chosen for us to meet,” he explained as he took the seat opposite of Stark. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a while now.”
“Funny way to show hospitality, what with the chains instead of coffee. I’d rate this guest experience zero stars out of five.” Stark gave him another once-over. “Maybe a half for style.”
“I would think that withholding your favorite Colombian brew is only fair, all things considered.”
The destruction was a bigger loss than expected. Stark had taken out an impressive chunk out of their stores and men, and it would take more time and resources to replace them than Wenwu would have liked.
Ever since his triumphant escape from the caves in Afghanistan, Tony Stark had been singleminded in his obsession with tracking down the Ten Rings.
“More into Ethiopian these days, but point taken. Though I can’t exactly say that I’m sorry.” Stark’s breezy voice hardened into stone, and he bared his teeth into a cutting smile. “You had my things. And you killed Yinsen.”
For a moment, Wenwu was thrown off track, the terrain of their conversation utterly foreign before he remembered who Yinsen was and regained his footing.
“A decision I didn’t sanction by a branch that went rogue. Ho Yinsen should have never been there. He was a good man.”
A great one. A man of his talents was wasted as an interpreter when he had much more to offer the world.
“It doesn’t matter if you didn’t know,” Stark said venomously.
“No, he’s still dead,” Wenwu agreed. “And ignorance is no excuse.” For the briefest moment, Stark’s frown slackened a fraction with uncertainty before tightening into a grim neutral line. “I would have seen to it myself had you not taken care of matters for me. Improper oversight breeds mistakes, and mistakes lead to regrettable consequences.”
“I don’t think I particularly want my captor’s gratitude for taking out the trash.”
“You see us as adversaries.”
“I’m being held against my will in the depths of some lair in the mountains, and you have a list of crimes long enough to fill a library, Xu,” Stark said flatly, earning him a smile from Wenwu.
“You’ve done your homework,” he acknowledged.
“Yeah, so whatever you’re trying to sell here, I’m not buying. No amount of diplomatic role-play is going to butter me up, and you saw what happened the last time your men tried to force me to play nice.”
Stark mimed an explosion, his hands expanding illustratively.
“I’m not here to coerce you into anything nor do I have any desire to,” Wenwu replied.
Nor did he have to. Not like Raza. Not like Stane. Both had been canny, but their greed had blinded and goaded them into a strategy that they should have known would end badly. But that he refrained from saying. It would be taken as a threat, and there was no need for that.
“I’m simply here to talk,” he explained.
“That’s what they always say.” Stark reclined in his chair, legs spread out insouciantly. “What’s it going to be, a villain monologue where you wax on about your raison d’être? Or a veiled ultimatum that you’ll insist isn’t an ultimatum?”
“Much as it may surprise you, you’re not my enemy.”
“You sure as hell are mine.”
“I’m not going to pretend that you haven’t given me trouble nor am I going to excuse or lie about what I’ve done in the past. But you don’t have as full a picture as you assume.”
“No, I think I know enough to say that you and me? We won’t work out. Call it irreconcilable differences.”
“Binary thinking, Mr. Stark,” Wenwu chided. “You know the world is more complicated than that. You sit in front of me a reformed war profiteer, after all.”
There. A flash of guilt. He had to continue before defensiveness slammed shut the door that Stark had left ajar, cockily believing himself untouchable enough to not have to care about what danger slunk in.
“If you’ve learned so much about me, then you must have wondered about my unexplained dormant years. A man with never-ending hunger for conquest, whose victories only temporarily satiate him until he sets his sight on another domain. That’s what the whispers told you, and that’s where they stopped.”
Stark’s fingers were curled around the door frame, but he had paused, Wenwu could tell. Stark was clever and the clever were curious. The door remained partially, reluctantly, open. Wenwu bent to set down a plate of food at the entrance, bait sure to entice, but he could admit to himself that this was more than that.
He had never mentioned this to anyone. Had never even reflected on the past with Shang-Chi and Xialing; there was no need to when it was something that they shared, when it would be too painful. The love that was there was unspoken and required no explanation or examination, the good days boxed away for safekeeping, far in the past where they could not be destroyed.
But Stark would understand. He had looked beyond himself and put in the effort to change because he saw that to lead meant to serve. A rarity in their line of work, which made the pursuit worthwhile, despite Stark squandering chances and succumbing to his old foibles lately. Wayward decisions, yes, but he only needed to be kept from straying again.
Wenwu folded his hands, and the ring that he had exchanged for his own, the one that he had kept even after putting on his old rings again, dug into the bone of his finger like a reminder. A vow.
“I had a family,” he said, working to keep his voice level. “I had never been interested in settling down, let alone having children, but I did and my priorities shifted. You believe that I seek power, and that was true once. It remains true now, but only as a means to an end.”
“And what end is that?” Stark asked evenly, taking care not to betray any thought, but a response was invitation enough.
“Protection. And the best way to protect, I’ve found, is to be proactive. To have control over your surroundings. Complete mastery so there’s no room for argument, no opening to challenge.”
He took out a plate of red armor from his pocket and placed it between them.
Iron Man.
His rings thudded dully against oak as he lowered his arm onto the table.
Deterrence.
Stark hadn’t tried to attack him, hadn’t once contemplated it since he had walked into the room. He wasn’t foolish, and neither was anyone who fell into line after Wenwu came out of retirement. No one was stupid enough to test the line.
Wenwu wore his rings on his arms for the same reason Tony Stark put his arc reactor on full display for everyone to see. Without the rings and the reactor, both of them were mortal, and anyone who wanted to eliminate them had easy access to their greatest weaknesses.
But they were a reminder and warning of their power as well. No one had ever beaten them because it wasn’t the tool that made a man great. It was the man himself.
Stark made no movement to reach for his armor.
“So your plan is to be a one-man army—a one-man state—instead of, I don’t know, trusting people to take care of themselves. Giving them the choice to decide what that looks like,” he said.
“Nations fall. Reigns end. What government do you propose I put my trust in? What security council?” Wenwu collected the armor plate and slid it into his pocket. “I watched your congressional hearing. I know you understand. Some situations necessitate operating outside the law. And some tools are safer in our hands.”
“Don’t compare yourself to me,” Stark snapped. “What we’re doing is completely different.”
“Our goals are more aligned than you think. Peace. Safety. Measures that effectively ensure both for years to come so that the world will keep turning even if we eventually take a step back. Is that not what you’ve set out to accomplish, the next step in your plan? Surely you know you can’t do this forever.”
His last remark hit a nerve just as he was confident it would. There was one foe neither of them could win against, one that he had been able to hold off at an impasse but not defeat: time. And Stark was running short of it more than most knew.
“What do you want from me? You’re not here to ask me for bombs,” Stark asked soberly. Gone was the viciousness that swung him from contemptuous playfulness to scathing attacks; in its place was a wary scrutiny, the assessment of a predator lying in wait, analyzing the risks, the other hunter in the field.
“I’m not. Anyone can make bombs although,” Wenwu conceded, “none can make them quite as good as you. No, I have a proposition. You’re dying.”
Stark sat up without meaning to, his hand instinctively flying to the center of his chest before he could catch himself, the movement aborted too late to take back. Wenwu could tell he was biting off curses for showing his hand, but it didn’t matter; it was a truth Wenwu was aware of and no amount of obfuscating would make him dismiss or forget it.
“I told you before that you’re not my enemy. We may be on opposite sides, but we are not diametric opposites; our ideals, our goals, are similar even if our approaches differ. You want to make the world safer by ridding it of threats, and my enemies are your enemies,” he said. “Hydra. AIM. Just a few names among countless others, some of whom aren’t of this realm. Rather than expending effort locking horns, we can work together. You have precious little time—months, if that. You’ll want to make the most of it.”
“And if I say no? Very kind of you to offer me your hand in marriage, but I’m more a freedom guy, not a fear and domination guy?”
Wenwu flicked his arms so his rings traveled to snap up the length of Stark’s forearms, flinging him out of his seat and against the wall behind him. A choked grunt punched out of Stark, and he clenched his jaw, trying to cut off the pained noise.
“Thought you said you wouldn’t coerce me,” he grit out, exhaling heavily through his nose, but he was more cross than plaintive.
Wenwu took a second to appreciate that defenseless and unarmed as Stark was, he was somehow unshaken by the predicament he was in, at the rings’ mercy but remaining himself.
“I’m not. I’m asking you to consider this seriously,” he replied as he walked to where Stark hung on the wall. “It’s not your weapons I want. It’s your mind and conviction. You’ll have unlimited resources at your disposal to achieve what you seek to do and to leave behind a legacy for the next generations to inherit and build on. More than you can possibly fathom.”
“I don’t know if you've heard, but I’m a billionaire. I have money,” Stark said. His teeth were tinged red; he must have bitten his lip upon impact, and the effect was ghoulish.
“Resources,” Wenwu corrected Stark as he drew near. “Money makes things easier, but my wealth encompasses more than that. Antidotes. Experts. Tomes that you can’t find elsewhere spanning thousands of years. No one else has as extensive of a collection, and all of it is readily and quickly accessible. Your condition is terminal, but it doesn’t have to be. You can find a solution and prolong your life with remedies until you do.”
Stark wanted it badly; that much was obvious from the interest that burned in his eyes, the conflict that knotted his eyebrows. He must have exhausted nearly all of his options if not all at this point. After much inner debate, his face cleared, leaving him somber and resigned.
There was only one choice to make. Wenwu was offering what no other man could: eternity, the one gift that eluded Stark and the only one that he needed. The scales were too far tipped for any counterbalance.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll take my chances,” Stark said instead.
Wrong answer, Wenwu thought with consternation.
“You would rather face death when you have so much left to offer the world,” he said, more question, more chance at revision, than statement.
“Instead of owing you a blood debt? Yeah.”
Stark said it so plainly like there was no other answer he could give.
Wenwu was disappointed. He had expected more from Stark. More shrewdness, more gumption. If stubbornness precluded Stark from giving true acceptance, Wenwu had assumed that at the very least, he would be wily and pretend to agree so he had more cards to play later.
He couldn’t tell whether it was pride or inflexibility that pushed Stark into refusing to see the offer for what it was.
“You’re so sure about this,” he remarked with an edge of disapproval.
“I should be able to die on my own terms. ”
“And your terms are drinking yourself into a stupor. Recklessly endangering yourself and others. Losing the respect and trust of those whom you claim you’re fighting for and falling into ignominy as you’re ravaged by an illness out of your control.”
Stark was a child acting out, throwing off any hands that reached out in concern because he couldn’t respect their authority. Because he knew none of them understood how to guide him or provide what he needed.
“You asked me what would happen if you refuse,” Wenwu continued. “I’m not a man you say no to.” He called a few rings back to him, the air around his hand flaring a chilly blue as they returned. He placed his hand over the arc reactor. Before Stark could react, he twisted and removed it from his chest, ripping through his shirt with ease.
Stark lunged forward in alarm, arms bucking against the remaining rings holding him to the wall. For once, he was mute, other than the strained cry of pain that slipped out as the shrapnel resumed their path through his heart, shredding the muscle.
His eyes were the same as Shang-Chi’s, defiant and wild, and for a second, Wenwu could hear the whistle of the sticks in the air before they landed on bare skin.
Fuck you, Shang-Chi said wordlessly even if he had known it was for his sake just as Stark would soon.
The arc reactor glowed blue in Wenwu's palm, and he took a moment to admire it, holding it up and rotating it this way and that.
A pure, nearly inextinguishable power source.
It was ingenious, even more so considering the circumstances under which it had been created. Had it not been for the Ten Rings, would he even be holding this reactor? Would Stark’s thoughts have even landed on the idea of renewable energy, on all the ideas that he had come up with since his captivity?
Raza had been correct in chastising Stane. Mere trinkets to kill a prince indeed.
Stark’s complexion was a ghastly white Wenwu had only seen on the battlefield watching men bleed out into waxen corpses. Sweat dampened his forehead, and he could no longer keep his head up or keep quiet. He was panting harshly, ragged, short wheezes that seemed to hurt him every time they left him and in turn made him breathe faster in a vicious, agonizing cycle.
When news of Stark’s return made every major news channel and paper around the world, the murmurs had spread through the branches of the Rings quickly. Some bayed for blood (Stark had attacked one of them and therefore attacked them all), others were content to consider it karma for avarice (Raza had aspired to create his own fiefdom, forgetting in his hubris why they had united as one in the first place), but all of them had been in agreement, that Stark had done something unthinkable and defeated death when escape had all but been impossible.
But Wenwu had seen what Tony Stark was capable of. He was holding physical proof of it, elegantly miniaturized in his hand. Scraps in a cave and Stark had not only found a way to harness power—he had found a way to make it. It wasn’t so much the escape that captivated him but the rebirth, what Stark had transformed himself into at his nadir. He had no interest in party tricks. What Stark had to prove to him was not his ability to break free but his desire to remake himself again. If he did, this time he would have everything, instead of nothing, to do so; Wenwu would see to it.
He grabbed Stark’s chin and lifted it and was met with an expression dripping with insolence. It was the only act of resistance left to Stark.
“I’m not a man you say no to,” he repeated. “So I could leave you to die.” He savored the weight of the arc reactor, its formidable force, before he slotted it back into its casing with ease, the subtle click as it locked into place reminding him of the toy robots that Shang-Chi used to play with. Stark gasped as oxygen returned to him, the missile shards freezing in place in his mincemeat chest. “But as I said, you’re a dead man walking, Mr. Stark. Think about it.”
It was a shame that Stark couldn’t be persuaded, but no matter, Wenwu mused as he left, as he attended to the tasks that needed his input or approval. Stark was dying. And dying men, especially dying men with a mission, were desperate. He would come around.
He wouldn’t push him. Stark would need to seek him out of his own volition. Matthias had stayed. Shang-Chi had not. Wenwu had often wondered if he had done things differently, if he hadn’t brought Shang-Chi with him on his hunt for retribution right after his mother’s death, if Shang-Chi would be at his side now; his son had asked for strength, for vengeance. He would have wanted it without Wenwu’s demonstration of his might, of the old power that he had been known for and the fear that he had once inspired. That had been more about him, for him, than it had been for Shang-Chi, he had come to accept with regret.
He was a patient man now. He knew the value of waiting, of showing what he had to offer and walking away instead of striking immediately, though he didn’t need to wait for long.
There was a commotion in the courtyard, shouts and the sounds of weapons being drawn and bodies slamming into hard surfaces echoing through the halls. Wenwu picked up his pace, shaking himself out of his ruminations so he could ready himself to sift through the chaos to analyze the situation and devise the best strategy, but it was unnecessary.
Very little surprised him anymore, but the sight that greeted him brought his thoughts to a halt.
He had made sure to keep Stark alone with nothing but the clothes he was wearing and the room and trays of food stripped bare of anything that could be squirreled away as a tool. Even the table for their meeting had been taken away after.
And yet Iron Man soared above them all, above the courtyard he had laid waste to, battered but gleaming red and gold in the high noon sun. Stark shot a repulsor blast before any of them could react, the focused explosive energy close enough that a fragment of the wall ricocheted and skimmed Wenwu’s cheek, slicing it with a smarting sting, though he had dodged the hit itself.
Impossible, he thought as blood seeped from the cut, as he launched himself into the air with his rings and Stark met him, catching his hand in a crushing grip, blocking his arm with his, metal clashing against metal, the sound reverberating through the compound like a clear bell.
Stark was a threat, a danger to his empire, to what he had built, someone who could destabilize it if he gave him the room to get in a hit the way so many of Stark’s opponents mistakenly had. If he didn’t eliminate him fast.
Unacceptable, he thought, but there was a familiar quickening in his heart like a war song at the challenge, a desire to push but a reluctance to destroy. This wasn’t anything he had anticipated. Stark wasn’t anything he had anticipated. He was something unexpected altogether.
“You keep saying we’re the same,” Stark said like he could hear Wenwu’s thoughts. He flew to the side to avoid the whip of energy Wenwu lashed out at him, whirling around as it swept towards him in a wide arc. “But the difference between you and me is that I don’t have to be in the shadows,” he finished, and Wenwu thought of dappled light peeking through the crowns of trees, of its warmth heating his skin, as he called back his rings to try again.
He thought of a tranquil forest far, far away as Stark fired his repulsors, unyielding, matching his strike with one of his own, their dance an echo, a memory.
No, Wenwu agreed as he parried Stark’s attacks and Stark answered his. Tony Stark was something else entirely. Something impossible and unknown.
And for the first time in many years, Wenwu awoke.
End notes:
A few things:
- I wished Tony and Wenwu met in the MCU right after watching Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings, but while writing this, I realized just how many parallels there were between them which made me lament the missed opportunity even more. Imagine what it would have been like for RDJ and Tony Leung to play off each other!
- Wenwu and Matthias's backstory is pulled from a deleted scene, so adopted son Matthias is canon-ish and I choose to believe it is because it makes their relationship richer. I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that Tony Leung came up with this, but I can't find the source at the moment.
- In addition to parallels between Tony and Wenwu, there are allusions in this story to certain conversations that Steve had in CA:TWS as well as Tony's perspective in AoU. It's interesting to think about Tony's evolving mindset on his position as Iron Man and an Avenger over the course of the Infinity Saga, and I wanted to give a nod to that change and his similarities with Steve because I can't help myself. Tony's rattled by how much he sees himself in Wenwu and how much Wenwu understands him, so I think this meeting with Wenwu will influence how this Tony moves forward. There are things that crucially set them apart, though, and one of the biggest that I couldn't bring into this but talked to magic about was the Avengers. Wenwu is very much alone; he has troops of subordinates whereas Tony finds himself a team of equals later and is stronger and better off for it.
- This story can be summed up as:
Wenwu: Tony, you are me. You are Matthias. You are Shang-Chi.
Tony: Actually, I’m Ying Li.
Universe: MCU
Relationship: Tony Stark & Xu Wenwu
Rating: T
Word Count: 4,583
Summary: The simplest and smartest thing to do would be to kill Tony Stark. He was a danger to the Rings and to himself, the world's foremost expert in creating destruction out of nothing.
Wenwu was no fool; if you played with fire, you were bound to get burned. But that was only if you didn't know how to master it and he did. He knew how to provide the spark and how to temper the resulting flame, how to keep it from sputtering out or engulfing everything in its path.
He knew how to make it his because he knew what Tony Stark wanted and more importantly, needed.
On AO3
Notes:
For
magicasen. I'm obsessed with Wenwu so when magic asked if I would be up for writing about a meeting between Tony and Wenwu (I believe it was after we both saw this art), of course I said yes despite not being sure I'd be able to do it. This is set in a canon-divergent IM2 where Tony is hellbent on going after the Ten Rings and Wenwu takes a keen interest in Tony. Exact dates in the MCU can be shaky, but this is also coincidentally around the time that Shang-Chi ran away.
Over his long life, Wenwu had seen his share of strong men, all of whom had disappointed. No matter the era, no matter the nation, the empire, this held true: the flashier the man, the likelier his reputation was gilded, gold plating rather than solid gold. Beautiful but decorative. False. Cheap.
Tony Stark was no different.
Intelligent, yes, but vain, loud, and pompous. Weak for a good drink or a warm body in bed. Weak in his arrogance especially as of late. His peacocking at the congressional hearing, his uncouth conduct in Monaco, the danger he courted everyday by presenting a bullseye target to his greatest weakness, dead center so no one could miss it… His behavior was that of an immature child.
Nowhere near a god then, and Wenwu would know. He had come across more than a handful of self-professed gods over the millennium, some with a more legitimate claim to that title than others, their mental or physical prowess surpassing the outer limits of mankind—and he had crushed every last one of them.
What a disappointment. God or not, Stark had promise and all that raw potential had gone to waste because no one knew how to mold it. Not even Howard Stark or Obadiah Stane. One father hadn’t seen his true value and had been too miserly with his nurturing, the other had been excessive, spoiling him rotten, too hasty and unrestrained with his expectations and lazy with his discipline.
Stark needed a firm, patient hand from someone who understood what it was that he needed.
“We should kill him,” Matthias suggested in lieu of a greeting once Wenwu stepped out of his office. He rubbed the metal end of his arm, and the man to his right glanced down at the movement, smirking.
Unobservant, Wenwu admonished before retracting that thought. He was being uncharitable. The man didn’t know any better nor could he expect him to. Matthias kept things close to his chest, but he was an open book to Wenwu because Wenwu had raised him as his own since he was a young boy. It wasn’t eagerness to skewer Stark at the end of his blade that had him rubbing his arm; it was nervousness.
Had it been anyone else, Wenwu would have questioned their doubt in his ability to control the situation, but Matthias was smarter than that.
Matthias knew better than to underestimate opponents and acknowledged the danger Stark posed, even cornered and vulnerable, if they weren’t careful. Something Raza, Stane, the American government, and now this Vanko had a tenuous understanding of and look where they all ended up.
Stark was a big enough thorn in their side to warrant plucking, and even better, killing him now would leave no space for any errors to manifest.
But centuries and these past two decades in particular gifted Wenwu restraint and wisdom. He would be careful, but he wouldn’t snuff out potential. Scratch the cheap gold foil and on occasion, a glimmer of the real ore could be found underneath.
Where others saw a lost cause, he saw opportunity and his gamble reliably bore fruitful dividends.
He placed a reassuring hand on Matthias’s bulky shoulder, remembering how scrawny it used to be under his palm when Matthias was a child.
With that one skinny arm of his, he had expertly juggled three balls, managing to catch the attention of passerby who had places to be and more interesting attractions to gawk at than a performing urchin. Impressive enough to place some coins in the box at his feet, but an experience that would have just remained a pleasant memory of Romania once he walked away had Matthias’s talent not been abundantly obvious. It wasn’t the speed or dexterity that had snagged Wenwu’s attention then but the ease. Matthias had made it look natural and instinctive, as though every human being was born with the ability to do what he was doing, and had someone decided to juggle with him, they would be just as good. Except, of course, they wouldn’t.
His boy was no circus act.
Matthias waited for his answer expectantly.
“Not yet,” Wenwu replied before addressing the small gaggle of men who had gathered, no doubt hearing about their captive. “Wait here. This won’t take long.”
He walked down the winding paths to Stark’s room alone and opened the door, tsking as he took in the poor sight before him.
Stark sat slumped at the table that someone had brought in for their meeting, worse for wear close up than he had appeared on the CCTV footage, though thankfully not too roughened up for the Rings’ standard. Blood coated his temple, but it was dry, the source wound clotted over, and his left eye was ringed black though the swelling had gone down a little—most likely souvenirs from the scuffle that had led to his capture.
He straightened up at the sound of the door opening, and though he was visibly exhausted, Wenwu could tell his mind was sharp and clear, ever observant; while he remained wary, he relaxed almost imperceptibly. No food, no weapons. Wenwu’s hands were folded behind his back.
Yes, he wasn’t a guard.
“I’m sorry for all of this. This was…unnecessary,” Wenwu said once he reached the table.
“So this is all a misunderstanding, and you’re going to let me go just like that?” Stark asked sarcastically as Wenwu lifted his manacled wrists in response.
“No.” He slipped the key into the locks and smoothly opened the cuffs, holding them to prevent them from crashing to the concrete floor and placing them next to Stark’s bare feet which he proceeded to free as well. “My men have a tendency to be rough with intruders. Not many get this far. But I had an inkling you were arriving, and this is not the way I would have chosen for us to meet,” he explained as he took the seat opposite of Stark. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a while now.”
“Funny way to show hospitality, what with the chains instead of coffee. I’d rate this guest experience zero stars out of five.” Stark gave him another once-over. “Maybe a half for style.”
“I would think that withholding your favorite Colombian brew is only fair, all things considered.”
The destruction was a bigger loss than expected. Stark had taken out an impressive chunk out of their stores and men, and it would take more time and resources to replace them than Wenwu would have liked.
Ever since his triumphant escape from the caves in Afghanistan, Tony Stark had been singleminded in his obsession with tracking down the Ten Rings.
“More into Ethiopian these days, but point taken. Though I can’t exactly say that I’m sorry.” Stark’s breezy voice hardened into stone, and he bared his teeth into a cutting smile. “You had my things. And you killed Yinsen.”
For a moment, Wenwu was thrown off track, the terrain of their conversation utterly foreign before he remembered who Yinsen was and regained his footing.
“A decision I didn’t sanction by a branch that went rogue. Ho Yinsen should have never been there. He was a good man.”
A great one. A man of his talents was wasted as an interpreter when he had much more to offer the world.
“It doesn’t matter if you didn’t know,” Stark said venomously.
“No, he’s still dead,” Wenwu agreed. “And ignorance is no excuse.” For the briefest moment, Stark’s frown slackened a fraction with uncertainty before tightening into a grim neutral line. “I would have seen to it myself had you not taken care of matters for me. Improper oversight breeds mistakes, and mistakes lead to regrettable consequences.”
“I don’t think I particularly want my captor’s gratitude for taking out the trash.”
“You see us as adversaries.”
“I’m being held against my will in the depths of some lair in the mountains, and you have a list of crimes long enough to fill a library, Xu,” Stark said flatly, earning him a smile from Wenwu.
“You’ve done your homework,” he acknowledged.
“Yeah, so whatever you’re trying to sell here, I’m not buying. No amount of diplomatic role-play is going to butter me up, and you saw what happened the last time your men tried to force me to play nice.”
Stark mimed an explosion, his hands expanding illustratively.
“I’m not here to coerce you into anything nor do I have any desire to,” Wenwu replied.
Nor did he have to. Not like Raza. Not like Stane. Both had been canny, but their greed had blinded and goaded them into a strategy that they should have known would end badly. But that he refrained from saying. It would be taken as a threat, and there was no need for that.
“I’m simply here to talk,” he explained.
“That’s what they always say.” Stark reclined in his chair, legs spread out insouciantly. “What’s it going to be, a villain monologue where you wax on about your raison d’être? Or a veiled ultimatum that you’ll insist isn’t an ultimatum?”
“Much as it may surprise you, you’re not my enemy.”
“You sure as hell are mine.”
“I’m not going to pretend that you haven’t given me trouble nor am I going to excuse or lie about what I’ve done in the past. But you don’t have as full a picture as you assume.”
“No, I think I know enough to say that you and me? We won’t work out. Call it irreconcilable differences.”
“Binary thinking, Mr. Stark,” Wenwu chided. “You know the world is more complicated than that. You sit in front of me a reformed war profiteer, after all.”
There. A flash of guilt. He had to continue before defensiveness slammed shut the door that Stark had left ajar, cockily believing himself untouchable enough to not have to care about what danger slunk in.
“If you’ve learned so much about me, then you must have wondered about my unexplained dormant years. A man with never-ending hunger for conquest, whose victories only temporarily satiate him until he sets his sight on another domain. That’s what the whispers told you, and that’s where they stopped.”
Stark’s fingers were curled around the door frame, but he had paused, Wenwu could tell. Stark was clever and the clever were curious. The door remained partially, reluctantly, open. Wenwu bent to set down a plate of food at the entrance, bait sure to entice, but he could admit to himself that this was more than that.
He had never mentioned this to anyone. Had never even reflected on the past with Shang-Chi and Xialing; there was no need to when it was something that they shared, when it would be too painful. The love that was there was unspoken and required no explanation or examination, the good days boxed away for safekeeping, far in the past where they could not be destroyed.
But Stark would understand. He had looked beyond himself and put in the effort to change because he saw that to lead meant to serve. A rarity in their line of work, which made the pursuit worthwhile, despite Stark squandering chances and succumbing to his old foibles lately. Wayward decisions, yes, but he only needed to be kept from straying again.
Wenwu folded his hands, and the ring that he had exchanged for his own, the one that he had kept even after putting on his old rings again, dug into the bone of his finger like a reminder. A vow.
“I had a family,” he said, working to keep his voice level. “I had never been interested in settling down, let alone having children, but I did and my priorities shifted. You believe that I seek power, and that was true once. It remains true now, but only as a means to an end.”
“And what end is that?” Stark asked evenly, taking care not to betray any thought, but a response was invitation enough.
“Protection. And the best way to protect, I’ve found, is to be proactive. To have control over your surroundings. Complete mastery so there’s no room for argument, no opening to challenge.”
He took out a plate of red armor from his pocket and placed it between them.
Iron Man.
His rings thudded dully against oak as he lowered his arm onto the table.
Deterrence.
Stark hadn’t tried to attack him, hadn’t once contemplated it since he had walked into the room. He wasn’t foolish, and neither was anyone who fell into line after Wenwu came out of retirement. No one was stupid enough to test the line.
Wenwu wore his rings on his arms for the same reason Tony Stark put his arc reactor on full display for everyone to see. Without the rings and the reactor, both of them were mortal, and anyone who wanted to eliminate them had easy access to their greatest weaknesses.
But they were a reminder and warning of their power as well. No one had ever beaten them because it wasn’t the tool that made a man great. It was the man himself.
Stark made no movement to reach for his armor.
“So your plan is to be a one-man army—a one-man state—instead of, I don’t know, trusting people to take care of themselves. Giving them the choice to decide what that looks like,” he said.
“Nations fall. Reigns end. What government do you propose I put my trust in? What security council?” Wenwu collected the armor plate and slid it into his pocket. “I watched your congressional hearing. I know you understand. Some situations necessitate operating outside the law. And some tools are safer in our hands.”
“Don’t compare yourself to me,” Stark snapped. “What we’re doing is completely different.”
“Our goals are more aligned than you think. Peace. Safety. Measures that effectively ensure both for years to come so that the world will keep turning even if we eventually take a step back. Is that not what you’ve set out to accomplish, the next step in your plan? Surely you know you can’t do this forever.”
His last remark hit a nerve just as he was confident it would. There was one foe neither of them could win against, one that he had been able to hold off at an impasse but not defeat: time. And Stark was running short of it more than most knew.
“What do you want from me? You’re not here to ask me for bombs,” Stark asked soberly. Gone was the viciousness that swung him from contemptuous playfulness to scathing attacks; in its place was a wary scrutiny, the assessment of a predator lying in wait, analyzing the risks, the other hunter in the field.
“I’m not. Anyone can make bombs although,” Wenwu conceded, “none can make them quite as good as you. No, I have a proposition. You’re dying.”
Stark sat up without meaning to, his hand instinctively flying to the center of his chest before he could catch himself, the movement aborted too late to take back. Wenwu could tell he was biting off curses for showing his hand, but it didn’t matter; it was a truth Wenwu was aware of and no amount of obfuscating would make him dismiss or forget it.
“I told you before that you’re not my enemy. We may be on opposite sides, but we are not diametric opposites; our ideals, our goals, are similar even if our approaches differ. You want to make the world safer by ridding it of threats, and my enemies are your enemies,” he said. “Hydra. AIM. Just a few names among countless others, some of whom aren’t of this realm. Rather than expending effort locking horns, we can work together. You have precious little time—months, if that. You’ll want to make the most of it.”
“And if I say no? Very kind of you to offer me your hand in marriage, but I’m more a freedom guy, not a fear and domination guy?”
Wenwu flicked his arms so his rings traveled to snap up the length of Stark’s forearms, flinging him out of his seat and against the wall behind him. A choked grunt punched out of Stark, and he clenched his jaw, trying to cut off the pained noise.
“Thought you said you wouldn’t coerce me,” he grit out, exhaling heavily through his nose, but he was more cross than plaintive.
Wenwu took a second to appreciate that defenseless and unarmed as Stark was, he was somehow unshaken by the predicament he was in, at the rings’ mercy but remaining himself.
“I’m not. I’m asking you to consider this seriously,” he replied as he walked to where Stark hung on the wall. “It’s not your weapons I want. It’s your mind and conviction. You’ll have unlimited resources at your disposal to achieve what you seek to do and to leave behind a legacy for the next generations to inherit and build on. More than you can possibly fathom.”
“I don’t know if you've heard, but I’m a billionaire. I have money,” Stark said. His teeth were tinged red; he must have bitten his lip upon impact, and the effect was ghoulish.
“Resources,” Wenwu corrected Stark as he drew near. “Money makes things easier, but my wealth encompasses more than that. Antidotes. Experts. Tomes that you can’t find elsewhere spanning thousands of years. No one else has as extensive of a collection, and all of it is readily and quickly accessible. Your condition is terminal, but it doesn’t have to be. You can find a solution and prolong your life with remedies until you do.”
Stark wanted it badly; that much was obvious from the interest that burned in his eyes, the conflict that knotted his eyebrows. He must have exhausted nearly all of his options if not all at this point. After much inner debate, his face cleared, leaving him somber and resigned.
There was only one choice to make. Wenwu was offering what no other man could: eternity, the one gift that eluded Stark and the only one that he needed. The scales were too far tipped for any counterbalance.
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ll take my chances,” Stark said instead.
Wrong answer, Wenwu thought with consternation.
“You would rather face death when you have so much left to offer the world,” he said, more question, more chance at revision, than statement.
“Instead of owing you a blood debt? Yeah.”
Stark said it so plainly like there was no other answer he could give.
Wenwu was disappointed. He had expected more from Stark. More shrewdness, more gumption. If stubbornness precluded Stark from giving true acceptance, Wenwu had assumed that at the very least, he would be wily and pretend to agree so he had more cards to play later.
He couldn’t tell whether it was pride or inflexibility that pushed Stark into refusing to see the offer for what it was.
“You’re so sure about this,” he remarked with an edge of disapproval.
“I should be able to die on my own terms. ”
“And your terms are drinking yourself into a stupor. Recklessly endangering yourself and others. Losing the respect and trust of those whom you claim you’re fighting for and falling into ignominy as you’re ravaged by an illness out of your control.”
Stark was a child acting out, throwing off any hands that reached out in concern because he couldn’t respect their authority. Because he knew none of them understood how to guide him or provide what he needed.
“You asked me what would happen if you refuse,” Wenwu continued. “I’m not a man you say no to.” He called a few rings back to him, the air around his hand flaring a chilly blue as they returned. He placed his hand over the arc reactor. Before Stark could react, he twisted and removed it from his chest, ripping through his shirt with ease.
Stark lunged forward in alarm, arms bucking against the remaining rings holding him to the wall. For once, he was mute, other than the strained cry of pain that slipped out as the shrapnel resumed their path through his heart, shredding the muscle.
His eyes were the same as Shang-Chi’s, defiant and wild, and for a second, Wenwu could hear the whistle of the sticks in the air before they landed on bare skin.
Fuck you, Shang-Chi said wordlessly even if he had known it was for his sake just as Stark would soon.
The arc reactor glowed blue in Wenwu's palm, and he took a moment to admire it, holding it up and rotating it this way and that.
A pure, nearly inextinguishable power source.
It was ingenious, even more so considering the circumstances under which it had been created. Had it not been for the Ten Rings, would he even be holding this reactor? Would Stark’s thoughts have even landed on the idea of renewable energy, on all the ideas that he had come up with since his captivity?
Raza had been correct in chastising Stane. Mere trinkets to kill a prince indeed.
Stark’s complexion was a ghastly white Wenwu had only seen on the battlefield watching men bleed out into waxen corpses. Sweat dampened his forehead, and he could no longer keep his head up or keep quiet. He was panting harshly, ragged, short wheezes that seemed to hurt him every time they left him and in turn made him breathe faster in a vicious, agonizing cycle.
When news of Stark’s return made every major news channel and paper around the world, the murmurs had spread through the branches of the Rings quickly. Some bayed for blood (Stark had attacked one of them and therefore attacked them all), others were content to consider it karma for avarice (Raza had aspired to create his own fiefdom, forgetting in his hubris why they had united as one in the first place), but all of them had been in agreement, that Stark had done something unthinkable and defeated death when escape had all but been impossible.
But Wenwu had seen what Tony Stark was capable of. He was holding physical proof of it, elegantly miniaturized in his hand. Scraps in a cave and Stark had not only found a way to harness power—he had found a way to make it. It wasn’t so much the escape that captivated him but the rebirth, what Stark had transformed himself into at his nadir. He had no interest in party tricks. What Stark had to prove to him was not his ability to break free but his desire to remake himself again. If he did, this time he would have everything, instead of nothing, to do so; Wenwu would see to it.
He grabbed Stark’s chin and lifted it and was met with an expression dripping with insolence. It was the only act of resistance left to Stark.
“I’m not a man you say no to,” he repeated. “So I could leave you to die.” He savored the weight of the arc reactor, its formidable force, before he slotted it back into its casing with ease, the subtle click as it locked into place reminding him of the toy robots that Shang-Chi used to play with. Stark gasped as oxygen returned to him, the missile shards freezing in place in his mincemeat chest. “But as I said, you’re a dead man walking, Mr. Stark. Think about it.”
It was a shame that Stark couldn’t be persuaded, but no matter, Wenwu mused as he left, as he attended to the tasks that needed his input or approval. Stark was dying. And dying men, especially dying men with a mission, were desperate. He would come around.
He wouldn’t push him. Stark would need to seek him out of his own volition. Matthias had stayed. Shang-Chi had not. Wenwu had often wondered if he had done things differently, if he hadn’t brought Shang-Chi with him on his hunt for retribution right after his mother’s death, if Shang-Chi would be at his side now; his son had asked for strength, for vengeance. He would have wanted it without Wenwu’s demonstration of his might, of the old power that he had been known for and the fear that he had once inspired. That had been more about him, for him, than it had been for Shang-Chi, he had come to accept with regret.
He was a patient man now. He knew the value of waiting, of showing what he had to offer and walking away instead of striking immediately, though he didn’t need to wait for long.
There was a commotion in the courtyard, shouts and the sounds of weapons being drawn and bodies slamming into hard surfaces echoing through the halls. Wenwu picked up his pace, shaking himself out of his ruminations so he could ready himself to sift through the chaos to analyze the situation and devise the best strategy, but it was unnecessary.
Very little surprised him anymore, but the sight that greeted him brought his thoughts to a halt.
He had made sure to keep Stark alone with nothing but the clothes he was wearing and the room and trays of food stripped bare of anything that could be squirreled away as a tool. Even the table for their meeting had been taken away after.
And yet Iron Man soared above them all, above the courtyard he had laid waste to, battered but gleaming red and gold in the high noon sun. Stark shot a repulsor blast before any of them could react, the focused explosive energy close enough that a fragment of the wall ricocheted and skimmed Wenwu’s cheek, slicing it with a smarting sting, though he had dodged the hit itself.
Impossible, he thought as blood seeped from the cut, as he launched himself into the air with his rings and Stark met him, catching his hand in a crushing grip, blocking his arm with his, metal clashing against metal, the sound reverberating through the compound like a clear bell.
Stark was a threat, a danger to his empire, to what he had built, someone who could destabilize it if he gave him the room to get in a hit the way so many of Stark’s opponents mistakenly had. If he didn’t eliminate him fast.
Unacceptable, he thought, but there was a familiar quickening in his heart like a war song at the challenge, a desire to push but a reluctance to destroy. This wasn’t anything he had anticipated. Stark wasn’t anything he had anticipated. He was something unexpected altogether.
“You keep saying we’re the same,” Stark said like he could hear Wenwu’s thoughts. He flew to the side to avoid the whip of energy Wenwu lashed out at him, whirling around as it swept towards him in a wide arc. “But the difference between you and me is that I don’t have to be in the shadows,” he finished, and Wenwu thought of dappled light peeking through the crowns of trees, of its warmth heating his skin, as he called back his rings to try again.
He thought of a tranquil forest far, far away as Stark fired his repulsors, unyielding, matching his strike with one of his own, their dance an echo, a memory.
No, Wenwu agreed as he parried Stark’s attacks and Stark answered his. Tony Stark was something else entirely. Something impossible and unknown.
And for the first time in many years, Wenwu awoke.
End notes:
A few things:
- I wished Tony and Wenwu met in the MCU right after watching Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings, but while writing this, I realized just how many parallels there were between them which made me lament the missed opportunity even more. Imagine what it would have been like for RDJ and Tony Leung to play off each other!
- Wenwu and Matthias's backstory is pulled from a deleted scene, so adopted son Matthias is canon-ish and I choose to believe it is because it makes their relationship richer. I'm pretty sure I read somewhere that Tony Leung came up with this, but I can't find the source at the moment.
- In addition to parallels between Tony and Wenwu, there are allusions in this story to certain conversations that Steve had in CA:TWS as well as Tony's perspective in AoU. It's interesting to think about Tony's evolving mindset on his position as Iron Man and an Avenger over the course of the Infinity Saga, and I wanted to give a nod to that change and his similarities with Steve because I can't help myself. Tony's rattled by how much he sees himself in Wenwu and how much Wenwu understands him, so I think this meeting with Wenwu will influence how this Tony moves forward. There are things that crucially set them apart, though, and one of the biggest that I couldn't bring into this but talked to magic about was the Avengers. Wenwu is very much alone; he has troops of subordinates whereas Tony finds himself a team of equals later and is stronger and better off for it.
- This story can be summed up as:
Wenwu: Tony, you are me. You are Matthias. You are Shang-Chi.
Tony: Actually, I’m Ying Li.