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The Love of Ivan	By : miladygrimm Category: Marvel Verse Comics > Iron Man Views: 3144 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Iron Man 2, X-men (comics) Omega Red, Marvel, or Paramount Pictures, nor do I own any of the characters from the comics or the movies, this is a work of fiction and I do not profit from these writings.

Chapter List
- 15
- 16
- 17
((Once again, thank you to everyone...your comments and replies have made me soooo happy. I finally got this chapter out after typing it up...deleting it...rewriting it...so on and so forth. An arduous process. *hugs all the awesome people.))
“Hammer!” Harris called out. “Stand up, put your arms through the bars.”
Justin Hammer schooled his face carefully to blankness. It was time. He reached his hands up and pushed them through the bars awaiting the feeling of cold cuffs slapped around them. He did not have to wait very long. Showtime.
Harris stood there with two guards uniformed not in the slate gray and black of the prison guards, but the careful perfect starched white of sanitarium guards, unfamiliar faces paired with familiar uniforms. Perfect.
“Open C block cell number 194!” Harris called out.
He heard one of the guards shout back for confirmation, Harris responded, and the electronic switch was flipped, Harris put in his own key and twisted, ahh security. Hammer stepped back and let the bars slide open
“Front and center Hammer, your transfer came in,” Harris said in his drill sergeant tone. Hammer stepped forward, tripping on the edge of his too long jumpsuit. Harris stepped up and caught him, Hammer felt a cold slip of metal slide against his palm.
“Transfer?” Hammer asked.
“It’s a nice white collar facility for you, cushy therapists and green acres.”
“Sounds like the place for me,” Hammer said with a smile. “Bet it has pretty nurses and everything.”
Harris gave a snort and shook his head, “Whatever, you aren’t my problem anymore.”
Harris had clearly been watching too many movies. However, it didn’t matter much to Hammer. All Hammer had to do was play along. Pretend to be a poor pathetic inmate for as long as they were still inside the cell block.
The two white uniformed men grabbed Hammer and lead him down cell block C. Harris, the red faced lazy fuck, escorted them down, continuing to rant inanely about Justin getting moved away from this piss poor shithole.
Not the words Justin would have used; but they weren’t entirely inaccurate.
Justin and company were buzzed through the doors to the main hall of the prison. And at this exact moment skinny little Gomez was trying to waltz out of his cell wearing silky panties and a ball gown, creating a fantastic distraction for Justin hammer to slip his cuffs and slide out of his orange jumpsuit without anyone but the two white uniformed guards and Harris to notice. Beneath the orange jumpsuit he wore a simple stark white uniform starched to perfection.
Within fifteen minutes, Justin Hammer walked out of New York Pen, free. His slim form was clad in a white uniform, and he couldn’t help but smile as he got into the front seat of the Damanora State Hospital van, which was in no way heading to the hospital.

~
Ivan was sitting at a bus stop. He was not waiting for a bus. He had no intention of vanishing to the winds. He had no intention of going anywhere at all. At least not physically. His mind, however, was elsewhere. He had told Sylvia that his father was a hard man. He had not been totally forthright about it all. He had wanted to ignore the memory of his father now. But now Ivan was trapped in his memories, a prisoner of his own mind.
In his mind he was nine years old and he was hungry. He sat in a tiny dirty room and he was trying to ignore the dull ache of hunger that was gnawing at him. His pants were too loose. They were meant for a much larger boy. His shirt hung around him like a swathed blanket. He was cold, he was tired, and he was hungry.
His father was leaning over a large board, mumbling something that Ivan did not understand. He had tried to look at what it was that was so important earlier. He had a bruised cheek for the effort. Ivan hadn’t cried. He had come to accept his father for what he was. He was hard as the Hammer, and sharp as the sickle that crossed it. His father was not a bad man, just a man who knew what he wanted. And sometimes Ivan got in the way of that.
Ivan did not feel that his father had been an altogether bad man. There were times when Anton Vanko had been a wonderful father. Times when he would pull little Ivan unto his lap and show him how things worked, how things went together. He had explained science like it was an art form. He had explained the idea and principles of energy like a dogma of some modern religion. Ivan had treasured these moments. He had loved his father in those moments.
But not every moment with Anton Vanko had been worth treasuring. Anton had told Ivan early on what it was that had happened to him in the States of America. In his red eyed rages Anton would storm around the tiny shack they had called a home and scream about what had been taken from him. Ivan had found the courage to ask once what had been taken. Anton had made him pay for the innocent question. Those magical hands that made amazing things from scraps of metal and wire had been used for a terrible purpose. They had caused a pulled wrist, and a busted lip…and bruises. They had terrified him.
He had been too frightened to ask for a bit of food. On short legs clad it too big jeans he had wandered into a tiny messy kitchen in search of something to make the pain in his belly go away. Thankfully there was some soup still leftover from a few days before. He had scrambled up on one of the dark brown counters and fumbled for a bowl to ladle the soup into. Small fingers clasped the white porcelain dish.
And then his grip shifted. He knew for a split second that it would fall…it seemed imperative that it not fall. But he saw it tumbling out of his grip and smashing on the floor.
He had not meant to. He said it over and over again. His father grabbed his wrist and yanked it upward. Ivan could still hear the sick pop of his shoulder coming loose from the joint. Pain seared up his arm. The ache dulled only when his head smacked against the pantry door, the knob of it catching him at that soft spot between the eye and ear. He felt his head spin and he curled into a ball as his father shouted at him.
He wanted to do better. To be better. If he was good enough his father wouldn’t do this anymore. He wouldn’t worry.
Sylvia was pregnant.
She had just spit it out. The words had just hit him in the face. He had just gotten used to her being there, and now adding her cat…and suddenly she told him that there was a child. Ivan had never planned on children. Not really. Hard parents made hard children.
Sylvia wasn’t hard.
He put his elbows on his knees and slid his face into his hands. He had left her there. Once again Ivan had left her alone. He felt shame curling into his belly, thick and heavy. He dragged his fingers through that white streaked hair and resisted the urge to punch something. He was going to be a terrible father. He was going to ruin everything. He just knew it.
He’d already started by walking out of the apartment without saying anything. What was he going to do now? What about Sylvia?
He pictured Sylvia laying in bed. Surrounded in hand sewn quilts, heavy with child. Those locks of dark hair around her pretty with face. She would be beautiful. Swollen and ripe. Her hands on her own belly. She would be a beautiful mother. Sylvia would be kind and caring and nurturing. She would be all the things that a woman should be for a child.
Damnit.
He stood up and shoved his hands in his pockets, not sure what to do. He just started walking.
He was not an idiot. He knew what the statistics told everyone. He was going to be a terrible father. He would act as his father acted. He would forget to feed his child. He would be quick to anger.
But Sylvia would be there. She would not allow such things…but should that be the reason he attempted to be father? Because of Sylvia?
Was there a better reason? Did all fathers feel fear before they became fathers?
Ivan began walking home.
~
Sylvia was curled up on the couch, Fred tucked happily behind her legs, purring away. For a few long moments Sylvia had entertained the thought of leaving too so that when Ivan came back, if he did, he would have to feel the same fear she felt right then. But the thought went as quickly as it had come because Sylvia just did not have it in her to make Ivan feel that way. No matter what it was he made her feel. She just didn’t have it in her to make his life a living hell because he was human and imperfect.
Fake-Feminists of the world cry out in horror.
So she had curled up on the couch, pulling a blanket around her, tucking one of the little throw pillow beneath her head. She pulled Pride and Prejudice into her lap, the stories of Elizabeth Bennet and her sisters had often made Sylvia feel a bit better about her own lot in life. If nothing else, at least she didn’t have to pretend like everything was perfectly alright when it wasn’t.
However, the book was not giving her the comfort that she normally got from it. She couldn’t truly enjoy the plethora of emotions that grew between Darcy and Elizabeth. She gave up and tossed the book to the floor with a sigh. It was useless. She flipped on the television, pursuing 2x2. A Russian channel that specialized in cartoons, usually things that came from America in the first place. She turned off the Russian dubs and zoned out listening to nonsense.
It was January, Sylvia was three months pregnant, and pseudo married. She had known her maybe-husband for just over three months. And now he was…somewhere. Damnit Ivan! She sat up suddenly, causing Fred to grumble in protest. She wondered where Ivan was, what he was doing. Terrible images of Ivan drinking himself to death in some slummy bar filled her mind…then she imagined some pretty slim Russian beauty with dark eyes and silky skin snuggling up to Ivan.
Complete nonsense and yet she could not force the thought away.
“Oh hush,” She grumbled back, feeling thoroughly moody. Fred tilted his head to one side in confusion, and seemed to stare at her very intently. Then shot his leg into the air and began to clean his foot. “You’re no help at all.”
Fred didn’t seem to care.
Sylvia moved back to the kitchen and began cleaning with more passion than necessary. Damned if those bowls had a lick of grease on them when she was finished.
There was something mildly therapeutic about cleaning up your own kitchen. You washed away the days work, cleaned up counters, wiped down dishes and stove, and really you were cleaning yourself. Sylvia’s grandmother, an old fashioned woman, had said many times that the kitchen was the heart of any home. It was, in Sylvia’s opinion, better than any medication that was shoved down most throats. It was self purification.
So Ivan had reacted badly. Who was surprised? Honestly? Sylvia had not reacted well at first either. She’d been terrified. She’d kept it to herself for two weeks after she’d found out just to get used to the idea. Could she really hold it against Ivan that he’d needed a bit of time to himself?
Half of her said yes the other half said no. She really hoped the two sides of her mentality would stop arguing soon. She was getting a headache.
So involved was she in her scrubbing self purification that she did not notice the door opening.
“Sylvaska?”
Sylvia turned. Ivan stood in the middle of their little living room, looking cold and wet. He had a layer of snow upon his shoulders, and his shoes were soaked so that the typically light brown leather bordered upon black. He looked sad.
His eyes were red and glassy and she didn’t think vodka had anything to do about it.
“Words…no good.” he said softly.
Sylvia knew her eyes betrayed her confusion. Words no good? What on earth was that supposed to mean?
Ivan reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny black velvet box.
He licked his lips nervously, looking down and then back up at her with those sweet brown eyes.
“Sylvaska…” He whispered sinking down to one knee.
“Oh my god,” Sylvia whispered as he snapped open the black box.
Inside was a very simple silver colored band that had a soft dark sheen to it that marked it as platinum.”Words...”
She saw his eyes, galssy and filling with tears.
“Ivan…” She reached out taking the box, “Ivan…I love you…”
He wrapped his arms around her hips, staying on his knees. “My wife…”
- 15
- 16
- 17
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The Love of Ivan