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"Tony Stark?"
He pressed the answer button, his tone laced with playful teasing.
"On this night of family reunions, the great Iron Man actually calls me? Don't tell me your armor's stuck in a chimney?"
Tony Stark's trademark rapid-fire voice came through, jazz playing in the background.
"Ha, very funny, Stars-and-Stripes boy. If I were stuck, I'd have Thor hammer me down, not ask the guy who might scorch my backside with Heat Vision."
Tony paused, voice turning a shade more serious.
"Listen, there's a party tonight. At my place… well, it's not fully repaired yet, but it's usable."
"Party?" Anthony chuckled.
"Tony, I thought you were still treating your Pepper?"
"I've healed her! I'm Tony Stark, genius scientist—nothing stumps me." Tony retorted.
"Anyway, just a few of us. Me, the old Popsicle Captain, and… you know, the usual."
"It's a… gathering of orphans," Tony's voice dropped.
"You know—people like us, with nowhere else to go."
Anthony froze for a moment.
Orphans.
Tony Stark—parents murdered by the Winter Soldier, spending life fighting his father's shadow and the loneliness of loss.
Steve Rogers—father killed in WWI, mother dead of tuberculosis. Lost every relative and friend in WWII, waking to a World entirely foreign. An orphan of time.
And Jessica Jones—family killed in a car crash, she the lone survivor, growing up burdened by guilt and the shadow of discrimination in her adoptive home.
As for Vargas… whether the former Hollywood's top actor who struggled through showbiz after his parents' early death;
or Anthony Starr of this World—whose identity he'd usurped—his whole family lost in a plane crash;
or even the original Homelander.
They… all had no home.
"Sounds… bleak," Anthony swirled his glass.
"But I'm in. What time?"
"Eight. Oh, and bring your 'queen'." Tony added.
"Don't tell me you two aren't together. I saw that premiere—the eye-to-eye chemistry… tsk."
"And ditch the spandex! This is a private party, not Comic-Con!"
… 7 p.m.
A black stretch Lincoln pulled up in Hells Kitchen.
Anthony pressed the doorbell.
It took a while before the door opened.
Jessica Jones wore her trademark worn leather jacket and ripped jeans, half a bottle of whiskey in hand, face broadcasting "strangers keep out."
"What?" She leaned against the doorframe, reeking of alcohol.
"Here to check if I'm slacking on training? It's Christmas Eve, boss."
"I know." Anthony looked her up and down, frowning.
"You planning to spend Christmas in that?"
"What else? Wear that white rubber condom?" Jessica took a swig.
"I plan to get wasted and sleep till next year."
"Go change." Anthony commanded.
"We're going to a party."
"No." Jessica tried to shut the door.
"I hate parties. I hate people. I hate Christmas."
A hand blocked the door.
"Tony Stark's party." Anthony met her eyes.
"And Captain America."
… Jessica's hand paused. "Captain America?"
"Yeah, the WWII Popsicle." Anthony smiled. "Said it's a gathering for orphans. I'd say… you qualify."
Jessica's eyes flickered.
Orphan.
The word stabbed into the softest part of her heart.
"Give me five minutes."
… Half an hour later, Anthony whistled when Jessica re-emerged.
She hadn't worn a gown—that wasn't her style.
Instead she sported a black turtleneck cashmere sweater under a sharp charcoal coat, slim black trousers, and high-heeled ankle boots. Hair in a simple ponytail, face lightly made-up.
Still cool, but with an added urban, sophisticated edge.
"Nice." Anthony opened the car door like a gentleman.
"You look human."
"Keep talking and I'll slam your head into the window." Jessica climbed in.
The car started, gliding into Manhattan's glittering night.
"Why me?" Jessica watched the lights streak past.
"You could've taken any New York supermodel."
Anthony, champagne in hand, turned to her.
"Because they'd only give me fake smiles and ask me to buy them bags."
"While you," Anthony grinned, "will roll your eyes whenever I try to show off. It feels real."
"… You're sick." Jessica turned away, though the corner of her mouth twitched upward.
Anthony looked out too, but his gaze wasn't on the bustling streets.
To the former Chinese him, Christmas meant mall discounts, couples booking hotel rooms, or having to gift Lucinda that bitch an expensive bag.
He held no religious belief, cared nothing for this Western holiday.
Yet this body carried vague, aching memories of family.
Those memories, stirred by alcohol, occasionally surged with a sting.
Anthony Starr's childhood had been filled with expensive gifts and empty mansions. Parents always busy—busy earning, busy socializing. He spent most holidays in boarding school.
But now, he was Homelander.
All of America waited for his "Merry Christmas" tweet.
"What are you thinking?"
Jessica beside him cut his reverie.
"I'm thinking…" Anthony turned, gaze unabashedly sweeping her chest, "why I didn't get you a low-cut gown in advance."
"Screw that. The slit's too high—if a fight breaks out, I'll flash everyone."
"Then don't fight." Anthony tucked a stray hair behind her ear. "Tonight is truce night. We're here to drink, not demolish buildings."
"Hope so." Jessica muttered.
"I hate these gigs. Everyone wears masks, speaks what they don't mean."
"Masks are the bedrock of civilization, dear." Anthony chuckled.
"Without them, we'd have torn each other apart."
"And you?" Jessica suddenly stared straight into his eyes.
"Do you wear a mask, Anthony?"
Anthony was stunned.
He looked into Jessica's brown irises, reflecting a man handsome beyond flaw.
"Me?"
Anthony slowly leaned in until their noses almost touched.
"I am the mask itself…"