Ikaris hates parties.

He hated them in Babylon, hated them in Rome, hates them now, and somehow, these are worse. At least back then, the wine was real, the music was divine, and the people didn’t wear glitter on their faces like war paint. Now he’s stuck in what used to be Stark Tower, renamed AvengerZ Tower, as if someone had taken a legendary name and shoved a dagger through it, twisting just to make sure it died dishonorably.

The celebration is in full swing. They’ve saved the world. Again. You’d think after the fifth time, they’d stop needing to throw a bloody parade for themselves, but no, apparently the universe only feels safe when its saviors are half-drunk and dancing to noise that could summon demons.

Alexei and Walker are twenty beers deep, arm in arm, singing some Soviet-American hybrid anthem that sounds like a crime. Someone should stop them. Preferably with tranquilizers. Bucky sits nearby, stone-faced and silent, staring at his glass like it’s personally betrayed him. He’s already downed half a bottle of vodka and still looks like a man reading scripture.

Across the room, Yelena, Kate, and the spider kid are in a heated debate over some board game called “Monopoli.” The table’s littered with fake money, tiny houses, and rage. The kid keeps insisting he knows the rules; Yelena keeps calling him “tiny capitalist man.” Kate’s just laughing like it’s the best thing she’s ever seen.

Makkari and Druig are in their own world, of course. Always are. Dancing close, swaying like the air itself bends for them. They make it look easy, that kind of love. Effortless. Timeless. He used to know it too. Once.

His gaze drifts.

Sersei.

She’s standing near the window, bathed in city light, the curve of her smile soft and distant. She looks happy. Peaceful. Not like someone who used to hold entire galaxies in her hands. Not like someone who used to love him.

He tells himself not to go to her. Not tonight. But then again, he’s not known for listening to good advice, even his own.

He takes one step forward. Two. The music dips for a second, a breath of calm between tracks. And then.

The bass hits.

Hard.

The speakers growl to life, and something obscene floods the room. The crowd cheers like they’ve been waiting for it.

Ikaris freezes. The music is filthy.

His jaw tightens. He looks around in disbelief. Is no one hearing this? Is this not… illegal somehow.

He mutters something unprintable under his breath, scanning for whoever’s responsible for this auditory sin. But the room has erupted, bodies moving, laughing, the air thick with sweat and rhythm and the kind of unrestrained chaos he’ll never understand.

And that’s when she appears.

She’s not dressed like a soldier tonight. No combat gear, no stoic mask, just her, the version of her that’s all teeth and laughter and too much life. The music wraps around her, turns her into motion itself. He can’t look away.

Before he can process it, she’s right there, cutting through the crowd, her fingers catching his wrist. Warm. Real.

“Come on, old man,” she mutters, loud enough for him to hear over the music. “Loosen up.”

He’s startled, and something else. Something he won’t name.

Her grip is firm, her pull effortless. He stumbles forward, his other hand instinctively catching her waist. The scent of her, smoke, sweat, something floral and defiant, hits him like a weapon.

He wants to tell her this is inappropriate, that the song is indecent, that he doesn’t dance. But she’s already moving, already pulling him into the orbit of her rhythm, and he—

He gives in.

For just a heartbeat.

The bass reverberates through his bones, and the lights paint her in crimson and gold. The lyrics spill filth into the air, but all he hears is her laugh, all he feels is her pulse beneath his hand.

He hates this. He hates the noise, the chaos.