Chemical Poison

Alexander stood in the third floor drawing room at his father's estate, staring straight ahead at the oil painting of his great-great grandfather. It had withered over the years, the canvas flaking away as generation pass. Some restoration attempts have been made; however, their was something expensive about letting art deteriorate because they could simply just order another. Surrounding the painting is a portrait of every Grey son since. Alexander had memorised their names, their wives, their sons, and their time of death by the time he was six.

The most recent portrait was his own: by age ten, any son of the head of house would be forced to sit on the century old sofa and have their portrait painted. For a lack of better words, it was fucking boring. Alexander had asked his father for a younger, fitter woman and not Mr Nostresi - a man older than the rotting corpse of Mozart. His father denied the request, obviously.

Raised voices argued in the room next to him. The door was left open, inviting on-lookers to watch as any gossip from inside the house never made it in the newspapers, and often found themselves permanently in a insane asylum founded by Alexander's father. 

"You can't just do that!" Fredrick shouted. "I am your first born."

"I can and I will," their father hissed back. Alexander's eyes closes as he hears the faint thump of their father's fist hitting the wooden table.

Alexander took a step towards his own portrait, his lips - usually stuck in a grin - was curved down in a frown as his fingers brushed against the gold frame. His fingers snagged against the deep scratches that used to read Helene Grey.

"You have been nothing but a disappointment the day your wicked mother birthed you." Alexander winced as their father's slow drawl, remembering the numerous times he has said the exact same thing to himself. "It seemed I got a matching set with you and Samuel."

When would his brother's learn that their was no pleasing their father? Always so adamant that they were the perfect sons, thinking that by becoming a banker, married to a upper-class wife, and having sons would please the ever-so stoic Mr Grey? They're clueless, Alexander decides. For a near ten year advantage of getting to understand the mystery that is their father, Alexander muses that he's closer in figuring him out than his brothers combined.

"Don't drag me into this," Samuel moans. The sound of a whisky glass smashing against the floor and a shout led Alexander to assume the argument wasn't in Fredrick's favour - if he was to ignore their father calling him a disappointment. Which is completely relatable behaviour.

Yelling pursued as Alexander continued to stare up at a younger version of himself: blond, blue-ish eyes, and a smirk that was apparently impossible for Mr Nostresi to not include. Alexander received eleven spankings that night. One for each year of his life, and an extra for winking at the painter and whispering, "My room?".

It feels both like an impossibly long time ago, but Alexander remembers it as if it was yesterday. He had been sitting in this very drawing room, using a sling-shot (that he most certainly never admitted was his) and shot at vases that was worth more than his father's gold pocket watch. He had hit two targets much to the displeasure of George, who was busy trying to find a way to glue together shattered class. 

Although George was the third youngest, their was nearly a decade between the two - but Alexander was pleased to say even with years separating them, he was always the brightest of the two.

Because at least Alexander knew glass couldn't be glued together. Private tuition was wasted on George.

The maids did not stop him when he begun to aim the slingshot at more expensive items: a plate set given by an archduke of some kingdom in Europe, a glass cabinet, and a marble statue that is believed to be from Ancient Rome. Alexander assumed it was the small mercy they could give the newly motherless son.

He wasn't completely wrong, obviously.

Alexander had watched his mother pick up a gun and shoot herself in the corridor outside of the very sitting room not even an hour prior. His parents had been screaming about something, or maybe it had been about him - nonetheless, within five minutes of the screaming ending the sound of a gun and a body dropping to the floor was heard.

The body was removed in a minute, the blood cleaned shortly after - and the floor left stained was covered up by a carpet from the sitting room on the first floor. In less than thirty minutes, all evidence of Alexander's mother, Helene, death was erased.

Then, he had watched his father storm into the drawing room Alexander had been in the whole time, pull out his army knife and scratch off his mother's name off the frame. His father was frantic the whole time, cussing his now dead wife for being unbelievably selfish. At the time, Alexander was too scared to move, afraid that if he did his father would see him and perhaps sentence him to stay with his mother.

Perhaps it's was soon to joke about the decease.

Alexander had found out a few years later that his mother found out that his father was having an affair, which in all earnest she shouldn't have been surprised as she was the mistress that got the first wife divorced. In retaliation, she had slept around and got pregnant, which Alexander's father was clearly not impressed with.

Somehow death seemed to be the only answer?

There was only consequences dealt out at Grey estate, and just as his mother had decided death was better than whatever fate his father had decided for her, Fredrick seemed to be receiving one of his own.

Not one to miss the family drama, Alexander took a deep breath and forced a grin across his lips. His next move would be what he decided he would tell his future bratty grandchildren.

Alexander waltzed out of the drawing room towards the lounge room where his father, and two brothers, Fredrick and Samuel, stood arguing next to the fire. He picked up Samuel's whiskey and swirled it as he watched the shouting become silent as they stared at him, expecting the worse.

Good, he thought. Let them expect the worse.

"Am I now your favourite child Daddy dearest?" Alexander mused. "Freddy divorced, Sammy stole your wife, and Georgie recently disowned?"

The taste of metallic blood from the impact of Fredrick's palm has never tasted so good.

With his recent upgrade as the Grey heir, Alexander waltzed into Stark Industries. Fredrick had made a very poor move in even considering divorcing his wife - the daughter of their father's closest partner. The grounds? Not wanting to have more children. The reason was so stupid, and Alexander cackled at the thought that his father had said "Alexander is right, was the first five not good enough?". The hypocrisy as he has had more wives than sons at this rate, probably would double it before he dies.

Then their was Samuel. Silly, stupid Samuel who has never learnt that Grey men don't like their trophies stolen, whether it be the maths tournament that Howard won in his name or their father's numerous wives. Alexander never did get to find out exactly how their father had become privy to the two's secret affair, but he was sure excited to see the headlines as Samuel had all intentions in marrying his step-mother.

It was only a matter of time before George was disowned. Supposably adopting a native American was the final straw. Alexander was shocked that George moving in with his boyfriend wasn't, especially since he had betted his favourite bottle of vodka with Samuel that it was sure to get him booted.

So he walked with an extra spring in his step. He had never desired the top seat in the Grey family, nor was he any more interested in it now. But Alexander would be a fool not to take the advantageous it was to be the Grey heir.

Why would he say no to endless money? Estates to turn into nightclubs, considering good old Roosevelt seemed to think it was fit to take away his favourite after work activity. And not to mention the excellent collection of ties his grandfather had. The man had style.

As per usual, Alexander winked at the whispering women who would walk in the foyer at the same time to catch his attention. Occasionally he would consider asking if they wanted to go to dinner and then a bit of fun after, finding the way their cheeks burnt a rosy colour to be the greatest reward than getting his cock wet. However, whenever he was about to approach them he would be stopped by a bosy, french woman that he definetly did not think was stunning, with a perfect bottom and kissable lips.

"You're late," she says. "Again."

Grinning as they enter the elevator, "Maria the sun is shinning on us!" Alexander yelled as he threw his hands in the air. "And don't you look radiate in it."

Their was a beat pause before she responded.

"It's snowing." She said dryly.

"And I wish everyday for the sun and the good lord delivers you to me."

Since Howard and Anneliese had left for their little romantic trip in Italy, Alexander has been in the company of Maria Bernard. 

Although it has only technically been a week, and technically this "routine" they have is really just a third day encounter. Alexander considered himself an optimist - that not even Maria was safe from his charm.

Maria groaned as she brushed out her auburn hair, "I wouldn't be here if Mr Stark didn't ask me to make sure you actually do your job."

Alexander knew how to do his job, thank you very much. He just would prefer not to do it. A crime when you're the acting CEO in the absence of Howard and Anneliese.

"Regardless, Mr Stark called before you arrived. He said it's serious."

Rolling his eyes, Alexander knew nothing Howard could say would even be that serious. He's basically on a honeymoon and he had no interest in learning about his two best friends sex lives if he wasn't being invited into the bedroom. So he ignored Maria's demands for him to walk quicker to Howard's office and decided to flirt with one of the new secretary's.

By the time he arrived to his office, it had been well over an hour since his conversation with Maria. He slowly dragged his feet to Howard's desk, already dreading the list of paper of all the jobs he needed to finish before he could drown himself in whiskey as Fredrick screams about being the heir for the second night in a row.

Just as he was about to go for his morning nap - which is completely necessary because wooing women is hard work, he sees a written memo.

"Message left by Mr Howard Stark for Mr Alexander Grey: It's important. It's her."

Perhaps this is what Alexander would tell his bratty grandchildren: the time he spent being the office whore while his best friends wife, who was also his best friend, was seemingly captured by her fucked up family.

It seemed their was no rest for the dramatics. Thankfully Alexander was a master at causing drama.

"She's really bad," he hears Howard cry. The telephone crackles and Alexander can just barely hear a sniffle. "There is burns and cuts everywhere, we are leaving in ten minutes. Have a team ready at Floyd Bennett Field."

There was silence for a few seconds before Alexander spoke, and this time... properly the first time in a long time, he thought about his words carefully.

"She's a fighter." He says slowly, "She will make a full recovery."

"I know," Howard says quietly. "But I don't think she will be the same."

Alas, Alexander had used up all his braincells for the nine words earlier and did not take the time to consider the gravity of the situation.

"Imagine how hot she will look in bed."

The line ends and Alexander is left to himself, and for the brief second he is unsure what to do.

That was until Josef Lorenz (his new best friend, much to the older man's distain) entered the room, asking if he wanted coffee.

Fuck.