Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Pepper Potts had far too much experience dealing with Tony Stark On Alcohol™ while under his employ, enough for a goddamn lifetime.

When he was the drunken center of attention in a room full of brown-nosing enablers, she made sure he didn't make too much of an ass of himself in front of the cameras. When she was alone with him in his laboratory, she kept a watchful eye over his falsely-enhanced bravado, ensuring him that, yes, she was indeed taking careful notes of his sudden intoxicated rush of absolutely brilliant ideas. When one drink to help him sleep turned into one drink too many, she helped him stumble off to his bedroom before he passed out for the night.

But taking care of him wasn't her job, anymore.

So when she received a clumsy, misspelled text after midnight asking for her help, specifically, she didn't pull into his driveway out of any sense of obligation.

When the front door swung open to reveal the exhaustion in his eyes and the glass of whiskey in his hand, she wasn't there as his assistant.

“Hey, Pep.”

“Hi, Tony.”

She was there as his friend.

Curling a manicured hand around the strap of her purse, she assessed the situation with a glance, her heels clicking across the floor as she stepped inside. The house appeared to be intact. Stark was wide-awake, and all alone. These factors didn't match his usual alcohol-induced party stupor—no, this was the kind of drunk saved for bad anniversaries and concentrated bouts of personal dissatisfaction.

She continued looking around, spotting the differences in home decor from the last time she'd visited several months ago. The biggest change, she noticed, was the artwork on the walls: an array of framed and mounted pieces featuring artistic interpretations of Stark's likeness, equally-spaced and tastefully chosen.

An ode to narcissism, she thought.

“She let you put these up?” she asked, amused.

“She's the one who put them up,” he replied blearily. “You think that's something, you should check out our fridge.”

“Must be nice to date someone who's as big a fan of you as you are.”

“Doubt she's much of a fan after last night.”

“What happened?”

“Stuff. Things. Haven't seen her since she drove off in her dumpy little Civic.” He took another sip of his drink and walked away, slightly off-balance. “Don't tell her I called it dumpy, though, that car's kind of her baby.”

She kept her eyes trained on him as he made his way back to the couch. “Well, she lasted longer than I thought she would.”

“Right? I thought I'd send her running for the hills a lot sooner.”

“Not what I meant. I figured you would've tossed her aside by now.”

“Wh—tossed her aside?” (He had the gall to look offended.) “Gee whiz, Pep, I'm hurt that you would even suggest—”

“What, that I'd suggest you'd do something you once did every other week? What did you expect me to think, with you latching onto another poor girl half your age? I mean—she was your student, for God's sake—did you get off on that, or something?”

“Not always. Sometimes she did it for me.”

“Oh, not what I asked, Tony.”

“I mean, if you wanna get literal—”

“Did she have any idea what she signed up for when she agreed to this relationship with you?”

“Wait, my ex-girlfriend implying I'm not a complete catch? Blasphemy.”

Potts folded her arms and leaned against the back of the sofa, leaving Stark to his idle sips of his whiskey. Years of experience and refinement granted her, and her alone, fluency in the language of Stark, and sometimes proper conversation involved waiting him out, to leave him squirming in his own silence until he got back on-topic.

They kept at it for a while, steadfast through the quiet, a hauntingly familiar game of silent chicken between ex-lovers.

He finally spoke up, like she knew he would.

“...she wants me to get therapy.”

“...she told you that?”

“Yeah. Got Rhodey in on it, too. Like some kind of...fucked-up intervention-by-proxy.” He scoffed into his glass. “Therapy. God, I haven't heard that word since Obie.”

Potts bit the inside of her cheek. Stane's bitter memory was a much fresher wound than she'd ever care to admit. There was something deeply unsettling about Stark still calling Stane 'Obie' after all that had happened, a nickname he'd used since childhood, as if the man who acted as surrogate father and the man who tried to murder him were two completely different people.

“Be honest with me, is—is there something I'm doing lately that's making everyone think I need to take a roll of nickels to a pop-up psychiatry booth? Please, for the love of god, tell me so I can hide it better.”

Potts pursed her lips. “It's not that simple.”

“Why not?” He turned in his seat to face her. “You don't think I need therapy, do you?”

“Absolutely, I do.”

His shoulders tensed, but his eyes didn't leave her. He mouthed voiceless words preparing to speak, to snap back, to say something, but every argument he had ended up dying in his throat.

“Then why didn't you ever say anything?” he finally managed, sounding much weaker than he did in his head.

“I couldn't even get you to the tarmac on time for your own private flights, what makes you think my suggestion would've fared any better?”

“You've got a better head on your shoulders than I do, Pep, always have. I would've listened to you.”

“No, you wouldn't have,” she said firmly. “You're not used to dealing with problems you can't throw money at. You never liked not being in control.”

“What's wrong with being in control? Why does everyone keep talking about it like it's such a bad thing?”

“Because you're addicted to it. Because you can't control everything, Tony, and whenever something or someone reminds you of that...” Unintimidated, she motioned to him. All of him. “This happens.”

“Alright, I get it,” he snapped. “I'm a control freak and a shitty friend. A shitty friend and a shitty boyfriend and a shitty boss.”

It was her turn to roll her eyes. “I'm not here to throw a pity party. You wanted me to help you 'figure things out,' remember? So what is it you want, Tony?”

“I want to go back to a time when my friends didn't think I need fucking therapy.”

“There never was a time like that.”

“Wow, good to know. Thanks.” He pointed his glass at her, amber liquid spilling over the lip. “Hey, question—where was all this heartfelt concern when I was dealing with Hammer? Or after New York? Why is everyone just now coming out of the woodwork?”

“Look at what's happened to the people who've tried to help you,” she bit back. “You don't listen to advice that doesn't align with what you've already decided for yourself—what reason have you given any of us to try? Besides, cleaning up after your emotional wreckage is not and was never in my job description. Now that you've found someone up to the task—I feel sorry for her, Tony. I really do. It sounds like this whole thing was a relationship of convenience, and when what she wanted from you became inconvenient, you—”

“Don't use past tense, you'll jinx it. It's not over, yet.”

“Isn't it?”

“No, that's why you're here. I need you to help me fix it.”

She scoffed. “Here we go, again. You think this can be solved with a signature and phone call? I'm not your secretary, anymore—I can help you fix this about as much as I can help you fix yourself.”

“Give yourself more credit, Pep, you've always been around to pick up the pieces.”

“Yeah, and that's why I left you.”

The silence between them returned, hard and heavy.

“I'm the CEO of a multi-billion dollar corporation, now,” she continued. “I can't clean up after you, anymore, Tony. I won't.”

Stark went back to nursing his drink.

“If you really want to fix things, take my advice for once in your life. Stop locking yourself away in your basement every time something bad happens—stop using your suits as a distraction from all your problems. Get rid of them before you build yourself into an early grave. If not for your sake, then for hers.”

“You don't understand.” He was on his feet, now, leveling her unfaltering gaze. “I keep those suits for my sake, but especially for hers. I use them to protect the world because the world—I don't know if you've noticed, Pep, but it's got a lot of people I care about in it. It's got you, it's got Rhodey, it's got Happy. Banner. Nat. Rogers. It's my job to protect the ones I love, and I love her, Pep, I do, and I'm losing her, and I'm not able to do anything about it—I'm not used to this, I'm not used to—”

“Not being in control.”

No words manage to escape him, this time.

She watched him sink back into the couch and stare ahead at the living room television, both his expression and the flat-screen blank, and unreadable.

Potts made her way around the couch and claimed the seat next to him, waiting for him to find his words again.

“...I shot at her.”

“You what?”

“Not on purpose,” he said quickly. “Suit malfunctioned. I got it out of the way in time, but I still...”

“Is that why she left?”

“No, she actually helped me get some sleep right after. It was the first time in days.”

“You’re still having trouble sleeping?”

“Yeah. She wouldn't let me out of her sight until I did, though. I can't remember how long I was out, woke up and had no idea what year it was. And you know what? She was still there. Toiling away at her laptop over dead-end research, but she was still there. Looking after me.”

“What's your point?”

To her surprise, he leaned his head against her shoulder.

“...help me fix it, Pep. Please.”

And she sighed with enough exhaustion for the both of them.

Potts leaned back into him. She held her cheek against his head and even dared to let herself drift into the quiet familiarity of it all—his softly slurred words, marred with the scent of alcohol and a world-weariness that had made its home within his bones a long time ago. For a split-second, holding him like this almost felt like old times—natural as anything, but different, somehow.

“Therapy's not something you do for other people,” she said. “So I ask you, again: what do you want out of this?”

“I wanna sleep, Pep. I want the nightmares to stop. I want to be able to plan my next move without spiralling over what's already happened.” He paused, still not making eye contact. “I want to be the person she thinks I am.”

She stroked the back of his head. “Why not try being the person she knows you can be, instead?”

He actually cracked a smile, she noticed.

There might've been hope for him yet.

You fucked off to Los Angeles because you knew the road there like the back of your hand.

The city was a two-hour trip from Malibu, a drive you made whenever you needed to be at the offices of Stark Industries' California headquarters. You normally went into work early and left work late to avoid the traffic, but thankfully, the roads were relatively quiet this time of day. The fight you had with Stark was very conveniently timed—it happened on a Friday night, allowing you to spend the whole weekend in the next city over to clear your head without having to take time off work.

You rented a hotel room once you arrived in LA. Smoke-free and single-mattressed, it was a modest, practical little place, nothing like the exuberant five-star penthouse suits you were used to. You didn't need anything fancy to tide you over, anyway—sure, you were an authorized secondary user on a limitless black-card only a handful of people in the world got invitations for, but you'd be damned if you were taking advantage of Stark or his money, right now.

Your salary covered everything you needed just fine.

You'd stormed out of his house with little more than your phone, your wallet, and the clothes on your back, so on Saturday morning, you bought some supplies to last you the weekend. A pair of shorts. A couple of cheap t-shirts. A toothbrush. A charger for your phone, which had died on you several hours earlier.

(Two missed calls. Two new voicemails.)

You used Stark's super-exclusive credit card to grab yourself some ice cream. He pissed you off, after all. Least he could do was buy you some ice cream.

Somehow, you pictured your weekend going a little differently. On the drive there, with your judgement clouded by hurt and frustration, you daydreamed about exploring the city during the day and partying hard well into the night, surrounded by friendly, attractive people with whom you shared temporary camaraderie through gratuitous intoxication.

You ended up sleeping most of the time.

(You'd never really been the partying type.)

The highlight of your weekend involved catching a late show at a near-empty theater, munching on popcorn slathered with Butter Flavouring until your stomach hurt. By the end of it, you kinda just wanted to go home to where the comfy bed and spectacular WiFi were, but you decided against it, if only out of pride.

It was Sunday night when you finally asked Jarvis about Stark.

“Four missed calls and four new voicemails, madam,“ he replied.

“Thank you, Mr. J. Will you play them for me, please?”

The first was from Friday night, a few hours after you'd left the house.

“Hey, doc.“ (The familiar sound of him made you melt a little.) “Uh, you probably don't wanna hear from me right now. I wouldn't. I'm sorry about what I said, that—that was not cool. Not cool at all. Heat of the moment kinda thing, you know? Not that it's an excuse, but. Um. Are we okay? Wait, no—stupid question, you don't have to answer that. Call me if you need anything. Or don't, depends on how you feel. Have a good night. Love you.”

The next voicemail was from the following day, so late on Saturday night it was early Sunday morning. His words slurred together.

“Hi, baby. Hi, doc. How're ya doin'? Listen. Listen. I know it's late, and you're probably sleeping. I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry. Really. It wasn't...it's not okay for me to—to vent like that at you. Hell, it's probably not okay for me to call you when I'm piss-drunk, either, but two wrongs make a right, right? Right. Sorry. Okay, I'm gonna. I'm just gonna stop. I love you, honey, I do. Whole heart, fuckin'...Arc Reactor and all.“

“Tony, who are you talking—“ (Potts' voice could be heard in the background; she was getting very close, very quickly.) “TONY, NO, YOU'RE DRUNK.“

“I sure am—“

“Tony, give me the phone—“

“OkayIloveyoubye—“

The line clicked, and you were smiling in spite of yourself. He'd reached out to Pepper after you left; you were relieved he reached out to someone, at least.

The third message was from early Sunday afternoon.

“Hi, um, it's me again.“ You could tell from the sound of his voice he'd just woken up. “I mean—of course it's me, who else would it be? Anyway. Just wanted to apologize. Again. For last night. I was talking to Pepper about some things and...I just really wanted to hear your voice again. Even if it was just your voicemail. I'd really appreciate if you called me when you get this. If you want to. If not, I understand. I hope you slept well. Yeah, that's about it. I love you.“

Your heart was starting to hurt.

The final message was from two hours ago.

“I'm sorry, you probably don't want to hear this, but I'm—I haven't slept yet. Since you left. I don't even feel tired, there's just—numb. It's all numb. Right after you left, I...accessed some recordings in Jarvis's natural language system. Recordings of you talking to him. About me. Did you even know those were stored? Probably not. I don't know what I was looking for. Something to justify pushing you away. I don't know—god, doc, I don't know. You don't deserve this. I don't deserve you. I need help, I know I need help—I know that, now. I rescheduled the appointment for tomorrow afternoon. Details are in the calendar. I don't have any right to ask this of you, but. I'd. Appreciate it if you were there. Please.“

A long pause.

“...I need you. I really do.“

You located his new calendar entry for Monday afternoon.

for your own good.

During his last voicemail, he'd admitted to listening in on your recorded conversations with Jarvis, but somehow, him thinking you were bad-mouthing him behind his back stung you more than the invasion of privacy.

You never thought of Tony Stark as a man who truly needed anything, but here he was, needing you, needing his friends, needing help, and knowing he had finally come to terms with that filled you with an undeniably profound sense of affection—but did he know you needed him just the same?

Had you made that clear enough?

While you puzzled and pieced your memories together, you couldn't help but notice that the new calendar entry was made in a colour Stark had never used before, not once during your many, many months of syncing your schedules with each other. His entries were normally light blue, but this appointment was in hot pink.

You switched the calendar from weekly-view to monthly-view, and the days were suddenly sprinkled with pink entries you'd never seen before.

“Mr. J, have these appointments always been here?”

“Not always, madam. It appears as if Mr. Stark has recently given you access to a private calendar.“

“Could you do me a favour and flip back to the first entry, please?”

The calendar interface scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled.

The pink entries went back for months on end.

The scrolling finally came to a stop, revealing that the very first entry was made nearly two years ago.

No location, no description, no specific time slot.

Just a single word.

library.

The following pink block was a couple of months later, on a harrowing date you knew far, far too well: the deadline for your MIT graduate research proposal.

call dr lombard to review application.

The morning of your doctoral defense.

she'll do fine.

Your graduation.

doctor's appointment - do not miss.

The weekend you moved in.

she's home.

Your heart was hurting more than ever, now.

The entries got more clustered as the months continued. Most of them only contained a one word at a time.

phone.

car.

stars.

lemonade.

blue.

The most recent read,

t-shirt.

“What's 't-shirt' for?” you asked out loud.

“That was the day Mr. Stark arrived home after a business trip to find you wearing his shirt and nothing else, madam.“

Horrified, you covered your mouth as your cheeks blossomed a brilliant shade of red. “Oh my god, Mr. J, I'm so sorry.”

“I think this is a good time to remind you that I am incapable of feeling embarrassment.“

“It's also a good time to be reminded that you're sentient and you know exactly what these entries mean.”

“Mr. Stark catalogues many things, madam. I daresay his favourite...rendezvous with you are amongst the most mundane.“

You laughed into your hands. “Did he really just make this calendar to prove a point?”

“No, madam. The calendar was created shortly before the date of the second entry, and has been updated regularly ever since.“

You flipped back to the entry that read

she said it first.

before tears stung the corners of your eyes, again.

The receptionist greeted you, remembering your name from the last time you were there. She told you Stark would be another half-hour or so, and to have a seat in the waiting room until he was finished.

Your hands were trembling far too much to play any of your phone games properly, so instead, you flipped through stacks of the office's old magazines of in the meantime, not really taking in any of the words.

Stark emerged from the back, eventually.

You sprang to your feet. You weren't quite sure why.

His eyes were bloodshot, but good lord, the way he brightened up and said 'Hey, doc.' was just so remarkably him, it made a swell of emotion crash against the inside of your chest so ruthlessly you couldn't look him in the eyes without choking on your breath.

You tried your best to pretend you weren't trying to hold back tears right now—you barely cried about this whole thing over the weekend, so why now, of all times—and he graciously ignored your glossy eyes, your blotchy cheeks, your fumbling hands, in favour of looking nothing short of relieved to see you.

“Sorry I'm late,” you said hurriedly, managing a smile, “I...didn't wanna show up until I knew you were here.”

“That's okay.” He sounded calm. “Fool me once, right?”

“Something like that, yeah.”

Much like your weekend, you imagined this going differently.

You imagined rushing up to him right there in the lobby, nearly jumping out of your skin and into his arms to hug him with everything you had, a silent, mutual embrace that served as shared apology and shared forgiveness all at once—but you held back.

If only out of pride.

Before long, you were standing together on the sidewalk outside the building. The realization that you'd both taken cars just made the silence between you that much more awkward.

You ran a hand against the back of your neck and motioned across the parking lot. “Well, I'm. This way.”

“Alright.”

And he followed you to yours.

“Turns out my shrink's a big Stark fan,” he offered, a lilt of playfulness in his voice, “I was able to reschedule in exchange for Iron Man popping by his niece's birthday party in a few months. And...you know, tripling his normal hourly rate.”

“That's good,” you said flatly.

He deflated a little. You instantly wished you could've at least pretended to sound more enthused.

You're not sure how long you sat there in your car, sharing the unbearably loud silence. You both knew there were things that needed to be said.

Neither of you knew where to start, so neither of you bothered trying.

You sat in the driver's side with both hands wrapped around the steering wheel. He sat next to you, seatbelt clicked into place as if he was expecting to go somewhere. It was too warm to be sitting idle, so you stuck your key in the ignition and turned on the air conditioning. An air freshener in the shape of a palm tree was clipped to the vent, filling the Civic with a cheap, fabricated, tropical scent. You'd cleaned your car over the weekend—you're sure he noticed—and it was spotless and tidy, save for shopping bags in the back seat carrying the supplies you'd bought for your impromptu vacation.

“Every session,” he finally said, facing the window, “I'll go. Every appointment, I will make time. I promise.”

“Okay,” you replied softly, nodding, “okay.”

What was wrong with you?

He was putting in the effort—he went to get help, he made a promise, he'd apologized a hundred times over, but you still felt off about the whole thing.

You gripped the steering wheel tighter and leaned your forehead against it, sighing. “I feel like I should be the one saying sorry.”

“...why?”

You shrugged, not looking at him. “I didn't answer my phone. I didn't listen to your voicemails until last night. We had a disagreement and I ran away and gave you the silent treatment instead of dealing with the problem like an adult and I'm sorry.”

“Don't beat yourself up, doc, I run away from my problems all the time. It's why I'm here, isn't it? I'm the one who's sorry. You were right about me.”

“I know.”

“About everything.”

“I know.”

“You're nothing like Obie. You didn't deserve to be compared to him.”

“Damn right, I didn't.”

“You're not my father, either.”

“Neither are you.”

You were still leaning against the steering wheel when you peeked at him, smirking from behind the cover of your wrist, and he returned it, as if just a fraction of his worry lifted from his shoulders as soon as he saw you smile.

For the first time that day, he finally looked like himself.

You reckoned you did, too.

Shuffling in a bit, he leaned his head on your shoulder. “I'm gonna get my car picked up from here and taken back to the house, you wanna go get some food? I'm thinking something unhealthy, cheap, and possibly not 100% meat.”

Laughing, you turned your key in the ignition. “You know, normal people call it Taco Bell.”

“Hey, uh.” He pressed a kiss against your shoulder, and glanced up at you with those godforsaken puppy-dog eyes. “Are you coming home?”

He'd caught you off-guard, and your heart skipped. “I—if that's okay, yeah. I dropped by work this morning to let them know I was taking a personal day, and...well, if I show up again without a security badge, Chief Hogan's going to have me court-marshalled.”

“You have to forgive the guy, he hasn't gone in for surgery yet. You know, the one that'd get that stick out of his butt? I've offered to cover the medical expenses, but.”

You laughed. “I know he's just doing his job, but I really don't think he likes me very much.”

Stark inhaled through his teeth. “Yeah, funny story—he still kinda thinks Pepper was the best thing to ever happen to me and that I was a complete idiot to let her break up with me? I personally think he's mistaken, but hey, what do I know. Oh, idea.” He snapped his fingers. “We'll invite him to dinner. Best restaurant in town. Preferably one with an arcade. It's family bonding time.”

“Do I have to wear a security badge?”

“Don't be ridiculous, of course you do.”

You put on your seatbelt, checked your mirrors, and navigated your way out of the parking lot. Stark adjusted his seat, heaving an exaggerated sigh as he slowly reclined as far backwards as he could go.

“I still gotta make it up to you,” he said, folding his hands behind his head.

“Yeah?” You glanced down at him. “How do you plan on doing that?”

“Don't know yet. Consider it an IOU.”

“An IOU from Tony Stark? That's basically a free genie wish.”

“Can't wish for more wishes.”

“Dammit.”

“Anything else, though. Name it, it's yours. Do you want a suit of your own? 'Cause I can build you one of those. Any colour you want. I can get a new species of South American gecko named after you. I could buy you an island, if you wanted. I mean, I know you said you don't like me buying you things, but as I told the shrink earlier today, it's pretty much the only way I know how to express mysel—”

“I'm proud of you.”

He was quiet for a moment. “It was just an intake session. Didn't get into any of the real juicy stuff, yet.”

“I'm proud of you,” you said again, more firmly this time.

“Oh, uh. Thank you.”

Keeping your eyes on the road, you nodded, silently.

Stark rubbed a hand over his mouth, hoping you didn't notice him staring at you as you drove.

He doesn't tell you that it's the first time he's heard that phrase in years.

No, that was for his therapist.

Several months after the Battle of New York, Tony Stark starts getting help.

You kept him company each and every time, to ease his anxiety beforehand and to take him out for shitty fast-food afterwards. Some sessions would end with the two of you picking up right where you left off, as if the appointment was little more than an hour-long break between conversations. Other sessions left him quiet and ruminating the entire car ride home, on-edge and bleary-eyed, staring out the window with a hand over his mouth and the weight of the world on his mind. You never asked about his diagnosis, or the details of his appointments. If he didn't volunteer the information, you didn't want to know.

You were right there alongside him when he studied the list of prescriptions provided by his psychiatrist, going from introductory biochemistry to advanced pharmacology in the span of a single weekend just so he knew the exact chemical breakdowns of what it was he was putting into his body. You helped him experiment with recipes for mixed juices and fruit smoothies and imported blended teas, because the new medication prevented him from drinking alcohol as frequently as he liked. Most importantly, you kept him on-schedule, and you did everything you could to help him sleep.

And, in return, he helped you.

Whenever bouts of frustration had you falling asleep with your research out in shambles, you'd wake to find your papers organized neatly on a nearby surface, with formulas and suggestions written on Captain America-themed sticky notes stuck to every few pages. Stark started taking more time away from his workshop to spend it with you so he wouldn't tinker, so you wouldn't oversleep. You started marathoning random Food Network shows together, and sometimes, he'd take you into the kitchen afterwards and teach you how to cook something straight from whatever program you just watched. Anything to ease your stress. Anything to keep you awake.

He handed your coffee to you one morning, and he'd gotten it right without asking.

He wasn't sure why you hugged him so tightly, but he held you right back, anyway.

The first panic attack he had in front of you happened at home, while channel surfing. It started with intimate discourse regarding the political regulation of superheroes and with news footage from New York, footage he'd seen in passing a hundred thousand times before, but set him off this time for reasons you didn't understand.

You didn't understand, but you knew you didn't have to.

You wanted to think you were prepared for it. You'd done research of your own, so you knew what to expect and how to deal with it, if and when it happened. But one minute, he was laughing through your light-hearted debate, and the next, he was wide-eyed and shaking and clammy to the touch, and all the research and advice in the world wouldn't have helped you prepare for watching Tony Stark fall apart before your eyes.

“Hey,” you whispered, remembering to keep your voice clear and steady as you held your hands against his shoulders. “Hey, stay with me. It's okay. De—deep breaths. I'm here.”

“Sorry,” he swallowed dryly, his hands hooking onto your wrists as he tried to stop the room from spinning, “I—I don't know why—”

“I'm here,” you repeated softly. “This is a false alarm, you're safe. You're right here with me.”

“False alarm,” he muttered.

“That's right, false alarm. Can I get you some water?”

“No, stay. Please.”

“Okay. I'm here. Breathe with me. Just like this, c'mon.”

It took a minute for his hyperventilation to turn into deep breaths he synced with your own. Eventually, the tremors wracking his frame eased into mild shivers, a slight trembling that made you want to reach out and hug him for warmth. He once told you, however, that too much physical contact only made it worse, so you restrained yourself.

“Y—your name is Tony Stark,” you said softly, once he was enough at ease to hear you.

“...my name is Tony Stark.”

“We're in Malibu, California. It's 2:00am.”

“I'm in Malibu. It's two in the morning.”

“Do you remember the last thing you ate?”

“Um. Popcorn? Too much white cheddar seasoning. The way you like it.”

“C'mon, as if you weren't just fighting me to lick the bottom of the bowl.”

He gave a small laugh and the sound filled your chest with warmth. As selfish as it was, it was getting even harder to keep yourself from holding him close.

“You're in control, starling.”

He nodded, swallowing hard.

“You've got this.”

“...I've got this.”

Several minutes later, once his breathing and his heartbeat steadied, he finally released your wrists, only to reveal bright spots against your skin from the tightness of his grip.

“Hell,” he panicked, “I'm sorry—”

“Don't worry about it,” you laughed, rubbing at the indentations he'd left in your skin. “Seriously, I've gotten worse from when we were in bed together. You're pretty big on the whole wrist-grabbing thing, huh?”

He tipped forward and mumbled further apologies into your shoulder. Finally, he let you hold him, and you let him say sorry.

“Thanks, doc,” he whispered, still pressing his head into your neck.

And somehow, when you pull him off you and he sees you smile with relief, worried and flustered and there for him in spite of everything, he realizes he's never loved you as much as he does in that moment.

Six months after the events of New York, a bold new threat ushered itself into the short-lived period of villain-free peace, shattering the radio silence with a colourful, harshly-edited broadcast that hijacked the American airwaves and sent the entire country into a state of panic.

The President of the United States responded with a public rebranding of War Machine.

Stark wasted no time complaining.

Nursing a late-afternoon beer in the family restaurant, Rhodes shrugged off the concern. “And where were you when the Mandarin made his broadcast?”

“Watching Chopped with the missus while knee-deep in homemade Cajun seafood pasta, what's your point?”

“The point is, Tony, this is military business. Being able to take over all televised frequencies across the country at once just to get some random white guy to spew anti-American propaganda? It's unprecedented, is what it is. We've got our best people just trying to figure out how the hell he's doing it.” He looked over at Stark, intently. “See, when A Few Minutes With The Mandarin went down across the country, I was already on the phone assembling a team at headquarters, trying to isolate the location of the broadcast. But you? Whenever you're not messing around in international affairs wearing a mech suit, you're spending your days playing house.”

“Question,” Stark started, ignoring Rhodes completely. “Who the hell's Advanced Idea Mechanics? Why were they consulted to redesign my suit and I wasn't?”

“The redesign commission came from the Vice President, I didn't have anything to do with—” He sighed. “It's not your suit anymore, Tony, it's the property of the United States Government.”

“Oh, right, of course it's not mine. I just, you know, designed it, paid for it, built it with my own two hands. Just call it like it is. You commandeered my suit and gave it a—a paint job and a stupid name in response to a highly publicized threat from an international terrorist. My suit, Rhodey. You use my tech for the face of this investigation, I want in. You owe me that much.”

“I owe you jack,” Rhodes snapped. “I think me not commandeering the other six, seven, eight ticking time bombs collecting dust in your basement is more than enough to return the favour.”

Stark rolled his eyes while taking another swig of his iced tea.

“Look,” Rhodes started again, “when I said you were playing house—I didn't mean anything by it. Truth is, I'm concerned for you. I don't want to put you in a situation that'll compromise all the progress you've made. Therapy looks good on you, Tony. Real good.”

“Mm.” He ran a hand against the back of his neck. “Thanks again for hooking me up, by the way.”

“You're welcome.”

“I'm definitely remembering things better. I'm sleeping, again—some nights more than others, but every day—and I'm getting all my work done right the first time, like I used to. Hell, I think I'm actually better-suited for missions, now.”

“And how are things with your other doctor?”

The moment you were mentioned, Stark shut up at once, glancing down at his food and grinning.

“Ooooh boy, look at that smile.” Rhodes smirked against the lip of his beer bottle. “You don't need to say a damn word.”

“I've got something big planned for her this week, actually, I...” Stark waved his hands and shook his head. “Hey, wait, no—don't change the subject—do you want my help with this, or not?”

“I didn't want to say anything, but we're already getting help.”

“From who? Advanced Idea Mechanics?”

“No no no, someone military. Someone we trust who has the best interest of the United States at heart.”

Stark stared blankly at Rhodes.

“...someone red, white, and blue, Tony.”

“Rogers?!“ he shouted, immediately flinching at his own volume and glancing over his shoulder.

Looking away, Rhodes took another long sip of his beer.

Stark leaned in for a stage whisper. “You went to Rogers with this but didn't come to me?”

“Like I said,” Rhodes continued, sternly, “this is military business. A terrorist declared war on the United States and threatened our president, forgive me for thinking of Captain America before thinking of you.”

“Rhodey.” (Stark's voice was pleading, now.) “Rhodey, please. I—I've got all this new tech, Rhodey. Bomb disposal, prehensile automation, newly programmed artificial intelligence emergency services protocols based on Jarvis's OS and natural language scripts. I've been itching to give 'em a whirl.”

Rhodes raised an eyebrow.

“Also—yeah, right, president, America, in danger, international threat, whatever—look, just let me help. I've dealt with terrorists, you know that. It's what I do. Even better than before.”

“Can you work with Rogers?”

“What kind of question is that, of course I can work with Rogers.”

“Then you can ask him yourself,” Rhodes said, “because they put him in command of my task force.”

Recoiling, Stark inhaled through his teeth. “Ooo, that sucks.”

“Tell me about it. I'm Iron Patriot, for crying out loud. I'm the face of this mission and I get shoved aside for someone who probably wears star-spangled boxers.”

“Boxer-briefs,” Stark corrected.

“I don't wanna know how you know that.”

A couple of children came up to their table to ask for Stark's autograph.

Rhodes waited for the kids to leave before changing the subject.

“Hey,” he started, “do you really call me 'Brhodey' in private? Because that's lame, even for you.”

Stark laughed into his fries. “God, she really did tell you everything, didn't she?”

“Look, if I never have to imagine you saying the word 'bro' again, it'll be too soon.”

“I could call you 'bud.' Or 'dude.' Or 'fam,' that's what she calls her friends ironically sometimes.”

“Don't use your younger girlfriend to get hip with the times.”

“I am always hip with the times. I know what a meme is.”

“Say another word and I'm retracting my endorsement.”

You weren't sure what to expect when Stark said he was giving you your Christmas present early.

He’d taken you by the hand, threading your fingers together before leading you down to his basement laboratory, and the way his voice faltered when he said,

“There’s something I need to show you.”

only confused you further.

“Before you show me whatever it is you want to show me,” you said quickly, trailing behind him, “I—I want you to know I haven’t figured out your gift yet. Turns out the man who has everything is really hard to shop for, who knew?”

“It's okay, doc,” he chuckled. “This isn't a competition.”

“Okay, but if it was—”

“Shh.”

Standing in the center of his laboratory with you, Stark held both of your hands in his own and looked you in the eyes.

“I have a secret,” he said. “And it's a pretty damn big one.”

You nodded, trying your hardest to hide your own anxiousness.

“These past few months since New York, when I was feeling...you know, the worst of it. I came down here to do the one thing I knew how to do. Whenever I couldn't remember the most basic things to get me through the day, I always, always remembered this. So this is what I kept coming back to.”

You nodded, again. You weren't sure where he was going with this.

“Jarvis?” he called to the ceiling.

“Yes, sir.“

Your body jilted, startling you, as the floor parted ways in symmetrical segments around your feet, and the platform the two of you were standing on began to descend.

“You know what they say,” Stark started, “how insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting something different?”

The elevator continued downwards, almost two storeys underground. Flood lights, embedded in the hidden walls around you, were brought to life via motion sensors, revealing the massive underground gallery hiding just beneath your feet.

“Well, as you know, I went a little crazy.”

Iron Man suits.

Tony Stark had a secret underground army of Iron Man suits.

“Doc,” he said, curling an arm around your shoulders and gesturing around him, “meet the Iron Legion.”

“...holy fuck.”

“There's the seven upstairs, of course—the seven everyone knows about. Then, down here, there's another thirty-four. Mark 8 through Mark 42. Solid materials. State-of-the-art technology. Jarvis' operating system. S.H.I.E.L.D., Rhodey, Pepper—you're the only one who's ever seen any of this. Government lost their heads over the handful they know I have, can you imagine them finding out about this?”

There were so many, a grand multitude of shapes and builds and colours. Somehow, it hadn't occurred to you before that all his time in the workshop wasn't spent altering the same suit—he was busying himself with new ideas, new designs, keeping his work fresh and innovative, each iteration just a little more polished than the last.

“This is the weirdest museum tour I've ever been on,” you whispered.

“Ah, correction. It's the coolest museum tour you will ever be on.”

“Do they have names?” you asked, damn near pressing your nose up against the glass of one with bright blue plating to get a better look at it.

He bit his lip before pointing around. “Um, Sneaky. Piston. That one's Heartbreaker.”

“Which one’s your favourite?”

“Might as well ask me who my favourite child is—Mark 22, definitely Mark 22.” He motioned to a black-and-red suit nearby. “Hotrod. I built him after Rhodey eloped with War Machine. Weighs a third of the old prototype, has more advanced tech. Also, the paint job’s cooler.”

“It's got flames on it.”

“Gotta match the Roadster.”

“That's right, your car!“ you laughed, remembering. “God, that's so cool.”

“That's nothing—here, um.” He half-jogged over to a red-and-gold suit with a more muted colour palette than normal. “Mark 42's the baby. Prehensile. Built-in repair system. Only suit so far with a penetrating Unibeam. It—it ships in pieces that can fly on command and come together to make a full suit.”

“Ah.” You snapped your fingers. “This is the one that almost blew my head off.”

“You will be happy to know I fixed that.”

“Ironed out the kinks there, did you?”

Cracking a smirk, he side-eyed you, hard. “It was an unstable build. I was working on him before I started counselling, and I’ve stuck with him ever since. Instead of starting over and over again, like I used to, as I got better, I found myself coming back to try and make him better, too. He’s been keeping me grounded. Through a lot of things.”

You nodded, leaning in to further appreciate the intricate craftsmanship behind glass.

He leaned in beside you. “Was thinking of naming him Doc, actually.”

Your expression must have given you away, because the way he smiled at you and shrugged and asked, “Merry Christmas?” had the absolute intended effect of you kissing him right on his stupid, handsome face.

“To think,” he started, laughing against you, “I legitimately thought you’d be mad about this.”

“Mad?” you repeated. “Why, because my boyfriend's a supergenius who can build flying robots with his eyes closed?”

“No, doc, I mean all the time I spent down here, time that could’ve been spent on actual work, on recovery, on—on you, instead of these...distractions. Look at all this wasted time.”

You clicked your tongue. “C’mon. It wasn’t wasted time.”

“How do you figure?”

“You have...problems. Problems you've tried for months to deal with by yourself, because you were convinced you had to. You say you went crazy, but I think working on these suits helped you survive. I mean, look around! Look at all this work you've done. You could help so many people with these suits, how could you call that a waste of time?”

You finally met his eyes, again, and the way he was staring at you with such intense meaning left you feeling overexposed.

“They might’ve helped me survive,” he started, “but you’re the one who helped me live again.”

The red in your cheeks was bright and instant.

You buried your face in your hands and made an unintelligible noise.

“Love you,” he teased.

“Love you, too,” you squeaked into your palms.

You refused to leave the underground collection until you were introduced to each and every one of his creations by name, and he was more than happy to oblige.

You pointed over to a very smartly-designed black-plated suit with red accents. “Who's this sleek guy over there?”

“Mark 16. Nightclub. He's built for stealth missions—doesn't have a whole lot of firepower, but you'll never see him coming.”

“Aaaaand this big guy here?”

“Igor. Mark 38. A lot more brawn than boom, this one. Strongest of the lot.”

You pointed to a nearby suit overhead, one with a deep orange and steel-grey colour scheme. “Who’s this dude with the Naruto paintjob?”

“I don’t know what that means, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and be offended, anyway.” He paused for a moment. “Oh, that's Avalon. Mark 28. He repels radiation, protects the user from exposure. He’s got a unique emergency system built into him, too. I figured I wouldn't be entering a heavily irradiated area unless I had good reason, so Avalon contains an insane amount of computing power that enables a very specific sequence of tactical protocols if...okay, well, this guy will keep going, even if I don't.”

“...wait, what do you mean?”

“I mean I can die in this suit, and it'll keep going until it finishes its mission, or until it's destroyed.”

Your blood turned to ice.

You could see the color drain from your cheeks in the reflection of the protective glass case.

“I don't want you using this one,” you whispered.

“Come again?”

“I don't want you using this one,” you repeated, firmly. “It's bad luck. Just...please don’t use it, okay?”

You could tell from the confused look on his face that he didn't understand why you were so shaken.

He didn't understand, but he didn't have to.

“Alright, sweetheart,” he agreed. “I won't use 28. I'll get rid of him.”

“No, you don’t have to do that, I know he's part of your...” Collection? Gallery? Family? “Just. Don't get into it. Ever. Okay?”

“Scout's Honor.”

At that moment, his phone rang.

“Hold that thought, doc,” he said, looking at the incoming call. “Gotta take this.”

“Y—yeah, no problem.”

Stark had his back turned only a few feet away from you as he spoke on the phone, but you were still too rattled to bother eavesdropping on the conversation. Your mind was being overrun with a thousand and one unfortunate thoughts, each worse than the last. It didn't really hit you until now that with all of Stark's excursions, all of the dangers he faced on a regular basis, the chances of him dying in one of his suits was much higher than you realized. High enough for him to consider Avalon's programming as a goddamn contingency plan.

You took a step back and looked around you with newfound horror, realizing that any one of these suits could serve as his coffin.

Which one would it be?

A hand landed heavily on your shoulder from behind, startling you.

“There's been a Mandarin attack at the Chinese Theaters,” he said, hurried.

“Holy shit, that's only an hour away from he—”

“Happy was there.” His voice broke. “He's in critical condition, they don't know if he’s—”

You could feel him retreating from you with each passing second.

Instinctively, you reached out for him, but he waved your hands away.

(Physical contact made it worse; you’d forgotten yourself—)

“No, don't, I'm trying not to, um...” He stepped backwards, rubbing his forehead as he squeezed his eyes open and shut. “I—I thought I was getting better, why is this still happening? I just need to be able to think straight, I just—I need a game plan, but I—I can't think straight, i—if Happy doesn't make it, I don't know what I'll—”

“Mr. J?” you called up at once. “Can you please get us out of here, it's getting a little claustrophobic.”

“Right away, madam.“

His breathing was shallow, uneven. Panicked.

“Tony,” you said firmly.

The sound of his name in your voice brought his attention back to you.

“I need you. Happy needs you. We need you here, okay? I’m here. Look at me. Breathe.”

(Inhale through the nose—one, two, three.)

(Exhale through the mouth—one, two, three.)

“Your name is Tony Stark.”

“Tony Stark.”

“We're in Malibu, California. It's mid-afternoon.”

“Malibu. Afternoon.”

“We’re going to find the guy who did this.”

“The son-of-a-bitch—”

“You’ve got this.”

“I have to.”

“Where is Chief Hogan now?”

“Southern California Hospital. Hollywood.”

The platform jolted as it reached the plateau and the floor assembled itself back together.

Hooking a hand around the back of his neck, you pressed your forehead to his, remembering to keep your voice steady.

“I'll drive.”