Chapter Text
Day 18
Tony is slowly turning into the antagonist of his own story.
Rhodey and Happy find him face down on the couch, two empty bottles on the floor. Happy curses softly when he almost trips over one. Tony doesn’t lift his head, he presses his cheek against the couch and smells the whiskey on his own breath.
“I don’t know what to do about him, lately,” Rhodey mutters.
“He seems—Is Pepper available today?”
“I don’t want to bother her with this. It’s not her job to keep dragging him from a pit of his own mess, she broke things off for a reason.”
“It was entirely mutual actually,” Tony murmurs groggily.
“Shit. I thought you were out cold,” Rhodey says. And then, begrudgingly, “sorry about that.”
“About what, being badly informed?”
“I’m getting you to bed,” Happy says, tugging sharply at the back of Tony’s sweater. “Come on, boss.”
Day 19
He stays in bed all day.
Day 20
He stays in bed all day.
Day 21
He stays in bed all day.
Day 22
He wakes up when his phone buzzes. He is in his bedroom. It’s seventeen minutes past midnight. Pepper is calling.
“Can you not call me?” he asks her. “For once? For one Monday can you just magically decide not to call me? Just let me stick to what I’m good at. Ignoring messages and getting sandwiches named after me.”
“What? Tony. Happy has been trying to reach you for days to get on the—”
“Pepper, come over,” he pleads. “Come over and let’s hook up, that’s the only way I’m going to get any joy out of any of this. I’m nothing without you.”
“No one says ‘hook up’ anymore.”
He pushes his face into the crook of his elbow. “How would you know? And I didn’t hear a ‘no’.”
“No.” Pepper says. “Did you ever call that therapist I recommended to you?”
“The one who is so available? Are you suggesting I hook up with her instead?”
“I’m sending Happy by to check on you,” Pepper says firmly.
-
The check-up goes quite disastrously, with lots of insults and cynicism and a bit of elbowing in the gut. All of these from Tony’s end, of course.
Happy quits again. It’s whatever.
Day 23
The Mondays are still piling up. Nothing matters, which means he shouldn’t have to do anything at all. He used to love the idea of doing nothing. He would have killed for an excuse this good to stay in bed all day. Turns out doing nothing is boring and stupid, and also makes it difficult to avoid thinking about that deep chasm in his chest.
He has gone beyond the end of his tether, has been pulled apart at the seams, and it’s still Monday. What now?
He roots around his bed sheets for his phone. 11:06 AM.
He slowly swipes his thumb across the screen. His background is a picture of the beach he went to with Pepper, when things were good between them. He should change that.
Except it would reset by morning. Ugh.
He pushes himself up and throws his legs over the side of the bed. He thinks about options as he wriggles his feet into his slippers. What if time keeps looping for the rest of eternity? And what if he can never fix it? What would that mean for the way he is supposed to live his life?
-
Wanda and Vision are in the living room, sitting very close together on the couch. Tony vaguely wonders what those two have even been up to since the Raft outbreak. But not enough to actually ask. “Coffee?”
“No thank you,” they chorus.
Tony sniffs and pulls the pot closer. “I meant, is there coffee?” There isn’t. He holds the pot upside down. Blast.
“We have tea,” Vision says. “Fresh ginger.”
“Blasphemy.”
“Are you still upset?” Wanda asks.
Tony balks, then throws a frown her way. “I’m not upset. Why would you say that?”
“You are sad,” she says. “I sense it. And you have never learned how to express that emotion.”
“And you’re stupid,” Tony tells her, slamming a button on the coffee maker.
“Are you going outside today?”
Tony rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck. “Yup. Going back to the scene of the crime. Coney Island. I just—” he huffs, and adds, petulantly. “I don’t want to talk to Happy.”
“I’ll call you an Uber,” Wanda says, taking out her phone.
“I can drive.”
“Trust me.”
-
He is never trusting Wanda again.
A deep red car with faded paint and cloudy windows is waiting at the bottom of the front steps. Tony slides into the passenger seat and looks straight into the face of May Parker. He blinks, surprised. She blinks back, clearly less surprised. Most likely, Wanda did give her the courtesy of a heads-up.
She looks quite relaxed; baggy, sand-colored sweater, loose ponytail, one elbow propped up against the window. “You summoned me?” she asks.
“I… didn’t know it was going to be you.”
“Huh,” she says. “Well, great. I was worried there was something up your sleeve. Good to know you’re more baffled than I am.”
Tony settles into his seat, knees almost knocking against the glove compartment. He can’t remember the last time he was in a car this cheap.
“Where to?”
He just wants a distraction, even if it is pointless. Pointless distractions have constituted most of his life, so in a very real sense, not much has changed. “Coney Island Beach.”
“Hoping to catch some waves?”
“Spider-Man crashed my plane there. I’ve always been a disaster tourist.”
“That checks out.” She starts the car. “Hold on to your butt cheeks.” She slams the car into reverse. Tony jolts forward, the seatbelt catching him. The tires crunch on the gravel until May can swerve onto the country road towards New York. “So,” Tony says, rubbing at his chest. “You’re an uber driver?”
“At the moment.”
“Gig economy.”
“’Tis.”
Tony looks at her, the way she relaxes back against the seat, one hand on the wheel. “Be honest. Am I currently in the doghouse with you?”
“For?”
“The internship. The— Ending the internship, specifically. Creative differences.”
She hums, pursing her lips. “It’s a shame that all didn’t work out. Peter was upset, but that is to be expected. He wouldn’t tell me what happened. But Peter is smart. His world is bigger than your internship. I assume you had good reason, and that you handled it gracefully.”
“Why would you assume that? Don’t you know me? Rumor has it I’m an asshole.”
She doesn’t laugh, just slightly lifts her eyebrows. “Are you volunteering to be in that doghouse?”
“I love to disappoint. And it also won’t matter, so…” He shrugs. “What’s the kid been up to?”
-
By the time they arrive at Coney Island Beach, Tony has learned that Peter absolutely refuses to eat peas, talks in his sleep, always has to have the car radio volume on an even number, and that sometimes he comes with her on her Uber shifts just to keep her company, doing his homework in the backseat.
Tony remembers doing his homework in his dad’s office when he was little. It wasn’t for good company; it was so his father could breathe down his neck about every single number or letter he put on paper. The bar was on Mount Everest. The air in the office was always stifling and when Tony was younger he was terrified of making even the smallest mistake. When he got older, he started making them on purpose just to see his dad get all riled up, because then he’d get thrown out of his office which gave him the opportunity to wander around the Stark building, perhaps sneak into his father’s workshop.
“Do you mind waiting?” he asks. “I don’t know how long I’ll be. Meter running and everything, I don’t know how Ubers work.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
He unbuckles his seat belt.
He kicks some sand around on the beach. Some patches are still charred black, but nothing else indicates that a plane crashed here less than two days ago. The waves of the ocean match the white noise that has been in his brain for the past few Mondays.
This seems like another dead end. He isn’t even sure why he came here in the first place. He really doesn’t believe he’ll be able to fix this.
But what else is he supposed to do with his time?
-
May drives him back to the compound. He tips her generously. He could pay her millions and it wouldn’t matter. It’ll just be back in Tony’s account tomorrow. It feels wrong, somehow, that he’s not actually compensating her. “I hope today wasn’t… aggravating.”
“No,” she says. “You’re not bad company.”
Not bad company. This May, tomorrow, will never have existed. This experience will mean nothing to tomorrow’s May. But right now she is very real, right in front of him, with feelings and worries. What Tony does won’t matter tomorrow, but it matters right now, right in this moment.
“Thank you,” he says. “You have a, uh, not a bad nephew.”
May glowers with pride.
-
A large pot is simmering on the stove. Vision is cutting up fresh oregano with slow, precise movements. “I’m making chili for dinner,” he says in his mild, even voice. “Will you join?”
“I know,” Tony says. “I mean. Sure, what the heck.” He looks at the ingredients all neatly laid out, evenly spaced apart. He sits and leans his chin on his hands. “You don’t look much like him, you know,” he muses.
Vision looks up at him with eyes pale and steady like frozen lakes.
“The original Jarvis. The human one.”
Vision looks down at the cutting board again. “I am an amalgamation of many entities, who were in turn amalgamations of many entities. So I imagine I’m reminiscent, but not much more.”
“You are reminiscent,” Tony confirms. “Feels odd.”
Vision silently scrapes the chopped oregano into a bowl with the back of his knife. There is a small frown line between his eyebrows. “What do you mean when you say ‘feels odd’?” He asks, slowly. “I have taken an interest in the way people talk about their emotions. How does it feel when something feels odd?”
“You don’t actually feel anything, it just is odd.”
“Ah.” Vision sounds eloquent even in the single syllable. He sets the tip of his blade against the chopping board and twirls it slowly, studying Tony some more. “You don’t feel anything.”
“Can you add a bit of mustard in?” Tony asks. Jarvis used to.
Day 24
Rhodey is on the couch with Wanda. He is watching her cutting price tags off shirts. Wanda smiles at Tony and lifts the shirt in her hands, says: “I went shopping last night.”
Tony hums and sags down on the couch. He leans his cup of coffee against his stomach and watches the steam curl up.
“Are you all right, man?” Rhodey asks. “You look a bit tired.”
“Fine. Just thinking about what I should do today. I don’t know. It’d be nice if it were a good day, for once.”
“A good day does sound nice,” Rhodey agrees.
He digs his heels into the carpet to keep himself from sliding down further and gazes broodingly at the blue skies outside. Perpetual blue skies. “I keep fucking things up. I fucked up so many things, lately.”
Rhodey tilts his head. He doesn’t contradict him, just says: “Your heart is in the right place.”
“I mean. It literally isn’t. I had surgery for it and everything.” He stretches with one arm. Yawns.
“You are sad,” Wanda says. She is folding the shirt neatly, tucking in the sleeves. “And you have never learned how to express that emotion.”
“I don’t know. I don’t know why I’m like this. Some people are just assholes, you know. No reason for it.”
“That’s too easy,” Rhodey says. “That’s the kind of stuff you tell yourself so you don’t actually have to think about changing your behavior, and you can stay in your comfort zone.”
“I’m never in my comfort zone. I’m not comfortable anywhere. Do I look comfortable to you?”
Rhodey looks at him — slouched down, practically sprawled across the couch — and says nothing to that. “Friday, can you list five reasons why someone would continuously attempt to provoke negative reactions out of other people?”
“Certainly, Colonel. One. Individuals with low self-esteem may subconsciously seek out negative feedback because it aligns with their own self-view. Two. Some people might provoke negative reactions as a way to get attention, especially if they feel unnoticed or neglected. Three. By provoking negative reactions some people feel they are controlling the rejection they anticipate. Four. Engaging in situations that provoke negative responses can be a way of releasing internal tension caused by complex emotions like sadness. Five. Some people are just assholes.”
Tony claps a hand over his heart. “FRIDAY, you deserve a raise.”
“You programmed her that way,” Rhodey accuses.
“You’re right. I deserve that raise.” He roughly scrubs his face with his sleeve. “It’s just been a mess, I think. The thing with Pepper. The thing with Rogers.” It doesn’t even matter, that he’s bringing this up in front of Wanda. He doesn’t even feel unsettled about it. She’ll have forgotten by morning. He can talk more freely than ever. He can talk about things he’d usually never say out loud. Things he has never said out loud before: “He almost killed me, you know.”
“You wanted to kill, too,” Wanda says, matter-of-factly.
Tony looks at her. She is rolling a pair of socks up together. “I see it in your mind,” she says. “You desired to kill Barnes. An innocent man. Would you have, if Steve hadn’t stopped you?”
Tony exhales. “I’m not proud of that.”
“I don’t think Steve is proud, either.” She holds the next shirt up and smiles. “Look.” It has a picture of a tall hamburger. “Very American. And look.” She holds up the next one. I survived my trip to NYC.
“I like that one,” Tony says. “Good choice. I’ll get one that says I survived my trip to Germany.”
“Me too,” Rhodey says.
Tony’s heart skips a beat but he snorts at the same time, lifts a hand and punches his friend in the shoulder.
Things can get better, probably.
-
Tony has had a security detail for as long as he can remember. When he was a kid, his security guards were on a rotating schedule and hated babysitting him, because Tony kept running away and hiding from them.
After he took over the company, Obie hired his next three personal bodyguards, but they all quit within a month. Because Tony kept running away and hiding from them.
One of those times running and hiding, Tony darted out of the back seat of a limo and ducked into a shady café, promptly started a bar fight. One guy managed to get him out of there unscathed — didn’t even spill any of his drink — and then yelled at him in a back alley for a few minutes for being a fucking dumbass. That guy was Happy Hogan.
The bar is still in business. New owner, new logo, same name, same vibe: moody, with burgundy walls and dark wood tables. Tony sends Happy a picture of the sign over the entrance and a how fast can you get here?
The answer is: in twenty-eight minutes.
“I thought I was going to walk into a bar fight,” Happy says, out of breath, sweaty. He didn’t even put on a suit. Probably dropped everything as soon as he read Tony’s message. Tony wouldn’t have pegged him for a jeans-guy.
He sucks at his bright yellow drink through the curly straw. Never too early for a mango martini. “I considered it. But I’m not as young as I used to be. Don’t want to throw my back out. Or yours. Or—give you a heart attack, I guess, sheesh, should you be sweating this much?”
Happy flicks at the ball cap Tony is wearing. “That’s supposed to work?”
“It did, so far.” Even the waiter serving him didn’t look twice.
“I’ve been trying to call you for days.”
“I know. If you’re thinking of quitting right here right now, hear me out first.”
The wooden chair creaks when Happy sags into it. He yanks a paper napkin from the dispenser to wipe his face. “Don’t I always hear you out?” The napkin still has the old pub logo on it. They’re probably using them up.
“Not really. Sometimes you do the… bzzz.” Tony mimics the divider going up in the car.
“True. So, I’m hearing you out.”
“Okay,” Tony leans back, clasping his hands together behind the back of the chair. “I’ve been thinking about the meaning of life.”
“Oh, dear,” Happy says calmly.
“It’s funny, you see. When there were actual consequences I acted like there weren’t. But now that there aren’t, I’m slowly starting to get a bit, you know…” he makes a circular gesture.
“I don’t follow.”
“I think it’s because I finally actually hit rock bottom, and then discovered that, in factuality, it’s quite tedious down there.”
Happy purses his lips, he’s starting to look concerned. “What happened in Brazil, Tony?”
“Oh, no. My behavior was exemplary down there. I even ate breakfast, once. President really likes Spider-Man.”
Happy looks at him, expression difficult to read. “Who wouldn’t.”
“Sure, so uh—”
The waiter comes by to take Happy’s order. Decaf latte. Gross.
“So,” Tony resumes, tapping his fingers against his own glass, restless. “That’s the deal. I’m trying to figure out life. You seem to have all your ducks in a row. So let’s hear it, what’s it all about, what do you got?”
“All right,” Happy says, leaning in. “If I engage in this… whatever this is, for the next five minutes, can we agree to talk about the plane crash after?”
Tony gives a curt nod. “Wow, yes. The plane crash. Definitely haven’t talked about that enough.”
“And if I’m getting this right, you’re asking me about the meaning of life?”
“Sure. But give me an abridged version. The cliffnotes.”
Happy leans his chin on his hand, scrutinizing him from across the table. “If working for you taught me anything, it’s that life is just about embracing the chaos. You know, in the greater scope of things, nothing we do matters.”
“That’s depressing.”
“No it’s not. It means there’s no pressure.”
“I like a bit of pressure, though.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Hm,” Tony looks down at his glass, slowly swirls his martini around.
“I think what you actually like is a distraction and a challenge. It happens with people with a high IQ, they get easily bored and quickly lose focus. It gets mistaken for ADHD a lot.”
“Did you read up about this stuff?”
“Pepper recommended a book to me.”
Tony squints. “You guys have like a—a support group so you can all help each other deal with me? Are you going to stage an intervention? If you are, please make t-shirts. I want those t-shirts.”
Happy rolls his eyes and then sits back, pulling his hands back so the approaching waiter can set down a cup of decaf ooze. Happy snatches up a packet of sugar and slaps it against his other palm before tearing it open. “The recommendation was pre-break-up,” he says. “Which isn’t to say she—Well, no. Let’s not go into it.” He pours the sugar into his coffee and stirs brusquely.
“If it’s meaning of life stuff we’re discussing, let’s just agree that I’m… I’m nothing without her.”
Happy frowns without looking up at him. “Listen, Tony. I think it’s pretty simple. If you’re nothing without your girlfriend, you shouldn’t be with her.”
Tony sniffs and looks away, squinting against the dim lights. The damn cigarette smoke in this place is stinging his eyes.
I’ll give you something to cry about.
“So. Plane crash?” Happy asks tersely.
“Yeah. What do we do about that damn kid?”
“Talk to him?”
Tony lets his head fall back and groans. “Why do people keep suggesting that?”
Happy tugs him forward by the arm. “Don’t do that, people are gonna recognize you.”
Tony huffs and hunkers down in his seat, pulling his cap down. “I thought I was rid of him, and now the universe has decided to pull me into this endless cycle of people telling me to talk to him.”
Happy wipes his hands together. “Don’t go against the universe.”
“The universe can eat my shorts. Seriously. It’s an asshole.” He wraps his mouth around the straw again, making sure to scowl as he drinks.
Happy takes a slow sip of his coffee. Looks at Tony for a while. “If it weren’t for him coming in clutch, you would have lost that entire plane, Tony. And you would probably have fired me, so I owe him. And you owe him too, because you’d be pretty lost without me, let’s be honest.”
“Not as if you haven’t considered quitting, anyways,” Tony says, broodily.
Happy’s mouth twitches into a crooked frown, he inhales—
“Don’t—” Tony stares at his glass, feeling strangely resentful. “Just tell me the truth right now. Don’t tell me you never consider it.”
“I consider it all the time, Tony. And then I worry that impulsively I’ll actually do it, because I know I’d regret it a day later. Because sadly, this job is my life.”
“Sadly.”
“Yes, it’s very sad, let’s not pretend it isn’t. Like those pictures of dogs sleeping on their owner’s grave. I am that dog, and you are the grave, you’re the damn grave, Tony. And if I ever did quit, I would still want to be there as your friend. If you’d have me.”
The unexpected turn into tenderness makes Tony’s heart pound. There is a chasm somewhere in his chest that opens up in moments like this, but he is afraid to get near it.
“You know why it’s hard to work for you sometimes?” Happy continues.
“Because I’m an asshole?”
“No. Because you act self-destructively and it’s difficult to be around. Makes me feel powerless.”
Tony slurps up the last of his martini. “Try a support group.”
Day 26
He is waiting outside Pepper’s office when she arrives to work a little after seven AM. Even from way down the hallway, he can see the way her shoulders tighten when she spots him. That was always a thing; it always hurt to know he was making Pepper’s life so much more difficult. He tries to pretend he doesn’t care— doesn’t even notice. Ignorance is bliss, and feigning ignorance is a weak imitation of bliss, which is as good as he usually gets in life.
“Don’t get worried,” he says, voice echoing down the hallway.
“I’ve been trying to call you,” she says as she approaches.
“Yeah.” Seventeen minutes past midnight. He turned his phone off and went back to sleep. He’d already decided he would come see her today.
She lets her keys dangle from her hand, opens the door. “Are those for me?” She looks down at the plastic clamshell container of red grapes in his lap.
“Special delivery. Gas station grapes. The kind with all the toxins on them.”
He follows her inside. She rotates her blinds, letting the sun in. “Are you aware that your plane crashed on Coney Island beach?”
“Very aware. The awarest.”
She looks back at him, raising an eyebrow. “But you didn’t think it was worth picking up your phone over?”
“I wasn’t aware — at that time. Which isn’t an excuse, trust me, I know I suck.” He places the grapes on her desk.
“Have you talked to Happy, then?”
“I will. I’ll talk to him, I’ll deal with it, the plane crash, it’s all the way at the top of my list of priorities. Check’s in the mail.” He takes the swivel chair and looks at the two neatly arranged stacks of files in Pepper’s desk. Peter’s internship contract is back at the top of the pile. At this point it’s… whatever. “Question.”
Pepper visibly braces herself. “Hm?”
“What, do you think, is the meaning of life? What’s your reason to get out of bed?”
“Ah.” Her shoulders relax. Apparently an existential crisis doesn’t seem like much compared to Tony’s usual. “Put some good into the world,” she says, taking her own chair. “Help people out. Even the ones who are particularly exasperating. Or perhaps, especially them.”
That was definitely a dig. Tony suppresses the urge to stick out his tongue at her, since he feels like that would somewhat prove her point. “What if the good you put into the world would be meaningless by tomorrow?”
“Then I’d just do it again tomorrow.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“No one ever said life was easy.” She plugs in her phone and leans back in her chair, steeples her fingers together and looks at him in that particular way of hers.
“Marry me, Ms. Potts.” Tony says, because he can’t stop himself. “I’ll take your last name.”
“You know how our wedding would go? The officiant will say ‘repeat after me’, and you’ll say ‘don’t tell me what to do’, push over a vase of flowers and run out.”
“I didn’t hear a ‘no’.”
“No.” she says. “But I do love you, Tony. Probably shouldn’t be saying that, but it’s true. We didn’t break up because I fell out of love with you.”
Tony’s lip curls in self-contempt. “You should, though. I suck. You should fall in love with someone better”
“I’m afraid it’s not up to you to decide who I fall in love with.” She leans in and pulls the grapes closer, snapping the plastic container over. “Do you know why it was hard to be your girlfriend?”
“Because I act self-destructively and it makes you feel powerless?”
“No, because you’re an asshole.” She pops a grape into her mouth. Her eyes twinkle.
Tony almost asks her to marry him again, but he gets a hold on himself just in time.
Day 27
Peter carries his backpack high on his back, hands wrapped around the straps, eyes on his shoes as he skips down the front steps of Midtown Tech. Tony steps out of the car, rests his elbows on the roof.
Peter comes to a slow stop when he reaches the sidewalk, and then his head sways up and he looks dead-straight at Tony.
Tony drums his hands against the roof and sends him a bright smile. “Get in, loser, we’re going shopping.”
“Uh,” Peter says, alarmed, looking like he’d rather do literally anything else.
“Chop chop!” He gets in.
After a few seconds, Peter slides into the seat, dropping his backpack between his feet, leaning away from him with a blank smile. “What’s… What’s up Mr. Stark?” His hair sparkles.
“Seat belt,” Tony instructs. “FRIDAY. Plot route to Simera Shoes.” A navy-blue line rolls out across the map on his screen.
Peter stares at him, wary, tugging at his fringe. “Woah,” he says. “Déjà vu.”
Tony was about to pull out of the parking space but freezes. “What? What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. Nothing. Just normal déjà vu. Are we in the matrix?”
Tony breathes out slowly, then pulls out of the parking space, careful not to clip the taillight of the car in front of him. “How are you?” he asks neutrally.
“I don’t know sir. I kept waiting for someone to call me about the plane crash, and no one did. I was spiraling pretty hard this weekend.”
“I was in Brazil.” Not that he would have called otherwise, because he sucks.
“Oh. That’s great. Uh. Great, great beaches, probably.”
“I don’t like beaches. Smell of fish.”
Peter laughs nervously. He is still plucking glitter out of his hair.
“Hey,” Tony says. “What’s the name of that piece of shit who bullies you at school? ‘Speedy’, or something?”
“Flash,” Peter says, before going tense, shoulders hiking up. “I mean—No one is… Why would you say someone is bullying me?”
“Someone glitterbombed you.”
“That was a prank. Friendly prank.”
“Okay,” Tony says easily, but he’s got the name ‘Flash’ locked in. Target acquired.
“Mr. Stark, why are we going shopping?”
“I’m buying you shoes. The best shoes you can find. Shoes with LED lights. And you have to wear them today, don’t… don’t wait until tomorrow.”
-
He gets someone to line them all up for Peter, eight different pairs of light-up shoes. Shoes with pulsing lights around the edges, shoes with rainbow lights in the soles.
“Are we going to talk about the plane crash?” Peter murmurs when the store clerk is out of ear shot.
Tony shrugs with one shoulder. “If you want.”
“I thought you were gonna be way more upset about all that.”
“Nah.” Tony sits on the shoe fitting stool, elbows leaning on his knees as he watches. Peter tries on a first pair with wary movements, his eyes flitting back and forth between Tony’s face and his own feet.
Tony doesn’t want to be the one who puts that mistrust in Peter’s eye, or that tightness in Pepper’s shoulders. He doesn’t want to suck so much. “Hey. What’s the meaning of life, do you think?”
Peter is the first person to look surprised at that question. The complete eyes wide, mouth dropping open. Just goes to show how much Happy and Pepper are used to his shit.
“You know. The big answer to the big question. You’re a smart kid. What do you got?”
Peter looks down to tie his shoelaces. “This is a test, right? The shoes, and the weird questions?”
“Yes. You haven’t passed yet.”
Peter sits back and wriggles his toes inside the shoes, then stands, rocking back and forth on his feet. “I don’t know, Mr. Stark. I sort of think the answer is changing all the time, you know? Like Ditto, from Pokémon. So you might figure it out, but then in the next moment, it changes. So there is one answer that is right, but there isn’t an answer that is right all the time. You have to keep looking for it.”
“You’re saying the meaning of life is a Pokémon.”
“Yeah.” Peter smiles. A more genuine smile than anything Tony has seen from him so far. “You got anything better?”
“How are the shoes?”
“Pinch a little.”
“I think it’s good when they pinch a little at first. They stretch with wear.” Or they would, if time were linear. “Try on another pair anyways.”
Peter sits back down on the bench in front of him and toes the shoes off. “Mr. Stark, can you be honest with me? What are we doing?”
“I don’t know. Bonding. Apologies if I suck at it. Quick recap of my childhood. My mother tried very hard, but never quite understood me. My father, I think, could have understood me, but never tried.”
That chasm in his chest is creaking. I’ll give you something to cry about.
“That’s really sad, Mr. Stark.”
“It’s not. Just a bit stupid.”
“No,” Peter says firmly. “It’s sad.”
Tony hums. “Yeah, okay. Maybe.”
Peter shifts on the bench, tracing the ridges between the floor tiles with his big toe. “Why are we, um, bonding?”
Tony shrugs again, aiming for casual but it feels stilted. “I just wanted it—to be a good day.” He slides the next pair of shoes closer to Peter with his own foot. “You’re a good kid,” he says. “I’m sorry for being so damn useless. Sorry I took your suit. I mean. You had it coming. You screwed the pooch hard. Big time. But then you did the right thing. I was wrong about you. I’d tell you to go find a better mentor, but I know your options are limited.”
“You’re pretty cool, Mr. Stark,” Peter says encouragingly.
This kid’s capacity for compassion is a little intimidating. “You’re a pretty big nerd, though. You double-knot your shoelaces. So the bar is low.”
-
When he gets home, Wanda is in the kitchen, nuking more jasmine tea in the microwave. “How are you?” she asks chipperly.
“I suck,” Tony says, “I’m a terrible person.”
She slowly turns the teabag over between her fingers. “Hmmm,” she says.
-
He has FRIDAY play him a video of Ditto the Pokemon who is, as it turns out, a shapeshifting, pink-purple-ish blob with quite a vacant expression. There’s your meaning of life, right there.
Day 28
He wakes up when his phone buzzes. He is in his bedroom. It’s seventeen minutes past midnight. Pepper is calling.
He answers. “Hi there, Ms. Potts.”
“You weren’t answering your phone,” Pepper immediately says, quite loudly and angrily.
“Yeah. I’m sorry. How are you?”
“I’m— I’m all right. But Spider-Man crashed your private jet on Coney Island Saturday night. More than twenty-four hours ago, Tony, and you were unreachable.”
“I’ll deal with it,” Tony says. “Promise. You should go home, it’s late. Practically Monday.”