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Obadiah Stane touches Tony Stark – touches him a lot. It’s so commonplace that Pepper Potts doesn’t even notice it during the first couple of months that she works as Tony’s personal assistant. It’s not until one afternoon as she’s sat at the conference table with the two men, munching on the unsatisfying salad that she’d ordered for their working lunch, that she notices something untoward about those touches.
Tony is sat, his shoulders hunched practically around his ears, one hand holding a hamburger, the other holding a freshly printed report. He’d been holding the hamburger for so long that most of the toppings had spilled out onto the table, a messy array of shredded lettuce and diced onion. Pepper has never seen him so focused on the task at hand, at least, not when it came to the ins and outs of keeping Stark Industries afloat financially. Sure, she’s seen a similar expression on his face, several times over – covered in motor oil, his white undershirt doused in sweat, jaw set as he wrenches something particularly troublesome out of the engine block of whatever antique car he’s working on – Pepper never bothered to learn the makes and models.
“Tony,” Obadiah says, reaching out and grasping at the other man’s shoulder, squeezing it until Tony looks away from the report and over at him. “We called this a working lunch, m’boy, emphasis on the lunch.”
Tony relaxes slightly, lowering the report back onto the table, glancing over at the burger in his other hand. “I guess I didn’t get very far. Your writing is scintillating, Potts,” Tony says around a mouthful of hamburger.
“Nothing very scintillating about being in the red,” Pepper replies, jabbing at a sad piece of tomato, watching the seeds spew out onto the wilting lettuce. She had called this emergency meeting this morning, after being woken up in the night by her phone chiming incessantly, frantic emails from investors and stockholders asking her to explain Stark Industries’ poor performance in the last quarter. Not one to speak for the company, she merely forwarded these on to Tony and Obadiah with a request to meet for lunch. Surprisingly, Tony had been the one to respond to her email first, at 4:57 AM. Pepper had learned how to translate drunk emails from Tony Stark after about a week of working for him, and knew that he would need something particularly greasy to keep him afloat this afternoon.
“Would be scintillating to see you in red,” Tony mutters, and then looks at her critically. “It would clash with your hair, though – blue would be nice – or noth-.”
Obadiah cuts him off before he can continue. While Pepper is used to the constant stream of innuendos or outright sexual suggestions from Tony, Obadiah still has the sense to look horrified and change the subject. Pepper knows, because Obadiah had told her, that she’s been the best personal assistant Tony has ever had. She keeps him on track, Stane had told her as he had presented her with a rather significant raise, and while Tony can be difficult at times, Obadiah had pushed the post-it-note with the figure scrawled on it across the desk and had told her that he hoped that she could see past that and continue her excellent work. Pepper had purchased a new pair of Louboutins that night.
“Let’s stay focused, Tony,” Obadiah’s hand squeezes Tony’s shoulder again, and she watches Tony as he tenses at the touch, and then relaxes slowly. She abandons her salad, losing her appetite as it becomes very apparent to her that there’s something about those touches that Pepper doesn’t like, she doesn’t like them at all. Obadiah’s hand falls away from Tony’s shoulder, offering Pepper his fries when he sees her fork fall into her still mostly full salad, but there’s something in his eyes that seems guilty to her. Like Obadiah had been caught doing something he shouldn’t. Pepper reaches out and accepts the packet of French fries without a word, teeth biting at her lower lip for a moment, looking at Tony as he devours his lunch. There’s something malignant about the way Obadiah touches Tony. Something terrible.
“Uncle Obie, Uncle Obie!” Tony sprints as fast as his little legs can carry him, through the foyer of Stark Manor, socked feet sliding on the marble floor as he throws himself bodily at his father’s business partner.
Obadiah laughs, hauling the five year old boy up into his arms, doing his best not to grimace as sticky fingers tug at his thinning blonde hair. He could throw the brat back to the floor, he reasons, reaching up with one hand to pull Tony’s hands away before they do serious damage – but Maria Stark is home, and Tony would no doubt howl.
“Hey, bud, what happened here?” Obadiah’s thumb and forefinger grasp at Tony’s chin, angling his head better so that he can inspect the terrible bruise that shadows Tony’s left eye. It’s not even a day old, judging by how bright purple it is, and by the way Tony winces as the pad of Obadiah’s thumb brushes over the bruise.
“Nothin’, just fell over.” Tony says this too quickly, but it’s the same excuse that Obadiah has heard ever since Tony could talk to explain his own bruises. He had told Howard time and time again, it wasn’t good optics to be walking around with the future of Stark Industries sporting visible bruises – couldn’t he direct his rage elsewhere? Howard got angry, of course, but he never once thought to take a swing at Obadiah – he towered over Howard without even trying.
“We need to get you socks with grips, huh? You’ve gotta stop falling over, Tony,” Obadiah sets the boy on the ground, ruffling his hair.
Guilty brown eyes look up at him. “It wasn’t my fault,” Tony complains in a quiet voice. “I was just playing.”
“What were you playing with?” Obadiah’s hand rests on Tony’s shoulder, steering him up the stairs towards his bedroom.
“I made a robot,” Tony says happily, bounding up the stairs two at a time, Obadiah’s hand there to steady him each time he almost loses his balance on the stairs. “Can’t make him talk, though.”
The door to the master bedroom opens as Tony scampers past it, Maria Stark peering out into the hallway at the sound of footsteps.
“Quietly, Anthony,” Maria reminds him, reaching out to slow her son down before he can sprint past her. “No running in the house, remember?”
Obadiah glances over at Maria, noticing the tension in her shoulders, the way she’s turned herself away from the light pouring into the hallway from the window at the very end of it.
“Migraine?” He pats her shoulder sympathetically. “Go on back to bed, Tony’s going to show me his robot and then we’re going to go get some ice cream, or something.”
“Ice cream?!” Tony bellows in delight, looking up at Obadiah with a grin. “Really, Uncle Obie?”
“Shh,” Maria shakes her head with an exasperated smile, Tony still amuses her despite the pounding headache she’s suffering from. “Behave, Anthony.”
“Yes, Mamma,” Tony says solemnly, grabbing Obie’s hand to tug him down the hall to his bedroom – which is an absolute mess. He picks his way around the discarded pieces of metal, circuitry, hopping over an abandoned pair of shoes in the center of it.
Obadiah sighs, leaning down to collect the shoes. “We’ll need these if we’re going out. You can tie your own shoes, right?”
Tony looks up at him, affronted. “Can you tie your shoes? I don’t see any laces.”
Obadiah looks down – the little shit is right. “They’re loafers, Tony, they don’t – never mind, where’s this robot?”
“I had to fix him,” Tony mumbles, flattening himself against the floor and reaching out with a grunt of effort to pull the robot out from under the bed. “I – fell on him.”
Obadiah pictures the shining black dress shoe of Howard Stark's falling to the floor, crushing the robot under his heel, whiskey sloshing over the edge of his glass and splashing along the hardwood. The robot – Obadiah hesitates to call it a robot – is tiny, a model, if anything. He carefully picks it up as Tony hesitantly offers it to him, inspecting it closely. It has a small metal arm attached to a round base, and at the end of the arm there’s a claw apparatus. Obadiah inwardly agrees with Howard, Tony messing around with robots is pointless, but he is a kid.
“He’ll move, one day,” Tony says defensively, snatching the robot model back and putting it carefully on his nightstand. He glances up at the Captain America poster hung above his bed and hums, small hands resting on his hips, the image of defiance. “And he’ll be bigger, too. I was this close,” Tony holds his thumb and forefinger close together, looking at Obadiah with serious brown eyes. “This close to getting him to move, but then Da – I, y’know.” Tony nudges the robot gently, “I’m gonna make him, one day.”
Knowing that Tony only gets support from Maria in this aspect, and wanting Tony to trust him more than he trusts Howard when the time comes, Obadiah reaches out for the boy’s hand.
“I know you will, m’boy, and I’ll be the first one to see him. How about we take a break and get you some ice cream, huh?”
Tony’s face lights up, and he opens a drawer in his nightstand to pull out a little notebook, placing it in the chest pocket of his shirt. “I can show you all my plans!”
Obadiah plasters on a fake smile, allowing Tony to tug him forcefully out of the bedroom. “Sure thing, kiddo.” The more Tony involves him in his plans, the more Obadiah will be able to manipulate them into his own – it’s an arduous, annoying task running after a child, but he knows that it’ll pay off.
“Tony,” Obadiah’s voice is soft, soothing, his hand gently knocking at the door. He reaches down, turning the door handle slowly, but it doesn’t budge. He sighs, resting his forehead against the door, and pulls the cigar from the inner pocket of his suit jacket. Stark Manor is as quiet as a grave – which it now is. Everything is spick and span, but Maria Stark will never quietly hum and wipe down the windowsills again. Obadiah lights the cigar, breathing in deeply, recalling the vivid bruises on Maria’s throat. Her entire trachea had been crushed, he’d been told by the medical examiner – not exactly the sort of injury you would get in a car crash, but… But there was no alternative, Howard Stark’s blood alcohol level had been so incredibly beyond the legal limit that the medical examiner was stunned that the Starks had made it even that far on their journey before disaster struck.
“Come on, m’boy, we need to get a move on. Let me in.” Obadiah had sent Jarvis away, even though the other man had wanted to stay, but then Obadiah had threatened to call the authorities. There was no point keeping the man and his wife employed here now, Obadiah knows that Tony won’t want to step foot in this house again, not after today. He’ll see Jarvis at the funeral, but the butler will keep his mouth shut if he knows what’s good for him – Tony is in a delicate state, after all.
The lock clunks and the door creaks as Tony slowly opens it. There’s not enough time in the world to get Tony ready for this funeral, Obadiah decides as he looks at the state of him. He looks like he had just dragged himself out of a bar and lost half of his clothes in the process, and he reeks of alcohol, Obadiah’s eyes almost water at the strength of the smell. He reaches out with his free hand and rests it against Tony’s bare shoulder, feeling his muscles relax at his touch.
“You need to get dressed, Tony. Did Jarvis bring you your suit?”
“In the closet,” Tony slurs, brown eyes bloodshot and still watery, reaching up with a shaking hand to rub at his eyes furiously.
“Alright, sit down.” Obadiah walks to Tony’s closet, glancing down quickly as glass crunches beneath his feet. He kicks over the pair of pants he’d stepped on and frowns down at the now shattered bottle on the floor. He has no way of sobering Tony up in enough time, though he might have a little hair of the dog in the car. If he gets Tony drunk enough, he reasons, he’ll just be in a stupor throughout the funeral. Maybe that’s kinder. The grim black suit is still in its dry cleaning bag, the plastic fluttering to the floor as Obadiah brings it over to Tony.
“I don’t want to go,” Tony mumbles, arms crossed over his chest, his head bent. “Don’t have to go.”
Obadiah’s calloused fingers brush through Tony’s hair, pulling it until he hears Tony breathe in sharply from pain, his head quickly raising to look at Obadiah through the haze of his cigar smoke.
“Yes, Tony, you do have to go. You want to disappoint your mother like that? How would you feel if she didn’t go to your funeral?”
Tony starts to cry, it’s pathetic, and Obadiah resists the urge to throttle the life out of him. Instead, he lets go of Tony’s greasy brown hair, rubbing his hand against the front of his jacket.
“Christ, Tony, get it together.” When Tony only sobs in response, Obadiah reaches out and slaps him across the face, watching Tony’s head whip to the side, his sobs ceasing instantly. The skin of his cheek reddens, but Obadiah had measured the force of the slap with a moment’s calculation, knowing that it will fade by the time they get to the cathedral. Closed casket, of course, the mortician couldn’t salvage the pulp that was left of Howard Stark’s face.
“You’ve got five minutes to get dressed.”
“Okay.” Tony’s voice is hollow, and a few silent tears make their way down his cheeks, but he gets up from the bed and starts to shed the alcohol sodden jeans he’s wearing. Obadiah resists the urge to stare, as he’s always done ever since the boy had turned seventeen or so, and turns his back so that Tony has some semblance of privacy.
Tony sniffles and takes shaking breaths as he gets dressed, and once Obadiah hears the zipper of his pants rasp as it’s tugged up, he turns around to face Stark Industries’ new CEO. Obadiah’s thick fingers do up the button of Tony’s dress shirt, nudging his head up under his chin so that he can quickly tie the black tie that Tony had wrapped around his throat like a noose.
“Do you have a hairbrush?"
Tony shrugs his shoulders helplessly, and winces as Obadiah quickly runs his fingers through his hair until it looks vaguely tidy. He walks as the other man’s hand rests between his shoulder blades and pushes him forward, each action robotic, thoughtless.
Were it not for Obadiah’s hand resting on top of his head as he helps Tony get into the car waiting out front, Tony would have cracked his skull open against the door of the car. Obadiah stamps out his cigar before getting in, and he allows himself one brief smile – this is going to be easier than he thought.
Usually, when Tony Stark made the news, you could flip a coin as to whether it would be heralding his latest invention or gleefully describing his midnight exploits. Were it the latter, Pepper Potts, Harold Hogan, or James Rhodes would throw themselves into their car and drive to whatever dismal club Tony was embarrassing himself at enough to attract reporters. Tonight, Obadiah Stane had drawn the short straw. Pepper had the decency to call him to alert him of Tony’s activities, though her voice was thick with congestion, sounding miserable both from being sick and because she was forced to call Obadiah at quarter past three in the morning. Obadiah is fuming as he throws on some clothes, Tony Stark better have poisoned himself to the brink of having to be rushed to the emergency room if he has to pick him up. Obadiah had not intended to become a babysitter when he had decided to gain Tony’s trust, so many years ago – but even now, as Tony Stark is thirty five years old, he’s still a constant embarrassment. And he still needs someone to clean up after him.
But, Obadiah sighs, turning the keys in the ignition – Tony Stark is profitable. Stark Industries had recouped its losses a few weeks after Pepper Potts’ emergency meeting and had been raking in the cash for years ever since. Tony had holed himself up in his workshop and had emerged with a blueprint for a new weapon – the Jericho Missile, he called it. A bit full of himself, Obadiah had thought, but when was Tony Stark not full of himself? They had enough contracts to rest their laurels on as a result of the missile that they could conceivably not produce anything groundbreaking for at least another year. Yes, Obadiah has to collect Tony from a club tonight, but next week Tony will be shipped off to Afghanistan – and if all goes according to plan… Unless something different happens tonight, unless Tony happens to be particularly receptive… It’s risky, but Obadiah has been biding his time for decades now. Either way, he’ll come out on top.
“Obie!” Tony is happy to see him, slinging his arms around his neck, pulling him closer to the bar that he’s half hanging off of. “You come to party, Obie? Get this man a drink!”
The bartender looks at Tony hesitantly, reaching over to pour Obadiah a glass of whatever deadly concoction Tony is drinking tonight – but Obadiah quickly shakes his head. He shoves a wad of bills on the bar top, making a mental note to ask for reimbursement from Pepper Potts tomorrow morning, and hauls Tony off of the stool.
“Hey, wait,” Tony starts to fight back, pulling away from Obie. “Come on, man, I’m having fun. There’s a girl over there who’s been looking at me all night, and -.” Tony stops short, the look in Obadiah’s eyes reminding him of a time that he would rather forget. His cheek smarts, psychosomatic, but he’s felt that slap every time Obadiah has looked at him with such disgust. “Alright, fine, I’ll go.”
Obadiah snatches Tony’s car keys from his hand just as it emerges from his pocket, guiding Tony to the door of the club.
“I’m driving,” Obadiah’s voice allows no room for argument, and Tony’s barely able to keep himself upright to begin with. He’s never seen him this drunk, not even on the day of his parents’ funeral – no wonder Pepper had called in the cavalry, he dreads to imagine the front page of the tabloids tomorrow.
Tony is mercifully silent in the passenger seat of the car as Obadiah drives them back to his Malibu mansion. He fiddles with his cell phone for a minute, fumbling fingers typing out some incomprehensible text to someone. Obadiah cuts the engine after he’s pulled up the long driveway, J.A.R.V.I.S. turning on the lights inside of the mansion, sensing Tony’s presence.
“I’ll come up with some excuse for you for tomorrow morning,” Obadiah says, casually reaching out to press a button, the lock of the passenger door clicking into place – Tony doesn’t notice. “You’ve had the flu more times than the board can count this year, but you’ll only embarrass yourself if you show up.”
Tony is looking at him with that stupid, open, trusting expression he’s worn around Obadiah ever since he was a child. “Alright, Obie,” he nods. “You’re right – I don’t even – I have a meeting tomorrow?”
“Had,” Obadiah corrects, his hand resting against Tony’s cheek, heart thudding in his chest. Instead of relaxing at Obadiah’s touch, Tony tenses, his jaw taut against his palm. “Relax, Tony,” Obadiah murmurs, his thumb brushing over the coarse hairs of Tony’s ridiculous goatee, the swell of his bottom lip.
Tony’s hand closes around his wrist, his grip tight. “Get the fuck off of me, man.” Gone is the trusting expression, and Obadiah’s stomach drops – this had been a mistake. He had been so sure, that enough time had passed, that he had chiseled his way through the thick walls that guarded Tony Stark’s heart.
“You’re drunk, Tony,” Obadiah says in dismissal, his hand dropping away. “Don’t be stupid.” Obadiah subtly unlocks the car door for him, though the last thing he wants to do is let Tony go. The other man had just signed his own death certificate, if he had just let Obadiah… But, he hadn’t, and now he’s going to die in the desert. Obadiah feels no remorse about that.
He watches Tony as he staggers his way up to the front door, Tony looking back at the car, his expression inscrutable. Obadiah turns the keys, the engine rumbling, and inhales deeply. Either way, he had won.
Pepper Potts peers through the glass walls of the reactor building, squinting against the sunlight. She reaches for the door handle as she finally catches sight of Obadiah Stane and Tony Stark, deep in discussion. Her lips quirk down into a frown as Tony starts to unbutton his shirt, and she moves a few paces to the left for a better view, ducking down quickly when Obadiah looks around for any witnesses. Her heart pounding, she pulls herself back upright, watching Obadiah’s fingers brush against the front of the bright blue piece of technology now housed in the front of Tony’s chest. The touch makes Pepper the most uncomfortable she had ever been, it’s so full of greed, and jealousy – and desire. She can’t talk to Tony about this, he’ll call her ridiculous – he trusts Obie, she knows that – she had seen enough pictures of a young Tony Stark grinning gleefully next to his imposing uncle. But Pepper doesn’t trust him, and she doesn’t think Rhodey trusts him, either.
Tony’s chest is terrible, anyways, this is the first time Pepper had gotten a proper look at it ever since he had returned home. In the car, on the way to the press conference, she had just been able to make out a faint blue light shining through the dark brown fabric of the dress shirt he had been wearing. She had chosen that color specifically, when Rhodey had called her and described the reactor that Tony now had, the terrible carnage. She can see that carnage now, vivid bruises and stitched up cuts, all spiraling out from the sinister piece of metal in his chest. She wonders how he’s coping with the pain, she had access to his medical records, had inspected his x-rays and CT scans, had cried over them.
Obadiah starts to button up Tony’s shirt for him, and Pepper quickly throws open the door to the reactor building, heels clicking as she marches over to them. Obadiah looks over at her, with that same expression he wears every time Pepper catches him touching Tony, shiftiness and anger.
“Mr. Stark, you have a meeting with a -.” She wracks her brains, Pepper is not one to lie, Tony has always gleefully made fun of how straight laced she is – but she’s going to lie now, to get Tony away from Obadiah as fast as humanly possible. “With a Dr. Osborn? Norman Osborn? It’s been in the books since before you – he says it’s urgent.”
Tony’s eyebrows raise in surprise, and his nimble fingers quickly do up the last few buttons of his shirt, Pepper feeling validated when he shoots Obadiah a brief distrustful look. It’s not exactly a lie, either, Norman Osborn had been calling to schedule a meeting with Tony for over a year, Pepper has always just “forgotten to mention it” to her boss – until now.
“Really, Potts, you couldn’t tell him that I just got back from being tortured?” He sighs when she shakes her head, walking over to her. “I guess I really am back, then.”
Pepper holds her breath as she walks with Tony through the parking lot towards the Rolls-Royce, Happy waiting patiently behind the well. She half expects Obadiah to come chasing after them, after having somehow pulled up Tony’s calendar and seen that it was empty for the rest of the week – but he doesn’t.
“There’s no meeting,” Pepper blurts out just as Tony shuts the door, pulling the seatbelt gingerly across his chest.
“What do you mean?” He frowns at her, and God, his eyes are gorgeous – but she’s getting distracted, and that kind of distracting thoughts had been plaguing her ever since Tony had been taken captive. In love with her boss, ridiculous, but – God, his eyes are gorgeous.
Pepper’s manicured fingernail presses the button for the privacy shield, Happy glancing at her through the rearview mirror, raising an eyebrow – but he doesn’t comment. She’s thankful for that.
“Doesn’t it creep you out?” Pepper has never been this candid with Tony, but enough is enough – she can’t get the image of Obadiah’s fingers doing up his shirt for him out of her head. Or the way Tony – always – tenses whenever he touches him.
“A lot of things creep me out, Pep, you’re going to have to be more specific. For instance, last night I swear to God I heard footsteps outside of my door at the hospital, but no one was out there. Granted, I did watch It before I went to bed, and clowns also creep me out, but… I have a very long list of things I find skeevy.”
“Obadiah – he’s always -.” Pepper wrings her hands, looking at Tony anxiously, he wouldn’t fire her over this, would he? “He’s always touching you!” Tony looks at her like a deer in the headlights, but she forges ahead anyways. “Always, every time the two of you are together – he’s always got his hand on you, on your shoulder, on your back – God, Tony, he’s even grabbed you by the neck before. And you always, always look uncomfortable about it.”
Tony’s left hand rubs at his trousers, working out some invisible stain, his eyes focused on his leg. He can’t meet her gaze, and his cheeks are slightly flushed. Pepper recognizes his expression, not one she sees often from him – shame.
“I don’t know, Pepper,” Tony says quietly. “He’s always – I don’t know. Ever since I was a kid…”
That makes Pepper feel infinitely worse.
“I mean,” Tony looks up at her, “My dad never…” He grits his teeth for a moment. “Was never one for physical affection, ever. He didn’t even show to my graduation at MIT. When I mentioned it to him, he just grunted some sort of congratulations. But my mom was there, and Obie. Obie was always there to, you know, give me a hug, bandage up scraped knees. He’s – he was – like my dad, in a lot of ways. I wished he was my dad, sometimes. Uncle Obie was fun.” Tony’s smile is mirthless. “But you’re not wrong, Pepper, no. It does… creep me out. I noticed it a couple years back, actually, and then he tried to -.” Tony swallows, shaking his head. Pepper fills in the blank with horror.
“He’s just Uncle Obie,” Tony’s tone is false cheeriness. “He’s a bit handsy, sure, but that’s his love language – or whatever the fuck.” His finger jabs the button for the privacy shield, and Tony leans forward through the space. “Hey, Hap, can you drop me off at home?”
“Sure thing, Boss,” Happy glances at Pepper again, and she shakes her head slightly, her trembling hands clasped together. She had seen greed, jealousy, and desire in Obadiah’s eyes – but there was something else there, too. She wonders if Tony saw it. There had been anger, seething rage – and it had been directed at Tony.
Tony smiles slightly at the tiny image of Pepper Potts displayed on the screen on his phone, the dial tone ringing cheerfully as he waits for her to pick up. Sure, everything is going absolutely to hell, but it does tickle him so to see her little face looking back at him. His smile fades, body going rigid, the high-pitched squeal in his ear deafening.
“Relax, Tony,” Obadiah’s voice is soft as silk, he plucks the phone from Tony’s hand and ends the call, Pepper frantically saying his name. “Breathe.” Obadiah’s fingers brush against the hair at the nape of his neck, teasing the short curls between his fingertips.
Tony struggles against the couch, at least, he thinks he’s struggling. He sees his hands rise up and grab Obadiah around the neck, watches as Obadiah’s face turns red from the force of Tony’s hands squeezing his throat. A muscle weakly jumps in his upper arm, but his hands remain motionless against the leather of the couch.
Obadiah is speaking to him, he realizes, but Tony’s not listening – Tony is too distracted by the fact that he can’t move, and the cloying scent of cigar smoke that follows Obadiah wherever he goes makes Tony feel lightheaded. He hates that smell, hates how it has seeped into Obadiah’s very skin – it makes him nauseous, it reminds him every time, the brush of Obadiah’s thumb against his lip.
Short term paralysis. Obadiah likes to hear himself talk, more than Tony ever has – with Tony, it was a façade, a defense mechanism. With Obie, he’s practically preening with each word that leaves his mouth. If he just keeps talking – God, would he talk for fifteen minutes? – Tony will be able to fight back. A lungful of air warmly puffs out against his parted lips as Obadiah practically straddles him, his large hand grasping at Tony’s jaw. Vaguely, Tony recalls many times in his childhood when Obadiah had done this very same thing, inspecting whatever new artifact Howard Stark’s beatings had left behind.
There’s a mechanical whir, and Tony’s eyes sluggishly dart down, widening as he sees the metal contraption held in Obadiah’s hand. His groan is muffled, he wants to scream as the front of his shirt is burned away, sharp prongs sliding in between the reactor and its metal casing. It won’t matter if Obadiah talks for fifteen minutes, at that point – without the reactor – Tony won’t have enough strength to push him let alone strangle him. The reactor is pulled away from his chest easily, Obadiah’s thigh pressing against Tony’s side as he reaches up to pull the reactor away from the metal claw.
“Just because you have an idea doesn’t mean it belongs to you.”
Now Tony wants to laugh as well as scream, of course that’s what it means – why the hell did the patent office exist, then? Knowing that the inflation and deflation of his lungs is already taxing his heart, cold sweat trickling down his neck and warm blood trickling down from his ear, he attempts to make his breathing more shallow. Obadiah is describing his grand plan, sitting next to Tony, his arm slung around his shoulders and holding him close. The reactor is glowing almost white, Tony’s eyelids unable to blink as fast as he wants them to, tears dripping down his cheeks as he stares at the reactor. Obadiah’s fingers gently stroke through the hair at the nape of his neck, again and again – an intimate gesture, one that Tony usually finds soothing. He wants to die.
“We would have worked well together, Tony, if you weren’t so selfish.” Obadiah sighs, squeezing the back of his neck gently. “I would’ve moved heaven and earth for you, m’boy, but – not without a price.” He shifts away from him, his touch lingering on Tony’s neck, hefting the briefcase containing Tony’s heart as he gets to his feet.
“It’s a shame you had to involve Pepper in this. I would have preferred that she lived.”
Tony’s eyes narrow, his vision still mostly obscured by the imprint the reactor had left against his retinas from staring at it. Pepper. Pepper, with her teary eyes as she stood on the tarmac waiting for him to finally come home. Pepper, her hands nervously clasped together as she anxiously spilled out every suspicion against Obadiah Stane that she had. Pepper, her hands resting against his shoulders as they swayed across the ballroom together, the skin at the small of her back so delightfully warm against his palms. Pepper, the woman he had fallen in love with the first time she had angrily plucked a wrench from his hands and demanded that he acted his age and listened to her.
Every heartbeat is a betrayal – his own body against himself. His fingers twitch against the couch, and Tony is just able to turn his head a fraction of an inch to look down at his hand. Pepper had placed his first arc reactor in a glass cube, the metal casing had featured a very sentimental phrase that had at first made Tony laugh in disbelief – but maybe she was right. In any case, he needs that reactor – he needs it so he can save Pepper. If he dies, so be it – but not Pepper.
With a grunt of effort, Tony tips himself off of the couch and onto the floor. His hands grasp at the slick surface, body inching towards the elevator, heartbeat thundering against his ear drums. The ghosts of Obadiah Stane’s fingers brush through the sweat soaked hair at the back of his neck.
Pepper Potts had never thought that she would one day be sitting in a medical examiner’s office. In fact, the only reason she could think to be here would be if she herself had died – but then she would be in the morgue, resting on a metal gurney, her green eyes staring sightlessly up at the burnished metal ceiling of the freezer unit. Instead, she’s in the outer office, sat on a couch that looks like it’s straight out of the ‘70s, and were she to reach between the cushions, she can’t fathom the amount of dust and forgotten coinage she would find.
Tony is sitting beside her, his brown eyes hidden by an oversized pair of sunglasses – conveniently large enough to hide most of the damage on his face. Pepper had caked on makeup for him before the press conference, when he was supposed to stick to the cards and instead blurted out with all the swagger and confidence that the world had come to expect from Tony Stark, that he was Iron Man. Afterwards, he had thrown up in the bathroom, and Pepper had been there with a damp piece of tissue to wipe the makeup off of his face. Her touch had been gentle around the bruises that shadowed his eyes, and his nose was still swollen – but she knew the real damage was under his shirt and trousers. They had had to cut him out of the suit and the neoprene undersuit he wore beneath it. Pepper had turned away, still feeling the warmth of his blood between her fingertips, though she had long since washed her hands.
His knee bounces nervously, his hands gripped into fists on his lap, and Pepper gently reaches out and touches his shoulder. Unlike with Obadiah, Tony relaxes into her touch, leaning against her hand slightly. On the table beside him is a box of tissues, pamphlets on grief, and a Bible.
“I can do this, Tony, you don’t have to be here. It’s just -.”
“Standard operating procedures, I know. But I was his next of kin.” He smiles humorlessly. “Funny how that works out, huh?”
“Mr. Stark.” The medical examiner stands at the doorway behind the front desk, and she smiles reassuringly at him. “You can come back now.”
Tony stands a little unsteadily, and Pepper reaches out to steady him – to her surprise, he takes her hand in his. She’s careful not to squeeze, his knuckles are still swollen and bruised.
“Come on, Pep… If you…?” He looks at her pleadingly, and Pepper does her best to ignore the dread she feels at the prospect of seeing Obadiah’s body. He doesn’t let go of her hand as they walk behind the front desk, stepping into the nondescript hallway – it could be a regular doctor’s office, except for the vague smell. Not of death, but of intense cleanliness, cloying chemicals – there to mask the smell of death.
They are ushered into a small room, decorated similarly to the outer office, Pepper frowning slightly when she sees a couch and a side table with a box of tissues. She had been expecting to be brought back to the actual morgue.
Tony turns around, there is a large window behind them that currently has a curtain drawn across it. “You don’t have to look, Pep,” he tells her, his voice almost robotic - emotionless. He reaches up with his free hand and pulls his sunglasses away from his face as the curtain is pulled back. Knowing that it will give her nightmares, Pepper looks through the window anyway.
Obadiah Stane doesn’t look so imposing as he lies on a metal gurney, his body bag partly unzipped to expose his head and shoulders. His skin is pale, his lips slightly blue, and Pepper shudders when she sees that his cold blue eyes are open – but flat, lifeless. The left side of his face is charred flesh, she’s surprised that his fall into the reactor hadn’t completely obliterated his body – but then again, he had been wearing that oversized Iron Man suit.
Tony’s lips are pressed together, and he squeezes her hand tightly as he stares at Obadiah’s ruined body. Pepper glances at him, wondering what he’s thinking about. He had tried to grab him, Tony had told her between breathless sobs in the hospital. It was his fault Obadiah had died, if he had just reached out a little more, he would have been able to save him.
“That’s him. Obadiah Stane.” Tony says to the man in scrubs standing beside the door, and the medical examiner is quick to zip up the body bag and close the curtain. They are offered a quiet room to sit in, but Pepper can tell that Tony just wants to get out.
They step outside, the sun far too bright and cheerful for a day like today, and Pepper watches as Tony puts on his sunglasses and types something on his phone.
After a moment, her Blackberry dings – the sound chosen specifically to annoy her, that Tony was modifying his own calendar without her consent. She glances at him in confusion, fishing her cell phone out of her purse.
Tony reaches up, his fingers brushing against the hair that curls at the nape of his neck. Pepper has had fleeting urges to run her own fingers through those curls.
“A – haircut?” Pepper says as she reads the notification on her phone.
“Yeah, it’s getting a little unruly, don’t you think?” Tony unlocks the car from where he’s standing, stepping out into the sun. “C’mon, Potts. I’ll drop you at home.”