Chapter Text
Tony Stark should feel relieved. Comforted, even, when he enters his cliffside Malibu mansion. But instead, he feels guilt. Not just the run of the mill billionaire-in-a-world-full-of-poverty type guilt. No, this is a new kind for him. This is the type of guilt that leaches into every cell of his being. He can feel it in his marrow, spreading from his bones and slowly reaching out to taint everything within his grasp.
In his blissful ignorance, wrapped up in his hedonistic lifestyle, he had allowed the unthinkable to happen. The very inventions he thought would save the world (or at least keep it in line–okay, maybe just to preserve the status quo?) were causing unconscionable destruction. The greasy cheeseburgers in his stomach threatened to make a surprise appearance on the stone floor right at his feet.
So you're a man who has everything, and nothing.
Ho Yinsen's words still ripped through his chest. They were barbed, much like the shrapnel threatening his heart, a constant reminder that will surely rip him apart from the inside out if given the opportunity.
He should have died in that cave. The world doesn't work like that, though. That kind of perfect justice is far too rare. Instead, he gets the privilege of sitting with the knowledge that he stood by and profited off of the sale of his weapons to terrorists.
The Merchant of Death doesn't seem like such a cool moniker now. It is far too apt. Maybe he was every bit the despicable character he had vehemently denied being to Miss Brown? Or was it Berkeley?
Tony stands still in the entryway, chest and shoulder aching, fighting for his attention and pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts, when he finally notices something that definitely wasn't there before.
It's a painting. A painting of a man. Of him, actually. What the hell, Pepper? Obviously she didn't paint it, Potts is no artist, not as far as he can remember, anyway. But she is in charge of his art collection.
Tony steps up to the canvas, which is leaning against the wall, waiting to be hung like it had just been delivered, unwrapped, then unceremoniously left in limbo. He tilts his head and squints, lips pursed. It is a painting of him, alright, in a candid style pose that catches him off guard. There's something familiar about it, though. He picks it up, carries it into the living room, tucked in his good arm and sets it down on the coffee table.
Don't waste your life, Stark.
Yinsen's final words. How long will they torment Tony? It's been a couple days since his escape and he can't stop seeing Yinsen's face when he shuts his eyes. He has to find a distraction, and the mystery of this painting will do nicely. Drink first. Then he can contemplate the origins of it.
The bar is just as he left it, teeming with every kind of liquor imaginable, with a particular emphasis on fine scotch and whiskey in crystal decanters.
Choosing a very rare one (him making it home is a celebratory occasion, is it not? Even if it sure as hell doesn't feel like it), Tony drops a couple of ice cubes in a glass. A small piece breaks off, so he tosses it in his mouth, savouring the cold crunch. If someone would have told him one day he'd find ice to be a treat, he'd have eaten his favourite wrist watch right then. But here he is, feeling grateful for the easy availability of it. He shakes his head, and a smile tugs the corner of his mouth up (it is really more of a microexpression than a smile, but to Tony it feels like a grin) while he pours some scotch over the ice.
That first sip brings him back to the present, the hollow burn drawing from him a long held-back sigh into the glass. He downs the rest in one motion and pours another, carrying it back to the couch with him and setting it on the table beside the canvas before throwing himself down.
He holds up the painting, searching the background for any details that might jog his memory. The likeness really is well executed, he has to admit. Whoever the artist is, they made him look good . The scene is of him, standing, not in a suit as he would expect, but in a graphic tee and jeans, arms crossed and looking at something unseen in the distance.
Then, something red and white caught his eye. It is a guitar on a stand. Oh . This was from that Trivium concert almost six months (a lifetime now) ago. Did he...? Yes, he was backstage and met a woman. Not his type. Sure, she was attractive. But she was too sharp, she saw through him in a way that made him squirm internally. He'd never admit that his famous charm seemed to have no effect on her. Maybe he wasn’t her type. Sniffing at that highly unlikely thought, he tries to concentrate on that night.
Yes, he remembers. She was the artist working on Trivium's upcoming album art. They had got to talking and she showed him the concept art she had in her messenger bag, ready to show the band when they finished their set. Her style was great, dark and very 80s metal, just like the posters he had in his dorm at MIT as a teenager. Right up his alley.
It's all coming back to him now as he sips the scotch, much more slowly this time. They'd discussed him wanting to commission some art for his garage. Tony had given her his email address and Pepper's number.
Then...everything happened. He turns the canvas over, there is a note on the back:
Tony Stark, in a rare moment devoid of verbal vomit, January 2008 Trivium concert backstage. Bronwyn James
If this was painted from a photo reference, he had no recollection of someone with a camera anywhere near him on that side of the stage. Had she painted it from memory? Intriguing thought.
"Hey, JARVIS?"
"Welcome home, sir."
"Yeah, thanks. Do me a favour, buddy, and bring up what you can find on an artist. Bronwyn James."
"Certainly, sir." The screens that project from his coffee table show various displays in mostly bright, glowing blue. Much the same shade as the reactor now keeping him this side of the dirt. A wall of text appears. "It would seem amongst the 2,689 unread emails in your inbox, there is indeed a message from one Bronwyn James. Would you like me to read it to you, sir?"
"No JARVIS, just bring it up and I'll read it myself," Tony leans with his elbow on his knee and begins to read the message, dated a couple days after he was kidnapped:
Hi Tony,
I guess we're not going to be speaking about those commissions now that you've gotten yourself blown up or maybe something worse.
I've just watched the news and it seems so stupid to be struck this hard by someone I don't even know. Maybe it's just that I'd been working on some sketches for you, and was delighted at the shape they were taking. Maybe it's just that you're the first person I've known to hear about their demise on TV.
Anyways, it seems like there's no harm in sending a dead man some sketches that will never see the light of day.
Sorry about your untimely death, despite all the mounting evidence to the contrary, you seemed like a good guy.
Why am I still typing this? It's probably the whiskey.
Wondering if a billionaire's ghost can read emails,
Bronwyn James
P.S. If you somehow make it out alive. Please delete this and pretend we never met. How embarrassing. And yet here I am, hitting send...
Tony flops back into the couch, rubbing his goatee, thoroughly amused. He's long forgotten his scotch now as he opens the attachments. The sketches are great, some of vintage cars they'd spoken about and also the most badass scene of the four horsemen raining destruction from the sky he could imagine. He can't remember discussing anything specific with the artist for ideas, so she must have just gone off pure vibes. Now he has to come up with a response, one that shows his interest and also conveys his absolute smugness that he left such an impression on her.
He pulls the sling off his shoulder, tentatively rolls it a few times, then begins to type his reply.
Hey Miss James,
It seems that your message has indeed summoned me back from the land of the dead. An artist's powers shouldn't be underestimated.
I'm digging the sketches and I'd love to discuss them further. In person, and since I'm not such a bad billionaire boo, here's my address, stop by any time tomorrow.
10880 Malibu Point, Malibu, California 90265
(The Ghost of) Tony Stark
P.S. I have plenty of really great whiskey if that's all it takes for you to say nice things about me. I seem to recall you being quite critical of my occupation when we met.
P.P.S. Please delete this and pretend you never saw it because I am fully prepared to admit you might have been right and I cannot stress enough how embarrassing that might be for someone like me.
Tony tells JARVIS to delete all the unrelated voicemails and emails. As if he has time (or the attention span) to sift through all of that nonsense. Besides, he’s not in the weapons manufacturing business now. They’d lost all relevance after his announcement at the press conference that afternoon. His scotch sits beside the painting, unfinished as he heads to the ensuite to shower, and then maybe make an attempt at sleeping. Tired can’t even begin to describe weariness that permeates through him. Perhaps a couple of the painkillers the military doctor prescribed at the base in Afghanistan will knock him out for a few hours.
It’s now way too early the next morning and Tony is awake. He sits up and rubs a hand across his bare chest, feeling the arc reactor protruding from it, confirming that the nightmares were as real as they felt. That is his first task for the day: making a new reactor to replace this crude version.
His garage lights up as he opens the door. This is his church. His safe place. The place where his ideas are given life. He’s a daddy, alright. Just not to any babies, at least not that he’s been made aware of. DUM-E whirs to life and he can’t contain his joy at the sight. He’s his first born, and even if the robot is a bit of a screw-up (chip off the old block much?) Tony adores him. He absolutely refuses to share that information with anyone else, though, DUM-E included. Look at all he’s accomplished without so much as a kind word of encouragement from his father. Maybe that’s not really a cycle he should be repeating, but there it is.
Sitting down at his desk, Tony leans back and stretches, wincing when he extends his right arm. His fingers hover over the surface and it lights up with virtual keyboards. After firing up all his fabricating equipment, he checks his email. He finds a reply from Bronwyn, sans greeting:
Oh god. I should have known any powers that I might possess could only be used for evil. Remind me I shouldn't drink alone.
I guess I have to show up now, don’t I? It'd be pretty bad luck to ignore the very ghost I summoned.
See you sometime tomorrow, O Great Reanimated One.
Very much not interested in becoming a zombie, ok?pleaseandthnx,
Wyn James
Tony laughs, a deep chuckle that accentuates the ache in his chest, his first real laugh since Rhodey rescued him. But that was more a release of pressure, this is a genuine ‘that was such a spaz reply, I can’t wait to fluster her in person and see how weird she really is’ laugh.
"J, can you let me know when she shows up so I can meet her at the door?"
"Certainly, sir. Shall I have the cleaning staff freshen up the master bedroom in advance?"
Tony snickers, not sure if JARVIS is serious or taking a dig at him. As much as he'd like to believe in his chances, he is extremely doubtful of that as a possibility. And honestly, it really hasn't crossed his mind. He is truly damaged goods now. "Let's not get too ahead of ourselves, there buddy," he leans back in his chair, fingers of his left hand cradling the back of his head, his right arm resting at his side, still stiff and sore from his crash in the desert. "On second thought, you can never be too prepared."
"Feeling especially optimistic this morning are we, sir?" God, he missed JARVIS' commentary.
Tony rolls his head side to side, closing his eyes, trying to conjure up a clear image of the artist. The first thing that comes to mind (to his own surprise) are her hands, most notably a tattoo of a dagger on her middle finger, he can vividly picture that finger being held up in his direction, a most welcome response to one of his cheekier remarks the evening they met. She had a lot more ink than that one, he recalls, along with great tits and grey-blue eyes like hardened steel. "I've never tried out being pathetic as a tactic before, there's always a chance my sad sack story does the impossible."
"It's wonderful to see you keeping your spirits up after such an ordeal."
"You know me, J., always looking on the bright side," Tony claps his hands and leans forward, scooting back close to his desk. "Back to work, Daddy needs a new, improved chest piece."
A fucking pacemaker. He's 38 years old and besides the excessive partying, which he has been dialing back, he's healthy. He was healthy. Now he's dependent upon the arc reactor to literally keep his heart ticking. And the fact that he has palladium in his chest is not at all helping his outlook. But that is a problem for another day. A really, very serious problem, but not at the top of the list.
While the Bridgeport is machining some of the components for his new arc reactor, Tony walks to the other side of his desk. It's time to digitally recreate the schematics for the Mark I and see what he can improve upon, now that he has his freedom, all of his fabulous resources, and his stunning genius, once again unhindered by shitty living conditions. He gets lost in the work and forgets the rest of the world for a few hours.
As he's adding to the list of materials he will need delivered (including a new Audi's worth supply of palladium), he is interrupted by JARVIS.
"Sir, there is a vehicle waiting at the gate." The video feed pops up at the corner of the furthest screen to the right and Tony stops to look. A 1969 Ford Bronco, red, in great condition, is sitting there, with the top off, the frustratingly blurry figure of the driver appears to be fidgeting with the gearshift while she waits for the gate to open. "It appears to be occupied by a woman matching the description of Bronwyn James. Shall I let her through?"
"Please do, pal," Tony takes one last look at his list, then satisfied he hasn't forgotten anything, swipes his hand, shutting the projections off. "And JARVIS? Get that list ordered, under my name, not SI please, off the books. And have it shipped directly here," he turns on his heel and heads for the glass doors.
“Your clandestine wish is my command, sir,” JARVIS replies, giving off an air of dry amusement in a way that is pure Edwin Jarvis and Tony pauses when he notices the similarity. The man the AI was modelled from may have worked for Howard as a butler, driver and occasional partner in misadventures, but to Tony, he was a warm father figure.
Using the door as a low resolution mirror, he gives himself a quick check for anything out of place before grabbing the sling he had tossed on the counter upon entering the garage and wrestles it on. Was Wyn James a sucker for a vulnerable, injured man? Realistically, probably not, but Tony can't shut down his thoughts. He's been denied all manner of pleasures for months and who could blame him for hoping for a pity fuck. He’s not going to try for it, but if one thing leads to another, he certainly won’t be the one to deny a woman her heart’s desire.
Opening the door and dashing up the stairs, he clears his throat and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it out of his face. How can he possibly be nervous? It's not nerves, he just hasn't had much in the way of positive human interaction for several months, that's the problem. He's rusty. And Bronwyn James is a virtual stranger who decided to send him the most perplexing condolences upon hearing the news of his fate. It's bound to be a bit awkward, even with Tony being armed to the (smirk-covered) teeth with his trappings, charm and genius-fueled wit.
He jogs to the door, trying to ignore that he feels like a kid rushing out to meet his friend for a playdate. Clearly, his time away just made him more appreciative and excited about art. That’s it, that’s all. Nothing more to it.