Hey, I'm sporky, this is me, here's my gift. :)Title:
Memories and ArmourAuthor: capt_spork
Tony, a bottle of Glen Fiddich, and his memories
I don't own anything here. Nada. Zip. I'm not making anything off it either. Marvel is doing that enough for everyone. :)Notes:
Written for the RDJ FicFest
, also posted at my journal. ConCrit is LOVE. Takes place after the end of the movie, about two/three days. After Obadiah's memorial service.
After it all - the fight, the press, the memorial service he had to sham his way through - when Tony ordered Pepper to go home and take a day off, neither of them were in any shape to battle it out, and so she left him obstinately staring out the panoramic view of his living room. After a while (he couldn't be sure how long), Tony poured himself a couple of measures of Glen Fiddich and headed down to the Garage. The battered suit, wiring still pouring out of various torn panels, was piled on the floor in the centre. He had yet to begin to work on it again. The arc reactor that had saved his life (again) was sitting on one of the work-benches. He stood over it, regarding the jungle of wires and parts of his mangled suit with a dark, cold glower. Downing the scotch, he sat down and picked up a piece of his amour. Useless now. Just as useless as the amour he had carried around for years, until it had become so a part of himself the he could not tell where the armour ended and the miserable, pathetic, son-of-a-bitch began.
The constant stream of girls; Tony Stark, playboy; the parties; the wild life. It was him now. Or had been until his capture. He had thought nothing of sleeping with any beautiful woman, especially those who seemed inclined to hate him. Those he liked particularly, liked the challenge, and, if he was honest with himself, liked when they did hate him after. It made it so much easier all round. He was a charming, thoughtless, asshole, and that was all that was expected of him. Until his capture. Until he was forced to look at his life, and suddenly the world and his place in it stood in black-and-white. Until a world where a string of different girls whose names and faces melted into each other, and a party lifestyle that exceeded most of young Hollywood stopped being interesting. Until he grew a conscience. In taking responsibility for his innovations; no, for his weapons, Tony Stark had all but left behind that world. All that was left was his Glen Fiddich, a half-full bottle of which he managed to locate in the Garage and pour another glass.
It felt good to be drinking this. A little maudlin, maybe, but good. This was the whiskey he drank for his parents’ deaths, that he used to toast them every anniversary. And as odd as it seemed, even though Obi had tried to have him killed and then to do the job himself, Tony still couldn’t shake the memories he had of the man. Good memories. Happy times. Obi had taught him to swim, had given him his first hot-rod, had bought him his first drink. He had memories of the man in sad times; a good man: helping him find his feet in the company, taking care of the company until his majority, taking care of him after his parents...
Of course, that was tied in with his armour. The daily armour which had started to fall into place after that. Picking up beautiful girls to prove to himself. That he could. That it had been a mistake. It was just that he had needed someone. A couple of years into it, Tony had realised that was exactly what it was about, but by then his armour was fool-proof, and there were expectations of him that were easier to fill then to dissuade. He continued his life much in the manner that he had been going along, with the lifestyle that other men his age would have killed for. Fear had begun it though, fear of himself, of what it meant that he reached out. That he had tried to find comfort in a man who was like a favourite uncle, when his world changed utterly and forever. Fear of what it meant that he had been rejected. That the following morning he had woken in his own bed, with a dreadful hangover, and Obi in the chair across the room having watching him through the night to make sure he would be ok. Obi, who had put him to bed, then sat up all night, taking care of him, after he, the son of his best friend, in a spectacularly drunken state had propositioned him and all but begged him to... Tony turned away from that particular memory, concentrating instead on the look of understanding and sympathy (but no pity) in Obi’s eyes, how he had gently ingored the whole situation, and how he had watched over him for years. He took the glass of Glen Fiddich and drank, then poured the remainder of the bottle into the glass once more, raising it.
“A toast to you, Obi. To the man that I hope you really once were.” He downed the last of scotch, and turned to the suit designs, to see if there was any further improvements to be made.