More crack fic, with added crossover.
Let's call it, Tony Stark Seeks Help, Finally.
"Mr. Stark, I don't know where you got my name, but I assure you, I've retired. I--"
"Let's just say I got it from a loyal fan of yours, Dr. Oatman. And my assistant bought me I Killed Who? and left it on my desk, with your name circled in red, so I figured what the hell?"
"But as I was saying, I retired. I no longer see patients. I have taken down my shingle." Oatman wrings his hands together. He narrows his eyes then, as if he's just now recognized Tony, despite the fact that they've been talking for twenty minutes already. "You're not... you're the guy in the flying robot suit, aren't you? The one from the news? Oh no. No. Martin Blank sent you, didn't he? How did he even find my address? It's been ten years. Oh god-"
"He didn't find you, I did. I have connections." Tony leans back on the leather couch, thinking that he has no idea what Martin sees in this guy, but Martin swears by him, and Tony's fucking tired of Pepper leaving him self help books in prominent places. He didn't tell her where he was going, either, because he really doesn't want to see that little prim smile of smug satisfaction she gets when he caves, even if it is kind of hot. Even if he does occasionally cave just to see it flicker over her face, before she notices it and packs it away and becomes just Miss Potts again. But Oatman is talking, so maybe he should be paying attention.
"Mr. Stark, you can afford any psychotherapist in the free world. Here, let me get you a referral. Ten referrals. I have several colleagues vastly more qualified--"
"I want you. I pay well. What's the problem?"
Oatman is pacing his office now, running a hand over his shiny pate. Tony very definitely doesn't think of Raza, or Obadiah. He knows plenty of non-evil bald guys. Really. Nick Fury is bald. Tony's not entirely sure Fury isn't evil, in his way, but so far he hasn't joined the Let's Kill Tony Club, so that's gotta count for something. He thinks.
"The problem is I'm retired," Oatman insists, sinking back down into his chair, his head in his hands. "Why can't you people just leave me alone?"
"What people? It's just me here." Tony leans forward, smiling. "Come on, Oatman. I know you're curious. Professionally. I mean, when was the last time you had the chance to poke around in the psyche of a guy like me?"
"Ten years ago, that's when," Oatman bellows.
Tony waves him off. "Martin? Martin was small time. As you said yourself, I'm the guy in the flying robot suit."
"Oh god," Oatman moans. "So what, now, if I turn you down you're going to come here with your robotic suit and, what? Blow up my house?"
"Not unless you're stockpiling missiles in your basement," Tony smirks.
Oatman covers his face.
"Mr. Stark, I don't know where you got my name, but I assure you, I've retired. I--"
"Let's just say I got it from a loyal fan of yours, Dr. Oatman. And my assistant bought me I Killed Who? and left it on my desk, with your name circled in red, so I figured what the hell?"
"But as I was saying, I retired. I no longer see patients. I have taken down my shingle." Oatman wrings his hands together. He narrows his eyes then, as if he's just now recognized Tony, despite the fact that they've been talking for twenty minutes already. "You're not... you're the guy in the flying robot suit, aren't you? The one from the news? Oh no. No. Martin Blank sent you, didn't he? How did he even find my address? It's been ten years. Oh god-"
"He didn't find you, I did. I have connections." Tony leans back on the leather couch, thinking that he has no idea what Martin sees in this guy, but Martin swears by him, and Tony's fucking tired of Pepper leaving him self help books in prominent places. He didn't tell her where he was going, either, because he really doesn't want to see that little prim smile of smug satisfaction she gets when he caves, even if it is kind of hot. Even if he does occasionally cave just to see it flicker over her face, before she notices it and packs it away and becomes just Miss Potts again. But Oatman is talking, so maybe he should be paying attention.
"Mr. Stark, you can afford any psychotherapist in the free world. Here, let me get you a referral. Ten referrals. I have several colleagues vastly more qualified--"
"I want you. I pay well. What's the problem?"
Oatman is pacing his office now, running a hand over his shiny pate. Tony very definitely doesn't think of Raza, or Obadiah. He knows plenty of non-evil bald guys. Really. Nick Fury is bald. Tony's not entirely sure Fury isn't evil, in his way, but so far he hasn't joined the Let's Kill Tony Club, so that's gotta count for something. He thinks.
"The problem is I'm retired," Oatman insists, sinking back down into his chair, his head in his hands. "Why can't you people just leave me alone?"
"What people? It's just me here." Tony leans forward, smiling. "Come on, Oatman. I know you're curious. Professionally. I mean, when was the last time you had the chance to poke around in the psyche of a guy like me?"
"Ten years ago, that's when," Oatman bellows.
Tony waves him off. "Martin? Martin was small time. As you said yourself, I'm the guy in the flying robot suit."
"Oh god," Oatman moans. "So what, now, if I turn you down you're going to come here with your robotic suit and, what? Blow up my house?"
"Not unless you're stockpiling missiles in your basement," Tony smirks.
Oatman covers his face.