in memory of Obadiah Stane
"My first memory," he starts, gripping the edges of the podium with both hands, "is of falling off my bike. I was, like, five, and the damn thing had training wheels and I still managed to crash it. And Obie-" He smiles into the distance. "Okay, Obie laughed his ass off. Then he picked me up and got me going again."
For a moment, he pauses, looking down at the blank wood empty of cue cards. When he finds his voice again, it's softer.
"He made Stark Industries what it is today. It's his legacy as much as it's my dad's. And I can't talk about Obie without talking about my dad. If he heard me saying it he'd come back from the grave just to kick my ass, but it's true. They were best friends. In fact I'm pretty sure he was Dad's only friend. After-" (he swallows) "-after Mom and Dad passed away, before I sold the house, he used to come visit and he'd drink whiskey and I'd drink Red Bull and we'd talk about family."
Someone coughs at the back of the room. Tony can't even muster the energy to be angry, although he has spent most of the day being exactly that-viciously, bitterly angry at the rest of the world for not caring the way he does. He ignores the interruption and keeps on going.
"He was an only child, you know that? In case any of you are wondering why there's no flock of Stanes showing up to cry with me, it's cause he was the last one. He lost his parents before I was even born. We talked about that. And when I moved to Sunnydale, he kept flying in at the most ridiculous hours to stay for a few days. Checking up on me, he said. 'Cause a phone call just wasn't good enough, I guess. Obie was like that."
Without him quite being aware of the process, his head has dropped again until he is inspecting the woodgrain and the cheap plasticky texture of the varnish on the podium.
"I guess what I'm trying to say is, he was there for me. He's been there for me all my life, and now he's not."
At last, the room is completely silent. Tony looks up. Sherlock is standing by the door, half hidden by a pillar, like he can't wait to get out of here. Which is still better than half the assholes sitting in those nice neat rows. He speaks past them all, even Sherry, addressing his final words to somewhere on the other side of the back wall.
"God, I miss him."
For a moment, he pauses, looking down at the blank wood empty of cue cards. When he finds his voice again, it's softer.
"He made Stark Industries what it is today. It's his legacy as much as it's my dad's. And I can't talk about Obie without talking about my dad. If he heard me saying it he'd come back from the grave just to kick my ass, but it's true. They were best friends. In fact I'm pretty sure he was Dad's only friend. After-" (he swallows) "-after Mom and Dad passed away, before I sold the house, he used to come visit and he'd drink whiskey and I'd drink Red Bull and we'd talk about family."
Someone coughs at the back of the room. Tony can't even muster the energy to be angry, although he has spent most of the day being exactly that-viciously, bitterly angry at the rest of the world for not caring the way he does. He ignores the interruption and keeps on going.
"He was an only child, you know that? In case any of you are wondering why there's no flock of Stanes showing up to cry with me, it's cause he was the last one. He lost his parents before I was even born. We talked about that. And when I moved to Sunnydale, he kept flying in at the most ridiculous hours to stay for a few days. Checking up on me, he said. 'Cause a phone call just wasn't good enough, I guess. Obie was like that."
Without him quite being aware of the process, his head has dropped again until he is inspecting the woodgrain and the cheap plasticky texture of the varnish on the podium.
"I guess what I'm trying to say is, he was there for me. He's been there for me all my life, and now he's not."
At last, the room is completely silent. Tony looks up. Sherlock is standing by the door, half hidden by a pillar, like he can't wait to get out of here. Which is still better than half the assholes sitting in those nice neat rows. He speaks past them all, even Sherry, addressing his final words to somewhere on the other side of the back wall.
"God, I miss him."