Fic for sadness1986: With a Whimper (Part 1) | Gen | R
Title: With a Whimper
Author: ncc1701a
Recipient: sadness1986
Rating: Soft R, nothing graphic but dark, possibly squicky themes, non-permanent, main character injury
Universe: Avengers, Marvel Movie Universe
Pairing: Obadiah Stane & Tony Stark gen
Word Count: 15,300
Disclaimer: The Avengers aren’t mine, probably for the best considering how I treat them.
Summary: Written for my Avengers fest challenge/prompt/assignment/thingy; angst, reads like hurt/comfort but the comfort part is the hurt, dark, pre Iron Man, Obadiah Stane works his way into Tony’s life.
Warning/Spoilers: Pre-Iron Man fic written by someone who knows nothing about the comic universe so possible canon destruction, mindfuckery (Obadiah Stane/Tony Stark - not sexual content), non-sexual desperation watersports, Stockholm syndrome, past emotionally abusive Howard (not physical or sexual or even intentional), profanity.
Notes: About the ending, this fic itself does not really end on a high note. However, it does fit in with the Marvel Movie Universe Canon, so Obadiah does get what he deserves...just several years after these events.
Prologue: Obadiah POV
Tony had always been unmanageable and unruly, even as a toddler. Privately, Obadiah blames Howard, for not disciplining the boy hard enough when it is obvious even to the most casual of outsiders that most, if not all, of Tony’s antics, stem from a desire for Howard’s attention if not approval. He doesn’t voice his opinions. Howard might be a terrible father, worse even than Obadiah’s own, but in his own way he adores the boy and will hear nothing against him. Just because he chooses not to give the boy praise does not mean he is willing to listen to criticism of him.
Still, Obadiah doesn’t have to live with the little brat, doesn’t have to put up with him for anything more than a couple of hours at any given time and it is no true hardship to him to play the benevolent uncle that he is unlikely to have another chance to indulge in. Sometimes spending time with the boy is even fun, even if Anthony Stark is virtually the sole reason Obadiah has no plans of having children of his own.
When the boy is not showing off, or having needless tantrums, he is all the best parts of his parents. He has Howard’s confidence and charm and charisma without his penchant for name dropping and snide commentary that ranges from patronising to outright cruelty, hurtful however well intended it might be, and he has his mother’s sweetness, there is a gentleness to him a desire to love and be loved that makes the most vicious parts of Obadiah ache to rip into him, to savage him, to show him how worthless such a weakness is.
He does not. He has no doubt Howard would kill him without remorse for even indulging in the thought, and this position, co-founder of Stark’s dream business, is too lucrative a position to waste on tormenting a child, even this most fascinating, contradictory child, however delightful such an action might be. Instead he worms his way into their minds and hearts, making himself invaluable, and better still, trusted, in business and out of it.
By the time Tony is ten, it is obvious that SI is never going to be truly Obadiah’s, no matter how many years of loyal service he gives. It is easy to say that Tony has inherited his father’s brains, his father’s genius for creating, but it is, ultimately, incorrect. Tony is something entirely new. He outstrips Howard’s abilities in every conceivable way, and Howard, for all his devotion to machines found only in the wildest of science fiction cannot visualise the future, and what that future will require, with the perfect clarity that his son can. And Obadiah...well, he’s not a creator, not an inventor. He’s a business man. He needs a Stark.
Howard is too set in his ways, too arrogant and stubborn and uncompromising, too aware of his own genius. The best Obadiah can do is remove him from the equation, remind him of the debt America owes Captain Rogers, remind Howard that Rogers counted him a personal friend - a thing few men can claim, remark that he is the only one with the money, the resources and the will to find him. It plants the idea, but it would probably not be enough. Then, Obadiah tries (loudly, repeatedly, ostentatiously, with none of the subtlety of his original suggestion) to convince him not to do so, not to pump millions of dollars into a pointless endeavour, not to neglect his own flesh and blood son for the ghost of a man long dead. If there is one certain way to ensure Howard Stark will do something it is to tell him he should not.
Once Howard is gone, it is easy for Obadiah to assume the mantle of Howard’s best and most trusted friend and inherit Tony. Slowly, he gains the boy’s trust, expertly exploiting cracks that his father’s new absence on top of his ever present emotional distance has wrought in their relationships. It is with soft, soothing words that he massages every one of Tony’s insecurities, making him aware of his failings, making him believe what others say of him, telling him that it is not his fault he cannot live up to the ideal of Rogers, after all, what man could. It is not an easy task, Tony is naturally confident and self-assured and bolstered by teenaged arrogance that he is right. But Obadiah he has known all his life, and these are not words spoken in anger, and eventually it works.
For a few years, a very few years, it is perfect. Howard is absent, and Maria has her own commitments and Tony has been taught to be dependent on Obadiah who is there for him despite the flaws he is now brutally and cripplingly, aware of. The only one who is there for him despite those flaws. But Tony is a genius and he is young, too young, when he goes to MIT.
It is Obadiah who pushes him to live alone, telling him he wants as much of the college experience as he can get despite his age. It is the first miscalculation. Instead of isolating him further, that he lives alone gives Tony space away from Obadiah’s poisonous words to grow in confidence. His father’s arrogance has just been waiting for a chance to bloom, and in this environment, (not bullied and shunned as by rights any teenaged genius, years younger than his classmates should be, but instead adored and cosseted as only a too wealthy, too beautiful boy can be) he flourishes.
He still distrusts people, scarred by his early experiences, that much is evident when Obadiah visits during the photo shoot for the robot he is being lauded for having created and discovers it is no mere mechanical helper but has an obvious, and quirky, personality of its own. It is not enough however, and Obadiah realises he has lost his best chance at ruling SI with Tony as his puppet.
He goes home that night and drinks himself into a three day hangover and destroys his penthouse as his pent up fury finds the only outlet it can. Tony is not the helpless unsure child he once was and he will shortly be of age. The only thing that can be salvaged is that no one knows he has always been working to his own agenda; that no one knows just how fiercely and deeply he despises Howard and his son. He tries to content himself with the knowledge that at least his current position is secure, that no one knows what he has been doing, but his long nurtured hatred for the Stark family grows as his bitterness increases.
Howard dies in a crash that Obadiah did not orchestrate, but is nonetheless indirectly responsible for as it is he who created the emergency in Switzerland that forced Howard to be there in order to give him some privacy to divert funds from one of Howard’s project (that damned reactor that’ll never work) into a project of his own. Howard had driven drunk hundreds of times, thousands of times; Obadiah supposed that this time the winter ice must have worked against him.
He doesn’t shed a tear. It is all he can do to keep from laughing at the news, but he does a credible impression of shock as hangover and realisation that his plans may once again be an option, take their toll and make his knees so weak he has to grab the door frame to steady himself. It is he who breaks the news to Tony and as the shuddering young man clings to him in a way he hasn’t since he was very small he realises that he is still trusted enough to make what he had spent all these years working for happen.
He spends the year he is in charge of SI during Tony’s minority ensuring that the Board knows about every single one of Tony’s indiscretions and, in turn, fosters Tony’s dislike of the stuffy committee members who sit on it. Tact is one of Maria’s traits which Tony failed to inherit, and Obadiah knows that his feelings for the Board will be made clear at each and every meeting and that none of them are men who will easily accept a wilful man-child with more than three times their intelligence as their superior.
That works flawlessly, but still Tony isn’t isolated or dependent on him like he once was. He still doesn’t need or seek Obadiah’s approval or his aid. He won’t acknowledge that he needs him, that without him he’d be completely useless despite all Obadiah does for the company, all the things he has done for Tony over the years. Worse, he won’t even turn all of his talents to what SI wishes to sell. He fulfils the obligations in SI’s long standing military contacts sure, but the bulk of Department of Defence money is promptly sunk into medical advancements and robotics and various machines of convenience and his mother’s many charities. It’s not that these things don’t work, or don’t sell, or aren’t laudable causes, but SI is a weapons manufacturer, that’s where the bulk of their money and investors lies, and always has done so. He isn’t interested in listening to Obadiah tell him this though, the older man’s opinion not worth as much as once it was.
For weeks Obadiah lies awake at night wondering how to force a mind as strong and intelligent as Tony Stark’s to regress to the age he needs it, to be pliant enough to be of some use to him without shattering it utterly and destroying the creative spark he needs. Obadiah is still important in Tony’s life, the only constant he has apart from the old family butler and Captain Rhodes’ boy who he’s known for years. In theory it should be easy to show Tony that, when he cannot rely on himself, it is Obadiah that he needs.
The other crucial aspect any plan needs to have, he thinks, is it needs to separate him from those damn robots of his which seem to give him all the companionship he needs and keep him from seeking approval elsewhere. At last it dawns on him that with so few people to depend on, and as arrogant and proud as he is, Tony doesn’t need to be regressed mentally, merely crippled physically, to reduce him to a dependant desperate child. With that realisation everything falls into place.
It can’t be permanent Obadiah acknowledges, because he knows of no one else who can emulate Tony’s genius in creating, but it needs to be severe enough to render him physically helpless whilst mentally totally aware of what has happened to him and, ideally, it needs to be something the robots can be blamed for. In the privacy of his own home, away from prying eyes and with his plan finally taking form Obadiah allows himself a smile. He mustn’t break the boy, or let him realise what he is doing or everything will be lost, but with a helpless Tony Stark about to be in his power he can’t help but think that perhaps those darker desires, repressed so long, can be indulged after all.
CHAPTER 1: Tony POV
Tony shifts restlessly as he starts to wake up. This isn’t his bed, but, ultimately, he is rather intimately acquainted with waking up in unfamiliar places and that doesn’t worry him unduly any longer. He doesn’t open his eyes though, preferring to have some idea of what he would see before he does so.
The sheets are scratchier than he is used to, and over starched, the air smells strongly of disinfectant and there is an insistent and rhythmic beeping noise. Shit. Not a drunken one night stand then. Accident? He turns his senses inwards, cataloguing his body. His head hurts a little and his mouth is dry. His arms feel heavy and achy but nothing worse. He levers his lids open.
White is his first impression and he slams his eyes shut against it before opening them more slowly and taking in the room with its impossibly boring white ceiling and walls. There is a sound next to him and it takes a surprising amount of effort to turn his head to find Obie sitting next to the bed and staring at him with undisguised relief. There is something so raw in the other man’s eyes that Tony wants to turn his face away but can’t, he’s too weak. He settles for casting his eyes down at himself instead and seeing for the first time that his hands and forearms are encased in thick plaster casts (white like everything else), the fingers wrapped and taped individually so that he has almost no movement below the elbow. Shock and fear roll over him in a wave, effectively wiping away the needlessly sappy things he had been thinking about Obie’s presence at his bedside. “What happened?” he demands, voice high and cracking with a terror that might have shamed him if it had been anything other than his hands which looked so damaged.
There is a sudden pressure on his shoulder and he flinches unthinkingly, struggling to sit up, but it is just Obie’s steadying hand. “It’s fine,” the other man says, voice calm and soothing, but an order all the same. Despite himself, Tony settles and Obie flashes him a tired smile before fiddling with the controls to set the bed to allow Tony into a sitting position without using any of his own muscles. His control over the bed is less than perfect, and Tony itches to take the small device from him and do it himself, but with his hands bundled like they are, he would have even less control, so he grits his teeth and allows Obie to do it in jerks and starts.
“My hands-” he starts, and god! Is he crying? He tries, with little success, to clamp down on the tears that Howard would never have tolerated.
The warm soothing weight of Obie’s hand is back on his shoulder, rubbing soothingly circles, and Obie does him the courtesy of pretending not to see his tears as he interrupts his panic to hastily explain, “You had an accident in the workshop Tony, with the prototype launcher. I can explain your injuries to you, or you can wait for the doctor, but the important thing is that you’re expected to regain full mobility.”
Tony releases a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. “What happened?” he asks again, but he is calmer now, his voice his usual tone instead of the frantic childish terror of earlier.
“The launcher collapsed off of its blocks when that robot of yours rolled into it. You were under it doing some last minute adjustments and you must have seen it falling just in time, you caught the weight on your arms. You’re lucky you did too. It broke both your wrists, a couple of bones in your hands and seven fingers; it would have crushed your skull. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, a spark from the metal scraping along the floor set your sleeve on fire.” Obie has to turn away, voice distorted with emotion as he adds, “I’m just so grateful I was there...I dread to think...but the doctors say you should be fine. The bones need to set and the burns need to heal but there’s no nerve damage, nothing time won’t fix.” He looks up again and fixes a glare on Tony’s stunned face, “And for once, you are going to obey the doctors young man. You will not move your arms or hands at all. If those bones shift while healing they might cause more problems.”
Tony can only nod, wide eyed, stunned by the catalogue of injuries and somewhat hopelessly moved by the badly masked fear and sheen of tears in Obie’s eyes. He’s seen this before but never directed at him, this strict I’m only doing this because I care for you attitude is new, probably because Obie’s never seen him with anything worse than a hangover or cold or the occasional minor burn or tiny cut from his work since the car accident, and before then, Obie probably thought he’d already received these lectures at home and could afford to be the indulgent uncle. Honestly, Tony wants nothing more than lay his head on Obie’s shoulder and just cry because he’s so grateful that Obie cares, but he’s twenty five, and supposedly, in name at least, Obie’s boss so he doesn’t. “Yeah,” he agrees hoarsely instead, eyes tracking Obie as the older man moved to get the cup of water from the nightstand for him. “Yeah, I will, or won’t, you know what I mean. I promise. I’m sorry.”
Obie favours him with a small smile He knows how rarely Tony Stark apologised for anything but he means this. After all, Obie had been insisting he restrict DUM-E and Butterfinger’s workshop access for months, convinced they were hazards, that their sensors weren’t developed enough. Tony had brushed him off, he loves his robots even if the dark little voice at the back of his mind insists on reminding him that he’s so pathetic he has to build friends for himself, and he hates being ordered around. Howard was always doing that, always issuing orders in a tone that never failed to remind Tony that his dad had been in the war, even if he’d never actually been formal military.
It might well be an SI building, but he owned SI and this lab is supposed to be his, he’d told Obie, he’d run it the way he saw fit and he didn’t want a human lab assistant in his way, trying to make small talk, unable to follow his random jumps of thought. Obie hadn’t pushed him. Even now, he hasn’t uttered a single word about how he’d warned Tony this was coming months ago. Instead, he perches on the edge of the bed and holds the glass in front of Tony’s mouth.
He’s not, quite, near enough and Tony has to chase the straw with his lips and tongue, an action which brings a blush to his cheeks, but he doesn’t ask Obie to move it closer. The man already looks horribly uncomfortable and though Obie’s always been there for him, a permanent presence in the way of mountains in the landscape of Tony’s life, he’s never really been a parental figure despite Tony’s desperate need of one, mostly because even if his gruff but obvious affection is preferable to Howard’s ambivalent disdain, he’d be useless in the role of father. Obie has always been kind to Tony, but he’s not a natural caregiver.
He pulls the glass away before Tony is quite finished. Tony keeps the protesting noise behind his teeth. Obie’s being so kind, too kind, and it’s selfish at best, pathetic at worst, because he lived on his own at MIT years ago, but he doesn’t want him to realise just how clingy and demanding Tony is and leave.
Obadiah Interlude #1
The hardest part, telling Tony what had happened, is over. There had always been risk with that, risk that he would remember something different, risk that Obadiah would give himself away with some small act or expression but no, it had been easy. Almost too easy, it had been all he could do to suppress his delighted laughter, but Obadiah does not believe that Tony knows more than he had acknowledged. The boy doesn’t have the patience or discipline to have held his tongue if he did.
All Obadiah has to do now is wait out the healing process and be the one there who Tony needs, make him grateful for his help and friendship, make him desperate for it, show him that his helplessness can only be mitigated at Obadiah’s discretion. The darkness, the desire to do harm to Tony, is back in his chest, roaring louder than ever and there is a part of him, a large part, that wants to put Howard’s boy on his knees and see him plead for mercy, see him acknowledge Obadiah as the powerful force Howard always refused to see him as. That part of him has to be quelled because it is impractical and will serve no purpose beyond Obadiah’s instant gratification. It will be much sweeter to see the boy become Obadiah’s puppet, thoughtlessly giving his company in all but name to a man his father had liked well enough but had never respected.
Much as he might want to see Tony’s arrogant face twisted with pain and stopping his agonised screaming only long enough to beg for mercy, it can’t be done, (at least not yet, perhaps when he has had from Tony all the innovation the boy can give) but that doesn’t mean he can’t indulge his darker side just a little. It was after all sweet to see him bite down against the instinctive sarcasm, a gift from his father he could have done without, when Obadiah was raising the bed in jerks and starts in an attempt to jar his arms painfully enough to gain him a reaction. And it darkens his eyes and makes something too dark to be lust pool in his stomach to remember Tony forced to show himself desperate for the water Obadiah had held for him if he wanted a drink. That Obadiah fully intends to repeat.
It’s mixing business with pleasure because to render someone helpless and dependent is one of the best ways to create the emotions he needs Tony to feel if he is gain anything permanent from this little exercise, but who could resist the angry fire banked down to mere irritation by humiliation and forced gratitude in Tony’s too expressive eyes? But he wants it, more than that, he needs it. Perhaps he’ll take Tony for a meal when he’s feeling better.
CHAPTER 2: Tony POV
Tony’s shit at keeping his promises, like really, really shit. If you took a nationwide poll in being bad at keeping promises he would probably come top. His best friend has known him for years, Howard had known his grandfather in the war and Rhodey and he had practically grown up together. He was the closest Tony had to a sibling or a cousin, and he’s always saying he only keeps talking to Tony in the hope of Tony one day honouring his various promises to stop getting him impossibly drunk at the most inappropriate times or calling him in the middle of the night when he is bored or to follow his agreement to build Rhodey something which would make him the most awesome guy in his barracks. Tony’s reasonably sure he is joking, but he doesn’t want to push it. Rhodey’s the only person that has been his friend this long, and they’re not family after all, he doesn’t have to, and yet he does, even though Tony really hasn’t done any of the things he’s promised over the years. So yeah, keeping promises, not his strong suit, but his promise to Obie to do as the doctors have said and not move his arms about too much, he tries his best to stick to it.
For the first couple of days it’s easy. He’s stuck in the hospital, and without his hands he can’t do anything: can’t sketch out schematics for his latest robots or algorithms for the next generation AI he’s got plans for, can’t read, can’t even change the channel on the television above his bed playing shitty talk shows and re-runs of old sitcoms. He is Tony Stark however, he’s ridiculously hot and stupidly wealthy and, with minimal difficulty, he manages to convince one of the nurses to come in and sit with him and talk to him and just keep him company until it’s visiting hours and Obie or Rhodey can drop by. He can’t do any real design work, and it wouldn’t do him any good anyway since he can’t move his fingers, but he has plans to create a computer that’s mobile, that he could hold on his knees and work on anywhere.
Eventually though they decide he doesn’t need to be under observation anymore and discharge him. Tony, naturally, is delighted. He’s pretty sure if he had to stay in that room another day he would actually go crazy, or, as Rhodey would say, crazier. Then it comes to changing out of the hospital gown he’s dressed in and getting into the clothes Obie had brought him the night before in preparation. Obie knows him better than he would have given the man credit. He’s brought him jeans, a tattered but clean Led Zeppelin shirt, his favourite wine coloured button up and the clean, paparazzi safe version of his grease stained sneakers.
They are as close to his comfort clothes as he has the option of wearing, knowing that the outside of the hospital is likely mobbed with reporters poised with questions about his accident and recovery and plans for unveiling the launcher. Tony wants to cry when he realises he can’t get into any of them. He really doesn’t want to call the nurse back; not that he’s adverse to a pretty nurse seeing him dishabille, but he doesn’t want her dressing him like an infant. He gnaws his lip and curses his helplessness. After a long moment he picks up the t-shirt, holding it awkwardly between his plaster casted wrists. With some wriggling he manages to get it on. It takes an embarrassingly long time, but it’s better than nothing. He’s just contemplating the jeans and wondering how best to go about getting them on when there’s a light rap on the wall on the far side of the curtain.
“Tony?” says Obie’s voice, “Tony, are you ready? I don’t have long, I have a meeting but I thought you might want to see a familiar face before dealing with the piranhas outside.”
Tony lets out an undignified squeak of surprise and promptly loses his grip on the jeans he’d been trying to roll the way he’d seen girls do with stockings in order to get his leg completely in without having to tug the material too much. It falls in a puddle on the floor and he scowls at it. “Ok, thanks. Be right there.”
It takes time to scoop the jeans up off the floor, none of his fingers really move due to the tape and bandages and flares of pain each motion causes and it’s hard to get a grip. This time though the rolling goes quicker because he now knows what he’s trying to do. He can tell from the sounds of Obie drumming on the wall that he’s getting impatient and he struggles to move faster. Obie’s always been a workaholic, just like Howard was, doubtless he has meetings and stockholders to get back to and he’s still here, making time for Tony in a way his family never had. “Tony,” there’s a bite of impatience in the voice now. “Tony are you nearly done? I’m going to be late.”
Tony almost loses his balance as he gets both feet into the rolled legs of his jeans but saves himself. “I’m fine,” he says, trying for casual, “Just go. Leave me the car, or send another one. I can manage a few reporters Obie. I’m fine.”
“Don’t be difficult Tony. Just hurry up.”
He gets the jeans pulled up to his waist before realising which jeans they are. They’re the ones he bought in Florida on vacation with Rhodey last year. Tony had been under the impression that the slightly too big fit would hang low on his slender hipbones and bring girls flooding in. The girls had still flooded in, Tony didn’t need help from a pair of second rate jeans, but the jeans had been far too loose. They’d been in danger of falling off all the damn time. They needed a belt. His eyes drop back to the stack of clothing on visitors chair and sure enough there is one, brown and coiled on top of his socks and sneakers. Just like that, the fight goes out of him, he’s covered and that’s apparently the best he can hope for. Without his fingers there’s no way he can manage the rest, socks, buttons, belt, laces are beyond him in his current state. He stares fixedly at the far wall and swallows his pride. At least it’s Obie and not the hot nurse. “Hey Obie?”
“What is it Tony?”
“Can you...I need a hand in here for a sec.”
Obie’s face peers around the curtain. He’s scowling, and Tony almost can’t resist the automatic flinch back. He swallows the blush and the uncharacteristic apology but his eyes drop of their own accord so he misses the brief look that passes over Obie’s face. He’s nonetheless soothed by the softened voice as he says, “Oh I’m sorry Tony, I didn’t think. Let me...” he steps forward, and his hands are just as hesitant and awkward as Tony feels as they button him into his jeans and put on his belt. “Sit on the bed. I’ll sort out your shoes and socks.”
It’s strange to have Obie crouched in front of him, dressing him, but not entirely unpleasant. He feels cared for in a way he hasn’t since he was very small. Obie glances up at him with a sardonic expression. “I haven’t done this since you were tiny. If I remember...your feet used to be ticklish.”
“No, don’t-” Tony gasps and lets out an embarrassing giggle (really, it’s a giggle, not a chuckle or a laugh, a giggle, the sort a prepubescent girl might let out).
Obie smiles himself and finishes putting on his right shoe. “What do you say I blow off my meeting and we go for lunch to celebrate you getting out of here?”
“It’s hospital Obie, not prison,” Tony quips back, slightly disconcerted. No one has ever implied that he was worth ditching work for and he really just wants to go home. A flash of offended hurt crosses Obie’s face and Tony finds himself shifting guiltily on the bed and hastily adding, “But hey, who am I to turn down a date with a handsome older man.”
If anything that just makes Obie tense further. He draws back abruptly, leaving Tony with one shoe on and undone and the other foot only half covered. “That’s not appropriate Tony.”
The open pit of guilt in his stomach yawns wider. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...” his voice trails off and he looks at Obie, hopeful that the man will infer his meaning and sincerity. Obie does not move, still tense and hurt and offended and much as Tony might like to mask his discomfort with flippancy and leave and hide out with his robots until this whole situation is forgotten and they can just act normally again, that really isn’t an option right now. He flexes his ruined fingers as much as he can. It isn’t a lot; it’s barely a flex, more a twitch, like the legs of a dead spider. “I’m sorry,” he says again, voice soft and low, “I didn’t mean it Obie. I was kidding. I’d love to go for lunch with you.” Obie nods and relaxes fractionally but doesn’t move, “Will you finish helping me with my shoes? Please?” he says after another a second, a request he despises having to make as it only underscores his helplessness, but the only way he knows how to show Obie that that isn’t how he thinks of him, that he trusts him.
Still silent, Obie leans forward once again and jerks the rest of the sock up his mostly uncovered foot. He’s gentle, despite the rough skin of his hands and the quick jerky movement, but the warmth has gone from the action now, the previous care leeched out. It’s nothing more than an impersonal touch, Obie making an obvious concerted effort not to touch Tony’s bare skin. “Come on Obie,” Tony whines, a wheedling tone he hasn’t adopted since...probably the last time someone needed to put his socks on for him, “don’t. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Please just...” touch me, love me. The words burn on his tongue, but he doesn’t know how to say them without worsening this already horrible situation so he engages the brain to mouth filter Rhodey has told him hundreds of times that he doesn’t have and bites them back.
Obie pauses in the tying of his shoe lace. His cheeks have a very faint tinge of pink, the only sign of his discomfort as he says in an uncharacteristically hesitant voice, “You know I would never...could never...you’re the closest I’m ever likely to have to a son Tony and with Howard gone you’re...It’s my responsibility to look after you.”
There are many things Tony might have usually said to that. That he doesn’t need looking after, he’s an adult now, that Howard hadn’t exactly felt that responsibility keenly and it’s unreasonable to expect Obie to inherit a responsibility which he is the only one believes exists, that he knows he’s not Obie’s son and never will be and doesn’t expect anything from him. Instead, he blinks away the sudden wetness in his eyes, wondering furiously which of the drugs he’s on have that side effect because he’s certainly not crying, he’s just not. “Thank you,” he says, his own face heating at the humiliating crack in his voice the struggle to keep the wetness in his eyes from overflowing into real tears causes, “You don’t have to feel...And I know you wouldn’t...”
Obie finishes with his laces, applying himself to the task and sparing Tony from being stared at while he falls apart. When he’s finished at last he stands, wincing slightly as his knee cracks, and reaches out to pat Tony on the shoulder. “Alright Tony, I know. I shouldn’t have over-reacted, I just didn’t want you to think-”
“I don’t, I don’t, I promise,” Tony interrupts, voice slightly frantic, and no matter how he tries he can’t help the tear that tumbles over his lid to roll down his cheek.
Unthinkingly he lifts an arm to wipe it away with his sleeve, “Hey, hey,” says Obie gently, pushing the arm back down, “No moving your arms about too much remember. You need to rest them.” He regards Tony for a second, and Tony can’t keep his face from flaming under the scrutiny of his obvious and exposed weakness. Then he lifts his own hand and carefully wipes the tear off Tony’s face with his thumb. “So where do you want to eat?” he asks, and Tony adores him for not asking or making a big deal about it. Maybe he’s pretending it’s a side effect of the painkillers just as hard as Tony is.
That thought doesn’t stop him from sagging slightly against Obie’s solid warmth when the older man pulls him up. “Whatever you want,” he answers, more docile than he’s been in years.
Obie fixes him with the wide boyish smile he usually reserves for the best business deals, “Well this is a celebration. I’ll call Wolfgang’s get us a reservation.”
Tony nods, and let’s Obie steer him from the room and to the car.
Obadiah Interlude #2
It’s a fine line to tread. Obadiah has been working his way into the hearts and minds of the Stark family for decades, but it is easy to get someone to trust you when all you must do is play to your strengths. Obadiah has been a juggernaut in the boardroom since he was an intern. It is easy to be indispensible when they rely on you for you organisational input, but know you need them to make the magic happen. Geniuses are always content to rely on someone they don’t believe to be a threat. This...this is significantly more difficult.
If he gives Tony a reason to believe he is doing this on purpose, Tony will amputate him from his life with surgical precision, as one would a gangrenous limb. He is accustomed to fending for himself, accustomed to believing that he must do so, he will remove anyone or anything he perceives as an enemy with no hesitation. If the Rhodes boy suspects he is doing it on purpose he will be lucky to escape in as good condition as Tony is now. He is fiercely and devotedly protective of Tony.
But this has been in the planning for a long time. Obadiah realises he must tread softly, start small. Rome after all, was not built in a day. As Tony forgets to rely on himself, as he becomes more dependent on him, he will be able to make his actions more overt. Until then however...
It does not take him long to identify the clothes as Tony’s first major hurdle, especially once he realises the boy has taken a fancy to the young nurse who spends the most time entertaining him. He doesn’t know this slightly older Tony as well as he would like, but he knew Howard, and he sees much of his father in Tony’s dark eyes. Howard would not want a woman he desired to have to treat him like a child. He leaks Tony’s release date to the press himself, ensuring they will be waiting for him and cancels all his engagements for that afternoon. Then he brings Tony what he knows will appear at first glance to be comfort clothing, but makes sure it all has belts, buckles, zippers that Tony will be unable to do unaided. Then he waits.
It takes Tony longer than he had thought it would to break and ask for help and he is grudgingly impressed with just how much he has managed, hampered as he is. He dresses the man with the intimate and lavish care of a mother and it is not hard to be offended when Tony responds to his offer with a flirtation born he knows of habit not actual desire. He should be totally unsexualised to Tony. Even for him, even ruled as he is by his baser, darker desires to see Tony possessed utterly, to see him his, is not driven by mere lust. Lust is too paltry for what he feels, and Obadiah himself has always preferred women anyway. But from Tony’s perspective, and more importantly from the perspectives of outsiders, to sexualise the care and dependency he is about to subject Tony to is to make it well, creepy, in a way that will not go unnoticed for long.
The chastisement however is even more effective than he had anticipated. Obadiah is almost - almost - shocked at what Howard and Maria had done to the boy if this is how desperate he is not to offend someone giving him parental attention. He almost refuses the apology,, but it is too soon for that. Tony must believe in his generosity and benevolence first. He still has to take a moment just to admire the picture he makes, one of pitiful desolation, as a tear rolls slowly down his cheek before shaking himself and sympathising (obliquely, the Stark men have never appreciated pity). With Tony so uncertain and so very, pitifully, desperate for forgiveness it is easy to get him to agree to the restaurant Obadiah had arranged with a reporter that morning.
CHAPTER 3: Tony POV
Later, Tony will blame himself for being such a monumental fuck up that he insists on pushing away the only person who has ever cared for him, who has ever wanted to be around him when he’s not inventing anything useful or doing anything brilliant or offering something they want; who wants to be around him when he’s broken and useless. At the time, the rushing wave of humiliation drowns out the little voice pointing out that he’s being an unreasonable, ungrateful brat. His only defence is that he’d never wanted to go for lunch in the first place, but he’d been so flattered at the offer, and so afraid of hurting Obie, and so desperate to make up for his earlier insult, that he had agreed without realising what it would mean.
The restaurant is one of Tony’s favourites and within moments of arriving, the head waiter himself has a bottle of Tony’s favourite red on the table and a glass in front of each of them. It’s only then that Tony realises just how bad an idea this was. He can’t even lift the glass. Obie must be in a good mood though because, in the overly loud tones which Tony spent his childhood in trouble for using, and has delighted in using ever since he was too old to be punished for it, orders the waiter to bring him a straw. Tony flushes darkly. He doesn’t want to drink his wine through a straw. He tries to order a coke instead, that’ll look much more natural and won’t draw attention to him in the same way, but Obie is still talking, ordering two T-bones with sides of everything.
The waiter scurries off to do his bidding and Tony turns a petulant glare on Obie. “How do you think I can eat a T-bone steak with these?” he flops his useless arms in an ungainly way.
There is a brief pause while Obie obviously realises that Tony has a point. Then he waves a hand. Tony watches the movement with undeniable jealousy in his eyes. It’s a weird feeling, being jealous. Tony is very rarely jealous, he’s the man who has everything - that’s what he tells himself, repeats until he half believes it - but it’s been three days and he misses his hands. “I can cut your steak for you.” That solves about half the problem and Obie clearly realises it because he doesn’t meet Tony’s narrow eyed stare, though other than that he hardly reacts, like this isn’t a big deal, and perhaps to him it isn’t, he probably remembers Tony at the age when he was spoon fed, he may even have done it once or twice, but the idea of being fed here, in a restaurant where anyone can see...it’s more than Tony can bare.
He makes a jerky movement, intending to push his wine away, but his arm is bulky and unwieldy in the cast and he ends up knocking the glass over. A burgundy stain spreads over the white table cloth. “I want to go home,” he says in a low voice, totally unlike his usual tone.
Obie doesn’t hear him. He waves the waiter forward to clear up Tony’s mess and gets out of his own seat. “It’s OK Tony,” he soothes, but his voice carries, people are turning to look now, “Accidents happen, don’t worry.” He comes to stand mostly behind Tony, but Tony doesn’t turn to look at him, he’s glaring at the table which is rapidly being stripped of the sopping cloth by professional hands. He’s sulking, he knows he is, but he thinks he’s justified right now. “The hospital gave me these for you, they’ll help you keep still and not break things or hurt yourself,” he pulls out two foam loops, obviously intended as quick slings.
Tony balks, “No!” he says, raising his own voice in a sharp refusal. He can’t put those on, he can’t. With both arms corseted in them it’ll be like being trapped in a straitjacket. He can’t imagine anything worse. “No Obie!” He wants the second refusal to be an unequivocal statement, a command to back the other man down. It sounds like the petulant whine of a child refusing to take his medicine.
“Now Tony,” Obie says, sternly, “they’ll help.”
His tone makes Tony feel even more like a child, about to be chided for disobedience, for making a scene in public. He lowers his voice and his eyes, staring at his knees as he hisses in a whisper that’s too close to tears, “Obie please no. It’ll feel like I’m tied up.”
Obie does not look impressed with his argument. “I believe those pictures published last week proved you enjoyed that?” he says archly.
“Well I think we’ve established you aren’t going to do it the way I like it,” Tony snips back. He wants to get up and walk out, were Obie anyone else he would, but no one has been this kind to him, ever, and he knows Obie means well, even if every instinct is screaming at him to flee.
Something crosses across Obie’s face, and then he says in a gentle voice, “Tony I know this is difficult, but I just want you to get well. And I’m sure you’d prefer not to break every object you go to pick up over the next weeks. Please let me put the slings on. They’ll help.”
And the worst of it is, he’s right. Tony can’t answer. He stares at his knees in silence for another moment then gives a short jerky nod and allows Obie to slip the two loops first over his neck then place his arms in them, immobilising them against his abdomen.
It isn’t long before their plates of steak arrive. Obie has moved his chair over closer to Tony’s and is carrying on a one sided conversation, apparently unbothered that Tony’s additions to the conversation are mostly grunts and jerky nods. He hasn’t been this uncommunicative since he was a teenager. Obie cuts everything on Tony’s plate into bite sized pieces and feeds them to Tony. Neither of them is great at the unfamiliar action.
Obie keeps holding the fork too far away, forcing Tony to chases the item of food with his lips and teeth, straining after it like a puppy with a treat held just above its nose, or too close, wiping streaks of sauce and grease on Tony’s cheeks and chin. He’s sure he must be so flushed with humiliation that the steak would sizzle anew if pushed against his cheek, but Obie doesn’t comment. After eating less than half Tony slows down. He can’t claim to be full already, Obie knows him too well and will never accept it and Tony’s face is now steak stained so he really doesn’t want to have another attention drawing argument, but he encourages Obie to turn to his own meal and contents himself with aiming a scowl that could melt titanium at him.
He’s so tense he’s vibrating in his seat, ears and cheeks flaming at every glance from the other patrons of the restaurant, sure every giggle and whispered comment is aimed at him. Tony hasn’t been this self-conscious in years, if ever, but right now he feels exposed and vulnerable. Every bite Obie does offer him is torture, he can feel a scream bubbling in his throat, pushing against the teeth he’s clenching so tightly together he can hear them squeaking and grinding, at Obie’s obliviousness. Every fibre of his being, his attention, is focussed on Obie’s plate, watching each mouthful disappear.
When Obie is finished he can come up with some excuse to leave, he keeps reminding himself. He doesn’t see the slight wink Obie tips at the door, but looks up at it in horrified consternation as half a dozen reporters push their way in. He tries to raise an arm to wipe his face, but it’s jerked back down by the sling that he can’t remove because his other arm is in the exact same constraints. A waiter tries to head them off at the door and Tony turns a frantic glare on Obie...who fails to see it because he’s now waving at the waiter, “Let them through. Mr Stark isn’t well enough for a press conference, but he can give a statement, some idea of when he’ll be back to work.” He’s smiling like Santa Claus, like he’s doing Tony a huge favour by not making him do a press conference. Tony manages a tense smile and wishes he hadn’t complained about Press Conferences so vehemently. He’s always been told his mouth will get him into trouble and now it has.
The reporter gives an ingratiating smirk of his own and takes the empty seat Obie gestures him into. “How’re you feeling Mr. Stark?” the reporter asks with such obviously faux concern Tony wonders how he gets anyone to talk to him.
Tony is about to explain to him what a stupid question that is, and what he thinks of the man himself. Obie, very probably, knows this and attempts to forestall the obvious PR catastrophe by offering Tony another forkful of his meal. “I’m fine,” he says tightly.
“It’s your favourite Tony,” Obie says, in a deceptively light voice that Tony knows means keep your temper/now is not the time for one of your displays/don’t embarrass me in public and put me on CNN when I’m supposed to be somewhere else and am instead here with you.
There’s a little voice in Tony’s head, telling him Obie is trying to help, that little voice knows he should take the bite of potato from the offered fork, but it’s drowned out by the dull roar of fury and humiliation swiftly engulfing him. He stands up so quickly his chair falls backwards, drawing every eye in the place and wobbles slightly, off balance with the weird position of his arms. He doesn’t fall, a fact for which he’s grateful, and he’s about to turn on his heel and leave when the reporter smirks more widely, amused by the rare display of embarrassment from Tony Stark of all people. Tony loses it. He’s not sure what he’s shouting, just that it’s a lengthy diatribe on the reporter’s ancestry and personal habits, twice Obie tries to interrupt him and Tony hears his own voice shriek, “I hate you! How could you embarrass me like this?”
Finally, he does what he’s wanted to do virtually since he arrived and turns and leaves the restaurant, an audience of bewildered patrons, waiters and reporters staring at him as he does. Obie doesn’t follow.
Continue on to Part 2
Author: ncc1701a
Recipient: sadness1986
Rating: Soft R, nothing graphic but dark, possibly squicky themes, non-permanent, main character injury
Universe: Avengers, Marvel Movie Universe
Pairing: Obadiah Stane & Tony Stark gen
Word Count: 15,300
Disclaimer: The Avengers aren’t mine, probably for the best considering how I treat them.
Summary: Written for my Avengers fest challenge/prompt/assignment/thingy; angst, reads like hurt/comfort but the comfort part is the hurt, dark, pre Iron Man, Obadiah Stane works his way into Tony’s life.
Warning/Spoilers: Pre-Iron Man fic written by someone who knows nothing about the comic universe so possible canon destruction, mindfuckery (Obadiah Stane/Tony Stark - not sexual content), non-sexual desperation watersports, Stockholm syndrome, past emotionally abusive Howard (not physical or sexual or even intentional), profanity.
Notes: About the ending, this fic itself does not really end on a high note. However, it does fit in with the Marvel Movie Universe Canon, so Obadiah does get what he deserves...just several years after these events.
Prologue: Obadiah POV
Tony had always been unmanageable and unruly, even as a toddler. Privately, Obadiah blames Howard, for not disciplining the boy hard enough when it is obvious even to the most casual of outsiders that most, if not all, of Tony’s antics, stem from a desire for Howard’s attention if not approval. He doesn’t voice his opinions. Howard might be a terrible father, worse even than Obadiah’s own, but in his own way he adores the boy and will hear nothing against him. Just because he chooses not to give the boy praise does not mean he is willing to listen to criticism of him.
Still, Obadiah doesn’t have to live with the little brat, doesn’t have to put up with him for anything more than a couple of hours at any given time and it is no true hardship to him to play the benevolent uncle that he is unlikely to have another chance to indulge in. Sometimes spending time with the boy is even fun, even if Anthony Stark is virtually the sole reason Obadiah has no plans of having children of his own.
When the boy is not showing off, or having needless tantrums, he is all the best parts of his parents. He has Howard’s confidence and charm and charisma without his penchant for name dropping and snide commentary that ranges from patronising to outright cruelty, hurtful however well intended it might be, and he has his mother’s sweetness, there is a gentleness to him a desire to love and be loved that makes the most vicious parts of Obadiah ache to rip into him, to savage him, to show him how worthless such a weakness is.
He does not. He has no doubt Howard would kill him without remorse for even indulging in the thought, and this position, co-founder of Stark’s dream business, is too lucrative a position to waste on tormenting a child, even this most fascinating, contradictory child, however delightful such an action might be. Instead he worms his way into their minds and hearts, making himself invaluable, and better still, trusted, in business and out of it.
By the time Tony is ten, it is obvious that SI is never going to be truly Obadiah’s, no matter how many years of loyal service he gives. It is easy to say that Tony has inherited his father’s brains, his father’s genius for creating, but it is, ultimately, incorrect. Tony is something entirely new. He outstrips Howard’s abilities in every conceivable way, and Howard, for all his devotion to machines found only in the wildest of science fiction cannot visualise the future, and what that future will require, with the perfect clarity that his son can. And Obadiah...well, he’s not a creator, not an inventor. He’s a business man. He needs a Stark.
Howard is too set in his ways, too arrogant and stubborn and uncompromising, too aware of his own genius. The best Obadiah can do is remove him from the equation, remind him of the debt America owes Captain Rogers, remind Howard that Rogers counted him a personal friend - a thing few men can claim, remark that he is the only one with the money, the resources and the will to find him. It plants the idea, but it would probably not be enough. Then, Obadiah tries (loudly, repeatedly, ostentatiously, with none of the subtlety of his original suggestion) to convince him not to do so, not to pump millions of dollars into a pointless endeavour, not to neglect his own flesh and blood son for the ghost of a man long dead. If there is one certain way to ensure Howard Stark will do something it is to tell him he should not.
Once Howard is gone, it is easy for Obadiah to assume the mantle of Howard’s best and most trusted friend and inherit Tony. Slowly, he gains the boy’s trust, expertly exploiting cracks that his father’s new absence on top of his ever present emotional distance has wrought in their relationships. It is with soft, soothing words that he massages every one of Tony’s insecurities, making him aware of his failings, making him believe what others say of him, telling him that it is not his fault he cannot live up to the ideal of Rogers, after all, what man could. It is not an easy task, Tony is naturally confident and self-assured and bolstered by teenaged arrogance that he is right. But Obadiah he has known all his life, and these are not words spoken in anger, and eventually it works.
For a few years, a very few years, it is perfect. Howard is absent, and Maria has her own commitments and Tony has been taught to be dependent on Obadiah who is there for him despite the flaws he is now brutally and cripplingly, aware of. The only one who is there for him despite those flaws. But Tony is a genius and he is young, too young, when he goes to MIT.
It is Obadiah who pushes him to live alone, telling him he wants as much of the college experience as he can get despite his age. It is the first miscalculation. Instead of isolating him further, that he lives alone gives Tony space away from Obadiah’s poisonous words to grow in confidence. His father’s arrogance has just been waiting for a chance to bloom, and in this environment, (not bullied and shunned as by rights any teenaged genius, years younger than his classmates should be, but instead adored and cosseted as only a too wealthy, too beautiful boy can be) he flourishes.
He still distrusts people, scarred by his early experiences, that much is evident when Obadiah visits during the photo shoot for the robot he is being lauded for having created and discovers it is no mere mechanical helper but has an obvious, and quirky, personality of its own. It is not enough however, and Obadiah realises he has lost his best chance at ruling SI with Tony as his puppet.
He goes home that night and drinks himself into a three day hangover and destroys his penthouse as his pent up fury finds the only outlet it can. Tony is not the helpless unsure child he once was and he will shortly be of age. The only thing that can be salvaged is that no one knows he has always been working to his own agenda; that no one knows just how fiercely and deeply he despises Howard and his son. He tries to content himself with the knowledge that at least his current position is secure, that no one knows what he has been doing, but his long nurtured hatred for the Stark family grows as his bitterness increases.
Howard dies in a crash that Obadiah did not orchestrate, but is nonetheless indirectly responsible for as it is he who created the emergency in Switzerland that forced Howard to be there in order to give him some privacy to divert funds from one of Howard’s project (that damned reactor that’ll never work) into a project of his own. Howard had driven drunk hundreds of times, thousands of times; Obadiah supposed that this time the winter ice must have worked against him.
He doesn’t shed a tear. It is all he can do to keep from laughing at the news, but he does a credible impression of shock as hangover and realisation that his plans may once again be an option, take their toll and make his knees so weak he has to grab the door frame to steady himself. It is he who breaks the news to Tony and as the shuddering young man clings to him in a way he hasn’t since he was very small he realises that he is still trusted enough to make what he had spent all these years working for happen.
He spends the year he is in charge of SI during Tony’s minority ensuring that the Board knows about every single one of Tony’s indiscretions and, in turn, fosters Tony’s dislike of the stuffy committee members who sit on it. Tact is one of Maria’s traits which Tony failed to inherit, and Obadiah knows that his feelings for the Board will be made clear at each and every meeting and that none of them are men who will easily accept a wilful man-child with more than three times their intelligence as their superior.
That works flawlessly, but still Tony isn’t isolated or dependent on him like he once was. He still doesn’t need or seek Obadiah’s approval or his aid. He won’t acknowledge that he needs him, that without him he’d be completely useless despite all Obadiah does for the company, all the things he has done for Tony over the years. Worse, he won’t even turn all of his talents to what SI wishes to sell. He fulfils the obligations in SI’s long standing military contacts sure, but the bulk of Department of Defence money is promptly sunk into medical advancements and robotics and various machines of convenience and his mother’s many charities. It’s not that these things don’t work, or don’t sell, or aren’t laudable causes, but SI is a weapons manufacturer, that’s where the bulk of their money and investors lies, and always has done so. He isn’t interested in listening to Obadiah tell him this though, the older man’s opinion not worth as much as once it was.
For weeks Obadiah lies awake at night wondering how to force a mind as strong and intelligent as Tony Stark’s to regress to the age he needs it, to be pliant enough to be of some use to him without shattering it utterly and destroying the creative spark he needs. Obadiah is still important in Tony’s life, the only constant he has apart from the old family butler and Captain Rhodes’ boy who he’s known for years. In theory it should be easy to show Tony that, when he cannot rely on himself, it is Obadiah that he needs.
The other crucial aspect any plan needs to have, he thinks, is it needs to separate him from those damn robots of his which seem to give him all the companionship he needs and keep him from seeking approval elsewhere. At last it dawns on him that with so few people to depend on, and as arrogant and proud as he is, Tony doesn’t need to be regressed mentally, merely crippled physically, to reduce him to a dependant desperate child. With that realisation everything falls into place.
It can’t be permanent Obadiah acknowledges, because he knows of no one else who can emulate Tony’s genius in creating, but it needs to be severe enough to render him physically helpless whilst mentally totally aware of what has happened to him and, ideally, it needs to be something the robots can be blamed for. In the privacy of his own home, away from prying eyes and with his plan finally taking form Obadiah allows himself a smile. He mustn’t break the boy, or let him realise what he is doing or everything will be lost, but with a helpless Tony Stark about to be in his power he can’t help but think that perhaps those darker desires, repressed so long, can be indulged after all.
CHAPTER 1: Tony POV
Tony shifts restlessly as he starts to wake up. This isn’t his bed, but, ultimately, he is rather intimately acquainted with waking up in unfamiliar places and that doesn’t worry him unduly any longer. He doesn’t open his eyes though, preferring to have some idea of what he would see before he does so.
The sheets are scratchier than he is used to, and over starched, the air smells strongly of disinfectant and there is an insistent and rhythmic beeping noise. Shit. Not a drunken one night stand then. Accident? He turns his senses inwards, cataloguing his body. His head hurts a little and his mouth is dry. His arms feel heavy and achy but nothing worse. He levers his lids open.
White is his first impression and he slams his eyes shut against it before opening them more slowly and taking in the room with its impossibly boring white ceiling and walls. There is a sound next to him and it takes a surprising amount of effort to turn his head to find Obie sitting next to the bed and staring at him with undisguised relief. There is something so raw in the other man’s eyes that Tony wants to turn his face away but can’t, he’s too weak. He settles for casting his eyes down at himself instead and seeing for the first time that his hands and forearms are encased in thick plaster casts (white like everything else), the fingers wrapped and taped individually so that he has almost no movement below the elbow. Shock and fear roll over him in a wave, effectively wiping away the needlessly sappy things he had been thinking about Obie’s presence at his bedside. “What happened?” he demands, voice high and cracking with a terror that might have shamed him if it had been anything other than his hands which looked so damaged.
There is a sudden pressure on his shoulder and he flinches unthinkingly, struggling to sit up, but it is just Obie’s steadying hand. “It’s fine,” the other man says, voice calm and soothing, but an order all the same. Despite himself, Tony settles and Obie flashes him a tired smile before fiddling with the controls to set the bed to allow Tony into a sitting position without using any of his own muscles. His control over the bed is less than perfect, and Tony itches to take the small device from him and do it himself, but with his hands bundled like they are, he would have even less control, so he grits his teeth and allows Obie to do it in jerks and starts.
“My hands-” he starts, and god! Is he crying? He tries, with little success, to clamp down on the tears that Howard would never have tolerated.
The warm soothing weight of Obie’s hand is back on his shoulder, rubbing soothingly circles, and Obie does him the courtesy of pretending not to see his tears as he interrupts his panic to hastily explain, “You had an accident in the workshop Tony, with the prototype launcher. I can explain your injuries to you, or you can wait for the doctor, but the important thing is that you’re expected to regain full mobility.”
Tony releases a breath he hadn’t even realised he was holding. “What happened?” he asks again, but he is calmer now, his voice his usual tone instead of the frantic childish terror of earlier.
“The launcher collapsed off of its blocks when that robot of yours rolled into it. You were under it doing some last minute adjustments and you must have seen it falling just in time, you caught the weight on your arms. You’re lucky you did too. It broke both your wrists, a couple of bones in your hands and seven fingers; it would have crushed your skull. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, a spark from the metal scraping along the floor set your sleeve on fire.” Obie has to turn away, voice distorted with emotion as he adds, “I’m just so grateful I was there...I dread to think...but the doctors say you should be fine. The bones need to set and the burns need to heal but there’s no nerve damage, nothing time won’t fix.” He looks up again and fixes a glare on Tony’s stunned face, “And for once, you are going to obey the doctors young man. You will not move your arms or hands at all. If those bones shift while healing they might cause more problems.”
Tony can only nod, wide eyed, stunned by the catalogue of injuries and somewhat hopelessly moved by the badly masked fear and sheen of tears in Obie’s eyes. He’s seen this before but never directed at him, this strict I’m only doing this because I care for you attitude is new, probably because Obie’s never seen him with anything worse than a hangover or cold or the occasional minor burn or tiny cut from his work since the car accident, and before then, Obie probably thought he’d already received these lectures at home and could afford to be the indulgent uncle. Honestly, Tony wants nothing more than lay his head on Obie’s shoulder and just cry because he’s so grateful that Obie cares, but he’s twenty five, and supposedly, in name at least, Obie’s boss so he doesn’t. “Yeah,” he agrees hoarsely instead, eyes tracking Obie as the older man moved to get the cup of water from the nightstand for him. “Yeah, I will, or won’t, you know what I mean. I promise. I’m sorry.”
Obie favours him with a small smile He knows how rarely Tony Stark apologised for anything but he means this. After all, Obie had been insisting he restrict DUM-E and Butterfinger’s workshop access for months, convinced they were hazards, that their sensors weren’t developed enough. Tony had brushed him off, he loves his robots even if the dark little voice at the back of his mind insists on reminding him that he’s so pathetic he has to build friends for himself, and he hates being ordered around. Howard was always doing that, always issuing orders in a tone that never failed to remind Tony that his dad had been in the war, even if he’d never actually been formal military.
It might well be an SI building, but he owned SI and this lab is supposed to be his, he’d told Obie, he’d run it the way he saw fit and he didn’t want a human lab assistant in his way, trying to make small talk, unable to follow his random jumps of thought. Obie hadn’t pushed him. Even now, he hasn’t uttered a single word about how he’d warned Tony this was coming months ago. Instead, he perches on the edge of the bed and holds the glass in front of Tony’s mouth.
He’s not, quite, near enough and Tony has to chase the straw with his lips and tongue, an action which brings a blush to his cheeks, but he doesn’t ask Obie to move it closer. The man already looks horribly uncomfortable and though Obie’s always been there for him, a permanent presence in the way of mountains in the landscape of Tony’s life, he’s never really been a parental figure despite Tony’s desperate need of one, mostly because even if his gruff but obvious affection is preferable to Howard’s ambivalent disdain, he’d be useless in the role of father. Obie has always been kind to Tony, but he’s not a natural caregiver.
He pulls the glass away before Tony is quite finished. Tony keeps the protesting noise behind his teeth. Obie’s being so kind, too kind, and it’s selfish at best, pathetic at worst, because he lived on his own at MIT years ago, but he doesn’t want him to realise just how clingy and demanding Tony is and leave.
Obadiah Interlude #1
The hardest part, telling Tony what had happened, is over. There had always been risk with that, risk that he would remember something different, risk that Obadiah would give himself away with some small act or expression but no, it had been easy. Almost too easy, it had been all he could do to suppress his delighted laughter, but Obadiah does not believe that Tony knows more than he had acknowledged. The boy doesn’t have the patience or discipline to have held his tongue if he did.
All Obadiah has to do now is wait out the healing process and be the one there who Tony needs, make him grateful for his help and friendship, make him desperate for it, show him that his helplessness can only be mitigated at Obadiah’s discretion. The darkness, the desire to do harm to Tony, is back in his chest, roaring louder than ever and there is a part of him, a large part, that wants to put Howard’s boy on his knees and see him plead for mercy, see him acknowledge Obadiah as the powerful force Howard always refused to see him as. That part of him has to be quelled because it is impractical and will serve no purpose beyond Obadiah’s instant gratification. It will be much sweeter to see the boy become Obadiah’s puppet, thoughtlessly giving his company in all but name to a man his father had liked well enough but had never respected.
Much as he might want to see Tony’s arrogant face twisted with pain and stopping his agonised screaming only long enough to beg for mercy, it can’t be done, (at least not yet, perhaps when he has had from Tony all the innovation the boy can give) but that doesn’t mean he can’t indulge his darker side just a little. It was after all sweet to see him bite down against the instinctive sarcasm, a gift from his father he could have done without, when Obadiah was raising the bed in jerks and starts in an attempt to jar his arms painfully enough to gain him a reaction. And it darkens his eyes and makes something too dark to be lust pool in his stomach to remember Tony forced to show himself desperate for the water Obadiah had held for him if he wanted a drink. That Obadiah fully intends to repeat.
It’s mixing business with pleasure because to render someone helpless and dependent is one of the best ways to create the emotions he needs Tony to feel if he is gain anything permanent from this little exercise, but who could resist the angry fire banked down to mere irritation by humiliation and forced gratitude in Tony’s too expressive eyes? But he wants it, more than that, he needs it. Perhaps he’ll take Tony for a meal when he’s feeling better.
CHAPTER 2: Tony POV
Tony’s shit at keeping his promises, like really, really shit. If you took a nationwide poll in being bad at keeping promises he would probably come top. His best friend has known him for years, Howard had known his grandfather in the war and Rhodey and he had practically grown up together. He was the closest Tony had to a sibling or a cousin, and he’s always saying he only keeps talking to Tony in the hope of Tony one day honouring his various promises to stop getting him impossibly drunk at the most inappropriate times or calling him in the middle of the night when he is bored or to follow his agreement to build Rhodey something which would make him the most awesome guy in his barracks. Tony’s reasonably sure he is joking, but he doesn’t want to push it. Rhodey’s the only person that has been his friend this long, and they’re not family after all, he doesn’t have to, and yet he does, even though Tony really hasn’t done any of the things he’s promised over the years. So yeah, keeping promises, not his strong suit, but his promise to Obie to do as the doctors have said and not move his arms about too much, he tries his best to stick to it.
For the first couple of days it’s easy. He’s stuck in the hospital, and without his hands he can’t do anything: can’t sketch out schematics for his latest robots or algorithms for the next generation AI he’s got plans for, can’t read, can’t even change the channel on the television above his bed playing shitty talk shows and re-runs of old sitcoms. He is Tony Stark however, he’s ridiculously hot and stupidly wealthy and, with minimal difficulty, he manages to convince one of the nurses to come in and sit with him and talk to him and just keep him company until it’s visiting hours and Obie or Rhodey can drop by. He can’t do any real design work, and it wouldn’t do him any good anyway since he can’t move his fingers, but he has plans to create a computer that’s mobile, that he could hold on his knees and work on anywhere.
Eventually though they decide he doesn’t need to be under observation anymore and discharge him. Tony, naturally, is delighted. He’s pretty sure if he had to stay in that room another day he would actually go crazy, or, as Rhodey would say, crazier. Then it comes to changing out of the hospital gown he’s dressed in and getting into the clothes Obie had brought him the night before in preparation. Obie knows him better than he would have given the man credit. He’s brought him jeans, a tattered but clean Led Zeppelin shirt, his favourite wine coloured button up and the clean, paparazzi safe version of his grease stained sneakers.
They are as close to his comfort clothes as he has the option of wearing, knowing that the outside of the hospital is likely mobbed with reporters poised with questions about his accident and recovery and plans for unveiling the launcher. Tony wants to cry when he realises he can’t get into any of them. He really doesn’t want to call the nurse back; not that he’s adverse to a pretty nurse seeing him dishabille, but he doesn’t want her dressing him like an infant. He gnaws his lip and curses his helplessness. After a long moment he picks up the t-shirt, holding it awkwardly between his plaster casted wrists. With some wriggling he manages to get it on. It takes an embarrassingly long time, but it’s better than nothing. He’s just contemplating the jeans and wondering how best to go about getting them on when there’s a light rap on the wall on the far side of the curtain.
“Tony?” says Obie’s voice, “Tony, are you ready? I don’t have long, I have a meeting but I thought you might want to see a familiar face before dealing with the piranhas outside.”
Tony lets out an undignified squeak of surprise and promptly loses his grip on the jeans he’d been trying to roll the way he’d seen girls do with stockings in order to get his leg completely in without having to tug the material too much. It falls in a puddle on the floor and he scowls at it. “Ok, thanks. Be right there.”
It takes time to scoop the jeans up off the floor, none of his fingers really move due to the tape and bandages and flares of pain each motion causes and it’s hard to get a grip. This time though the rolling goes quicker because he now knows what he’s trying to do. He can tell from the sounds of Obie drumming on the wall that he’s getting impatient and he struggles to move faster. Obie’s always been a workaholic, just like Howard was, doubtless he has meetings and stockholders to get back to and he’s still here, making time for Tony in a way his family never had. “Tony,” there’s a bite of impatience in the voice now. “Tony are you nearly done? I’m going to be late.”
Tony almost loses his balance as he gets both feet into the rolled legs of his jeans but saves himself. “I’m fine,” he says, trying for casual, “Just go. Leave me the car, or send another one. I can manage a few reporters Obie. I’m fine.”
“Don’t be difficult Tony. Just hurry up.”
He gets the jeans pulled up to his waist before realising which jeans they are. They’re the ones he bought in Florida on vacation with Rhodey last year. Tony had been under the impression that the slightly too big fit would hang low on his slender hipbones and bring girls flooding in. The girls had still flooded in, Tony didn’t need help from a pair of second rate jeans, but the jeans had been far too loose. They’d been in danger of falling off all the damn time. They needed a belt. His eyes drop back to the stack of clothing on visitors chair and sure enough there is one, brown and coiled on top of his socks and sneakers. Just like that, the fight goes out of him, he’s covered and that’s apparently the best he can hope for. Without his fingers there’s no way he can manage the rest, socks, buttons, belt, laces are beyond him in his current state. He stares fixedly at the far wall and swallows his pride. At least it’s Obie and not the hot nurse. “Hey Obie?”
“What is it Tony?”
“Can you...I need a hand in here for a sec.”
Obie’s face peers around the curtain. He’s scowling, and Tony almost can’t resist the automatic flinch back. He swallows the blush and the uncharacteristic apology but his eyes drop of their own accord so he misses the brief look that passes over Obie’s face. He’s nonetheless soothed by the softened voice as he says, “Oh I’m sorry Tony, I didn’t think. Let me...” he steps forward, and his hands are just as hesitant and awkward as Tony feels as they button him into his jeans and put on his belt. “Sit on the bed. I’ll sort out your shoes and socks.”
It’s strange to have Obie crouched in front of him, dressing him, but not entirely unpleasant. He feels cared for in a way he hasn’t since he was very small. Obie glances up at him with a sardonic expression. “I haven’t done this since you were tiny. If I remember...your feet used to be ticklish.”
“No, don’t-” Tony gasps and lets out an embarrassing giggle (really, it’s a giggle, not a chuckle or a laugh, a giggle, the sort a prepubescent girl might let out).
Obie smiles himself and finishes putting on his right shoe. “What do you say I blow off my meeting and we go for lunch to celebrate you getting out of here?”
“It’s hospital Obie, not prison,” Tony quips back, slightly disconcerted. No one has ever implied that he was worth ditching work for and he really just wants to go home. A flash of offended hurt crosses Obie’s face and Tony finds himself shifting guiltily on the bed and hastily adding, “But hey, who am I to turn down a date with a handsome older man.”
If anything that just makes Obie tense further. He draws back abruptly, leaving Tony with one shoe on and undone and the other foot only half covered. “That’s not appropriate Tony.”
The open pit of guilt in his stomach yawns wider. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...” his voice trails off and he looks at Obie, hopeful that the man will infer his meaning and sincerity. Obie does not move, still tense and hurt and offended and much as Tony might like to mask his discomfort with flippancy and leave and hide out with his robots until this whole situation is forgotten and they can just act normally again, that really isn’t an option right now. He flexes his ruined fingers as much as he can. It isn’t a lot; it’s barely a flex, more a twitch, like the legs of a dead spider. “I’m sorry,” he says again, voice soft and low, “I didn’t mean it Obie. I was kidding. I’d love to go for lunch with you.” Obie nods and relaxes fractionally but doesn’t move, “Will you finish helping me with my shoes? Please?” he says after another a second, a request he despises having to make as it only underscores his helplessness, but the only way he knows how to show Obie that that isn’t how he thinks of him, that he trusts him.
Still silent, Obie leans forward once again and jerks the rest of the sock up his mostly uncovered foot. He’s gentle, despite the rough skin of his hands and the quick jerky movement, but the warmth has gone from the action now, the previous care leeched out. It’s nothing more than an impersonal touch, Obie making an obvious concerted effort not to touch Tony’s bare skin. “Come on Obie,” Tony whines, a wheedling tone he hasn’t adopted since...probably the last time someone needed to put his socks on for him, “don’t. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. Please just...” touch me, love me. The words burn on his tongue, but he doesn’t know how to say them without worsening this already horrible situation so he engages the brain to mouth filter Rhodey has told him hundreds of times that he doesn’t have and bites them back.
Obie pauses in the tying of his shoe lace. His cheeks have a very faint tinge of pink, the only sign of his discomfort as he says in an uncharacteristically hesitant voice, “You know I would never...could never...you’re the closest I’m ever likely to have to a son Tony and with Howard gone you’re...It’s my responsibility to look after you.”
There are many things Tony might have usually said to that. That he doesn’t need looking after, he’s an adult now, that Howard hadn’t exactly felt that responsibility keenly and it’s unreasonable to expect Obie to inherit a responsibility which he is the only one believes exists, that he knows he’s not Obie’s son and never will be and doesn’t expect anything from him. Instead, he blinks away the sudden wetness in his eyes, wondering furiously which of the drugs he’s on have that side effect because he’s certainly not crying, he’s just not. “Thank you,” he says, his own face heating at the humiliating crack in his voice the struggle to keep the wetness in his eyes from overflowing into real tears causes, “You don’t have to feel...And I know you wouldn’t...”
Obie finishes with his laces, applying himself to the task and sparing Tony from being stared at while he falls apart. When he’s finished at last he stands, wincing slightly as his knee cracks, and reaches out to pat Tony on the shoulder. “Alright Tony, I know. I shouldn’t have over-reacted, I just didn’t want you to think-”
“I don’t, I don’t, I promise,” Tony interrupts, voice slightly frantic, and no matter how he tries he can’t help the tear that tumbles over his lid to roll down his cheek.
Unthinkingly he lifts an arm to wipe it away with his sleeve, “Hey, hey,” says Obie gently, pushing the arm back down, “No moving your arms about too much remember. You need to rest them.” He regards Tony for a second, and Tony can’t keep his face from flaming under the scrutiny of his obvious and exposed weakness. Then he lifts his own hand and carefully wipes the tear off Tony’s face with his thumb. “So where do you want to eat?” he asks, and Tony adores him for not asking or making a big deal about it. Maybe he’s pretending it’s a side effect of the painkillers just as hard as Tony is.
That thought doesn’t stop him from sagging slightly against Obie’s solid warmth when the older man pulls him up. “Whatever you want,” he answers, more docile than he’s been in years.
Obie fixes him with the wide boyish smile he usually reserves for the best business deals, “Well this is a celebration. I’ll call Wolfgang’s get us a reservation.”
Tony nods, and let’s Obie steer him from the room and to the car.
Obadiah Interlude #2
It’s a fine line to tread. Obadiah has been working his way into the hearts and minds of the Stark family for decades, but it is easy to get someone to trust you when all you must do is play to your strengths. Obadiah has been a juggernaut in the boardroom since he was an intern. It is easy to be indispensible when they rely on you for you organisational input, but know you need them to make the magic happen. Geniuses are always content to rely on someone they don’t believe to be a threat. This...this is significantly more difficult.
If he gives Tony a reason to believe he is doing this on purpose, Tony will amputate him from his life with surgical precision, as one would a gangrenous limb. He is accustomed to fending for himself, accustomed to believing that he must do so, he will remove anyone or anything he perceives as an enemy with no hesitation. If the Rhodes boy suspects he is doing it on purpose he will be lucky to escape in as good condition as Tony is now. He is fiercely and devotedly protective of Tony.
But this has been in the planning for a long time. Obadiah realises he must tread softly, start small. Rome after all, was not built in a day. As Tony forgets to rely on himself, as he becomes more dependent on him, he will be able to make his actions more overt. Until then however...
It does not take him long to identify the clothes as Tony’s first major hurdle, especially once he realises the boy has taken a fancy to the young nurse who spends the most time entertaining him. He doesn’t know this slightly older Tony as well as he would like, but he knew Howard, and he sees much of his father in Tony’s dark eyes. Howard would not want a woman he desired to have to treat him like a child. He leaks Tony’s release date to the press himself, ensuring they will be waiting for him and cancels all his engagements for that afternoon. Then he brings Tony what he knows will appear at first glance to be comfort clothing, but makes sure it all has belts, buckles, zippers that Tony will be unable to do unaided. Then he waits.
It takes Tony longer than he had thought it would to break and ask for help and he is grudgingly impressed with just how much he has managed, hampered as he is. He dresses the man with the intimate and lavish care of a mother and it is not hard to be offended when Tony responds to his offer with a flirtation born he knows of habit not actual desire. He should be totally unsexualised to Tony. Even for him, even ruled as he is by his baser, darker desires to see Tony possessed utterly, to see him his, is not driven by mere lust. Lust is too paltry for what he feels, and Obadiah himself has always preferred women anyway. But from Tony’s perspective, and more importantly from the perspectives of outsiders, to sexualise the care and dependency he is about to subject Tony to is to make it well, creepy, in a way that will not go unnoticed for long.
The chastisement however is even more effective than he had anticipated. Obadiah is almost - almost - shocked at what Howard and Maria had done to the boy if this is how desperate he is not to offend someone giving him parental attention. He almost refuses the apology,, but it is too soon for that. Tony must believe in his generosity and benevolence first. He still has to take a moment just to admire the picture he makes, one of pitiful desolation, as a tear rolls slowly down his cheek before shaking himself and sympathising (obliquely, the Stark men have never appreciated pity). With Tony so uncertain and so very, pitifully, desperate for forgiveness it is easy to get him to agree to the restaurant Obadiah had arranged with a reporter that morning.
CHAPTER 3: Tony POV
Later, Tony will blame himself for being such a monumental fuck up that he insists on pushing away the only person who has ever cared for him, who has ever wanted to be around him when he’s not inventing anything useful or doing anything brilliant or offering something they want; who wants to be around him when he’s broken and useless. At the time, the rushing wave of humiliation drowns out the little voice pointing out that he’s being an unreasonable, ungrateful brat. His only defence is that he’d never wanted to go for lunch in the first place, but he’d been so flattered at the offer, and so afraid of hurting Obie, and so desperate to make up for his earlier insult, that he had agreed without realising what it would mean.
The restaurant is one of Tony’s favourites and within moments of arriving, the head waiter himself has a bottle of Tony’s favourite red on the table and a glass in front of each of them. It’s only then that Tony realises just how bad an idea this was. He can’t even lift the glass. Obie must be in a good mood though because, in the overly loud tones which Tony spent his childhood in trouble for using, and has delighted in using ever since he was too old to be punished for it, orders the waiter to bring him a straw. Tony flushes darkly. He doesn’t want to drink his wine through a straw. He tries to order a coke instead, that’ll look much more natural and won’t draw attention to him in the same way, but Obie is still talking, ordering two T-bones with sides of everything.
The waiter scurries off to do his bidding and Tony turns a petulant glare on Obie. “How do you think I can eat a T-bone steak with these?” he flops his useless arms in an ungainly way.
There is a brief pause while Obie obviously realises that Tony has a point. Then he waves a hand. Tony watches the movement with undeniable jealousy in his eyes. It’s a weird feeling, being jealous. Tony is very rarely jealous, he’s the man who has everything - that’s what he tells himself, repeats until he half believes it - but it’s been three days and he misses his hands. “I can cut your steak for you.” That solves about half the problem and Obie clearly realises it because he doesn’t meet Tony’s narrow eyed stare, though other than that he hardly reacts, like this isn’t a big deal, and perhaps to him it isn’t, he probably remembers Tony at the age when he was spoon fed, he may even have done it once or twice, but the idea of being fed here, in a restaurant where anyone can see...it’s more than Tony can bare.
He makes a jerky movement, intending to push his wine away, but his arm is bulky and unwieldy in the cast and he ends up knocking the glass over. A burgundy stain spreads over the white table cloth. “I want to go home,” he says in a low voice, totally unlike his usual tone.
Obie doesn’t hear him. He waves the waiter forward to clear up Tony’s mess and gets out of his own seat. “It’s OK Tony,” he soothes, but his voice carries, people are turning to look now, “Accidents happen, don’t worry.” He comes to stand mostly behind Tony, but Tony doesn’t turn to look at him, he’s glaring at the table which is rapidly being stripped of the sopping cloth by professional hands. He’s sulking, he knows he is, but he thinks he’s justified right now. “The hospital gave me these for you, they’ll help you keep still and not break things or hurt yourself,” he pulls out two foam loops, obviously intended as quick slings.
Tony balks, “No!” he says, raising his own voice in a sharp refusal. He can’t put those on, he can’t. With both arms corseted in them it’ll be like being trapped in a straitjacket. He can’t imagine anything worse. “No Obie!” He wants the second refusal to be an unequivocal statement, a command to back the other man down. It sounds like the petulant whine of a child refusing to take his medicine.
“Now Tony,” Obie says, sternly, “they’ll help.”
His tone makes Tony feel even more like a child, about to be chided for disobedience, for making a scene in public. He lowers his voice and his eyes, staring at his knees as he hisses in a whisper that’s too close to tears, “Obie please no. It’ll feel like I’m tied up.”
Obie does not look impressed with his argument. “I believe those pictures published last week proved you enjoyed that?” he says archly.
“Well I think we’ve established you aren’t going to do it the way I like it,” Tony snips back. He wants to get up and walk out, were Obie anyone else he would, but no one has been this kind to him, ever, and he knows Obie means well, even if every instinct is screaming at him to flee.
Something crosses across Obie’s face, and then he says in a gentle voice, “Tony I know this is difficult, but I just want you to get well. And I’m sure you’d prefer not to break every object you go to pick up over the next weeks. Please let me put the slings on. They’ll help.”
And the worst of it is, he’s right. Tony can’t answer. He stares at his knees in silence for another moment then gives a short jerky nod and allows Obie to slip the two loops first over his neck then place his arms in them, immobilising them against his abdomen.
It isn’t long before their plates of steak arrive. Obie has moved his chair over closer to Tony’s and is carrying on a one sided conversation, apparently unbothered that Tony’s additions to the conversation are mostly grunts and jerky nods. He hasn’t been this uncommunicative since he was a teenager. Obie cuts everything on Tony’s plate into bite sized pieces and feeds them to Tony. Neither of them is great at the unfamiliar action.
Obie keeps holding the fork too far away, forcing Tony to chases the item of food with his lips and teeth, straining after it like a puppy with a treat held just above its nose, or too close, wiping streaks of sauce and grease on Tony’s cheeks and chin. He’s sure he must be so flushed with humiliation that the steak would sizzle anew if pushed against his cheek, but Obie doesn’t comment. After eating less than half Tony slows down. He can’t claim to be full already, Obie knows him too well and will never accept it and Tony’s face is now steak stained so he really doesn’t want to have another attention drawing argument, but he encourages Obie to turn to his own meal and contents himself with aiming a scowl that could melt titanium at him.
He’s so tense he’s vibrating in his seat, ears and cheeks flaming at every glance from the other patrons of the restaurant, sure every giggle and whispered comment is aimed at him. Tony hasn’t been this self-conscious in years, if ever, but right now he feels exposed and vulnerable. Every bite Obie does offer him is torture, he can feel a scream bubbling in his throat, pushing against the teeth he’s clenching so tightly together he can hear them squeaking and grinding, at Obie’s obliviousness. Every fibre of his being, his attention, is focussed on Obie’s plate, watching each mouthful disappear.
When Obie is finished he can come up with some excuse to leave, he keeps reminding himself. He doesn’t see the slight wink Obie tips at the door, but looks up at it in horrified consternation as half a dozen reporters push their way in. He tries to raise an arm to wipe his face, but it’s jerked back down by the sling that he can’t remove because his other arm is in the exact same constraints. A waiter tries to head them off at the door and Tony turns a frantic glare on Obie...who fails to see it because he’s now waving at the waiter, “Let them through. Mr Stark isn’t well enough for a press conference, but he can give a statement, some idea of when he’ll be back to work.” He’s smiling like Santa Claus, like he’s doing Tony a huge favour by not making him do a press conference. Tony manages a tense smile and wishes he hadn’t complained about Press Conferences so vehemently. He’s always been told his mouth will get him into trouble and now it has.
The reporter gives an ingratiating smirk of his own and takes the empty seat Obie gestures him into. “How’re you feeling Mr. Stark?” the reporter asks with such obviously faux concern Tony wonders how he gets anyone to talk to him.
Tony is about to explain to him what a stupid question that is, and what he thinks of the man himself. Obie, very probably, knows this and attempts to forestall the obvious PR catastrophe by offering Tony another forkful of his meal. “I’m fine,” he says tightly.
“It’s your favourite Tony,” Obie says, in a deceptively light voice that Tony knows means keep your temper/now is not the time for one of your displays/don’t embarrass me in public and put me on CNN when I’m supposed to be somewhere else and am instead here with you.
There’s a little voice in Tony’s head, telling him Obie is trying to help, that little voice knows he should take the bite of potato from the offered fork, but it’s drowned out by the dull roar of fury and humiliation swiftly engulfing him. He stands up so quickly his chair falls backwards, drawing every eye in the place and wobbles slightly, off balance with the weird position of his arms. He doesn’t fall, a fact for which he’s grateful, and he’s about to turn on his heel and leave when the reporter smirks more widely, amused by the rare display of embarrassment from Tony Stark of all people. Tony loses it. He’s not sure what he’s shouting, just that it’s a lengthy diatribe on the reporter’s ancestry and personal habits, twice Obie tries to interrupt him and Tony hears his own voice shriek, “I hate you! How could you embarrass me like this?”
Finally, he does what he’s wanted to do virtually since he arrived and turns and leaves the restaurant, an audience of bewildered patrons, waiters and reporters staring at him as he does. Obie doesn’t follow.
Continue on to Part 2