Chapter Text
Tony Stark had visited the Stark Industries boardroom exactly three times in his life up until this point.
When he had turned 21 and was presented as the genius taking over the company for Obadiah Stane. Yes, Stane had to physically force him into the room, but he was there.
When he had turned 34 and delivered the first billion-dollar military contract for the company (he was mainly attending for the booze though).
When he had turned 40 and just handed over the keys to the company to his former assistant and ex-girlfriend Pepper Potts, making her officially the CEO of Stark Industries. To have her back because – for all his faults and misery – Tony Stark always had his ex-girlfriend’s back.
Now he was 45 and yet the same exact boardroom from his twenties carried the same exact smell of old books and cleaning supplies.
They really ought to hang a car air freshener in one of the corners or something. Maybe he could tell Pepper that later. When she was done looking furiously at him that was.
Well, not only her but everyone at the long wooden table who was gawking at him and the box of donuts he had brought with him.
About two minutes ago, Tony Stark had drifted into the boardroom for the fourth time in his life, once again without a care in the world and his wrinkly shirt half-buttoned, tie loose, a faint grease mark across his cuff. He paused barely long enough to take in the sea of scowls, then beamed as if he’d just joined a surprise birthday party.
“Yes, I know, I know. I’m late,” he said, “But-! I got donuts, so am I really late? Or are you all just too early because you’re trying to get away from your wives and husbands?”
Tony blinked at the empty seat of the only female board member, Meredith Lopez. The former aerospace engineer, now one of the sharpest strategic minds on the board, had long since developed an immunity to Tony’s… habits. One might even say she had grown fond of the boy she knew since he was in his diapers. It was a shame Lopez couldn’t be here today, especially since Tony’s bullshit radar was going off in spades as he looked at the present board members.
Half the board groaned at the sight of him, the other half simply pinched the bridges of their noses, already dreading the minutes this detour would cost them.
At the far end of the long conference table Pepper lowered her eyes to the notebook in front of her. “Tony, not now.”
But he simply ignored her and strode towards the usually empty chair next to her. When he sat down, he immediately pushed the box of donuts into the middle of the table. “Not now? I’ve been getting invitations to this thing ever since I opened my eyes as a newborn, I thought you all wanted me here today of all days. I heard rumours of something exciting being announced. So what is it?”
He leaned back into the seat with a lazy sprawl, waiting patiently.
“Tony.” Pepper’s voice cut sharply through the room. She still hadn’t raised her head to look at him. “I need you to get out.”
That one made him blink in confusion.
“You’re kicking out the man whose name is – in big letters, can’t miss it – literally on this building?”
“Yes.” She lifted her blue gaze and he could immediately tell how exhausted she truly was under the mask of corporate nonsense.
For a moment, his grin wavered. Then his own mask was back, all flippant surrender. “Fine. I see how it is. The donuts were from yesterday anyway.”
Tony leaned back from the table, muttering as his phone slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor. He bent to retrieve it and in the same motion pressed a tiny, copper-coloured disc beneath the wood. By the time he stood up and straightened, the bug was hidden, his phone dangled loosely between his fingers and no one suspected a thing.
He left the board room without another word, already slipping in one earplug to casually listen in on.
Almost immediately after he left, the murmurs in the room grew louder. Pepper barely had time to shift her notes before the men directed their anger at her again, though sharper now that he was gone.
“Miss Potts, this can’t continue.”
“His spending on Avengers Initiatives is untenable!”
“Our capital is being drained into pet projects with no return.”
“He is constantly on TV and in magazines risking our company’s reputation through his childish and reckless behaviour!”
“We haven’t had good press about him in forever! Every time he speaks into a microphone the value of our shares decrease! Last week he told a reporter to go fuck himself and we lost 2 Dollars a share!”
They leaned forward, with their perfectly ironed suits and faces pinched with the satisfaction of numbers turned into weapons. Across the polished wood, reports were pushed toward her with columns of figures circled in red and bold headings that screamed deficit and risk. Numbers and headlines Pepper already knew plenty about, because she was damn good at her job.
On the very top of the pile was a Daily Bugle Article:
PLAYBOY OVER PROTOCOL: WHY TONY STARK CAN’T BE TRUSTED TO GROW UP
By J. Jonah Jameson
A long, long time ago, Anthony Edward Stark promised the world Iron Man would be more than a drunk man in a flashy suit. Instead, we see the same old story… Tony Stark, the perpetual manchild, incapable of leaving the party behind and throwing money into the wind. So, until Stark proves otherwise, why should anyone believe he’s grown up at all? (…)
Pepper wanted to sigh at the sight, but instead she answered the board members one by one calmly, reminding them of their bylaws, their dividends, their lack of majority control. They had power, yes (rights, votes, first and foremost the ability to make her life hell) but not enough voting power to wrestle the company away from Tony.
Not that it stopped the anger flared at her.
“…Avengers housing… Weapons… Facilities off the books... This is putting the company at constant risk!” one of them yelled at her anyway.
“Billions of dollars that should be strengthening our positions are being funnelled into his… hobbies.”
“We hold the shares, Miss Potts. It’s a public company, so it’s not just his money and we will not see them devalued by Stark’s recklessness in media and business decisions alike.”
Fierce as always, Pepper held her ground. This wasn’t her first rodeo, though with every passing day and every passing dollar that Tony funnelled into the Avengers, her standing got audibly worse and worse.
Her straight posture didn’t change, but the knuckles curled around her pen, had whitened. “Research and development has always been a cornerstone of this company. You’ve all profited from that expansion for decades.”
One of them cut across her, dismissive. “But this isn’t research. This is Stark indulging his hero complex at our expense.”
“Miss Potts, with all due respect… No one questions your competence,” another board member interrupted, “But your CEO position exists at the discretion of this board. If Stark cannot be managed, I’m sorry to tell you, the fallout will land squarely on you instead.”
The words settled like a noose. They couldn’t oust her outright (not yet, not without tearing the company in half) but they could vote against any and every decision she made as CEO and therefore render her useless and the entire company in a stillstand. A stupid move, but one she was sure wasn’t beneath them if they were poked enough.
Despite the pressure she felt against her ribcage, Pepper didn’t flinch. Instead, she reminded them again of contracts, of margins, of the simple truth that they needed Stark’s brilliance as much as his name.
Fruitless, as no one wanted to even hear what she had to say anymore.
And in the midst of the chaos, none of them noticed the glint no larger than a coin stuck beneath the table.
The old chairman cleared his throat, already winding up to the words she’d been expecting. “Then perhaps it’s time we consider replacing-”
In that moment, the fire alarm shrieked overhead, cutting him off. A half-second later the sprinklers erupted, drenching silk ties and leather bags in the room alike. Even more chaos followed: curses, papers dissolving into pulp and chairs screeching back as the board frantically scrambled for the exits.
One of them paused just long enough to snap at Pepper through the spray, “We’ll reconvene at the next official meeting. Final decisions will be made then.”
And then they were all gone, fleeing in a huddle of expensive suits and ruined briefcases.
Pepper remained at the centre of the empty room, water dripping down her hair, with her shoulders no longer held quite so rigid.
She slid her phone out of her soaked blazer, fingers trembling from the cold water dripping down her arms. The way she had done a million times before, she scrolled to his number on speed dial, pressed call, and lifted it to her ear.
“Really?” she said the second the line clicked. “The fire alarm? I’m wearing Prada, Tony.”
His laugh was quick. “Bill me for the dry cleaning.”
She glanced down, reaching under the table to pry the copper disc loose with her thumb. The little device gleamed against her palm. “You honestly thought I wouldn’t notice?”
Tony had no answer to that – of course she would’ve noticed.
“They want to replace me, because they think you are a public liability,” she said finally, rubbing the bridge of her nose. She could already feel a massive headache form across the crown of her head.
“What can I do, Pep?” The humour had drained out of him completely. For once, he sounded small.
“Nothing.” Her voice was firm, though her chest ached now too. “And don’t you dare stop spending for the Avengers. I have seen what Cap’s old suit looked like. God knows they need every penny.”
“…I know.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the shriek of the alarm overhead. Pepper flipped her entirely drenched notebook closed. “I’ll think of something... anything. I got about a month to come up with an idea.” She sighed. “Talk to you later. And please, for the love of God – turn off the alarm, Tony.”
“See you later, Pepper.”
The line clicked off, and with it, the alarm immediately died.
***
The workshop in the Stark Tower was always supposed to be Tony’s sanctuary. Mainly for when things got crazy, which they weirdly always tended to get with him. But also, sometimes when he didn’t know what to do with himself. When the music at parties had long since ended and runway models were fast asleep in his bed. The bed that had long since stopped feeling comfortable to him, no matter how soft the covers and pillows were.
Surrounded by the usual bolts and drills and screwdrivers, there was very little he could actually break and if he did, he at least knew he could fix it again. It was supposed to be his place of peace.
Supposed to be.
Right now, it didn’t quite feel that way.
The workshop suddenly felt very small, making him stumble over boxes filled with bolts and nuts that had been scattered across the space since forever. The unfinished suits stacked in the shadows, including the half-wired frame of the Mark 46, were now practically glaring down at him.
Tony yanked the welding mask off and threw it onto the bench. It bounced once and skidded across the floor, scattering another handful of bolts along the concrete. He didn’t bother to pick them up.
“Sir, if I may say so… you’re working in circles,” Friday declared finally.
“I’d rather like to think of it as the golden ratio,” he shot back, grabbing a screwdriver to jab it at a circuit that wasn’t faulty.
“I’m not quite so sure. That last adjustment reversed the one you made ten minutes ago.”
Tony froze, looked down at the mess of wires, then laughed. “Hmm, what’s it called? Doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?”
“Are you talking about insanity, Sir?”
“No, pretty sure it’s called genius.”
Tony wasn’t quite sure how it was possible, but these days Friday seemed to sigh much like Jarvis used to. “You’re restless, Sir.”
“Restless? I just spent the morning watching Pepper get turned into target practice by a room full of accountants in thousand-dollar suits. And for what? For defending me? Forgive me if I’m not whistling while I weld.”
For a moment there was nothing but the hiss of the newest arc reactor prototype and the faint ticking of hot metal.
“Ms. Potts did not blame you for what happened. She fought them off fiercely for you,” Friday piped up again.
Tony grabbed a screwdriver only to gesture with it in the air. “Yeah, that’s kinda the problem. She always has to and she always does.”
“Maybe she believes you’ll fix it, like you always do.”
He let out a scoff. “Fix it? How?! What am I supposed to do, write an apology letter to Forbes? Start wearing loafers? I can’t stop the spending on the Avenger’s Initiative, everyone knows that. Well, anyone but those pin-striped cowards.”
“I do believe there are more sufficient ways show a change of heart.”
Tony paced while his hands wouldn’t stay still, pulling at more tools, tossing them back down, shoving holographic projections through the room. “They want me to be something I’m not. Something I don’t even know how to be, a perfect picture of polished and predictable.” He spat the last word like it was poison. “God, they want me to be Capsicle, don’t they? A perfect soldier.”
“…Sir, maybe you don’t need to be all of that.”
His head snapped up. “What are you thinking about?”
“I am merely stating…” Friday started carefully, “They don’t need a different man. They just need to believe the man they have is… less likely to set off sprinklers. Someone who makes grown-up choices they can relate to and respect. Someone tamed.”
“So you’re saying… what? That I should pretend to be boring like them?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Sure sounded like it.”
“I’m only suggesting that appearances matter. What people think they see and not what actually happens in your workshop at three in the morning.”
Tony stilled. He looked at a suspended armour in front of him, its ribs of steel and wiring waiting for the arc reactor to bring it to live. All it needed was a beating heart.
Slowly, a grin graced his grim features. Maybe this was just another armour he could built and put on. Just for show.
“Appearances,” he echoed. “Fine. I can do appearances. If that’s what it takes. If they want grown-up Stark, let’s see how badly they choke on it.”
He reached for the torch again and hissed it back to life in his grip, sparks spitting into the air.
Friday was a bit relieved to hear the old and familiar fire return to his voice. “What do you need me to do, Sir?”
In an instant, Tony threw the torch back onto one of the metal desks and walked over to the raised platform at the centre of the workshop. With a lazy flick of his wrist, half a dozen holo-screens bloomed into existence, casting shifting light across his face. Numbers, projections, press coverage, board minutes… now they were all hanging around him. A tangible problem he could solve.
He was a – no scratch that, he was the mechanic after all.
Tony cracked his knuckles. “Alright, hit me Friday. Start with finances and run the following projection: Stark Industries R&D expenditure over the last three fiscal years.” He waved through one of the hovering spreadsheets, dismissing entire columns with a snap of his fingers.
One by one he pulled new screens into the centre, building some sort of constellation only he could understand. Tony next pulled up media sentiment analysis from the company’s marketing department. Then shareholder graphs showing the falling dividends over the last couple of years. And last but not least, he saved a new folder to his private server marked PUBLIC IMAGE.
Tony leaned back to watch the concoction of data in front of him and narrowed his eyes.
“You know what the real problem is, Fri? I can save the world six times before breakfast and all they see is the guy who blows it all at dinner when they read the headlines about me being ‘supposedly’ unstable.” His hands moved quicker, pinching and dragging data into clusters.
“Sir, you are unstable,” Friday pointed out mildly.
“Semantics.” He stopped moving, staring at the interlaced holo-screens until his reflection fractured across their faint blue glow. Slowly, a smile hooked his mouth as his vague idea took shape in front of him. “One of them, huh?”
Public pictures of the board members flicked across his screen. Oddly, they all had one thing in common.
“Quick question: What do you think is the cleanest long-term way to make everyone believe I’ve finally grown up?” Tony asked while already having found the answer to it himself.
Friday hesitated. “You don’t mean-”
“Oh, I absolutely do. Forget new weapons, new reactors, new armour… The real innovation for me is…” He shuddered as if the thought alone disgusted him. “…marriage.”
Friday didn’t answer.
But Tony didn’t even notice as he pointed at the screens in front of him. “Picture it. They think I’m putting the toys away, settling down. The reckless billionaire turned responsible family man. Me turning into one of them. All the while we hide all the Avengers funding expertly behind stuff like venues, dresses, galas, glossy magazine spreads… Nobody blinks when you shovel obscene amounts into brand marketing campaigns or public relations. No – the shareholders will think I finally listened and thank me for strengthening Stark Industries’ image while I’m actually keeping Earth’s mightiest payroll intact.”
He flicked another tab into place and an expense sheet slid across the projection. “Hell, we could even employ the new Mrs. Stark at Stark Industries, give her some obscene salary and shovel that money into a new haircut for Thor.”
“I’m not sure if that’s the right…” Friday started softly, but wasn’t able to get another word in.
“It’s genius!” Tony exclaimed, “I wouldn’t even need to do anything. My fake wife could take care of all the public appearances and charity galas and shake hands with people while I work here in peace.”
“Sir, this might be the most reckless idea you’ve ever had.”
Tony’s eyes lingered on the future projections he’d mocked up, light cutting across the hard lines of his tired face. “Then it’s about time I try it.”
Friday seemed to sigh. “Alright. So this Mrs. Stark you’re talking about – any candidates in mind? Some high school sweetheart or might I contact Ms. Potts about-“
“Absolutely not,” Tony interjected. “It will work better if I don’t know her. I’m not planning to get to know her anyway. It doesn’t really matter.”
“Sir, I don’t think…”
“Friday, I need you to cross-reference potential candidates across New York. I want someone as boring as the shareholders, someone everyone can relate to. Someone risk-averse and as incredibly basic as possible. Someone who hasn’t done a single remarkable thing in her entire life. She should be bland with no potential corpses to find.”
“Noted. What about compatibility? I do have an extensive character profile of yours I could compare candidates with based on what I find on social profiles?”
“Not necessary, I don’t need her to be compatible with me,” Tony laughed, “It’s not like I’m gonna fall in love with her. It’s a job, Friday. Nothing more.”
“…So, just to be sure, Sir: You’d like me to compile a list of the most aggressively average women in the tri-state area?”
“Sounds perfect.”
“This will take approximately 12 minutes. I’ll prioritise candidates with minimal publicly accessible online presence.”
“Good,” Tony muttered as he split the screen in front of him in half: overlaying shareholder dividend charts with glossy magazine spreads of other CEOs and their Stepford spouses. He squinted, lips curling in mock appreciation. “See that? That guy could be laundering money through alpaca farms, but nobody cares because he’s got a wife who looks like she irons socks for fun.”
Meanwhile on the other holo-screen, portraits began to flicker one by one across the suspended screens. Headshots and pixelated passport scans lingered for only a few seconds before sliding away, replaced by another.
Friday piped up again. “I am setting the following parameters: Wide age range. Educated. No strong family ties and no children. Someone who would be open to this as a job, but without pressing debts or excessive financial incentive that might risk extortion. Someone who would agree to a wide-ranging NDA and is unlikely to abuse it ten years down the line. Ideally single, with no known attachments in the past three years that could come back to haunt you. Definitely no prior associations with Shield, the Avengers or Stark Industries.”
“Sounds good.” Tony leaned back in his chair, arms folded, eyes narrowing at each face that passed. Soon enough, they blurred together, with all their safe haircuts, polite smiles, nothing sharp enough to cut. Exactly what he’d asked for.
“Someone who would not resist an arranged proposal like this,” Friday continued calmly, “Someone without expectations. Maybe someone with no evident romantic ambitions.”
“That’s the trick, isn’t it?” Tony murmured, pulling his brows together as he looked down to his cold cup of coffee. “Find someone who never learned to expect anything. So they won’t be disappointed in me. No one gets hurt this way. And if they don’t believe in love, maybe we’d have at least one thing in common.”
Friday paused. For a fraction of a second, her projection stuttered, the neat cadence of names and data faltering. Without Tony knowing, she quietly adjusted her filters. Behind the calculations, her algorithms began shifting, layering subtler parameters he hadn’t outright asked for but were hidden between his grief-stricken words anyway. After all, Tony had programmed Friday to act in pursuit of greatness.
And when Tony’s gaze flickered away, distracted, Friday was already busy combing through hidden corners of the web. The kind of data only she had access to: half-written bullet points in notes’ apps, unsent messages, fragments of forgotten words buried deep in personal files.
“Sir, I’m afraid this might take a little bit longer than 12 minutes.”
“Take your time, Fri. Even just an hour to find the person I will marry would probably be a new world record. Just notify me once you have a viable shortlist.”
***
The next day Tony kept himself out of the workshop. Instead, he let his feet carry him in restless circles around the Tower, phone in his pocket, another mug of coffee cooling steadily in his hand.
To absolutely nobodies surprise, patience had never been Tony Stark’s strong suit. And running endless laps through carpeted corridors poised as a desperate distraction, an attempt to quiet the noise in his head and keep his thoughts from chewing holes through the walls.
Suffice to say, it didn’t work.
Friday had been unusually silent. He told himself he preferred it that way, but the truth pressed at the edges: silence meant the possibility that she wouldn’t find anyone, that there wasn’t a single woman in the whole damn city who could fit the coffin-shaped mould he’d drawn up. For all his bravado, the thought of coming up empty-handed gnawed at him.
Tony Stark knew he was a piece of work. But he didn’t need to be loved. He just wanted to do something right for once and fix the problems he so frequently caused.
Thankfully, during his fifteenth lap around the empty common room, Friday finally spoke up.
“Sir.”
He slowed, her single word cutting through the haze. “Go on.”
“I have compiled a shortlist of potential partners for you.”
The coffee was stone cold by now, his knuckles tight around the ceramic. He set it down on a nearby side table without looking, free hand already reaching for his phone. A breath escaped him, one eerily resembling relief, though he knew he was far from it yet.
“Send it.” His voice came out quieter than he intended, stripped of any theatrics.
The phone buzzed in his palm and five profiles blinked onto the screen. Names, faces, fragments of lives he didn’t yet know.
The first profile slid open.
1) Elise Porter, 29. Payroll administrator at a freight company in Long Island City. Her light brown hair was carefully pinned back in her work ID photo. Weekend hobbies included puzzles, supermarket bouquets and the New York Times Wordle. No press mentions, no known feuds, no scandal. She was pretty frequently posting about dark romance books on her Instagram account.
“Pass,” Tony muttered immediately. “She is a romantic. And I can’t keep up with those book boyfriends. She’d hate me.”
2) Naomi Bennett, 37. Branch manager at a regional bank in Murray Hill. A Bachelor from a state university with brand new certifications in compliance. No travel history. No ex-partners on record. No trace of life beyond a steady promotion every five years.
Tony exhaled through his nose. “I get why you picked her. One day she might be a shareholder herself. But she is so ambitious in the corporate world, she’d wouldn’t like to see me be polar opposite. She would get frustrated the way Pepp… Nevermind, pass.”
Friday didn’t respond, she moved on to display the next candidate.
3) Charlotte Pruitt, 45. Director of operations for a health charity. Long blonde hair with a red undertone and a neatly styled fringe. With tons of photographs from press releases and donor events. Media-trained posture and suits tailored perfectly. A scattering of magazine profiles praised her efficiency to get things done.
“…Next.”
4) Lauren Myers, 30. Clinical psychologist with black curly hair that reached her chin and a big smile. Worked at a Midtown practice. Graduate of NYU. No partner on record and no otherworldly hobbies. Once again, a clean life with no headlines and nothing remarkable to find.
“This could be something,” Tony said and tilted his head.
But only until Friday recited evenly: “Her notes suggest she usually works with trauma cases. Her colleagues describe her as patient, steady and non-judgmental. She is considered especially good with PTSD-”
“No.”
Tony’s thumb hovered over the screen before he swiped her picture away with a sharp flick. His voice was flat. “I don’t need someone who’s paid to fix people. Friday, these are all types I thought we eliminated in the brief?”
Then fifth and very last profile opened up on his phone.
And for a second Tony thought Friday had made a mistake and sent him the wrong file. But Friday never made mistakes, even if the picture he was looking at was quite different than the ones before.
It was you – though it wasn’t a perfectly polished headshot or professionally taken portrait, but a quick, shaky selfie of you laughing into the camera. So full of life.
The AI began, “Current employment: Conservator at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. No affiliations to the government, our company or-”
But then he scrolled down and right there, buried between lines of employment history and social contacts was a tiny, flagged note:
20120602 - Arrested for misdemeanour assault. Case dismissed with no conviction.
Tony lifted one brow. “Didn’t we say we needed someone completely clean?”
“She is.”
“Friday, it says assault right here.”
Friday’s voice stayed calm. “The incident occurred three years ago at a funeral home. She struck the officiant. No further witnesses, no injuries beyond minor bruising. She refused to comment.”
He looked up from the screen. “She hit a priest?”
“A funeral director,” Friday corrected gently.
Tony rubbed a hand over his mouth, torn between disbelief and something that might’ve been reluctant amusement. “That’s… uh, interesting.”
“There are no additional notes. The complainant declined to press charges. The case was closed within forty-eight hours.”
“Huh.” He let out a slow breath, the corner of his mouth tugging. “So, she’s got a temper.”
“…Occasionally.”
“Any theories on why she was throwing hands at a funeral home?”
“The dates match up with the death certificates of her parents.”
Tony’s shoulders sank, but he tried to mask it by nodding. “Ah… uh… perfect. No family ties then.”
“None, Sir.”
“I mean… she doesn’t look like she’d throw a mean punch,” he added quietly.
“Sir, if I may be so blunt, neither do you most of the days.”
Tony glared up at the ceiling.
Slowly he looked at the picture on top of your file again — the warmth of your laugh — and felt a flicker of… something. There was something about you Tony couldn't place and it bothered him to no end. And it had nothing to do with the bland, boring vision of a wife he had dreamed up before.
A curious contradiction laid out just for him. Maybe he didn’t need a flawless blood diamond for the vampires to fawn over, maybe an almost perfectly crafted moissanite could already fool the untrained eye and entirely suffice.
His thumb remained on the screen, zooming closer to into the image as if he wanted to see more of you. As if all of a sudden, he wanted to see everything. “Okay. That’s it then.”
“Sir?”
“It’s her.” Tony said with finality in his voice. “I choose her. How fast can you draw up the contract? I want to get this done today.”