House Calls

[clint_barton]

 

"I'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Stark is currently unavailable and unannounced house calls are highly discouraged. Please contact Ms. Potts to make an appointment."

Standing at the doorway of Stark's Malibu home, Clint gives the interface on the wall a mildly annoyed glance. The well-mannered rejection isn't unexpected, but Clint would stake his life on the fact that Stark's computer knows exactly who he means by "Mr. Stark". Only Stark would give his AI an attitude problem on purpose.

"No, not your Mr. Stark. I'm here for Stark Senior. I just need to speak with him, don't even need to step inside. Just patch me through."

"I'm sorry, sir, but I am not authorized to allow-"

“Stark, I know you're listening. S.H.I.E.L.D. has some questions for your dad, I'm here to relieve you of babysitting duty. Let me speak to him and we'll both be out of your hair within the hour."

The buzz and click of the door lock releasing comes almost before he's finished the sentence. The smooth English accent follows a short second later, all polite efficiency. "Mr. Stark is in the second guest bedroom on the first floor."

 

This is the eve of "I don't believe"; that's all we've got in common, the sky above is fallin'.

[fatherofinnovention]

After his late night with Pepper, Howard's thoughts are a tangled mess. A half hour spent staring at the ceiling proves completely fruitless, and he crawls out of bed to reach the far end of his room where he's relocated enough of Tony's tech to make a provisional workstation.

He bites deeply into his lower lip as he reworks housings and solders electronics, letting the guilt and frustration of his numerous failures drain out into mental schematics; a vast network of facts and possibilities that block out the thought of self-loathing entirely. There's no denying that Anthony is the best the world has right now, and this should be his time, but fate wasn't exactly kind when it shoved Howard face first into the future, and he won't keep his sanity intact if he can't push the limits of his intellect. If that means the kid has to take a backseat, then so be it.

His finger slips. He slices the edge of his left hand against a section of metal, accidentally tearing out a few carefully placed wires as he yanks his wrist back in response.

Howard seethes, burying his face in the palm of his damaged hand and slamming his other against the surface of the table. "Son of a bitch."