Sadly, I don't own, merely play...
Anthony Stark found it rather novel that a man like himself, so used to moving and doing, could be so paralyzed by the still, dark night. If he could manage to render his mind to formulas and percentages as the staff broke free into the encroaching night, he could conquer the night and her many banshees by simply staying awake. But when his body gave in, desiring the rest he so frequently avoided, he too often found himself awake in the blackness that hung thickly above his bed.
Worse than any nightmare, that utter quiet ate away until it found purchase in his very core, and the walls about him reverberated with frightening gasps for air. Calloused hands bunched sheets under his thick fingers until the fabric began to fray and finally give. The tears in his eyes stung, but he battled them back valiantly while he recited memorized paragraphs on Panic Attacks and Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. As his own personal stress decompression exercise, it was highly effective. Of course he would never publicly, or privately, admit he had succumbed to both in the aftermath of Afghanistan. His only concession when pressed by Rhodey and Pepper after recitation, was that he was a well versed man. Finally, after a third listing of physical manifestations of stress, his chest gave one stubborn heave as the panic was sufficiently swallowed. As the cold fingers of fear slipped from his throat, the ever constant loneliness took its place.
At his most vulnerable, he wondered if anyone truly missed him while he was missing. He had friends he supposed. Not many that weren't currently on payroll or deeply entrenched in business, but friends nevertheless. With cameras covering every inch of, well, everything, he assumed that Jarvis could stream countless hours of their reactions. However, that vacant feeling kept him from seeking the truth, afraid of what he would find.
Kind of.
He had already fast forwarded through board meetings, conferences, and various closed-door conversations throughout Stark Industries. Watching that footage was akin to dipping a toe into the proverbial pool. Technically he was facing his fear of knowing, but safeguarding himself by seeking the places where emotions, no matter how prevalent, weren't likely to be displayed. Very carefully, he ignored any archives from his home or personal office where those few friends were likely to be viewed. No Happy. No Rhodey. And certainly no Pepper.
Jarvis broke into his thoughts.
"Shall I begin the feed? Perhaps with Stark Industries, Section 14, where you left off?"
He sucked in a deep, breath.
"Why don't you do a split screen on the common areas of the house where Ms. Potts frequents."
"Starting from the date of your capture, sir?"
"Yes."
Before him a number of images began. The Fast Forward function kicked in wherever a body wasn't located, so his eyes instantly locked on Pepper sitting primly at her desk.. In morbid fascination, he watched her fingers fly deftly over the keys until interrupted by a call. THE CALL, if he gauged the time stamp appropriately.
Her hands fell away from the desk and hung limply to her sides. Terror flickered briefly on her ever composed face before she stood in an unconscious physicality of an impending battle.
"Jarvis? Sound."
"Right away," he intoned, as Rhodey's carefully measured voice spilled from the walls in increasing volume.
"We never saw them coming. Most all of my men are dead. We found a fairly significant amount of blood that has been identified as Tony's, along with some various personal items such as his phone, military identification card. We do however believe that he is alive, and that his capture was more than likely the reason for the attack on our convoy. I wanted to tell you personally, Pepper, because these are very dangerous men we are dealing with. He was taken alive, but I can't promise he will come back alive. As much as I hate to say this, we all need to prepare."
Her breath skittered shallowly for a handful of moments before she responded.
"Prepare as much as you like, but he will return. Alive. Tony will do this if only to prove you wrong, and piss you off. Do as you please Colonel Rhodes, but I will not prepare. He won't be home tomorrow, but he will come home, and even if it kills me, things will stay stubbornly the same for the man stubborn enough to live through the Afghani desert."
"This has got to be hard on you, I know how lost I am..."
"Not so hard that you aren't giving up before it's even begun."
There was a pause.
"I am flying over tomorrow and holding a press conference. I would like it if you would come."
"If it involves black mourning suits even though you are delivering a patent message about how hope will never die, no matter how many caves, you can count me out. Call Obidiah. He does hopeful mourning well. Call me when he is found."
Pepper ended the call, and walked calmly to her desk. After a deep breath, she went straight back to work as if nothing had changed.
For the rest of the week, she was never late, never a hair out of place, not a single tear for him. Tony couldn't quite decide if he was enthralled with her determination, or put out that she showed no emotion after that fateful call with Rhodey.
Before he could process more, his eyes caught on the image of Pepper the house on a Sunday dressed simply in worn jeans, and a fitted shirt. With only the slightest of hesitation, she walked purposefully into his bedroom and stripped the bed bare of the sheets he never had a chance to lay in, then remade it personally. Her hand reached out sightlessly, almost like his own, and grabbed out the buried picture of his parents from the bedside drawer. She wiped the frame free of dust, and buried it again just as he had many nights.
After depositing the linens, she made her way to his workshop. As meticulously as any task, she dusted every free surface, every single screw and bolt, being careful not to straighten, but place each piece as he had left it. She delicately palmed off dust from the battered couch, and picked her way across floor to his Hot Rod. The look on her face clearly said that this was the hardest part of her mission. Finest wax in hand, she buffed and polished the car until she was satisfied with the gleam. Then, without another look, she exited the house in its entirety.
Mixed emotions rolled in his chest, most prevalent being guilt. It had felt almost like pornographic voyeurism as he watched her amongst his things, caring for them as intimately as a lover. Though very close, they had drawn their lines long ago. To say it was unexpected was an understatement. Two months and three and a half weeks of similar footage flashed like lightening on the screen. And while he had conjectured about many a thing he might find, he would have never believed that his personal ice queen, Pepper Potts, would show the only chink in her armor by privately tending to the only worldly things he truly cared for on quiet Sunday afternoons.
On the fated day he was found, he watched one last time as she received THE CALL. This time he required no sound, as a silent Pepper listened with a concerned face and curt goodbye, and promptly fell to pieces. One hand to her heart, tears fell in rivers, and she sank to the cold tiles of the floor. The solid front she had presented had clearly very nearly killed her. His tears finally fell as she wept for him onscreen.
"Jarvis, why hadn't the cleaning staff attended to the things Pepper attended to?"
"She gave them firm orders that they were not to disturb your private areas during your absence. I offered her robotic assistance while she tasked, but she declined, insisting it was necessary she attend them personally."
He settled back into his cool sheets. Images of Pepper typing memos and smoothing sheets eased him into a comfortable sleep with a mind finally devoid of questions.
The End.