"Arty."

Silence.

"Arty."

More silence.

"…Arty."

Brit didn't expect an answer and the mound of tangled sheets containing her friend didn't give one.

She suppressed a sigh and moved carefully into the room, working with what little light peaked from behind her friends closed blinds and the light from the hallway she herself had just vacated. She considered briefly resting a hand on her shoulder, checking for a pulse, something to let Arty know she wasn't alone. But she'd only have gotten the same response as she had in the last two days—a whole lot of nothing.

Admitting she was at an impasse but not defeat, Brit placed a box of crackers and a fresh glass of water on the nightstand, eyeing the four still-untouched glasses dourly.

Arty needed to drink something, and soon. She hadn't touched a morsel of food or a drop of water since the day of Brit's appointment when the redhead had found her, doubled over in an alley outside Stark Tower, puking her guts out. Getting her into a cab and back to the apartment hadn't helped any, only left both girls on the floor of the bathroom as Brit held back her hair and Arty became acquainted with the toilet bowl in a new fashion as she dry-heaved and trembled and sweat herself into unconsciousness.

Despite Brit's best efforts, and a serious desire to call for help, Arty remained more or less catatonic.

"I've gotta' go to work, Arty-Pants," she tried again, speaking lowly into the bedroom-turned-tomb. JT was an understanding guy, especially with the soft spot he had for the pair, but even he couldn't afford to have them both miss another shift on their busiest night of the week. No matter how desperately she wished to be here when Arty inevitably realized she was, in fact, still alive on this Earth, Brit had to go in.

"I'll be back as soon as I can, 'kay? Maybe JT'll let me go early." Nothing, just the subtle shift that indicated Arty was at least breathing.

Brit suppressed another sigh and made for the door. Knowing she was speaking to empty ears, she finished with a desperate hope, "Try to eat something, please...please."

When she returned five hours later, JT having indeed let her go early, the food remained untouched and the glasses still full; she wasn't sure her friend had budged an inch.

So with resignation and no small amount of sympathy, Brit stripped off her makeup, changed into one of Marcos' sleeping shirts, and crawled into bed beside her friend, wrapping an arm around her and squeezing gently. It was human nature for the body to respond to physical comfort—maybe if she held Arty long enough it would stimulate some kind of reaction. At this point, she would settle for anything: crying, screaming, more puking.

Anything.

But deep in the recesses of her friends mind, a movie was playing. The reel was jammed, stuck on repeat, unceremoniously showing Arty decade-old memories she'd wished never to see again and things she'd seen before in an awfully new light:

Her mother, crying. Ripping at her hair and cursing the world.

Tony Stark, face on every paper and news channel for weeks and weeks with the headlines in bold: Stark Missing, CEO Presumed Captured, Billionaire Believed Dead After Three Months.

Her mother, medication removing every trace of passion, sitting at the window for days and forgetting, forgetting, forgetting.

Tony Stark, standing before a press conference after his escape in Afghanistan, pale-faced and thin and oh-so-fragile looking.

Her mother, screaming again, screaming at her and everyone and needing to reclaim what was stolen.

Tony Stark, surrounded by a sea of burning cars on a racetrack in Monaco, suitless and defenseless as some maniac tried to kill him.

Her mother, unmoving on the kitchen floor, red painting the ivory tiles. Arty is only nine, she doesn't understand why.

Tony Stark, footage grainy through shaky camera phones as he flies into a wormhole with a nuke on his back.

Her mother, back on the meds.

Her sister. Her beautiful, hopeful sister, falling to her knees when the news from the fires come, collapsing in on herself as her own girls watch: 'Why isn't Daddy coming home?' Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Tony Stark, falling from the sky. Motionless.

Gas and leather.

Gas and leather.

Gas and leather.

Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Arty squeezed her eyes shut.

Tony exchanged the set of pliers for a welding tool and did everything in his power to ignore the manila folder on the table behind him.

The heel on the Mark VII's right boot was being finicky, not as up-to-snuff as the rest of the suit he was slowly repairing. Adjusting his angle at the worktable, he searched for necessary realignments before searing two jagged sections closed. He technically didn't even need to fix it—he was beyond the design now, already taking what he'd learned from it and running with the next half-dozen models that emerged from the experience. Call him sentimental, though no one else was likely to.

Tony set down the welder and picked up an impact wrench, easing one of the settings loose.

No, he didn't need to fix it, but he was. Maybe they'd stick it in a museum some day, on some display that read: 'See the Suit Iron Man Wore to Space'. Tony felt a shiver traverse his spine and banished the thought.

He didn't care for whatever excuse needed to be used, focusing on the MARK VII meant he wasn't focusing on the silent, yet obscenely loud portfolio at his back.

Dear god, not you.

Tony's eye twitched. He replaced the impact wrench and took up the welder again.

Besides, if he was focused on repairing something he could now deem antiquated, it meant he was less likely to let something slip by with the newer suits.

He shifted directions once more to face any side of the lab but back there.

Tony knew it was right where he left it, too, didn't even have to look.

Just felt the burn of the words on his inner forearm as if someone had branded them to his soul—which was pretty damn apt, all things considered.

Dear god, not you.

It was fifteen feet behind him, at approximately a thirty-degree angle to his right, and precisely three and half feet off the ground.

Dear god, not you.

It would take six strides, maybe five depending on his commitment, to reach it.

Dear god, not you.

One measly flick of his finger was all it would take to flip the cover and reveal the contents.

Dear god, not you.

It would all be there. All of it. Everything from school records to driver's license to medical insurance and every job she'd ever had. Everything he could've possibly wanted to know, maybe even an explanation for why she'd said—

Dear god, not you.

The welding tool slipped in his right hand and arced sharply across the knuckles of his left.

Tony released the tool and jumped up with a curse, banging his knee on the underside of the workstation as he did.

The pain in his knee was nothing compared to the pain in his hand, but even that wasn't as bad as it could've been. Tools had been slipping and scarring his hands for decades, leaving a lot of the skin tough as nails and leaving him conditioned to handle the sensation. The reaction was more from surprise and chagrin at his own carelessness than real hurt.

Still it stung, and the smell of burnt flesh was less than favorable.

Taking care not to bump his injured appendage, Tony made his way backward to the med-supplies everyone insisted he keep in his labs, ignoring the file that was the focal point of his consternation. It was resting there out of the corner of his eye, still as could be. It might as well have been shouting. He waved his uninjured hand and the first aid kit popped open, gears whirring as the contents were raised up and out of the box on levels, displayed for ease of use.

Tony grabbed a cool compress and held it to his knuckles, wincing.

Out of the corner of his eye, the pale vanilla color teased him with knowledge.

He turned to glare at it head-on.

The folder sat there, mocking him.

"Shut up," he told it.

"You already informed me to remain quiet, Sir."

Tony scowled at the ceiling. "Not you, JARVIS—well actually, yes, you too. Who said you were out of time-out?"

"I was never in time-out, Sir."

"Funny, I seem to remember otherwise."

"Perhaps you are in need of an MRI, then. Or perhaps Vitamin B-12."

"Cute, JAY. Rhodey teach you that one?"

"I am above the need to recycle jokes, Sir—I am quite capable of making my own. You designed me so yourself."

Tony bit back a sharp remark and returned to glaring at the folder. 'I know something you don't know', it seemed to taunt him.

'No kidding', he thought grimly. 'You know everything I don't know'.

And it was true. Anything and everything about Ocean Eyes should be in that file: who she was, where she came from, occupation, list of friends and family, dating history, interests and ideologies, political leanings and her frickin' star sign, for all he knew—name it and it was probably there. A conglomerate summary of his Soulmate's life, compiled from public records and immediate or associated social media platforms.

Something in that pile was bound to provide the answer that tormented him, something to tell him why.

Why did she run?

It was an easier question by far than the one that really plagued him, shadowing all his steps these long years, latched onto his person like a parasite as it drained, drained, drained away his life:

Why don't you want me?

Now that he had a face, and those eyes—those infinite, terrified, devastatingly haunting eyes that had been so playful, so crowned with joy before he went and was Him—it made the question with which he was cursed to endure so much worse.

Why don't you want me, Ocean eyes?

The portrait of her running from him was so crystalline, so utterly vivid in essence Michelangelo himself must have descended the heavens to cast his agony immortal.

Tony glared at the file some more, mentally burning holes as big as the ones she'd left him with.

He hadn't looked at it. Not a single page. For all that he craved release from the wild unknown, he just couldn't bring himself to turn the cover. It wasn't his place.

It wasn't like Tony was responsible for its presence in his lab to begin with. All he'd asked was for JAY to figure out who she was—as in whether she was a local resident, possible contact information, current employment, that sort of thing. What he hadn't asked for was every facet of her existence, big or small, concrete or speculative, from birth till, well, now.

In hindsight, he'd really just wanted her goddamn name.

Sixty hours of (sleep deprived) delirium and Tony Stark didn't even have his Soulmate's name.

But JARVIS was JARVIS, and like his creator didn't know the meaning of "half-ass".

So instead of something he could call his mate besides Ocean Eyes, Tony now had an ethical crisis regarding a breach of privacy on his hands, a raging migraine, one sassy AI who didn't appreciate Tony's lack of enthusiasm for his efforts, and scorched knuckles. Just what the doctor prescribed.

A soft nudge at his elbow brought him back.

DUM-E was chirping at his side, turning his utility arm this way and that as he cooed miserably.

"I'm fine, DUM's" Tony said, removing the compress to show the bot. "Just a little singed. No need to get the fire extinguisher."

The bot whirred and started that direction anyways.

"No, I said don't get the fire extinguisher, god do you need your bolts cleane—" Tony stopped mid-sentence, reminding himself his oldest bouncing baby boy was still sensitive and just eager to make up for distressing his Pops earlier that morning. Or was it last night? When you couldn't sleep the dichotomy was irrelevant. After JARVIS had finished running 'Operation: Soulmate', DUM-E had been tasked by the AI to deliver said classified documents straight to the man himself. Sadly, in his earnest to Do A Good Job and Make Dad Happy, his means of delivery meant dropping the thick folder like a slab onto a flat-head screwdriver that was very-regrettably-wedged-in-a-not-at-all-Tony's-fault-way under his coffee mug; the mug had been sent flying quite spectacularly across the lab. DUM-E had spent the remaining time since cleaning and mewing with guilt: he had made a mess and the classified documents did not Make Dad Happy.

Removing the folder from the puddle of coffee had been the only time Tony touched the…thing.

The knowledge-hoarding entity sung softly to him now, entrancing him with promises of the treasure it possessed. Whether the voice embodied belonged to that of an angel or a siren, to lure Tony to salvation or doom…well.

"Shut up," he told it again.

Arty was sitting upright.

Brit did a triple-take to make sure she wasn't dreaming, blinking furiously to scrub the veil of sleep from her mind.

Nope, definitely upright—but barely. The blonde was hunched over oddly, as though the effort to configure her posture was impossible in light of three days' muscular disuse and zero nutrition, and she was relying on the wall beside the bed for support. Still, she was up, and the small move might as well have been Atlas taking the sky from her weary shoulders.

In the dim morning light that glowed through the still-closed blinds, she could just make out Arty fiddling with something in her lap.

The redhead opened her mouth, thought better of disturbing the silence, and snapped it shut again.

Careful not to startle her friend, Brit eased herself off the mattress and gently padded her way to the window with all the grace her dancing afforded her, opening the blinds just enough to allow a little life into the room. Arty blinked at the infusion of light slowly, heavily, like she was dragging herself to the surface of a mud bank, but otherwise gave no sign she registered the change in surroundings. She just kept poking at the object in her hands. Illumination on her side, Brit beheld with the scene with utter relief: one of the glasses on the nightstand was now, thankfully, half empty, and the box of crackers was in her friends lap as she struggled to reach the contents. Little pieces of cardboard littered the blanket, peeled off bit by bit, as if she'd forgotten the fine motor skills to slip a finger under the flap and pry away the adhesive and had instead resorted to just tearing the thing pathetically.

But it was a good sign.

Brit watched Arty silently bumble through her process for a few minutes. She eventually managed to pull the freshness-sealed bag from the tattered box, success in her grasp, only to find an equal fight in opening the plastic as she pulled uselessly at both sides.

Unable to stand it, Brit closed the space to the bed. "Here," she said gently and reached for the crackers, "let me."

Somewhere in the back of Arty's throat rose a strangled sound of resistance. However alert she might or might not have been, she could do it herself.

Brit dropped the offer, giving a little nod.

Baby steps.

When it came to the rest of the day, though, baby steps turned out to be just that, complete with Brit having to use a guiding hand to get Arty anywhere.

With great difficulty the redhead managed to remove the Detached From This Plane of Existence girl from her self-imposed mausoleum and into the living room, careful not to let her friend stub her toes—it might've certainly gotten a reaction, but Brit wasn't in the business of losing limbs. She settled Arty on the couch with the squishiest pillow they owned, plopped in Finding Nemo (because every other movie she'd reached for elicited varyingly negative half-noises that were the closest things to sentience she'd received in three days), and set the crackers and a water bottle within easy reach before cozying up next to her.

Brit was able to stay with her through two and half re-watches, easing a comforting hand through blonde hair that could really use a wash, before she regrettably got up. She had a class to go to. She didn't exactly want to watch Nemo on repeat all day, and it wasn't as if she was worried Arty was going to up and leave the apartment, but she was hoping to be here if her friend needed her.

She laid a gentle hand on the girls' head. "I've got another class, Arty, I'll be back in a few hours, okay?"

Arty's eyes tracked her face, the way survival instinct bade them to, but otherwise she gave no response.

Brit needn't have worried about missing anything—when she came home hours later, sun just setting below the horizon, Arty was right where she'd left her, movie still chugging along.

But hey, the water bottle was empty and the crackers mostly gone.

Good.

When the maniacal giggling started on Day Four, erupting from the despondent girl to settle in the apartment like a permanent resident, Brit was decidedly and unreservedly not a fan.

She'd take the little clownfish on repeat any day.

They were halfway through what had to be their sixteenth re-watch, Brit's legs tossed over Arty's own to keep her warm, when the blonde had started to laugh—little laughs at first, a low chuckle, really, before growing in volume and frequency to become an all-out guffaw. There were tears leaking from her eyes and she was struggling to breathe, she was laughing so hard.

Arty caught Brit's concerned eye in time to pull herself together and speak her first words in four days:

"So stupid," she said, grinning madly whilst trying not to wheeze. "Stupid."

Then she kept giggling, caught on the fantastical tide of whatever realization had pierced her bubble of lethargy to become so amusing.

Brit decided not to comment. She didn't even know what she'd be commenting on.

But whatever humorous notion had occurred to Arty to yank her back to the land of the living kept at her the rest of the day, nipping at her heels like the worlds funniest cobra. The slightest thing would set her off into a fresh round of snickering, like the world was a theme park and everything in their apartment a ride.

The pigeon cooing outside the living room window? Hysterical.

The two marshmallows stuck together from the box of cereal she was devouring? Priceless.

The empty water bottle that fell to the carpet with a light putt? Practically a stand-up comedian.

On the one hand, Brit was grateful something had spurred her friend back to a status she cautiously labeled "functioning", as the girl fetched her own water and pursued her own snacks all by herself. On the other hand, she didn't find it particularly comforting to wander into the kitchen to find Arty cackling into the cupboard like the Joker, either.

You had to pick and choose your battles, she supposed, but that didn't stop her from wishing this one came with a manual.

About the only control Brit had came from switching the box of Lucky Charms Arty was carrying around with her like a lifeline to a box of Multigrain Cheerios when she wasn't looking. Her girl might be losing her sanity, but damned if the redhead wasn't going to make sure she at least got some vitamins.

She regret the decision two hours later when Arty breezed by her on the way to her room, empty cereal bag clutched determinedly in both hands and a dreamy grin on her face.

Brit eyed the bag with concern. "Say, uh, whatcha doin' with that bag there?"

Arty smiled wide. "Gonna' strangle myself."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"…Kinda small, don't you think?"

The blonde examined the plastic closely as if just now considering its dynamics. "…Oh."

"Yeah," Brit said, nodding thoughtfully. "Guess that's kind of out of the question, Arty-Pants. No death for you today."

For whatever reason logic fancied throwing itself out a window, that seemed to be the thing Brit said that sunk in. She could see the words settle over Arty, eyes betraying the way they absorbed into her skin to rack against her sense of awareness.

The blonde looked back at the bag. "Yeah. Guess so."

If Brit were in the field of psychological evaluation, Arty would've made a fascinating case study on Coping 101, she thought as the girl threw the bag in the trash and flopped beside her on the couch once more; and if Arty were her normal self she probably would've taken advantage of her own damn suffering and volunteered as such. Made them a little cash on the side.

But Brit wasn't a psychologist—certainly not one of those scientists who devoted their entire professional lives to the understanding of Soul Marks and their impact—and Arty wasn't her normal self. She was going through every process in the book to manage what she'd dreaded her entire life, however backwards it appeared, but coping was coping.

Johnni was just a phone call away if Arty needed that extra push to land back on the good side.

Brit crossed her fingers and felt hoped her friend would pull herself out.

On day five they hit the ground running in terms of progress—toddler steps took a leap, graduated from high school and were now on their way to college. Not only did Brit manage to get Arty into the shower, it's two hours length notwithstanding, but she also managed to get slippers on her feet and her friend out of the house for a little grocery shopping. Arty might not have been any help coming up with the list, but she could at least push the cart and help her carry things home.

In combination with (relatively) fresh air and the sensation of new life showers seemed to bestow upon people, the exercise did Arty a world of good.

They were in line at the checkout when something just clicked.

"Shit," Arty exclaimed with dread, causing a mother nearby to glare daggers as she covered her kid's ears. The blonde didn't even notice.

"I missed my deadline," she moaned, elbows propped against the cart and face buried in her hands. "Laurent's gotta' be so mad at me, he wanted that article by Tuesday."

"No you didn't," Brit reassured her, piling their items on the conveyer belt. "I called him, asked for an extension. Told him you had an unfortunate encounter with some alien tech the cleanup crews missed, so he just said get it to him ASAP and you'd be good."

Some of the color crept back onto Arty's face as she sighed with relief. "Thank you," she said, then wrinkled her face in deep thought. "Huh. I wonder if I can pull off that excuse again." Her eyes narrowed as she worked it out in her head. "Like, 'Sorry boss, can't come in today, tripped over some alien limb and now I'm infected with sad space disease'?" Arty reached into the cart and handed Brit the peanut butter. "Or the next time I need to do my taxes I can just call 'em up and say 'Sorry, no can do, some extraterrestrial metal just warped me off the planet, talk to you when I get back'? Think that'd work?"

A smile crept onto the redheads face as she took the peanut butter and the bread next. Roll with what you can get, her mother always told her. "Absolutely worth a shot. They can't definitively prove you're lying from the other side of the country."

Arty was nodding, each nod seeming to chase away the last vestiges of haze clinging to her eyes. Then she paled. "Oh god, what about JT? How mad is he? How many shifts did I miss?"

Brit winced. "Three," she said, but bowled over the moan that was sure to follow. "I took one for you, and he was pretty understanding about the other two. He just said to make sure you're back at it by Friday or he riots—oh, he also said you had to make it up by taking another bar shift."

The blonde was silent for a moment. "Fair enough," she conceded.

Brit was just accepting the pasta when Arty groaned again, almost dropping the box. "Please, please, please tell me you didn't miss any lessons because of me? That's half the reason you came here and I was supposed to—fuck, I'm the one who should be taking care of you, not the other way around."

"Didn't miss any lessons," she cut her off, wanting to end this cycle. "Not a one. You've just been so out of it you didn't notice when I left."

Arty's face was a mixture of half relief, half frown. "What else did I miss?"

"Well…your mom called."

Stony silence.

"…And your sisters. Couple of times."

Anxiety was starting to crack the stone.

"Don't worry," she soothed lowly, casting a small glance at the patrons around them. "I didn't tell them anything. Just said you had the flu. They bought it."

The blonde handed her the tomatoes.

"And also Jimmy called again. Like five times."

Arty made a strangled noise of frustration behind her facepalm.

"Yeah. You know, when you said he was overprotective I didn't think you meant to this degree. Thought he was gonna' call the local sheriff to come check on us. Told him the flu story, too, but you need to calm him down before he flies over here himself."

"Ugh," her friend collapsed over the cart.

But despite Arty's distress the redhead was smiling, beaming from the inside out. It was good to have her friend back.

When they made it back to the apartment an hour later, stored the groceries and settled onto the couch with the poor persons dinner of PB&J's to watch Monty Python, Brit asked the question she could no longer contain. She didn't want to push Arty and the last thing she wanted was to trigger another shutdown, but she needed to know the terrain she was working with here, needed to know the acceptability of bringing it up.

"Sooo…are we gonna' address the iron armor in the room?"

"Nope."

"Okay." One thing at a time, then.

On a personal note Brit rather believed the public school system had failed her: she had been led to believe, when dealing with situations that put ones worldly perspective through a metal grinder, that denial came before the depression. Arty had leapt right over that first part straight into the Land of Despair, hop-scotched towards Acceptance Isle, and was now circling back towards the Pit of Can't Be…the redhead was getting whiplash. But even as she thought it she knew that assessment wasn't fair. Arty was dealing with it in her own way. She wasn't denying anything, and she hadn't done anything drastic; she was processing, however slowly, and wouldn't open herself to discussing it until she had a firmer handle on her own sense of ground. The blonde never tackled a problem until she was sure of her own place in the equation.

And this…this was an equation for sure. Square roots, finding x, carrying the remainder or the decimal or whatever the hell it was people did in calculus—math had never been Brits strong point. The whole shebang, the cat's cannoli. Not the simple add-subtract-and-dismiss they'd projected Arty might deal with when the person she'd never ever wanted to meet came stumbling into her life…not fucking Iron Man.

Brit shook her head, suddenly glad all she had to live with was whiplash.

They went back to watching Monty Python.

Aglow with the last rays of the day's sun, the simple black sneaker spun gracefully through the air before landing with barely a sound in Tony's outstretched hand. He paused a moment to maintain his rhythm, then tossed the shoe skyward once more. Painstakingly scraping what remained of his mental fortitude from the walls of his mind was a chore of magnanimous proportions, but it needed to be done.

"Look alive, DUM-E—you're about to earn your keep," he declared. Beside the window, his eldest warbled expectantly, armed with a dry erase marker and ready to make up for his fiasco two days ago.

Firmly establishing a sedentary pace, brows furrowed in concentration, Tony broke it down:

"It could be Iron Man," he said out loud, marking the path between window and workstation with his meandering gate. DUM-E scribbled on the window.

"It could be…me." He didn't like the idea of that one, but it had merit: his past was inextricably tied with the military-industrial complex and all that entailed, despite his full-force efforts to course correct.

DUM-E wrote 'Dad' in crude letters, marker screeching audibly against the glass.

Tony sent the shoe airborne once more, caught it soundlessly, tossed it up again.

"It could be the women," he admitted as he hesitated in his path, gripping the poor sneaker and pondering the choice's validity as he watched the sun kiss the horizon. There had been many, at one point in Tony's life—sleeping his way through his problems had been a primary means of avoiding them. Rhodey'd had his own firm opinions on why that had been, all of them boiling straight down to the words now covered by the billionaire's sleeve, but Colonel James Rhodes had also learned long ago not to vocalize them, less he send his friend spiraling straight to the bottom of a bottle. Not that any of that was apropos of Tony's life now: since Afghanistan he'd been too busy fixing the world to focus on addressing his own complex with trust and intimacy.

DUM-E was struggling, the most recent scrawl on his list resembling something along the lines of 'WmFN'.

Tony inhaled deeply and continued to pace, Ocean Eye's shoe taking flight. He'd cross that bridge when he, when they, came to it, but for now he didn't want to kill his stride.

He snatched the shoe mid-air and pointed it straight at DUM-E, spitballing:

"She might be a Volitionist."

But even as he said the words, and even as he winced at DUM-E's entirely illegible scribble, he knew that wasn't the case. "Nevermind, scratch that."

He'd met one or two of the cultists in person, seen some of their programs floating around and some of their rallies on TV, same as everyone else. Volitionists were weird, and it would definitely explain the reaction she'd had, but he dismissed the idea almost immediately. Ocean Eyes didn't fit the profile. He knew precious little about her, was able to infer slightly less, but even someone who wasn't a certified genius such as himself could see there was zero resemblance. Those Volitionists who hadn't already had their Marks burned beyond recognition during the cults initiation ritual tended to react with anger, insult, and disgust at finding their mates, if not outright hostility—his Soulmate had displayed nothing but despair.

Tony rolled his neck, working out the kinks. He'd passed out briefly in the lab the night before, unconscious too short a time to earn a respite from his woes but long enough gift him a stiff neck and a fancy new set of nightmares.

He racked his brain as he paced.

There was also the possibility Tony'd been intensely, vehemently avoiding: that his Soulmate was already taken.

He didn't say this one out loud, didn't know how much stock he put into it anyways. JARVIS had promised to keep his mouth shut about the information contained in the file, but he felt confident the AI would've broken said promise to give him a heads up if he had a potential uh, confrontation in his future. There certainly had been no ring on her finger.

In the end, all of the options had their place in the Realm of Possibility, all as likely as not and many more probably left out.

Tony let his eyes drift shut and sighed.

Despite the DUM-E-certified measure to solidify his theories, he was well enlightened they might as well have been whispered words in a storm for all the good writing them down did. They were theories, pure supposition, designed by definition to leave him searching for truth.

Tony had every intention of finding it.

Tony had every intention of finding her.

His hesitance in attacking the situation head-on was just that: he didn't want to scare her away. She'd run from him then, who was to say she wouldn't feel cornered and do it again? By the misfortune of being himself, there was nothing Tony could do that might come across as subtle.

All in all, he was left with two handfuls of diddly and squat about how to proceed.

His song-and-dance show was all flash and no substance, having more to due with stalling till a brilliant solution presented itself. Something to keep his brain moving and his demons at bay.

"If I may, Sir, perhaps sleep will provide the inspiration you seek."

"You're not invited to this party, JARVIS," Tony sighed as he pinched the bridge of his nose and bemoaned the fact the AI knew him so well.

"DUM-E was invited."

"A—Dum's is being useful, and B—Dum's won the contest," he said as the bot cooed in the corner, now scribbling haphazardly at the window.

There'd truthfully been no contest. Tony was still peeved at JAY for the presence of the folder—he'd told DUM-E to hide it somewhere he wouldn't be tempted to look for it, even though he'd seen it clear as day under the bin he kept for discarded projects.

Sighing his deepest sigh yet, Tony tapped the sneaker against his forehead in frustration. He'd write a check for any drop of helpful insight that didn't involve admitting to JARVIS his desire to take a peak at those files.

Aside from what golden tidbits he'd soaked up in the HUMAN RESOURCES lobby days ago, the only things Tony knew about Ocean Eyes were laid out thus: she wore a size 8 shoe, did a lot—and he did mean a lot—of walking (the relatively new exterior of the shoe was belayed by the shockingly well-worn sole), and she had great taste in friends. Judging by Big Red's own reaction during That Moment, she'd been familiar enough with his mate's words to recognize them. To hers and Ocean Eyes credit, it'd been days since then and Big Red hadn't gone running to the closest news outlet with some fantastical story about the girl who was Iron Man's Soulmate. Points all around.

"Would you like me to contact Colonel Rhodes for you, Sir? Or Miss Potts?"

Straight to it, then.

"No."

JAY wasn't saying he thought Tony didn't have the chops to handle this alone, that the man wasn't already doing everything in his power not to have a breakdown and needed help. To be honest, JAY wouldn't dream such a thing. Tony's mind filled it all in himself.

JARVIS didn't want Tony to feel alone, plain and simple. Probably why he hadn't stopped being a nuisance.

But Tony didn't want to call Rhodey or Pepper or even Happy—not yet. This felt…his. It might not be feeling his in the best of ways at present, but it was his for now, Ocean Eyes was his Soulmate, and he should figure out how to approach her without the girl feeling the need to Usain Bolt away from him.

But how?

Tony huffed in annoyance and bopped DUM-E lightly on the head with the sneaker. "How 'bout you, dumbbell? Got any bright ideas for me?" DUM-E chirped mournfully. Tony bopped him again, even lighter. "Yeah, 's what I figured," he said as he turned.

Tony stopped mid-turn, shoe poised for launch.

He stared at it, beginnings of an idea tickling at the back of his mind.

Then he smiled.

"On second thought JAY, there is one thing you can tell me."

Around 10am on Thursday morning her phone buzzed.

From her place on the floor beside the couch, Arty sighed. She had just managed to wiggle her way into the tiny, barely-human-sized space between the couch and the coffee table to stretch. She really didn't want to find a text saying Brit'd forgot her keys and needed to be let in so she ignored the text for now. If it was Brit, she'd know by the banging on the door any second.

Arty eased back into an elongated position, feeling the ache in her lower back from all the cramped sitting she'd forced her body to endure. The sun was dappled along the carpet before her, cast off the gleaming lacquer of the coffee table and warming her toes as she relaxed as much as she could into the pose. She was trying to meditate, too, doing her best to call upon the tools for clarity and discernment Johnni always recommended to break down and clear her tumultuous thoughts.

It wasn't working. Not in this case anyways.

Her phone buzzed again.

Well, if it wasn't Brit it was probably Jim. Arty hadn't had a chance to get back to him and his Overprotective Frenzy and she wasn't feeling at her best to put him at ease—she was normally a flawless liar, but currently she was what one might declare as being 'at the bottom of their game'.

She sighed and pawed at the couch cushions, searching for her phone by touch. She felt the cool case and brought it to her level.

It wasn't Jim.

Displayed on screen was a message from an unknown number.

A picture message, it looked like.

Arty opened it, fingers already primed to mark it directly as spam, before her breath caught in her throat and her gut did a somersault.

In the picture her absentee shoe was propped against some kind of box, laces tied to perfection, sitting forlorn but perfectly positioned to capture the morning light. Resting beside the footwear, angled just-so for effect, was a note. In the crushingly-familiar scrawl she'd grown all to accustomed on her own skin, the note read:

FOUND: MISSING LEFTIE.

REQUESTS JAILER TO BE REUNITED WITH MOTHER.

AVAILABLE FOR PICKUP AT STARK TOWER.

Arty's eye twitched.

Note: First off huge, huge thank you to OneWhoReadsTooMuch! I wholeheartedly agree, I'm always looking to drown myself in that sweet sweet Tony appreciation and love 3 Thank you so much for your review, and I'm delighted you love the concept! This chapter is definitely shorter, but hopefully there's some good bits to be found :)

While I'm hoping to drop a chapter every Sunday, it's more likely to be every other Sunday due to work and finding the time to write/edit. No guarantees but I'll do my best!

Also: Guess who meet each other again next chapter?