This is not paranoia. This is reality. People can and will hurt them any way they can and the suit is too cumbersome and always too far away when he needs it. He can't immediately rectify the consequences of perceived chaos, but he can attempt to navigate and redesign the intricate patterns that lead to tragedy. All the information is there. He has the means to prevent damage.
Tony listens for the door to shut. He thumbs through the contact list on his recently reacquired phone. The number is already on speed dial. He taps once and listens as it connects. Tony speaks before the the recipient can ask what he needs.
"She's leaving now." He pauses and listens.. "By herself. She'll be in the E500. And I'll be ready in ten."
As he hangs up, his stomach churns. He rubs a hand across his forehead and sighs. She's going to hate him, but it's for her own good.
Retrieving his phone last night had been a cinch. The GPS locator made mission planning easy. The Iron Man suit made the perpetrators drop all resistance and they'd willingly given him his phone and his boots. The Rolex, it turned out, had already been sold. Afterwards, he'd dropped onto the deck of the condo and made a difficult decision. Working through each potential outcome, he could find only one that worked: give Pepper her own bodyguards. Don't tell her.
His people would do anything for him, including covertly following his girlfriend. If he'd just asked her, she would've laughed at him, said 'no way,' and walked out the door before he could get in two more words. She already calls him paranoid and makes cracks about dosing his cereal with Xanax. He has no choice but to do it this way. On the other hand, if she finds out, the threat of dosing his cereal may become a reality.
When Tony emerges from the condo, four men in suits and with coiled wires in their ears are waiting outside the door. He walks amidst them to the cars parked outside. Two file into the Suburban and the other two enter the Bentley, where Happy is already sitting at the wheel. The Mark V is in the trunk, tucked away, and only slightly inaccessible. If push comes to shove, he can fold down the center armrest and get to the trunk in a matter of seconds.
It's so much better this way, Tony thinks, stretching his legs in the back seat, sipping Scotch, watching the world pass from within a bulletproof cocoon. He can see more clearly if he doesn't have to focus on the obstacles ahead. That's what being wealthy is all about isn't it? Spending the money on luxury so there's more time to create, to be productive without worrying about banal existence. Neither he nor Pepper should have to worry about navigating rush hour, grocery store checkout lines, or random acts of violence. They both have better things to do.
Traffic is a bitch. Happy navigates without a word, expertly maneuvering them in and out of slower moving vehicles, around obstructions, through the city. Tony has a meeting at ten and he'll get there with just enough time to spare.
The light ahead flips red and the car halts in the stream. There are a few horns, a cyclist whizzes by them towards the front. A moped creeps up, barely missing scraping the side of the Bentley with its side mirrors. A few horns blare and Tony sips his drink, allowing the warm scotch to sooth all the way down. Suddenly a shadow appears at Tony's left, quickly moving up towards the front of the car, arms waving. There's no time for second guessing. The glass Tony is holding is nearly empty, but ice cubes spill onto the carpet as he drops the glass to reach for the armrest, yanking it down and exposing the trunk access panel.
There's a hand on his, holding him back from his only chance. His arm is held down on the leather upholstery and he struggles, panicked, but the man next him is stronger. They must be in it together. His enemies will always try to find a way. He won't let it happen. Not now. Not when everything in his life is right.
"Sir? Sir! It's fine. It's nothing! Calm down!" The guy next to him is yelling, holding tight to his hands and shaking him out of the white noise in his head.
Tony looks up into the rearview mirror, meeting his driver's concerned glance. It isn't concern directed towards the guy approaching the car; it's concern directed at Tony. Happy motions towards his left side, waving someone off. A guy cleaning windshields makes his way towards the front of the line of cars. There is no threat, just a guy wanting to make a quick buck.
Tony squints, blinking, and realizes that the hands holding him are releasing. He sits back. The man on his right hands him the glass he'd dropped on the floor and, as an afterthought, the bottle of Scotch from the console. Without a second glance at Tony, the guard closes the trunk access panel, then puts his hands on his knees and looks straight ahead.
Tony's heart is pounding so hard that he's pretty sure that it's going to throw the metal casing out of his chest. The effort to slow his breath is monumental. The effort to stop the tremor in his hands unsuccessful.
The day has been hectic, to say the least, and Pepper is ready to go home. Her feet ache from running around in the heels all day and the tension headache would be unbearable except for the ibuprofen that she'd slipped in an hour ago. New York has been too hot the past few days, too humid, and too oppressive. Everywhere she goes, regardless of the time of day, is gray. Gray buildings, gray sidewalks, gray roads, and gray walls. Even the water that surrounds Manhattan is gray. She prefers the rich blue of the Pacific.
Somehow, Malibu seems safer. It's certainly not. In New York, she and Tony are the closest to anonymous that famous people can be. Their condo is full of rich executives and daily news makers. The crowds in Manhattan hide their identities. No one looks you in the eye here. As long as they avoid standing still, no one truly sees Pepper Potts and Tony Stark. In Malibu, the opposite is true. Tony's house is enormous, a well-known outcropping that people point at from yachts two hundred yards out. The town is small enough to be comfortable with the a few rich and famous people walking around, yet it never fails that some tourist notices and asks for an autograph. Everyone knows their cars (Tony has made sure they're difficult to miss), their house, their faces.
The commute back to the condo takes Pepper longer than expected. There are two fender benders within two blocks, drivers hurling obscenities at each other as everyone else tries to squeeze by. The blocked lanes bottleneck traffic to the left and Pepper squeezes in between two cabs. As she checks her rearview mirror, she notices something that looks suspiciously like one of Happy's cars behind her, trying to outmaneuver hurried drivers and get ahead. The car would fit into every other car in New York City except that it has a customized plate and deeply tinted windows. Pepper is sure that the first half of the plate matches the one she remembers from their fleet. Maybe Tony is also on his way back.
Pepper hits the voice dial on her phone. "Call Tony."
When he answers, she can hear the television. "Are you home?"
"Uh, yeah. Just got here," he says. He sounds distracted, uneasy. It's not surprising. After last night, he should be distracted. She's still not sure exactly what's happened. She's gathered the basic premise from the call about the car and the injuries, but no one has bothered her with the details. She knows better than to expect them from Tony.
"How are you feeling?"
There's a pause on the other end, as if he's shifting uncomfortably around the subject. "Fine. I'm good."
"Are you icing?"
"Yep. Got it covered."
"Want me to bring you anything?"
"I'm almost out of Scotch." He backtracks. "Forget it. I'll get Maya to make a run. Just come home."
"I'm on my way. I thought you might be behind me."
There's a distinctive pause on the other end of the line, as if he isn't sure what to say. The last time she'd checked, Tony's mouth doesn't have a pause button. Moments when other people would shut up are Tony's moments of endless babble. "Uh." He pauses again. Maybe he's working."Nope. I'm here. Home sweet home. Home in New York. What do you want for dinner?"
Pepper isn't hungry. She tells Tony that anything will do, that they'll talk about it when she gets home, but she gets the impression he isn't really listening because when she says that she'll see him soon, he responds with "I think we should stay in." She murmurs an "okay, honey." He tells her that he'll see her soon and she ends the call on his terms, looking behind her to see if Happy's car is still behind her. It is. It's directly behind her now and she can see that it isn't Happy driving, but that it's definitely one of the fleet.
When Pepper opens the door to the condo, she can't help but notice Tony's shoulders hitching as she shuts the door. His head leans back over the back of the couch and she goes to him, meeting his lips with her own in a somewhat awkward upside down position. He tastes like Scotch. There's a glass on the table, half full still, and he wasn't lying about needing to make a liquor store run. The bottle sitting next to the glass is nearly empty.
She leans over his shoulders, cradling his head for a moment and examining him. The bruise on his face has turned nearly black and the eye on that side is bloodshot. There's something in his face that tells her that everything is not okay, that something is terribly wrong, but she can't pinpoint what, exactly, that is. She begins to figure it out hours later, when they're getting ready for bed.
He has his back to her, taking his watch off, and she has the sudden urge to go to him, wrap her arms around him, so she does. She's used to the hard metal in his chest, but she's not used to metal on his right hip. She backs away as his shoulders tense and he turns.
"Pepper, don't be angry." At those words, she knows that she will be. She backs away, crossing her arms and waiting. He sighs and reaches for his hip, pulling out a sleek black handgun. "It's just for protection."
"You've got fourteen bodyguards for protection, Tony. You've got the Iron Man suit for protection. You really need to carry that? In the house?" The last part is the real clincher. If he carries a gun on the street, it's one thing. Pepper is not naive enough to believe there's no reason for Tony to carry a gun. But they've been at the condo for hours.
"You don't understand." He turns, placing the gun on the dresser and laying fists on the surface. His eyes are downward, refusing to meet her in the mirror.
Pepper does understand. She understands that the need for control is driving Tony further and further down the path to pathological paranoia. She understands that his paranoia is working it's way towards being just as dangerous as real threats. She studies him for a moment, watching the rise and fall of his shoulders. He's still tensed, awaiting a response she's yet to formulate. She could leave him to his deal with things on his own. She could offer him an ultimatum. She could call Agent Coulson, or Rhodey, or the shrink she'd seen after her father died. But it's late. She's tired.
Pepper brings down her arms, resolved. She puts them around Tony's waist, and with her chin against his shoulder, she feels him finally relax and curses herself for giving in.