Her words echo in his head and Tony keeps hearing them over and over again, marveling at how they sound, how they make sense. He feels a rush of purpose, a jolt of that inner magic that blends science, engineering and sheer cockiness into a daring concept.

This is the gift of genius, this ability to channel what he has and knows into what he wants, and although most of his work has gone for Obie and the good of the company, this one is going to be his.

His alone.

Tony doesn't grin, but the gleam in his eyes sharpens. Glitters.

He gets to work.

"Jarvis, new project," Tony purrs, pacing around his three dimensional draft table, arms waving. "Private server, pull up whatever SI's got going on full body armor. While we're at it, shield any outgoing inquiries for this project from Obie."

"Certainly, sir. Schematics, such as they are, are up. Are we done with the Jericho project?"

"No, but it's a lower priority at the moment."

"Mr. Stane will not be pleased with any further delay," Jarvis reminds Tony, his voice smooth, but with a hint of regret in it.

"Most of it is just a matter of fine-tuning and fuel projections," Tony murmurs impatiently. "Grunt work. You do it."

"I live to serve," Jarvis responds, his sarcasm mild. "Any other menial tasks you wish to burden me with?"

Tony looks up, eyes bright. "Yes. Timeout, two minutes." A second later, he adds, "Jarvis, analysis: what is the best course of treatment for my . . . mental incapacitation?"

There is a tactful pause, and then the AI's voice speaks up, gently. "The most recommended treatment for acute agoraphobia and resultant panic attacks includes psychological therapy sessions both private and group; structured desensitization and mild medication, sir."

"So why am I not getting anything?" Tony questions.

"Because you have refused treatment, sir," Jarvis tactfully reminds him, "For years."

"But I'm being medicated. Without my consent or knowledge."

"That is incorrect. You have no prescriptions at this time."

"Oh yeah? Analyze my last ten blood draws and urine tests," Tony tells Jarvis tersely as he studies the holograms of body armor on the table and begins to modify it, hands moving over the thin outline, absently reshaping it.

"I stand corrected, sir," Jarvis manages to sound slightly mortified. "Apparently you have fluctuating quantities of—"

"-Luminal in my system, yeah. And the occasional dose of whatever's in those beauties from the restricted Meds cabinet. Since you have all my medical data from practically forever, Jarvis, run me a hypothesis on why Obie would do this without my informed consent, and while you're at it, give me the best guess as to how he's doing it. Still on the timeout?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Last thing—find a way to synthesize a false video feed for Obie's monitors and once you have it, run it until I tell you to stop. Use whatever old footage you have—and I know you've got YEARS of it-and keep me out of his sight and hearing from this point on, got it?"

"With pleasure, sir," Jarvis replies quietly.

The three dimensional design on the display stand takes shape; Tony molds it with all the finesse of a sculptor. He murmurs to himself as he works, and pulls in information about body mechanics, various alloys, and insulation. Hours speed by, and it's only when Jarvis raises his volume that Tony finally looks up, blinking.

"Yeah, what?"

"Sir, I have carried out your various requests, and must inform you that before I pass on the hypothesis about Mr. Stane, the directives from Doctor Potts take precedent. You need hydration and rest."

"I'm fine!" Tony protests, straightening up and nearly falling over in the process. "Okay, I meant to do that."

"Of course you did, and very amusing it was," Jarvis agrees, "but if you continue to resist the directives of the doctor, I will be forced to replace all of your musical selections with the works of Mr. Boone and Mr. Manilow."

"You fight dirty, Jarvis," Tony yawns widely. "Fine. I'll take a nap and then you can give me the lowdown."

He makes his way up the stairs, pausing to look out over the dark water of the Pacific, noting the ghostly curl of a distant wave crest or two before turning to his bedroom. Tony drops onto the bed and sleeps within minutes.

His sleep is dreamless, and deep.

When he wakes up just after dawn, Dummy is holding out a bottled water, practically pushing it into Tony's face.

"Gah! At least let me sit up," he grumbles, taking it and guzzling it down. He tosses the empty container to Dummy, who catches it easily . . . and drops it.

Tony rolls his eyes. "Brilliant. Out—go clean out pool drain or something. Jarvis?"

"Sir."

"Hypothesis?" Tony strips off his clothes and heads to the bathroom, scratching all the way. As he steps in, the lights go on, and the toilet seat lifts automatically. Tony takes his leak, yawning.

"Given the variables of Mr. Stane's personality and past record of his personal and professional actions, the most likely hypothesis in regards to his underhanded deviousness is that he ultimately wishes to acquire Stark Industries," Jarvis states blandly.

Tony says nothing, and flushes, his expression bleak. "Don't sugarcoat it there—yeah, I figured. But why hasn't he just . . . offed me?"

He looks up, naked and vulnerable in the bathroom light, his beard thick and hair long. In the mirror, Tony looks at himself and thinks he looks a bit like Da Vinci's Vetruvian Man, and holds out his arms just to check the comparison.

"He has not 'offed' you, as you so quaintly put it, because of your valuable capacity to design weaponry, sir. You are, if I may use the vernacular, Obadiah's personal goose, laying golden eggs for the profit of Stark Industries."

Tony gives a long, slow nod and puts his arms down. "Yeah, that jives too. As long as I'm useful, I get to live. Any other reason?"

"You own controlling interest in the company, and although your capacity is diminished from a practical standpoint, you have not been officially diagnosed or determined as incapacitated in any legal documentation. Mr. Stane has attempted to circumvent the provisions laid out in your late father's will, and has been unable to do so thus far because of your isolation. Should he bring you back into public scrutiny, there would be considerable interest from the media and the board of Stark Industries."

"Great. So I'm the stubborn little cog in the gears of SI, and because I can make big booms, Obie figures it's worth coming out here once a week and babysitting me."

"That," Jarvis concurs, "Seems to be the size of it, sir."

Tony steps into the shower and lets the water run over him. He turns his face up into the rushing stream, plants his hands on the tile wall, bracing himself, and because he can't deny it any longer, he weeps.

This is the way he cries, when he must. Tony has always heard that men don't cry; that tears are for the weak and cowardly. His father believed that, and Obie believes that. Tony knows though, that sooner or later, when the pain is too much and the heavy ache in his throat becomes unbearable, that crying is inevitable.

It doesn't happen often, but Tony is wise enough not to fight it.

Years of visits, years of pizza and beer and sports scores and pep talks and avuncular support, Tony thinks. All a sham. Or maybe not; he wishes he knew for sure. Obadiah has a magnificent poker face, but to keep it up for nearly twenty years is a hell of a record for anyone. Tony snuffles and turns away from the stream, reaching for the soap.

Obadiah and all his faces, Tony thinks. His laugh, his careless pats and hugs and gestures. His scowl, Tony remembers. The shouting, the threats to leave and not come back. The biting comments that could have gotten uglier with just one more glass of scotch for either of them.

The nights of schematics and plans and brainstorming. The pros and cons mixed with praise and condemnation.

For a while, Tony hates Pepper. Hates that she's brought this truth out, and let the little doubts he's had grow. And you've *always* had a few, haven't you Tony? He thinks bitterly.

After a few more rough scrubs, Tony rinses off and climbs out, shaking the water from his hair, feeling a need to beat something with his fists. He heads down to the gym and without even warming up, tears into the punching bag, landing blow after blow against the vinyl and canvas surface. Tony feels heat all through his body, the hate radiating out of his skin, flushing him, tempering him.

When he's had enough, Tony wipes the sweat from his forehead and totters over to the edge of the indoor pool, splashing some of water on his face. His reflection, he thinks, looks a little like a bitter version of Tarzan, shaggy and sullen. He dips his hands in one more time and heads to the workshop.

"Jarvis?"

"Sir?"

"What does Obie watch?"

He doesn't need to clarify; Jarvis knows what Tony means.

"Mr. Stane checks daily to see that you have risen, and that you have eaten," Jarvis replies. "He also scans the footage of your blood draws and . . . . panic attacks."

"Does he watch . . . Doctor Potts?" Tony whispers.

"Yes sir, I am afraid he does."

Tony's eyes narrow and he heads towards the workshop, rolling his shoulders to loosen them. "Music. I want it loud and harsh; whatever fits the criteria."

Jarvis responds instantly and Sons of Azrael blares out with enough power to make most unsecured surfaces vibrate. Tony manages a grim smile and moves towards the lathing machines.

He works. The seemingly random and scattershot way Tony moves through his workshop defy anyone else's logical direction, but as ever, he knows what he's doing and what he wants. Under his careful control, the inner workings join and come online; long and short polished outer pieces of armor begin to take shape. Tony handles delicate fusing jobs along with the heavy grunt work of moving metal plate around.

Tony chooses not to think, but to do. In time, the design in his head becomes reality under his fingertips. He calls on Jarvis to scan him, and calibrate his body measurements, then applies the numbers to the metal exoskeleton laid out on the worktables. Dummy and Butterfingers race around bringing tools, carrying equipment, holding, toting and retrieving needed components.

The armor comes together.

Tony takes a break, absently stroking the Thing in his chest. He notes that it's nearly sunset now, and the ache in his gut is telling him that food would be a great idea.

Jarvis, what's in the fridge?"

"Leftover steak, ingredients for sandwiches, a minute amount of guacamole and cold fried chicken," the AI reports. "Along with various beverages and condiments."

Now his bladder is complaining, and Tony sighs, moving to the little bathroom in the workshop. He calls over his shoulder. "Have Dummy make me a steak and guacamole sandwich then, with a beer. Has Obie peeked in today?"

"Twice, sir. I am streaming old video footage of you with the timestamps altered."

"Good," Tony nods grimly. "Establish a secure, outside connection to Doctor Potts' cell phone please."

She answers on the second ring, her voice puzzled. "Hello?"

"You need to make me more guacamole, Doctor. I've sort of polished it off," he announces as he washes his hands.

"T-Tony?" Her voice goes from puzzled to astonished and Tony likes the breathiness of it.

"Yep. If you need to reach me, use this number; Jarvis will pipe you in and Obie won't know," he tells her. "We're off his radar."

"That's what you think," Pepper sighs. "He wants me to drug you, Mr. Stark."

"More?"

"Yep. Apparently this project you're doing is important enough that he wants to pump you up on amphetamines to get it done on time."

"Christ," Tony grits his teeth. "This means I've got some lost time to make up for, since I'll need to get that crap finished before his next visit. Okay, I can't talk long because I'm going to be fanatically busy, BUT I need you to find somebody for me."

"Wait, wait, I need to tell you to STOP taking the vitamins first. I think that's how you're getting the Luminal," he hears her babble. "It's the only ingestible that you take consistently, so promise me you'll avoid them, all right?"

"Vitamins?" Tony mutters, and nods—not that he can see her. "Yeah, okay. I can have Jarvis analyze one to confirm. Fuck, that's one devious way of doing me."

"Tony—" Her voice is nervous now. "You're likely to have, um, withdrawal symptoms."

"Yeah, yeah," he brushes that aside, already thinking of the Jericho project. "But since the doses have been minor, they can't be too bad, right?"

"Tony," she repeats in a tone he's learning to recognize. But he's tired, and even with Jarvis doing the grunt work on Jericho, there's still a shitload to do, so he gives a low, exasperated growl.

"I can handle it, I can. Hell, I'll *have* to. I'll sleep and drink lots of water after I deliver the goods to Obie."

"That won't be until after I see you next," Pepper points out. "Listen to me! I want you to get at LEAST six hours of sleep right now, otherwise . . ."

Tony waits, curious to hear what she'll used to threaten him.

There's only one thing that would work.

"Otherwise I won't . . . bring guacamole," Pepper finishes lamely.

He laughs, but there's a little relief in it; a little hysteria. "Pulling out the big guns. Okay. I'll sleep. But before I do, I need you to try and find someone for me. Someone Obie told me was dead, but clearly I can't believe everything I've been told."

"Dead?"

"Yeah," Tony grunts, brushing his hair out of his eyes. "His name's Ramiz. Doctor Ramiz Yinsen."