For the first time in years, Tony visits the house where he grew up.
The curtains are mouldy, the floorboards rotting in some places. There's a few broken windows and evidence of squatters, but Tony doesn't care. He bypasses all remaining mentions of his parents and heads straight to the Gatekeepers Guard.
He holds his breath as he steps inside.
Oh.
Even holding it, air is knocked from his lungs.
It looks the same.
Exactly the same. Wonderfully so. Nothing is moved, and it seems to have fared remarkably well in comparison of the manor, the only evidence of the time away is a slightly mouldy smell and the thick layer of dust.
He sits in the middle of the living room, on his knees, in front of the fireplace, and nearly weeps.
This is where he grew up, with the fire going and Jarvis sitting on that faded burgundy armchair, Ana with her feet up on the couch, no matter how undignified Jarvis says it is. He makes himself get up and move to the kitchen, where it hits him so strong he sways on his feet.
This is where Ana baked and Jarvis set things on fire. The only recipe he could do was creme brulee, and Tony can still taste the charred sugar on his tongue.
He only spends a few minutes in the kitchen, then braces himself, and walks into the bedroom.
It hits him like a truck — no, an air-plane, a jumbo jet of nostalgia and hurt and memories like an old, faded t-shirt, wrinkled and worn, but the best thing you've ever worn.
This is Ana, with her perfume and her lipstick, and he can see her now, sitting at the vanity, doing her hair. He loved to watch. Red, he remembers. He loved the color, how she would unfurl the waves from her rollers in the mornings, coil them at night.
Here, she spritzed him with perfume and laughed when he sneezed, here she pecked him on the lips with shiny red lipstick, leaving faint impressions. Here, he watched her religiously every night, had her evening routine memorised, knew every step before she did it.
There is photos on the bedroom dresser, sun-stained and yellowed, but clearly Tony. He must be young, about six, smiling into the camera. Jarvis is holding him around the shoulders, Ana standing behind them, daring a mischievous smile into the camera. He doesn't remember where it was taken, but the thoughts strikes him that they look like a family.
Huh. Tony Stark having a family.
The thought almost makes him sick, he holds a hand over his mouth and stumbles outside, throwing open the door and collapsing into the grass. It stains his knees and dirt gets underneath his fingernails, and that brings back even more memories, Ana with her wide, floppy hat, planting tulips. Jarvis, wearing one identical to Ana, reading a book. Him, tanned, digging into the fertile earth with his bare hands.
He wretches himself away from it, stumbling over to a patch of trees by the gate, where the flashiest car he owns is parked, just to annoy dad and make Jarvis tut his tongue and smile.
For a moment, he lets himself rest, lean on the bonnet, rest his forehead on the cool metal. He counts to ten, lets his heartbeat echo in his ears. He pulls out his phone from his pocket, dialling a number he knows by heart.
"Hello, WHiH World News, where can I direct your call?"
"Christine Everhart, please."
"Right away," the receptionist says, and there's a click as his call gets processed.
"Hello," Christine answers, there is the tapping of computer keys in the background and a kind of focus in her voice Tony remembers from his own.
"Hi, Christine," he says lazily. The typing stops. "Did I ever congratulate you on leaving Vanity Fair?"
"You sent flowers," she says reservedly.
"Ah. Were they nice?"
"Very," she answers, amused.
He's about to launch into one of his rambles when she cuts him off, sensing it.
"How are you?"
"Eh," he sighs, "going through some PTSD, unresolved trauma, a heavy guilt complex, alcoholism plus all the struggles of my life. What's up?"
"You're the one who called me," she says, and he can hear the raised eyebrow.
"You got me," he admits, and then continues before she can cut in with a witty comment, "I'd like to do an interview."
"An interview? About what?" it's not uncommon, no, it's just surprising. Tony's given out far more than he usually does, and any more from this point is killing overkill several times. The others are drunk and giddy, but Christine's only suspicious. She wonders if Tony's trying to flood the market, make any gossip about him worthless.
There's a pause, and Christine can hear birdsong behind him. She wrinkles her brow, trying to hear more.
"Tony?" she asks, unsure if he's still there.
"Sorry," he apologizes, "uh, it — it's about, well, my childhood."
"Still on that? " Christine teases.
Tony laughs, honestly and earnestly, "yeah, I guess. This one, though. This one is — is big ."
"Who?"
"Ana and Edwin Jarvis."