p • r • e • s • s • u • r • e

i m p a c t

Both SMed and Safr were part of the  Stark Industries conglomerate,  and both had recently experienced a sudden influx of funding for some very specific research.

Tony was acutely aware of the legal implications of using company resources to bankroll his personal science projects. This awareness in no way elevated the number of shits he currently gave on the matter, which was a resolute zero. If in the end he was helping people and managed to keep it a secret, did it matter what his reasons were? Besides, the windfall was enormous, which was enough to satisfy the board and investors, and as long as nobody clever enough got their hands on any of the team's gear, he was in the clear. So what if Peter's prototype on the wall was equipped with a modified taser that wouldn't hit the markets for another four years? It already killed him that it was necessary. The heart attack from worrying about the kid would get him before the misappropriation of funds did. In Tony's opinion, it should just be called "spending your own money" and by no accounts should it have its own legislation. 

He was three inches from the couch when some gutting force took over his body, compromising it structural integrity completely. He crumpled into the cushions. Tony's eyes sprung shut and wrenched themselves open, two little mouse traps snapping violently against his brain. 

He dug around his pocket for his phone and checked over Peter and May's itinerary, shot Peter a text to ensure all was well. Pete's tracker put him at his relatives' house and-shit. It was about five in the morning in Dublin. Tony hoped he hadn't woken him up. He tossed the phone aside with a moody little huff. An itching sensation sprouted between his skin and his bones, tiny little weeds that grew their way out of his throat in vines and squeezed around his heart-

He sat up and coughed, catching his breath while the panic subsided, waiting while the sea calmed and his boat evened out. But the itch remained, and he felt nothing. His mind craved pain, and so his subconscious worked to incite feelings of guilt, egging him on.

Tony thought of Morgan, of  how he nearly left her fatherless. Of the way Peter disintegrated in his arms and how he'd only gone and died when the kid had finally gotten him back.

He thought of how Peter brought him back, working tirelessly with no hope and no regard for himself. 

He recalled Pepper handling the press, the company, taking care of Morgan alone and how he missed Donuts with Dad on that Wednesday back in February. Tony bathed himself in guilt and longed for the sofa to swallow him whole, to hide in between the cushions with all the little forgotten things, and oh, how he envied them. 

Tony sighed, breathing life back into some ancient creature lay wasting away at the bottom of his soul. 

He grimaced, a thin line of bleak determination fuelled by the thrill of running on fumes, like staying up late and fasting for weeks, that strange high he'd always gotten from denying himself what he needed and surviving all the same, of revelling in his own artificial selflessness. Of conquering nature, and brandishing her head about at anyone who dared love him, begging them with all but his words to for God's sake, run away. 

It was the same smile he wore right before he put the gauntlet on. He knew what was about to happen. He'd been waiting his whole life for it. 

Tony let a hand snake up to his chest where the arc reactor hummed. It had been nearly sixteen years since Yinsen scooped out his sternum but the site remained sore, still painful when agitated. Of course he should have done something about it. People go under the knife for much, much less. But to him, it was a nonissue. Nobody really touched him aside from Pepper, who believed him when he told her it was just sensitive and weirdly numb, like any scar tissue. She had no idea. He'd be failing her if she did.