A/N: Consider this my (early) birthday gift to you. 😉🎁🎂 And a very late happy holidays. Oh and happy Iron Lung movie birthday! Stoked to see the premier tomorrow! 🩸And yes, the next chapter will take quite some time to complete as it is in the very early draft phase. So just as long if not longer it will take to finish, unfortunately. 😔 And boy, these parts keep getting longer, don't they? 😏
this one's a little less exciting, more so dealing with housekeeping and emotional stuff. Hence my surprise at the word count, lol. I guess I like torturing myself with adding so many details, who knows. 🤷♀️
Stalker!Yandere!Tony Stark x Fem!Reader- To Steal and Dote On (Same tags as prev. apply, plus: ANGST so much angst, Police involvement, Stressed Reader, Stressed Tony, Pepper POV, Didn't expect to write Pepper's POV but here we are, Pepper needs a new job, Someone come get this boy cuz he's spiraling, Oh and Reader too, Description of possible/impending Panic Attack, Tony also panics but in a different way, Tony discovers there are consequences to his actions, Tony commits crimes to solve his problems yet again)
Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 |
Chapter 4: Double-Edged Stress
(gif is not mine I promise. This was the only source I could find 😭)
Taglist: @the-gay-trash-gremlin | @hhh76467 | @ive-made-so-many-mistakes | @rainyturtleyouth | @yarn-mony (if anyone wants to be added for this fic just let me know!)
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“I don't know what's gotten into you, Tony, but you're not flaking out on me this time.” Pepper Potts rolls her eyes for what feels like the umpteenth time as she drags her boss by his sleeve, moving them further into the innermost depths of Stark Tower. “We have about ten minutes before the 3 o'clock starts, and everyone's in the room already except for us. And I don’t think I need to mention they are expecting you there as well. Was that not the promise you made to me yesterday?” She hedges, her voice straining to the point of snapping from the tension laced between her words.
“But Pep,” the man whines like a puppy, and she has half a mind to strangle him. He begins another sentence but she fires back quicker.
“If you skip out on being the CEO again today, your company will start tanking— hard.” Her tone leaves no room for argument and demands attentiveness. “It’ll take longer to pick up the pieces, and I may not be here when that happens.” She swivels her head to glare at the brunette fumbling on his feet behind her, trying to match her unrelenting, swift pace. “Is that what you want, Stark?”
Tony grumbles something as her head turns forward, beelining for the elevator.
She waits for a clearer answer that doesn't come.
“Well?” She prods, silently gauging how long it'll take to pack up her stuff and make the necessary arrangements to leave by the end of the day and never look back.
“No ma’am,” he groans in a monotone fashion, sounding frustrated and exasperated in the same breath, “wouldn’t dream of it.”
Damn.
Maybe next time.
If the pay wasn't so good, and if she wasn't aware she was quite the valuable asset to keeping the gears of Stark Industries running on the daily, she would've left a long time ago.
——————————————————————————————————
It felt like an eternity had passed before you heard the distinct shuffling, jingling, and murmuring sounds from the pair of officers approaching your form. You have no idea how you looked as you were wringing your hands together, pacing by your front door; all you could tell about yourself was that you felt a mess. You probably scored marks into the wood flooring from how forceful your turns were in the same spots.
“Have you already entered the residence?” You vehemently shake your head. There was no way you were going to venture inside not knowing who or what could be in there, lurking and waiting for the right moment to pounce. You were already anxious enough from even standing near your apartment. The taller, bulkier-built policeman sniffled and made a rough sound in his throat— something akin to a cough or as if he was clearing it. “Alright, then.” He shares a look with his partner before he takes a few steps towards your opened unit, drawing his pistol from its sheath perched on his hip. “NYPD! Come out with your hands up!”
You didn’t move from your spot as the officers went through your apartment, feeling rooted there as the shuffling of their footsteps and muffled commands were exclaimed every so often.
You were, however, able to catch the electronic trill of a radio and the tail-end of a voice.
“—igns of intrusion through the window,”
Your heart drops to the damn floor.
You’re wrought with fearful anticipation as their boots march back out into the hallway, standing in front of you once more while they put away their firearms.
“There’s no one inside your apartment, miss. If there was anyone inside, they're long gone.”
A heavy swallow drags itself down your throat.
“If there's nothing else you need from us, we'll take our leave now.”
…
What?
They weren’t even going to check your door for tampering?
Not even for any fingerprints?
“But my door-”
“You probably had it unlocked when you left. Or left it ajar without realizing. It happens to lots of folks.”
Your eyebrows cinch together as you watch the policeman shrug his shoulders. There are no words you can find that efficiently describe what you want to say to them as you silently stare at the taller one. He, apparently, was the only vocal one of the pair.
Your eyes slowly trail over toward his quieter, younger partner when you notice that his body, more leaner than his coworker, begins shifting in place. He moves an arm up toward his face to tighten the cap he wears further down on his head, as if in a deliberate effort to avoid your critical gaze. The man then shuffles to lean his weight to his opposite side, seemingly waiting for something.
You really couldn’t decide whether these boys in blue were worse compared to the ones you talked to at the precinct or not.
The older officer releases an agitated breath, the sound drawing your attention over to him as he jabs a thumb over his shoulder to your agape front door. “Ma’am, nothing in your apartment appeared out of place; unless you don’t have a habit of keeping your home disorganized.” You bristle at the unwarranted criticism. “There is no evidence indicating that your apartment was broken into. How long have you lived here, miss?”
Taken aback at the inquiry, you hesitantly respond in confusion. “For a while now… almost a year?”
He hums to himself, as if you confirmed something. “And I take it you are quite acquainted with this area?”
Your eyes narrow as your brows draw together, not understanding where he was going with this. “...Yes…”
”Then you should be well-aware of how much criminal activity runs in this part of New York. Suspicious actions are to be expected here. So failing to lock your entry points only puts you in unnecessary danger. Not to mention it uses up invaluable resources that could be used to assist other folks in life-or-death emergencies who need it. Lacking the personal responsibility to keep yourself safe and being unaware of the kind of the neighborhood you chose to live in is not a law enforcement problem. It puts the ones who need immediate help at risk.”
You have half a mind to spit his words right back at him, to poke at the fact the police are incompetent at their jobs if they all know how bad your area has gotten and seemingly haven’t taken any notable courses of action in the past to change it for the better. Not that you’ve heard of during your time here, anyway.
Another part of you wants to punch his face and make them fix it, to take the damn evidence that you know should be there so it can lead to something tangible, at least.
And there’s a small part of you that wants to release an anguished cry.
Instead, you settle for: “I know I locked this door when I left for work.”
“And you could’ve already entered the apartment even before you called 9-1-1. Unless you know exactly who would’ve done this?” He ventures with partially raised brows, giving you the opening you’ve been waiting for to explain your side.
Immediately your lips part to answer and you start to make a sound, before the words die in your throat as your mouth abruptly clamps shut. You knew, yet didn’t know who was doing this to you; and grimly understood that elaborating on your ordeal would be a waste of time. You would just be regurgitating what you already said on your visit to the police station. Hell, you didn’t even know if the intruder was connected to your admirer, and this could've been an unfortunate coincidence. It was literally your word against whoever this person was, and the thought twists your stomach to nausea as your head lowers to face the floor.
“Right,” the male slowly drawls at your silence, and you feel a spark of irritation crawl up your spine at the tone he used. It was as if you had justified his preconceived notions of you, which were not appreciated on your end. “Then there’s nothing more we can do here.” You wet your lips and speak up as you witness one pair of black combat boots start to shift. “I have an open report with the NYPD, and want to add this incident to it,” you mutter firmly.
The patronizing officer stops in his tracks and sighs, before turning around to face you again. You can hear one of them fumbling to fish out a notepad and pen from one of the compartments on his uniform— the younger one, probably— as the more verbal companion speaks.
“What’s your full name?”
You answer all of his questions robotically, not finding it worth the effort to look up and meet their eyes through any of it.
When it’s all said and done, your head tilts up just enough to watch the older officer quickly scan over the information on the sheets of paper held out by his partner. A nod has the skinnier male stashing the items away as the other looks at you.
“Thank you for your cooperation.”
“You have a good day, ma'am.” The more avoidant cop finally spits out a sentence, albeit in a low and curt tone, as he dips his head before scurrying after his partner.
The moment you see them turn the corner, your arms hold your body tighter— your nails slowly digging into your sides the more your mind begins to boil over in a concoction of indignation, fury, and despair.
You were not, in fact— having a good day.
——————————————————————————————————
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Potts.” The youngest individual of the group held Pepper’s hand in a firm shake, smiling gratefully. She matched the redhead’s expression in kind with a nod of her head, strands of hair fallen loose from her ponytail gently swaying close to her profile with the motion. The woman laughed politely, just enough to sound out the feeling of ease and have it taper off softly, giving off the appropriate dose of composure and friendliness.
“Please, Miss is fine.” The male rubbed the back of his neck, releasing a sort of half-laugh of his own that sounded much more rough and genuine. He stopped himself to clear the grittiness of it with a cough, and a vague tint of color rose to his cheekbones.
Tony, standing off to the side, rolled his eyes with his whole head and turned away from the scene.
In the middle of crossing his arms, they fell to his sides when his peripherals caught something in the distance and a lightbulb sparked alive in his head.
“Right, my apologies.” The man conversing with Pepper winces, but is otherwise still jovial as he chuckles over his own embarrassment. One of his colleagues nudged his shoulder, leaning in to whisper something in his ear. The redhead bobbed his head in agreement, turning his attention back to Pepper, the light-heartedness of his presence toned down considerably now. “I trust that you will consider our offer?”
The CEO of Stark Industries began inching away from the pair, a spark of hope igniting the blaze of adrenaline in him each time a shuffle of his shoes along the squeaky tile went unnoticed every couple of seconds. The timing couldn’t have been more perfect.
“Of course we will.” The business-clad woman reassured, steadily holding the gaze of the redhead with her own as she calmly spoke. “Right, Tony?”
The brunette halted as if he suddenly lost mobility, shaken with the ever-constant yet always surprising knowledge that Pepper Potts seemed to have eyes of hawks implanted in the back of her fucking head.
Or she had a sixth sense when it came to him.
Probably both, actually.
Hm. He’d have to look into that more another day, just to be sure.
Turning on his heel to face them, Anthony Stark clocked his employee’s expression and knew then and there that trying to completely ditch her— at least right now— was out of the question.
He groaned to himself like a child caught in the cookie jar, but otherwise kept that disappointment and frustration from showing on his face.
“Yeah, of course. Y’know, uh, we’ll call you.”
An awkward pause settled over them as the investors digested Tony’s answer, wordlessly exchanging looks with each other. Breaking the silence was the redhead, who made small noises when he realized he was still holding onto Pepper’s hand, pulling his appendage back and letting out another small laugh, offering his apologies. Their conversation quickly resumed, and Tony resigned himself to stand by and impatiently wait until the pair parted ways and the men started to trickle away to the elevator at the end of the hall.
Pepper’s head whipped toward her boss, and he now took back all his comparisons of her to fairytale dragons of old.
She was now resembling that creepy doll from the 80’s: always watching, practically stalking him, making demands, and absolutely going to murder him if that look in her eye was any indication.
Before she could get a word in, however, the billionaire raised his palms up, wiggling his fingers.
“Bathroom break, Pep.” Tony flashes a quick smile that probably did nothing to save face, backing up with his thumbs pointing behind him.
“You said you’d do this Tony.” She stresses, lips curving downward in an unpleasant arch.
“And I am,” he hated saying the words, but it was true. He couldn’t leave yet. “Two seconds, tops.”
Pepper Potts looked downright skeptical, and by all accounts, should have been entirely unconvinced. Even still, the woman sighed deeply, looking away and closing her eyes. “You won’t be, but fine. I expect you back in time for the next one.”
“Cross my heart,” he easily replied, mimicking the motion with his hand despite knowing she wouldn’t see it, before quickly spinning back around to beeline toward the restrooms on that particular floor of the tower. After pushing open the door to the men’s room, the billionaire whispered to seemingly no-one, breath caught and low, laced with bubbling trepidation. “J.A.R.V.I.S., are we alone?”
The A.I.’s inflection chimed, filling the sterile space with a sophisticated voice that bounced off the walls and floors like an invisible ping-pong ball. “Just you, sir. No other lifeforms detected.”
Thank god.
Tony heaved in relief, whipping out a small device and began to frantically tap away at it. “Jay, I need an armor deployed at (Your address), a collection and extraction mission.” His words were rushed, sounding more worried with every syllable he spoke.
“Do you have a preference for the mark used, sir?”
The brunette wet his lips, preparing to answer when an abrupt series of raps on the door startled him into silence and made his hands shake.
“That’s more than two seconds, Anthony.”
Pepper.
She must’ve followed him shortly after his departure and was, in fact, entirely suspicious of his word.
“The next slot just arrived at the room, and they’re already waiting for us.”
Fuck.
Shit.
He needed more time.
He needed to do this himself, to make sure it was done and everything was fixed.
Why today of all days?
Why did he have to—
Tony’s gaze fleetingly caught his reflection in the mirror then; how wide his eyes were, and how utterly ragged he appeared, unhelped by the heaving of his chest.
He didn’t realize how badly he was trembling until now.
If he doesn’t—
You’ll…
It’ll all be for nothing.
The man shook his head, gasping for oxygen like a fish deprived of water, before steeling himself by way of squinting eyes and clenched teeth.
“Almost finished!” he called out with a forced lightness he didn’t feel, before turning down to the device clutched knuckle-white in his hands. “Send whatever; just get it done,” he firmed in an even lower tone— practically growling— as the pads of his fingers swiped and tapped away a few more times before pocketing the device. He barely heard the response of his A.I. as he marched for the swinging door, thoughts swirling with a darker intensity.
“As I said, Miss Potts,” he declared, entering the hall with all the bravado of a man who was completely fine. He found his secretary leaning against a wall that adjoined the bathrooms on his left, clacking her heel on the reflective floor and checking her watch. The moment they met eyes, his smile was practically beaming. He hoped it blinded her enough to not find what he was struggling to keep away from the surface. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
——————————————————————————————————
You weren't sure how much longer you lingered outside your unit's threshold, much like a pedestrian loitering around an establishment who either was waiting for something or deciding on what to do.
For you, it was the latter. Or rather, both of those things with a splash of fear mixed into the concoction of other emotions you were feeling the longer you stood there.
It wasn't just the shock of the lack of help you received, courtesy of the NYPD earlier. Rather, it was discovering for yourself what laid beyond that plank of wood on metal hinges. And in turn, realizing with further disparity that your space— your home— was no longer private to yourself, and accepting that fact the moment you crossed over that line.
It was almost too much to bear.
Needing something else to distract you from facing your new truth, you dialed up your landlord’s number, worrying your bottom lip with your teeth and planning on how to say what was only just running through your brain a few minutes ago.
“Yes?” The tell-tale crackle of his flat voice comes through, and you almost sighed in relief. The man had a habit of not answering calls at the worst of times. Things were already looking up for you, surely.
“Mr. Garrett, it’s (Name). I have a problem with my apartment.” You start in a hushed whisper, not wanting anyone overhearing should they happen to pass by you unawares. You would go inside your apartment to take the call, but you would feel less secure inside there than walking in the alleys of New York right now— earlier police check be damned. Your landlord didn’t respond, and you took that as your sign to continue. “Now, I was wondering if you could call someone to change the locks to my apartment and get new keys for it? Preferably today? It doesn’t feel safe here now that this has happened, and it would make me feel a lot better if—”
“I’m going to stop you there, Miss (Last name).” Your sentence trails off at his abruptness, already dreading his response. “Unless there was a break-in—”
“But I did have a break-in.” You state, any semblance of patience rising within you dissipating faster each second.
“Well, disregarding that, I can’t just have someone come out right now this late in the day,” your eyebrow twitches as his drawl trails off, expecting you to agree with the absurd fact that all keysmiths close in the early evenings. “What I can do is look into sending someone out to fix your doorknob, but nothing will be done until the start of next week. If you insist on a change of locks, you’ll have to cough up the money and fill out the necessary paperwork yourself, which will take up to a week to process after I approve it.”
Your eyes practically bulge out of their sockets.
Did you hear that correctly or was he crazy?
Two whole days of absolutely nothing done by your landlord? When you clearly had a vital issue that needed immediate attention? And why did you have to pay for it? Wasn’t it his responsibility to maintain his building?
“And what am I supposed to do until then?” You couldn't mask the snippiness in your tone fast enough as you grit your teeth, slowly speaking in a clearer and louder volume as your frustration bubbled. “I need this done; this unit isn’t safe and I don’t have anywhere else to stay.” You stress, your voice cracking a bit as you urge your landlord to reconsider as you choke out the words.
“Then you’ll have to simply deal with it until then, now won't you?”
Indignation lights up like a fire in your body.
“Good night now, Miss (Last name). Don’t call me at this hour again.”
The line clicks dead and you want to kick and scream at the wall you’re facing, and you mentally curse out your condescending, lazy bastard of a landlord.
Soon though, the flames of rage dissipate into uncertainty and anguish once more.
You fought with yourself for an undeterminable amount of time, calming yourself down enough with deep breaths and mental reassurances, only for your panic to spike as you remembered why entering your unit was such a terrible thing and your muscles had stiffened in a protest of moving.
Eventually, with much deliberation, and despite one side of your brain still itching at you to turn tail, your tense form finally pushed forward and you entered your apartment.
Assessing your living room and kitchen space was accompanied in such a heavy silence you felt you would choke on it if you inhaled wrong. You then blinked, furrowed your brows, and did a double scan.
This was your apartment, yes.
And it wasn't that messy, just… cluttered. The random deliveries could attest to that.
More importantly, nothing seemed to be ransacked at first glance. Some of your belongings appeared out of place, but you honestly weren’t sure whether to chalk that up to you being forgetful in returning them to their designated spots or from the police commencing their search and knocking things over by happenstance.
You honestly couldn’t remember.
Still, things appeared to be normal in your apartment so far.
A long, drawn out breath left your body. Hesitant at first, you became more confident the longer you stood there in your space. You then quickly spun around to close your door and lock it, fidgeting with it and checking it over three times to confirm it was secure. An odd rumbling came from somewhere in the knob that you've never heard before, and it made your task more difficult than normal, but it hardly mattered now. It wasn't lockpicked in your time here before today, and you wouldn't be surprised if that's why it now sounded like that.
Your hands clenched and unclenched at your sides, still uneasy to advance further at the thought of finding something unsavory beyond your bedroom.
It was easier to psyche yourself into calming down enough to check it out this time, however. In fact, you practically beelined toward your sleeping sanctuary, almost running into the door because your momentum just about slammed your pivoting shoulder into the slab of wood.
When you were fully inside your bedroom, you found yourself spinning around in circles, trying to find something that wasn't there.
Then your head swiveled toward your bathroom, now flying over to inspect it, your hand clutching the handle of the door and swinging it open.
Your frantic eyes catch yourself in the mirror hanging to your left above the sink, and you almost stumble backward, shocked at how frightened they look. Your feet, clad in your work-appropriate heels, loudly click and clack away from your bathroom tile to the carpet of your bedroom once more, dulled by the fibers beneath. Your body impacts a soft cushion behind you and you let yourself plop onto your bed, your body relieving the tension in your muscles from the familiar comfort.
Your mind, however, continues to race as you lie there, becoming more unbearable each second that goes by.
You’re hungry, but god, you can’t think about eating right now.
You need to do something, but your body is screaming for rest.
You can’t relax, because of what has happened.
You don’t feel safe.
And more than that…
You don’t want to be alone.
The next thing you know, your phone is in your hand and your unsteady fingers are tapping away in an autonomous fashion.
They swipe toward the first person you could think of before bringing the device to your ear.
“(Name), he-”
“(Friend name), oh my god-” you choke out through stuttering breaths and fold your body into yourself, actually on the verge of crying but you can't find it in yourself to care how ugly you may sound or even try to mask it.
“Damn airplane mode was still on,” she mutters, peeved, clicking her tongue as if in displeasure. There’s a muffled cacophony of noises on the other line that indicate she’s in a crowd of people as she speaks. “Battery was low, too; I was just about to call you myself if I missed it.” You let her voice wash over you like a soothing, warm bath. She somehow feels far away yet close at the same time. A meek, incredibly pathetic-sounding laugh comes out of your lungs and you realize your emotions are spilling over faster now. “You sound upset… and you never call like that unless it’s something important. What's wrong, (Name)?” You try to compose yourself before speaking again, yet you can tell that your voice is still watery akin to the salty tears pooling under your eyes.
”I— something has happened.”
“What is it? What the fuck happened? Are you okay?” her tone flips from a wary seriousness to urgency like a switch, her strained questions firing off one after the other like gunshots. “You don't sound okay. Did someone hurt you? Where are you? Are you in your apartment?” Her too-close-to-home assumptions almost have you breaking down all over again.
You take in a deep, shuddering breath that doesn’t help your words waver any less. “I need to stay at your place tonight.”
There's a singular beat of silence before you hear her shrilly bellow out TAXI! in the background.
“I’m on my way.”
——————————————————————————————————
Ignoring her boss as the meeting droned on was easier said than done; Tony would constantly move in the rolling chair and keep doing something with his hands. Wringing them together, moving them to his lap under the table, then bringing them up to tap at the surface of it with his nails, to picking up the pen lying close to him and twirling it or using that to— again— repeatedly hit the table in some vague yet consistent musical motif she couldn’t place if she tried.
It felt endless, and the poor, overworked secretary was sure if their guests weren’t already annoyed, distracted, or both by Tony’s fidgeting, they would soon.
Pepper leaned over to her right, whispering her boss’ name as discreetly as possible.
He didn’t seem to even hear her, and she now noticed he was muttering to himself and staring out into nothing.
Great; he wasn’t even trying to pay attention.
Fortunately, the speaker at the end of the room was preoccupied with the incorrect graphics displayed on the projected screen, talking in hushed whispers to his cohorts as they were adjusting the slides to function properly.
“Tony.” She gritted her teeth, putting more urgent emphasis on the name of the billionaire sitting next to her as her hand reached up to grasp at his shoulder.
“What?” he bites out, whipping his head toward her with a glare in his eyes that was completely uncalled for.
She’s frozen for a moment, trying to process why he donned such an expression and aimed it at her. Pepper continued, lowering her tone further. “Are you even paying attention?”
“Please, who do you take me for, Potts? I thought we moved past the third-grade lectures and the hand-holding stage.” The billionaire released a puff of air, rolling his eyes so obnoxiously it made the hand clutching him twitch. She was almost impressed that such an exaggerated sound went unnoticed by the men huddled across the room like a gaggle of penguins.
Pepper’s eyes narrowed into slits, her whole body screaming a resounding “yes.”
He did need hand-holding apparently, because that was her job.
But she digresses.
It was not worth starting an argument over, when he was finally cooperating as the CEO he was supposed to be for once.
The brunette glanced at her so quickly she almost didn’t see it. “They couldn’t disinterest me more if they tried.” He seemed to cool a bit after that comment, adopting a more pensive expression now. Her hand falls from Tony’s shoulder at the change, intrigued. Her boss shifts, now sitting a bit straighter, eyes fixated upon the group across the room. He leans closer to his secretary, as if he’s getting ready to tell a gossipy secret in the cafeteria of a high school. “They’re promising innovative tech, something I apparently don’t already have that will change our lives, and yet they can’t even figure out basic keyboard commands.” A hand of his rises and waves aimlessly around in the air, in a manner of dismissal toward the suits in question.
Was that what he was upset about? Over something he knew the solution to and decided to stew in place over instead of providing input? Or helping them? While doing the latter would be laced with light condescending quips and playful prods than the tone he did don, it’s what he would typically do.
Not whatever… tantrum this was.
It’s the redhead’s turn to roll her eyes. “It could be their first time presenting their work, Tony. Not everyone’s a tech wizard.” She attempts to edge a bit more sincerity into her comment, fleetingly hoping the placating nature of it would soothe his current mood.
Or at least view the situation in another perspective, such as giving them some credit for getting as far to secure a meeting with Stark Industries.
Neither outcome happens.
“No, but they could learn to be more prepared or outsource their technical ineptitude before embarrassing themselves. No one wants to see that.” He exhales roughly, as if trying to physically push out the thing that was irking his being. “This is just wasting our time when there’s someone else who can actually impress me.”
The woman frowns, trying to pinpoint any other time she’s firsthand witnessed her boss act so flippantly rude before. It could possibly be chalked up to whatever temperament he was having, but somehow, those pieces didn’t fit.
Their guests finally got their presentation sorted out to continue and had apologized to the two S.I. members, putting a halt to their hushed conversation at the table.
Something in her boss’ life, completely unbeknownst to Pepper Potts, was wrong. And throughout the rest of that conference, it ate at her thoughts so terribly she had stopped jotting notes or asking questions.
——————————————————————————————————
After the impromptu phone call with your friend, you hurriedly fluttered around your bedroom like a tornado, plucking things out of their resting places and twirling around in dizzying motions in a rush to gather everything your mental checklist came up with to take. But even when your modest suitcase was packed to the brim, you couldn’t stop moving.
It was better than doing nothing if you couldn’t turn your brain off, you supposed.
You nearly dropped your phone when it unexpectedly dinged in your unsteady hands.
‘(Friend name): Outside. Want me to come up?’
In all the time you’ve lived there, you’ve never booked it out of your apartment so fast before.
Reaching the lobby of your complex, the splintered wood of the entrance screamed in protest with a shrill CREE—AK as you pushed it open. Scanning the street, you easily spot your friend’s hand popping out of a taxi window and waving to you. Speeding towards the car, the side door opens by itself and as you approach, you witness your friend sliding away to make room.
“Damn, I was just about to call.” She sounds impressed as she waves the phone in her hand like she was greeting you, and by the surprise in her expression, you realize she probably just finished sending that text less than a minute ago.
The text of which you had only read the first word of.
Oops.
“Sorry,” you shake your head, climbing into the vehicle’s backseat, “just needed to get out of there.” Your sentence is broken up with pants, the exertion of pushing your legs so hard making it more difficult in moving your suitcase inside with you. As you buckle yourself in, the driver asks for a location.
“No apologies allowed,” (Friend name) admonishes softly with a tut, before stating with absolute certainty, “you would do the same for me, no questions asked.”
You smile softly in her direction and make an agreeable sound in your throat as she leans forward to rattle off her address, not having the energy to muster up a more enthusiastic response.
“You would, right?” She moves back in her seat and turns to playfully lock eyes with you, cocking a brow in such an overdramatic way that it has you forgetting why you were there for a fleeting moment.
“Of course,” the laugh, though soft and breathy, trails out of you easily as you place your hand over your chest. “Cross my heart.”
By the time you arrive at (Friend name’s) place of residence, the sundown of New York is nearly at its end, the sky bleeding from warm clouds of orange flames to softer streaks of frosted lavender with the weather to match. While you did pack a sweater or two, you neglected to put one on yourself in your hasty mental spiral and you find yourself instinctively shivering as a result.
Following in your friend’s steps, she leads you to her little nook in the brick-and-mortar building, up a few floors and tucked into a corner that marks the end of the hallway. The moment she enters, you’re hit with a wave of nostalgia as you peruse her barely-changed furnishings and decor.
“Welcome to mi casa, amiga,” (Friend name) flourishes towards her adobe with a proud grin and open arms, “why, it’s missed you so very much!” She pouts, edging a pleading tone in your voice that has guilt slamming into your soul. You can’t remember the last time you both spent time here.
“Where did you go for your trip again?” You inquire as you walk forward, the wheels of your suitcase rolling over the floor divider and jolting in your grasp from the impact.
“Y’know, France…” she trails off, uncertainty coating her voice.
“Ah yes, France. The country and language of passion.” You couldn’t help but automatically quip back, the familiarity of your banter flooding through you with ease as if she had never left.
As if nothing had changed.
“It was close,” she defends, and as you turn your head to look at her, she crosses her arms, now actually pouting.
When you bend to set your suitcase down onto the oak planks and stand straighter, the bleakness of your situation plants itself heavily on your shoulders. The weight is strong enough to push your body downward on the couch behind you and you lean forward, folding into yourself with your elbows digging sharply into your wary knees. You think you’re about to spiral again when (Friend name) shuffles to your side, settling on the cushions to your right.
“Hey,” her voice sounds cautious and too-soft for your liking. “Up for talking about it now or later?”
“I-I—” you start, then falter, feeling your tongue twisted and heavy in your mouth. You actually have no idea where to start and the words don’t want to come out. Making themselves known would be too real, and you don’t want to accept that fact just yet.
“Do I need to call someone? The police?” She hedges, bobbing her head forward, and the word “police” violently throws you back to that recent, undesirable encounter. You squint your eyes shut, trying to push those unsavory thoughts and emotions back.
Ruffling a hand through your hair, you shakily blow out a puff of air. “No, I… I just need a distraction from it, I think,” you open your eyes and roll your shoulders, the joints popping uncomfortably enough to make you groan aloud in discontent, “and some rest,” you add as an afterthought.
Her smile is equal parts faint and weary, and it is then you finally discover the bags formed under her eyes.
“You and me both.” Reaching behind you, she pulls a heavy fabric draped over the back of the sofa. Bundling the material in her arms, she stretches for the remote lying on the coffee table. “Feel okay enough to watch something?”
A relieved smile paints your lips and you let your body sink back into the marshmallow-colored cushions, finally allowing yourself to begin fully relaxing after your ordeal. You would figure out the details in the morning.
But for now, you were okay.
You were safe here.
And you weren’t alone.
“Always.”
——————————————————————————————————
The longer her boss sat in the following couple of meetings with her, the more unraveled he seemed to get; his earlier behaviors cranked up to a noticeably alarming amount.
It was borderline concerning, and Pepper’s earlier thoughts regarding the man practically vibrating next to her appeared all-the-more plausible.
Due to all of these factors, and on top of her wired brain pleading for a break from the only person who could test her limits this much, she decided—against all better judgement on her part— to let the CEO of Stark Industries cut for the rest of the day.
“Tony?” She ventured, being the only one of the two to say anything after the last meeting concluded. They were waiting for the next one to begin, in that very same room, but the presenters were running late.
“Hm,” the response was barely coherent enough for her ears to catch, and if she hadn’t been moonlighting him this afternoon, she would’ve assumed he was falling asleep from boredom.
Well, she mused to herself, she supposed he was.
Observing his form, the color of his eyes were hidden from her and his posture leaned over. At the same time however, his crossed leg was bouncing and the hand folded over his stomach— the one peeking out from the side she was sitting on— was clenching sporadically, like it was itching to hold something. It was as if he was trying to ease himself but couldn't with the circumstances.
Whichever ones they were, anyway.
“I can handle it from here, boss.”
No hesitation was found in that man as he jumped up from his seat at the word “it.”
“Good, these chairs were killing me,” he groans, popping his back, “we really need better ones; more comfort and less… whatever the hell these things are made out of. Let’s get a guy, it’ll boost morale.” She sincerely doubts that was why he was so moody. He stretches his arms above his head, looking to be somewhat at peace for the first time that she’d seen him all day. “You always could handle the boring stuff, Pepper. It’s one of your best qualities.”
“Wow, thanks.” She deadpanned, unable to keep the sarcasm and bluntness out of her weary body as she watched her employer head for the conference room door. “Your appreciation is oozing.”
“It’s because I trust your judgement.” His voice filtered through her ears in a way that sparked her attention. “Just know that for next time, er— all the next times, actually. My feelings won’t be hurt that I wasn’t included in more snoozefests.” His footsteps were heard retreating shortly afterward.
She blinked, turning to stare at the threshold of the door left ajar, before shaking her head and facing her binder, flipping through various scribbles of the upcoming business proposal.
It seemed Tony Stark had overworked himself, again.
Perhaps when he gets back to his shenanigans in his lab, he’ll also go back to his more normal, non-snippy and fidgety self.
And she would be less exhausted dealing with him as well.
A day for recovery and he would be fine, she thinks, before standing from her seat as a group of suits stroll into the room.
——————————————————————————————————
You must’ve ended up passing out on (Friend name’s) couch sometime in the night, because you awoke to a sunny morning with a tasty aroma filtering into your nose. Properly rousing, you are left bewildered at the scene of (Friend name) standing in front of what seems to be her stovetop. She happens to glance over at you when she turns around, catching your eye. “Oh, hey! Mornin’!” The spatula in her hand twirls around as she sing-songs her greeting. A white apron emblazoned with a silly-looking pug is wrapped around her form. “Hungry?”
The response you give is immediate.
“Is it edible?”
She gasps, scandalized, and shows as much with the spatula-wielding hand covering her heart. You notice flakes of something flying off the sakura-tinted plastic from the motion. “I’ll have you know my meals are at least somewhat edible! I wouldn’t have survived this long otherwise.”
You’re doubtful, and that’s only because you can attest to her multiple almost-succeeded attempts at catching the kitchen on fire. She accomplished that more times than actually resulting in cooking something that was edible and appealing. That’s why most of all of your hangouts consisted of going out for food made by someone else.
You choose not to comment on this fact, however, as you don’t feel awake enough to prod her like a jester.
“Besides, this isn’t technically my cooking,” she trails off, bringing her attention to the sizzling hot pan for a few moments before continuing, “I brought back food from the hotel I stayed in for leftovers when I came back, figured I’d heat it up all fancy. Plus, I wanted to share something with you as a thanks for the chocolate.” She sends a wry smile over her shoulder, shrugging them after. “They aren’t as fresh-tasting, but I hope you’ll like it?”
Touched by her returned kindness, you’re almost too stunned to speak.
“I would love some.”
Some time later, you both tuck into your meals and catch up on your friend’s whereabouts. Supposedly, her business trip went awry in so many different ways that she almost left at an earlier date.
Eventually, the conversation and banter dies down, and every conceivable topic under the sun has been discussed except for one.
You suck in a breath as you push away the remains of your plated meal, and breathe out the words you were still ill-prepared to release to hang in the air. “I think I’m ready to talk about it now.”
(Friend name’s) expression changes instantly, rising from her seat. “I’ll get us some tea.”
The apartment is left in silence other than the clattering of cookware and running water as your friend leaves you to shuffle your way towards her living space. It isn’t much longer until the squeaking trill of a kettle sounds, and soon you hear your friend’s light footsteps padding closer.
She hands you a white mug decorated with brown cartoon pugs in different poses, pink hearts hovering around the creatures in the empty spaces. The other she holds is of a plain teal, which she carries to the lone armchair across from you.
“Okay,” her ceramic cup is plunked onto the coffee table separating you and she takes a seat, fully facing you in rapt attention. “Can you start from the beginning?”
“I think you know the beginning,” you venture slowly— almost bitterly, even— as your gaze shifts from the steam swirling out of your drinking vessel to your friend, gauging her reaction. Her brows furrow and the edges of her lips curve downwards in a look of worry and disbelief.
Taking in another deep and steadying breath, your lips part as you steel yourself to relive that afternoon in vivid detail once more.
——————————————————————————————————
Speed-walking into his lab as non-chalantly he could muster, Tony’s first order of business was to check your cameras. It’s been too long without an update of you, and his mental unraveling over it wasn’t helped by the absolute rookie mistake he made earlier. If Pepper wasn’t breathing down his neck, this need wouldn’t have been so urgent for so long, and he’d be able to at least periodically check the surveillance of your apartment on his phone under the table.
After cueing up the footage, he scrubbed time back himself, needing the tangible confirmation within his fingertips as to your whereabouts.
His bloodshot eyes flickered around wildly until he caught his own silhouette in the playback, crouching at your door. Pausing it there, he took a moment to breathe before resuming the video, cringing at the sporadic way he left.
His heart jolted at the door opening further inward shortly after.
He had been seconds away from getting caught.
A part of him gained a sick thrill from that, rummaging through the other possible opportunities he could do under the radar with you none the wiser.
Those thoughts were quickly dashed away when he realized the footage became stagnant and eerily silent afterwards. He double-checked the video in case the frames were looping.
Nope.
It was still playing, and not a sound was heard.
…
Where were you?
You were right there, and now you weren’t? He heard no other voice that close, let alone accompanying you personally.
If you weren’t there, then…
Did something happen to you?
The muscles in Tony’s body locked up, horror washing over him.
He quickly scrubbed through once more, hoping for an inkling of your visual presence, something he could work with.
It wasn’t long before the two figures magically appeared, lurking inside your apartment.
No.
Playing back the footage proper, the individuals were moving around with purpose and guns drawn, only one seemingly issuing commands.
Tony’s blood ran cold.
Fuck.
He royally fucked up.
If they saw—
“Sir,”
Tony instinctfully yelped, so hyperfocused on your apartment feed that the voice filtering into the lab practically scared him out of his seat.
“Your toolbox has been retrieved, sir.”
A sigh of relief escaped the man, though he wasn’t any less frazzled or annoyed at the news or interruption.
“Warn me next time you’re going to say something, J.A.R.V.I.S.” He scrubs a hand over his face, mumbling something about re-programming his A.I. to not scare the ever-loving shit out of him.
“My apologies, sir, I’ll be sure to make my presence known in the future.” The slight sarcasm that was to be had in the posh voice did not go appreciated by its creator, who rolled his eyes. The man then remembered he should probably lock down the lab before his employee came knocking again.
After the room was secure, Tony turned his attention back to the screen, steepling his hands together with elbows planted on his lab table as he analyzed the pieces of the puzzle laid out before him.
“While you’re at it J.A.R.V.I.S., pull up police records associated with (Name).”
In no time at all, the search results blinked into existence on another monitor to his right, and the brunette leaned over to inspect the document. When he saw what was written, he laughed, eyes crinkling with amusement.
You reported his notes and the deliveries?
That was cute. And though he preferred you’d keep his sweet nothings and his generosity to yourself for sentimental reasons, he couldn’t help but admire your stubbornness.
He could wipe it entirely from their database, but…
No… no; you’d be more spooked than you already were, probably.
A second text file caught his attention, and he began inspecting it as well.
Ah, so you called the NYPD when you came home, and didn’t enter your apartment at all?
Smart girl.
Knowing that you had some self-preservation to not explore what laid in your unit put the brunette’s nerves at ease. Who knows who else could’ve been in there to jump you after he left? While the unpleasant sentiment brought about anxiety in the man, it calmed a bit of his heart to know that he wouldn’t have to worry about you blatantly walking into danger every time he wasn’t looking. He would probably have to reveal himself too early in order to save you, otherwise. And as much as his recurring fantasies as of late screamed at the billionaire to sweep you off your feet as Iron Man already— though he depicted himself to be unmasked doing so just as often— in bold declaration of romantic conquest, it was the absolute wrong time to do so.
At least right now.
Scanning over the document further, there was no mention of anything outside, other than the window of your living space being a possible point of entry.
His toolbox was collected just in time.
The man exhaled heavily, his body already feeling lighter, the corners of his lips crawling upwards upon reading that in summary, your evidence had been useless as notable deterrents toward his actions.
Finding nothing else of use in the reports, Tony’s eyes flicked back to his cameras of your apartment once more. It was even more time later when movement appeared in the corner of the screen, a body slowly emerging into focus.
Finally.
Tony practically groaned, his form relaxing in the chair he was sitting on like putty.
“There you are,” he practically purred, selfishly drinking you in for the first time that day.
Another business uniform with heels to match, which did nothing to quell his need for your body and what you would look like in other forms of dress.
If you didn’t show, he would’ve had to bring up previous captures of his surveillance just to get his fix of seeing you.
His ogling was short-lived, however, when he watched more. From one camera position to the next, he discovered you were not okay. It looked as if you were in the midst of panicking? What were you trying to find? And, following your form into your bedroom, you got on the phone with—
Fuck.
Shit.
If he had enough foresight to cover his tracks, he would’ve at least closed your door before leaving.
And now you’re gone.
You left.
Left him.
It’s like he was back to square one again. Before he found your apartment.
He couldn’t even blame you for running off either this time. He’d be just as short-circuited knowing his security was breached, let alone the mere thought of his tech being stolen from right under his nose.
And god, how scared you were? How badly you had been trembling?
His half-mechanical heart twisted itself into knots recounting that expression, craving nothing more than to sweep you out of that screen and hold you in his arms until you stop shaking. Then cuddle you tightly, kissing away your tears, and keeping you by his side the rest of the night.
But he didn’t deserve that, did he? He did this to you. Out of all things Tony swore to himself he would shield you from as your knight in shining armor— your Iron Man— he brought that shit straight to your dwelling; the one place where security, particularly in your case, was harbored the most important aspect to you above all else next to privacy. Tony knew that well enough. And what did he do? Play with time, strut his intellect in a place he was uninvited, ignorantly believe he was in the clear— that nothing could scratch him— and it caused you to justifiably run for the hills.
It was his worst nightmare coming true.
If he anticipated this chain of events sooner, maybe even got his doorknob impromptu project done faster, perhaps left it the fuck alone like he should’ve, none of this would’ve happened.
Tony’s brown eyes narrow, burning alight with a promise to himself. He glares at the seemingly-still image of your empty apartment as the small, white text of the elapsed time calmly ticked forward in one corner of the recording.
He will protect you properly. That miscalculation won’t go unrectified a second time.
He’ll do better for you. It’s what you deserve, after all.
But in order to do that, he needed to know you would come back.
…
You would, right?
You had to.
…
Unless you broke your agreement on the lease.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
He ruined it, and he wouldn’t be able to see you when—
Realizing anything he already scheduled in advance will cultivate in absolutely nothing now, Tony unhappily grumbles to himself as he reluctantly cancels all the upcoming deliveries he impulsively purchased. Disappointment washed through him at the unobtainable knowledge of if he’d ever get to spoil you again, let alone see you in something that took quite a while to find that just screamed you in all the right ways.
When that was done, the man pushed himself away from the lab table, rising from the chair and running his hands through his brown hair aggressively. He began pacing without realizing it, muttering to himself as he went.
No matter what he came up with, he couldn’t think of any possible way to get you back without showing his hand too early and coming off as Tony Edward Stark; billionaire-genius by day, Iron Man on the side, and your obsessed stalker 24/7.
Which, yes— maybe he was— but that was besides the point. You weren’t supposed to know that.
Not yet at least.
He needs to fix this, but…
He doesn’t know what to do.
He needs to come up with something, and he knows it’ll keep eating him alive until the answer manifests itself in his brain somehow.
But he can’t do anything too drastic or it’ll ruin all his progress thus far, rendering his efforts pointless.
He needs to take action before anything else happens to you.
And he doesn’t know how much time he has to do it.
——————————————————————————————————
After you finish regaling (Friend name) with your unpleasant discovery as coherently as you can, your friend sits there in silence, staring at you like she wants to say something. Shortly after you take a sip of the chamomile and honey tea that has considerably cooled by now, is when she speaks.
“What a bunch of shit.” The sharpness of it takes you by surprise, and you find her with a hand to her forehead, as if in pain there.
You sputter out her name, observing her rise from the armchair and approaching you with a grim look etched on her face. Her bangs shadow her eyelids in a way you don’t think you’ve ever seen on her before, and the sight unnerves you.
“What good is the law enforcement if they don't enforce the law? Your apartment gets broken into and they do a standard routine check and call it a day?”
Gazing at her with pity swirling in your eyes, you answer softly, the somber tone dulling the finality of your words. “They did their job and found nothing.” You didn’t intend on saying so to defend the NYPD necessarily, but rather what your friend had told you before: there wasn’t much you could do besides report the break-in much like the mystery gifts, and now that avenue seemed to be a dead end too. “But it’s on record now, so that’s something.”
Her eyes scurry back and forth, clearly fighting something internally, before her expression falls into one of despair, then.
“I shouldn’t have gone on that trip, or stayed as long as I did. God, anything could’ve happened to you. If I had known-” You cut her off with a displeased sound in your throat, resolutely locking your eyes with her wrecked ones. You have no idea what she’s thinking that she could’ve done differently, but whatever it was, you know it likely wouldn’t have helped much or strayed you off this course of events.
It wasn’t her who was being targeted, after all.
“No, don’t say that.” She hovers there rather than sitting down, wringing her hands together, burning a hole into her floor with her listless stare. “There’s no way you could’ve anticipated this.” You try to reassure her, but she doesn't move.
You don't blame her.
You're not convinced either.
Your attention focuses on cradling the ceramic cup further into your body, hoping enough warmth seeps through your flesh to calm your nerves. For now, at least, until you could come up with something.
“I’m sorry.” Your friend places a hand on your shoulder and you can feel her sincerity seep through the thick material of the top you wore. “Take as much time as you need.”
You’re grateful for her hospitality and her adamantness on preventing this if given the chance to, but you also wish that it’ll all blow over sooner rather than later. You aren’t interested in burdening your friend longer than necessary with problems that aren’t hers.
She doesn't deserve to be caught in the crossfire.
You crane your neck, peering up at her. Your smile, more watery than hers, strains with the effort to not wobble and appear pathetic. “Thanks.”
Your friend eventually— reluctantly— leaves you there in her apartment, bidding you a good rest. After an unknown amount of time of staring into nothing later, you realize you probably should take one. She left her spare key on her kitchen countertop behind the couch that you still haven’t left from, despite a part of you that gnaws with the urge to grab it; to physically hold that layer of security close to your heart.
You finally move, liquid sloshing around in the mug as you place it down on the coffee table a little too loudly. Scarce drops fly up and litter your skin like splotches of wet paint. Unbothered at the cold sensation, you lean back and pivot your body around to fully lay down as you yank the throw blanket over yourself. As you close your eyes and sink deeper on your friend’s cushions, a single train of thought eats away at your fading consciousness.
You left your door wide open.
…
But did it even matter now? Would you actually get robbed this time? And even if you did lock it, what would that have accomplished?
…
At least you weren’t there for whatever was happening.
…Again…
Scrunching your face, you turn over to bury your head into the cushions in a feeble attempt to hide away, a pitiful whine echoing in your throat. The terrible scenarios hanging over your head like a cloud—taunting and foreboding in your psyche— pave the way for a sleepless night.
——————————————————————————————————
It took him a day or two of floundering about, but the lightbulb finally went off.
The answer was right in front of him all along.
All he had to do was picture himself in your shoes.
He was Tony Stark. If his tower had been unpredictably compromised, he would overhaul his entire system protocols, having J.A.R.V.I.S. run through the same and new scenarios multiple times over to ensure its integrity. With more upgrades tacked on for good measure, of course.
Now, while he couldn’t do that to the unit in your apartment for obvious reasons, he was on the right track when it came to your doorknob.
But more importantly, his method of rebuilding what was faulty had still rang true; pinpointing that singular, pesky bug in the system and squashing it.
And that little stem of the issue with you was the structural integrity of your building itself.
It was absolute fucking luck when the billionaire decided to have his A.I. scan the video of your last appearance for anything else he might’ve potentially missed, and discover pieces of audio that his ears didn’t pick up on in his first watch. Catching snippets of that singular phone call of yours was more perfect than he could ever anticipate.
And with a little more insistent digging through J.A.R.V.I.S.’ database, he found the number he needed.
So— again— the brunette found himself at your apartment building once more, in the same place he last was, but standing on the other side of the door.
Today, he was not Iron Man— or even Tony Stark— but rather your landlord’s on-call humble maintenance man, here to fix your security problems.
Despite his prowess in all things mechanical, the man couldn’t really call himself much of a locksmith because, well…
The locksmith slotted to work on your door in question was currently… indisposed… at the moment.
It didn’t take much to convince the balding, limping male otherwise; hush money tended to do that. Just enough to help him retire comfortably and allow Tony to gain ownership of the business. And it didn’t hurt that the act helped to fill his philanthropist quota for the week. He could see the headline now: “A Struggling Business Taken Under the Wing of Stark Industries’ CEO.” He’d just have to spin it into a positive reasoning later, when the press and his secretary started asking questions.
Okay, well… it wasn’t his establishment just yet— paperwork and processing times were the key hindering factors to such deals finalizing— but the poor soul was so enthusiastic about being saved from the financial hole he dug himself in by such a rich and considerate man who could turn it around faster than he could ever dream of. The locksmith was so thrilled to toss Tony the keys to the building that he didn’t breathe a word of any current jobs on his waitlist; those of which were automatically delegated to the new owner to handle.
And that spreadsheet only had one appointment pending that day: your apartment’s address.
Something had stood out to Tony on that piece of paper, however; the price listed was about double than what he expected it to be for a simple fix, and with a quick search, found he had been correct. The market price was laughably lower. The billionaire had rolled it around in his head, finding the charge odd, the invoice going to your address in particular, but had abandoned solving that mystery in favor of getting a move on to your place before you did… if you happened to show up again.
Decked out in denim overalls, worn baseball cap snug over his head, and trusty toolbox in hand, your stalker had arrived at the entrance of your apartment complex and headed inside. He would rather not draw any more attention to himself than he had to, even though the idea thrilled him to no end. Tony wanted nothing more than to flaunt his identity and his very real connection to you, mainly to show he was not to be messed with to troublemakers in your vicinity, but also for the sake of proudly claiming you as his romantic interest. Unfortunately, he was not legally the new owner of the locksmith company yet, and wanted to keep it under wraps for this operation, so Tony had begrudgingly elected to mimic the previous owner’s garb and pretend to be him for a while.
It’s not like anyone would miss him or his business, anyway.
But Anthony, ever the opportunistic businessman, digresses.
He had a job to do.
Shaking his head to focus on his task, Tony fondled the heavy keyring in one palm with his fingers closed around them. Absentmindedly tracing over the jagged pieces of metal as he strided down the worn hall, he discreetly conversed with his A.I. on directions to your unit. He was stupidly excited at doing something he had done before but through the guise of normalcy and in plain sight.
Why, if he knew he wouldn’t have gotten caught had he ignored it, he would’ve intentionally left his toolbox there for when he came back to finish the job. His chest shook with barely-concealed laughter, before sucking in a breath as a wicked tingle shot down the brunette’s spine. Leaving something personal of his with you like that, well…
It was a thought more tempting than he was prepared for.
Finally spotting what he was looking for, the male’s features twisted unpleasantly at the sight of your door left open.
“J.A.R.V.I.S.,” Tony called in a more urgently hushed volume, stance taught as he got ready to call upon his armor in the next second, “anyone in here I need to worry about?”
“No sir,” the robotic voice responded just as quietly, and the brunette’s tension melted away.
“Good,” he said to himself, rolling his shoulders as he nudged your door open wider, entering your abode for the second time unannounced. “Keep a lookout for me, and scan anyone who approaches.” Tony’s face tightened in seriousness as he knelt down, ears barely picking up on the droll of the disembodied confirmation as he plunked his toolbox down, opening it with the practiced flourish of one hand.
He would fix this so you didn’t have to live in fear or worry any longer. So you could come back to your apartment with confidence that you were safe, and can return to living as you did.
Definitely not also because he couldn’t bear to see you like that again. Or how much he would miss your routine up to this point.
This had to be done right, or he’ll have another fuck-up eating away at his conscience.
Seeing you so distraught… almost to tears?
He had to shake the image of your terrified face before he could continue, or he’d be staring at that old piece of metal that was mocking his mistakes until the sun dipped.
Eventually standing up and stretching his body to soothe the uncomfortable position he was in, Tony mentally patted himself on the back as he looked over your doorknob with pride.
However, instead of simply leaving as he knew he should, the fake-locksmith convinced himself that it couldn’t hurt to quickly fiddle with the camera setup in your unit, giving them some well-needed upgrades and troubleshooting possible positioning issues and other inconveniences. He also figured he’d take a look at your living area window while he was at it, at the very least to check to see why it barely functioned. It took more time and hand injuries to get there than he anticipated, but he left that pane of glass more secure than it once was, at the cost of less time to spare in the mental clock ticking backwards in his head.
Wistfully sighing, Tony reluctantly made the steps to leave your apartment— through the correct entryway this time— and closed the door behind him. Testing the refurbished lock with the copied master key in his hand, Tony nodded to himself as he locked your unit and confirmed it was working properly, and— dare he say it— functioned better than before.
He pivoted before stopping in place, a smirk quirking itself upward on one side of the disguised man’s lips as he happened to look down at your modest doorstep. His eyes were alight with a spark of inspiration that was concealed underneath the hat that effectively shadowed his features.
Well, he supposed it wouldn’t hurt to give you a little something more tangible, too…
——————————————————————————————————
You figured it was as good of a time as any to put in your well-earned, paid days of working for some much-needed rest and relaxation while you bunked at your friend’s place.
It was nice to forget about everything for a time, but even you knew you couldn’t avoid your problems forever. Your landlord made sure of that when he called to inform you that your worries of safety should be sufficiently snuffed out now. Supposedly, a locksmith had arrived on the scene yesterday and reported your lock was fixed. You had frowned at that, preferring an entire new set of locks and keys altogether, but made no comment lest Mr. Garrett takes offense and charges you more for the hassle and complaining.
Furthermore, with each day that passed as roommates, (Friend name) kept giving you such pitying looks and treating you like a delicate material that could tarnish with the wrong handling of it. While you would still joke and make conversation with each other as you usually did, you could tell she interacted with you more often out of concern and in an attempt to distract you from your worries on purpose. She was tiptoeing around you in her own apartment and it wasn’t fair to do this to her, even though you had reached out for help.
So, with a heavy heart wrought with trepidation and dread, you concluded that you had to go back to your life and stop mooching off of your friend.
And, before you could do that, you had to face what had happened at your apartment properly. In a way, it was a good thing that you didn’t pack enough items for your impromptu sleepover. It meant that you would have to go back to your place eventually.
Doesn’t mean it felt like a good thing, though.
It really shouldn't have surprised you, but seeing something waiting at the threshold of your apartment door when you arrived had you stopping dead in your tracks.
The familiar sight violently threw you back into the shoes of your former self, rooted in the exact same spot as you are, just like that first day.
But then you took notice of how ordinary the delivery was this time; a paper of snow taped to a brown paper bag. The signage cards you received were usually fancier than that as of late, sometimes in different colors and artistic designs. This note, however, appeared to be from a modest sheet of white cardstock, folded over in a landscape profile.
As you cautiously approached, you caught your name staring at you in black ink.
The font— the only thing about the scene that remained unchanged— has you mentally recoiling on instinct, but you press on.
With unsteady hands, you pluck the note from the ground and inspect it. Finding nothing else useful, you open the fold with your thumb and find more text inside.
“(Name),
If you find this letter, know that I don’t mean you any harm. I only intend to show my admiration for you by gifting you things I thought you’d like. I’m sorry if coming off so strong overwhelmed and scared you. It’s the last thing I want.
Knowing that, I hope you will accept this gift. It is something that will help you feel safer, if you need it. Please know that I will do my best to protect you from anyone and anything that intends to hurt you.
Feel better soon,
—Your knight in rose-gold armor ❤️💛
—P.S., If you need some help, I may stop by to install it for you— free of charge, sweetheart. Just leave it right where it was. And maybe if you’re home when I stop by, we can spend some time together, beautiful. Hope to see you soon ;)”
An unwilling warmth rises to your face when you fully digest the meaning of the sentences staring back at you.
What the hell did that mean…? Install?
That singular word inspires you to hone in on the package in question, flooded with curiosity and desperate to distract yourself from how those pet names made you feel. Grasping the package and cautiously inspecting its dimensions for any peculiarities, your brain unhelpfully classifies the action as part of a routine in your life now.
Finding nothing amiss— more than usual, anyhow— your fingers pry the seal of transparent tape off and slide the object out into your other palm. You’re taken aback at how heavy it is.
A lock set?
The box art touts versatility, much like a child lock set would for numerous objects around one’s home.
According to the instructions and contents, however, the set was designed as single-use.
Oh, well…
That was sweet, wasn’t it? Your admirer giving you something to ease your worries?
And the letter said nothing about knowing you had any door troubles… Was your intruder a separate entity?
You hated to admit it, but the written sentiment had you feeling a bit more calmed, soothing your fear down to a lesser intensity like a comforting balm on the nightmare of your life thus far.
The thought of your admirer purely looking out for your well-being and giving you something to soothe your fears was not an entirely unwelcome notion, as much as you hated to admit it. On the other hand, you also weren’t stupid enough to take this person up on that offer, your curiosity be damned. You had enough security concerns as it was, and the last thing you needed to do was lead your admirer on and introduce yourself to more dangerous situations.
Turning the product over in your hands, you ponder whether you should use it or not. It was completely sealed in its packaging, and even though it was your anonymous admirer who left it here, it didn’t appear to be tampered with at all.
Shrugging, you figure it couldn’t hurt to give your living area’s window a safety upgrade, as thinking of those fire escape stairs while you were gone did well to unnerve and rattle your bones for those fitful nights at (Friend name)’s. Coupled with your refurbished lock, and— well, you hoped you wouldn't have to do anything else as a precaution.
Speaking of which, you remembered why you were here.
Straightening your spine, you test your trusty piece of metal in the “fixed” keyhole and…
Click.
A small gasp escapes you, not expecting the motion to feel as responsive as it did, the sensation reminiscent of a pen’s ink gliding across paper as smoothly as butter.
Feeling a touch of relief at the reassurance that your door— and by extension your home— would be okay for a while now, you entered your apartment for the first time in what felt like a month. Taking in a breath, your body moved around in practiced motions of another weekday morning before you left for work, the only exception being when you placed the lock kit down on your coffee table and promised yourself you’d get to it the moment you arrived home.
Just like you had always done, as if you had never left.
Except now, your admirer planned to stay for the ride, your consent be damned.
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