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Sleepless Nights

New York City.

It’s a place where even the rich could get lost, but sometimes those lost souls become a little more than lost; they’re often disregarded in such a way that even time cannot seem to fathom or touch them again as it once did. Aging was a funny thing, to begin with as was the passage of time, in general, but time… it was an illusion made up by humankind to give meaning to the day. Twenty-four hours to be exact. What a person did or didn’t do in those hours was up to them, but for him, they simply didn’t pass by without a worry despite each mortal frustration over the whole matter or process that was actually living.

In Tony’s eyes, many other things had his mind going a mile a minute at night or through random points in a day when should otherwise be sleeping or working on a suit upgrade for himself or another team member. For that cause there only ever seemed to be one cure that would keep him functioning normally for the rest of the world to see.

Work.

Well, he’d normally drown himself in it just so his mind was kept occupied so there was less of a chance something else might creep in. Well, there was that and far more pleasurable activities that always whisked him away for an hour or two took, though the distraction was quite the minute respite from the true affliction that plagued him after nearly dying of palladium poisoning little over a year ago. Never mind, what happened with the wormhole with that damned bomb that would have leveled the Big Apple itself.

The sound of his sneakers thudded dully against the floor of the Avengers Tower as he headed down the side stairwell instead of taking the elevator for once; it was just after ten o’clock at night which meant some more sensible members of the team were getting ready for bed or members like himself were far too… troubled… to sleep. What was really funny or ironic about this whole situation was that he was tired despite how many cups of coffee he’d downed after dinner which he didn’t recommend as a chaser for Chinese takeout either.

The bitter profile of the coffee he’d drank, black for as long as he could remember, didn’t go with the salty flavor of his chow mein that had soy sauce added to it in the slightest. Whatever terrible combination that was mocked something he would have tried in college after being far too drunk to care what he put in his mouth; he would have just gotten sick with it later anyway so what was the point?

Jarvis woke immediately as his creator entered the space, a low hum taking over the garage of the Tower as a few machines whirred to life, as programmed.

“Give me a good beat to work to,” the billionaire called, listening as Working for the Weekend by Loverboy began to play; after a couple of seconds passed a grin began to crease his features, that slight simper that nearly reaching his eyes, but the mirth stopped short like someone slammed on the brakes. “Good choice, buddy.”

He really didn’t sound like himself, did he? That last response even seemed to get Jarvis’ attention for a moment.

“Is everything alright, Mister Stark? I sense a great deal of stress radiating” There was a pause before the disembodied male voice continued. “Your blood pressure is 150/50 and your pulse is 90. Might I suggest a calming––”

“No!” Tony snapped, tossing down a wrench. His eyes slightly dilated at his action before he allowed a fleeing hand to rise and pinch the bridge of his nose for a second. He sighed, trying again giving it one more go. “No, J. Abort. I just need to get a little bit of work in and we’ll have it in aces.”

There was a delay between that utterance and when he recognized it had hit the air, but

“Yes, sir,” the AI confirmed seeming a tad quieter than usual, hollow in a way even. “Will there be anything else you require, Mister Stark?”

“Nah, we’re good. Keep an eye on Dum-E and U, will ya? I don’t want another fire extinguisher accident happenin’ here.” Tony shifted and looked over at the bot responsible whose arm twisted in his direction in recognition. “Yeah, I’m talkin’ to you Dummy. Don’t make me soak your motherboard, scrap you, and burn the remains, huh? Trust me, it’d be a far better life than a wine rack.”

Well, at least he let a laugh loose at that little running joke. He couldn’t bear to leave his creations behind in the rubble of the Malibu house so how could he ever destroy them? Somehow he partially cheered up at the fond memory of their fabrication.

As he approached his main workbench in a bit of shimmying dance, swaying his hips for a moment to the music, he raised his hands which called for the holograms of the various blueprints that he’d been toiling over for the last week to rise into existence. With all the new influx of issues due to CAMP and other goings on in the city crime kept piling up even for the likes of him, the team, or that other billionaire. Everyone.

It was still a mystery to even him how he’d transformed Stark Tower for the Avengers, and it actually worked despite being made by his own designs from the miniature reactor in his chest. He cleared his throat and yawned while gesturing around, lights whizzing on at his command illuminating all rows of desks, clear monitors, and whatever else down from the line of previous Marks of Iron Man suits he had on display.

God, was he proud of them.

There was a flicker of hope in his eyes at that–– advancement.

It’s the future.

There was only up in his eyes.

They always needed to be better, the suits, and he was never fully happy with them, but dammit he was proud of each and every single one.

“Alright, wake up.” Stark cooed, taking to his desk chair so his command center would flicker to life. “Daddy’s home.”

A lot of thoughts still clouded his perception over the whole matter with the influx of bad guys hanging around, never mind the blaring pop music still playing. When a something bumped his shoulder he nearly dropped what he’d been fiddling with and jumped out of his skin. In a whirl of his seat, he turned around to see his attacker.

“DUMMY!! Christ! Don’t do that!” He barked, eyeing the damn little bot who appeared to lower his head.

Dum-E let out an amused beep, the equivalent of a pair of rolling human eyes; at least this all hadn’t ended with another spilled cup of joe or worse. Scotch would have been far worse.

“Dum-E was right to interrupt you, sir,” was the explanation he received from, what had been an all too quiet, Jarvis. “Someone wants to talk to you; they’re, two floors up from this one.”

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