Chapter Text
Tony Stark had a hell lot of problems in his life, mostly yes caused by his stupid self if his father had something to say about it. And he did, Howard had a lot to say about Tony’s problems and the mess he is in. It’s not like he is not aware of himself. Okay? He knows how deep in the trenches he is right now.
Everyone thinks it must be great to be the son of ‘The Howard Stark’, and well, spoiler alert: it’s not as great as everyone and those sons of bitches in the press make it out to be. Howard is-well was a formidable actor/producer in the acting industry, producing some of the movies that are called fucking “classics” or “invigorating” or “mind orgasmic” or some other bullshit like that. Tony doesn’t care enough to know. {though he does care, fuck he does}.
Howard's life story is no less than a fairytale with a tragic ending-to be honest, complete cliche. Howard took a liking to one of the staff at one of his acting sets, Maria and they both fell in love, had Tony, Maria died from a car accident when Tony was 15, and everything went downhill from there.
Howard Stark was a strict and organized man in a goddamn sense of the word; he ran the Stark mansion like a fucking military compound. There was not a speck of dust in there-except in Tony’s room, and does Howard hate that, huh? And that’s why it is Tony’s favorite thing. The thing is, Tony had realized at a tender age that he could have got 20 Oscars, cured cancer, got the best roles, solved world hunger at the age of 15, but he would never make the man even neutral towards Tony, not loving, proud or something, just less drill sergeant. So, Tony did what any caffeinated, annoyed teenager would do. He started giving Howard reasons to be pissed with him. Bonus points if he managed to trigger a dramatic heart attack in the process. [unfortunately, he didn’t]
A bright light flared in Tony’s face. Perfect. Nothing like temporary blindness to drag a guy back to reality. The crew was buzzing around—script pages rustling, heels clacking, someone coughing up a lung in the corner—all of it the glamorous background noise of selling people lies in a bottle. “Mr. Stark—any time now?” the poor PA asked for what had to be the 5th time, staring at Tony like every passing second was cutting years off his life expectancy.
Tony knew he should be grateful. He did. But let’s be real: he wasn’t here because of his dazzling acting chops. He was here because his last name came pre-packaged with a shiny bow and a Howard Stark sticker. And because his body looked good enough, half-oiled up and shirtless, to hawk a perfume with a name so generic it might as well have been called Mystique Number Whatever. “Of course, Ada-John,” Tony said with a fake grin sharp enough to cut glass. “Let’s sell some bottled disappointment, yeah?”
It wasn’t that Tony was a bad actor. Hell, he was a great actor. That wasn’t arrogance—it was just fact. But no one cared about him. People only cared about Howard. Howard, the charming, untouchable legend. Howard, the man whose shadow Tony could never crawl out of, no matter how hard he clawed. To the critics, Tony was stuck in a rigged game: if he nailed a role, well, naturally, he was Howard’s son. If he bombed, then he was just a spoiled nepo baby with nice abs and daddy’s last name.
John? or Adam? Went towards the producer to start preparing for the scene since Tony Stark is ready. Tony tilted his head just enough to catch one of the staff smiling shyly at him-a pretty soft thing. Cute. They had been giving him looks for the last 10 minutes. “Careful, sweetheart, keep staring like that and I would think you want a piece of me.” Tony flashed his infamous smirk, the girl flushed red, biting back her grin as she tried to keep the coffee in her stable and not spill over.
And just like that-fodder for the rumor mill. Tony just needs to wink at someone, and tomorrow’s paper would have Tony Stark pegged as a Hollywood homewrecker again. Rumors ranged from having run through half a city to having bones in his basement. Which, for the record, he didn’t. Did he sleep around a lot? Yeah, he was young, hot, and rich-it was always consensual, always adults. Who the fuck cared? Everyone. The critics called him a playboy, volatile, dangerous and a walking scandal, which was hilarious since Tony was the one usually avoiding fights. Howard the-Howard had a temper of a nuke with a thumb on the trigger. Conveniently, the same critics forget to mention that when they are writing their poetic ballad of the Hollywood golden boy. The pa, handing him a bottle of the said generic perfume, makes him come out of his brain as he walks towards the big ass green screen.
“camera, set, take 5, action”
------------------------------------------------------
Tony was back in the mansion-his mansion, he had earned enough money to buy his own, and of course, if it was not bigger and shinier and gaudier than the stark mansion-what was even the point?. It’s not like Tony was broke, please, Tony Stark didn’t do broke. He was a genius, after all. Top of every class, every grade-foolishly thinking that might make Howard proud of him. [spoiler: it didn't] Well, a good thing did come out of it. All that brainpower meant he wasn’t just wasting time on scripts and sets; he was putting that money in investments and stocks-anything to make sure he never had to beg Howard for a dime in his life.
The problem right now was that he didn’t have any acting offers, and that stung- because God help him-he loved acting. Not the shitty press, the god-awful parties and not the vultures circling with their pens and microphones. The acting. Being someone else for a few weeks/months, a skin not stamped with the stark name. Tony lived for that. He knew he could pick up the phone, call a few producers, and he’d land a role by the end of the day. They’d bend over backwards for him because his name still sold tickets. But Tony Stark didn’t ask. Pride, stubbornness, or maybe stupidity-whatever it was, begging for scraps was just not Tony Stark's style.
Hell, he knew he was better than half the cardboard cutouts walking around Hollywood pretending to emote. But the curse of being Howard Stark’s son was that every movie, every TV show, no matter how much sweat he put into it, got slaughtered by critics. Bad ratings across the board. Always. Funny thing is, though, no matter how much people shit over the movies, they still spent their hard-earned money to fill the theatres whenever Tony’s movies were playing.
The mansion was quiet, too quiet actually, and Tony Stark hated quiet. Quiet meant thinking, and thinking meant his mind going back to how his life is equivalent to a dumpster on fire at the moment. He padded across the marble floor barefoot, a glass of fine, expensive scotch in his hand, eyeing the over-the-top chandelier he bought last month when he was half drunk. Gaudy? Absolutely, worth every penny. If Howard hated the stark estate being called “tastefully classy”. Tony was going to make sure his mansion is called “tacky Vegas money pit” at least once by the digest.
Tony flopped on his couch, a couch which was big enough to sit at least an army, as he picked up the remote and clicked on, flipping through channels randomly. News anchors saying bullshit about him, some opera show, one of those classic action films. He kept clicking until-bam-there it was.
His perfume ad.
Tony groaned. On-screen, there he was: shirt open, water dripping dramatically down his chest with that weird sultry song buzzing behind, staring broodingly into the camera while some stupid voiceover whispered the name of a fragrance so generic he could never remember it.” yeah buy this perfume, it smells like daddy issues and bad decisions” Tony muttered to himself as he clicked the tacky big tv screen shut. He downed the drink in one swallow, letting the sharp taste fill his throat.
He hated this part the most. The nothing-in-between-projects stretch, the lull. He could handle critics, could handle the tabloids, could even handle the fake smiles at those awful parties-but the silence? The silence drove him insane. Because then it was just him, the mansion and too much room to think. And Tony Stark, with nothing to do, was a disaster waiting to happen.
Well, he did have something to do. He played with the empty glass in his hand as he walked towards the kitchen, opening the cupboard which was filled with different kinds of expensive scotch. He knew the inside of the fridge was going to be in a sorry state, so he didn’t even try to open it. “JARVIS!” the shout echoed through the hallways. It was midnight, maybe 1 or 2, well, time didn’t matter when you are rich and very, very bored. The sound of soft, almost inaudible footsteps followed, and there he was, Edwin Jarvis himself. Only Jarvis could make night pjs look like a uniform. It was a damn talent to be honest.
Jarvis stopped at the doorway of the kitchen, hands neatly behind his back, face patient in a way that was designed to guilt Tony into shutting the fuck up. “Sir”, Jarvis says, voice as dry as sandpaper. “Is the house on fire? Are you injured, or is this another one of those………’ existential crises’ emergency?” Tony leaned dramatically against the kitchen counter, the glass, now half-filled with scotch, dangling from his hand as if he were in a tragic play, definitely with a dead dad or something. “I was lonely”, Tony made a face with what he hoped was a puppy look, though he knew he was more of a ‘smirk people into his bed’ kind of guy rather than ‘puppy look’ kind of guy.
“You have a whole phonebook of people who would be thrilled to remedy that.”
“Yeah, but none of them can make me cheeseburgers.”
“It's past midnight, sir”, Jarvis sighed.
“And yet-” Tony gestured at his chest, his face and all of him, “-this spectacular work of art is awake and unsupervised. That’s a safety hazard-you know? You wouldn’t leave an expensive sports car idling away in the driveway. Would you?” Jarvis blinked once. Twice. “You are comparing yourself to a vehicle-” Tony interrupted. “Not just a vehicle. A Ferrari-limited edition” A beat of silence, and then Jarvis muttered. “I would argue more like a vespa-loud, flashy, prone to accidents-” Tony gasped, dramatically clutching to his chest as he stumbled a bit back like he was hit or something. “Jarvis! You wound me. After I let u live in my mansion too.”
“I believe the words were, and I quote, ' Please, please, please come with me, or I will burn down Howard’s library collection out of spite.’” Tony grinned at Jarvis' words, not repentant at all. “Semantics”, Tony said while downing the rest of the whiskey in his glass down his throat again. Jarvis sighed again as he pinched the top of his nose and moved towards the kitchen counter, and Tony knew he won as he filled his scotch glass again. Jarvis was working in silence beside him. The smell of cheese filled the kitchen as Jarvis worked efficiently.
Tony was sitting on the counter, swinging his legs and nursing another drink in his hand. He had just started telling Jarvis his essay on how objectively tragic it was that the academy didn’t have a category for “the most handsome leading man who carries the movie solely by looking hot,” when his phone buzzed. He checked the time.1:23 am-definitely no time for professional calls. He frowns. “That’s weird”, Jarvis looks up at him at his words. “There is a phone call? You do realise that’s what phones are for, sir”
“Don’t sass me, J. Nobody calls me, they text or they send free champagne or they hope to god that I magically show up to their party so their Instagram would have more likes. But an actual call? That’s historical.” The name flashing on his screen read ‘Hot blond guy’. Tony chuckled. “Well, that narrows it down to exactly………a thousand people that I know.” Tony picked up the latest model cellphone as he was intrigued. He knew it was like 102% because of how drunk he was at the moment as he swiped, putting it on speaker. “Hello, this is the hotline for Tony Stark. Press one for autographs, two for inappropriate compliments and 3 for dick pics.”
A loud, eager laugh on the other end. “Tony! Didn’t think you would pick up-it's been ages!” Tony rolled his eyes at Jarvis as he shrugged before getting back to his work. “Yeah, totally, ages!” Tony said smoothly. “So, what's up, party guy?” A pause, then the voice continued, a bit nervous like Tony had forgotten the guy’s name, which he had. “uh-throwing a thing tomorrow, big place in the hills, DJs, girls, u know the usual deal, man. You have to come, man. It would be a tragedy if you didn’t.”
Translation: I need your face to bait half of the guests at the party. “Um, tempting, but the last party I went to ended with me waking up in a koi pond with a koi. Not my best Tuesday” The dude on the other line laughed too loud as if he was in a sitcom or something. “Classic, you stark! Uh, just drop by, u know? Clint and Thor are showing up too, with a few producers, you know? One of my other buddies, a producer guy, can’t make it; he is stuck in some casting thing for his new show…………which was it………yeah, some queer series, I think? Anyway, everyone would love it if u showed up, man.”
Tony’s ears perked. He leaned back against the counter, feigning casualness in his voice as much as he could. “Queer series, huh?” “Yeah, yeah. Something indie, I Dunno. Probably won’t even air outside LA.” Tony smiled wickedly. “Sounds perfect. Hey, uh—you wouldn’t mind sliding me his info, would you? Just for laughs. I could… You know, maybe make it worth his while.” There was a pause on the line. The dude sounded caught off guard. “Wait—you’re serious? You want in? On that?” “Serious as my jawline,” Tony quipped. “Send me the details.” Another beat, then a shrug in the guy’s voice. “...Sure, man. Whatever you want. I’ll text it to you.” “Attaboy, Party Guy. You’re already my favorite person.” Tony hung up without a goodbye.
Jarvis put a plate with 2 cheeseburgers towards Tony, already perfected the art of sounding calm while absolutely judging him. “So. A queer television series? One would assume it has nothing to do with Mr. Stark’s… well-documented views?” Tony nearly choked on his burger. “Excuse me? Oh please! I would never-never-lower myself to something so petty?” Jarvis tilted his head in a way that said he was not believing Tony’s bullshit for even a second. Tony sat up straighter, eyes wide in mock scandal, dramatically. “I am insulted. Wounded. Mortally offended. This is about art. About representation. About the gays. About… my cheekbones in high-definition lighting. Do you honestly think I’d waste my precious time on some low-budget series just because it would make Daddy Stark grind his teeth into dust?”
Jarvis arched a brow while calmly fixing the cuff of his sleeve. “Indeed. Purely selfless, nothing to do with the fact that your father will loathe every frame of it.” Tony took another bite of his burger, smirking. “If it pisses him off, that’s just a bonus. Like sprinkles on ice cream. Doesn’t mean I ordered the sundae for the sprinkles, Jarv.” Jarvis folded the dish towel over his arm like a man steeling himself for war. “Of course, sir. And yet somehow, every ‘sundae’ you choose seems to arrive served with sprinkles.” Tony leaned back, smug as sin. “Well, what can I say? I’ve got sweet taste.”