toblameforit: Drinking orange juice from the carton. (+= endeavouring to make breakfast)
So, there was that.

It's a whole hour before Tony realizes that there is somebody he can talk to about this besides Jarvis, who probably doesn't want to yet. He sends yet another email asking for Cal's phone number, which Jarvis provides.

Being Tony, he doesn't wait around pondering the social correctness of the call first. He just dials.
toblameforit: Tucking his shirt in. (Default)
Sherry did, of course, do a background check.

"Andy Wright, age 24, graduated cum laude from Bethlem College in South Dakota with a BA in Creative Writing. No criminal record."

Tony was not impressed.

"Licensed bartender. Works in coffeeshops a great deal, as well. Published several poems in a few magazines around the country."

He shouldn't have been surprised, either, and after the initial shock he wasn't.

"Did you expect me not to? Her work isn't bad, though I think she relies on her allusions a little too heavily."

But now, if he's going to email her, he should probably get that out of the way first thing. He sprawls out in bed with his laptop and starts typing.

Subject: so hi
From: tonys (dcxvi)
To: awright (gmail)


Sherry totally did do a background check. :( Sorry. It all checks out, though, so that's good I guess.

Anyway. If you seriously want to talk, I think I seriously need to. But like I said, I don't want to freak you out or anything. So... I dunno.

Coffee sometime?

toblameforit: Drinking orange juice from the carton. (+= endeavouring to make breakfast)
Two days after he lends the other Sherry his credit card, Tony decides he could do with a night out himself. Sherry—the one with a pulse—is taking care of things at the company for now, being Tony where needed, because Tony himself just cannot fucking deal. If he had to take one step into Obie's old office he thinks he would probably throw up. In a little while he'll take back the reins, seeing as it's his company and all, but for now he'd much rather go out and get drunk.

If it occurred to him, he might ask where Sherry went so he can avoid the place, avoid the complications of identity. It doesn't occur to him.
toblameforit: Tucking his shirt in. (-= the definition of reasonable)
He worries about Sherry.

If you'd asked him, before he moved to the other corner of the continent, he wouldn't even have thought of the possibility. Worry? About Sherlock Holmes? What about him, exactly?

But that's just it; he doesn't know. Oh, Sherry sends emails and Jarvis fills in the gaps, but he still doesn't really know what's going on back there, not the way he would if he were still in the house. And there's something going on, he's pretty sure, and Jarvis is being coy and Sherry hasn't said a word, and Tony worries.

Which is why, although he told that cute redhead that he couldn't walk her home because he actually had to finish this problem set tonight, there is very little calculus going on in his room right now.
toblameforit: Drinking orange juice from the carton. (+= endeavouring to make breakfast)
There's a Stark boy sprawled on the couch at Milliways. Black T-shirt, blue jeans, one bottle of beer in his hand and three of its depleted fellows lined up on the table beside him. His identity is not in question, particularly not to someone who knows the origin of the bruises slowly fading from the side of his neck.
toblameforit: Impatient or annoyed. (/= I suck at chemistry)
It's been five days since this and two days since that and Tony only left the hospital to sleep last night because they kicked him out. But apparently Obie is awake and can have visitors now. Awesome.

Tony is not entirely sure, as he steps through the door into the (of course) private hospital room, that he isn't just going to strangle him.
toblameforit: Hands over face. (/= have I been a bad clone daddy?)
(from here; warning for some fairly wrong goings-on all round)

His room is on the second floor and it's really more of a suite. First through the door is a comfortable little living room containing all the essentials—squashy couch, wall-mounted plasma TV, bookshelf for Sherry, liquor cabinet for Tony, a pair of reasonably uncluttered desks side by side for the rare occasion when they both bring their laptops. One of them has been usurped by a violin case.
toblameforit: Striving for innocence. (+= wanna do my homework for me?)
"My first memory," he starts, gripping the edges of the podium with both hands, "is of falling off my bike. I was, like, five, and the damn thing had training wheels and I still managed to crash it. And Obie—" He smiles into the distance. "Okay, Obie laughed his ass off. Then he picked me up and got me going again."

For a moment, he pauses, looking down at the blank wood empty of cue cards. When he finds his voice again, it's softer.

"He made Stark Industries what it is today. It's his legacy as much as it's my dad's. And I can't talk about Obie without talking about my dad. If he heard me saying it he'd come back from the grave just to kick my ass, but it's true. They were best friends. In fact I'm pretty sure he was Dad's only friend. After—" (he swallows) "—after Mom and Dad passed away, before I sold the house, he used to come visit and he'd drink whiskey and I'd drink Red Bull and we'd talk about family."

Someone coughs at the back of the room. Tony can't even muster the energy to be angry, although he has spent most of the day being exactly that—viciously, bitterly angry at the rest of the world for not caring the way he does. He ignores the interruption and keeps on going.

"He was an only child, you know that? In case any of you are wondering why there's no flock of Stanes showing up to cry with me, it's cause he was the last one. He lost his parents before I was even born. We talked about that. And when I moved to Sunnydale, he kept flying in at the most ridiculous hours to stay for a few days. Checking up on me, he said. 'Cause a phone call just wasn't good enough, I guess. Obie was like that."

Without him quite being aware of the process, his head has dropped again until he is inspecting the woodgrain and the cheap plasticky texture of the varnish on the podium.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, he was there for me. He's been there for me all my life, and now he's not."

At last, the room is completely silent. Tony looks up. Sherlock is standing by the door, half hidden by a pillar, like he can't wait to get out of here. Which is still better than half the assholes sitting in those nice neat rows. He speaks past them all, even Sherry, addressing his final words to somewhere on the other side of the back wall.

"God, I miss him."
toblameforit: Thoughtful, perhaps mischievous. (+= pretend we're twins)
"Cal," Tony asks as they pull into his driveway, "anybody ever told you you drive like a maniac?"
toblameforit: Hands over face. (/= have I been a bad clone daddy?)
Tony gets tired of waiting for Sherry to come home at around one and goes to bed. The next morning, his first clue that something is wrong comes a few seconds after he gets up again.

"Good morning," Jarvis tells him, sounding subdued—which is a four-page treatise on bad all by itself—and doesn't follow it up with gossip or a joke or the weather forecast or reminders of upcoming tests.

"What's wrong?" he asks, rubbing his head.

"I think you'd better see for yourself," says Jarvis, and that is how Tony ends up in Sherlock's bedroom for the first time in at least a year.
toblameforit: Impatient or sarcastic. (/= vast repertoire)
School is boring. So boring. Boring boring boring. Tony doesn't even know why he bothers carting these stupid textbooks around, but here he is, putting them away after class. Math and physics. Yawn.

He contemplates going home, but Obie would give him that disappointed look. Like there's any reason to be disappointed in somebody who's graduating a year ahead of schedule. Shit, he's already got his early acceptance to MIT. By any reasonable standard, if he can make skipping school work that well for him, he should get to fucking well skip school.
toblameforit: Tucking his shirt in. (-= the definition of reasonable)
Tony wakes up, which he has been doing a lot of in this journal, to a message from Jarvis indicating that Sherlock would like to know if he is willing to drive Alyce into town to pick up some of her belongings.

"Sure, why not," he mumbles, yawning. "'M gonna have a shower. Lemme know where she is when I get out."

"Certainly, sir."
toblameforit: Grinning a lot. (*= in front of a mirror)
Tony stumbles into the kitchen wearing beat-up jeans, a white tank top, mismatched socks in scuffed old sneakers, and a triumphant grin. His hair is a mess and his clothing is covered in smudges of dirt and various colours of sawdust. Clearly, however, something is going right for him.

He makes a beeline for the coffee machine.
toblameforit: Drinking orange juice from the carton. (+= endeavouring to make breakfast)
So, last night was bizarre.

Let's start with how Sherry brought a girl home. She turned out to be a wizard, which was pretty kickass, but then Tony got shot and that part wasn't so great. And dammit, they didn't even manage to get those wards up. Well, like hell is he going to ask her to try it again, at least not until she's recovered from the first time and he's had a chance to upgrade the external security cameras on the house. And next time they can do it in broad fucking daylight, too.

This is what's running through Tony's head as he stumbles downstairs, yawning, in search of coffee and something resembling food. Under normal circumstances he's equally likely to wake up at two in the afternoon or two in the morning, but right now, it is (according to Jarvis) ten after nine. AM.


toblameforit: Tucking his shirt in. (Default)
Tony Stark, accept no substitutes

July 2011

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