Chapter 1
It starts with something in most likely the Top Ten of Depressing Places. He sits on a bench in a graveyard.
It’s pretty though, looking like one of those graveyards they use at the end of some high budget Hollywood movie. Tony’s talking trimmed hedges everywhere, flowers lined up all over, up to the benches scattered around which are all painted in a bright albeit tacky green tinge. The flowers are blooming, of course, and from the far distance Tony can see a man watering a few roses next to a small grave. It leaves him with a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Well, a deeper hollow pit. Yeah, maybe this isn’t the best of metaphors but sue him, English isn’t his forte.
His point is that it’s a beautiful cemetery, perfect even, and all he can do is hunch in on himself in his futile attempt to stop feeling like the only ugly thing there.
It’s the first time he’s visiting his parents.
In Tony’s head he’s trying not to count how long it’s all been since he first heard the news of the Crash (two months six days and eight hours give or take) or when he went to the funeral (three weeks and four days). It’s hard not to though; Tony feels his mind enveloped in those dark thoughts that haven’t left him in two months six days and eight hours. It’s mostly the one thought that suffocates him though. Why was he drinking on the wheel, why was he drinking on the wheel? Why. Would. He. Do. That.
Tony’s no stranger to drinking himself, having gone and done four years in college, passing with flying colors, obviously, but that’s digressing. It’s just that drinking and driving was never something he would have accused his old man of, Howard was sensible, responsible, everything Tony isn’t and never will be.
He glances at his hand holding the fancy scotch he grabbed from Howard’s office, but instead of the urge to down the whole thing he feels guilt and nerves. Like when he used to show his creations to Howard, though he knows he doesn’t have to face any potential disapproval from him anymore. Well, he can’t face any potential disapproval. Wording changes after death, he realises, and like he said, English, not his forte at all. Tony debates with himself for a solid five minutes and then decides, fuck it. He opens the glass bottle and brings the drink to his mouth. It’s disgusting, and that makes Tony exhale a small, bitter laugh, because of course he wouldn’t like Howard’s favorite drink. He can almost hear Howard’s disappointment in the silence that follows, but Tony ignores this. Howard isn’t who he came to see.
Allowing himself to think about his mot- about her, brings a fierce ache within his gut and he has to press his palms against his eyes and try to breathe steadily for quite some time, because he already feels ugly, he’s not going to have a panic attack or worse, cry, around people he doesn’t know. Then he’d feel embarrassed too, and Tony hates all kinds of public humiliation. (He’s scared to turn eighteen, when the media can print anything and everything they want. Maybe he should find a decent lawyer? He’s not sure what to do.)
After a while, he manages to hold down the guttural, ugly (like him) sob that threatens to expose itself, and when a few minutes have come and gone he gives the appearance of not having a care in the world, just a young boy on a tacky green bench.
And that’s where he is when he meets her.
“Excuse me”, a voice near him utters softly, and it immediately brings him out of his thoughts, as effective as the girl actively bringing her hand and snapping her fingers right in front of his face. And it is a girl, a girl with a British, husky voice and yeah, it’s one of the hottest accents he’s ever heard. Tony should definitely hit up England more often in the future. He’ll bring Rhodey with him.
But, hot accent or not, he is so not in one of those charming moods that his mo- that he would be convinced to play in those fake lavish parties, so he has no fucks to give to turn around and match the voice with the face. He prays to whatever god is out and about that she’ll take his sombre mood as a hint, and he’ll be left alone to down his alcohol in peace.
“Yeah no, not in the chatting kind of mood. Sorry, bye, ciao, in a while crocodile.”
Instead of the huff he thinks he’ll receive in response, the girl who’s literally now standing right next to him emits a gentle laugh, and he can hear the slight smile in her next words.
“I understand. I was wondering if I could have a drink?”
Tony is pure confusion for a split second until he remembers the bottle in his hand. In that moment he legitimately almost has a flashback of being a boy and screeching, ‘no! My toys!’ But he also remembers Howard’s eyes, all condescending and harsh, yanking the drink from his hand. ‘A man tastes proper scotch when he’s earned it.’ Well, fuck you Howard.
“Here. Knock yourself out.” He says, albeit a little reluctantly, holding his arm out so she can take the drink. He then feels a dip in pressure on the bench and internally groans and curses because for Christ’s sake, she’s sitting right next to him.
Tony is now thinking of the nicest way to tell someone to fuck off when the girl makes an appreciative noise and cuts off Tony’s thought process. Another reason why she must go.
“This is good. What is it?”
“My fathers scotch.” He mumbles, placing his face on his fist and focusing on the pretty, pretty cemetery and trying to tune her out.
“Well inform him he has good taste.”
“Yeah, that’s gonna be hard to do.” Tony can’t help the snap, but he finds it surprisingly cathartic. Maybe he should do yoga or some shit like that. Or start meditating? He could become a Buddhist monk, he’d rock that life to a T. Provided the whole silence hours thing is a myth.
“I see.” Her tone is understanding, ironic since she doesn’t realise how little he wants her there and his hints she’s either ignored or doesn’t care for. That fuels him, he turns to her to once and for all declare that it’s his bench, she should go find her own-
And then, well. He sees her face.
He’s not one of those people who’ll give someone special treatment because of how they look. His mot- he was taught better than that. It’s just he’s seventeen, almost eighteen and he’s beginning to flirt well with girls and she looks approximately his age and she is the most beautiful person he has ever seen in his life.
Her face is heart shaped and skinny, though her cheeks are slightly round with baby fat (okay, that’s kind of adorable) which suits her delicate features. She’s got eyebrows that arch slightly, and below sits her cute small nose which is splattered with freckles. Though he’s confused with how she has any freckles since she looks like she doesn’t know what the sun is, her skin has the whole Snow-White appeal going on. It’s her eyes that stand out though. They are big and bright and so very green that they look like literal emeralds. And, okay, that’s not fair. No eyes are supposed to look like they’ve inspired jewellery.
It’s the look on her face that snaps him out of- he doesn’t know what- maybe a trance? An episode? - She’s looking at him like she’s expecting him to say something which means:
- a.) He’s been looking at her for an over extending and therefore incredibly creepy amount of time
or
- b.) She’s said something, and he’s proceeded to stare at her for an over extending and, you guessed it, incredibly creepy amount of time.
Neither option’s looking like the bee’s knees, but, in typical Stark Fashion, he can save himself from this awkward situation without her forming the thought that he might be a serial killer or something.
“Um. Um hi? What?”
Ah. Never mind.
The girl’s lips turn up and she gazes at him with amusement for the second time. Her voice isn’t mocking though, so he knows she isn’t coming from a bad place. That’s a comfort.
“I was apologising for interrupting your thoughts, I should’ve brought some beverages of my own. Though the age for drinking in the US is staggering. I suppose I don’t need to tell you that,” she breathes out an awkward chuckle, and then stands, smoothing out her jeans with one hand and holding his scotch out to him with the other. “I should be off, it was a pleasure”-
“Or you could stay?” The words come out faster than Tony’s actual thought process, but he doesn’t take them back. How can he, she’s the prettiest thing in this place. She’s managed to make the cemetery look like crap.
She eyes him speculatively. Trust issues, Tony stores that in his mind. He gets that.
“I mean, I’m not going to down that by myself. I could die. And as ironic as it would be to die in a graveyard, that won’t stop the police from labelling you as an accessory to my death.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s only in situations where someone is murdered.” The girl sits back with a bemused expression on her face, and Tony is totally counting that as a win.
“I’ll let your creepy knowledge about murder slide since we’re now drinking buddies.”
She laughs as he hoped she would, and then brings the bottle back to her lips.
-------------
It’s a little awkward for a while.
Tony doesn’t know what to say, and that’s never a thing for him anymore. He once talked a police officer into dropping a couple of charges and driving him home (and bribery was only partly involved.) The girl is at a loss too, he notices. She absentmindedly fiddles with a bracelet on her wrist, and when she gets her turn to drink the scotch she taps her fingers around the rim of the bottle as if playing a song. He can tell she’s nervous about something, so after those random few minutes of silence he decides to be the bigger person and break the ice.
“So since we’re drinking buddies, I think it makes sense if I know some stuff about you.”
Her eyebrows raise, and her eyes become slightly defensive. Definite trust issues. “Do you? Like what?”
“Your name?”
Immediately she relaxes, then sheepishly stutters out a laugh, it’s adorable. “I’m Harry.”
“Cute name.” What? It is.
“It’s short for Harriet, but I never liked Harriet. It makes me feel old.” She explains, a note in her speech giving him the feel that she’s had to explain this a lot.
“Makes sense. Everyone calls me Tony, ‘cause Anthony has the whole ‘Lord’ vibe and I don’t wanna be seen like I’d duel for someone’s honor. Or have a long beard. Something misleading.”
She flashes him a grin, though it’s too fast so Tony can’t mentally save it. “It’s nice to meet you Tony.” He notices she doesn’t hold out her hand though, and he begins to piece bits of her together. Like a non-boring, really pretty puzzle.
“Back at you, Harry. So, what brings you to this depressing area?”
The mood visibly shifts in the air and Tony could pull his hair out right then and there, because he meant the US. For Fuck Sake.
But, before he can take his foot out his mouth, she replies, steeling herself.
“My…there was recently a series of terrorist attacks in the UK, as you probably read.” He nods, because he knows about those. “Many people I knew…good friends have passed. A dear friend of mine wished to be buried near to where her parents reside, and when I managed to track them down, I found they lived a couple of blocks from here. She would have wanted to be here. I was supposed to visit her grave today, but. I’m not ready I suppose.”
Her face is impassive, but Tony knows better. He hears the quiver when she speaks and her hands gripping the bench for dear life. Tony’s struck though; he’s never met someone that is so truthful and vulnerable with their emotions, especially hearing the shit she’s been through. He thinks she’s the exact opposite of the people he met at the funeral; those sunglasses to hide their lack of tears so very different to Harry’s eyes, looking like they’re stuck in memories, in pure longing. She quickly snaps out of it, shaking her head.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to dump too much information onto you. I’m learning to be more open, according to others it’s supposed to be mentally healing. Really starting to think that’s a bunch of bollocks.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s ah, good that you’re trying to heal. And stuff.”
Her smile is fond and her eyes knowing. “You’re not very good at comforting people, are you?”
He smiles back, more relaxed after he’s been called out on his shit. “Nope. I’m good at jokes though, comedian in the making. Come see my future shows, though they’d mostly be made out of spite. I’d love to know my father’s spinning in his grave.”
“Father issues than, I take it?” His nod is final, hoping he’s got the whole ‘don’t push it’ air going on. Apparently, she’s not as oblivious as he initially thought. “What would he rather have had you do?”
Wait, what?
“Harry,” he begins slowly, gaging her reaction. “You know who I am right?”
Her expression is bewildered, and she openly analyses him as if searching for a familiar face. There is no realisation that magically appears. If anything, she looks nonplussed with her severe lack of knowledge.
“No. Should I?”
Oh my.
Tony’s been under the impression this whole time that Harry knew who he was. That’s not supposed to be arrogant, everyone knows who he is. Howard’s son, Howard’s son, Howard’s son, like that’s the only interesting thing Tony’s done and will ever do. He knows he’ll make a name for himself when he has hold of the company- he’s getting distracted. The point is, everyone he’s ever seen has known him, except her. If he’s still going with that whole puzzle metaphor for this girl, he knows there are a lot of pieces to put together.
“Tony Stark. Stark? Howard Stark?” Her face is blank. The lights are on, and there’s someone home, but they just don’t read the news?
“I’m sorry, I’m afraid I have no idea who you are. An actor, perhaps?”
“An actor”- he sees her start to laugh at his indignant tone, and he’s quick to let this slide. She has a gorgeous laugh. (He’s also thankful her teeth are white. Sue him, oral hygiene is important.)
“Well go on.” She says, mirth in her expression. “Tell me who this great Tony Stark is. Or I’ll tell my friends I met an actor in a cemetery.”
He tells her. It doesn’t change a thing.
------------
They talk for hours.
About everything. There are things they remain clear of, there is none of the honest information that Harry revealed earlier. Their chat is light, it is ridiculously stupid and trivial, but Tony hasn’t smiled like this in months, in years really.
(“What is your favorite color?”
“Ah, Small Talk 101”, Tony mocks her, taking a swing of the scotch and enjoying the burn in his throat.
“It is a necessary question!” Harry declares, snatching back the drink. “Think of this: someone goes up to us and says, ‘if you two are friends, what’s his favorite color?’ How disgraceful would it be if I don’t know! And then the news will publish me as being a non-real friend of the Tony Stark!”
“Well, if you were a true friend, you’d know instantly my favorite color, it’s called intuition Hare-Bare, only the elite know.”)
He mentions Rhodey, and she talks about her ‘best mate’ Ron, though there’s an elephant in the room only she knows about, and it makes their conversation melancholy at times, but he knows she’s thinking the same about him as well.
(“So this Ron, you think he could take my Rhodey in a fight?”
“Oh heavens, most likely not! Fighting’s never been his thing, though I had a- my friend, she knew all about martial art skills, she could’ve relayed information to him. That’s the amount of training Ron could possibly get.”)
(“You can build things? That’s amazing! Anything you’re proud of?”
“I mean yeah, stuff in the past I thought was alright, but. My old man, he- his standards were extreme. The solar system, the meaning of existence, then my work at the top.”
“He sounds rather hard to please.”
“You got that right.”)
They talk for hours and hours, and Tony doesn’t realise the sun has come and gone until he exhales a deep yawn. Checking his watch, he lets out a chuckle when he realises they’ve been speaking since twelve. And it’s now seven.
“Merlin!” She curses (the weirdest curse ever, but okay, he digs the eccentric appeal) “I had a list of things to do today!” Her cheeks turn crimson and it’s so cute he wants to giggle. And he doesn’t giggle. Maybe Howard’s scotch is stronger than he had thought.
“Well, you got to speak to me today, so I say you really got the better end of the stick.” He means it as a joke, but the look she gives him is sincere.
“I really did.”
There’s a silence between them now. It’s been unspoken between them this whole time that they’ll eventually go their separate ways- but it’s out and about now, a dampener on this day. And this day- he doesn’t know what to think of it, but he’s finally smiling again, and he knows he won’t when she leaves. That- that’s unacceptable, really. But there’s nothing he can do-
“What’s waiting for you back home?” She asks him, her visage resolute, as if she’s decided to go on a mission in the last ten seconds.
His mind goes blank. “Uh, what?”
“What’s waiting for you? Apart from Rhodey, I mean.” She asks.
Tony thinks. He’s waiting just under four years until Obie has to let him take control of the company, as said in Howard’s will. Of course he has to create machinery to provide evidence of his competence so the company members won’t out manoeuvre him, but he can make a grenade in an hour and a half with a coffee break somewhere in that time, so he’s not too worried about that.
But what else?
Rhodey’s older than him, he’s got a job in the military now. And Tony knows Rhodey, he knows his ambition, that Rhodey wants to be a commanding officer at least. That means rare visits to Tony, Tony worrying sick about him at Howard’s house that hasn’t been his home since his mothe- since the Crash. So what’s Tony expected to do? Had he never met Harry Tony knows he’d be in a drive bar somewhere, getting so drunk he’d wake up on a sidewalk in the middle of nowhere. It’s not what he wants, he wants something else so bad, but he’ll never know what, and that burns more than Howard’s alcohol lodged down his throat ever will.
But Harry’s looking at him with an expectant and an oddly hesitant look on her face, so he has to reply honestly.
“I don’t know, Harry. I really don’t know.”
For the first time, Harry scoots over to him and gently nudges him with her elbow, peering at him with trepidation. She looks so brave.
“The UK- it’s not safe for me right now. The attacks have ended, but there are still people there, bad people. I’ve essentially been kicked out of where I live, and I know it was for my own protection, but.” She bites her lip, her mind somewhere else. “I don’t know what to do with myself. And I know you don’t either.” Her gaze is intently on his face, searching for something, Tony doesn’t know what. But his stomach is lurching in anticipation, and he knows what she’s going to say before she even says it.
“I’m going to leave this place, Tony. And I want you to come with me.”
-------------------
Rhodey calls him the next day after Tony’s crashed in a hotel room. His speech is angry and shrill, but Tony can hear the slight strain in his voice and feels guilt swell up in his chest. He hates worrying his brother, and the past couple of months have basically been a buffet of negative emotions on his part. He should buy Rhodey a house somewhere soothing. Or he could totally talk him into joining him as Buddhist Monk Brothers in the future.
“Tony, where have you been? I was so close to calling Obie.”
“It’s a long story Gumdrop,” Tony evades, and he knows it’s pointless because he needs to tell him, but, well…. Tony doesn’t know how to word this.
“Did you drink again? Tell me where you are, I’ll pick you up.” Muffles in the background start. Tony knows Rhodey’s getting ready to head out his apartment. Tony also knows he doesn’t deserve Rhodey, especially now at what he’s going to say.
“No, no Rhodey. You don’t need to.” There’s a pause, Tony gathering his courage. “I’ve met someone.”
“Oh?” Rhodey’s clearly been taken off guard. “Want me to pick you up from theirs?”
“No it’s not like that. Well, actually, I don’t really know what it is. But we got to talking, and, well this is kind of crazy. And that’s coming from me. We’re leaving town for a while, Pumpkin. We’re going to drive anywhere, see sites, the whole shebang. Like Bonnie and Clyde, except without that criminal speedbump- well actually, scratch that, I mean I’m feeling unpredictable lately, and I don’t really know Harry”-
“Tony.” Rhodey’s voice is armed with steel, and that makes him cringe. “I don’t think I’m hearing this right.”
Tony brings nervous laughter to the slowly deteriorating conversation. “One year in the army and already you have hearing problems, want me to make you hearing ai”-
“No, Tones I don’t understand. You’re leaving town? When? Who’s Harry?”
“Keep up Platypus”, he says, more nonchalant then he actually feels. “I met Harry yesterday, we talked, we drank, we decided the world is pissing us both off mutually so we’re doing a ‘Fuck You’ to said world. Harry will be here soon and we’re driving off somewhere for a couple of months. Preferably somewhere with sun, you know I tan like a champion”.
There’s silence between them on the phone, Tony can almost see Rhodey mentally taking in the information. Finally, Rhodey speaks.
“I really don’t think I heard your story right.”
Maybe Tony should have written him a letter?
He sighs. “Rhodey.”
“Tony. You’re telling me you’ve decided to haul ass with someone you barely know?! You’re leaving everything behind to go God knows where?!”
“The long version is slightly more understandable, I’ll give you that”-
“This isn’t funny, Tony! You’ve made a lot of stupid decisions, but this one takes the fucking cake.”
It’s Tony’s turn to get angry. “I’m not moving permanently to space, Rhodey! It’s a few months at most with this girl who you’d love, Bubble-gum, she’s awesome”-
“Tony! Do you not hear yourself right now?” Rhodey thunders through the phone and Tony allows himself a small wince. But he’s not going to be pushed around about this, not when he knows he has to do this.
“What should I do then? Obie has the company for the next four years, what do you expect me to do? Sit around? Make pottery?”
“I- we all expect you to make your father and mother proud”-
Tony hangs up on him.
Rhodey calls him again two minutes later. Tony almost doesn’t hear the ringing of the phone through his shallow and heavy breaths, and when he picks up the device, his hands are shaking.
“I’m hanging up if you tread on my toes again, Rhodeo.”
Rhodey sighs, a sound frustrated but resigned. “I’m sorry, Tones. I-I don’t really understand why you’re doing this but- but if it will honestly make you happy- I need you to be happy, Tony. I just need to know- are you thinking rationally? Is this really what you want? You say the word and I pick you up, just give me your address, I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
Tony hears the honk of a car from outside his hotel. He goes to the window and finds a black corvette sloppily parked, and out comes Harry. She’s wearing a red leather jacket (red’s her favorite color, see Harry, intuition) with black jeans, a white top, and boots. She looks awesome and ready to leave. And so is Tony.
It’s amazing how one person can get him to stop thinking about all the shit going on in his head and out, if even for a second. She’s like some kind of siren, except he knows she’s not going to hurt him. Tony thinks he can trust her, and he doesn’t understand why but he’s going with it. He’s feeling nervous and excited and reckless, and by the faint outline of Harry fidgeting and tapping her foot, he knows she’s feeling the same way. Unintentionally, the corners of his lips jerk up.
“I’ll send you postcards.” Are all Tony murmurs into the phone before he hangs up. He takes his packed bag and walks out his hotel room, unaware of what he is walking into.