You Run My Life Right Outta My Soul
Tony didn’t know how long it had been since he blacked out, but when he woke up, he was still nursing a headache most reminiscent of his earliest days as billionaire, playboy, philanthropist. Which was ironic given that when he woke up, he was lying face down on the sticky floor of a seedy, small town bar. Thunderstruck was playing quietly from a jukebox in the corner and the low lighting and smoky, nicotine-tinged air gave an eerie vibe to the abandoned space.
He stood up and shook out several peanut shells that were stuck in his hair. Smoothing his wrinkled shirt and jeans, Tony took in his surroundings. There were some booths in the back, a few high-tops, one beat-up pool table, and a couple of Star Wars pinball machines next to the restrooms. A blinking red exit sign flashed above a door in the corner of the building, and he could see several empty beer cans stacked on top of the bar counter. Tony walked unsteadily to a stool and sat down in front of a variety of cheap liquors and other alcohol. He tapped his foot absently to the music and traced the letters of a name carved into the wooden bartop under his elbows. Fitz.
“Glenlivet Winchester 1967.”
A bottle and two empty scotch glasses were pushed unceremoniously towards him. Choosing to avoid the bartender’s familiar eyes, he shook his head instead. “I don’t drink anymore.”
The man chuckled and poured himself a glass. “Pity.” He sipped it and leaned back, posture relaxed, gaze assessing. “I’m sure I have a soda or juice box around here. Kids made you soft in your old age, Rip Van Wrinkle?”
“Kid. One. And something like that.”
The bartender snorted. Tony tore at the edges of his napkin as a Sprite was placed in front of him. A few seconds later, he watched as the front door opened and a group of twenty or so college students came pouring in, laughing loudly and whistling at each other. Several ran to the pinball machines and pool table, shouting out their orders to friends. Tony winced as they jeered catcalls at a few of the girls who had started dancing on top of the back tables. Three guys who looked to be in their early twenties went to sit at a back booth and Tony watched as they divided powder into several small lines.
He looked incredulously at the calm bartender who just shrugged his shoulders. “I’m not their keeper.” Tony was about to respond when another voice interrupted them.
“Four shots of whisky sour, two gin and tonics, one margarita, and a bottle of vodka for yours truly, good sir.” He sounded out-of-breath. He was slurring. Imperceptibly so, but Tony still caught it. (Somehow, even without his memories, he seemed to know every tell, every inflection the kid possessed.)
Peter stood in front of Tony, flanked by two dancers from earlier. His hair was messy and Tony could see deep bruising around both of his eyes. This iteration of Peter was more Fitz than the Peter he had come to know here, and no matter how hard he looked, Tony could find little of the 16-year-old boy who faded away on Titan just moments ago. A sharp longing shot through him. He missed the four and eight-year-olds—mostly that fifteen-year-old awkward kid in that lab who looked at him as if he hung the moon. There was no recognition or hero-worship in the eyes of Benjamin Fitzpatrick. Just a sort of bored disdain. “What do you want, dude?”
Tony shook his head and instead of answering Peter’s question, he leveled a look at the man behind the bar who was gathering Peter’s order. “Hey. He’s underage.”
Peter scoffed. “Mind your old, creepy business, grandpa.” The girls around him giggled.
“Seriously, Peter."
“It’s Fitz.”
“Peter, you need to stop. I don’t even know why we’re here. Why are we here right now?” Tony rubbed his temples. “We need to leave.”
“We don’t need to do anything. You need to take a chill pill. Lighten up, Judge Judy.” Peter rolled his eyes as he leaned in to kiss one of his companions. He grabbed a bottle of vodka that appeared in front of them and tipped it towards Tony. “Salud. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
His head hurt horribly, and the music and drunk coeds and incessant buzzing from the bright red exit sign did nothing to settle Tony’s nerves. The bartender paused in front of him for a moment, waiting on him to make eye contact. Against his better judgment, Tony met his challenge and for a minute, they just stared. The silence made Tony wary. The man made Tony wary.
“Apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree, does it?” Tony flinched at his implication.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He made a noncommittal hum and handed Tony a glass of water. They both watched Peter—the kid had moved on to his fourth shot as the people around him cheered. Tony winced when Peter stumbled for a moment and had to stop himself from intervening, not looking for a repeat performance of the earlier disaster that was their conversation.
“It’s interesting to see you two together, you know. Howard would be rolling around in his grave.”
“Is there a lesson here, Mr. Miyagi?”
The bartender smirked. “People Magazine’s Sexiest Man Alive, folks. Anthony Stark always coming in smooth with a quip and a joke. Tell me, Tony, what kind of father do you think you are?”
“What are you talking about?”
“No, really. Tell me. I mean, I hear your daughter absolutely adores you. What about your son?”
“I don’t have a son.”
“Bullshit, Stark. There he is, right there, in all his glory.” The bartender waved his hand in Peter’s direction and leaned in close. Tony could smell his Tom Ford cologne and remnants of the scotch from earlier. “Pete and Tony, one and the same. Both fuck ups, both addicts, both running from the past. Old habits die hard, you know—how’s that memory of yours coming, by the way?”
Tony rolled his eyes and took a sip of water. The bartender laughed. “Oh my God. That’s it. You’re scared.” He tapped on an empty glass with a fork. “Attention, attention, one and all. Step right up and watch the Incredible Iron Man abandon all responsibility because he’s afraid of the big, bad Howard.”
“Fuck you, man.”
“I’m rubber and you’re glue. Or you’re rubber and I’m glue. Heh. I guess it doesn’t matter since we’re literally the same person.” The bartender tapped the glasses he was wearing—perfect replicas of the ones on Tony’s own face—and a projection came up. “A relationship worthy of any Harry Chapin song, watch as Tony Stark makes an ass of himself in front of a traumatized and grieving kid.”
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, Anthony. You don’t remember this?” His counterpart’s voice was low and sickly sweet. “It’s our finest moment.”
The bedroom was littered with Star Wars posters and memorabilia. In the corner there was a signed poster from the original cast. Three Lego models were on display, and the desk in the corner held an open laptop and two Chemistry books. The bed was made, but the dark navy comforter was wrinkled, as if someone had recently slept on top of it. If Tony looked closely, he’d be able to see a smattering of small to medium blood stains, recent additions to the bedding. A figure was pacing back and forth anxiously—Peter was tugging at his hair deep in thought. The kid looked to be around 16 or 17. The room was large but not ostentatious, and Tony belatedly realized it was identical to the guest room at his cabin, save the décor.
A knock sounded at the door and Peter lifted his head slowly. “Come in.” It was said quietly—almost inaudibly. However, the door opened and a relieved looking Pepper stepped in. She had a mug of hot chocolate in one hand and a stuffed bear in a Spider-Man mask in the other. She chuckled as she handed him both. “Morgan wanted you to have this, sweetheart.”
He took it, trembling, and sighed heavily. “Thank you, Pepper.” Pepper smiled softly and sat down on the bed. She patted the empty space next to her, inviting him to join her. When he did, she ran her fingers through his hair. “You know Tony didn’t mean it.” Peter snorted. “Right.” She shook her head. “You scared us, that’s all, hon. You need to talk to us, okay.” The door creaked open again and Tony watched himself step through. His eyes were red-rimmed and his jaw was set tightly. Pepper threw him a warning glance, and then dropped a kiss into Peter’s hair. “Fix this.” She murmured at the man before leaving, and then quietly shut the door behind her.
Tony cleared his throat. Peter was still looking at the ground, both hands around his cooling mug. “I don’t know where to begin, kid.” Peter looked like he was about to say something when Tony held up a hand, “Nope. This time you listen, I talk. When May told me you were sneaking out and lying to her and coming back smelling like alcohol, I actually laughed in her face. Pete, would never, I said. You have to be mistaken. Not my kid.” His voice raised, “Not my kid. Because surely—surely—he would know better than that. Surely he’d come talk to us before it got to that point. So I made an excuse. I told her that it must have been Spider-Man related, that you must have been breaking up fights at clubs or on campus. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything when your pal Ted hacked into Friday to call me because you haven’t texted him or your scary girlfriend in three weeks. Three weeks, Peter. A piece of friendly advice? Don’t use a friend for an alibi if you aren’t talking to said friend. Then, you decide that it would be a good idea to swing around Manhattan, drunk as a pig, and slam into a building, giving yourself a concussion. You hide the concussion, break up a knife fight (because the knife broke apart in you), and Karen has to call me because you’re too out of it to realize you were losing blood. What the fuck, Peter? Where’s your head? This isn’t you.”
Peter snorted humorlessly. “How would you know?”
“Excuse me?”
“How would you know what I am? Maybe this is me. What, are you sad to find out that the poor little orphan you adopted isn’t perfect?”
“Pete, where is this coming from?”
"Listen, I know you regret coming back to save me. No one would blame you if we just cut this off now.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Just shut up, okay. I know you’re doing this all out of pity."
“Pete, stop.”
“NO. You stop. Why do you even care? You have a family, Mr. Stark. I was gone for five years and I came back all wrong. You don’t understand. I wish you just would have left me there.”
“Jesus, Peter.”
“Just…go. I have to pack.”
“Fine. We’ll talk about this when you get back from Europe. Just. Whatever. Happy will pick you up for the airport at 5 tomorrow morning.” Tony turned and paused as if he were going to say something else. He shook his head and then fled the room.
The projection ended and Tony blinked. The bartender wearing his face slow clapped sarcastically. “Beautiful parenting, Mr. Stark. Exquisite.”
“I don’t remember that.” Tony said stiffly. He was uncomfortably warm—another glass of water was placed in front of him and he downed it in one go.
“Of course.” This was said with such false sympathy that Tony shuddered. “You know why you don’t remember this?”
“Magic.”
“Fear.” The bartender jerked his thumb at Peter, who was currently doing a line of coke in the back booth. “He reminds you of us. You’re afraid that remembering him means you have to remember all the ways you failed him. Or are going to fail him. Remembering him means dealing with him as he is now, and not how you knew him before. Remembering him means dealing with the feelings of helplessness and terror that come along with parenting a traumatized, suicidal child.” Tony was shaking his head, but the man continued. “Remembering him means you have to make a choice to not be our father. That you have to be better than Howard. That you have a boy counting on you to do what our own father could never.” He smirked, “Sure, magic took away your memories initially, but it’s your own fault you haven’t got them back yet.”
“You don’t have to you know?” Tony jumped as a small hand took his. 4-year-old Peter stood next to him.
“What?”
“You don’t have to remember him.” Eight-year-old Peter ran over. “Yeah, Mr. Stark. We’d totally get it. He’s stupid anyway.”
“C’mon guys.” Fifteen-year-old Peter smiled mischievously. “Don’t be jerks. But really, Mr. Stark. He is kind of a loser.” He looked apologetic about it, but the other kids nodded emphatically.
Tony watched as the oldest Peter stumbled to the bathroom, stopping at a trashcan to throw up. Tony’s own counterpart shrugged and pointed to the glowing exit sign. “Easy peasy, Junior. Take your kids and go. You don’t have to come back again.”
Tony knew what was being offered. He could walk out and safely make his way back to Morgan. He could tell Ned he tried. He could get Cho and Strange see if they could find an alternative to waking Peter up. He could walk away and continue to ignore everything he had been ignoring since that first dream after Pepper died, since Caltech, since Osborn.
“Or.” The bartender slid a ring across the counter and Tony caught it before it fell on the floor. It was his MIT class ring, the one Rhodey gave him a few days ago. “You can prove us wrong.”
Tony looked at the ring and the kids by the exit. He watched as drunk Peter walked through a door marked Storage, dragging with him a long piece of toilet paper stuck to his shoe and singing Roxanne at the top of his lungs. His eyes softened for a moment as he made his decision. Ignoring the protests from the younger children, he slipped on the ring, following Peter to the back.
The colors swirled. The ground shifted.
And Tony remembered.