#baxterqueen

He remembered the first time Susan Richards had spent the night at the Mansion.

JARVIS had been the one to warn him. Saying that he didn’t mind it at all wouldn’t be exactly accurate; Stark’d much rather if someone had thought to inform him. On the other hand, he didn’t like to pull the landlord card unless he was joking, and he liked the fact that the residents felt so much at home. That was the whole purpose of the Mansion. Susan Richards wasn’t a threat anyways (well… not the formal, bad-guy definition of threat). Not to mention that, given the circumstances – this had happened not too long after the accident that had claimed Reed’s arm – her husband could probably use her company.

So, Stark patiently waited for the word from Reed or Susan, giving him a heads up that she would move in for good.

The word hadn’t come yet.

It wasn’t like Stark spent his days being consumed by the situation, but it was a notable source of annoyance that struck a chord in him every three or four days, usually after he’d just woken up and JARVIS filled him in about the date, temperature and any important occurrences. That was when Stark would ask if Susan was still there, and then JARVIS would say ‘yes,’ maybe provide him with footage of her randomly disappearing while walking down a corridor. Positively creepy. Part of him thought she did that sort of thing to scare him because she knew he was always watching, but maybe he was just being paranoid. He literally didn’t even know anymore. All he knew was that Susan Richards had pretty much moved in and not a soul had bothered to tell him.

It wasn’t a problem considering the specifics, but if you are Tony Stark, you would obviously be already fussing over alternate scenarios in which an Avenger goes and picks up a stray animal from the street and never asks permission to keep it, and it turns out that the tiny kitty is rigged to blow and/or is being tracked by a terrorist organization. Or something.

Point was, people needed to tell him shit. Even if his systems kept him apprised. How the heck was he supposed to trust actual human beings if actual human beings were keeping things from him?

This was one of those moments when the thought and the annoyance hit him hard enough to make him mumble to himself. He had woken up from a nightmare less than an hour ago, so he was still in a mood. It didn’t help that it was December 14th, which meant that in three days he’d have to put on a suit and look nice and presentable during the annual church service hosted in his parents’ honor. It also didn’t help that it was almost Christmas and the media world would freak out when he didn’t attend the Maria Stark Foundation Christmas function, so he’d have to deal with the backlash of that and with how the world at large would be thinking he was hiding because he was growing tentacles or something. And finally, SHIELD had just given a heads up about a mission that would involve him wearing a suit and preferably not looking like a hermit. All of that, lumped with the general annoyance that it was to open magazines to find that “My name is Tony Stark and I’m not afraid of you” had been the Tony Stark quote of the year even though he was very, extremely ready for the memory of that whole speech to just die already.

This was ridiculous. You could make the argument that it was okay not to be in control of probability and every possible way to save a person, but Stark had no control over his sleeping patterns, or his drinking, not even his body sometimes. He sure as hell had no control over his public image anymore. And damn it, he obviously had no semblance of control over this Mansion either. He was reminded of that last part when he glanced at the screen showing live security feed from the house, and caught the moment when Susan disappeared in the living room.

That was the day where he decided to climb up the stairs and do something about it.

Meaning he walked into the living room, grabbed one of the magazines that were on top of the center table, and threw himself on one of the couches. If he paid attention, he could catch the way the cushion of the armchair in the corner gave in under Susan’s invisible weight. Stark waited. He put his feet up and laid down, head supported by the armrest. He opened the magazine, to his utter annoyance, to a page featuring the news of Susan’s return to New York after her sabbatical. She looked stunning, of course. Stark waited more. Patiently. For full fifteen seconds.