Who: Tony Stark & Edwin Jarvis What:Backstory: How many servants does it take to keep Tony from burning the house down? It doesn't matter, he only gets one. Where: Tony's place. When:Way back when.
Tony dropped an ice cube into his empty glass, and he could have sworn it echoed.
That was, of course, impossible; he could hear absolutely nothing over the sound (volume: maximized) of the broadcast currently playing on the massive screen that made up most of one wall of the living room. In the continuous blast of chatter, sweeping music, tribute soundbites, and violent effects that was the meat of the round-the-clock pre-Games "analysis," he could barely hear himself think, never mind pick out the rattle of ice on crystal. But the raging noise, somehow, made the whole place feel almost supernaturally empty. It rushed around him and bounced off the walls and windows and otherwise met no resistance, because there was none - there was only him, alone in this almost intolerable vortex of babel. The cheery cross-talk of the announcers, far from keeping him company, just drew a nice, bold line under how much had changed since a year ago.
Last year he'd been in the thick of it, having gotten it into his head that mentoring would be a good way to break up the tedium of only having to worry about getting himself killed. It had been awful, but at least he'd kept busy. He'd been on camera, thriving on the pageantry of it all, for most of several weeks. He'd rarely been home. Schmoozing, calling in favors, making promises, holding court - he and his veritable army of assistants, stylists, strategists, and household help had been on the job without any rest to speak of from the opening ceremonies to all the post-mortem interviews after Barton had gone back to Eleven. Things had quieted down somewhat in the period before the tour, naturally, and then flared up again as they traveled around the country.
And then, upon returning to the Capitol - it had all stopped.
He'd gone back to his usual work. Everyone around him had dispersed. Even his household had been picked off, handed one by one (always at the pleasure of the President, after all) to people who had more need for domestic help than a single man living in one apartment; to people who needed to be repaid for services rendered; to men and women who didn't make a habit of humiliating the ruling government by turning up drunk to official functions or featuring prominently in the morning-after gossip of every major party. It had been a little like being sent to his room to do his homework. No more toys, no more distractions, no one to facilitate his bad behavior - except the Jarvis kid, obviously, who Stane would no more have taken away from him than he would the machine that was saturating his blood with toxins. He had been allowed to stay, whatever support he provided apparently sufficiently counteracted by the reminder he represented: things could always be worse. There was always another part of you they could take.
And now Tony was alone, or close enough to it. The time he spent in his workshop at the government complex was nothing to complain about; it was as close to peace of mind as he got, the kind of solitude he could use to immerse himself in thought and action and experiment. That was all right - that was good. But combined with the chaperoned commutes back to his largely empty house, where there was no one but one elusive servant and the television ... It was driving him a little crazy. He needed more than the two or three nights he was allowed out to socialize. He needed someone to talk to.
He needed someone for - something. Anything.
And so he dropped his ice cube in his glass; slopped a measure of whiskey over it; tossed in a pinch of sugar; and felt a little spike of pleasure when he found the lemon he'd been harvesting for garnish had been thoroughly denuded. It was an excuse to go to the kitchen - an excuse to rouse the only other soul in the house, to provoke a reaction from someone rather than just let the unstoppable cascade of the Games' extravaganza flow over him.
The noise followed him to the kitchen, of course. That was hard to escape anywhere in the house.
"I'm out," he said, holding up the white, desiccated fruit and he marched into the kitchen, almost as relieved to be out of the line of fire of those incessant voices as he was to be in the presence of another human being, albeit a mute one. He wouldn't be in any hurry to get back to it. He set his drink on a counter top with enough force that it slid an inch or two away from him. "We have more, right? I can't sit through this shit without a drink."