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There was a hollowness to the tower there that hadn't been there before. The building was full from top to bottom, people putting in their hours for the day, making discoveries, filing papers, damned if he knew what all of them did, he just paid them at Pepper's behest, but they were there. Yet, for Tony Stark, there were two gaping holes that he felt with every passing moment.
The room hummed quietly around him, flawless once more. Just like he'd rebuilt from the Chitauri, he'd rebuilt from the damage Ultron had caused. His pretty glass floor was a pretty glass floor again, his fabrication line below working along at the latest armour, but there was no friend at a table nearby, puttering about with plans and theories and stealing the occasional blueberry. Bruce Banner was in the wind, exactly where he'd put himself, and Tony missed him. For all Tony had only known him for a few years, Bruce had quickly become the best friend he'd never had as a kid, someone who understood him without even trying, and now-- who knew? Either he would or wouldn't see Bruce again, and he had no way of knowing which until the day came.
Maybe worse, though, was knowing he would never, ever have Jarvis back. The AI, the personality, the voice, had been with him since just after the days of Dummy, and he'd salvaged the robot arm out of the wreckage of Malibu out of stubborn dedication. He couldn't do the same with Jarvis. He was glad part of his AI had lived, absolutely, but there were times that he couldn't look at Vision without bitterness growing in his stomach. It was the equivalent of an organ transplant. Without Jarvis, Vision wouldn't be alive. And without Vision, neither would parts of Jarvis. But that didn't help the mourning.
Old feelings of abandonment were starting to creep in; memories of being the kid left alone with nannies and teachers and learning that people would say they were friends with the rich kid for the benefit more than any actual friendship. Some people would call it childish, but those people didn't know that Tony had only really started to grow up in a cave with a car battery hooked to his chest. Not even that long ago, he'd told Pepper that she was all he had. He hadn't known then that he'd been predicting the future.
With the tips of his fingers starting to grow cold, heralding the start of one of those panic attacks he was going to intently refuse, he made a choice. "Friday," he said, pointedly making himself remember that his old friend was no longer in his walls, "get me a reservation for two somewhere suitably private tonight, and make sure it fits into Pepper's schedule."
"Gladly, boss," she chirped, and all Tony could think was that she had a lot to learn. But he'd made up his mind. He knew too well what he was missing, so he was going to cherish what he had before she left him too.
"Will you be needing anything else?" the new AI added, infernally cheerful, but Tony couldn't be too angry. She was only doing what he'd programmed her to do.
He shook his head. "No. Nah, Friday, that's all. Thanks." Maybe with some time, he'd resent Friday a little less, he thought, but he had a few more steps in the process of grieving to go before he reached that level of zen. Step by step, he left behind his pristine, empty lab and closed the door behind him, lights flickering off in his wake, and for a fraction of a moment, the passage of a heartbeat, Tony smiled a brief, sad smile.
What was the saying? When one door closes, another opens? It was time for another door to open. He just had to find it.